The following novel, while historical fiction, is, for the most part, historically accurate. It chronicles the trials and tribulations of my Irish ancestors as told in the words of my great-grandmother, Clara Kinnie Stancil. It encompasses the years from 1850 until the early years of the 1940s. While told with deep sincerity and an eye for humor, it shares, in occasionally painful detail, Clara’s most personal account of her own experiences and our country’s many successes and frequent failures. As such it is, on occasion, deadly serious. I relate it here as faithfully as I’m able and just as it was told to me by my grandmother, Clara’s daughter, Ivy.
Ireland was all stony pastures and craggy bluffs and smelled of sea breeze and heather. So said Mither. Then came the famine. Volumes galore have been previously penned chronicling the devastating potato famine that scattered the clans of Ireland. I’ll not prolong the misery with my words.
In the summer of 1850, while the earthly remains of her mom and dad were still leaching into the rocky ground of their beloved Emerald Isle, my mither, Mariah, 15 years of age at the time, along with dozens of other bereft and grieving orphans were loaded onto sailing ships, much like unwanted cargo, and shoved off for the storied shores of America. Most sailed with little more than the tattered garments of their youth which eventually served for many as their shrouds. Fortunately for Mariah, arrangements had been made.
Mother’s lamentable circumstance would become the responsibility of her aunt. Auntie Meg had already precariously established herself in America. Her humble laundry business was blessed with the regular patronage of numerous well-to-do members of a society who had arrived in America years previously and now considered themselves entitled natives. They greeted these penniless newcomers and their baffling brogue with what we will charitably call a dubious enthusiasm.
Where, in particular, Mariah came ashore is of little importance to our tale. The east coast cities of the 1850s were, for the most part, all alike: bustling centers of commerce, crowded with all variety of displaced citizens of foreign shores, and each soul was desperate to scratch out a meager living under difficult conditions. If your visions of those long-ago days have come from perusing the romanticized pages of dime novels and penny dreadfuls, think again. If you believe the society of the times was genteel and cultured, think again. If you believe mercy and compassion came naturally to people struggling desperately to survive, or that polite society occurs naturally from chaos, think again. If you believe there is honor among thieves, you’re not acquainted with many thieves.
Cultured, Christian, hardworking folks of means don’t generally become thieves. The vast majority of ruthless theft and lawlessness is performed by the wealthy elites who consider themselves above the law, or it is performed by the poor, destitute folks who are sufficiently desperate to risk the consequences. The homeless may become thieves. The hungry may become thieves. The downtrodden, outcast, and demoralized may become thieves. People who can’t otherwise feed their families may become thieves. Crime becomes a way of life for those without options. When folk’s families are starving, rules get bent.
This was the society in which Mariah now found herself. Her Auntie Meg was a kindhearted and generous soul to the extent to which mercy and benevolence were within her meager means. She was amenable to the prospect of providing food and lodging to her dispossessed kith and kin under the condition that Mither was amenable to working diligently, sunup to sundown, to complete whatever menial task Auntie Meg placed before her. For the most part, Mariah spent the next several months entirely friendless and bent over a wash tub, elbow deep in soggy laundry. Each night found her considering it a blessing to be clothed, fed, and sheltered from the cold.
On an unseasonably warm evening in October of 1850, just as crickets began chirping and the night air smacked of dusk, Mariah, who was returning from the market, laid eyes unexpectedly on a familiar face. This was remarkable! Mariah knew practically no one. She stopped in her tracks and stared awestruck at a young man pushing a wheelbarrow through the crowded street.
Simultaneously, the young man paused and returned an equally startled gaze. After a moment, he hesitantly approached, wiped his brow with a tattered sleeve, and lowered his jitney to the ground. Noting Mariah’s concern, he smiled sheepishly and announced, with a comforting Irish brogue, “I’m Lidge Kinnie. You may remember me from the ship.” Mariah and Lidge had not previously spoken, but she did remember Lidge from the ship. “Oh yeah!” Mariah answered blushing. “I do remember you!” The two visited very briefly about the lamentable circumstances they had in common, and then Mariah excused herself and continued dutifully on her way.
Some moments later, rounding a corner in the alley which led back to the laundry, several forms lurched from the shadows; two men grabbed Mariah’s arms, and a third man stood facing her with a terrifying mix of disgust and lust glaring from his bloodshot eyes. Mariah immediately screamed and began squirming and pleading to be released. Noting her brogue, the third man began viciously poking his filthy, boney finger into her ribs, and making crude, racist remarks about her ethnicity.
Just as Mariah’s fate looked ominous, a fourth man approached at a dead run from the direction from which Mariah had previously come. Grabbing a cant hook from a construction site, he began hollering at the three men who were abusing Mariah while he waved the cant hook threateningly over his head. A terrible scuffle ensued during which shots were fired, and one man pulled a knife and began thrusting it threateningly at Mariah’s mysterious benefactor.
Mariah suddenly recognized this fourth man as Lidge. Lidge eventually rendered one attacker unconscious with a blow to the head with the cant hook. Another deft whack injured the arm of another assailant before the two limped off. The third man was left sprawled bloodied and motionless in the cold, dank alley.
Lidge breathlessly confessed to Mariah that he’d been following her for some distance in the hope of determining where she lived. Had he not, Mariah’s fate would have undoubtedly been unthinkable. Examining the fallen assailant, they were horrified to find that the blow to the head had lacerated the man’s skull. Within a few moments, he breathed his last and lay stone cold dead. Lidge’s blow had killed him.
Mariah’s immediate reaction was that of appreciation and relief, but Lidge was clearly mortified! He collapsed to the ground, rocking and moaning inconsolably. Mariah brushed the wet hair from his bloodied face and gazed into his panic-stricken eyes. “What is it, Lidge?” she enquired. “That was clearly self-defense. You probably saved my life!”
Lidge’s very soul had been irreparably transformed by this incident. He’d remember its horror all the days of his life. He’d remember the guilt and searing burn of conscience, tinged with a terrible satisfaction, and the copper smack of adrenalin that thrilled his heart and swelled his throbbing veins. He’d remember the horrible rush of vengeance and the anguished invigoration of surrendering entirely to rage and unbridled passion.
“I’ve already been hauled into the precinct twice” Lidge grimaced, “once for vagrancy, and once for pinching biscuits. If I’m taken in for this” he said, “they’ll almost certainly lock me up for good.”
Just then, a lantern light cast its dim glow at the end of the alley. The security guard was working his way toward them, shaking and checking doors as he approached. Mariah helped Lidge to his feet, and the two staggered for a cargo container some thirty feet away. They cowered in the shadows and waited, panting and praying silently to themselves. Moments later, the lantern cast its flickering light on the bloody corpse of Mariah’s assailant, and the night air was violently pierced as the guard began blowing his whistle. “This way.” whispered Mariah, and the two sprinted to the far end of the dark alley and into the moonlit stillness of the foggy harbor and its docks of anchored ships.
Just as the two stopped, bent over and gasping for breath, another whistle blew to the left followed quickly by another fast approaching from the right. Some thirty paces ahead, a streetlight revealed a gangway which climbed quickly to the quiet deck of a dark and silent vessel. Panicked by the whistles of the approaching officers, and seeing no better alternative, Lidge led Mariah up the gangway and into the inviting doorway of an open supply room, closed the door, and bolted it behind them.
Moments later, voices approached their refuge, and the muffled conversation continued as several men took up vigil outside their door. After about thirty minutes, unwilling to reveal themselves to those who inadvertently held them hostage and exhausted by their ordeal, Lidge found a scrap of canvas and prepared a makeshift bed on the cargo strewn floor. There, he and Mariah collapsed and were slowly soothed by the rolling ship into a fitful sleep.
Several hours later, Lidge groaned and struggled to his feet. Cautiously making his way through the darkness to the doorway Lidge unbolted the door, peered outside, and then returned aghast for Mariah. The two walked speechlessly to the railing and stared in disbelief! There before them, awash in the blinding sunlight of midday and ringing with the raucous cries of gulls, lay the vast, uninterrupted ocean in every direction as far as the eye could see.
They stood for a moment, wide-eyed and dumbstruck, and then, before either could muster a voice, a firm hand came down on both their shoulders. Turning cautiously, they grimaced up into the stern, gray bearded countenance of the ship’s first mate. Without a word, he shook his wooly face in disapproval and led them
unceremoniously to the captain’s quarters.
The captain’s reception was equally disconcerting. He had absolutely no interest in their tale of woe. “You two have two options”, he grunted, as though he himself had no particular preference, and was entirely unmoved by their whining protestations. While it would be an unwarranted expense for the ship and a dangerous roll of the dice for the stowaways, he was prepared to put them adrift in one of the ships rowboats to fend for themselves on the merciless Atlantic, or, if willing, they could sign on as galley help and peel potatoes from here to San Francisco. They thought it over briefly, swallowed hard, and chose what appeared to them the lesser of several unimaginable evils. Next stop, Recife, Brazil, with good sailing, one month away.
A VAST EXPANSE OF UNRELENTING SEA
The
voyage to Recife would be a bittersweet blend of excruciating drudgery in the ship’s galley, the captivating allure of life at sea, and crippling indecision over a number of life changing choices. Early on, they set their sights on surviving one hour at a time until they reached the port, with the expectation that once there, circumstances would somehow reveal some currently incomprehensible opportunity for returning home.
Of course, above all else, this leg of the voyage afforded endless opportunity to become intimately acquainted with the inconceivable vastness and ever-changing moods of the ocean, the never before fully appreciated depth and detail of the night sky, and the unparalleled intrigue of the workings of a sailing ship. The constant undulation of the rolling sea beneath them, in conjunction with the incessant symphony achieved by the creaking and groaning of the wooden hull and the contrary wind as it tested the riggings and swelled the canvas sails, combined to achieve an alluring environment that has captured the imagination of man since the day when Noah was raised by the floods and tested the patience of God.
Life at sea gradually became routine. Occasionally, on a stifling hot day without a breath of breeze, all at once there’d be the unmistakable fragrance of flowers, and they’d peel their eyes and scan the horizon for some heavenly tropical shore. All they’d find was that vast expanse of unrelenting sea. Sometimes, while enjoying a break from the tedium of the galley, they’d lie on their backs on the sunny decks and point out the shapes they believed they could see in the endless columns of constantly changing clouds.
On many nights, when weather permitted, they slept out under the stars. According to Mither, there’s something about sprawling on your back on a cool, clear night and staring up into myriad twinkling lights that tends to open your heart and clear your mind. Some nights, they’d lie there in the stillness, with ethereal fathoms rolling beneath the decks, and the only sound they’d hear was the rhythmic beating of their own heart. It seemed as though they could almost hear the throbbing of their blood as it pulsed within the channels of their veins. It was as though they sensed the waning of their own lives, as the minutes and the seconds of existence ran their course and ticked away. On cloudless nights the stars were bright as campfires in the snow and thick as sparks when you stir a fire at night. Sometimes the moon had a golden ring, and, if the moon were full, the sea glowed with a green translucence as its teaming fathoms rolled beneath their bow.
On more than one occasion, while drifting in a calm, they’d float along in the midst of resting whales. They could hear the whale’s steady breathing, and once in a while they’d blow, or a whale would roll and a giant leviathan arm would reach into the moonlight just as though it were in prayer, as if to touch the very face of God.
The ship itself was an endless source of wonder. This ship’s primary purpose, beyond the astounding feat of defiantly staying afloat, was twofold. Most importantly, it was charged with providing profit. To this end, it carried paying passengers and cargo. Among the passengers were merchants intent on merchandising, and argonauts bound for California’s gold.
Gold had been discovered at Sutter’s Mill in Coloma, California in 1848. From that time forward the possibility of fame and fortune had drawn folks to the West coast of America in numbers of biblical proportions. There was no denying the appeal of the prospect of gold. Folks on board talked of little else. For Lidge and Mariah, their determination to return east was further undermined by the nagging reality of what awaited them.
For Mariah, the prospect was one of continued destitution with only her affection for Auntie Meg as enticement. For Lidge, the prospects were far worse. His return would be plagued by the constant foreboding that Mariah’s surviving assailants awaited him along with the very real possibility of arrest. By the time the shores of the Brazilian seaport appeared as a purple haze on the far horizon, Lidge and Mariah were both rethinking their plans.
Once the ship had dropped anchor off the coast of Recife, Lidge and Mariah were approached by the first mate. The captain was satisfied with their efforts thus far and had indicated his willingness to continue their arrangement if Lidge and Mariah were willing. The first mate suggested they not dally as once the longboats had returned from the shore with supplies they’d hoist anchor, and the ship would be underway. If they were going ashore, there was no time to waste.
Lidge looked inquiringly at Mariah, and she hesitantly nodded in compliance. Lidge offered his callused hand into the gnarled and ironlike grip of the first mate, and said, “We’ll stay.” The first mate smiled his satisfaction, slapped Lidge on the back, choked on the resulting cloud of dust, and returned to his rounds with a jaunty gait while whistling a seaman’s chanty. Lidge and Mariah briefly inhaled the fresh sea air, resolved themselves to their fate below, and dutifully returned to the raunchy bowels of the boat. Next stop, Rio De Janeiro.
There was no more unspoiled spot on the planet than Rio De Janeiro in the 1850s. The captain anchored offshore for an entire day in order to give the cabin weary passengers an opportunity to wet their whistles and get a feel for the natives. We’ll say no more on the subject. Where there’s something to ruin, there’s someone to ruin it. Then the Captain called a halt to the carnage, and they set sail for the dreaded Cape Horn. This leg of the voyage would test their faith. Faith burns most brightly when all other hopes are spent.
Rounding the Horn would prove to be the most heart wrenching, soul searching, white knuckled misadventure of their lives. But the Captain’s experience and the expertise of the crew would prove more than a match for the treacherous storms and cross currents that impeded progress and introduced many gallant ships to the depths and Davy Jones. Eventually they rounded the tip of South America and headed north along Patagonia’s rugged coast.
For several days, the chilling winds off the Andes reduced most everyone to shivering for warmth in their quarters. A quick stop at Valparaiso proved uneventful. The equatorial regions blistered the decks and left the ship adrift for days in stifling calms. Then, at last, the much-anticipated trade winds filled their ample sails, and they headed northeast for the California coast. Point Conception was a welcome sight, and after 169 trying days at sea, they sailed at last into San Francisco Bay.
Well, here they were, but where the heck were they? Neither had ever dreamed of anything like this let alone made plans or preparations. Once they’d said their goodbyes to the first mate and everyone with whom they’d become acquainted while on board, they had absolutely no inkling how to proceed. Once ashore, they sat quietly in stunned silence, marveling at the sea of ships and the squirming masses of miscellaneous humanity, until eventually it occurred to Lidge he was starving, and they didn’t have a dime! They had absolutely nothing but the wet and raunchy clothing on their backs.
Copyright ©
Shannon T. Casebeer
Obadiah Jeremiah Hezekiah Camp
DEDICATION
To my beloved ancestors, and the faith and fortitude that drove them to pursue their dreams, this innocuous little parable is affectionately dedicated.
The Author
The following account has developed in much the same way as a family photo album. I spent the best years of my life putting it together, and I intend to spend the rest of my life inflicting it on my friends. Noting at an early age, that things poorly recorded are shortly forgotten, I’ve taken great pains to put to paper unmerciful attention to detail, determined that my journal might at some later date, bring flawlessly to memory the width, breadth, scope and insight of my every perception, not to chastise mind you, but simply to inform. This then, in note, narrative, reminiscence and occasionally painful detail is my account.”
OJHC
October 1844 would mark the end of a youthful journey and the beginning of a lifelong quest. We’d been at sea for three long months. It was an hour or two before dawn and not a soul was stirring. Have you ever had that feeling that you’re being watched? Right at that moment, I had that feeling in a powerful way. I turned my head cautiously and glanced down the starboard side of the ship. All at once something aft caught my attention. I turned suddenly and had to squint and shield my eyes. There, low on the eastern horizon, just below the sail, was the biggest, most extravagant moon I’d ever seen. It was the same moon that had lit the skies over the Rhine valley during my youth, but it had always seemed distant and detached. Now, thousands of miles from the only home I’d ever known, it was suddenly a comfort to see something so familiar. It was the first time that a cold, lonely night had forced me to seek comfort and companionship in that ol’ moon. It wouldn’t be the last.
My name is Obadiah Jeremiah Hezekiah Camp. I know that’s a mighty big mouthful, but my folks were bound and determined to name me after all four of my great grandads. You can call me Obie. I was nine years old when my family and I left our ancestral home in Germany to sail for America. I didn’t realize it then, but the innocent, carefree days of my youth were rapidly drawing to a close. Ahead lay inconceivable obstacles, incredible exploits, high adventure on the western frontier, and eventually contentment and an inner peace that many never find.
As I lay there on that hard wooden deck, staring into that starry stillness, the only sound was the groaning and squeaking of that old ship’s rigging, and the flapping of her canvas sails in response to an intermittent breeze. I pulled the tarp up around my shoulders as a sudden gust of wind garnished the deck with a blanket of fog that stung my chapped face and glistened on the coil of rope that served as my pillow. My brother Christoph lay on the deck at my side. Christoph was thirteen. He had serious doubts about this pilgrimage to America. His apprenticeship to the Count’s Brewmeister had been lucrative, and he’d been very hesitant to accompany his family on this risky and unnerving excursion. He missed his home and friends and had joined us reluctantly at the insistence of our father and the heartfelt pleadings of our mother.
There would be no more sleep for me this night. As the velvet black skies lightened to lavender in the east, a thin layer of scarlet became barely visible in the west. It was land. It was America. Soon the melancholy stillness was replaced with hustle, bustle, and the excitement of preparation. The crewmen were busily pursuing their assigned tasks, and the passengers were crowding the decks in a frenzy of anticipation. Yesterday, freedom, opportunity and America had been only a well-worn, but very illusive dream. This morning that impossible dream was palpable. It lay on the horizon ahead of us, visible to the naked eye. It was no longer just an incredible dream. America was real.
Jarrin’ Bones & Rattlin’ Teeth
As
the sun climbed gradually into the brilliant autumn sky, a purple horizon rose from a dreamlike mist and took on recognizable forms. First the forests in their breathtaking fall foliage, then the houses and buildings, and eventually the dock and crowds of people became distinguishable on the shore. Our hearts pounded and filled with myriad emotions: joy, excitement, uncertainty, and apprehension. Those people on the dock were Americans. Soon we would be Americans too.
To our west was the eastern boundary of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, and as the vast forests of oak and hickory gave way to farmland and fields of ripening grain, the port city of Philadelphia came into view. The port itself was clearly distinguishable by a forest of towering masts. Countless tall ships were at anchor along the expansive docks, now crowded with swarming masses of people of all nationalities. Beyond lay the historic city itself; basking in the brilliant rays of a gorgeous fall day I’d not soon forget.
Our longboats were lowered and manned, our decks filled with cheering pilgrims, and our gallant ship, in full canvas and flags flying, sailed proudly into the harbor. From the docks the crowd waved and cheered, a group of kilt clad gentleman promenaded across the wharf with bagpipes blaring, and all at once our normally reserved crew, in cadence with their rowing and in a wide variety of colorful accents, burst into a rousing chorus of “Blow the Man Down”. My pulse raced, my spirit soared, and my heart, fit to bust, pounded like never before. Well, there was the time I discovered the Counts teenage daughter skinny-dippin’ in the castle cistern, but that was different.
Many of our fellow passengers were encumbered by steamer trunks, crates of family heirlooms, and paraphernalia of every conceivable shape, size, and description. Several families had brought along farm implements, and one couple had shipped a huge cast iron cooking range, complete with water reservoir, eight lids and a dandy warming oven. Their disembarkation would require time and arrangements, not to mention intestinal fortitude and huge quantities of elbow grease.
My family was traveling light. As per pre-arrangement, we gathered on the port side of the ship and lined up near the gangway. Christoph and I each carried one end of an old camelback trunk in one hand and an additional piece of luggage in the other. My shoulder satchel contained the journal, which I’d begun onboard the ship. Mother carried a small leather satchel containing family papers, the manumission granting us the Count’s permission to sail from Germany, and assorted valuables. Father, still weak from his illness but in high spirits, led the way.
It’s difficult to describe my feelings as we left the ship and first set foot in an unfamiliar new country. Germany had been my family’s homeland for generations. Throughout our long and often miserable voyage, I’d harbored deep within myself a dull ache and an ever-present anxiety. I’d often awakened during the long nights at sea to a dry mouth and a churning stomach. Even on the good days there’d been a discomforting sense of leaving something irretrievable behind.
This morning, as we faced the challenges of a new day filled with opportunity, all those feelings of loss and disenfranchisement were replaced by an overwhelming sense of excitement and adventure. This was a new start in a new world, and everything about it seemed fresh and inviting. I realized that a chapter in my life was ending, and intuition told me that life as I knew it was changing forever. Right now though, my family and I were sharing the adventure of a lifetime, together.
Barring complications and miscommunications, Father’s elder brother Gus was to meet us at the port. Uncle Gus had arrived in America seven years previously and had kept in touch as well as possible considering the lamentable state of overseas mail service at the time. His crossing had been plagued by misfortune, and his wife Margaret had succumbed to disease and been buried at sea long before reaching America. His life here in Pennsylvania had been marvelously blessed. Both of his sons had married well, and their unions had produced nine Grandchildren. He’d arrived in this country as an apprentice cobbler and now owned his own thriving shoe shop. In seven years, he had established himself well in this country and was now a prosperous and respected member of his community.
I wouldn’t know Uncle Gus from Adam. I was only two when my uncle and his family received the Counts permission to sail for Philadelphia. Nevertheless, I joined my family in searching every person in the crowd for a familiar face. I’d occasionally had the pleasure and privilege of meeting people of different nationalities as a child, but I’d never experienced anything like this. Created in 1682 as ol’ Bill Penn’s “holy experiment” Philadelphia was a major port and received ships from throughout the world. Subsequently it was peopled with travelers from the four corners of the earth, each one contributing the customs, dress, tastes, and traditions of their mother country. This port city was a melting pot, and the result was a unique blend of the best and the worst.
The dock with its open-air shops and adjacent market, along with the inns, eating establishments, and taverns, all reflected this amazing diversity. The cool fall air was brisk and invigorating, and saturated with the violently competitive fragrances of hickory smoke, tobacco, wet poultry and boiling seafood. Down toward the northern end of the pier, the open-air shops endeavored to cater to every conceivable appetite, and what little they couldn’t provide was usually available in vast quantities, infinite variety, and discrete anonymity at the inns and taverns just across the street.
By the time a twenty-minute search had proven fruitless, that ol’ trunk weighed a ton and Christoph, and I were exhausted. We dropped our cargo and collapsed, sitting on the luggage and staring at the ground in despair. After a moment, I realized that I was looking at the feet of either a small mountain or a very portly gentleman. I craned my neck and gazed up into the kind and beaming countenance of an elderly gentleman with a huge white beard and a belly to match. He grinned at me, eyes twinkling for a moment, and then in a markedly German accent announced, “You must be Obadiah.”
Mother spun around instantly with a big smile. Father, who’d been anxiously scanning faces in the opposite direction, paused momentarily, and then, turning slowly, gazed into his brother’s face with rapidly moistening eyes. Father had been a little teary eyed as we bid farewell to my grandparents in Germany, but I’d never seen him actually break down and cry. Father took Uncle Gus by the hand, and gazed straight into his soul, his eyes reflecting a range and depth of emotions incapable of conveyance in mere words. Then, as they wrapped their arms around each other, Father drew a long faltering breath, and convulsing with emotions, sobbed quietly right out loud. I held my mother’s hand while fighting back the lump in my own throat, and my mother searched desperately for her handkerchief. After a moment, Christoph, unable to deal with all this unbridled emotion, cleared his throat and began collecting our luggage. Uncle Gus embraced Dad for a moment longer, kissed my mother ever so gently on the cheek, and then grabbed that camelback trunk by one handle and hoisted it up on his shoulder. “Shake a leg,” he encouraged, “or we’ll all miss dinner.”
It took several minutes to maneuver through the crowds and reach my uncle’s wagon. By then the emotions of the reunion were beginning to subside and tongues began to loosen. Mother had begun to fill my uncle in on the events of our long voyage. The luggage loaded, my brother and I climbed into the back of the buckboard and found a seat next to our trunk on a blanket that our uncle had provided. The three adults squeezed into the driver’s bench, Uncle Gus spoke to the team of mules, and Christoph and I got our very first taste of riding a springless buckboard down a cobblestone street. As we proceeded, Gus pointed out Independence Hall and related what I’m certain was a wealth of interesting local history, but I missed it all. Other than the sounds of the buckboard, all I heard were jarrin’ bones and rattlin’ teeth!
To be continued
Copyright ©
Shannon T. Casebeer