Waves of Mercy

by Lynn Austin

  We had been a tightly knit group since leaving Rotterdam, but now our bonds began to unravel as a few of the families, exhausted by the long journey and running out of money, chose to stay behind in Albany. They would look for work there for now but promised to rejoin us in the springtime. Dominie Van Raalte also left us, traveling ahead by train to make further arrangements for our journey to Wisconsin. Like many in our group, my family couldn’t afford the train fare so my parents and I—and faithful Maarten—loaded all of our goods on a barge, and we traveled across New York State on the Erie Canal. The narrow ribbon of water, forty-five feet wide, took us through dismal mill towns and luscious open countryside dotted with farms and orchards. I counted more than fifty locks that we had to pass through on the canal. We could travel no faster than the plodding pace of the mule team as they walked the tow road beside the canal, pulling our barge. Some of the men in our party got out and walked alongside from time to time whenever we docked or changed mules. The animals rested on the barge in a special pen, then traded places every so often with the team doing the towing. But as much as I longed to get off the barge and stretch my legs, the weather was much too cold for walking. With little sunshine to warm the air on the seven-day journey, I remained inside the barge’s small enclosure to escape the cold.

  On one rare, sunny afternoon, I ventured outside to stand near the front of the boat and watch the barren trees and frozen farmland slip slowly past. Within moments, Maarten came to stand beside me. After all these weeks of travel, Maarten had lost most of his shyness around me. Today his cheeks were red from the cold air, not bashfulness. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?” he asked.

  “Yes . . . for once.”

  “If they holler, ‘Low bridge!’ take them seriously and duck down, Geesje. Our barge barely squeezes beneath some of these bridges, and you could get your skull bashed in.”

  I didn’t reply. Maarten had hovered close beside me, watching out for me, ever since we arrived in Castle Garden. I wondered if he was doing it for Hendrik’s sake, as his friend, or because he still hoped to win my affection. Some days I grew annoyed when Maarten trailed after me like a duckling behind its mother. Other days, his hulking presence comforted me. Today, for some reason, I felt smothered. “What’s wrong, Geesje?” he asked when I didn’t respond. “You used to be so talkative back in the Netherlands, and now you barely say a word. Are you homesick?”

  I decided to tell him the truth. “The longer we travel, the greater the distance grows between Hendrik and me. The ocean is so vast, America so huge, that sometimes I fear we’ll never find each other again.”

  His breath fogged the air as he took his time replying. “Don’t worry. Hendrik is very smart and resourceful. He’ll find you.” I thought I heard admiration in Maarten’s voice, not jealousy. Still, I wasn’t convinced that his words were true.

  “I never imagined there would be so many perils and dangers along the way or that it would take so long. I guess I thought it would be like traveling from Leiden to Arnhem or from Arnhem to Rotterdam. America is still so wild and uncivilized in places. I feel lost here, don’t you?”

  “Our God knows exactly where we are and where we’re going. We can trust Him to lead us and watch over us.”

  I nearly lashed out, impatient with Maarten’s God-talk. I wanted to talk about Hendrik, whose handsome face was already starting to fade in my memory. But I controlled my tongue, realizing that my attitude toward Maarten was unkind. He had left his entire family behind and would probably never see any of them again. We were the only family he had now. “Do you ever regret your decision to come to America?” I asked him.

  “Never.” He answered without hesitation. “This trip has been exhausting at times, but I keep thinking about what Jesus told His disciples: ‘No man, having put his hand to the plough, and looking back, is fit for the kingdom of God.’ I want to keep looking forward, not back. This is a new beginning for all of us, Geesje, a chance to work together to create a new community, to settle down and build homes and churches and schools.”

  His words pricked my conscience. I needed to stop looking back and begin looking forward, too. From now on I would follow Maarten’s example and work hard so that everything would be ready by the time Hendrik came. That’s when my new life would finally begin.

  Our canal voyage ended in the city of Buffalo, New York, but our journey was far from over. Once again, a few more families chose to remain behind until springtime while the rest of us boarded a steamer to cross Lake Erie to Detroit, stopping in Cleveland along the way. By now we had been traveling across America for weeks and it seemed as though we should be on the other side of the world by now. But we weren’t. Dominie Van Raalte gathered our group together on the evening after we arrived in Detroit to tell us some disappointing news.

  “I am sorry to say that even though we still have two more huge lakes to sail across to get to our destination in Wisconsin, we can travel no farther for now. The captain has informed me that the lakes have become icebound, and they closed the port of Detroit right after we arrived. We won’t be able to set sail again for the remainder of the winter.”

  His words were met with weary groans. As tired as we all were of traveling, none of us relished the idea of being stranded in a foreign city, far from our destination for the remainder of the winter. “What are we going to do, Dominie?” someone asked.

  “The local church leaders will help us find places here in Detroit where our families can stay. And if any men are willing to work, our ship’s captain knows of a shipyard that is looking for laborers during the winter months.”

  Papa had developed a nagging cough aboard the canal barge and felt too ill to do hard labor. But Maarten cheerfully set off to work with the other men, traveling to the small city of St. Clair, some sixty miles north of Detroit while we remained behind. As much as it had bothered me to have him underfoot these past months, I found that I missed Maarten and his cheerful optimism. He had been a real asset to us on this journey, toting bags, nursing us through seasickness, and helping us keep our eyes on our goal. And now, thanks to him, my family would be able to afford food and housing from his earnings at the shipyard. I was grateful for his help, but I feared we would be forever indebted to him.

  Staying in Detroit for a few months meant that I could send letters to Hendrik and perhaps one of his might find its way to me in return. I mailed the packet of letters I had been writing to him during our journey, telling him all about my travels and assuring him of my love. Then I waited, hoping his letter to me would be able to make the long return trip across sea and land to our rented rooms in the Detroit boardinghouse before the frozen lakes melted and we moved on.

  Shortly before Christmas, Dominie Van Raalte left our group to travel by train across Michigan to Chicago, then north to Wisconsin to purchase land for us. When he returned near the end of January, he gathered us together to worship in the apartment he’d rented for his family and told us his news. “I have been exploring the western part of Michigan all this time and have found good land that we can buy from the government for only $1.25 an acre. The officials here in Michigan want their new state to grow, and they would like very much for us to settle here. I explained to them what our needs are—that we want room to spread out and create farms and communities, separated from people of other religions and beliefs so we can maintain our unity and live by our religious principles. These officials assured me that western Michigan offers the seclusion we’re seeking, yet it is still a place of great economic opportunity.”

  The men murmured amongst themselves, nodding and clapping their hands together to show their enthusiasm. I didn’t care about seclusion or farmland or economic opportunities. I simply wanted to settle in a town somewhere—anywhere—so Hendrik could find me after he was discharged from the army. I wanted to marry him and feel his strong arms around me for the rest of my life and see his handsome face every morning when I awoke. I hadn’t heard from him since leaving Arnhem last September
, more than four months ago. So much might have changed for him back in Utrecht during that time.

  “Right now,” Van Raalte continued, “the land I scouted near Black Lake is sparsely occupied by native Indian tribes. A Christian missionary and his family live nearby and have led most of the Indians to faith. There are no roads or railroads there, but the abundant rivers and nearby Lake Michigan will provide shipping and transportation in the future. The forests will supply lumber for building houses. The soil is good for farming and the climate is favorable for growing fruit trees.”

  “Sounds like the Promised Land,” Papa murmured beside me.

  I wrote to Hendrik before going to sleep that night, then begged Papa for a few pennies to mail the letter the next morning, praying that it would reach him. I told Hendrik about our change in plans; that we were going to settle in the western part of Michigan, not Wisconsin. I gave him the address of our current boardinghouse as a way to contact me, then begged the proprietress to save any letters that arrived for me. I would let her know my new address as soon as we were settled on the other side of the state. The process of communicating over such vast distances was arduous. With so many perils such as shipwrecks and train derailments and fires, I cried myself to sleep some nights, despairing of ever seeing Hendrik again in this life.

  In early February of 1847, Maarten rejoined us in Detroit, and we set off by train with Dominie Van Raalte and the other settlers for our new home in western Michigan. The rail line came to an end in the town of Allegan, a small settlement of wood-frame houses perched above a river. I wore every pair of socks I owned inside my wooden shoes as we stepped off the train, but they offered little warmth in the deep snow. Steam from the locomotive froze in the frigid air and hung in an icy fog above our heads. How did people survive such cold? I huddled on the wooden platform between Mama and Maarten, waiting for directions. I had never seen so much snow or so many thick forests, or felt such bitter weather. We sometimes had snow back home in the Netherlands and the wind off the North Sea could be frigid during the winter months, but the snow never lasted for very long and didn’t pile up in huge drifts the way it did here.

  The dominie had arranged housing for us ahead of time with friendly families, and so late that afternoon I crowded together with my fellow immigrants in the home of a stranger. Our hosts didn’t speak Dutch, and trying to make ourselves understood or to understand them proved frustrating for everyone. We were stuffed into rooms that were much too small to hold all of us, rooms where we had to sleep and cook our meals and wash ourselves and our clothes.

  “This is only for a short time,” Dominie assured us the next morning. “A few of us will now go ahead to the land we purchased and build a log cabin large enough to house everyone. We will return to Allegan for you when it’s ready.”

  Maarten and Papa stayed behind. I watched from the window that afternoon as Maarten ventured out into the snow with some of the children from our group, frolicking with them and sinking up to his knees in the snow. He was laughing when he came back inside, his round face ruddy with cold. “You are so tiny, Geesje, I will have to carry you through the drifts or you will disappear! How will we ever find you?” His childlike delight brought a rare smile to my face. I had felt myself sinking lower and lower, not into the snow but into a state of gloom. I was careful to weep only when no one was looking, but in such crowded conditions it was hard to find the solitude I craved. I didn’t turn away quickly enough after my smile faded, and Maarten noticed my tears. “Geesje, what’s wrong?”

  “Life in America isn’t at all what I thought it would be. It’s hard not to look back at everything we left behind and wish . . .” I couldn’t finish. Maarten pulled me close the way Mama or Papa might have done, and let me cry against his chest.

  “We’re almost there,” he soothed. “Just a few more weeks, and we’ll reach our new home.” At the time, neither of us could know that the final few miles of our journey would be so difficult. Maarten treated me so kindly that day, that I remember thinking he deserved a sweet wife, one who would appreciate his gentle nature.

  Three weeks later Dominie Van Raalte returned to Allegan to collect us, and we set off for our “promised land.” There were no roads or pathways through the dense, dark forest, only blazes cut into tree trunks to show us the way. We trudged mile after mile through the deep snow in the dead of winter with all our belongings. Maarten thought the snow looked beautiful as it clung to the bare branches beneath a cloudless blue sky. I found the forest endless and forboding. We had to stop twice to rest and build a fire, warming our feet to keep our toes from freezing. When at last we reached the log house the men had built for us, a roaring fire blazed inside. The cabin was very crude and dark inside, yet large enough to house our group until our families could build shelters of our own.

  “We’re here at last,” Maarten said as he set down his burdens. He had carried a large pack on his back and a satchel in each hand. I could see by the way he dropped them onto the dirt floor that they had been very heavy. “Just think,” he said, looking all around. “Someday this land where we’re standing will be a thriving village filled with homes and shops and churches. . . . What’s wrong, Geesje?”

  I couldn’t stop my tears. “This isn’t a village, it’s . . . it’s a wilderness! There’s nothing here—no roads or houses or shops—and it will take years and years of hard work until it looks anything at all like the villages back home.”

  He moved to try to comfort me again, but I turned away this time. How many months had it been since I’d last heard from Hendrik? I had no idea if he had received any of my letters or if he even knew where in the world I was. This rough-hewn cabin made of logs wasn’t going to provide a permanent address where Hendrik could send letters to me. How could I receive mail way out here in the middle of nowhere? I longed to see my name in his handwriting on an envelope from him, to learn that he was all right. And that he still loved me.

  In spite of the cold, I fled outside to the little clearing in front of the cabin and sank down on a ragged tree stump as large as a table. Virgin forest with towering trees surrounded me on all sides—taller than any building I’d ever seen, taller than the ship’s soaring masts. It would take four people, holding hands, to encompass some of those tree trunks.

  And the silence . . . the silence of this lonely forest was more terrifying than any sound I had ever heard.

  Geesje

  Holland, Michigan

  1897

  I can’t write any more. The loneliness I felt fifty years ago seems to surround me all over again. I stuff the notebook and pencil in my desk drawer and go out to the kitchen to make tea. Most days I don’t mind living alone in my snug little house with just my tabby cat for company. But today, after unearthing memories and emotions from my past like so many potatoes and turnips, I find myself wishing for someone to talk to.

  No sooner does the kettle boil than my wish is granted, and Derk walks through my back door. “You’re just in time,” I tell him, reaching for another teacup and the cookie tin. He gives me a hug and bends to kiss my forehead before pulling out a chair. I love to see his long legs sprawled across my kitchen floor.

  “I hope you have more of your story for me to read,” he says. “I can’t stop thinking about it. I’m dying to find out what happened. . . . Well, I suppose I know some of what happened,” he adds with a grin, “but not all of it.”

  I fetch my notebook with the newest pages and silently hand it to him, then sit down across the table from him with my cat on my lap, drinking tea and watching him read. Derk devours my handwritten pages as quickly as he devours my cookies, and when he reaches the last page he looks up at me in surprise. “That’s all? Where’s the rest of the story?”

  “I haven’t written any more. In fact, I finished those pages just a few minutes before you came.”

  He groans and shakes his head in dismay, but he’s smiling. “You’re keeping me in suspense, Tante Geesje. What an adventure that must h
ave been, moving halfway around the world! I’ve barely been out of Michigan.”

  “Be careful what you wish for, dear. God just might move you halfway around the world someday.” His laugh is delicious, rumbling like welcome thunder on a hot, sticky day. “I never imagined you would be so interested in my silly ramblings, Derk. All I do is go on and on about falling in love.”

  “That’s what I like best about it. Your story gives me a lot to think about. Who we fall in love with and choose to spend our life with is such a huge part of everyone’s story, isn’t it? Our choice affects the rest of our lives.”

  “And our children’s lives, too.”

  “Yes. And sometimes our faith gets entangled in our love stories. Caroline broke up with me because of my commitment to God. And I met a woman at the hotel the other day who told me her fiancé ended their engagement because of the church she wanted to attend. It’s part of your story, too,” he said, patting the notebook. “Your parents never would have allowed you to marry Hendrik if he didn’t share your faith.”