by Deeanne Gist
“I see.” Mr. Mercer shook his head in sympathy as he continued to write. “What did he do then?”
“He joined the war.”
“Ah. He’s home, then?”
“No, he was killed at Antietam.”
Mercer continued to write. “I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.”
“How is your family faring without him?”
She lowered her gaze. “Shortly after he died, my brother joined up as a drummer. He didn’t last even a year. But it was disease that killed him, not the rebels. My mother . . .” Anna swallowed. “She never recovered.”
“You are orphaned, then?”
“Quite. And destitute as well, I’m afraid.”
He paused in his scribblings. “You have money for the passage, though?”
She moistened her lips. “I do not.” She had spent a fair portion of her funds for the train ticket and needed more still for lodging.
He laid down his pen.
“I could pay you once I arrived and secured employment, though.”
Mercer began to shake his head, so she rushed on.
“I saw in your ad that work as a domestic, teacher, or nanny was guaranteed. I’m not a trained teacher, though I am very well-read and believe I could teach. But I’d be better suited as a domestic or nanny. You see, I took charge of our home almost from the moment my father enlisted. After he was gone, I held many jobs, the latest as a cook for a popular inn in Granby.”
He’d placed his pen back in its holder and had moved his notes to the side, when her last comment stalled him. “A cook, you say?”
“Yes. I prepared the menu and all courses for the morning, noon, and evening meals, having only Sundays off.”
“You can cook for large crowds?”
“I can. And I’m most accomplished at it.”
Mercer leaned back in his chair. “Well. We aren’t taking any passengers on credit, but there is one man who wanted a br—, a woman who could feed the men who work for him.”
She straightened. “Well, I daresay he’d be very pleased with me.”
Mercer gave her a quick appraisal. “I daresay he would.”
“How many men does he employ?”
“He’s a lumberjack. I’m not sure how many men are involved in his operation. No more than a dozen, I’d say, if that.”
A lumberjack. The word conjured up visions of pine forests, fresh air, and wilderness—something far removed from the bustling city, the aftermath of the war, and Hoke Dantzler.
“Goodness,” she said, a flicker of anticipation whisking through her. “I could feed a dozen men with one hand tied behind my back.”
He rubbed his hands against his legs. “Well, he was very specific with his request. So, if I allowed you passage, it would be on the condition that he paid your fare upon arrival and you would then have to work off your debt for him.”
“I’m agreeable to those terms, if he is.”
Mercer said nothing. Just stared into space. She could see his inner struggle. Was he worried she wouldn’t measure up to her new employer?
Sitting a little straighter, she forced herself not to squirm.
Finally, he turned again to his desk and retrieved his pen. “Very well, Miss Ivey. I will draw up your papers and award you passage to the Washington Territory on the S.S. Continental.”
CHAPTER
THREE
THE LACROSE DEMOCRAT
At 3 p.m. the noble S.S. Continental left her berth at pier 2 N.R. carrying off a petticoat brigade for the benefit of the long-haired miners and miserable old bachelors of the Pacific NorthWest. The cargo of Bay State Virgins sailed off in black stockings, candlewick garters, shirtwaists, spit curls, green specs, false teeth and a thirst for chewing gum.
First Night at Sea
January 18, 1866
The more the ship rolled, the more Anna’s concern grew. A chopping wind howled against the side of the vessel. Loose hairpins and toothbrushes tumbled to the floor, clattering across it. The greatest noise by far, however, came from the women sharing her cabin. Moans overlaid with anguish filled its narrow confines.
Rising from her bunk, Anna decided if she was going home to meet Jesus, she didn’t want to be in her nightdress. Stumbling about, she located her clothes, pulled them on, and stepped from the stateroom.
A jet of icy water impaled her, stealing her breath and soaking her from head to toe.
Pressing a hand against the wall, she gasped for air, salt stinging her eyes. Then panic shot a rush of energy through her.
Good heavens. Had the ship been hit? Sprung a leak? She looked up and down the passageway. Should she alert the crew or the women?
The sound of retching across the hall decided it for her. Corralling the women above deck without help would be an exercise in futility. She flew down the saloon, up the stairs, and flung open a door of a cabin on the portside.
The ship gave a roll starboard, throwing her into the arms of Mr. Conant, a reporter for the New York Times she had seen earlier on deck.
Grasping her around the waist, he pulled her into his cabin and slammed the door shut. The shock of their positions held them both speechless for a second or two.
Mr. Conant recovered first, a look of amusement touching his eyes. “This is what may be called the free and easy style of introductions, but if you have no objection, miss, perhaps I should assist you to your berth.”
Anna sprang from his arms. “Water is pouring in belowdecks.”
“Stay here.” He disappeared, but she couldn’t sit still and do nothing. From the sounds of it, the entire shipload of passengers was seasick. Why she hadn’t been afflicted with the same calamity, she didn’t know. But she knew the crew would have their hands full with the storm. The least she could do was help with the women.
And help she did. The water that had doused her turned out to be no more than a porthole that hadn’t been properly secured. And after the captain changed the ship’s course, the rolling became easier, but the sea was by no means smooth.
They’d been out for three days, and the majority of passengers still suffered ill effects. Even though it was only noon, Anna settled a pale young widow into her berth, then soundlessly closed the door behind her and headed to the upper deck for some air.
Walking along the portside, she took deep breaths. Gray clouds bunched and dipped, spraying the deck with mist. Surely the entire voyage wouldn’t be this unpleasant.
A small, fragile-looking woman who had to be at least sixty staggered into Anna’s path. Placing both hands across her stomach, the woman crouched over.
Anna seized her by the armpits and hurried her to the railing, holding her while she cast her bread upon the waters. After several forceful episodes, the woman finally straightened.
Pulling a handkerchief from her pocket, Anna handed it to her, only then realizing her bread wasn’t the only thing the woman had cast overboard. For her teeth had completely disappeared.
Anna scanned the water several hundred yards below. It frothed and churned, slamming itself against the side of the ship. No false teeth in sight.
“Tank you,” the woman breathed, before slapping a hand over her mouth, her eyes wide.
Anna swallowed. “Don’t be alarmed. I’m sure there are dentists in the Northwest.”
The woman searched the greedy water below. “Wat am I to do? How will I eat?”
Slipping her arm about the woman, Anna helped her to a chair nearby. “I will speak with the cook right away and make arrangements for you.”
“Oh no, no, no. How will I eber find a husband now?”
Anna choked back her surprise. A husband? Even with teeth, this woman would be hard-pressed to find a spouse at her age.
Tiny brown eyes the size of coffee beans looked at Anna from beneath heavily creased eyelids. “Mr. Mercer promised me a husband.”
“Well,” Anna said, scrambling for an appropriate response, “I cannot imagine why he would promise such a thing. Perhap
s you misunderstood. The passengers are guaranteed positions as teachers, domestics, or nannies. Not wives.”
The woman waved away Anna’s words. “How can we teach children when dere are none? Only men. Men who want wibes.” Having never considered that bit of logic, Anna didn’t know quite what to say. Relief rushed through her, though, at the realization that her position as a cook was not dependent on children being present. No room for confusion there.
She patted the woman’s hand. “Well, no need to rush into anything. The time it takes for new teeth to be made will be just the time you need to consider your matrimonial possibilities.”
The old woman’s eyes filled. “You don’t understand. My dear husband, Clement, neber came home from the war. I have nutting left. I need a husband right away.”
Anna squatted down in front of her. “Oh, I’m so sorry. My brother and father both died in the war, too, and my mother died not long after.”
“You’re all alone?”
Anna nodded. “I will never forget the day their names appeared on the casualty list in the newspaper. But we aren’t all alone, you and I. We have God, and now we have each other.”
Tears began to stream from the woman’s eyes, branching off into numerous tributaries as they traversed her wrinkled face. “Tank you, my dear.”
“There, there.”
She blew her nose into the handkerchief. “What is your name?”
“Miss Anna Ivey of Granby, Massachusetts.”
“It is so nice to meet you, Miss Ibey. I’m Mrs. Bert-a Wrenne of Lowell, Massa-chewits.”
“A pleasure, Mrs. Wrenne, I’m sure.”
THE WALA WALA STATESMAN
Mercer and his bevy of Massachusetts damsels are now anchored off the coast of Rio de Janeiro. It won’t be long before they, armed with green reticules, blank marriage certificates and photographs of Ben Butler—to hang on the andirons to keep their babies out of the fire—will be rounding the Horn and bounding over the watery reflections in search of a market for their kisses.
Seattle, Washington Territory
March 1, 1866
“They haven’t even made it to the Straits of Magellan yet,” Joe said, tossing a newspaper on Judge Rountree’s desk. “It will take them two months at least to reach Seattle, maybe more. I need an extension.”
“Tillney’s not going to be happy about this.”
“I couldn’t care less what Tillney says. I paid Mercer for a bride almost a year ago. He said he’d be back in six months. It’s not my fault he ran into such difficulties securing a vessel.”
“No, it’s never your fault, is it, Denton?”
Joe narrowed his eyes. “As a matter of fact, it isn’t.”
Rountree handed him back the newspaper. “Well, you’d better marry that gal the minute her slippered feet hit this shore. You understand?”
“I understand.”
THE ALTA CALIFORNIA
The only thing Mr. Mercer has to fear, so far as I can see, is that in case the girls are young and pretty, they may be snapped up by some of your wifeless young men in the ports of call. . . .
Lota, Chile
April 13, 1866
Anna tapped lightly on Mrs. Wrenne’s door. “Mr. Mercer has called a meeting for nine o’clock. We mustn’t be late.”
The elderly woman stepped out, her eyes alive with excitement. “Hab you been on deck yet?”
“I have. And you must come and see.” Anna took the lady’s arm, assisting her up the steps. “Lota is a lovely little valley situated between two high bluffs.”
“Oh, I can hardly wait to get off dis boat.”
“Me too. But we shall have to wait in line, I’m afraid. I’ve been made to understand that it is a great market day in Lota. So everyone is determined to go ashore.”
Smiling faces and bursts of laughter greeted them on the hurricane deck. After so many long and weary days of unbroken sea, the sight of land was arousing and invigorating.
Mercer clapped his hands, signaling a start of their meeting. “As you ladies know, I am deeply interested in your welfare. So much so, I cannot bear to have you out of my sight for even a single moment.”
Anna lifted a questioning brow. He’d claimed more than once that no man living was so near Mount Zion as he himself, but she’d had her doubts ever since he’d called the ladies into his stateroom one by one for the purpose of extracting more money.
“I cannot sign a note for two hundred and fifty, sir,” she’d told him when it was her turn. “You promised passage to me for fifty dollars, payable by my employer upon my arrival in Seattle.”
“I’m afraid I miscalculated and have borne great expense on your behalf.”
“I find that extremely hard to believe. In any case, we have a signed contract and I will agree to no more.”
Crossing his hands atop his desk, he offered her a placating smile. “Now, Miss Ivey, I am only asking to be recompensed for actual costs incurred. I cannot see what possible objection you have when in all probability you will get a husband as soon as we arrive at our destination, and he would, I’m sure, be more than happy to cover any incidentals.”
She shook her head. “Two hundred fifty dollars is not incidental. Furthermore, I have no intention of marrying.”
His eyes widened with alarm. “You have no intention of marrying?”
“Certainly not. Nor do I intend to place a more significant financial burden on my employer.”
“But your employer can afford it.”
“I don’t care if his pockets are lined with gold. According to our contract, the cost of my passage is fifty dollars, and fifty dollars it will remain.” Turning, she’d swept out of the stateroom.
Unfortunately, Mrs. Wrenne had not fared so well. Mercer had assured her that he had a nice farmer lined up for her who had promised to take whomever he brought—teeth or no teeth. Mrs. Wrenne happily signed the two-hundred-fifty-dollar note. Just thinking about it rekindled Anna’s anger—and her distrust of the man.
“I have learned,” he was now saying on deck, “that cholera and smallpox are raging in Lota. It would be most unsafe for any of you to go on shore.”
Murmurs of distress rippled through the crowd.
He held up his hands for silence. “Now, as much as I hate to place any severe restrictions upon you, I want you to distinctly understand that you are not to go on shore in the company of any gentleman other than myself.”
Anna frowned. If the conditions in Lota were unhealthy, then having Mr. Mercer with them wouldn’t make an iota of difference.
By afternoon, when a boatload of dashing Chilean officers and gentlemen rowed next to the steamship, Anna realized Mr. Mercer’s objections. The Chilean men would in all likelihood woo his passengers away.
She felt a touch of sympathy for him as he tried to keep the men off the boat. He had, after all, worked very hard on this emigration scheme of his.
“These officers have designs on you,” he frantically told the women. “If you give them any chance at all, it is certain to prove your ruin.”
His warnings did not, however, keep the girls from welcoming the men on board. By the time they were ready to pull up anchor a week later, several had bowed at Cupid’s knee.
THE MORNING CAL
The surplus sweetness of Massachusetts spinsterhood is soon to be wasted on the desert air of W.T. for the relief of territorial bachelors who now darn their buckskin breeches and d—n their hours of solitude. . . .
San Francisco, California
June 4, 1866
Anna rushed to the upper deck with the rest of the ladies for her first glimpse of the promised land. Hanging on to the rail, the wind whipped against her face, bringing the taste of salt with it.
They passed through the Golden Gate and all powers of speech failed her. Not because she was taken by California’s beauty, but because she was horrified.
Nothing but brown in every direction. The hills were brown. The islands were brown. Even the town was brow
n. It was nothing like the pine forests and rich wilderness she’d imagined.
She scanned the entire coastline but couldn’t spot a single tree.
“I hab neber seen anyting so ugly in my life,” Mrs. Wrenne said.
Anna glanced at the wharves rapidly filling with scruffy-looking miners whooping and waving. “The men or the landscape?”
“Bof.”
Even as they spoke, the men piled into rowboats and began to make their way toward the steamer.
THE IDAHO WORLD
The ship is drawing near Seattle’s port. Notice has been sent to the long-haired miners and rich bachelors of that auriferous section. The girls have been bathed by squads, platoons and brigades; their best raiment has been put on.
Washington Territory
July 8, 1866
Joe took one last glance around the home he’d built for Lorraine. She’d argued strongly against their coming out west, but he’d felt sure it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for them, the likes of which they’d never see in Maine. As a compromise, he came over first to see if it was all he’d expected it to be. It was that and more.
So he’d sent for her, then worked hard to prepare a place, building what was still one of the finest houses in the Territory. He’d even planted a chestnut tree like the one in her parents’ yard in Maine. The only thing he hadn’t done was add the feminine particulars, like wallpaper, curtains, and such. He’d thought to save that for her.
But she’d delayed her arrival, making excuse after excuse for not joining him. And the longer she’d stayed away, the more betrayed he’d felt. And the more betrayed he’d felt, the more the land had seeped into his heart, his soul, until it had eventually replaced the spot that had once been hers.
It offered him company when he was lonely, solace when he was sad. It was steady, reliable, faithful, and beautiful. It became all he needed, all he ever wanted, to the point that even if Lorraine had actually arrived, she wouldn’t have been able to reclaim that part of him that had once been hers.
And neither would some ready-made bride he’d paid three hundred dollars for. He’d marry whomever Mercer brought him, but only to save his land. In exchange for that, he’d give her a roof over her head, food for her belly, and all the pretty dresses she wanted. But he wouldn’t trust her with his heart. That belonged to his land.