by Lynn Austin
Dearest Anna,
I had a long conversation with William at the club yesterday, and he explained the details of why he ended your engagement. He believes that you betrayed his trust by behaving as you did, and I have to say that I agree with him. I see no reason at all for you to attend any other church than the one where we have been lifelong members. But you are still my dear daughter, and so I’m certain you would never do anything improper or shameful.
I firmly believe that a marriage between you and William would be a good one. Our families have much in common, and I couldn’t ask for a finer husband for my only child. William is willing to reconcile if you can assure him that you will abide by his decisions from now on. It’s what every husband expects of his wife, dear Anna. This is not an unusual request by any means. A husband is always the head of his own household. I told William that you aren’t expected back for at least another week, so that will give you time to reconsider renewing your engagement. I sincerely hope that all the hard feelings between you and William will have healed by then, and that we can move forward with the preparations for your wedding.
Speaking of your return, I received your letter describing the storm you encountered on your way to the resort. Your mother agreed that it was unnerving. I’m sorry you were so badly frightened, Anna, and I understand why you wish to make the return trip home by train. I’ll see what can be done about exchanging tickets.
That’s all for now. But I urge you to think about William’s good qualities and not allow any hurt feelings to stand in the way of your marriage to him.
I remain,
Your loving father
I read the letter through three times. If I hadn’t talked with Derk earlier today, Father’s words might have swayed me. But I’d clearly seen how selfish Derk’s girlfriend had been to ask him to sacrifice his happiness, and William’s demands seem equally selfish to me. If I married him, would I have to sacrifice my own wishes and my own happiness for the rest of my life?
I open the window, letting in a fresh breath of cool, evening air. Music drifts in from some distant dance band, the sound carried across the narrow lake. The waters of Black Lake mirror the evening sky—dark and dappled with starlight. I suddenly feel trapped in this room—and in my life. I don’t know who I really am or what my purpose is supposed to be. Maybe if I could solve the mystery of my past and how I learned a simple Dutch word, it would help me figure out my future.
But until I do, I’m quite certain that if I marry William, my future will be swallowed up by his plans the same way the waves in my nightmare swallow up my mama.
Chapter 11
Geesje’s Story
The Netherlands
50 years earlier
The weeks that it took for my urgent letter to reach Hendrik and for him to write back were a time of soul-searching for me. I thought long and hard about Papa’s warning that I must choose between God’s will and my own, and I prayed to be strong enough to follow God, even if it meant losing Hendrik. When his reply finally came, I ripped open the envelope, holding my breath.
My darling Geesje,
I would gladly follow you to the ends of the earth, so why not to America? I can think of no reason for me to stay here in the Netherlands without you, and I believe we would have more opportunities over there for a good life together than we would ever have here. If I could buy a patch of land to call my own in Wisconsin and live there with you, I would be the happiest man alive.
I’m so sorry that you will have to travel all the way to America without me for now. But will you wait for me over there until I can join you after I’m discharged from the army? I hope that your answer will be yes. In the meantime, the days and weeks and months until we can be together again will seem very long.
Your loving soldier,
Hendrik
I wept with joy as I read his letter and quickly wrote back to him, promising to wait. Leaving Hendrik behind with a vast ocean between us was going to be the hardest thing I’d ever done in my life. But I had trusted God so far, and I decided to trust Him to bring us together again.
“I’m so happy for you, lieveling,” Mama said when I told her the news about Hendrik. “The next time you write to him, you can send him this list of provisions that the shipping company recommends for the trip.” The amount of food we were advised to bring seemed absurd, totaling 160 pounds per person! This included meat, flour, rice, potatoes, peas, bread, cheese, butter, sugar, coffee and tea, as well as household items like kettles, plates, pots, and tin water cans. My family didn’t pack nearly that much because Papa also needed to bring some of the equipment he would need to start a new printing business in America. We weren’t wealthy people, so we had very few clothes and other belongings to pack.
During the next few weeks, our family’s plans seemed to move forward with great speed. We said a tearful good-bye to Geerde and Anneke and their families, knowing that we would probably never see them again on this side of heaven. Then on September 24 my parents and Maarten and I joined Dominie Van Raalte and about fifty other Separatists and set sail from the port of Rotterdam on the brig Southerner. The vessel looked huge to me with its boxy wooden hull and three towering masts. Our little congregation was filled with faith for our future as we launched out to sea with a litany of psalms and prayers. We sailed only as far as the Dutch port of Hellevoetsluis when our first calamity struck. A fire broke out, starting in the cook’s galley and quickly spreading to the upper deck of our ship. Thick smoke found its way into every stateroom and passageway, sending us fleeing up from below, coughing and choking, our eyes stinging. What a terrifying sight to see flames consuming our wooden ship! Papa, Maarten, and all the other men quickly pitched in with the crew to form a bucket brigade. Thankfully they managed to extinguish the flames, but not before the fire burned a hole through the upper deck. The experience left everyone badly shaken. “What if the fire had happened while we were at sea,” I asked Papa, “instead of in port?”
“Our lives are in God’s hands, lieveling, whether we’re on land or at sea,” he replied. “We must learn to trust Him.”
I had never been fearful before, but now I began to worry about all of the hindrances that might keep Hendrik and me apart. For the first time in my life I had a plan for my future but the obstacles that stood between me and the fulfillment of that plan seemed enormous.
Our voyage was delayed for a week because of the fire, and we remained in Hellevoetsluis until our ship could be repaired. A local church invited Dominie Van Raalte to preach on Sunday and we crammed into the sanctuary with so many other parishioners that we couldn’t have fallen over if we’d tried. Everyone agreed that Albertus Van Raalte was a spellbinding preacher. His sermon filled all the passengers with courage, including me. “God is able to use all manner of obstacles to accomplish His purposes,” Dominie assured us, “including the blight on the potato crop and the fire aboard our ship.” I left the service reassured that everything would work out for Hendrik and me in America.
At last we sailed out into the North Sea, passing through the English Channel and into the Atlantic Ocean. My mood, as changeable as waves on the water, went from the heights of hope to the trough of despair. I can’t begin to describe the melancholy I felt as I watched the shoreline of my homeland disappear from sight, knowing I would never see my beloved Netherlands again. America was so huge and distant and unknown. Would it ever feel like home to me the way Leiden had? I had sent one last letter to Hendrik before we’d departed from Hellevoetsluis, knowing it would be many, many months before he would receive another one from me, and even longer before I would receive one from him. He would have no way of knowing where to address a letter to me on the other side of that huge ocean until after we’d landed and gotten settled. Those months of silence would be excruciating to endure.
The other immigrants in our traveling party were filled with anticipation and excitement, knowing they were beginning a brand-new life in a new country with God guiding
their every step. But each passing day on the featureless ocean took me farther and farther from the man I loved. Hendrik had assured me of his love in his last letter. Nothing could keep us apart. He promised to join me in America as soon as he could. I read that letter again and again until the paper became limp and the ink blurred from the salty air and my lovesick tears.
During our first day at sea, I spent as much time as I could on the passenger deck, fascinated by the intricate workings of a sailing ship. I loved the sound of the waves slapping against the bow as the ship plowed through the water, the call of the sailors as they signaled to each other, the snap of the sails in the wind. I was just getting my “sea legs” and adjusting to the feel of the rolling deck when a second calamity struck. A strong wind began to blow, and it soon swelled into a powerful storm. Sky and sea turned black, illuminated by spears of lightning that stabbed through the darkness. Rain and wind and waves pummeled our helpless vessel. Even the sailors had difficulty standing on the pitching deck, and they ordered all passengers to take cover below. Every door and hatch in the ship had to be closed up tightly to prevent the waves that rolled across the deck from pouring inside. The wooden-hulled Southerner seemed no match for the storm. I was certain we would all die.
For the next week, the storm refused to free us from its grip. Everyone on board was struck with violent nausea and vomiting, including the crew. The relentless pitching and rocking made it difficult to walk and impossible to keep even the smallest bites of food in our stomachs. Our stash of recommended supplies went uneaten. Mama, Papa, and I took turns nursing each other even though we were all equally sick. Maarten also tried his best to care for us, but he was deathly ill, too. By week’s end, so much weight had fallen from his sturdy frame that his round face looked pale and haggard. Everyone prayed and hung on tightly to God and any railing or handle or post that we could find. Then, at the end of the week, Jesus finally calmed the wind and waves, and the convulsing sea became tranquil once again.
“Our prayers have been answered,” Maarten said as he brought me some bread and tea on that first calm morning. He was out of bed and back on his feet before my parents and me, and he prepared a simple meal to help restore our strength even though he was still so shaky that he had to cling to the walls and furniture to remain upright.
But not all of our prayers had been answered. Tragedy struck for a third time. We learned that two of our fellow passengers had died, a young bride not much older than me, and a two-year-old child. I stood beside Maarten during the funerals beneath the billowing sails and miles of ropes and rigging, the canvas snapping and cracking in the wind above our heads like gunshots. Gripping the rail on the swaying deck, we watched the crew drop the bodies into the sea. “Why does God allow these terrible things to happen?” I asked him. “How can He see such tragedies and look the other way?”
“I can’t answer your questions, Geesje,” Maarten replied. “God’s ways are not our ways.”
I’ll never forget the sound of that child’s tiny, shroud-wrapped body splashing into the fathomless water. Or how inconsolable his mother’s grief was. She would never be able to visit his grave or set up a marker to remember him by. I would think of that grieving mother again years later when I buried my own child.
Dominie Van Raalte conducted the funeral service for the families, reading Jesus’ words as he tried to reassure us. “‘I am the resurrection and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live. . . .’” But after he’d prayed and the service ended, I still had unanswered questions.
“Was God punishing those two people for some reason?” I asked Maarten. “One was an innocent child, the other a new bride. Didn’t we all obey God’s will and leave our homeland? Why did this have to happen? It makes no sense.”
“The Bible says that all of our days are written in God’s book before one of them comes to be,” he replied. “And remember, our life here on earth isn’t all there is. We have the promise of heaven awaiting us. And resurrection. That mother will see her child again, the husband will see his bride. Do you believe that?”
“I do . . . But it still doesn’t seem fair.” For the second time in my young life, my faith was battered by a storm of doubt as I questioned God’s goodness. If He could cruelly snatch the young bride from her husband for no reason, the child from his mother, might He snatch Hendrik from me, too?
Chapter 12
Geesje’s Story
America
50 years earlier
We spent more than seven weeks crossing the Atlantic Ocean before reaching America. Thankfully, none of those weeks was as bad as the first one. I couldn’t help feeling bored during those long months, weary of living in such a cramped space. We arrived in New York City on November 17, 1846, a frigid day beneath gray, wind-scoured skies. The port looked even busier than the one in Rotterdam had with sailing vessels and steamships coming and going in all directions. Dozens more vessels waited offshore, their spiky masts poking the cloudy sky. We docked at the Castle Garden Immigration Depot on the lower end of Manhattan Island and wobbled ashore, relieved to set foot on firm land once again.
People from all over the world jammed the interior of the building, waiting to enter America. As we huddled together to avoid getting lost, a group of young men from who knows what other country seemed intrigued by us, pointing at us in our striped skirts and white poke bonnets, our men in their baggy trousers and black caps. Most of us wore wooden shoes, the only ones we owned. I had made friends with two other girls my age on the ship and as we stood talking together, a half-dozen bearded young men inched closer. They seemed to be flirting with us, laughing and babbling in their foreign tongue as they tried to communicate, kissing their fingers and tossing imaginary kisses in our direction. I found them amusing and wasn’t frightened at all, but Maarten and the other young men in our group hurried over to stand guard as the foreigners continued their pantomime.
Minutes passed as we all wondered where to go and what to do next. Then a group of Dutch Americans arrived, amazing us by speaking our own language. They’d come to Castle Garden from Dominie Thomas DeWitt’s Dutch Reformed Church to greet us and help us through the immigration process. “New York City was first settled by our countrymen from the Netherlands hundreds of years ago,” their leader told us. “It used to be called New Amsterdam.” Our Dutch-American hosts also explained what the dark-haired strangers had been saying. “They think your women are very beautiful. They’ve never seen such fair skin and blond hair before. You must be very careful to protect your young women. From now on you must all stay close together and ignore any strangers who approach you.” Maarten stuck even closer to my side after that, until it seemed that with every step I took, there he was underfoot. The strangers had seemed harmless to me, and I didn’t understand why we couldn’t return their gestures of friendship. No one except Hendrik had ever told me I was beautiful.
After several hours of waiting in the immigration depot, the American authorities finally allowed us to leave. Our hosts arranged transportation and lodging for us, and we set off through the busy city streets for our first glimpse of America. What I saw of New York City was very disappointing to me. It seemed dirty and smelly and overcrowded, with none of the lovely old buildings and canals and tree-lined streets I remembered in beautiful Leiden. If I could have reboarded the ship and returned to the Netherlands, I would have gladly done it, no matter how long the return journey took or how seasick I might become. I tried to hide my weary tears as I undressed for bed that night in the boardinghouse, but Mama saw them. “What’s wrong, Geesje?”
“The voyage took so long, and I’m so tired of traveling, and we’re not even to Wisconsin, yet, Mama. I miss our home. And I miss Hendrik.”
“I know, I know . . .” she soothed. “But the Lord has wonderful blessings in store for us. You’ll see.”
“Do you and Papa regret our decision to come?” I asked, blowing my nose.
“No. I miss your s
isters, of course, and my grandchildren. But no, we have no regrets.”
“Do you think Anneke and Geerde and their families will decide to join us once we’re settled?”
“Only the Lord knows. The important thing is that we’re following God’s leading to create a kolonie where we’ll be free to worship Him and raise our families to follow Him. The sacrifices we make for Him will lead to blessings for future generations. You’ll see.”
Thankfully, we didn’t stay in New York City very long. The following day we boarded a steamship and traveled up the Hudson River to the city of Albany, and my enthusiasm and my faith were renewed. What a beautiful trip that was! The Netherlands is mostly flat and featureless, so I had never seen mountains before. These stunning, tree-covered hills seemed to grow right out of the banks on both sides of the river, becoming higher and higher as we traveled north up the gently winding Hudson. “Have you ever seen such beautiful countryside, Geesje?” Maarten asked as he stood shivering beside me on the deck in his thin coat and vest.
“No, never! Why can’t we live here? Do you think it will it be this lovely where we’re going?”
He shrugged then said, “Our people want to purchase farmland. This part of America is already well-settled and the land is very costly.” Snow dusted some of the mountaintops and the air was very cold, but I stood out on the deck beside Maarten, basking in the beauty all around me until I felt too frozen to stay outside a moment longer.
At last we reached Albany, another dirty, smoky-gray city, and were greeted by Dominie Wyckoff from one of Albany’s Dutch Reformed churches. I can’t describe the relief we felt to find friendly Dutch-speaking Americans to help us along the way. No one in our group spoke English, although Dominie Van Raalte had taken a few lessons from our ship’s captain on our journey across the sea. Dominie Wyckoff distributed funds that the area churches had collected for us, and the kindness of these Christians amazed us. They didn’t even know us, yet they treated us just like family. The weather in Albany was very cold, with a swirl of dirty snow blowing across the frozen ground from a bitter wind off the river. We crowded into Dominie Wyckoff’s sitting room for warmth, leaving our wooden shoes lined up by his doorstep, while he arranged lodging for the night. “Your faith is like Abraham and Sarah’s,” he told us. “You’ve left the land of your fathers to go to a land God will show you, following wherever He leads.”