Advance Praise for
The New Land
“In The New Land, David O. Stewart goes deep into the lives of a band of immigrants who landed in Maine before there was a Maine. This is the rare historical novel that has it all: a family love story, a panoramic war story, victories and losses in the daily struggle for survival, and, from the shadows, the quiet but unmistakable thrum of the tragedy of the European invasion of North America.”
—Patricia O’Toole, author of acclaimed biographies of American figures, including The Five of Hearts: An Intimate Portrait of Henry Adams and His Friends
“A dazzling and wrenching novel of history that marks the beginning of an American epic. A story of immigration, the inheritance of violence, and the love of a father for his son, told in language that stings with salt and sawdust and gunpowder. A novel of our revolutionary past that speaks truth to our fraught and furious times. David Stewart is a master of history and the human heart that beats within it.”
—Kent Wascom, author of The New Inheritors
“Sweeping in scope, keenly researched, and deeply felt, The New Land will capture your imagination and your heart. David O. Stewart has delivered an absolutely engrossing read.”
—Brad Parks, international bestselling author of Unthinkable
“This compelling novel brings Stewart’s finely-wrought characters into danger and heartbreak in the wilds of colonial America. The brutality of survival in colonization and war is rendered in sensitive detail, making for a vivid family saga.”
—Carrie Callaghan, author of A Light of Her Own and Salt the Snow
“Writing in the tradition of Kenneth Roberts, David O. Stewart has produced a well-researched, rousing saga of colonial and Revolutionary War New England. The story transports the reader to the mid-18th century German settlement of Broad Bay, on the rough and raw Maine frontier, and to the turmoils and adventures of an immigrant family who sacrifices, prospers, goes to war, and helps to build the United States.”
—Thomas Crocker, author of Braddock’s March: How the Man Sent to Seize a Continent Changed American History
“David O. Stewart’s historical novels always hook readers, and his new novel The New Land will have fans eager for the rest of the coming trilogy. Stewart shines as one of our leading authors of historical fiction.”
—James Grady, author of Six Days of the Condor and Mad Dogs
“In The New Land, a grand saga begins. David O. Stewart tells the classic tale of European settlers arriving on the New England coast, where they encounter hardship, winter, war, and a world indifferent to their sufferings and strivings. But he tells it from a fresh new perspective, through the eyes of German immigrants, like the skilled storyteller he is. You will live in this world. You will come to know these people. You will root for them. You will want more of the Overstreet family. And you’ll get it in Part II and beyond. But you must begin here to let David Stewart sweep you into the past. You’ll be happy you did.”
—William Martin, New York Times bestselling author of Cape Cod and Bound for Gold
“Sweeping across a panorama of pre-Revolutionary War New England, The New Land presents memorable and engaging characters who show us—sometimes uncomfortably—what life was like as our nation was being formed. David Stewart’s deep experience in chronicling those fraught and fascinating times pays off many times over with a multigenerational family saga, a love story, and an action adventure of real people trying to carve out a legacy in a new and unforgiving land. David’s fans, both longtime and newcomers, will eagerly await the next installments of the Overstreet saga.”
—Mark Olshaker, novelist, documentary filmmaker, and coauthor of Mindhunter and The Killer Across the Table
“A compelling origin story of an American family and the new nation where they carve out a home. David O. Stewart’s prose makes you feel the sea spray, hear the saw’s rasp, and smell the musket smoke.”
—Tom Young, author of Silver Wings, Iron Cross
“David O. Stewart reminds us that the people who invented America weren’t Americans when they came here, they were improvisers and gamblers laying odds that this rough wilderness would be better than the servitude they fled…. If you love historical adventures, The New Land delivers history with the punch of a thriller.”
—Eric Dezenhall, author of False Light and The Devil Himself
“An engrossing saga of hope, determination, and bravery. Johann and Christiane risk everything to cross the Atlantic to Broad Bay, where they are devastated by the false promises of charlatans, the harsh land, and the ever-present threat of native attacks. Only through faith, grit, and the power of love do they secure a future and build their family’s legacy. David O. Stewart’s action-filled prose creates an unforgettable story.”
—M.K. Tod, author of Paris in Ruins
“David O. Stewart is a rare talent—a superb historian who is also a gifted storyteller. The New Land marks the arrival of an inventive, thrillingly vivid American saga.”
—Daniel Stashower, author of The Hour of Peril: The Secret Plot to Murder Lincoln Before the Civil War
“No one knows U.S. history—its nuance, intrigue, and back stories—better than David O. Stewart. In The New Land, he takes us back to the frontier of a new nation, and to hopes and struggles that resonate with us today.”
—Tim Wendel, author of Escape from Castro’s Cuba and Red Rain
Also by David O. Stewart
Historical Novels
The Burning Land, Book 2 of the Overstreet Saga (forthcoming, May 2022)
The Resolute Land, Book 3 of the Overstreet Saga (forthcoming, November 2022)
The Lincoln Deception (2013)
The Paris Deception (2015)
The Babe Ruth Deception (2016)
Histories
George Washington: The Political Rise of America’s Founding Father (2021)
Madison’s Gift: Five Partnerships that Built America (2016)
American Emperor: Aaron Burr’s Challenge to Jefferson’s America (2011)
Impeached: The Trial of President Andrew Johnson and the Fight for Lincoln’s Legacy (2009)
The Summer of 1787: The Men Who Invented America (2007)
A PERMUTED PRESS BOOK
ISBN: 978-1-63758-080-6
ISBN (eBook): 978-1-63758-081-3
The New Land
© 2021 by David O. Stewart
All Rights Reserved
Cover art by Elaine Tabol
This book is a work of historical fiction. All incidents, dialogue, and characters aside from the actual historical figures are products of the author’s imagination. While they are based around real people, any incidents or dialogue involving the historical figures are fictional and are not intended to depict actual events or commentary. In all other respects, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is purely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author and publisher.
Permuted Press, LLC
New York • Nashville
permutedpress.com
Published in the United States of America
To Flora, August, Lucy, Scarlett, and Rex,
whose story this is, too
A dream is not a very safe thing to be near…It’s like a loaded pistol with a hair trigger: if it stays alive long enough, somebody is going to be hurt. But if it’s a good dream, it’s worth it.
William Faulkner, The Unvanquished
TABLE OF CONTENTS
†
Part I † 1752
Part II † 1755
Part III † 1775
Author’s Note
Ab
out the Author
Copyright Knox Press, all rights reserved 2021.
Cartographer Paul Rossmann Illustration Design
PART i
1752
†
CHAPTER ONE
†
“You there, John—it’s time.”
The mate’s voice was gruff, roughened by a lifetime of shouting over windroar and wavecrash, but not angry. Johann Oberstrasse nodded without turning. The English always called him John, never recognizing German names. “Yes,” he said to the far horizon, where the slate-grey sky met the blue-grey water. “It is time.” The mate moved away.
Even as the deck of the Mary Anne heaved with the march of foam-crested waves, the immensity of ocean and sky had a calming quality. Johann shifted his weight but didn’t leave the ship’s rail, pinned by the keening and moaning that rose from the deck below. A wind gust or a snapping sail might cloak those sounds for a few moments, but the undertone of despair always seeped back into his ears.
The sounds had started when they were only a few days out of port. Fevers and illness swept through the seventy-odd families seeking new lives in America. Deaths introduced an edge of madness, arias of grief breaking out to punctuate the steady recitative of anxiety and fear. After more than a week, with pestilence rendered more lethal by the sea’s cold and damp, the passengers knew the rituals of burial at sea.
When it came to delivering bodies to their eternal resting places, Johann had more experience than most. Professional soldiers do, if they stay alive. The body must be prepared, often simply rolled in a blanket or a coat. Everyone nearby must pause in respect, head bowed. Even an enemy, when his breath has gone out and his dreams have stopped, commands that respect. There must be words. They can be short and simple, but they must be said. When the silence falls, it must be allowed to linger, but not too long, especially if there are many dead to bury. Then the body is lowered into the earth and covered.
At first, the burials on the Mary Anne jarred the passengers. A measured pace marks the lowering of a body into the ground. It takes time to cover it. At sea, bodies plunge overboard, making lively splashes. The separation from the world of the living is sudden, total. No stone marks the lost life. Johann’s imagination pictured the bodies drifting down past the monsters of the sea, perhaps dissolving before reaching anything that might be called a resting place, bits of the person washed by waves into every corner of the globe. Aboard the ship, only a vacancy remains.
He straightened and pushed back from the rail. His hair and face were wet. He couldn’t be sure if it was spray from the sea or moisture from the sky. His soldier’s greatcoat didn’t keep out the cold. This was the fifth burial since they left port. It would be the worst. He must shut off his imagination. He must be strong. He had no choice.
A sailor with a sour look stepped around Christiane, who was curled in front of a storage chest on the windswept deck. Despite the cold, the sailor was barefoot, the better to scramble up and down the rigging. Christiane clutched baby Walther, shielding him with her cape. She kept a hand on the bundle next to her, wrapped in a frayed blanket sewn shut on three sides. Her eyes didn’t meet Johann’s. Her face was set, as terrible as he had ever seen it. It showed nothing and everything.
The mate returned with a Bible. He said something in English, but the wind tore away the words before Johann could hear. Johann had learned that language while serving with the British in the Dettingen campaign, when the English king rented the Landgraf’s army for his war. That’s when Johann learned that the English would never know his name, would always call him John. They had no feel for German, no need to know it. On the Mary Anne, he conveyed messages from the German passengers to the crew and back again, so he knew more of the people in both groups, and more about them, than he cared to know. In the army, the more that people knew about you, or thought they knew, the more trouble they could cause.
Nungesser the schoolteacher stepped forward. Not a preacher but a literate man and a godly one, he acted like a preacher on the Mary Anne. There was no other, and the grim days required someone who knew the Bible and could be patient with grieving souls. Nungesser even knew a little English.
Leaning over to speak directly in Johann’s ear, he said, “I will read something short, in German.” Johann had said words over comrades and over men he fought against. Never for a child. Never for his child.
Johann crouched next to Christiane. When she looked up, the feeling rushed back. Not until Johann left the army did he come to know Peter, then nearly three. He was such a little fellow, at first shy of Johann but soon trailing behind whenever he could. The fever had been too much for him, so God took him. Johann could see no use that God could have for such a small one. Christiane’s eyes filled. She had so many tears. He placed his hand against her cheek. She looked down and nodded.
Tall, blonde Fritz Bauer stood on the other side of the blanket that held Peter. They would hold that bundle between them. The Bauers had lost their youngest in the weeks in the Netherlands, waiting for the ship, nothing to do but worry while spending their little money. Fritz and his wife Ursula buried their little girl in a soggy, unfamiliar land they would never see again. At least she was in the ground, her place marked. Johann didn’t look at the others gathered around the railing. Some had stayed below, too ill to come or too busy nursing the sick. The sailors hung back.
Nungesser stood at the rail. He turned to the people. He had the slouch of a tall man. After clearing his throat, he asked the forgiveness of the Almighty for their sins. He asked Jesus to care for the blameless dead like Peter and to bring them greater peace than they knew on earth. He asked the Lord to bring peace to His people on the Mary Anne. He led the Lord’s Prayer. Then Nungesser opened his Bible and read a passage from Exodus, one the passengers had repeated since the burials began.
Behold, the Egyptians marched after them; and they were sore afraid: and the children of Israel cried out unto the Lord.
And they said unto Moses, hast thou taken us away to die in the wilderness? wherefore hast thou dealt thus with us, to carry us forth out of Egypt?
Is not this the word that we did tell thee in Egypt, saying, Let us alone, that we may serve the Egyptians? For it had been better for us to serve the Egyptians, than that we should die in the wilderness.
And Moses said unto the people, Fear ye not, stand still, and see the salvation of the Lord, which He will show to you today.
Nungesser muttered, “Amen.” A few echoed him. Unsteadily, he began to sing “A Mighty Fortress is Our God.” Some joined, their words trailing raggedly behind the simple tune. Johann looked at Christiane, her head on Ursula Bauer’s shoulder, tears again tracking down her cheek. Her arms were folded over Walther, his head under the cape. The fever had first struck him, the younger one, but he recovered swiftly. They had thought Peter would get better too.
When the singing ended, Johann and Fritz lifted Peter. The bundle weighed so little, even with ballast rocks knotted into the shroud. Johann nodded. They stepped on a platform that the sailors placed next to the rail for burials. Johann nodded again. They tipped the blanket. The small body, bundled in the coarsest linen, slid out. Johann barely heard it enter the sea. He kept his eyes on the water, away from Christiane’s eyes.
Then he closed his eyes and said farewell. Through his last year in the army, during drills and on sentry duty and through all the dreary business of soldiering, Johann had talked to Peter in his mind, telling him things that Johann had learned and that a boy should know, that a father should teach him. When he got home, Johann called Peter his little soldier, but Christiane said not to do that. She said she was not making soldiers for the Landgraf to rent out to fight other people’s wars. Johann had minded when she said that, because a soldier, even a rented soldier, could be a man of honor and duty, but he had said nothing. Her father had land so her brothers never had to be soldiers. The Oberstrasses of Kettenheim had no land, so Johann, orphaned early and shuttled from uncle to
cousin to aunt, became a soldier for the Landgraf.
She only said that once. Christiane was no nag. But it lingered and grew in Johann’s head. He had always thought his dienst—his faithfulness to duty, even to the Landgraf—was the best part of him, but what she said made him less certain. He made up his mind to no longer be a soldier, not one who is hired out to kill for another man’s profit. Going to America, leaving behind all they knew and all that Johann had been, boiled down to those words. No more soldiers for the Landgraf.
A cross-wave slammed him against the rail, lifting him up on his toes. He looked down at the white and green water. A hand gripped his arm, holding him. Fritz was staring at him, concern on his long horseface. “Yes,” Johann said. “Yes. It is not my time.” Johann realized that Fritz was holding the blanket in his other hand; Johann had let it go. Johann straightened and blinked. They stepped off the platform as two sailors reached to move it away.
Johann sat on the deck with Christiane and Walther, their backs against the chest that held extra ropes. The spot, out of the traffic of busy sailors, offered some shelter from the wind. He opened his coat so she could lean inside its warmth.
“Walther was very good,” he said.
He felt her head nod. She had been quiet over the last few hours. When they saw life leaving Peter, she had shrieked, screams from another world, then sobs that became goose-like honks, mucus streaming from her nose. Walther joined her wailing. Johann couldn’t comfort a baby who heard such sounds from his own mother. There was no comfort. Johann didn’t know how long the screaming and sobs lasted. He had been lost in them. It was madness, madness that terrified him. He had longed to leave the dark hold where their sleeping space was, to get out in the air, but Christiane wouldn’t move, not away from Peter, so he had stayed.
“I’m cold,” Christiane said.
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