Chapter 12: The Decision

(June 1865, New York City)

The restaurant the Francom brothers led us to wasn't fancy, but it was clean—a German place with checked tablecloths and the smell of sausage and cabbage so thick you could taste it in the air. My mouth started watering before we even sat down.

William ordered for all of us without asking what we wanted—just spoke quick German to the waiter and waved him away. A few minutes later, plates arrived: pork roast with gravy, boiled potatoes, thick slices of brown bread still warm from the oven. I stared at it like it might disappear if I blinked.

"Please," William said, gesturing. "Eat. We can talk after."

I didn't need to be told twice. Neither did Tiny. We tore into that food like starving dogs, manners forgotten, pride forgotten, everything forgotten except the simple miracle of a full plate. The pork was tender enough to cut with a fork. The potatoes melted on your tongue. The bread—Lord, the bread—soaked up the gravy like it was made for that purpose alone.

The Francom brothers ate at a more civilized pace, but they didn't watch us with disgust or pity. Just patient understanding, like they'd been hungry themselves once and remembered what it felt like.

When I finally slowed down enough to look up, Joseph was pouring coffee into thick ceramic mugs. Real coffee, not the chicory water we'd been drinking in prison. The smell alone was enough to make a man weep.

"Better?" William asked.

"Better," I admitted, though my stomach was cramping a bit from eating too fast after weeks of nothing. "Thank you."

"Don't thank us yet. You haven't heard our proposal."

I set down my fork, pushed the plate back a bit. Across from me, Tiny did the same, his eyes wary now that the first hunger was satisfied. We'd both learned the hard way that nothing in this world came free.

William leaned back in his chair, hands wrapped around his coffee mug. "My brother and I are immigrants, as I mentioned. We came to this country three weeks ago, sailing from Cape Town by way of London. Before that, we lived in South Africa for nearly ten years—our father brought the family there when Joseph and I were boys."

"Why South Africa?" I asked.

"Religious persecution," Joseph said simply. "We're Mormons. Latter-day Saints, if you know the term. In England, that made us heretics. In South Africa, it made us oddities. Here..." He gestured vaguely at the window, at the city beyond. "Here we're just one more group of immigrants in a country full of them."

I knew something about Mormons—enough to know most folks thought they were strange at best, dangerous at worst. Something about multiple wives and a prophet who claimed to have found golden plates buried in a hillside. But I'd also heard they were hard workers, honest in their dealings, and loyal to their own.

"You're heading to Utah," I said. "To join the others."

"Yes." William's face softened when he talked about it, like a man describing home. "To the Salt Lake Valley, where our people have built a city in the desert. Our father went ahead two years ago, established himself as a blacksmith. Now he's sent for us—wants us to bring our families, help build the community."

"Families," Tiny repeated. "You got wives waiting?"

"Back in South Africa, yes. And children—I have three, Joseph has two." William's expression grew troubled. "The journey is too dangerous to bring them now. We're going ahead to prepare the way, build homes, establish ourselves. Then we'll send for them."

That made sense. The western territories were rough country—Indians, outlaws, weather that could kill you as easy as any bullet. Not a place you brought women and children unless you had shelter waiting and knew the lay of the land.

"So you need guides," I said. "Men who know how to travel hard country, how to fight if it comes to that."

"Precisely." William pulled a folded map from his coat pocket, spread it on the table between the dirty plates. It showed the eastern United States in detail, the western territories in broader strokes. A pencil line traced a route from New York west through Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Iowa, and into Nebraska Territory.

"Winter Quarters," Joseph said, tapping a spot near the Missouri River. "That's our first destination. It's a Mormon settlement—a waystation where travelers rest before making the final push to Salt Lake. From there, we follow the Mormon Trail west. Should reach Salt Lake by late September if all goes well."

I studied the map, my military training kicking in despite myself. The route made sense—followed established roads and rail lines through the populated east, then struck out across prairie once you reached the frontier. But it was long—near two thousand miles—and crossed country I'd only heard about in stories.

"How do you plan to make the journey?" I asked. "Wagon? Horseback?"

"Horseback," William said. "Faster, and we can cover ground a wagon can't. We'll need pack animals for supplies, but we aim to travel light and quick."

"Smart," Tiny rumbled. "Wagons are targets. Everybody knows they carry goods worth stealing."

"That's our thinking as well." William folded the map, tucked it away. "We can ride well enough—learned in South Africa. But we're not soldiers. Never fired a gun in anger, never had to survive off the land for weeks at a time. That's where you come in."

"What exactly are you offering?" I asked, keeping my voice neutral.

Joseph pulled out a leather purse, set it on the table with a soft clink of coins. "Fifty dollars each, paid now. Another hundred each when we reach Winter Quarters. And a final payment of two hundred dollars each when we deliver you safely to Salt Lake City."

I stared at the purse. Three hundred and fifty dollars was more money than I'd seen in my entire life. More than a year's wages for a farmhand. More than enough to get home and help Ma and Pa rebuild what the war had destroyed.

But it meant four months—maybe more—of traveling in the opposite direction from Tennessee. Four months of Emma waiting and wondering. Four months of Ma and Pa not knowing if I was alive or dead.

"That's generous," I said carefully. "Maybe too generous. What's the catch?"

"No catch," William said. "Just fair payment for dangerous work. We've budgeted carefully—brought gold from South Africa specifically to hire the right men for this journey. We need you more than you need us, I think. So we're prepared to pay accordingly."

He wasn't wrong about that. We needed the money, sure, but we'd find some way to survive. They needed guides, fighters, men who understood how to move through hostile country. Without that, they'd probably die before reaching Missouri.

"Can we think on it?" Tiny asked, surprising me. Usually he let me do the talking, make the decisions. But this was big enough that he wanted a say.

"Of course," William said. "Take your time. We're staying at a boarding house three streets over—Mrs. O'Malley's. Come find us tomorrow with your answer."

He stood, leaving the purse on the table. Joseph stood with him, both brothers nodding politely before heading to the counter to settle the bill.

Tiny and I sat in silence, staring at that leather purse like it was a snake that might bite.

"Three hundred fifty dollars," Tiny said quietly.

"I know."

"That's enough to buy a farm. Small one, but a farm."

"I know that too."

"And we're broke. Got nowhere to sleep tonight, no way to get home except walking."

I picked up the purse, felt the weight of it. Opened it and saw the gleam of gold coins—not paper promises but real, solid money. The kind that would spend anywhere.

"It's four months in the wrong direction," I said. "Four months of Emma thinking I'm dead. Of Ma and Pa wondering what happened to both their sons."

"You could write letters. Send them from wherever we stop."

"Mail's not reliable. Might take months to reach Tennessee, if it reaches there at all." I closed the purse, pushed it to the center of the table. "And what about Samuel? I should be taking his things home, not gallivanting across the country like some kind of hired gun."

Tiny was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, "What would Samuel want you to do?"

The question hit me harder than I expected. I thought about my brother—about his faith in causes, his willingness to take risks, his constant push forward even when backward would've been easier.

"He'd want me to survive," I said finally. "To not do anything stupid just because it felt right."

"Then maybe this is surviving. Maybe going home broke and desperate, that's the stupid thing. Maybe the smart thing is taking this job, making real money, then going home able to actually help instead of being one more mouth to feed."

He had a point. What good would I do showing up in Danville with nothing but bad news and empty pockets? Ma and Pa were struggling—Emma's letter had made that clear. Showing up broke would just add to their burden.

But four months. Four months of silence. Four months of Emma reading that last letter, the one that promised I'd come home.

"I need air," I said, standing abrupt. "Need to walk, think this through proper."

"Want company?"

"No. Stay here, finish your coffee. I'll be back."

I walked out into the evening streets, into the noise and smoke and endless movement of the city. Walked without direction, hands in my pockets, the weight of Samuel's pouch pressing against my chest with every step.

What would you do? I asked him, though he couldn't answer. Would you take the money and go west? Or would you find some way home, no matter how long it took?

But Samuel had always been the brave one, the one who rushed forward while I held back. And look where that had gotten him—a grave in North Carolina with only George to mourn him.

Maybe that was the lesson. Maybe rushing toward home when I wasn't ready was just another way of rushing toward death.

I found myself at the waterfront without meaning to, watching the ships rock at anchor, their masts like a forest of bare trees against the darkening sky. Somewhere beyond those ships, beyond the ocean, lay South Africa where the Francom brothers had left their families. And beyond the western mountains lay Utah, where they hoped to build something new.

And beyond the southern mountains lay Tennessee, where Emma waited and Ma grieved and Pa tried to hold together what the war had broken.

All of them so far away. All of them depending on choices I made tonight.

I pulled out Emma's letter, read it again by the light of a street lamp. I will wait as long as there is breath in me. If you come home missing an arm or a leg, I will still be here.

But what if I came home with money enough to give her the life she deserved? Money enough to help Ma and Pa rebuild? What if four months of waiting gave us all a future worth having?

I folded the letter careful, tucked it back in my shirt. Touched Samuel's pouch one more time.

I'm sorry, I told him. I'm sorry I can't bring you home yet. But I will. I swear I will. Just need to do this first.

When I got back to the restaurant, Tiny was still there, nursing a third cup of coffee. He looked up when I came in, read my face.

"We're taking the job," I said.

He nodded slow. "Figured you would. It's the smart play."

"Doesn't feel smart. Feels like I'm running away."

"Sometimes running away is how you get strong enough to run back." He stood, picked up the purse, handed it to me. "Besides, you won't be alone. We'll do this together, same as we've done everything else."

I took the purse, felt the weight of gold and guilt in equal measure. "Tomorrow we tell them yes. Tonight we find somewhere to sleep that doesn't cost more than we can afford."

"Already asked the waiter. There's a boarding house for workingmen six blocks south. Two dollars a week for a bed and breakfast."

"Two dollars," I said. "We can manage that till we leave."

We walked out into the New York night, two former Confederate soldiers turned hired guides, carrying gold coins and ghosts in equal measure.

Tomorrow we'd start preparing for a journey west. But tonight, I had one more thing to do.

Back in our rented room—bare walls, two narrow cots, a window that looked out on a brick wall—I pulled out pencil and paper. Wrote three letters by candlelight while Tiny snored on his cot.

The first was to Ma and Pa:

I am alive and well in New York City. Samuel is dead—killed in battle in North Carolina. I have his things and will bring them home when I can. I am traveling west for work that will let me come home with enough money to help rebuild. Do not worry. I will write when I can. Tell Emma I remember my promises.

Your son, Virgil

The second was to Emma:

I am alive. I am coming home. It will take longer than I hoped, but I am coming. Wait for me. The lavender you sent kept me alive through the darkest days. I carry it still.

Always yours, Virgil

The third was to George, though I didn't know if it would reach him:

I am taking your advice and surviving. Tell my family I am alive if you see them before my letter arrives. We are even now, you and I. The debt is paid.

V. Kane

I addressed them careful, paid the landlady two dollars in the morning to post them, and prayed they'd reach home before winter came.

Then Tiny and I walked to Mrs. O'Malley's boarding house and told William Francom we'd take his job.

Four months, I told myself. Four months and I'd have money enough to fix everything. Four months and I'd be home with stories to tell and gold in my pockets.

Four months turned into four years.

But I didn't know that yet.