Anna's Crossing

by Suzanne Woods Fisher

  At the top of the companionway, she chanced a glance back and found Bairn staring at the bottom of her dress with a curious look on his face. She looked down and realized she was barefoot. He had been looking at her ankles and she felt her face go scarlet once again.

  He tilted his head as if he wanted to say something, but then the ship bell clanged and he moved away, tipping his head once more.

  Felix waited for her on the next step, his eyes glued on Bairn as he strode down the deck.

  “Felix, you foolish, foolish boy. How could you have dared to go into the captain’s bunk?”

  “Well, I won’t do it again,” he said in a puny voice.

  But he would. She knew he would. She could read his mind.

  Anna paused, reluctant to go below, and watched the sea, watched sailors climb up and down the rigging as if it were child’s play. The idea of climbing that high left her dizzy. The sway of the ropes was more nausea-invoking to her than the rolling of the deck. She couldn’t look up at them anymore.

  Not so for Felix. “Amazing, isn’t it?”

  “Amazing,” she echoed faintly, though her tone wasn’t the same as his.

  “Being up there must feel like flying.”

  She took a deep breath of salty air, dreading the thought of going back down into the stale, putrid air of the lower deck.

  “What do you think of Bairn?”

  What did she think of him? She didn’t know. She had no idea how to act with this man. She was accustomed to older men, like Christian and Josef and her grandfather, and young boys, like Peter and Johann and Felix. But she hadn’t been around many men her age, and certainly not someone like him. “What kind of name is Bairn for a ship’s officer?”

  “It’s Scottish for boy, he said.”

  Aha! She knew Felix understood more English than he let on.

  He lifted his head. “He’s nice, isn’t he?”

  Nice? Yes, in a way, Bairn was surprisingly kind to them. But his eyes were distant and a little mysterious. A bit sad too. “He’s not one of us, Felix. He’s a stranger, an outsider. He doesn’t follow the straight and narrow path. You ought not to be talking to him.” She raised an eyebrow at him. “Nor should you be sneaking into places you don’t belong. The captain’s quarters, of all places! You should be ashamed. Next time, Bairn may not be as friendly to you.”

  Anna resisted the urge to pinch her nose as she reached the bottom step of the companionway. With more than a little relief, she realized that her stomach wasn’t bothering her nearly as much as it was before she went above deck. She wasn’t sure if it was the fresh sea air, the ginger, or just the benefit that came from thinking of something other than seasickness. She went straight to her chest to search her grandmother’s remedy box for ginger root and smiled when she found it. She sliced it up to pass out to those who were sickest.

  Lizzie lay on her pallet, green as a spring gourd, utterly miserable.

  “Chew this, Lizzie. It will help.” Anna knelt down beside her and tried to distract her. “Your babe will be the first of our church to be born in the New World.”

  “Or on this horrible ship.”

  Anna’s head jerked up. “What?”

  Lizzie’s face crumpled. “Oh, Anna. I lied. I was with child when Peter and I were wed. I’m . . . six months along.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Maybe seven.”

  Anna’s heart pounded so hard it threatened to bruise her ribs from the inside. She couldn’t breathe.

  “If Christian had found out, he would put us under the Bann. He wouldn’t have let us join the group for the crossing.”

  “If he had found out, his only concern would be to make sure your baby has a chance to survive!”

  “Hush . . . keep your voice down.”

  “How could you have dared to step foot on a ship?”

  “I thought we would have reached Port Philadelphia by now. I never expected all those delays down the Rhine, then more in Rotterdam.”

  Anna let out a sigh. She, too, had been astounded at how slow a start this journey was getting.

  “Anna . . . you have to promise to help me.”

  “Me? Help? I’ve never delivered a baby.”

  “Your grandmother has.” Her eyes skirted across the aisle to where Maria sat, watching them, craning her neck and straining her ears to try to listen to them. “You’ve watched her. You know about doctoring.”

  It was true that Anna had assisted her grandmother, but she only did what her grandmother told her to do. She never thought about it, about what was happening next or what to look out for or why. Her grandmother had the gift for healing and Anna didn’t. Nor did she want it. Whenever a baby was about to arrive, her grandmother would send her out to get hot water and Anna gladly vanished. “But I’m—”

  “You’re all I’ve got.”

  Maria walked slowly by, arms crossed, ears peeled. Anna dropped her head and sliced off another piece of ginger. She waited until Maria was out of listening range, then whispered, “Lizzie, Maria has more experience. She’s had children.”

  “No! Not Maria. You know what she’s like with those strange words and rituals.”

  Maria fancied herself to be a Braucher, one who used folk magic—prayers, rituals, and spells—to heal common ailments.

  “What about Barbara? She’s had twins. And there are a few other women. Even the Mennonites. Goodness, they’ve got all those toddlers! They must know a great deal about giving birth.”

  “No. Please, Anna. Promise me you’ll be the one to help me.”

  Anna looked into Lizzie’s pleading eyes. A child having a child. She mustered up a weak smile. “Perhaps your baby will wait to arrive until we reach Port Philadelphia.” Perhaps. But she doubted it. She sighed. “How far along are you?”

  “Seven months.”

  “Truly?”

  “Maybe more.”

  Anna rose to her feet, smoothed her hands over her skirt, a habit she had picked up from her grandmother when giving instructions, and said, “Then, when the time comes, we must make do with what we have.”

  But the truth was, Anna had nothing to make do with. No experience, no knowledge, no tools. The worrisome thoughts came too fast, tumbling one after the other. She walked anxiously around the lower deck, wondering where in the world a baby could be delivered. And what if something went wrong? Things often went wrong, even for her grandmother.

  She found a hammock in a barrel and attached it to hooks on the beams of the ship. Felix saw and copied her, as did Catrina. Soon, hammocks were getting hung all around the lower deck. Anna found a book in her chest and sat by the cannon portal for light, looking out at the wind-ruffled water of the channel.

  Conditions were far from ideal—barely tolerable to endure a sea journey and certainly not to have a baby. Daylight showed through the wide gaps in the planks above them, and rain shuddered through those same gaps. To bathe, they had to go behind a makeshift curtain and rinse themselves with salt water, which made their skin feel dry and itchy. The same method to relieve themselves. The lower deck was equipped with “easing-chairs” or commodes. The most prized berths were farthest from these, in the stern of the ship, and closest to the hatches, which gave some ventilation. Now she understood why the mighty Mennonites had hurried to be first up the gangplank and into the companionway. They had more knowledge of these sea passages than the Amish and were far savvier. The front of the ship, where the Amish and the animals were assigned, took the brunt as the ship’s bow sliced into the waves. There were cockroaches, lice, fleas, and rats. And now a baby was to be born.

  No, conditions were not at all ideal.

  Then a spark ignited in Anna’s mind. This bleak situation might have a silver lining. If she were to tell the captain—whom she had yet to see but had heard barking orders from above—if she were to tell him that there was a woman on board who was due to deliver, the captain would no doubt put Lizzie and Peter out when they reached Plymouth. Out of concern for Lizzie—all genuine�
�Anna would volunteer to accompany them on a return ship to Rotterdam. She could be home in Ixheim, having dinner with her grandparents by . . . let’s see, the end of August?

  A small smile tugged at the corner of Anna’s lips. Things were looking decidedly better.

  6

  July 4th, 1737

  The ship was surrounded by utter darkness. Bairn couldn’t hear anything at all except for the gentle murmur of the sails as they luffed in the breeze. Standing on the bowsprit in the middle of the night, he was alone in a realm of silence.

  It was as if the ship was sailing off to another place, as if a black pathway pulled the ship among the stars. And it was beautiful.

  The sea gave Bairn a measure of stability and order that the outside world had seemed to lack. The Charming Nancy was home to him now and he felt like her caretaker. And in a way, he was.

  As ship’s carpenter, he considered himself to be the ship’s physician. It was his job to know her weaknesses, her strengths, her history, her injuries, her scars. It was up to him to know how much ill weather she could face, how much her seasoned timbers could bear, what tonnage her belly could comfortably carry, the age and wear of her skins.

  He heard the bells ring for a watch change and knew morning would come soon. He should return to his quarters to try to get some sleep, though sleep was eluding him of late. Whenever he closed his eyes, flashes of memory popped before him. Flashes of his father in his red coat. Flashes of his mother pulling bread out of the oven. His father reaching over to spread the red coat over Bairn. And then . . . flashes of sickness and tears and death. He would startle awake, heart pounding, gasping for air. What he had tried for years to forget pursued him like a wild dog, nipping at his heels.

  As he walked into the officers’ quarters, Mr. Pocock, the first mate, came hobbling out, favoring his sore gouty foot, yawning. “Onto watch.” It was rare to be alone and uninterrupted, so Bairn lit a lantern, set it on the floor, and crouched down to pull out his sea chest. All that he owned in the world was in this chest. He opened the lid and reached to the bottom to pull out the coat. He sat on the floor, his back against Mr. Pocock’s wooden bunk, and held the coat against his chest. Made of a fine red wool, lovingly woven on his mother’s loom. It was his father’s coat, the only possession he had left from his family. His most treasured item. He breathed in deeply, one more time, then folded the coat and placed it carefully back in his sea chest, covered it up with his clothes, and shoved the chest under his bunk. He lay down on his back in the upper bunk, resting his head in his hands.

  He’d felt the dark anguish of old take hold, stirred up by the passengers down below. Watching them, hearing them, observing the happy interaction of the families. Their presence provoked his disquiet, bringing it all back, unearthing the past he’d long buried.

  Bairn tried to tell himself that it was only old grief rolling over, that it would soon go to sleep again, but he knew it was more. Knew it by the strange uneasiness he’d felt at unexpected times, knew it by the dreams that kept jabbing at him, knew it by the way he tensed up whenever he caught sight of the Peculiars.

  His mind traveled back to the visit yesterday afternoon with the red-haired German boy. As he started toward his carpentry shop, he noticed Felix hiding behind the capstan. He motioned to him to follow along and the laddie responded with gusto, all but bounding behind him.

  Afternoon light had poured into the shop from a tiny window at the back wall. The air was thick with the sweet-sharp scent of wood and pitch and oakum. Drifts of sawdust and curls of wood shavings lay on the floor, tools hung neatly on the wall. Bairn loved this little room; his personal space on a crowded vessel. Craftsmanship required thought, and thought required a quiet environment. It was his custom to linger in the shop long after he was done for the day.

  Bairn pointed to an upturned nail keg for the boy to sit on. He quickly realized the boy understood more English than he would have expected. Felix was a bright and clever laddie, though his pronunciation of English was truly horrific. Bairn was cautious about correcting him because he didn’t want the laddie to stop trying, but Felix didn’t seem to mind the corrections. Just the opposite, he seemed eager to learn the language. Bairn explained the various tools he used. He showed Felix the wood planes, their handles burnished by years of use, their blades so sharp and precise they could shave off curls of wood as thin as paper. He handed him tools that he’d purchased over the years in different seaports, explaining how each tool served a unique function but all were indispensable. Each one gave him precise control over fine details.

  Working with wood resonated with Bairn in an elusive but elemental way—it satisfied him down to his core, and gave him peace. Partly it was the pleasure that he derived from solving problems—working out angles and planes when a project wouldn’t lie cleanly. Partly it was because he felt closest to his father when he was in this shop. He had learned carpentry at his father’s side.

  And partly it was the wood itself. He liked the way wood spoke to him as he worked with it, murmuring and squeaking and whispering, almost as if it was alive. When he split apart a piece of pine or cedar or oak, it perfumed the air with its spicy sweet smell.

  On this rainy afternoon, the room grew stuffy and warm. Bairn took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. Felix’s eyes went wide when he saw the ink drawing pricked on Bairn’s upper arm. “Done with India ink,” he said. “It can never be washed off.”

  “It is a girl,” Felix said.

  “Aye.” Bairn squeezed his muscles to make it look as if the girl was dancing. “Not one of me prouder moments. But a good reminder of how stupid a man can be when he’s had a wee bit too much from a brown bottle.”

  Felix’s eyes went wider still, and it occurred to Bairn that he shouldn’t have shown him the tattoo. No doubt the boy had never seen the likes of such wickedness and debauchery. Then Decker’s voice rang out from the half-deck, calling for Bairn, and Felix had disappeared out the door in a flash.

  Bairn yawned, hearing the ship’s bell strike four in the morning. He should try to get some sleep before dawn, so he blew out the lamp and closed his eyes. His wished he could shut down his mind as easily as the lamp’s flame.

  He wondered if the boy would tell his sister about his tattoo and hoped he wouldn’t. Then he wondered why he should care what Anna thought of him.

  It was easier when the lower deck held only cotton and linens, wine and woolens.

  July 5th, 1737

  Georg Schultz unnerved Anna. This morning, after she had bathed and changed into a clean dress behind a curtain, she emerged from behind the curtain and there he was, arms folded, leaning against the beam. The morning sun, she discovered, was streaming through the cannon portals to illuminate the gauzy curtain, creating a shadowy outline of her figure. He had been watching her bathe and change clothes.

  After supper, Felix needed a haircut, so Anna cut his, and then cut the hair of the three-year-old Gerber twins. She wrapped an old sheet around the boys to catch hair. When she was done, she took the sheet over to the pig’s pen to shake it out. With one snap of the cloth, she was alone, and with the next, Georg Schultz stood beside her. She caught her breath with a sound. He seemed to be everywhere at once.

  “Hello, Anna,” he said. “Did I surprise you?”

  She frowned at him. “Yes, you did.”

  He looked at the scissors in her hands. If he thought she was going to cut into that greasy nest of hair on him, he was going to have to think again. Nevertheless, he kept staring at her. She brushed past him and quickly returned to Dorothea over by the cannon.

  Dorothea lifted her dull eyes to Anna’s. “Is that stout man bothering you?”

  Yes. “No.”

  “He bothers me,” Dorothea said. “There’s something about him that is frightening.”

  Anna put the scissors back into her trunk and sat down on the pallet next to Dorothea. “Would you tell me a story?”

  Dorothea closed her eyes for such a
long time that Anna thought she might have fallen asleep. But then she opened them and began to speak. “Did I tell you how our families came to be in the Palatinate?”

  “Tell it again.” Dorothea’s stories alternated between too long or too intimate, and were very repetitive. Anna’s grandfather said that once was all he needed, but Anna always listened anyway. To her, the tales were worth hearing again, and it seemed Dorothea needed to tell them to someone. They were harsh recollections of her childhood in Switzerland, when the Täuffers, the name given to those who believed in adult baptism, were hunted and chased out of their homeland.

  When Anna first heard Dorothea’s stories, she had been surprised and astonished, then she had grown a bit inured to their dramatic sequence. Now, after leaving their isolated village, after the long weeks in that horrible tent city, after the pail of seawater thrown into her face by that sailor with the small dog, the stories held new meaning for her.

  “My family was living in Bern, Switzerland, on a beautiful mountain.” Dorothea’s voice started out fragile, brittle, and much attenuated, as if rusty from lack of use. “We farmed land that no one else could farm, and we were very happy there. But a new mayor was elected to the Canton, a Catholic, Mayor Willading. He hated the Täuffers and wanted to rid Canton Bern of them. First, he forbade the Täuffers to meet to worship. Then they started to arrest the church leaders. My father was one of them. Families went up the mountain to hide in the Alphüt, where the hay was stored. The mayor demanded that all hay storage huts were to be searched for any hidden Täuffers. If a farmer turned them in, he would be given a reward of 30 Kreuzer. My father was betrayed by a poor man whom he had once fed. Early one morning, eight officers arrived at the door. Father had told us to hide under a stack of hay while he went off with the officers, but an officer started to thrust his sword into the stack and my father stopped him. We were discovered and sent off to prison.”