Chapter Fourteen

Trouble in Chelsea

Rain poured down the windows of the Orphan Train, and Ethan, watching it, recalled that he, Simon, Alice, and Will had traveled toward Briarlane on just such a day as this over a year ago. They hadn’t known where they were going then, either.

“Bert, do you remember when you came to Briarlane?”

“Sort of,” Bert replied. “I don’t know who took me there, but I knew I was only going to stay a couple of days until my ma and pa came back.” He rested his chin on the windowsill and watched the rain. “It’s been a long couple of days.”

“Do you think they’ll be back?”

“Naw. Not really. I like to pretend they will. But I guess it won’t happen.” Bert grinned at Ethan. “I suppose when I get my new home, I’ll pretend I’m going back to the orphanage again to work with Otis on the farm. I wonder why we always want what we ain’t got.”

“I guess you like what you know better than what you don’t know,” Ethan decided. “But don’t you wonder what kind of folks your new parents will be?”

“Yeah. But I have a chance to look them over before I go with them. Yours have already spoken for you. What if you don’t like them?”

“I don’t know any people I don’t like,” Ethan replied. “There’s some I like better than others, but you can get to like anybody if you have to. Besides, there’s four of us, and we got each other.”

Bert jumped up on the seat and reached overhead, where his belongings were stored. “Yeah—and right now you got me, too. Let’s play checkers.”

The train steamed toward the next small town that was expecting them.

“Chelsea,” Charles replied when Matron inquired what that town might be. “Not very big, but we had several inquiries from there.” He peered out the window. “This storm may keep a lot of people away, though.”

It did seem that they were running into more rainy weather rather than away from it. Still, the children prepared themselves to meet anyone who might have ventured out. When the train stopped several hours later, faces pressed against the glass for a sight of the station. There was nothing to be seen.

“I don’t think they got any town here,” Philip declared. “I don’t even see a station house. You sure this is the place?”

“There’s a town,” Charles told him. “You can’t see it through the downpour. I’ll get out and find someone who knows where we go.”

Charles pulled on a slicker and stepped out onto the platform. He returned in a moment, followed by a large man whose hair and mustache dripped water over his collar. The two men stood in the space between the cars, and Matron and the children could hear their conversation clearly.

“Name’s McCarty. I’m the sheriff here, and I came down to tell you that your train ain’t stopping in Chelsea.”

“I don’t understand. This place is on our schedule.” Charles Glover dug a paper from his inner pocket and showed it to the sheriff.

The man glanced at it, then shook his head. “Don’t make no difference. This town don’t hold with selling children.”

“Selling children! That is certainly not what we’re about. We’re trying to find—”

Sheriff McCarty didn’t allow Charles to finish his sentence. “We know what you’re doing. We heard all about it from the place up north. Come from Chicago, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but—”

“That’s what I thought. You’re one of those outfits that kidnaps children from the streets, then puts them on a train and sells ’em to farmers along the way. We don’t want any part of that in Chelsea. If you wasn’t passing through here, I’d arrest you and take you in. All’s I can do is not let you off the train.”

Charles spoke calmly. “You are mistaken, sir. I don’t know where you got that information, but it is not correct. These children are available for adoption from a Christian orphanage and social-services home. None of them have come against their will.”

“Who’s going to adopt a little ragamuffin off the street? What do we know about where they came from? Maybe they’ll give our kids diseases. Nobody here wants ’em.”

Matron had heard enough. She stepped over to the doorway and faced this visitor. “Our children are as clean as any child in your town,” she declared. “And not one of them is sick. Why don’t you come in and look for yourself?”

The sheriff looked ashamed as he snatched his hat from his head. “No offense, ma’am. I was just reporting what some folks in town was saying.”

He peered over her shoulder at the children, staring wide-eyed at this unusual occurrence. They were scrubbed clean, brushed, and dressed in their best clothes. A look of surprise crossed Sheriff McCarty’s face, and he entered the car with Charles Glover.

“These here are nice-looking children,” he muttered. “They don’t look like ruffians. Maybe those folks who complained didn’t know what they were talking about.” The sheriff cleared his throat. “You may be right about them coming from a home, but how about the report that you’re getting money for bringing them out here? If folks have to pay you in order to take one home, that’s the same as selling them.”

“We don’t receive money, I assure you. The train coaches are provided by the Children’s Aid Society in New York. The other expenses are covered by contributions to the homes. All we ask is that a child be cared for as one of the family, be given an education and religious training, and be brought up to be a good citizen. If a child or the new family is unhappy with the situation, we’ll find the child another home.”

“Sounds straight to me,” the sheriff declared. “I’ll have a talk with the folks. Seems like it might be better if the ones who are interested come out here to the coach to see them. We wouldn’t want one of the little ’uns to be washed away.”

He turned and left, promising to return with others in a short while.

The children, who had listened silently to the conversation, all wanted to talk at once.

“Was he really a sheriff? Did he have a gun?”

“He was a sheriff, all right. I’m sure he has a gun somewhere. He probably didn’t think he’d need it here,” Charles replied.

“I hope he comes back and chooses me,” Philip declared. “I’d help him fight the Indians!”

“Indians!” Shala was indignant. “There aren’t any Indians out here to fight now, are there, Mr. Glover?”

“Well, there probably aren’t a lot of wild ones around any longer. I wouldn’t say they’d be Sheriff McCarty’s biggest problem,” Charles answered.

“Besides,” Shala continued, “maybe he’d rather have a girl. Did you ever think of that?”

“I don’t know what for,” Bert put in. “Girls wouldn’t be any help shooting bad guys or catching rustlers.”

“Shala would!” Trudy said. “She can do anything the boys can do—and probably better, too. You think you’re so smart, but what do boys know?”

“Here, here,” Matron interrupted. “Let’s not have a war between the boys and girls. I think you all do well taking care of yourselves. Why don’t we let our new families decide what you can do or not do?”