Chapter Five: In The Wilderness

August 1809

Mother and Father,

I know it has been some time since I have written but my life has been in an uneasy place since I parted company with the exploration of new lands. I have been distant when around others and, frankly, I haven’t liked who I have become. I haven’t even tried to write my dear sisters to know where they are in their life. The last I remember; I left Diana with the Browns and know not if she is still there. Nor do I know the whereabouts of Roselyn and Flower. I haven’t been a very good son or a strong brother.

Recently, events of my life have taken a bit of a turn. I ran across a man named Albert Gallatin, a surveyor. He hired me on and taught me the fine basics of how to draw maps, as well as map out distances. We do this for roads, harbors, canals, and even rivers. Albert speaks of how the country is constantly changing and that we must keep a vigilant eye on the progress of the Americas.

This has been a far better experience for me and since the day I left the expedition and that wretched Indian mound, I feel as if I have regained purpose. I am finally doing something I feel is useful. Planning, mapping out a course for easier, safer travel.

We did have an encounter with bandits who tried to waylay us, but we beat them back. After the smoke from all the muskets, we lost one man, but they lost a good ten before they ran off.

The weather here in the everglades, in a place called Florida, is damp and yet hot at the same time. We all have to be careful because we could catch dysentery as the water we tread through has a foul odor, so we make certain our steps are cautious so we do not fall into the murky darkness.

Albert says this job will last another year, maybe two, before he reports back to the Land Office in Washington to report all our findings. Thus far, we have mapped Tennessee, North and South Carolina, Georgia, and now Florida.

What I will do when this ends, I cannot say. I may return home for a short while if nothing else but to catch up on things and see how much Shackleford has grown.

And I want to say that I hope you accept my apology for sounding bitter in my past letters. I never meant to inflict you both with the pain I was feeling, but—I had no one else to turn to, no one else that might possibly understand the anguish, suffering and yes, fear, that coursed through me. Now, all of that is behind me, and behind me it shall stay.

I must get this to the mail carrier as we are being called back to work. Until next time then.

Your Loving Son,

Chadwick

Shackleford – Late October

Hope laid down the letter she had read many times to herself. Tears filled her eyes, for she did not know an easy way to tell her children that Randolph had passed on. Hard work, age, and his heart had fought against each other.

Chadwick, now a grown man, and her daughters, for all she knew, since the last letters received from them, may well be married off. Hope prayed that one day she would get to see her new adopted grandson, Owen Kincade. She did somewhat smile at the odd middle name but as Diana said in her letter, Owen’s life would be filled with possibilities of becoming someone important one day.

Of the three girls, Rosie, her darling little Rosie, was the one she most worried about. Stranded in a foreign country and she with no means to send her money to return home.

What was she doing? How was she doing? She did mention in her very last brief letter that she was making her way back to America but wasn’t sure when that would be.

And Flower. Since the time the Indians nearly killed her and Rosie, and she almost lost her leg because of it, now she lived in a town working as a seamstress, an honorable enough profession; still, she had terrible nightmares.

One thing Hope wished she could do was thank that Hamilton man for saving their lives, but word came back shortly after he did: he was in some kind of duel and died. In many ways she owed him a debt of gratitude she could never repay.

And now, with Randolph gone, it was just herself and a dear friend Miss Martin that ran the store and it took all she had to keep her strength from weakening. Once sixteen, now nearing forty-six, what once seemed a good life was now becoming nothing less than the survival of each day.

Just how to tell the children. How.

February 1810

Diana was able to find a sleeping room in New York for a dollar a week and even found a job working for a small newspaper. Her job was to proofread all materials to be printed for the next day’s edition. The pay was four dollars a week. This wasn’t the dream she had but it kept both her and Owen sheltered and food in their bellies. Until something better came along, this would do nicely enough.

A Mrs. Abigail Sumpter watched over Owen while she worked, and Diana wanted to pay her something, but Abigail would have nothing of it.

“Child, the pay is watching him live. It has been many long years since I raised my own. This is like God giving me a second chance.”

Owen had grown his little self rapidly, though not yet a year old, but he would make the cutest noises that made Diana forget her troubles.

Six weeks after beginning work, a man walked into the newspaper office. Everyone was gone but her.

“May I help you, sir?”

“Yes. I would like this printed in the next edition of the Star.” He handed her a paper with his handwriting, which she noticed was rather neat.

“We can do that for you, Mr.—”

“Vanderbilt. Cornelius Vanderbilt.”

Reading the ad in more detail, she looked back up at this tall, gangly man.

“It says you are hiring able-bodied men to build the future. What exactly does that mean?”

“Transportation, young lady. A new way in which to travel. I see steam engines taking us across the Great Divide in faster time than can be done by coach or horse.”

“You have big dreams, Mr. Vanderbilt.”

“I assure you this dream shall happen. I need to hire men to build the engines. Build steel tracks. Surveyors to map out the regions to the west. This country is growing, and we must grow with it. Now, what is the cost to run this for a month?”

Just then, a woman walked into the newspaper room and exclaimed, “Diana!”

It was Roselyn.

Written By: Danceinsilence