Mercer's Belles

by Heather B. Moore

  “Let me tell you of the ship’s features before I release you to choose your rooms. Captain Winser would count me remiss if I didn’t inform you that the steamer S.S. Continental is two hundred thirty-five feet in length and thirty-six feet wide. Its three decks are well lit and ventilated. On both sides of a middle passageway are situated large and pleasant staterooms with an attached bathing room for each one. One cabin has been set aside for exclusive use by the women with no male admittance allowed. Another cabin holds two sewing machines bolted to the floor for your shared use.”

  Bouncing on her toes, Blinne leaned close. “How wonderful. I can—”

  “Later.” Frowning, Sorcha raised a finger to her lips.

  “Please be aware an inspector will visit the living spaces each morning and report to the ship’s doctor on any signs of illness.” Mister Mercer scanned the group, then stretched an arm to point. “Doctor Charles Barnard will tend to any medical issues. A surgeon, Albert Cunningham, will be assisting in the designated sick room.”

  Heads bobbed, and women shuffled to get a look at the gentlemen.

  “The ship is equipped with ten lifeboats and a life preserver for every single passenger. Books have been donated, and a library will be set up once we’re underway.” He smiled at the gathering.

  Sorcha shivered at the mention of lifeboats, but the last announcement excited her. She loved to read and never found enough time in her parents’ busy household. Three months on the ocean would provide ample time. Plus she looked forward to finding a quiet place somewhere to play her Celtic lap harp.

  “Seek your rooms, and keep in mind those with children should receive the ones with trundles or cots.” Mercer waved toward an open doorway. “Once you’ve selected one, let the crew know so your belongings can be delivered.”

  Hours later, Sorcha and Blinne had their trunks and valises arranged to their liking. A second mate who delivered their belongings warned them not to leave items loose on surfaces where they would be tossed around in rough seas. Putting away items after each use might take an extra moment or two, but Sorcha wished to keep her belongings in one piece.

  A shrill whistle around three in the afternoon drew them to the top deck, and Sorcha watched as the Continental sailed free of the pier. A lump rose in her throat, yet she plastered on a smile and looked forward toward her new life. Chilly breezes snatched at her skirts, but Sorcha breathed in the fresh air and huddled inside her wool cloak. Not wanting to miss this opportunity, she gazed at the passing land. On one side of the ship was New Jersey, and on the other was New York—two states she’d never seen until this trip. What other first experiences lie ahead?

  Supper proved a lively affair, with conversations focusing on the excitement of starting the voyage. Afterwards, Sorcha and Blinne partnered for a game of whist in the lower salon against the Bermingham sisters. Their brother, an employee of the shipping company, read a newspaper nearby. Suddenly, cries sounded from above.

  The purser, Mister Denbro, rushed into the room. “I apologize for the intrusion, but everyone needs to gather their tickets and return here for your name to be called.”

  Sorcha tossed down her cards and cast a worried glance toward Blinne. “The ship stopped moving. Can you feel it?”

  Blinne shook her head and clasped Sorcha’s hand. “What could be happening?”

  Miss Bessie turned to her brother. “What a bother.”

  Captain Bermingham set aside his newspaper, stood, and buttoned his jacket. “Let me see what this upset is about. In the meantime, collect your tickets.”

  An hour later, the ship was underway again, but several passengers who hadn’t paid their full fares were set off into a tugboat at Staten Island. Tired, Sorcha walked down the hallway to their stateroom with Blinne at her side. “Can you believe that coward Mercer actually hid in the coal bin and made Captain Bermingham handle the disagreeable affair?” She rubbed her gloved hands together against the cold air.

  “Well, the captain is an agent for the shipping company. But I’m glad we’re not among that group. How sad to have your hopes dashed in that way.” Blinne clutched her reticule to her chest.

  “Calm yourself.” Sorcha paused and rested a hand on her cousin’s shoulder. “Mister Mercer stamped our tickets paid in full before we boarded, so being cast off was never a possibility. He assured us both the one hundred dollars he excused from our ticket price came from the expedition fund. Now, let’s get some rest.”

  The next morning, she rose at first light. All night long, the ship made creaking noises that she’d have to get used to. By seven, she and Blinne sat at the breakfast table. “Blinne, eat small portions until you know how your stomach handles the motion.”

  “My stomach didn’t trouble me last night.” She shrugged and speared another sausage from the platter.

  Sorcha nibbled on a plain biscuit. Glancing around at the others eating a hearty meal, she hesitated to tell them the ship wasn’t really at sea yet. Within hours, following the lifting of the anchor at nine, many of the ladies became seasick. Sorcha resigned herself to tending Blinne as she alternately vomited, then languished on the berth, begging for cool rags on her forehead. That night the seas were so rough Sorcha felt a bit queasy and stood near the porthole for brief breaths of fresh air. Long past midnight, she heard tromping feet in the hallway above and cries of “Mister Mercer!” Curious as to what now was afoot, she grabbed her cloak and eased open the stateroom door, hurrying to the stairs.

  Pounding on a door echoed through the stairway opening. Several ladies demanded Mister Mercer rise and save them from drowning.

  “Ladies, I am not your fathers. What do you think I can do about waves on the ocean? Cease this wailing and go back to your beds.”

  His gruff tone was proof they’d awakened him, and he wasn’t too happy. Not very sympathetic, but the man had a point. Sorcha slipped into her room and eased into her berth.

  For the next four days, Blinne was the patient and Sorcha served as the nurse. On the fifth day, she coaxed Blinne to sip broth. And on the next day, she assisted her to the deck for fresh air, where many of the others recuperated.

  In celebration of their tenth day at sea, Mister Mercer carried crates with skeins of yarn and bolts of fabric into the lower salon. “Ladies, now that everyone has their sea legs, so to speak, you’ll want to keep yourselves busy. Seattle is cold in the winter, and woolen socks are in great demand.”

  Setting a finger at her place in a borrowed mystery novel, Sorcha looked over the yarn of various colors and needles. Was this task mandatory?

  Frowning, Widow Chase raised her chin and looked down her nose. “Whyever would we do so?”

  The gentleman smoothed a hand over his hair. “I’ll sell them in a great fair in Seattle to recoup expenses from the trip.”

  Both Peebles sisters shot to their feet. Miss Anna jammed her hands on her hips. “My sister and I paid full fare. We did not come on this ship to do your bidding.” They stormed out of the room.

  Sorcha caught Mister Mercer’s direct gaze, and her skin prickled. The novel would have to wait. “Blinne, grab a blue skein, and I’ll help you roll it into a ball.”

  Mercer smiled. “For those of you who don’t knit, I’ve delivered bolts of fabric to the sewing room, with the hopes many shirts will be made. Nothing too fancy. Just sew them in a variety of sizes, please.” He nodded, then left the room.

  Blinne gaped. “But I intended to have shirts to sell.”

  Leaning close, Sorcha pressed a hand on Blinne’s leg. “Don’t worry until you see how many others take on this task.”

  A happy event occurred on Tuesday, January 30, when a marriage took place in the upper salon. Albert Cunningham, the surgeon assisting Doctor Barnard, and nurse Cora Martin had become close while tending all the seasick ladies. Captain Winser presided over the ceremony, and Roger Conant, The New York Times reporter writing a journal of the expedition, stood as best man.

  As the wedded couple kissed, Blinne tur
ned to Sorcha with tears filling her eyes. “If only I can find a husband as easily in our new home.”

  Biting her tongue, Sorcha just smiled and nodded. Locating a husband was certainly not her goal.

  Ny Hoppas (New Hope) Logging Camp near Seattle

  Early March

  In the early morning chill, Lang Ingemar scooted his chair closer to the potbellied stove. The heat didn’t quite overcome the cold air seeping through crevices in the walls of the logging company office. He made a mental note to add mud-chinking the holes to his task list. Only pale sunlight filtered through the dirty window, so he angled the newspaper toward the oil lantern. He scanned the pages of the Puget Sound Weekly, hoping for an article about the progress of the S.S. Continental. The article from the ship’s February 12 arrival in Rio de Janeiro was the last he’d seen.

  His best guess put the ship near the Cape of Good Horn—still almost two months away from the expedition’s arrival. He debated about when to broach the subject of building a small cabin for the teacher’s use with his two foremen. The lumber required wouldn’t be much, but Roald and Staffen needed to adjust their production levels to accommodate for the extra board feet.

  After tossing aside the newspaper, he jumped to his feet and paced. Waiting for a break in the heavy rain storms made sense. Unfortunately, the Pacific Northwest region experienced at least a daily light drizzle well into the spring months. All the crew could do was build the cabin and check back each week to daub the gaps created by the drying wood. Sometimes being the manager and having the weight of decision-making rest solely on his shoulders proved a lonely job. But he’d vowed to his father he could make this logging venture self-sustaining within four years, and he aimed to fulfill that promise.

  Lang moved to the stove and refilled his tin cup with fragrant coffee from the metal pot. After blowing across the oily surface, he sipped the strong brew, then stood at the window. The sight of majestic evergreens surrounding the clearing always cheered him. Having been raised in a lumbering family in Nusnäs on the shores of Sjö Siljan, he craved the crisp, earthy scent. This area around Seattle didn’t have his favorite lush spruces, but the pine trees were plentiful, as were the silvery lakes and the blue ocean.

  Through the wavy glass, he spotted men emerging from the bunkhouse and heading toward the privies. Time to start the last work day of the week. He rubbed a hand over the tight-corded muscles of his neck.

  The unknown issue of acquiring a teacher weighed heavy on his mind. Whenever he went into Seattle, Lang avoided being dragged into the frequent conversations about Asa Mercer’s foolhardy trip of bringing women to the territory. Instead, he wanted to think he’d make the correct choice. Last spring, investing in the expedition by paying the full fare for a single passenger seemed like the only way Lang could obtain a teacher for his logging crews. Now, he wasn’t so sure.

  After two years of living in America, the native-born Swedes hadn’t picked up enough English to keep them out of fistfights while spending time in saloons. Lang also suspected shopkeepers took advantage of the language barrier. Again, he murmured silent thanks for his mother being born in England so he and his siblings were raised speaking both Swedish and English.

  Heavy boot scraping on the boards in front of the door announced someone’s arrival.

  Moving from the window, Lang tossed the newspaper on the stack next to his desk and dropped into the chair. Wood shavings dotted the desk surface, and he glanced at the unfinished horse he’d been carving yesterday.

  The door opened, and sunlight beamed into the room, bringing a whiff of pine scent.

  “Hej, chef.” Staffen closed the door, then shucked his wool jacket and hung it on a nearby peg.

  Lang nodded, then waited for what his mill foreman had to say. Usually the standard greeting to the boss meant the subject was business related. Staffen Torburg stood about an inch taller than Lang’s six feet and outweighed him by twenty pounds, much of the weight in his torso and arms. The man, who was one of his best friends, spent his days off riding into the nearest foothills and skiing. The sport was one Lang loved but rarely allowed himself the time to indulge in.

  “Didn’t see you at the bunkhouse.” Staffen walked across the floor and extended his reddened hands close to the stove.

  Has he lost yet another pair of gloves? “Woke early and wanted to catch up on a few tasks here in the office.” Guilt attacked because although bookkeeping awaited, he hadn’t even opened the ledger. Instead, he’d been obsessing about the arrival of a female he hoped would solve the company’s most pressing problem.

  “Need to know what to tell the crew about the prohibition on visiting town. Has it been lifted starting with their next days off?”

  Nodding, he huffed out a long breath and scratched the stubble on his chin. Two weeks ago, three crew members returned from a boisterous Saturday night in town so bruised they missed several days of work. Similar incidents happened with too much regularity, and they impacted production. Frustrated, Lang put the entire camp on suspension—a decision that caused most of the men to avoid him for several days. “Ja. Starting tomorrow night, they’re free to go.”

  “I know you wish they’d stay in camp.” Staffen rubbed fingers over his clean-shaven chin. “But the men work hard and deserve to enjoy themselves.”

  “Let’s don’t have this argument again.” Lang knew if the men were back in their hometowns in Sweden, family pressures would prevent them from spending the bulk of their pay on whiskey and gambling. He could set an example, but they were all adults and he couldn’t make them act in a certain way. He also wasn’t so blind as to ignore the few who indulged in spending time with the fancy ladies, too. “No one broke the prohibition, so they are released to visit town.”

  “Good to hear.” Staffen grinned and gestured toward the door. “I’m starved. Let’s see what Wikimak prepared today.”

  The native Chinook woman who appeared before they’d finished the clearing to establish camp had become an adequate cook. Lang grabbed his wool jacket and pulled a knit cap over his hair and ears. Today was not the day to mention the needed cabin. “I’ll be the one to make the announcement about lifting the prohibition. At least then I’ll receive everyone’s smiles.”

  The next afternoon, the crew was back to grumbling, although nobody objected outright. Work always ended an hour early on the first Saturday of the month. As he’d promised his father before leaving Sweden, Lang required the workers to write home every month. He walked among the twenty-four men, who were spread throughout the bunkhouse bottom floor—some at tables and others sitting in blocky upholstered chairs. The company supplied the writing materials and paid the postage for a monthly letter to their Swedish hometowns surrounding the placid Sjö Siljan.

  Once he’d determined they tended their task, he sat and faced his own half-filled piece of stationery. Last night, he’d completed Ny Hoppas’s previous month’s report—facts and figures were all his father cared about. Lang knew Rutger would share the details with Rikard and Hans, his older brothers.

  Now, he wrote what he figured his mother, Levina, and younger sisters, Deana and Gleda, wanted to know. Each month, he did his best to include a new fact but probably wrote the same details, because his life was a well-established routine. He consulted with his two foremen regarding the activities of the business, he handled the correspondence with companies ordering lumber, and in the evenings, he read or carved wooden Dala horses. Once in a while, he strapped on metal spikes, grabbed an axe, and climbed to the top of a tree. Back home in the family business, he’d started as a tree topper, and he liked to keep his skills honed. Diversions from those tasks included trips away from the camp to buy supplies or accompany a lumber delivery to the Seattle docks and an occasional fishing trip.

  Shifting through the details, he recognized how mundane his life had become. Maybe he should accept Staffen’s open invitation and join him on a skiing trip before the snow melted. He needed more leisure time—a twenty-four-ye
ar old man should have some fun.

  On a mild Monday morning six weeks later, Lang hunched over the Puget Sound Weekly spread across his desk. A report of a horrendous explosion at the Wells Fargo office in San Francisco held his complete attention. Last week’s edition included only speculation as to the cause, but this article provided more details. An explosive material called nitroglycerine arrived in the office packaged with no special warning and was placed in unclaimed storage. He read a quote from a shipping company employee that bottles of the explosive were often transported on steamers, and a chill went through him. Hopefully, none was being carried on the Continental.

  Two Wells Fargo freight clerks went to investigate, complete with hammer and chisel to open the wooden crate, which showed signs of leakage. Moments later, an explosion shot wood and glass into the air, demolished the building, and tore apart everything within a forty- to fifty-foot circle. Windows on California Street between Kearny and Montgomery and as far away as Third Street shattered. Doors shredded away from frames. The list of missing and dead totaled seventeen men, but additional casualties of tourists or itinerants would never be known.

  With tightness in his chest, Lang slumped back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. The logging crew used black powder occasionally to blast out tree trunks, but he’d never heard of this liquid explosive and its incredible power. What if the Mercer expedition already arrived in the city and the women were housed in that area of town? Shoulders tense, he glanced at the masthead and read the issue’s date—April 28.

  On the next page, he found the news he’d been waiting for. Tension that he’d been carrying for three solid months released from his shoulders. The S.S. Continental had docked in San Francisco four days earlier. Folding the paper in quarters, he read on. The reporter mentioned swarms of men on the docks, all anxious to meet the “genus crinoline.” Some hired boats so that a flotilla surrounded the ship, the occupants offering money to board. With nine men to a single woman in the western regions, the males were desperate to see and speak with the gentler sex. Police had to be called in to control the crowds and make the men desist.