“How awful to think they even arrested children.”
She nodded. “First they planned to execute the Täuffers, but the Council chose instead to deport us to America. They confiscated our home, our belongings, everything . . . and just sent us off on large rafts down the Rhine. Just like that. We lost everything.” She gazed at the wooden floor planks as if she could visualize the Rhine journey. “My father would say: Man soll sick nicht zum land binden.” One is not to become attached to the land.
Anna noticed that Dorothea’s voice had grown stronger in the telling of the story. “What happened then?”
“We were told to never return to our beloved Switzerland. If we did, we would face death. We were sent up the Rhine to Amsterdam, and then to America.”
“To Philadelphia?”
“No. To North Carolina. But my father planned an escape before the ship left Amsterdam. He didn’t want to leave Europe, so we fled in the night, on foot, until we reached Ixheim and found some refugees who helped us. We relied on the goodness of strangers along the way, sought refuge at farms and other places. And then we came to—”
“My grandparents’ farm.”
“Yes.” A corner of Dorothea’s mouth lifted. The first near-smile she’d offered up in weeks. “They helped us get assigned land by their noble person. Their landlord.”
“The baron.”
“Yes. The good baron, the old one. Not his son.”
“God was watching over you.”
Dorothea gave a slight nod. “Had we gone to America, we might have faced a terrible fate. A year later, over one hundred of the colonists were killed in a vicious Indian attack in New Bern. Our friends in America were killed.”
Anna covered Dorothea’s hands with hers. “And somehow, the church continued to grow.”
“Yes. It flourished as a rose among thorns.”
Keep talking, Dorothea. Don’t stop. “So you met Jacob in Ixheim?” Anna urged. She didn’t want Dorothea to slip back into her melancholia.
Dorothea looked up at Anna, eyes as clear as day. A gentle smile suddenly broke through her malaise, lighting a soft glow in her eyes. “Yes. We met each other that very first week and fell in love soon after.”
Today, Anna listened to Dorothea in a way she hadn’t before. As she spoke of Jacob, her husband, Anna noticed that her face relaxed and her eyes grew clear. It was the first time that Anna realized how much Dorothea loved Jacob and how safe she felt when he was near.
“And a year later, we had our beautiful baby boy, Hans. You remember him, Anna.”
“I remember.” She would never forget Hans Bauer.
“We were happy in Ixheim. We wished for more children, but we knew not to question God. After many years, Johann was born to us. And not much longer after that, Jacob felt God calling him to lead the church to the New World.”
Anna could recite the rest of the story, word for word. Jacob Bauer had come across a real estate tract written by a man named William Penn, a Quaker. The king had given Penn a large land holding in America—45,000 square miles—to satisfy a debt to his father. Penn was selling off land to those who sought to worship in peace. This, Jacob felt, was the answer needed for the little Amish church of Ixheim. He was eager to take advantage of Penn’s offer before the land became settled. He left for the New World in 1726 with the church’s blessing, their money to purchase land, and his eleven-year-old son, Hans. The plan was for many in the church to follow the next year. But a severe epidemic of smallpox went through the ship and both Hans and Jacob succumbed. When Jacob recovered from delirium, he discovered his son had died and all his money had been stolen. Brokenhearted, Jacob booked passage on the next returning ship. He arrived in Ixheim in late November, without land, without money, without his son.
“There were those who criticized Jacob for returning. Some felt he should have stayed, for the church’s sake. To get started in the New World.” Dorothea’s hands twisted and turned the edges of her apron, as if she could still feel the pain from that time. “He did it for me, out of love. He knew he couldn’t tell me about my boy’s death in a letter. Just like I must tell him about Johann in person. Some things are not meant for letters.”
Even Anna remembered the stir that was caused when he had returned to Ixheim, empty-handed. He was a man who was always in forward motion. She remembered her grandparents’ disapproval that he had not stayed in Penn’s Woods and sent for Dorothea and little Johann. Instead, he returned to grieve with his wife. In time, they were blessed with another son, whom Dorothea named Hans—as was the custom—to honor the son who died on the voyage, but he was called by his middle name, Felix.
Anna, only nine at the time, felt the impact of Hans’s death. Living next door to the Bauers, she had seen Hans daily, though he generally ignored her. At the time, the two years between them made him effectively an eon older than her. She was too young for him to pay much notice to.
On long summer nights, Anna and Johann would help Hans round up the sheep to put in the pen. But on the day Hans left with his father, she was stuck at home, as she had broken her leg after a fall and was confined to bed while it healed. Hans had left a dug-up rose under her window, a goodbye gift. She planted the rose in her grandparents’ garden and it thrived, growing strong and sturdy, giving off delicate pink flowers each spring. She glanced over at her basket with the leather handle. That rose.
“You know the rest of this story.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“It wasn’t long before Jacob’s restless nature stirred again. He wanted to set out for the New World, but I wouldn’t let him leave. A new minister had settled in Ixheim, Christian Müller, and he was also eager to move to the New World. He intervened and persuaded me to let Jacob go. I finally relented, but only on the condition that Johann did not leave with Jacob.” She covered her face with her hands. “The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away.”
Anna rubbed circles on Dorothea’s back, and softly said, “Blessed be the name of the Lord.”
Suddenly Maria stood in front of them, arms folded over her ample chest, intruding on this thoughtful moment. “Anna, I’ve been giving some thought to your situation.”
“My situation?” They were all in the same situation!
“What are you now, two and twenty?”
“Nineteen.”
“Exactly. You’re not getting any younger. See those crow’s-feet around your eyes?”
Anna’s hand automatically went to her eyes.
“Oh honestly, Maria,” Dorothea said, rolling her eyes to the ceiling.
Maria ignored her. “It’s time for you to marry.”
Anna’s gaze swept the lower deck. “But there’s no one I want to marry.”
Maria’s face filled with pity. “I know, I know. You’ve met so few men in your little life.” She raised a finger in the air. “By this time next year, we will have found your intended. I can feel it in my bones. I know these things.” She leaned forward. “It wouldn’t hurt to brush your hair now and then. You must start to think ahead, Anna, as I do.” She started up the aisle of the lower deck toward the stern, looking over the few eligible Mennonite bachelors as if she were shopping for ripe fruit. Ironic, Anna thought, because she often complained that these Mennonites were far too worldly for her liking.
Anna shook her head, hoping the thought would quickly leave Maria’s mind as so many other thoughts did. Dorothea said she was thirsty—the food Cook provided was liberally dosed with salt and everyone was always thirsty—so Anna rose from the pallet to fill up a cup and glimpsed her reflection on the water’s surface of the open barrel. Was that really her? She saw a face that was too harsh, too careworn for a woman not even twenty, with all those worry lines and her hair drooping off her face. She looked nothing like the young girl her grandfather once called pretty as a posy.
Later that night, near midnight, Anna awoke with a start. A chill moved through her. Someone was standing near the end of her hammock.
Su
ddenly in a burst of noise that made Anna let out her breath with relief, a small dog emerged from the seamen’s quarters and started to bark and snarl. Now they were all awake. Felix called the dog off, and whoever was at the edge of Anna’s hammock moved quickly away into the shadows. In just a few minutes, everyone was snoring again. Not Anna, though.
“Doggie,” she whispered. “Come here, old boy.”
The dog slipped near her hammock and looked up at her. Then his tail began to wag. She tapped her lap, and the dog jumped up on her hammock. It was the dog that belonged to that mocking sailor. She petted and scratched behind his ears and the dog curled up, lay down, and went to sleep.
Anna tried not to think about who was at the edge of her hammock, but it was like trying not to think about a cricket chirping. The more you don’t think about it, the louder it gets.
7
July 8th, 1737
In the dark of the night, Bairn could see a glimmer of lighthouses on the southern coast of England. In just a few hours, the Charming Nancy would proceed around the Cornish coast and put into the port of Plymouth, and it was a sight he could hardly wait to see. Even more so, he could hardly wait to go ashore. He had already applied to the captain. The work of going ashore, placing orders, and handing over cash was done by Captain Stedman and whichever of the officers or tradesmen he trusted most. In the case of the crew of the Charming Nancy, that meant only two men: Mr. Pocock and Bairn. Happily, Mr. Pocock’s gout caused him such suffering that he chose not to apply to go ashore.
Scarcely two hours later, Bairn stood on the fo’c’sle deck, relaying the first mate’s orders through the speaking trumpet to the sailors on the upper deck and half deck. There was a terrific flap and slither of canvas as mainsails came down to reduce the ship’s speed. Water that was breaking against the hull gentled as the ship slid into more sheltered waters, and finally Bairn gave the order to release the massive anchor cable. They floated slowly until a slight tug brought the Charming Nancy to rest. The anchor had dropped.
Dawn was barely visible on the horizon as Bairn gazed out on the Sound. The Charming Nancy was one of a mass of vessels crammed into Plymouth Sound. This was one of the busiest ports in England and was full of working craft: fishing fleets, pilot boats, private merchantmen. And then there were the Royal Navy ships: His Majesty’s men-of-war. Plymouth was the last provisioning stop for vessels sailing south to Africa or the Indies or the Azores, for those sailing west for America or Newfoundland. The quantity of shipping in port, and the clumsiness of a large ship under sail, meant sailing across the Sound to pick up supplies was impracticable, so the captain would send delivery boats back and forth to fetch supplies.
In the heat of July, with the air still, Plymouth Sound smelled like one vast privy.
“Bairn!”
He whirled around to face Mr. Pocock.
“The captain wants to see you.”
“Did he say why?”
Mr. Pocock shrugged, but averted his eyes.
It was an intimidating thing to be summoned into the Great Cabin. It didn’t happen often and it left an impression when it did. On this occasion, the captain was attired in his best breeches, preparing to go ashore. He pointed to the chair for Bairn to sit down on while he stood, a customary practice for him because of their height differences. He leveled his eyes at Bairn and told him that his application to go ashore was denied. “You are in charge of repairs to the ship while Mr. Pocock and I secure provisions. I want Decker to build additional pens for animals.”
Bairn’s grip tightened on his hat, fingers crushing the brim, but he worked to keep his face impassive to mask the acute disappointment he felt. He had been sorely looking forward to time ashore in Plymouth. He wanted to make sure the provisions would be adequate for the journey, and if there was a little extra time, he might look up a sweet, well-endowed maid he had met in a pub a few months back—Rosie, or was it Sally? He couldn’t remember—but he thought he might pay a call on her.
Instead of the comforts of a woman, he would be stuck on the ship, minding twenty hapless sailors, not to mention hundreds of Peculiars down below.
“No seaman is to leave the ship unless you have sent him to pick up provisions.” The captain snapped his fingers. “There and back.”
Now that piece of information Bairn had expected. Jobbing seamen looking for better wages did not hang around. The captain couldn’t afford to lose another seaman on the voyage—he was already critically short on crew.
Bairn decided to test the waters to change the captain’s mind. “With Mr. Pocock ailin’ so from the gout, I thought perhaps I might accompany you, as I did last time.”
“Nae this time, Bairn. Mr. Pocock will see a doctor while we’re in port.”
“Mayhap I should come along, then.” Bairn pressed on. “Sir, we have nae had to lay up provisions for so many before. ’Tis a significant amount of passengers down below.” As carpenter, he was responsible for ensuring food was properly preserved. He had an interest in ensuring that all goods coming on board were properly casked—if they were not, he would get the blame when the food went rotten and water went brackish, as often happened despite his best attempts. If it wasn’t the humidity on the ship that bred mold, it was the weevils that wormed their way into every closed container. “I was about t’give Decker instructions to finish holystonin’ the deck.”
Captain Stedman straightened his collar. “Decker’s nae ready fer additional responsibilities.”
Blast it all! That’s what Bairn had told the captain when Decker had sought the position of carpenter’s mate. Decker would never be ready. He wasn’t trustworthy. The last time Decker had applied to go ashore, the captain granted him leave and he ended up causing trouble in a late-night pub that served cheap liquor. He was arrested, and the captain faced a fee of several pounds to get him out. Bairn thought the captain should leave him incarcerated, but Decker was an experienced seaman and had skills the ship needed.
The captain patted Bairn on his back. “Dinnae look so forlorn, Bairn. ’Twill give you practice of managin’ a motley crew when you become first mate.” Then the captain stopped talking and simply pointed to the door. Dismissed.
That was the second time in recent weeks that the captain had hinted a promotion lay at the end of this voyage. While that was a good sign, Bairn came out of the Great Cabin shaken and disappointed, trying to ignore a cluster of seamen who were watching him from the decks.
A few moments later, the captain emerged from the Great Cabin holding his satchel and met Mr. Pocock at the side of the ship where the longboats were being lowered.
“Wait! Wait for me!” Georg Schultz clamored to the top of the companionway and made his way around the sailors working on the deck on their hands and knees, bumping into them without apology. In one hand was a leather bag, in the other was his cloak. “I’d like to go ashore with you, Captain. I have some business to attend to.” He set down his satchel, dropped his cloak on top, then hiked his pants up over his large belly.
Off to find a Pharo Bank, Bairn thought with disdain, knowing Georg Schultz as he did. A fool’s way to spend money. Bairn’s income came too hard to risk it on a hand of cards, even in the unlikely event that it was honestly dealt.
Captain Stedman frowned. “Mr. Schultz, if yer nae back when we set sail, we leave without you.”
“Captain,” Bairn said, “when do you plan to shove off fer America?”
The captain peered up at the early morning sky. “Within a few days, Lord willin’. Assumin’ we get a prosperous wind.” The air was absolutely still. The only sound was the cry of gulls.
Blocks squealed and the captain’s barge was lowered into the water. Bairn watched the three men scale the rope ladder down into the longboat and sail toward the docks of Plymouth. The captain stood at the prow, adjusting his tricorn hat, with the rowers behind him, feet widespread as the longboat listed a bit as Schultz settled into a middle seat.
The first and possibly most importan
t task of a ship’s company newly arrived in port was to arrange for the watering of the ship—filling the casks with fresh water for the sea journey. Meanwhile, Captain Stedman would be pacing the government abattoirs in Stonehouse Creek for beef, bickering over the price of meat at cattle markets in Plymouth Hoe, and visiting agents for the Tamar Valley market gardeners to negotiate the price of greens. All things Bairn should be doing, while Mr. Pocock searched the shores for a cure for his gout.
Bairn turned his attention to ordering a few deckhands to bring the empty water casks. They rolled them along the deck and lowered them over the side into the longboats, then made their way to Plymouth for filling. Bairn watched the second longboat head toward shore with empty casks and tried to shrug off the feeling of gloom that descended.
In the quiet, Anna heard something like thunder above deck. She lay there, still sleepy, and fuzzily tried to figure out what the ship’s noises were revealing. She heard loud squeaks and groans of a turning chain, then a sharp jolt as the ship came to a steady quiver and there was silence, broken only by the slap of water against her side and the pad of the seamen’s feet on deck.
After the initial shock of being at sea, her mal de mer had begun to ease up, thanks to the suggestion of using a hammock made by the ship’s carpenter—Bairn. As she felt less miserable, her awareness of her surroundings grew.
She started to realize that the Charming Nancy had a language of her own: constantly talking, murmuring, whispering. Soft, gentle, soothing sounds, unlike the harsh noises made up above by cursing seamen. Timbers groaned, bells rang, masts creaked, sails flapped, as if the ship were an enormous living creature. It was an epiphany for Anna, to feel connected, protective even, of this aging old vessel that was doing her best to see the little church over the deep waters.
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