by Cherie Shaw
DARK JOURNEY HOME
by Cherie Shaw
Copyright © – 2013 Cherie Shaw
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Book cover design: Dillingham Designs
karendillingham.com
Photos: Fotolia
To my father, Harry. A brave and honest cowboy.
Table of Contents
Dark Journey Home By Cherie Shaw
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE
May, 1858
London, England
The fog lay heavy on the already darkening narrow cobblestone streets and alleyways of London. At intervals the gas lit street lamps struggled to show a glimmer of light. It was gloomy, dreary and damp. Nothing unusual. Crime of every sort imaginable lay rampant on those narrow dark streets at night.
The shrill laughter of a tavern wench cut through the haze, as a tall, though bent, shadow of a man staggered slowly through the confines of the thick smog. His clothing was ragged and damp, his hair long and matted. He sighed, stifled a groan, deeply grateful for the fog cover, amid the darkness of night, just barely aware that morning lay only a few hours away.
As ghostly human shadows made their way from one gloomily lit pub to another, the man staggered on, hoping for some form of shelter before he fully collapsed from exhaustion and injury, along with total neglect during the past years. He quietly gasped for breath, one choking breath after another, fearing to fully relax among the unknown, unfamiliar surroundings.
It was imperative that he find shelter quickly, as in his weakened state he knew that every second counted, and when daylight came he may well be found and taken back to the belly of the cargo ship he had escaped from just twelve hours before. The fog would lift somewhat during the daylight hours, and he would no longer be hidden in the fog’s safety net. As Logan made his way slowly, through what he now hoped was an alleyway, though narrow and winding, there were no gas lamps to attempt to light the way, and his procedure, slow and labored that it was, was well hidden. The stench from overflowing garbage, and open sewage sickened his already deteriorating senses as he struggled through the rat-infested litter. No matter, as something shifted across his foot, he was beyond caring or feeling. This was still heaven, compared to the surroundings and abuse he had suffered during the years of his captivity on the high seas. Six years? Had it really been that long? Maybe more like seven or eight. He wasn’t at all sure……. possibly eight.
Logan Wakefield tried to keep his mind active and alert, as he thought back to that night long ago. It had been at the docks of Seattle. Yes, that was where he had been drinking heavily with his new-found friend. Ha! Some friend!
Before that fateful night Logan had spent three long years panning for gold in the Alaska gold fields and was on his way home to Wyoming. He’d finally had a particularly eventful past year, and had turned in his small fortune of gold dust to a Seattle bank account under his and his father’s names. Logan knew the money would be safe in his father’s name as well as his, until he could start up a small cattle ranch. The faded bank receipt had been thoughtfully stuffed inside the lining of his left boot, and even though faded now, it was still there, probably water-soaked too, but he could still feel it was in there. Surprisingly enough the captors hadn’t thought to search his boots. He’d dreamed of starting up a small spread ever since he’d first worn long pants, and had struggled for years with that thought in mind, saving every dollar he had made punching cattle, before finally giving the Alaskan gold fields a try. That had finally paid off!
Now, after all those wasted years at sea, just where in hell was he??? He thought probably London, just guessing, though maybe he’d heard the name somewhere on board ship. He wasn’t sure of anything anymore.
One thing had kept Logan going during all those years at sea, his strong belief that somehow, some way, he would escape, and finally return home to start living again. He would return to the mountains and prairies, finally viewing them from between the ears of a horse, even any old broken down nag would do now.
He wondered just how many of his string of mustangs, he’d captured and saddle-broke, his pa would have kept. He could always get more.
It had been many years since he’d sent pa that wire from Seattle, telling him that he was on his way home to Wyoming. He’d briefly mentioned finding enough gold dust to begin the ranch and opening the bank account. Seth Wakefield, Logan’s father, was a fine hard-working man, set his sights on raising horses on his small spread twenty-five miles northwest of Buffalo, in Wyoming territory and that was where he’d raised his family. Logan had also mentioned in the wire that he would be looking to buy a small herd of cattle on the way home, so to expect him when he got there. Yes, it had been a lot of years since he’d sent pa that wire. Had he given Logan up for dead? He didn’t think so, knowing that old man. His mother, Cassandra, was a strong western woman, hard as nails, but soft with her family, and she did fit well on the horse ranch. He wondered how she was doing but restrained himself from thinking too much of home. He also wondered how well his parents had aged during the past years, though he needed to keep his mind on the present. Also just how the hell had a Wyoming boy ended up halfway across the world, on the dark side of Hell. Maybe he’d figure it out sometime.
Seattle, the end of everything and the beginning of nothing. Years had been stolen from his young life. How old was he now? He figured maybe thirty, or more. Not sure. He’d been celebrating that night so long ago along the waterfront of Seattle, a large shipping port. He had been treating a new-found friend, a bloke named Jeremy, to many mugs of ale, and spending a bit of the gold dust he’d held back to buy supplies and a good sturdy cattle horse for the trail home. In hindsight he’d remembered all too well that Jeremy hadn’t been imbibing nearly as much ale as he’d been buying for him.
He had planned to travel part of the way home by stage then by horse the rest of the way. He thought of purchasing a small herd of cattle on the way and hiring some hands to help push them towards home.
Logan and his friend Jeremy were soon joined by another character named Charlie. Jeremy seemed to know him, but never admitted to it. Charlie was an unsavory character by appearance, but Logan was so far into his cups by then, that everyone seemed to be a friend. All buddies. Pals. They slapped each other on the back and sang loudly, one bawdy song after another.
The friendly, plump tavern wench went about collecting empty mugs, and refilling others, always making sure that Logan’s cup was continually full of the foaming brew. What a setup. Logan was usually a smart and careful man; all the years in the rough goldfields had trained him well in that respect. He’d gotten careless. His pa raised him better than that.
All three men finally left the tavern, planning to seek another establishment along the waterfront, though Jeremy and Charlie, in their friendly way, convinced Logan that he’d had enough celebrating, and needed to be assisted back to his hotel room. As they
each took an arm they proceeded to do just that. Logan was in high spirits now, but through the haze of his thinking, realized that he needed to get some rest for the long trip home.
Jeremy, or maybe it was Charlie, (he never did get their last names), told Logan that they’d come by the hotel in the morning to see him off and tell him goodbye. Suddenly realizing the men were helping him walk along the darkened pier, Logan saw many ships tied up, and one was lit with lanterns while sailors were busy loading merchandise onto the decks. Logan slurred, “Wait a minute boys, this isn’t the way to my hotel, and we’re jush goin’ back through the docks.” He never did figure out which one of his ‘friends’ had slugged him from behind.
Logan Wakefield woke up twenty-four hours later with a worse headache than he’d ever had in his entire life, deep in the belly of a heavily loaded cargo ship, far out to sea.
Shanghaied! That was years ago. Long and torturous years. He had finally found his one slim chance to jump ship and under cover of darkness and smog, he’d done just that. But hell, he was halfway across the world from home, now how to get back?
In his weakened condition, Logan tried to recapture the memory of his beloved hills and plains of Wyoming territory. The vision was vague, but was there none-the-less. That memory had kept him going, even during the gold-fever years in Alaska, but mostly in the belly of the cargo ship during his years in captivity. He’d been exhausted from hard, backbreaking labor. There had been much sickness among the shipmates, and many deaths at sea. Then every few weeks or more, two or three new captives had been brought aboard. The small ration of food they were given wasn’t fit to eat, but Logan was a survivor, and though he’d lost much weight during the first months, he’d built muscle, more than he’d even had before, which had been substantial.
Some of his memories were hazy, but he mostly remembered Seattle in vivid color. He would never forget the faces of Jeremy and Charlie, the two thugs who’d ruined his life. He hoped he’d run into them some day, and with a vengeance he would deal out proper sentencing and destruction to those two. Logan blamed himself somewhat too though, as he had really been stupid that night to trust strangers, not figuring out the obvious for himself. He had known better. Yet he would still make those two wish they’d chosen a different occupation. And Logan would be stone-cold sober then too. He didn’t believe he would ever touch alcohol again, in any form.
Logan Wakefield had awakened those many years ago in that creaking cargo ship, the Red Dragon, under the ownership and control of Captain Devlin. A cruel, inhuman sort of character. Logan had for several days after, the worst headache of his life. There were about fifty other men in the same hold of the ship. The place was akin to a dark, dank dungeon, and was to be his home for years to come. It was the beginning of Hell on earth (actually Hell on water) and far out in the briney sea.
Logan could hardly believe that he was free now, though weak, stumbling, hungry, and badly injured, but he was free!
Those hellish years, hopefully behind him now, could never completely erase his hope of some day starting his own cattle spread. It didn’t even have to be the biggest one around, just workable, with a cool rippling stream all his own. He’d probably run about three-thousand head of prime beef, and keep them on the sweetest grass in the valley. They’d fatten for several years, then the best of them to be driven to market, with the help of a few hands working for him.
Logan had to keep his mind working, alert and thinking, though weariness and pain was setting in, he knew he couldn’t hold out much longer. Shelter had to be found quickly, before he gave in and passed out completely. During his years of captivity, he had traveled port to port, country to country, island to island, always in mind, along with the other captives’ thoughts, to watch for the chance to jump ship. A hanging offense, but after so many years, many captives were willing to take the risk. A few mates took chances at the wrong time, though. The rest learned by their mistakes, and were more careful. The men were chained during stops for loading, and carefully guarded.
Captain Devlin had referred to the captives as his bondsmen, and none of the legitimate crew members dared question him. He was a big burly man, and completely without feeling. He dealt out punishment just like he were swatting a fly, though that was long behind Logan now, and he tried to keep his mind on the present situation. He labored to breathe, while he also blessed the recent rains of which thus had ensued the heavy fog, this was his godsend, and he hoped that the other three captives were able to successfully escape too. They had pretended to be already chained when the mate had come below as the ship entered the harbor, and the three had overpowered the mate, who was also a guard of the captives, tied him up, and stuffed a rag in his mouth.
The jump from that height, into the swirling dark waters of the inlet, had been dangerous and risky, but Logan had taken this one and only chance, and then jumped, taking a heavy bruising to his left shoulder, along with a bang on the head, from some object that had been in the water. He’d even swallowed a mouthful of the briney stuff, gagging it up immediately. Freedom didn’t come easy. His shoulder hurt, and he sported a bloody gash to the left side of his head, that throbbed causing a painful headache. But he knew he’d live, hopefully a free man.
He’d planned to meet the other three escapees in the small town of Freeman, Wyoming, in about three months, that is if they were successful in escaping too. They’d told him that they were all three experienced hands, older men, and had worked cattle together, before being shanghaied together nine years before. So Logan had agreed to hire them on. Their names were Jim Reynolds, Mack Parsons, and Gable Johnson. When he’d told them of his plans, they’d looked forward to getting back in the saddle again. Also Logan hoped his money was still safe; he’d deposited over Twenty-thousand dollars in that Seattle bank. He couldn’t wait to get back to American shores.
Now moving with even more caution, he was sure that by now after about twelve hours of his freedom, that Captain Devlin was furious and had men scouring the docks for him and the three others. Devlin had had fake bond papers drawn up, signatures forged, fake names, the whole works. So legally Logan belonged to the Captain.
In his weakened state, he mistakenly reached out to grab a handful of the heavy fog for support and almost fell. He needed to steady himself, the effort was wasted. He was to the point of no return. Just then, after what seemed like miles he had gone, though was probably only a few blocks, Logan spotted a very dim ghost of a light coming from a doorway which led into the narrow alleyway through which Logan had been stumbling and staggering. It appeared to be a small back entrance to a large warehouse, a more than weathered stone building, though an apparently sturdily built structure. He then gave one last struggling effort to reach the doorway, his giant, though gaunt frame shuddering as he reached the opening, then his hand reached out to grasp anything for support, succeeding in clutching ahold of a handful of some kind of roughly woven material, as he gazed upward from his slouched position. The material appeared to be the dark green and gold of a plaid skirt, long and pleated, hugging shapely yet narrow hips. Raising his eyes even higher they fastened onto the most frightened, wide-eyed, silvery-blue eyes he’d ever seen. He promptly fainted.
CHAPTER 1
Beckford Manor, England
May, 1858
Twenty-five year old Olivia Worthington, niece on her mother’s side to the much titled Lord Claude Beckford, pushed the final latch closed on her large decorative steamer trunk, then shoved back a loose golden curl which had escaped her usually tight smooth bun. The two steamer trunks along with a medium-sized valise and one small carpetbag had been very closely sorted through one last time, before closing them.
With a satisfied smile, the golden-haired Olivia glanced at her personal maid, and friend, Amelia Blackstone, as she firmly stated. “Well, my friend, I do believe that is everything I shall need for my journey across the ocean.”
Amelia, an older and very prim woman in her middle forties, hugged Olivia
tightly as a tear escaped from the corner of her friendly brown eyes, and she managed to reply, “I still wish you’d stand up to that uncle of yours, and refuse this foolish journey, but at least take a few of those nice ball gowns you have.”
“Really Amelia, they would be of no use to me in that vast wilderness of the Americas, and certainly even less on those tropical islands we plan to visit later on. My serviceable clothing will be sufficient for my needs during my travels and sightseeing with Uncle Claude. Besides he insisted on my bringing heavy clothing for the winter months too, as we’ll be doing a lot of traveling during those months. I did throw in my galoshes, heavy gloves, umbrella and a heavy woolen shawl. How much more room could I have left in those trunks?”
Amelia brushed a teary cheek as she sputtered, “Well, child, I will certainly miss you, after all these years. Now he just suddenly pulls you away. I certainly hope you know what you are in for.”
“It won’t be so bad, and you’ll have a lot of rest now.”
“Ha, who needs it, along with the worry lines I’ll be havin’ while you’re gone. Mercy, you were just a babe of ten when you and that brother, Garth, of yours were just literally dropped on the doorstep for your uncle Claude to raise. His Lordship bloody well knew next to nothing of little ones, and how you two led him on a merry chase those first few months. I saw the gray hairs popping out all over his head.”