I've sent off numerous query letters through the years, to Literary Agents and publishers, with nary a nibble. The following is an example. What am I doing wrong? Be gentle. I'm old.
Query
The Hangtown Trilogy
Shannon Thomas Casebeer
Each and every day, each and every one of us, regardless of our circumstances, has a choice. We can squander our time fingering old welts, second guessing past decisions, and tormenting ourselves over the poor choices of others; or we can embrace a new day brimming with opportunities for doing justly, loving mercy, and building foundations for a bright new tomorrow. Time is precious. Choose wisely.
My stories, although historically accurate and autobiographical to some extent, are fictional parables about youth, innocence, faith, heritage, hope, nostalgia, and patriotism. They are insightful moments of time, preserved on these pages for posterity, and impervious to the onslaught of those who would deny history and undermine truth. They contain candid recollections, bitter sweet reminiscences, and fascinating glimpses of a distant day when life seemed simple, summer was perennial, and childlike faith assured tomorrows joys.
My name is Shannon Thomas Casebeer. I was born on Reservoir Hill in Placerville, California, in the heart of the historic mother lode. One hundred years after the gold rush, Placerville, aka old Hangtown, still exuded the rich heritage of our country’s rambunctious youth. I’m proud the be a product of that legacy.
History and truth are under siege today, threatened, slandered, and maligned by those whose self-serving agendas are vulnerable to truth and verifiable facts. Some consider me an author and a truthteller. The jury is still out. I’ve been putting pen to paper for several decades. I’ve written three historical novels and dozens of poems and essays, each one painstakingly pecked out in an effort to celebrate my ancestors, my country, and the remarkable history that is our heritage. What is needed now is an agent.
For the purposes of this little query, I’m providing the prologue and opening chapters of three of my manuscripts. I’m also providing links to my Facebook group, my blog, and one little poem. My Facebook group serves as an invitation to join the adventure in progress. Hundreds enjoy a new episode each day, many remarking after reading the story, they feel like they were there. The blog is a treasure trove of my many essays and poems. I very much appreciate your consideration.
OBIE
Historical fiction
Word count 110,000
From the Journal Of
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 granddads. 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.
OBIE
Episode One
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 laid the historic city itself; basking in the brilliant rays of a gorgeous fall day I’d not soon forget.
Our long boats 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!
Historical fiction
Word count 42,000
Life was difficult in the highlands of Scotland. Of course, as far as that goes, back in the early eighteen hundred’s life was a challenge everywhere. My name is Nehemiah Efraim McAnally. Call me Miah.
Following the defeat of the Jacobite army by the British during the battle of Culloden in 1746, the clans were scattered, the wearing of traditional, tartan plaids was forbidden, firearms confiscated, and life in the Scottish Highlands became increasingly difficult.
The eldest of three children, I was born in the highlands on the west coast of Scotland in 1813. Suffice it to say, like most everyone of my acquaintance, my folks were dirt-poor. At ten years of age, I left home and found work on a whaling ship. While aboard, I learnt the arts of sailing, blacksmithing, and all variety of tasks essential to life on the high seas. Don’t get me wrong; life at sea has its rewards: The sunsets are luxurious, the sea air invigorating, and the starlit sky fires the imagination, but the work was brutal, the compensation meager, and living conditions primitive and grim. Following several exhausting months at sea, having pocketed a pittance of cash, I took advantage of what was intended to be a brief time ashore to excuse myself and hightail it home.
Arriving home, I found the family struggling as usual. Early one afternoon, having joined my father who was assisting a neighbor with his wheat harvest, a single, jarring gunshot rang out from home. This was deeply disconcerting, as our only antiquated firearm was secreted away beneath the floor, since its very possession was grounds for immediate imprisonment.
Arriving home at a dead run, we found my little sister screaming hysterically in the front yard and my mother breathlessly cradling the baby. Evidently, after fueling the fireplace with dry peat from the woodshed, Mother had returned to find an adder coiled in the crib at the feet of my baby brother. Hesitant to provoke the snake to striking while endeavoring to dispatch it, Mother had retrieved the old flintlock from its place of hiding, lowered the barrel tip to only inches from the snake’s head and blew it all to pieces.
Calm now restored; we’d gathered around the hearth for tea when a frantic banging issued from the door. A neighbor had heard the discharge of the flintlock and reported the disturbance to the authorities, who now arrived breathless and eager to investigate.
The English officers, being dutybound to collect any prohibited firearms along with anyone sufficiently fool hearty to possess, let alone fire one, demanded to know the whereabouts of the guilty party. After a brief, unsettling pause, my father, being loath to implicate my mother in the mishap, owned up to having discharged the weapon himself and was hauled unceremoniously away amid the wailing protestations of my family.
Once my mother and siblings had cried themselves to sleep, I pocketed the cash I’d earned during my time at sea and stumbled through the darkness to the single-celled, rock hoosegow where my father had been imprisoned to await trial. The jailor, snoring peacefully on his cot, was a family friend. He was the only one on duty. I awakened him and began pleading the case of my father. Duffy yawned, stretched, and insisted he was powerless to assist, until I showed him my coins.
After some discussion, it was determined that, rather than leaving Duffy to face retribution for releasing his ward, if he were to be rendered unconscious during the escape, he would likely face no consequences. He agreed that this seemed a sensible solution, assuming his skull was not permanently addled. An accord now established; I handed Duffy the coins. Father donned his hat, and as Duffy turned to wish my father well in his new life of crime, I retrieved a brown, earthenware crock from beside the doorway and applied it with determination to Duffy’s noggin.
Rather than collapsing unconscious as anticipated, Duffy turned to me with a surprised and offended grimace, fingered the rapidly growing lump on his head, and suggested he’d anticipated being given a heads up prior to his pummeling. After assessing his injury, we all agreed that the knot provided sufficient evidence as to convince the authorities that Duffy had met his obligations. Father and I said our goodbyes and returned home.
Thus began our life of crime. Frugal as we were, we had very few possessions to hinder our flight from justice. My family said our goodbyes to my grandparents, accumulated what little currency was available to us, dressed in layers in order to remain warm and provide numerous pockets for the few valuables with which we departed, and then proceeded with all due haste to the whaling vessel on which I’d been previously employed.
The ship’s captain, being no fan of the English, soon succumbed to our fervent pleadings, and details for our passage quickly reached an accord. My family would be secreted away below deck, until such time as we arrived safely in Northern Ireland, where it was unlikely that news of our unnewsworthy offense would have preceded us. From there, we’d arrange passage for the colonies and America.
In 1824, when I was but eleven years of age, my family and I boarded the good ship Abolis and left Belfast to sail for the storied shores of America. We arrived twenty-seven days later in the fall of that year, in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.
Arriving all but penniless in a strange new land is not something I’d recommend to a friend. The crossing had been tedious and life-altering. We’d encountered numerous storms, during which the ship pitched and rolled until very few came through unscathed. Along the way, several had succumbed to a variety of maladies, and three weary souls had abandoned their beleaguered robes of flesh, which were then sewn up in canvas and lowered into the sea. Occasionally, a stifling calm would smother the sea breezes which provided our ship’s conveyance, leaving the old schooner rendered immobile for days at a time, with the sea placid as bath water and the canvas sails hanging limp as laundry. The very sight of the celebrated shores of America rendered the majority of passengers and crew prostrate on the old ship’s decks, praising God and weeping with relief.
During the interminably long days and nights at sea, we’d had a fabulous wealth of hours to contemplate our circumstances and try desperately to imagine some solution. None had presented themselves. Once ashore, our situation only grew more perilous. Our fears hadn’t done our grim predicament justice. The docks were crowded with all variety of similarly stunned immigrants, all desperate for some clue as to how to proceed. Once more, providence intervened. Alongside our vessel, equally stunned refugees from Germany were arriving. Unlike us, these weary souls found solace in the immediate intervention of dozens of members of a local church. The church of the brethren was well prepared for this influx of traumatized arrivals from their homeland.
We’d sat traumatized and speechless for some time, watching the proceedings when, for some reason known only to God, having been touched by the stifled lamentations of my bundle-bearing mother and the pitiful laments of my sobbing little sister, several of these compassionate church members gently loaded my traumatized family into a wagonload of their own exhausted brethren and, gently rocking in the crowded wagon, we set out for Germantown.
Arriving at long last in Germantown, after two days hard travel, we were led into the courthouse where, following some discussion by the church leaders, we were mercifully adopted into one of the German families, already well-established in the area. The family consisted of the patriarch, a gentleman of around sixty years of age, his wife, eight children, and an incalculable number of towheaded grandchildren. The family raised crops and livestock on about 40 acres on the outskirts of town.
Communication was initially a challenge. We Scots, of course, spoke no German, and vice versa. Fortunately, several of us spoke a modicum of English. When all else fails, regardless of your location, one facial expression is worth a thousand words.
Fortunately for us, this family could well afford a few additional mouths to feed. As a result of our proximity to the coast, seafood was plentiful and comparatively inexpensive. Within weeks, we’d settled into a routine and become productive members of our new extended family. The family raised crops and livestock, so there was no shortage of work through which we were able be productive and earn our keep. They had a huge number of pigs. While some abstain from pork for religious reasons, our German hosts had no such reservations; nor did we. Our hosts were big believers in the old saying, “waste not, want not.” When a pig was butchered, verry little was discarded but the squeal. What wasn’t carved into ham, bacon, roasts, or chops, was pickled or ground into sausages or bratwurst.
Here, we thrived and passed the time, week by week, month by month, season by season, until half a dozen years had sped pleasantly away. Farm life suited us, and we were soon fat and sassy. We bonded thoroughly with our host family, and that bond strengthened exponentially when my little sister wed one of the sons.
Throughout these years, much of our time centered around church life. Much like the Mennonites and Quakers, The Church of the brethren placed their emphasis on nonviolence and benevolence. They took Christ’s teachings seriously, and followed the golden rule religiously, “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you”.
When I turned 18, I was sent away to medical school. Founded in 1765, The University of Pennsylvania School of Medicine was the first and only medical school in America’s original thirteen colonies. Students enrolled for anatomical lectures and a course on the theory and practice of physics. Here, I spent four blissful years, learning the basics of medicine and thoroughly enjoying the society of fellow students.
Home once again in Germantown following my education, I very much missed the challenge and gratifying camaraderie of school life. Unbeknownst to me at the time, the influence of these early years with the church, in conjunction with my years of medical training in Philadelphia, had set my feet on a path that would determine my course for many years to come.
In the spring of 1835, when I was but 22-two years of age, the cry of northbound geese seized my soul and left me melancholy and strangely ill at ease. In an effort to ease my undiagnosed ache, I determined to attend a barn dance downtown. Arriving at the festivities, my attention was instantly diverted by a Norwegian family whose vibrant apparel stood out in bright contrast to the solemn, black attire of the Germans. The household consisted of the mom, the dad, and a gaggle of petite, towheaded princesses.
Gertrude was a year or two my junior. She was fair, flamboyant, and flirtatious! I was instantly smitten! Summoning all my courage, hat in hand and heart pounding, I asked if she’d care to dance. She allowed as how she’d be absolutely delighted! We took the floor and danced and danced till the band went home and they showed us eventually to the door.
From that night forward, I thought of little else but my little darling, Gertie. After several weeks of what I believed to be a fledgling courtship, I arrived at her home one evening to find an unfamiliar rig parked in the yard. Inside the rig were Gertie and the son of a local banker. He was older than I, a good head taller, and obviously well off. He had a dandy buggy, a beautiful bay mare, and an attitude.
They were clearly preoccupied. Approaching the buggy, I requested a moment and escorted Gertie aside, intent on voicing my displeasure. Gertie was unmoved by my protestations. Her new suitor eventually dismounted his buggy, gave me a persuasive dusting with his hat, and suggested I bother them no further. Undeterred, I doubled my fist and gave him what I considered to be a pretty convincing thump on the chin. He was decidedly unimpressed. After receiving a good thrashing, I glared up from where I was taking a brief respite in the mud, to see Gertie and her new beau hand in hand and skipping off to meet the parents. Not wishing to humiliate the young couple further, I returned home.
Over the next several weeks, the cries of the migrating geese strengthened their hold on my naïve and youthful wanderlust. Early one morning, I endured a tearful parting with friends and family, collected my doctor’s bag, mounted my faithful steed, and set off to see the world. Suffice it to say, the world saw me coming and was prepared.
Historical fiction
Word count 45,000
Copyright ©
Shannon T. Casebeer
INTRODUCTION
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.
PROLOGUE
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 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.
CLARA’S BEST
Episode One
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 several 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 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 showed 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.
CLARA’S BEST
Episode Two
ROUNDING THE HORN
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.
To be continued
REMINISCENCE
When our hopes and dreams grow faded
And we miss the friends, who cared,
And old times are consecrated
By the golden hours we’ve shared;
When the streets we tread so long ago
Come back to haunt our dreams,
And we treasure those we used to know
And conjure up old schemes;
When old associates fill our heart
And refresh our weary mind,
And we feel as one though miles apart
And old woes wax sublime;
When our flesh at best contains us
And we’re far from hearth and friend,
May fond memories then sustain us
Till we meet at last again. SC
I appreciate your consideration.
