Monday, April 21, 1884
My name is Isaiah Carver, and I work as a telegrapher at the train station in a town called Beulah, Nebraska. As I start to write this, I feel almost like a felon. I have sworn in my duties as telegraph operator here in Beulah to keep all matters that may cross my desk a secret from all but the concerned parties mentioned in the telegraphs I receive and send. But I am only 23 years old, unmarried and lonely. i must have someone with which to correspond, even if it is only with my own soul.
So I am beginning to keep Beulah’s secrets between the pages of my ledger book. I will show them to no one else; they will never come to light, except perhaps some day in the future, when I am dead, and everyone these secrets concern are dead, and no more harm can be done by someone else knowing them.
First, for posterity, I will tell whoever reads this a few secrets of my own. I was born and raised in Hadleyburg, a small town in Tennessee, which all but disappeared about twenty years ago in the War. My father was one of those many, many boys of the town who marched away to battle, never to return. I cannot remember him, since he left my mother and me behind when I was but a baby. He did not fight for the Confederacy, as so many other young men of Hadleyburg did, but for the North. My mother said there was not a great deal of mourning paid to him when he died at Antietam. She forever felt bitter about that fact, until she herself died when I was ten.
My grandmother raised me from then on. She loved me dearly and did the best she could by me. She also died this past Christmas, and I found myself completely alone. I was a farm boy in a town that still held a grudge against me because of my father’s loyalties in the War. In addition, I had no great skills with which to make my way in life. So I went to old Hank Anderson, the telegrapher in Hadleyburg, and asked him to teach me his craft, which he did. When I saw the advertisement in the Gazette that a telegraph operator was needed far to the west in the frontier town of Beulah, I jumped at the chance to be hired for the job.
As I have said, it is now my duty to send and receive telegraphs for the 523 souls the Beulah can boast. If appearances are any clue, it is a community on the increase. More folks move here almost every week, and bring new opportunities with them. There are many new shops and businesses opening on the main street, so that every available building there is occupied with some sort of enterprise. When there is no space available, another wood frame building is thrown up in short order.
To date, we have a mercantile, two livery stables, a sheriff’s office, a bank, a very robust saloon, the creamery, an ice cream parlor, a funeral parlor, a photographer, a hardware and lumber store, a harness shop, three blacksmiths, and a hotel with a fine restaurant in it. I forgot to mention the doctor’s office. There is talk of bringing a dentist and veterinarian to town as well, if local gossip is to be believed.. (Aside, there are other businesses that operate more or less in an unofficial capacity in town, especially one above the saloon that is frequented by men of the town on the sly. And I have heard talk that in the back of the harness shop one can get in on a game of high stakes poker, if that is your inclination.)
Oh, and I forgot to mention the school. In addition, there are also three church congregations: the Roman Catholics, the Baptists, and the Methodists.
So I think Beulah is a real going concern. But, here I am, one month gone from Hadleyburg and as lonesome a soul as could ever be found. The prairie was silent and brown when I came here, but has started to break forth in new life just in the past week. It still feels very cold to me, since everything in Tennessee is in full bloom right now. People here tell me this is a very warm spring for these parts. I will have to take their word for it, I guess, since I have nothing yet to compare it to.
And now, enough of me, and the beginning of the secrets I want to keep. This past month has been fairly quiet and routine, not what I expected from a job on the frontier. But today, just this very morning, just about an hour ago, a message came across the wire that has spurred me to begin writing this. We have a young schoolteacher in town, Miss Shiloh Evans by name, and an urgent message came for her. It said “Miss Evans—in regard to the matter of the child you inquired about, have urgent news—Willis family no longer able to care for same—need to hear from you re: future plans for boy. Please reply. S. Turner, esq.”
So what am I to make of that? Two and two might be four, or it might be five, but it sounds to me like our schoolteacher has a baby somewhere. She’s a real beauty, and 22 years old, and for the life of me I can’t see why she isn’t married already. Honestly, I hope this isn’t something that’s going to be a problem for her with her teaching in Beulah. This is her first school and everyone really likes her, so I hope the best for her in this matter.
Now I must deliver the message to her. Rather than entrust the wire to the boy hired to be my messenger, Nathan Swann, who is fourteen and all too sure of his coming adulthood, I think I had better be the one to deliver this. If it were just a matter of relaying the bid price of a champion stallion, or confirmation on the delivery of a load of potatoes, Nathan could easily do it. But this could be a delicate situation, and best handled by an adult.
4:30 in the afternoon, same day
I took the message to Miss Evans, who read it silently. She remained somber as she read. I watched her face silently for some hint of what was going on with her. I could tell nothing from her blue eyes or the set of her fine mouth what she felt about the news. When I asked if she wanted to send a reply, she told me she would be in touch with me in the next day or so after she had the chance to think things through a bit.
And so I bowed a little and left her there in her empty schoolroom, though I wished with all my heart I could have seen more what her situation really was. I truly want to help her, but cannot, as long as I know so little.
To be Continued
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