I grip my bonnet strings tighter, my arms straight as bits of wood. Is he wondering if I’ll speak of this to the captain? I most certainly will. I know what that poor woman is feelin’. My heart pounds inside me now, ringing like a hammer on an anvil, molten splinters shooting out. I want to tell him what I think of this, but I pretend I’ve noticed nothing out of the ordinary.
I think I’ve gotten by him when his hand catches just above my elbow, his fingers closing tight enough that it hurts. He whirls me around so I’m facing him with my back to the wall. There’s no place for me to go.
Behind him, the Negro woman slips out the door and hurries down the hall with her bucket, glancing back, her eyes large and fearful as she rushes ’round the corner.
I pull away, but he doesn’t release me, and my mind tumbles wildly back in time, like leaves caught in a scatterin’ wind. For a moment, I’m frozen, and all I can think is, Not again. Please, Lord, not one more time.
The memories rush over me in sharp shreds, a scattering of glass. I open my mouth to scream, and he covers it with his hand. Over my nose as well, so that I can’t catch a breath.
He leans close, and I smell whiskey, sour and thick. “Tell, and I’ll say it was you who asked for it. Who do you think they’ll believe? You think these fine folk can’t see what you are? Little Irish harlot?” His fingers rake into my hair, pulling hard, and I struggle with all that’s in me, but there’s no use in it. His weight hems me to the wall. I turn my face aside, catch sight of Essie Jane standing just down the corridor, her eyes wide. I blink, and then she’s gone.
His free hand trails down my neck as I’m trying for air. He presses hard, so I’m choking and coughing against his palm. “Try to make a fool of me at the dinner table, did you?” His fingers slip inside the ribbon ’round my neck, his fingernails scratching jagged over the scars.
My mind is running then, bolting like so many times before, looking for a place to hide from the now. Somewhere inside, a voice screams, Fight back! Find your backbone, Bonnie Rose. You cannot endure this again.
But still, my body stands frozen.
“It’d be a shame if anything happened to that little sister you watch after so careful, now, wouldn’t it?” His chin rubs hard against my hair, twisting my head aside so the pad of his palm can slide the ribbon down and press into my collar. The ribbon slips loose, and I hear a seam of the dress tearing a bit.
My mind dashes farther away—to that place again. That place where nothing stays but darkness. There’s no feeling there. In my wilderness time, it was the only place I could run to.
He stops his perusal unexpectedly, cranin’ his neck up and away from me. Please, I whisper in my mind, daring for hope, though so many times on the prairie, the same hope went unanswered. The same plea went unheard.
“What’ve we got here?” He pulls the collar hard. The thread loops pop open. He combs along the scars with his fingertips, soft at first, then harder. “You’ve been in the hangman’s noose.” He shakes my head hard against the wall. A shower of lights explode behind my eyes, brilliant as the Chinese fireworks over the Harbor Bay in Chicago. Beautiful for an instant, then fading into darkness. “Look at me, girl! I said, you been in the hangman’s noose? Where’d you get this?”
He slowly releases my nose and mouth. I gasp a breath. His eyes bore into me. “You holler out, and that little sister girl is gonna pay. You savvy?”
I nod, cough for air, try to form the words Yes. The hangman’s noose. Is a lie better than the truth? I am branded either way. Will he find one more repulsive than the other? The questions rush, swirl, wanting answers.
Of a sudden, he is ripped away from me, tumbling backward, his boots drumming the hollow floor as he staggers, then crashes to the wall, unable to find his balance. It is the captain standing over me then, his eyes fierce and wild.
Behind him, Mr. Grazide staggers to his feet, wiping a drop of blood where his forehead has hit the timber. The redness seeps over his brown hair. There’s a softenin’ in his posture as he lifts both hands. “Now, Cap’n, sir, what’s a man to do when a fiery little strumpet offers herself up, willin’ and waitin’? I know you been fancying her for yourself, but—”
Before I can comprehend what’s happened, the captain’s sidearm rises. “Back away, man, or I will shoot you where you stand.”
Mr. Grazide’s mouth hangs open in horrified surprise. “But, Captain, sir . . .” He lowers his hands slowly, lets them hang motionless at his sides as if he no longer knows what to do with them. “There’s been no crime committed here . . . just an invitation offered, and I’ll wager it’s not the first time, for her. I’ve seen her plying her wares toward the young Herrington boy. She’s not some helpless schoolmarm, this one. Have her show you. She wears the mark of . . .” He’s reaching toward his neck, mimicking my scars, glaring at my collar, where I’ve grasped it together and pulled it high, covering myself with that and the bonnet. Beneath, the skin goes hot as coals in a billows.
My stomach rises up, and my head whirls. I taste the bile of the small meal I managed this noon. There’s movement down the hall, little more than a shadow. Essie Jane is there. It is she who’s saved me, I know it.
The captain cocks the hammer. “I said stand down, Mr. Grazide.”
My mouth fills. I clamp my hand over it, turn and run, the muscles beneath my ribs tightening in spasms, the bonnet slippin’ from my hand as I reach the door of the stateroom. I barely make the chamber pot before I’m retching and retching.
When I’m finished, I slide down the wall, limp and trembling, hot then cold.
Will my life never be my own again? Will it always belong to the shame?
What’s the use in living this way?
My heart cries out to God, and I wish He’d taken me along with Ma and Da and baby Cormie. This life, this world . . . I’ve no place in it. Pain and shame and surviving. That’s all there is for me now.
A hand strokes over my hair, small soft fingers. I reach for it and clench it beneath my cheek, thinking it’s Maggie May. But she kneels down and wraps herself around me, and I smell her scent of mop buckets and hard work, the sharp lingering of lye. I know it’s Essie Jane.
I cling to her, this living soul who’s come into the circle of pain. She whispers against my hair. “Shush now, shush now, miss. Cap’n gone put dat man off the boat.” Her voice stirs my hair as it coos. “Heard him say dat myself. Say he ain’t gon’ have no such on the New Ila. Cap’n a good man, miss. Ain’t gon’ let nothin’ happen to you.”
When my senses creep back, she fetches water and the basin and cleans me up, then puts me abed as if I’m a child. It’s then I remember Maggie May and the fear strikes me again.
“I’ve left Maggie May by the railing.” How much time has passed? I’ve no notion of it. Mr. Grazide’s threats ring in my ears.
Essie Jane presses me into the blanket. “I gon’ go for her. I go for her, miss.” Off like a rabbit, she is then. And even though I’m ashamed by it, suffering the humiliation of my own weakness, I curl into a ball atop the bed and cry.
When Maggie May slips in with Essie Jane, I pretend the sleep has taken me off. It’s clear Essie Jane told her nothing but that I took ill again.
When we’re alone again, I instruct Maggie that we’ll not be leaving the room until the New Ila comes to her final landin’. Then I close my eyes and wish away the snags and the wicked currents of the water, and pray we make it swift to the end port upriver.
The day passes, and then a night filled with fitful dreams. I’m running through the trees, clutching Maggie May’s hand, dragging her behind me. Her fingers slip from me then, and I feel the breathing of something fearsome on my neck. Then I’m being pushed down. I fight with all that’s in me, fight for air, fight for life, fight to be free. But the weight is too burdensome. Time and again, I wake up with screams hanging in my throat.
And then I’m lying in the dark, looking deep into it, and thinking I hear whispers. They all must be
whispering by now, knowing what happened, askin’ and wonderin’ and supposin’. The captain putting his mate off the boat won’t go by without notice.
In the morning, we stop to take on cordwood. Maggie May pleads to go atop and watch, but I’ll not allow it. The captain comes to ask after me himself. I send Maggie May to the door to tell him I’ve gone sick again. In the corridor, he’s bidding her to assure me that he has removed Mr. Grazide from the boat at the cordwood stop. There’s naught for me to worry of now. We’ll make our final port by dark today. A last dinner will be served on board, and those who choose to may sleep the night here before leaving off in the morning. Our party, departing for Wildwood, will strike away, first light.
“Please tell your sister I will hope to see her at our final dinner here on the New Ila,” he relays to Maggie May, doubtless knowing the doors are thin and I hear him well enough on the other side.
Coming in again, Maggie doesn’t bother repeating the message. She knows we’ll not be going to dinner.
Overnight, we pack what little we have and wash and scrub our hair in the basin, sleeping while it dries. It’s well before first light when we wake and dress, making ourselves as presentable as can be.
I’m clinging to Maggie May as we make our way up. Outside, the mornin’ air is thick with fog, the day just beginning to blow soft breath on the river. Sounds bustle all around, driving the wild beating of my heart.
Porters cry out.
Metal clatters against metal.
Iron wheels squeal, tearing the morning air as loads are brought up and down the gangplank on hand rollers.
Slaves groan beneath heavy loads. Horses whinny and snort, waiting at the docks. An ox bellows, goats bleat, a rooster crows, singing up the sun.
I lose myself in it as we come to the railing. Along the dock and down the street into town, wagons loaded with freight wait to be unloaded and transported, while empty wagons wait to receive cargo off the New Ila. There’s a feeling of excitement in the air, and it catches me. I see nothing of the other passengers, and I’m glad of it. Perhaps they’ve gone on to their business already. Perhaps they’re waiting to leave the New Ila after her cargos have been exchanged.
Maggie May and I are to find the supply party that’s traveling west to Wildwood, but there is a great clamor on the dock and I realize I’ve no way of knowing which party should be ours.
“Come along, Maggie May.” I squeeze her hand. The fresh air and the excitement all around has got into me. I feel it, like the answer to the desperate prayers in the black of midnight. Hope. It moves anew, soft and silent as the morning light. “We’ll go and find our wagoner.”
We circle the deck, but goods are transferring up and down the plank, obliging us to wait until it’s clear. I let Maggie free, and she climbs onto a crate, so as to better see the town.
Myself, I look beyond it, far into the distance.
Now’s the end of Bonnie Rose O’Brien, I promise. I gaze west beyond the town, where the countryside spills into a sky still dim enough to allow the moon and the final stars a showing. I grip the rail, lean over and close my eyes, and whisper thanks to God for bringing us here safely, for whisking us far from the shame. Surely, that is a miracle only the Almighty One could forge.
“You’re looking fine and fit this morning, Miss Rose.” The captain’s voice brings up short my thinking and romancing and praying.
I feel a sudden heat creep up my neck. My cheeks go flush. “Thank you, sir.” I straighten my shoulders, and I’m wondering what I would see in his eyes if I were to look, but I cannot do it. He is, perhaps, one of the finest men I’ve ever chanced to meet. And one with a good and honest heart. “I’ve caught the excitement of setting off overland, I think.”
“It’s a fine day for it.” But there’s nothing of admiration for this fine day in his tone. Instead, it is grave. There’s a worry there. I risk a glance his way and notice that he’s looking out also. A shadow dims his blue eyes as he watches the preparations on the dock. I wonder if it’s anything to do with me, or if he is only fretting the return trip on the river. There’s been no more rain, and the water’s only gone lower. He’s a fine captain, I think, devoted to the New Ila and its cargo, but he cannot make it float over sand. It’s a risky venture, bringing a stern-wheeler this far upriver.
“I wish you a fine journey back.” I should thank him for saving me from Mr. Grazide, but it’s not in me to be speaking of it. “I am grateful for the help you’ve been to Maggie May and myself on our journey thus far.”
“It is your journey from here that concerns me.” I feel him looking at me now. He’s come ’round to his point, I know. This is what he’s been wanting to say to me—why he’s here alongside me now.
I fold my hands tight against my stomach inside the gloves that hide the burned flesh and the two crooked fingers.
“The frontier is an uncertain place and not a proper location for a respectable young woman alone, and with charge of a child, no less.”
I wonder then, has he not discerned anythin’ of my past? Most surely Mr. Grazide would’ve told what he had seen on my person, by way of excusing his foul actions toward me. Hangman’s noose—or rawhide loop tied to the tail of an Indian pony—it matters little in which manner scars came to be there. Both condemn me.
Yet the captain’s face holds tender concern, as if he feels a responsibility for me, even though I’m to leave his boat today.
For a moment I sink into his softness and strength, stepping into his eyes like a pool, the water flowing over me, and with it are a yearnin’ and a wantin’ I thought I had banished long ago. I dare not entertain it. It’s the kind of hope that will lift me too high for falling. Yet it grips me hard.
I push it down deep again and lock it away. My life isn’t to be the girlish thing I’d once dreamed of. He only looks at me in such a way because he doesn’t know.
I turn toward the dock again. “We are to travel with the supply wagons, well armed, is my understanding. I am assuming there will be other settlers leaving out from here as well. The settlement is growing fast, with the finding of the gold. It is a grand opportunity for me. The children need schooling.”
The captain sighs, placing his hands on the belt of his uniform, looking down at the deck as if there might be an answer there. “You seem determined to go.”
Part of me cries out to tell him what is true—that I can see no other way for Maggie May and me, than this one—but instead, I say, “I have made a commitment to it, a signed contract with Mr. Delevan himself.”
Another breath swells his shoulders, then rounds them as he releases the air. “I have been instructed to send Big Neb along with the supply train, as well as Essie Jane. Please request of them anything you need in the way of aid during the journey. I have told Big Neb to watch out for you. He is a good man. Loyal.”
“You needn’t worry after me, Captain. Maggie May and I come from strong stock.” If only he knew what we’ve survived, a journey across the frontier with the supply train would seem a small thing.
“But I do worry after you, Miss Rose.” I chance to look at him again, and he gazes down at me. A smile plays upon his lips, but a sad one.
I’m filled with wonder and with fear. “We’ll manage well, sir.”
“James,” he says, offering his given name.
It is too familiar for two persons in our position, but I accept the name, take it in and speak it. “James,” I repeat.
For a moment, we are bound together this way, looking into each other’s eyes. I wonder what he sees, and I fear what he might discover.
Along the deck someone calls for him. Before the spell is broken, he reaches for my hand, cradles it in his palm, seems to take no notice of the crooked fingers within the glove. Or if he notes it, he cares not a bit.
Only the thin linen separates us, and I can feel him through it, a pulse beneath his skin, beneath my wrist, beneath my own heartbeat. “If it is not as you expect it to be, Bonnie, send a message
to me in any port, in the care of the New Ila. If you need me, Bonnie Rose, I will come for you.”
Chapter 10
ALLIE KIRKLAND
MAY, PRESENT DAY
Randy regularly referred to my costume diaries as “works of art,” and Phyllis and Michelle jokingly dubbed me Wonder Girl. If I did say so myself, the costume diaries were extraordinary, thanks to hours and hours spent in the university library. Over the past six weeks, I’d been slipping in there every chance I got, and each time I arrived, Stewart had a pile of carefully selected research material waiting for me. He’d taken it on as a personal project, almost an obsession, and he did know his way around the dusty book stacks, as well as all the far-reaching online resources available via the library network. We made a rather spectacular, if odd, research team, and it hadn’t taken us long to determine that Kim was right about the target site for the docudrama. It was Wildwood. I, quite wisely, hadn’t revealed that fact to Kim.
Stewart had compiled so much material about the settlement itself that I’d finally taken all the extra copies and given them to the research crew upstairs, where the historical experts and admins in casting were creating biographical journals that detailed the life history each participant would be stepping into. Even Tova seemed a little less flinty toward me now. Clearly, she respected Randy’s opinions—either that, or I had helped to make her look good with the upstairs crowd. In any case, it was a win.
“I think I’m wearing her down,” I whispered to Kim when she came in for her final fitting. “I’m convinced that she hates me a little less every day.”
Kim’s giggle reverberated off the walls of the small dressing room. “Well, I guess that’s a little victory.” She angled a narrow look toward the door while wiggling carefully out of the cotton blouse and knife-pleated skirt that had just been fitted to her—a work dress she would wear at the bathhouse. “But I still say, you should just let me wait for her out in the parking garage. You say the word, and this Texas gal’ll open a can of whup-up on that skinny woman. I’ve ridden horseback over every hill and valley south of Austin. I know places to hide the body where nobody will ever find it.”
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