Waves of Mercy

by Lynn Austin

  The grass is damp with dew, the air faintly smoky as I make my way down to the bench where we so often talked. I don’t see Derk anywhere, so I sit facing Black Lake and the charred, still-smoking ruins of the Jenison Park Hotel.

  “You’re up early this morning,” someone says behind me. I know it’s Derk even before I turn around.

  “Yes, I—”

  “I heard that was quite a fire last night.”

  “It was. William and I watched it from here. I hope everyone got out all right.”

  “The morning news reported that everyone is safe, thank heaven.”

  “I’m glad. . . . Listen, I got up early because I wanted to talk with you. Can you spare a moment?”

  “Of course.” He sits down on the bench beside me, careful to keep a respectable distance between us.

  “I can only imagine what you must think of William now that you’ve met him.”

  “It’s not my place to judge—”

  “I know he has a strong, forceful personality at times, but he needs to be aggressive in order to be good at what he does, and to get ahead in the banking business. But he can be very tender and loving, too. Last night when the fire woke everyone up, he was very concerned for me. We had a chance to talk as we stood here watching the flames, and he told me how much he cares for me. He promised to try to be more understanding as I search for answers to all my questions. I feel very certain about marrying him now. I know he’ll be good to me.”

  “I’m glad. . . . But may I offer just one more word of advice?”

  I hesitate, unsure if I want Derk to shatter the sense of peace I finally feel. “I suppose so.”

  “In your world you’re taught to be genteel and submissive. You’re a quiet, gentle woman, and you hold all your feelings inside. But I know you can speak up, Anna. You told me exactly what you thought that day we walked up Mt. Pisgah. You weren’t afraid to offer your opinion.”

  “I’m sorry if I—”

  “No, listen. You need to do the same thing with William. Don’t let him run over you like a team of horses. If you don’t want to go out rowing in one of these boats, tell him so. Don’t let him bully you.”

  “You make it sound so easy. It’s not.”

  “I understand. Maybe you could just pretend he’s me for a moment and then tell him what you really think.” We both laugh, and I know Derk and I are good friends once again.

  “Thank you for that advice. Now, if you don’t mind me being nosy, I’m very curious to hear what happened when you talked with Caroline—unless it’s none of my business.”

  He exhales in a huge sigh. “Well, it didn’t go the way I’d hoped it would. Tante Geesje helped me see that I had to choose between wanting my own way and wanting God’s will for my life. So I told Caroline that I couldn’t accept her compromise. My calling to be a pastor hasn’t changed. I told her if she loved me enough to try to cope with the demands of my job, I would promise not to let my congregation take advantage of me at the expense of my family. I would promise to be sensitive to her and to our children. But I’ve been called and trained to be the pastor of a church, and I have to obey God.”

  “What did she say?”

  Derk seems to steady himself. “She started crying and told me to leave. I hate knowing that I caused those tears.”

  “Was it real grief or was she using tears to try to sway you?”

  Derk looks surprised, as if he hadn’t thought of that. “I don’t know. But I think it’s over for good between us.”

  “You advised me to stand firm with William so I’m glad you did the same with Caroline.”

  “Tante Geesje says that if it’s the Lord’s will for Caroline and me to be together, everything will fall into place. If not . . . well, I want His will, not my own.”

  “That’s very good advice. I’m sorry I never got to meet your aunt. She sounds like a wise and wonderful woman.” I look out at the row of boats, and as I contemplate crossing the lake with William in a steamship later this afternoon, an idea begins to form. “Are you supposed to start work now, Derk?”

  “Well . . . actually, I’m not working today. It’s Sunday, and I don’t do any work on the Sabbath Day.” I notice for the first time that he isn’t dressed in work clothes. He has on nice trousers and a dress shirt. A jacket with a tie sticking out of the pocket is slung over his shoulder.

  “Then why are you here?”

  He looks embarrassed as he stares down at the bench, not at me. “I was hoping to talk to you one last time. I heard William say he’d come to take you home.”

  It takes me a moment to absorb his words. I rose early today in hopes of seeing Derk, and he did the same to see me. I don’t know what to make of the coincidence. Perhaps God has prompted both of us for mysterious reasons of His own. I look at the rowboats again and say, “I have a favor to ask you. I want to rent one of your rowboats.”

  “You mean later today? With William?”

  “No. Right now. I want you to take me out on the lake so I can get over my fear of the water. I need to go rowing with William today, take the steamship home to Chicago with him later, and go on a honeymoon to Europe and see those canals in Italy. I can’t remain afraid.”

  “Are you sure you want to go now?”

  “I’m positive. I trust you, Derk. Will you take me?”

  He rises to his feet. “Let’s go.”

  Chapter 34

  Geesje

  Holland, Michigan

  1897

  I don’t know why I’m awake so early this morning. Our Sunday church service doesn’t start for hours. The sun isn’t even up yet. But rather than lie here tossing in bed, I may as well get up and make some tea and sit down to finish the last chapter of my story. It’s been sitting like a heavy weight on my heart, and I doubt if that weight of sorrow will lift until I finish writing it.

  I sharpen my pencil, worn almost to a nub after all the words I’ve written, and begin.

  Geesje’s Story

  Holland, Michigan

  20 years earlier

  I can’t begin to describe my excitement when I received Christina’s letter telling us she was coming home. We hadn’t seen her or heard from her in nearly seven years. I ran out of the house on that warm September day and jogged all the way through town to our new print shop to show the letter to Maarten and Arie. We had rebuilt the shop on west Seventh Street, constructed from bricks this time. We also sold our original plot of land and built the house I still live in today. Since the fire had taught us the folly of accumulating material goods, Maarten and I decided that we needed only a handful of rooms, enough for the two of us. Arie lived in an apartment behind the shop, and Jakob got married and moved to the neighboring village of Noordeloos to pastor a church.

  Tears rolled down Maarten’s cheeks as he read Christina’s letter. “Thank God! Oh, thank God,” he repeated over and over. He had trusted God to bring our daughter home to us, and He had been faithful.

  “What do you suppose she means,” I asked him, “when she says we may not forgive her? Of course we’ll forgive her. I can’t imagine any reason why we wouldn’t, can you? She’s our precious daughter.”

  Arie’s eyes also welled with tears when he read the letter. “I want to go with you to Grand Haven to meet her ship. We can close the shop for half a day, can’t we? For news as wonderful as this?”

  Maarten smiled and wiped his cheeks. “I would kill a fattened calf for her if I had one.”

  Christina had booked passage from Milwaukee, Wisconsin, to Grand Haven, Michigan, on a ship called the Ironsides. On the September morning when she was due to arrive, Maarten, Arie, and I left in our carriage before dawn for the twenty-mile trip north up the coast of Lake Michigan. I worried that her ship would be delayed since a violent storm had blown in during the night, but we decided that after waiting all these years, we would willingly wait in Grand Haven for as long as necessary for Christina to arrive.

  The wind blew fiendishly as we left home, a
nd it rained so hard during the journey that we were soaked and shivering by the time we reached Grand Haven. Muddy roads and downed tree limbs made the trip take longer than we’d hoped but when we arrived we learned that Christina’s ship hadn’t docked yet.

  “That’s the Ironsides out there,” one of the clerks told us as we warmed ourselves inside the shipping office. He pointed to a dark shape bobbing offshore, barely visible through the clouds and driving rain. Enormous waves churned Lake Michigan and lashed the pier, creating plumes of spray that looked as though they would sweep away anyone who dared step onto it. “The captain tried once already to bring her into the channel,” the clerk continued, “but the waves dragged him off course. He’s swinging the ship around now to try again.”

  More and more people jammed inside the office to await the steamer’s arrival. No one spoke above a whisper as we watched and waited. Fear rose up inside me like the towering waves. All I could do was grip Maarten’s hand and pray.

  “Here she comes,” someone said. “Looks like the ship is heading toward the channel again.” We all crowded around the foggy window. Arie went outside in the rain with a few other men to watch. The Ironsides rose and fell sickeningly on the waves, visible one moment, then disappearing in a watery trough the next until all we could see were her two billowing smokestacks. I remembered the storm we’d endured on the Atlantic and how seasick we’d all been. I held my breath and squeezed Maarten’s hand tighter.

  The ship was no match for the relentless waves. They shoved her off course once again, causing her to miss the channel entrance as she wallowed like a helpless toy. For a second time, the captain was forced to swing the ship around before attempting to dock again. “He’d better keep his eye out for sandbars,” someone said. “They’re always shifting around out there.”

  The third attempt failed almost before it began. “What’s happening?” one of the worried onlookers asked the clerk. “What’s the ship doing now? Is it backing away?”

  “Looks like it. Looks like the captain isn’t going to try again after all. He’ll probably ride out the storm offshore.”

  Arie had come back inside and a short time later I heard him say to one of the clerks, “I noticed that the ship’s stacks are no longer putting out smoke. Is that normal?”

  The clerk grabbed his spyglass and opened the door to get a better look. “You’re right . . . her boilers must have quit.”

  “What would make them do that?” Arie asked.

  “She might be taking on water. . . . Looks like she’s in trouble.” Even without the spyglass I could see Christina’s ship rolling helplessly on the breakers. “Uh-oh,” the clerk said as he continued to peer at the floundering ship. “She’s flying a distress flag. She needs help.” He ran outside, shouting into the wind, “Get a rescue team! The Ironsides is in trouble!” An alarm bell began to toll, ringing and ringing to summon help.

  Maarten released my hand. “Tell us what to do,” he said, as he and Arie rushed outside with the other men. “How can we help?”

  I stood listening in the doorway as the gathering dock workers and volunteers discussed the rescue. “We don’t stand a chance of sending boats out to her. The lake would just swallow them up and spit them back.”

  “We’ll have to wait and see if she lowers her lifeboats. In the meantime we can build a bonfire and get help ready when they do come ashore.”

  “Do you think their lifeboats can make it in?”

  There was a long pause before someone said, “It’ll be risky.”

  “But if the ship is sinking . . .”

  “Right. I imagine the captain will wait as long as he dares before lowering the lifeboats, hoping the storm dies down a bit.”

  I covered my mouth in horror as Maarten and Arie set off with an ever-growing crowd of workers and local residents and volunteers, summoned by the clanging bell. This couldn’t be happening. Not when we’d waited and prayed so long for our Christina to come home. Not when she was this close. The only thing I could do was pray.

  Another hour passed. The Ironsides seemed to be settling deeper in the water, her stern dipping lower than her bow. It looked to me like she was sinking. On shore, the waiting men gave a shout when they finally spotted lifeboats being lowered—they counted five of them. I ran outside to watch with the others, heedless of the wind and drenching rain. The lifeboats looked like tiny specks as they began crossing the distance between the floundering ship and the shore, surrounded by towering waves. The boats were no match for the deadly waves. The screams and cries of the frightened passengers carried on the wind as the lake tossed the tiny lifeboats helplessly.

  I closed my eyes. Please, God . . . please, God . . . please, God . . .

  When the watching crowd gave a collective gasp, I opened them again. “Dear God, no!” Arie cried out. A huge wave had struck one of the lifeboats, flinging it upside down and spilling its flailing passengers into the water. Then an even bigger wave swallowed two more boats, capsizing them, as well. The two remaining lifeboats battled to reach the shore. I covered my ears to blot out the heartbreaking screams and cries for help.

  Not Christina . . . Please, God, not my Christina . . .

  Even the strongest swimmer didn’t dare go out alone in such huge, pounding waves. In desperation, volunteers began forming human chains, hand gripping hand, stretching out into the water from the shore to rescue as many people as possible. I saw Maarten in the middle of one chain, braving the icy water, grasping a man on either side of him in his strong hands. Arie had dug in on his knees at the edge of the water, crutches flung aside, anchoring the end of another chain. The surf hurled the three overturned lifeboats toward land along with the floating bodies of the dead, men in dark suits and women with colorful skirts, their long hair fanned out on the water.

  I fell to my knees and was sick. I couldn’t watch. My prayers became one long, desperate wail for God to have mercy. . . . Mercy . . .

  I don’t know how much time passed. When I could stand up again, I staggered over to where the first chain had managed to pull a man to shore. A huge bonfire blazed on the beach and rescuers quickly wrapped the man in a blanket and helped him over to the fire. A few of the drenched volunteers warmed themselves briefly before running back to the beach to try to save someone else. I stood near the fire among a crowd of local women waiting with quilts and blankets to warm the survivors. I shivered with fear and cold, unable to stop groaning and weeping until a kind woman wrapped her colorful patchwork quilt and her arms around me.

  “My daughter . . . my daughter is on that ship,” I told her. She held me tightly, praying with me.

  At last the two surviving lifeboats made it to shore. I left the stranger’s comforting embrace and staggered toward them with the other women as they rushed to help, the quilt still wrapped around my shoulders. I would give it to Christina. I would envelop her in it and never let her go.

  But Christina wasn’t among the shivering survivors in either lifeboat.

  As another dreadful hour passed, the human chains pulled as many people as they could to safety. I stayed near the fire and searched for Christina among the living—but I couldn’t find her among the surviving passengers and crew members. When I saw a young father clutching his terrified child, I gave them the quilt I’d been wearing, draping it around his shoulders.

  Someone tugged my skirt, and I looked down to see Arie collapsed on the sand in front of the fire. His face was blue with cold, his eyes rimmed with exhaustion. “Have you seen her? Did they find her?” he asked through chattering teeth.

  I shook my head and continued to wander among the dazed survivors calling, “Christina . . . Christina.” I studied their faces, searching, searching, as despair overwhelmed me. Then in the distance I saw a group of men hauling bodies out of the water, lining them up on the beach. More men bent over them, checking for signs of life. One of the crouching men was Maarten.

  I summoned the last of my strength and ran toward him, calling his name. T
he wind swallowed most of my cries, but he must have heard one of them because he looked up and saw me coming. He climbed to his feet and staggered toward me, shaking his head, his hands held out in front of him to stop me.

  He had found her.

  “NO!” I screamed. “Oh, God, no! No!”

  Maarten caught me in his arms to keep me from going any farther, and we collapsed to the ground in a tangled heap. “Tell me it isn’t her, Maarten . . . please, please, tell me Christina isn’t dead!”

  His grief-stricken sobs and the strength of his hold on me told me that she was. All of the life drained from me. I should be dead, not my daughter.

  I don’t know how long we sat huddled together on the sand, but Maarten finally pulled himself to his feet, lifting me in his arms and carrying me to the shipping office where we’d first waited. It seemed as though days and days had passed since we’d left home this morning filled with hope and anticipation. I wasn’t looking out the office window when the Ironsides finally disappeared beneath the waves, the bow protruding from the water before sinking, but Maarten saw it.

  I listened, numb with grief, as the shipping company helped Arie make arrangements to bring Christina home to Holland for burial. Only his courage and strength enabled Maarten and me to get through it. In all, twenty-one people had perished that morning, eleven passengers and ten crew members including the ship’s captain.

  Our beautiful Christina was gone, and I didn’t understand why. Why would God allow this senseless tragedy? Why this, on top of so many other tragedies we had endured?

  This time, Maarten had no answers.

  Holland, Michigan

  1897

  I close my notebook and lay down my pencil. I walk out to my kitchen and gaze sightlessly through the window. My story is finished. I have written down all of my memories from the past. This final story of how we lost Christina has been the most difficult one of all to tell. I did it for Derk. He already knows all the details of how the Ironsides sank, killing his mother as well as our Christina. But I want him to know how hard we all tried—everyone who was on shore that day—to save as many people as possible, many at the risk of their own lives.