Excerpt

Prologue

May 5, 1981

Creighton University

Omaha, Nebraska

Frank McGrath’s head pounded, it was so bad that even in his dreams his head ached. Then there was the rattle of the keys and he felt the excitement coming that he didn’t need but couldn’t avoid.

Eddie McMahon said, “Frank! Frank! Wake up, damn it! Are you awake?”

Frank McGrath rolled over in his dorm room bed and said, “Eddie, what the hell do you want?”

“Look at this!”

“Holy shit, its seven a.m. Eddie, we didn’t get in until two.”

“I know, I know, I feel like shit too. But my dad called, Frank. Look at this.”

Eddie opened the morning edition of the Omaha World Herald to the World News section and Frank squinted through the dirty, yellow light of their early morning dorm room and read, “BOBBY SANDS DEAD AFTER 66 DAYS.” Frank sat up and felt real grief for only the second time in his life. His granddad had been killed four years before in a car accident in which Frank had been driving. The awful sick feeling he had when he woke in the ICU to the news of his granddad’s demise, he thought it might never go away.. He felt the same way now and without ever having met Sands, he felt as if he had just lost a close friend.

Frank and Eddie had been following the hunger strike of the Irish Republican prisoners in Long Kesh prison southwest of Belfast, since the prisoners had announced their plans in February.

They knew about the five demands of the prisoners and their request for political status versus criminal status and they had debated with other students throughout the early parts of the strike.

Frank said, “Do you think Thatcher is going to allow more prisoners to die?”

“Frank, my dad says the mistake the Republican prisoners are making is that they’re assuming the Brits will place as much significance on a hunger strike as the Irish do.”

“What do you mean?”

“He told me that in ancient Ireland under Brehon law. . .”

“Brehon law?”

“Yeah, ancient Irish law. Anyway, under Brehon law a hunger strike was a legal method of protest used by the poor.”

“Like?”

“Let’s say that a wealthy merchant cheats a poor guy out of some money.”

“Yeah.”

“The poor guy could go to the wealthy merchant’s home or place of business and begin a hunger strike. If the wealthy merchant let the poor guy die, by Brehon law, the wealthy merchant had to take care of the poor guy’s wife and kids. Most times the hunger strike was settled before anyone died. The Brits don’t look at it like the Irish do and dad thinks this could get really ugly.”

Frank lit a cigarette and said, “Eddie, your dad was right, they don’t understand the Irish. Those fuckers let him die.”

“And there are more behind him, Frank.”

Frank put his head down and tears welled in his eyes and dropped to the tile of his dorm room floor. He missed his granddad more now than he had in the last four years since he died.

Frank was a senior in high school at the time of his granddad’s death, and after a  nasty confrontation with his father, Frank was forced to drive his eighty-three-year-old granddad, Liam O’Conlan, to his childhood home in eastern Iowa. Liam, wanting to put some demons down from a bit of a sordid past, needed a ride. It was eight hours there and eight hours back and Frank was a captive audience to a particularly talented Irish story teller who captured his mind and heart, someone who, in the old country, they would call a Seanachie.

As the journey was ending they were crossing the Missouri River Bridge that connected Iowa and Nebraska. The bridge became slick with ice and their car careened out of control and collided with a semi truck, killing Liam and sending Frank to the ICU.

Frank found himself going back to that period in his life often because of an odd occurrence that happened to him a month or so after he was released from the hospital. He still debated with himself as to whether it had been a dream or had actually happened.

One evening, after Frank had fallen asleep, he awoke suddenly from a nightmare, and there on his bed sat his granddad. The question was always the same. Had he still been dreaming or had his granddad come back from the grave as a ghost? It was so real. What was crazier than the ghost was the fact that Frank found himself witnessing his family’s immigration from Ireland to American during the potato blight of 1846. So was it a journey or a great dream? Once again it was so real, and after some research, he found he knew more than he should’ve known, that no one ever taught him. He knew historical facts that no one in his family or in this world had ever told him before that night, that dream, that experience or whatever it was. The debate raged within him and he couldn’t tell anyone, they would think he was crazy. Sometimes he thought of telling Eddie, but the time was never right.

As the spring of 1981 moved into the summer, one hunger striker after another was allowed to die until ten Irish Republican prisoners had been buried; all of them denied their lives and their political status. Frank felt a sense of despair and helplessness as the British Government, under the leadership of Margaret Thatcher, once again turned a blind eye to the plight of the Irish nation.

Eddie McMahon was studying for a pre-med degree and had just found out he had been accepted into Creighton’s medical school. He had grown up in Butte, Montana and came from a long line of copper miners. They were Irish Republican supporters and Clan na Gael members, the Irish-American clan supporting the brotherhood in the fight for freedom in Ireland.

Eddie’s father, Barry McMahon, had broken the family chain of miners by sneaking away to Creighton University and graduating with a business degree in 1958. Barry ran the Montana branch of the clan for many years until an Irish national upstart named Paddy Quinlan, who had immigrated to America and made it big in the ranching business, took over for him.

Eddie had every intention of graduating from medical school and heading back to Butte to practice his profession. But, in the meantime, he stayed close to his dad and the American clan’s support of the fight in Northern Ireland.

In the summer of 1981, Eddie and Frank had rented a small apartment while bartending and waiting tables at Barrett’s Barleycorn Irish Pub, the hunger strike and the political clime in Ireland being a key topic of conversation there. One evening Eddie walked in out of breath and said, “Where’s Frank?”

Ruthie Barrett, the owner, said, “He’s stocking the back bar, like you should be. Eddie McMahon, you’re late as usual. Get clocked in we’ve got work to do. Its going to be busy tonight, damn it.”

Eddie, ignoring his boss, walked back to Frank and said, “You’re not going to believe this.”

Frank looked up from the case of  beer he had been stocking and said, “Believe what?”

“You and I are going to have company.”

“Who?”

“Irish Twins.”

Frank, used to puzzling together conversations with his best friend said, “Eddie, what’re you talking about?”

Ruthie Barrett screamed, “Eddie, where are you?”

Eddie said, “Coming, Mrs. Barrett. Frank, you know how these hunger strikers have been dying in Long Kesh prison?”

“Yeah.”

“Eddie McMahon, do you like working here?”

“Yes, Mrs. Barrett, I love working here. Anyway, I don’t know all the details but one of these guys busted the other out of Long Kesh and they’re now on the lamb.”

Frank laughed and said, “On the lamb?”

“Yeah, fugitives, hiding from the law and they’re heading to Omaha.”

Frank, suddenly serious, said, “No shit?”

Eddie said, “No shit and dad wants me to put them up at our place and then drive them to Montana.”

“Not without me you’re not.”

“You’re going to have to take a semester off.”

“And where’s the problem?”

“Edward McMahon if you’re not clocked-in in exactly three seconds you’re fired!”

Eddie smiled, winked at Frank, and walked away.

Chapter 1

The Right Foot

1925 Upperchurch

County Tipperary, The Republic of Ireland

The cool night air blew in through the farmhouse window, it was empty except for a screaming woman in labor and the midwife helping her. The cool air felt good as the sweat ran down the woman’s face.

In between contractions she said, “Oh my God I’m heartily sorry for having offended thee. . .” Contraction, “Hail Mary full of Grace the Lord is with thee. . .” Contraction, “I Believe in God the Father thee Almighty Creator of heaven and earth. . .”

Time passed stubbornly and the pain swept through her body as if purging her of past iniquities. The midwife continually wiped her brow and whispered words of encouragement; she came from a long line of Druids, the earth her religion, nature her god and she never understood these foolish prayers.

Under her breath she said, “And they call what I do magik?”

The stubborn child in her womb, comfortable and content there, moved to the birth canal with the utmost reluctance. It fought like a Celtic warrior from ages past and wreaked carnage inch by inch until it acquiesced, like a prisoner of war brought into a cold hard world it did not recognize.

The midwife said, “You’re ready darling, next time push.”

She screamed, “St. Michael the Archangel defend us in battle, be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil!” And pushed like she was at war; the head began to crown a thick tuft of jet-black hair.

“It’s on its way. That’s it, there’s a good girl.”

The struggle was underway once more, but the woman lying in pain would not be turned away. The purple and bloody head witnessed the world for the first time. She pushed. “May God rebuke him we humbly pray!” The shoulders and arms slid forth. She pushed. “And do though oh Prince of the Heavenly hosts by the Divine power of God!” The belly slipped by. She pushed.     “Cast in to hell Satan and all the evil spirits who roam throughout the world seeking the ruin of souls. Amen!” The baby found itself in the arms of the midwife as she walked away shaking her head.

The mother said, “What’s wrong?”

The midwife just shook her head again and cut the umbilical cord. She then held the child up and spanked it on his bum. The baby boy let out a scream that only a mother could love and she wanted to smile but the aftermath of the delivery was too painful.

The woman looked up from the bed, tears streaming down her face and said, “I asked what was wrong? How is he?”

The midwife said, “I’m so sorry darling. He’s a club foot. He’ll be nothing but a burden to you. Best to be rid of it now.”

She set the baby in the dustbin and went to clean up the mother.

The baby cried out.

The woman looked at the midwife with stiletto eyes that would have slashed and wounded if she had her way and said, “What did you do? How dare you! Get away! Get away from me, now!”

The midwife was not to be pushed away so easily and said, “You’re delirious, darling. Now you listen to me. I’ve delivered many a child and it’s hard enough for the healthiest of them. It’s for the best.”

The woman pulled her nightdress down to cover herself, pushed the midwife aside, and said, “I don’t care how many you’ve delivered, get out now!”

“Have it your way, lass. You’ll regret it.”

“You’ll be the one to regret it. You’ll rue the day you tossed away a Quinlan like so much garbage, now leave!”

The midwife shrugged as if she had just tossed scraps to the pigs and left the room.

The mother cried out again as overwhelming pain shot through her like stab wounds from the slightest movement. But she had to get to him. Pain be damned she scrambled from her bed, crawled to the dustbin, reached in and pulled the precious child from its heap and held it close. Instinct led the wee one to her breast, she reached up to the bed and grabbed a blanket to cover him and he was content once more.

She sat on the floor and rocked the child back and forth crying as he fed. She said, “As strong an appetite as you’ve got, of course you’ll be a burden, but no more than any of the rest of them. She’s a foolish old hag, I’ll run her out of this village, I will.”

Suddenly the pain seemed to vanish, like a wisp of steam over an early morning pond. She stared at the miracle she held and said, “It’s not a club foot darling, it’s the right foot. I think we’ll call you Padraig. Yes, after our patron saint. People of little faith tried to kill him too. Padraig Vincent Quinlan, you’ll do great things one day, lad. I’ll see to that.”

Chapter  2

The Walking Nun

1950 Ballycraig

County Kilkenny, The Republic of Ireland

Clare Eva White stopped for a moment. She had the gift. The intuition that the women of rural Ireland used just like they used sight, sound and smell. Since she was a little girl her mom told her to be aware of and nurture that intuition and she had. And it never failed her.

The October wind blew clean and cold around her but something wasn’t right. She could feel it in her bones as sure as she could see the red and purple leaves that fluttered to the ground in front of her, as sure as she knew that pigs could see the wind.  She remembered the village women working together to churn butter or sew patchwork quilts while the wee ones played nearby and listened. It was all too often that they would warn one another to keep on eye on the pigs; they could see the wind and any malevolence it brought with it. If they started to the barn for no reason, beware. Clare looked for the pigs and there were none to be seen. She whimpered and prayed, begging the Blessed Virgin to allow her to see the wind just this once. But she hesitated, if only for a moment, knowing certain if her prayer was answered what she would see there.

The feeling formed a black pit in her stomach and the evil seemed inexorable, like a single black crow on a gust, unable to stop itself.  Clare moved once again, only her pace quickened and, with no little resolve, forced herself to stay calm. She wondered if the October temperature had just dropped ten degrees or if it was the chill of her inner senses, warning of an ill wind blowing in and harboring some unknown malice. All Clare had wanted was to get away from home, her endless chores and her mom’s doting on her to frolic with her best friend, Cassie Kenny. Saturdays only came once a week, she thought, and she was out to make the best of it. But now the doubt was as real and menacing as a banshee screaming in the middle of the night. The chill forced her to fold her arms tighter in her sweater.

Rosemary Kenny came to the door and looked suspiciously at Clare as she did with all children.

Clare shrugged and said, “Hello, Mrs. Kenny, is Cassie about?”

With a note of frustration in her voice she said, “She disappeared an hour ago and I haven’t seen her since. She’s not finished her chores. When you see her, tell her I’m after finding her.”

“Aye, ma’am, I will.”

The two girls liked to play in the woods near the back road in Ballycraig, the road that the tinkers used. The Irish gypsies would travel it in their covered wagons peddling their trinkets, sharpening knives and mending pots or pans for cheap. The girls were fascinated and terrified by the traveling nomads. So they hid in the trees to watch as they passed.

Clare ran to the spot that they usually gathered in the woods when she heard a scream that sounded like Cassie. She then heard a man’s voice, loud and booming. It hit her hard and her breath was taken from her as if someone had doused her with ice water. The voice spoke in Shelta, the language of the Irish travelers, and she wanted to vomit. Her intuition proved itself once again, and there would never again be even a shadow of a doubt about it.

Willing herself beyond her own fear she ran and by the time she reached the road, it was deserted except for the familiar jacket, which Cassie always wore, lying in the ditch. She looked around for a few seconds and was disoriented. She wanted to scream for help but knew no one would hear. Besides, she thought, there’s no time.  She looked down at the dusty road and saw the tracks of the tinker’s covered wagon and she began to run. She ran for twenty minutes or so and just when she was ready to give up, thinking maybe she went the wrong way, she saw the small chimney on the tinker’s wagon disappear around the bend in the road a half a mile ahead.

Clare ran harder now than she had ever run in her life. She knew in her heart that she could run forever if she had to. When she finally got close, she moved with stealth in the woods nearby.

The sun finally began to set in the west and the gypsy, traveling alone, made camp. She watched as he built a small fire, made some dinner and pulled on a jug of what she guessed was poteen,  potato whisky. She began to wonder where Cassie was when he stood precariously and ambled to the back of the wagon. He stepped up and in and pulled Cassie out by the hair, bound and gagged. He dragged her near the fire, pulled her skirt up and began to pull her underwear off.

Clare’s heart raced in her chest, trying to find the courage. Cassie, now half naked, defenseless and terrified, lay in the dirt by the fire. The man stood and began to unbuckle his trousers. Clare, feeling every bit as naked, walked slowly and quietly from the shadows and when Cassie looked over at her, with tears streaming down her face, Clare put her fingers to her lips to motion Cassie to lay quiet. Clare moved closer, the tinker’s back to her, talking to himself and more intent on his prey than watching for intruders. He dropped his pants and when they came to rest around his ankles Clare charged. Before he knew it ninety pounds of fury hit him sending him sprawling face first into his campfire. She landed on top of him and looked up at the iron skillet that had been resting on a grate above the fire, which now clanked near by spilling its contents. She grabbed for it. The tinker came up to his knees roaring with frustration and pain, trying to put out the fire in his hair and beard. He then grabbed Clare around the waste, howling a blood-curdling curse she couldn’t understand, as the smell of burnt hair, flesh and whiskey sickened her. She wielded the skillet now firmly in her grip, the adrenaline keeping her from dropping it as her skin broiled and blister under the heat of the iron handle. She hit the man squarely across the face, knocking him back to the ground. She then turned it sideways as if to use it like a hatchet and before he could come to his senses she crashed it down once more upon his head, splitting it wide and sending his blood up her arm and on to her face.

She looked down at Cassie, who was now hysterical, and said, “Hush now, let’s get you out of here.”

She grabbed a sharp knife from the man’s cooking gear, and as she cut loose the ties that bound Cassie, which became the ties that bind, which bound them forever and they ran away into the night.

*   *   *

Sister Maria St. John walked slowly through the tenebrous Irish countryside, carpet bag in hand, her pipe hanging from her lips, sending the sweet smell of pipe weed into the night air.  She hummed ditties in between decades of her rosary as she went about her missionary work.  She walked about her country visiting prisons, hospitals, homes as well as the marginalized tinkers who shared the road with her. Since she was a wee lass she had watched those travelers. She had watched as they wandered the highways and byways of Ireland, reading a palm or two, telling a fortune or just swindling whoever they might and occasionally showing up for Mass on Sunday.

As with most youngsters in rural Ireland she would watch them pass on their eternal road,  but unlike her young friends who feared them she was infatuated with the Tinkers. She would spend hours assimilating their ways, even beginning to understand their secret language. She witnessed them as they set up along the road selling snake oils and health potions taking advantage of the naïve when it was to their advantage and then move on down that gypsy road of the outsider, unwelcome to stay too long.

Sister Maria St. John was an anomaly working among the often double-dealing nomads, but found their trust and respect as she spoke their language. She had been moved to work with them at the beginning of her vocation quite by accident. She simply went about making her calls on those left behind and ran into them as she walked about the country.

She walked along the road and heard the two frantic voices off in the distance. She walked, calmly waiting for them to come upon her, not wishing to startle them further if they were in trouble.

They walked arm in arm to support one another and when they saw the dark figure standing in the shadows up ahead they stopped. The nun looked at the girls, seeing them plainly in the light from the harvest moon.

Clare said, “And who are you?”

“Sister Maria St. John, I’m a Mercy nun.”

Clare said, “What’s a nun doing on the road at night?”

“I work with the travelers and this is where they roam.”

Clare said, “Then go away and leave us be, we want nothing to do with them.”

“With who?”

“Never mind, just leave us be.”

The girls began to make their way to the woods and the nun, seeing the blood covering Clare, said, “No, wait. I can help. Please, give me a chance, you’re hurt.”

They stopped for a moment and gave the nun a chance to approach.

She said, “My God, lass, what has happened here?”

Cassie, now hysterical, ran into the nun’s arms and said, “Oh, Sister.”

Sister Maria hugged her tight and said, “What has happened?”

Clare said, “A tinker took Cassie and tied her up. I followed and after he had his supper and drank too much, he pulled her out of his wagon, hiked up her skirts and was ready to have his way.”

She stopped briefly, sucking her breath through her teeth, and with an intense clarity the moment hit her, she dropped to her knees in anguish and said, “And I killed him. I killed a man, Sweet Lord Jaysus. He’s dead and I killed him.”

The nun gathered the two girls in her arms and gave what comfort she could then said, “He was by himself, then?”

Clare said, “Aye.”

The nun said, “He’s an odd one, ‘tis rare they travel alone, but this one, I think I know who we’re talking about here. Will you girls be okay, if I go up ahead and have a look?”

Cassie said, “No! Don’t leave us, Sister.”

Clare said, “Can we walk with you? We’ll wait back, but we don’t want to be alone.”

The nun smiled gently and said, “That would be fine.”

The fire sparked and cracked and sent daunting shadows dancing among the trees in the nearby wood. Cassie shivered as she sat close to the fire. Clare sat in her underwear with a blanket around her, her dress on a line tied to two trees over the fire to dry.    When Sister Maria had made a fire, she took Clare to a nearby running brook to wash the blood from her arms, face and clothing.

Clare shivered and said, “Sister, our parents are going to worry and then they’ll be furious.”

The nun said, “Hush, drink your tea and don’t worry about your parents. In a few hours your dress’ll be dry and we can take you home. I’ll explain everything and no one need be the wiser.”

Two weeks later

McMahon’s Pub

Ballycraig

Will White and Sean Kenny sat sharing a pint and small talk at the end of a long day in the peat fields.

Sean said, “Have you given much thought to where those two wild ones were off to that night?”

Will said, “My Clare can be as wild as a March hare, I don’t think there’s any stopping her.”

“You know who that nun is?”

“Aye, she’s the crazy one who works with the tinkers.”

“Do you believe her story?”

“Are you serious? You think those two just fell asleep out there and she just happened upon them?”

“You heard about the dead tinker, then, on the back road?”

“I have.”

“That was the same night.”

“Aye.”

“Do you think those two had anything to do with it?”

“I do.”

“How?”

“The wife found a blood stain on Clare’s undershirt.”

“Is that so.”

“‘Tis. But it, as well as the dress, was burned.”

“Why?”

“Even with a tinker, the peelers are sure to start nosing around.  The lass can be mean as a hornet when provoked, Sean.”

“I wonder what he was up to?”

Will thought back to the night a few days back when Clare had broken down and told her parents what had happened and what she had done when her mother questioned her about the bloodstain.

Kate White said, “Will, she needs to see a priest and a confessional. Killing’s a mortal sin.”

Will said, “There’ll be no confessing anything. The man got exactly what he deserved, Clare saved Cassie’s life. This matter is closed.”

Will White looked carefully at his best friend and decided to leave it at that.

Chapter  3

The Hurling Midfielder

Nine Years later

Ballycraig, County Kilkenny

The Republic of Ireland

The spring of 1959 in southern Ireland was exceptional. It had been a long, cold, wet winter and spring fever was running high. It was no different in Ballycraig, a small village in county Kilkenny, The Republic of Ireland.

Clare Eva White had blossomed into a beautiful twenty-one year old woman. Her plans to follow Cassie Kenny, who had been gone for nearly three years now, had been foiled, as something always came up that kept her home.

Clare’s mother doted on her. She had nearly died giving birth to her daughter and was left barren afterward. Clare was the rare only child and her mother was disinclined to let her go anywhere.

At dinner one night, Will White said, “We’ve a young new priest coming in a week.”

His wife Katie said, “Now where did you hear that?”

“McMahon’s pub Thursday last. Fr. O’Keefe, Ruari O’Keefe, fresh from the seminary in Maynooth.”

Clare said, “Well, I’m sure Widow Buggy will be relieved. Old Father Egan quit showing up when she called for last rites. Now she’ll have someone to give her the sacrament three times a week again.”

Will looked at his daughter and said, “If I looked like Widow Buggy I’d be calling three times a week myself.”

Kate White said, “You two should be ashamed of yourselves, standing in judgment over a poor lonely old soul like Genevieve Buggy.”

Will said, “Lonely? What about Colm?”

Clare said, “That son of hers is worthless as a fiddle without strings. He should’ve taken the pledge years ago; instead he’s a pickled old goat at fifty.”

Will winked at them both and said, “I could think of worse things.”

Clare was tired and out of sorts that Sunday morning. Life had become dull. The village held no excitement for her anymore. She had become fed up. Dublin was just over sixty kilometers away and she dreamed of it every night. Known as the alien port in Ireland, people from all walks of life and from all over the world lived there. Artists, poets, actors, musicians, writers, playwrights, the pubs, the theater, that was the life she wanted..

She was half-asleep during High Mass and paid little or no attention to the service or the new young priest saying Mass. She was daydreaming of a life far away and she was languid in her movement to the communion railing to receive the Holy Eucharist, as if some unknown power was holding her back, uninterested in any type of guilt and shame-ridden redemption.

“The Body of Christ.”

“Amen.”

“The Body of Christ.”

“Amen.”

The monotonous drone made her crazy. When at last she had made her way to the communion rail, she knelt down and pulled the communion clothe that stretched the length of the railing to below her chin, the church’s way of ensuring that the host did not fall. The second line of defense was the altar boy who held the gold paten below the hand of the priest that held the Body of Christ.

The young priest looked at her and said, “The Body of Christ.”

His eyes, the color of gunmetal, held her gaze. They were penetrating and knowing, as if they saw things mere mortals did not.

She said, “Amen.” And thought, isn’t that how it always works? The best-looking man in the village is a Catholic Priest.

In the church vestibule after Mass, young Father Ruari O’Keefe stood shaking hands with all the parishioners.

“Welcome Father, nice sermon.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re a breath of fresh air, you are, Father.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t worry about falling on your way to the altar, Father, first day on the job nerves. Welcome.”

“Thank you.”

When it was Will White’s turn he said, “Hello Father. The name’s William White, but you can call me Will.”

“Nice to meet you, Will.”

“Likewise Father, and this is me wife Kate.”

“Pleased to meet you, Father. Would you join us for supper on this beautiful Sunday?”

Startled at the sudden invitation he said, “That would be grand.”

Will then said, “And this is me daughter, Clare Eva.”

Clare’s short blond hair blew in the wind and she smiled as she reached for Ruari’s hand and said, “Welcome to Ballycraig, Father. I’m sure you’re overjoyed to be here.”

Kate said, “Clare Eva White, what kind of smart thing is that to say to our new Father?”

Father Ruari O’Keefe laughed and said, “Don’t worry Mrs. White, I’ve been in far worse places than Ballycraig and I’m finding that the view here is quite remarkable at times.”

Clare was about to ask what he meant by that when his statement registered in her mind. She stared at him a bit bemused; convinced she saw a glint in his eye, however slight.

“Thank you for the invitation to dinner. What time should you expect me?”

Kate said, “4:00 should do it, Father.”

Ruari O’Keefe was finally back in the sacristy giving the altar boys last minute instruction on how he wanted things cleaned up after Mass. He removed his garments and hung them up. He stood in front of the mirror, which hung above the washbowl. He rinsed his hands and face and toweled them off.

The late morning light began to shift and his shadow grew longer. He looked into the mirror, only this time he saw the old demon rising again. In his youth he knew the minute he stepped into the sacristy as an altar boy that he wanted to be a priest. The smells of burning bee’s wax, incense, altar wine and the great quiet calm that the church held were all a source of comfort to him. He knew.

As he grew into a young man his athletic prowess became increasingly more apparent,  hurling, Gaelic football and rugby. He loved the competition, the physical contact, and he was good.

Hurling became his true love. He started playing on the local clubs in and around Derry, in the Bogside neighborhood where he grew up. Word spread about this kid who was one hell of a midfielder. Scouts came around and pretty soon Ruari found himself playing for the Irish National Hurling Team with lads from Kilkenny and Tipperary, where the sport was huge. He became known as old number nine and the press loved him.

Ruari’s thoughts of the ascetic life the church had to offer began to fade as the adulation of the women in the pubs increased, more and more finding himself hung over and in a strange woman’s bed.  A further distraction was his seeming inability to stop. As his reputation grew so did the demand for his time and attention.  The word “no” had never registered with Ruari so it was night after night in the pubs and morning after morning of growing despair and regret.

“Father?”

Coming out of his thoughts Ruari turned around and one of the altar boys was standing in front of him.

He said, “Sorry to interrupt, but I forgot me cap and me mum will be after me if I show up with out it.”

Ruari smiled with relief and said, “That’s a good lad.”

As the young altar boy walked out of the sacristy Ruari winced remembering back on the night his life had changed. He had been spinning out of control for a while and he figured he had had it coming. The punch came out of nowhere, but it was only the pebble that started the avalanche. When Ruari pulled himself off the floor, he flew into a rage that hurling circles would talk about for years. He had been pursuing the favors of a married woman when her jealous husband had had enough and hit him.

He woke up on the floor of a crowded jail cell with handcuffs holding him behind his back. When he looked up he saw a familiar, if not somewhat welcome, sight. The prison chaplain, Father Byrne, a priest Ruari knew in his youth, had come to bail him out.

He said, “Well, if you aren’t a sight.”

Ruari winced as he tried to smile. He looked at the priest through swollen and black eyes said, “Aye, had a bit of a row last night.”

“A bit of? You made the papers.”

“I’ve what?”

“Aye, when a celebrity makes trouble it makes the papers.”

“Celebrity my arse.”

“So they’ve given you the boot, eh?”

“Who has?”

“The National Hurling Team.”

“What? For a little row?”

“You don’t remember do you? It was hardly a little row.”

“What do you mean? The guy hit me first.”

“That may be, but according to eyewitness reports in the paper you flew into a maniacal rage.”

“So what? I’ve seen other players get mad.”

“Well, then maybe it was because you put three men in the hospital, or maybe when you broke the Peeler’s jaw.”

“I broke a peeler’s jaw? Jaysus.”

“Or maybe when you ripped the dress off the lady and pulled her bloomers down around her ankles. Or could it have been when you jumped up and decided to relieve yourself on the bar.”

“No,” He groaned. “No I didn’t.”

“Or, according to the paper, you single-handedly broke every table and chair in the pub as the local law enforcement closed in to take you away. And you pulled this whopper off in your birthday suit.”

“Nude?”

“Nude.”

“Bullshit.”

“Why do you think you’re the only one in this cell on the floor and handcuffed?”

“Where’d the clothes come from, then?”

“When they brought you in, kicking and screaming, mind you, they called me in. Once you passed out we took off the cuffs and dressed you. I told them they didn’t need to re-apply the cuffs, but the bleeding and bruised officers of the law disagreed.”

Ruari sat up with his back to the chaplain and said, “Lord have mercy.”

At dinner that afternoon, Ruari found himself mounting with distraction and discomfort. He couldn’t keep his eyes off Clare. Unable to put a firm finger on it, he surmised that she was taunting him. Whether intentional or not, he couldn’t tell, but she seemed to sense his difficulty and was enjoying it.

The months following his explosion in the pub and his expulsion from the Irish National Hurling Team were dark and lonely times. The calls ceased and it seemed to him that he had been left behind, that his fifteen minutes of fame were up.

For the first time in his life he was directionless. He never fathomed that the competition would stop and when it did so abruptly it left a gaping black hole in his life, a void that he could not fill. Next to a bottle, fear, anxiety and despair were his only mates, which led to more drinking to ease the pain and the spiral downward began.

He became reclusive, rarely leaving his flat, except for the fifth of Paddy’s, cigarettes or a few groceries, living on a dwindling pension from his playing days.

A knock came on the door. It startled Ruari. He took a pull from his bottle and said, “You’ve got the wrong door, go away.”

The reply from the hall came, “I’ll knock it down before I go away.”

Ruari said, “Well fucksake.” He stood and went to the door more out of curiosity than anything. Standing there in the hall was Fr. Byrne.

He said, “Lord have mercy, Ruari. You look worse than the night I found you on the floor of the pokey.”

Ruari said, “Jaysus Father, it’s good to see you too.”

Father Byrne said, “Well, would you like to come out into the hall to have this conversation or would it be better to invite me in?”

Ruari said, “Och Father, can’t you see I want to be left alone?”

“Sure enough, lad. But left to your own devises I suppose you’ll be dead in a month.”

“And a right better world it would be.”

“Quit feeling sorry for yourself and let me in.”

They walked into the filth of a man who had lost hope or the prospect of ever finding any.

“Do you have a clean jar? I’d like to share a sip of your whiskey.”

“Aye.”

The priest glanced around at the misery that had wrapped its insidious cold and lifeless arms around this place, this life.

He said, “I’ve come to see you at the request of others and not a minute too soon, I might add.”

“I’m doing just fine.”

“Yes, like a fox in a trapper’s snare, you are. What’ll you do for an encore? Chew your own leg off?”

“Father, what do you want from me? I’m in no mood for a lecture.”

“I’ve got a job opportunity for you.”

“Oh, I see. The great Catholic priest comes to save a poor fucking soul. I’m not interested.”

“Knock it off.  I baptized you, watched you grow up and watched as you enjoyed grand success. You’re a talented man with a lot to offer the world and the first time adversity plays a part you run like a coward. Are you a coward?”

“You know better.”

“Do I? You seem to be fooling a lot of people. And I, for one, won’t stand by and watch you throw it all away.”

The priest shot the whiskey in the jar down with one gulp and said, “The mercy nuns have an opening for a janitor.”

“Jaysus father, are you serious?”

“Yes. They’ll feed you, give you a room and pay you a fair wage. A lad could do worse.”

“He could?”

Ruari smiled at the memory. At the time he was forced to comply, he was like a mule forcing his hooves into the dirt as they drug him into the place. After eighteen months, though, the calming affect of the serene bastion of nuns took hold of him. He some how exorcised the demons that haunted his past and after two years, cloistered in the convent, he applied for the seminary in Maynooth and, with a letter of recommendation from Fr. Byrne, was accepted.

As years passed in the seminary, Ruari knew that he had made the right decision. He loved it at Maynooth and looked forward to his ordination and his first parish assignment. However, like all men of flesh and blood, he had his physical struggles. Celibacy and sobriety were not his least bane and yet somehow, so far, he had managed to overcome his temptations. That was before he met Clare White.

Read more about Irish Twins, A Novel of the Troubles and Bob Huerter HERE.

Copyright 2010 Bob Huerter. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt
Chapter 8

Northern Ireland and Liverpool, England (1846)

The Belfast dockside teemed with humanity, the noises and smells exciting and terrifying at the same time.  Molly’s practical nature took over as she followed every movement of her excited family, not wanting to let anyone out of her sight.  Other than John O’Connor, the family had never ventured far afield from their home in Creggan.  The city of Belfast was new and exciting to them all.  The smells of the dock were both fascinating and revolting.  Rotting fish, the city’s sewage, and unwashed bodies, melded with fresh salt sea air, roasting nuts, and potatoes.  Sailors screamed orders from ship decks to workers below them on the docks. Men scurried from dock to ships like rats.  Hockers sold their wares to curious passers by, each trying to outdo the other… “Get the best roasted tatties in Ireland.  Maybe even better than yer sainted ma’s.”

Others were crying their farewells to family and loved ones as they prepared to board steamers to England.

The crewmembers of the Princess unceremoniously shoved and jabbed as they drove their quarry on board.  The ship loomed above its soon-to-be passengers like a monster waiting to devour its victims.  Fear showed in the eyes of some, excitement in others, but all seemed to portray the fear that they would never see Ireland again as they looked back at the city and the hills beyond.

Four-year-old Matthew hoisted on his father’s shoulders, clapped and squealed with delight at the sights around him.  Never in his young life had he witnessed such absolute gaiety and confusion.

He continually screamed, “Papa, mama see the big boat.  Can we go on the boat?  Papa, please, can we. Please papa.”  Liam laughed at his son’s exuberance.  “Settle down lad or you’ll be forgettin where ya be and pissin down me neck.”

“Liam, shame on you.  Hush with that talk now,” Molly giggled.  She found the festiveness infectious as they combed the docks enjoying the new experiences.  The past days had been a mixture of exhilaration, sadness, uncertainty, fear of the unknown, and melancholy as they prepared for the first leg of their journey to Canada.

Copyright 2010 June Packwood. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

“I hope the accommodations will be sufficient, Mr. Lewis.”   The woman smiled coyly as the tall man looked around the sparse room.  She absently brushed a long strand of dirty brown hair back behind her right ear and ran a slender hair over her cotton dress.

“Yes, they will do quite nicely, thank you Priscella.  I’ll only be here for a day or so.  I’m waiting for a few people who should be joining up with me shortly.   I hope to get some hunting in tomorrow morning, and then I’ll be on my way.”

“I’ll prepare supper in an hour or so, Mr. Lewis.   My husband should be back from Memphis tomorrow morning and you can settle up with him then.  Feel free to make yourself at home.”   Her eyes twinkled as she turned and walked away slowly.  Lewis couldn’t help but admire how beautiful the woman looked, her brown hair falling loosely over her shoulders, while her simple blue dress showed off her slim waist and ample bosom to an appreciative audience.

He smiled as he closed the door, alone to his thoughts.   Meriwether Lewis looked around the small room.   The dirt floor was dry at least, despite the recent rain.   A small wooden frame bed was pressed against the far left wall, next to a stout looking stump that served as both chair and desk.  There was a medium sized open window along the back wall overlooking the woods thirty feet away.  He placed his case containing his traveling clothes on the stump and a smaller case that held his papers next to it. His rifle, a state-of-the-art air gun he had purchased at Harper’s Ferry before the expedition, stood in the corner by the back, near his belongings.

He sat down on the bed which squeaked noisily in protest.   He was tired, so tired.  He closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose.  He hoped James would get here soon, the Indian agent had with him an herbal potion that often alleviated Lewis’ headaches.   But those damn horses had gotten away last night during the storm and the pair of Chicksaw Indians they had hired as guides seemed more clueless in the wild than most of the city bureaucrats in Washington.   Staying behind to help find the strays, James had encouraged Lewis to continue on ahead to Grinder’s Stand.  At the time, he didn’t argue the point, but now…perhaps I was too hasty in leaving them…

Read more about Lewis and Clark: Murder on the Natchez Trace and Thomas Berry HERE.

Copyright 2010 Thomas Berry. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

Leslie Michaels detected the immediate transformation in the stranger’s eyes after she reached out and stroked the tips of her fingers slowly along the strong, angular curves of his chin and jaw. She looked for a change, some kind of reaction that told her he found her to be too bold or forward. However, his calm reserve gave away no emotion at all.  She was pleased that he did not draw away from her touch or display any signs of displeasure. More than anything, she wanted to know what was going on in his mind.

Did he find her attractive? Would he want to know her more intimately? She could not believe that those thoughts were even running through her mind. By God, she thought, I’m thinking just like one of those dance hall girls always standing outside the saloon at the settlement.

She certainly was not the kind of woman to just throw herself at a man.  She was generally shy and reserved, and it normally took a while before she warmed up to someone, especially a man like the one right there in front of her.

And to think, she sighed, that his lips may just taste sweeter than sugar.   She could feel her cheeks flush and patted them with her palms. This man certainly made her feel brazen. She wondered if he found her touch as pleasing as it was for her. When the moments passed with words unspoken between them, Leslie was afraid she truly overstepped her bounds.

There must be someone else in his life, a wife or betrothed, she thought. She searched his eyes to see if disinterest reflected in their depths, but he was too difficult to read.  Leslie leaned back slightly and pondered if his lack of response was more out of duty or respect and not wanting to offend her.

I am such a…a fool…a stupid, crazy ninny, she chastised silently and lowered her head to hide her embarrassment.  Just because I am drawn to him like a bee to honey does not mean he feels the same about me, she argued with herself. After all, we are from different cultures. Those in my world would never approve of such a union.

Leslie’s heart began to pound rapidly in her chest when he moved slightly and reached out for her. She gasped faintly when he tenderly clasped her chin to raise it and gazed into her eyes. A lump caught in her throat, and she knew she could not swallow even if she tried. Joy filled her heart when she watched as his beautiful, full lips began to slowly curve into a smile.

The pleasure she felt overwhelmed her and she pressed her fingers to her lips and sighed softly. She did not know his name, where he came from, or what kind of person he was. What she did know was that she felt no fear, no apprehension, in his presence. She did not hold back and drew herself up from her squatting position to kneel before him.

His beautiful, amber eyes were captivating, and Leslie knew at that very moment that she could get lost in their depths for an eternity. She wanted nothing else. He clasped a hold of her tiny wrists and placed her right hand upon his shoulder.

She reacted instantly and did not hold back. She needed, wanted, to touch more of him and slowly ran the flat of her palm down the length of his naked chest, feeling the strength of hard muscle beneath his light copper skin.  It amazed her how such a masculine man could feel as soft as a rabbit’s pelt.  Her eyes drifted again to the fullness of his lips, and she craved to have her own held captive by them.

He was the most handsome man she had ever seen, and even though he was Indian, it did not sway her from wanting to share something more with him.  The comfort and safety she felt was far from odd, even knowing it would prove disturbing to others. Leslie dismissed all doubt and worry from her mind. She never was a person to be affected by what others thought. And she was not about to start now.

If he was an admirable man with a kind and compassionate heart, that was all she needed to know. She felt an immediate connection and shivered slightly when he reached forward to tenderly move a tendril of her hair away from her face.  It seemed natural and right to rest her cheek against the palm of his hand.

His thumb glided softly against her skin, and she shivered slightly as she tilted her body to nuzzle the side of her face against the warmth of his touch.  He reached his other hand to cup her face and draw her nearer.

Leslie could feel his breath caressing her skin, and she knew he was going to kiss her.

“Come. Let us ride the wind together,” he whispered softly in her ear.  Slowly his lips brushed across her cheek, barely touching skin, causing her body to tremble in response.

This was the moment she hoped for, and she leaned her body closer and raised her chin to meet the pressure of his lips. His powerful arms were tender as they softly folded about her until their bodies were pressed together in a heated embrace.

The loud, shrilling chatter of gray squirrels playing outside her bedroom loft window jolted Leslie from her sleep as though cold water had just been thrown upon her face, and she bolted upright, into a sitting position.

“No!” she cried softly.

She realized it was just a dream as she ran her palm softly across the spot where she could swear she still felt the warmth of the stranger’s touch.  Her eyes scanned every corner of her room, and her heart sank from the disappointing realization that she did indeed dream of the beautiful stranger once again. She turned and watched the humorous antics that continued outside her window.

“Shoo…shoo, you two,” she scolded. “Did you have to choose this very moment to wake me?” she continued as she shook her head and stretched her limbs like a contented feline.

For a moment she played back the memory of the dream that had haunted her over and over again for the past two months.  When is this going to end? She wondered. What does it all mean?

It was not just this particular incident that bewildered her. For as long as she could remember, Leslie had always been taunted by such riddles. Early in her childhood, she had learned not to question her special ability to see what would happen in the very near future through her dreams.

She never feared them, because they were so very much a part of her life, and she naturally assumed every one had the same experiences in their life. That is, until she was old enough to speak and express what she saw with her parents.

Leslie was nearly seven when she finally began to understand what was happening to her, what she was born with. Her mother, Olivia, had sat her down and carefully told her of the special gift they both shared. It was a guarded secret that had been passed down for five generations by the feminine line on her mother’s side.

Still, the dream she had just experienced was so different and more personal than any she had before. This dream involved her emotions. She knew this particular stranger would play a major role in her future. She just did not know what, or when, or where. Each time he entered her sleep, it became more real, and her attraction for him grew stronger. She was becoming drawn to his long, dark hair and a physique, which looked as though it had been chiseled from stone. He was a mystery for now, and she was certain it was one that would be solved sooner rather than later.

Copyright 2010 Cynthia Roberts. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

It became increasingly miserable and cold. Flanagan tried mightily to avoid thinking of Jill, amusing himself instead by visualizing a sunny, sandy Florida beach with plenty of bikini-clad young beauties. It didn’t work, but it did help that his heavy sleepiness dulled his full range of senses. He fought back by realizing that he was in charge, that he was the single individual in a group of nearly forty Americans who alone decided many small things and several big things, such as the conditions under which these and other men might fight and subsequently die. Here they were, far away from home and family, in the cold rain, on the wet ground, ostensibly without sleep, scared, tired, alone, their muscles aching, their bowels perpetually loose, their inevitable rashes itching and perhaps even bleeding, still hungry even though they’d eaten their last meal out of a can, wearing the same clothes they’d worn for more than a week, and, if that wasn’t enough, in grave danger of being wounded or killed by a crafty, stealthy, dangerous enemy. And most, if not all, were having difficulty concentrating.

What a great deal, Flanagan concluded. Who could ask for anything more? Soft beds, clean sheets, warm women-a thing of the past. That was then; this is now. Reality these days is a rainy rice paddy, where a man’s free to be outdoors, smoke cigarettes, cuss, spit, shoot rifles, and kill people. What’s a little Asiatic combat amongst friends, anyway? he thought, as much in disgust as amusement.

The time passed with a dreadfully slow tempo. He glanced at the luminous dials of his watch and saw that it was six more hours until first light. He went over in detail every likely ambush scenario he could envision, and the resultant actions required of him as the platoon leader. He was bothered, as usual, by the idea of an enemy force of large size choosing this night and this place to make their presence known, in which case he and a lot of others would never live to see the sun rise. Otherwise, he felt confident he could manage events to his own satisfaction.

Then five more hours.

He went over the names and faces and duties of all the men in his platoon. He had made it a point on the previous day to spend some time with the new guys, to learn their names and find out enough tidbits about them to retain at least one or two pertinent items in his memory. Their hometowns; their training levels; their strengths and weaknesses; their family situations, to the extent that he knew them; their overall abilities as Marines. Satisfied, he then reviewed the old-timers in the same fashion.

Then four more hours.

He played an entire Beatles’ concert in his head. He liked the old stuff best, from ‘64 and ‘65, and tended to represent those songs in his concert list in far greater proportion to the more recent releases. The new stuff seemed different, way too hippyish, and the change in the Beatles’ music and appearance had been faster and deeper than he would have preferred. Why couldn’t they just stay with the old stuff in the old style? Why did they have to change everything so radically?

He was glancing at his watch after the last song of the show, just as the Fab Four were taking their bows to the screams and the applause, when the claymore to his far left exploded with a deep, frightening boom.

Read more about Shall Never See So Much and Gerald Gillis HERE.

Copyright 2010 Gerald Gillis. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

For me it is twilight. The firmament darkens, my fields fall fallow and that which is my legacy is now at all times poised to wither in the ignobility of age.

But such is not the way it has at all times been. I once defied all weakness, spurned the fate-weavers when they spun doom as certain as night must fall, shunned the imminence of wolves gathering in the realm of the darkest weald and thwarted the ever-turning circle of ravens that has long foreboded the nearness of death.

But while my lot has at often times turned for the worst I have held defiant even as all about me was mired in dread and futility. Such has been the bequest left by the kindred before me who ran afoul with the gods. And yet I have forged on, over the harshest seas, through the thickest snows and against the bloodiest tides of war.

Though I am old I can still heft a sword ably enough to make young men less learned in battle tremble behind their shields. My beard is as gray as a Northumbrian winter and while I no longer harbor such swiftness as has allowed me to evade the Valkyrie’s calling, I am without reluctance to take the field of battle one last time. And there, I expect, shall be where I make my final stand.

I should think that my days ahead are but few and because I know that fate is seldom foreseeable I must never stray far from the reach of my sword or neglect the consolation of an axe under my belt. For even in the quietest hour the threads of my undoing may at long last ensnare me.

I was, so I have come to accept, fated from birth to endure a path not of my own choosing but one that was laid down by those who, through a breach of oaths and misdeeds, wrought a legacy of hardship of such great burden that only death may assuage it.

Alas, the river of time runs dry and my ship must founder. Fortune is brittle and though one may long extol the gods in verse, offer sacrifice and exude all manner of homage, none is beyond the influence of Norn-craft.

As my saga shall attest, I have weathered the most onerous trials the gods have sought to impose on any man.

And I bear the scars to prove it.

Read more about The Raven & the Wolf: Blood Oath and Christopher Spellman HERE.

Copyright 2010 Christopher Spellman. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

Chapter 1

Jason crumpled, like a dropped rag doll.  Face-first, he fell on Broad Street’s sidewalk. The crowd gasped. Several spectators rushed to his side. The softball-size lump of shiny black coal that struck Big Jason’s right temple lay next to his outstretched white hand. Blood trickled from his nose. Big Jason lay still and grew pale as the crowd pressed in for a closer look.
The sky was overcast that Friday afternoon and a cold wind blew from the mountains in the west. As the ides of March 1943 approached, winter was refusing to let spring take matters over early in North Carolina’s central piedmont region. An early spring would have been fine with Judge Stevens. Oakton had seen its first purple crocuses and was impatiently waiting for daffodils. The forsythia bush at the foot of General Joe Johnston’s statute on Oakton’s town square had but a handful of blossoms.
By the time that ancient forsythia bush would cover itself with yellow blossoms, baseball would compete with the docket for the top of Judge William T. Stevens’ mind. His playing days with the Atlanta Crackers were never far from his thoughts. He opened one of his dirty second-floor office windows for a better view of the town square.
In the confused moments that followed, Judge Stevens saw Cliff Thompson leap to his feet and scramble around the corner and run down the alley as if a ghost was hot on his heels. There was Lil’ Will Wallace tapping his mule’s reins on her back. Judge Stevens couldn’t hear him, but Lil’ Will’s lips mouthed, “Git up.” The mule pulled the rickety old green wagon over the pavement behind the crowd of white people gawking at Jason and away from Broad Street toward the road to Lenoir. The wagon’s faded red wheels and spokes would pause momentarily in each pothole and then lurch forward. The mule’s pace was about the same as that of the people window shopping on Broad Street. Lil’ Will’s pa, Big Will, followed in a large new red wagon pulled by four mules. Judge Stevens could see that Big Will had positioned his rig so that anyone from the crowd looking in their direction would not notice the two burlap bags of coal among the supplies in Lil’ Will’s wagon.
“Did you see that?”
“See what?”
Judge Stevens was waving his hands. “Well, come closer – quickly.” He put his head out the window and peered toward the road to Lenoir.
The mayor walked between Judge Stevens’ desk and his hand-made mahogany credenza. “Bill, I can’t see a damn thing but you in the window.”
Judge Stevens was so excited that he hit his head on the raised window as he drew it back inside. “Ouch! Dammit! Andy, I’m sorry you missed it. I know this is gonnna make us a winner in Denver.” The judge was still rubbing his head and smoothing his silver hair.
“Whatever has gotten into you? What did you see out there to put you in such an all-fired frenzy? All I see is a crowd milling around that boy on the sidewalk. Why is he sitting on his tush?”
“Andy, I’ve never seen the like. Big Jason, was giving poor Cliff a trashing and a crowd gathered. At six feet and a half, Jason was taller than anybody else on the street. Nobody, and I mean nobody, was trying to stop ’im.”
“Yep, he’s tall. My Dan tells me he’s the meanest kid in town.”
“Well, lemme tell you. That colored Wallace boy was driving his pa’s wagon down Broad. He took a look at the fracas and stopped his mule over there by that mailbox on the corner of the square. You shoulda seen’im. He reached back and pulled a big lump of coal out of a bag behind him and, without moving from his seat, threw it and hit Jason in the head. Knocked Jason out cold.”
“You mean to tell me he threw it from all the way over there? Why, that’s more’n a hundred feet!”
“If that boy can hit a baseball anything like his pa could, he’s our answer for catcher when we go to Denver this year.”
“But he’s a nigger. Are you outta your mind? And, besides, why aren’t you calling the sheriff – Mr. Officer of the Court? Didn’t you see the nigger assault Jason?”
“Yeah, so what if he’s colored? We played colored teams in the tournament last year and in ‘41. As I recall, they stole bases any damn time they felt like it and beat our asses handily. Oh, and, no, I ain’t calling the sheriff. Jason deserves what he got and more.
“Andy, don’t you remember? Our poor Jimmy never threw out one of those base runners.”
“But playing against a colored team is bad enough and that’s mighty different from having one of them play on our team. You know our boys won’t stand for it.”
“Even if it means not winning that Denver Post Baseball Tournament prize money – and the fame we need for Oakton?”
“Bill, you know our town. It won’t fly.”
“Andy, level with me. You don’t like my idea, do you?”
The mayor dropped his head and suddenly found the tops of his well-shined brown wingtips to be very interesting.
“Andy, we go way back. I know you never had any truck with niggers. You can tell me straight out.”
“Alright. No, I don’t like your idea. I know I wouldn’t play with’em. So I wouldn’t ask our boys to do something I wouldn’t do. ”
“Not for the prize money? Not for the bigger prize of making this town that no one ever heard of a place to visit and invest in? That’ll help you fill up your hotel – bring vacationers to these hills…”
Cardinal County was not a tourist attraction. It was said that the county had more than a hundred different species of trees and right now there were buds on most of them. The little town of Oakton was the county seat and sat near the middle of the county. Cardinal County had sharecropper cotton farms here and there. Corn was grown in quantity, but consumed mostly by families and their livestock. The big industry was furniture manufacturing. The trees of Cardinal County kept the furniture makers supplied with wood and loggers and craftsmen employed. Oakton was functional. It had one of what most towns would have: one general store, a gas station, an ice house, a shoe store, a clothing store, a hardware store, and one hotel.
Andy thought for a moment, slowly rubbing his chin. “Bill, we’ll just have to find another way.”
Judge William Stevens closed his window. “Okay. I’ll see you at the Chamber meeting next week.”
Mayor Andy Mitchell left without another word.

Chapter 2

“Boy, have you done plum loss yo’ mind!? How cum you couldn’t reckon dat one of them white folks would see you throw dat piece of coal?”
Lil’ Will hung his head and half listened to his pa. He carefully studied patterns in the brown wire grass on which he stood holding Della’s reins. Lil’ Will was not little. He was an inch shy of six feet. His muscles were plainly seen to ripple when he swung an axe or a hoe. Lil’ Will and his pa were the same build and size. He was called Lil’ Will because his mother, Rosie, did not want to call him Junior. Beagle sat next to Lil’ Will’s right leg.
Lil’ Will could not believe that anyone could have seen his quick throw. But he made no reply to his pa. He had learned early on not to talk back when getting a dressing-down from an adult – parent, teacher, or neighbor. The fact that he was now nineteen and was as tall and broad shouldered as Big Will made no difference. He was still his pa’s boy.
Big Will glanced over his shoulder again before he continued. “Son, I believe Judge Stevens seed you. I heard his winda open and seed him stick his face out for a betta look.”
Lil’ Will looked up, wide-eyed, jaw agape. “But…”
“No buts. The judge paid no attention to dat crowd around Jason. His head was turned toward you.”
“But…”
“Will, stop sayin’ ‘but’. Ain’t you got nothin’ else to say?”
“But ol’ Cliff was gonna get beat worse ‘cause nobody could stop Jason.”
“Boy, since when is it yore bitness to stop one white boy from beatin’ another white boy? That’s another reason why I think yore head is still empty after all my teachin’. I sho’ hope dis is the last time I gotta hafta tell ya. Stay outta white folks’ bitness!”
“But, pa, Jason’s always beatin’ people up and gettin’ away wid it.”
“I’ve heard ‘bout dat Jason. You ain’t listenin’ ta me. Dat ain’t got nothin’ ta do wit you. Lemme tell you how meddlin’ in white folks bitness can hurt me and yo’ little sistah.”
The mules were still in their harnesses and hitched to the wagons. They were standing in the barnyard, looking toward their stalls. Della made a loud snort and shook her mane.
Big Will looked over his shoulder again toward the road to Oakton. “Now, Will, you listen to me careful. I’ma tell ya straight from the shoulder. If Judge Stevens sends the sheriff to fetch you and dey put you on the gang for a stretch, we could lose our lil’ loggin’ and haulin’ bitness. By myself, I can’t cut enough trees and haul enough logs to satisfy Mr. Martin. So, Mr. Martin would jes git somebody who can fill his quota, and dat would be dat. Den, how do I pay de rent on dis place, the mortgage on dis heah new wagon, and save for Willie Mae’s schoolin’?”
The wire grass was no longer interesting. Tears welled up in Lil’ Will’s eyes as he considered what his absence could cost his family. He thought about how much Willie Mae, a fifteen-year-old ninth grader, wanted to be a teacher. She talked about it almost every day. He blinked his tears back and glanced toward Della. He did not want his pa to see him cry.
Big Will took a step closer and put a hand on Lil’ Will’s shoulder. Big Will lowered his voice. “Son, you gotta see further than the tree just in front of you. As you grow into a man, you got to realize dat yore actions can affect yore whole family. It’s a fine thing to want to save one boy from gettin’ a beatin’ from a bigger boy. Dat makes me proud of you. But you got to start thinkin’ like a man. Some day soon, you’ll have yore own family.”
“Thanks, Pa. I’ll do better.”
“Okay, son. Now let’s get these critters watered and fed.”
“Git up, Della. C’mon, Beagle.” Beagle was a brown and black and white Beagle. He followed Will everywhere without being called. It was Willie Mae’s idea to name the dog Beagle.
Will led Della over to the back porch of their bare plank, tin-roof house. Beagle went, too. The planks on the outer wall had never been painted and were various shades of brown. The back porch floor was almost level with Will’s wagon. The floor where he stacked supplies from the wagon was weather-beaten and smooth from wear. It had a bleached look from the hot water and lye soap Willie Mae used to scrub it. Later, he and Willie Mae would move the supplies inside the kitchen and the coal bin. Now, he led Della to the barn and parked the wagon in its usual place. Out of her harness, Della shook herself and dust flew.
Will thought of the sweet feeling he got when that piece of coal found its mark and Big Jason went down. The feeling surprised him. He didn’t mean it to be revenge. Was it? The memory of Jason beating him last year was now a bit more bearable. That beating was no longer a lost war, but simply a lost battle. Before today, every time Will thought of it, he had felt rage building throughout his being. He never told Big Will that Jason beat him because he would have had to tell his pa that he took the south road. Pa had told him to never take that road from the factory, even though it could serve as a shortcut to the highway toward Lenoir. The south road cut through a white neighborhood.
One day when Will detoured to visit with his girlfriend, Dena, for a few minutes, he was late getting to the factory to unload and it would have made him arrive home with Della and the wagon after dark. Big Will forbade having the mule and wagon on the highway after dark.
Will was still savoring the day’s events as he pumped water for the mules in the corral. The pump stood over a well near the back porch. Big Will had rigged a wooden V-shaped trough that, when swung under the pump spout, guided water to a large tin funnel stuck into a galvanized iron pipe. The vertical pipe connected to an elbow half a foot underground and a pipe that carried the water to a cylindrical metal tank inside the corral. The pipe was not connected to the tank. Instead, it lay over the opening and water poured into the tank.
“Hey, Lil’ Will.” Will flinched. He had been lost in replaying the memory of Big Jason falling and had not heard Willie Mae arrive at the pump with two porcelain-lined buckets from the kitchen.
With a big grin, he turned to greet her. “Hey, Mae!” Lil’ Will grabbed her shoulders. “Wait’ll you hear what I did today in town!”
Willie Mae listened while Lil’ Will told his tale and pumped water for her and the corral critters.
At tale’s end, Willie Mae smiled her best conspiratorial smile. “So, big bro, when Pa said, ‘Stay out of white folks bitness,’ did you tell’im yo’ bitness was jes repayin’ an old debt?”
They shared a victorious laugh. Lil’ Will had told her all about the visit with Dena and the beating while Willie Mae did her best to repair as much of the damage Big Jason had done to his face before Big Will arrived.
“Well, lil’ sistah, does a bear have hind pockets?”
“Will, I’m ready. C’mon. Soon it’ll be too dark.” Big Will was calling from the barn. He was wearing a beat up catcher’s mitt that had a rusty buckle on the back of his left hand. It was the only mitt Big Will ever used in his twenty years of baseball. His right hand held an old baseball, brown-red with dirt and its leather cover nicked from smashing into rocks and wire backstops.
“Pa, I’m comin’.” Will ran to the barn for his catcher’s equipment. He retrieved his pa’s face mask, chest protector, and knee pads. Each item was well worn and showed its age despite homemade repairs over the years. The catcher’s mitt was Lil’ Will’s. He had used it for two years, since taking over catching from Big Will for the Oakton Bears – a semipro Negro team. He strapped his equipment on for the first time since last season as Big Will watched.
Lil’ Will walked to the side of the barn and tossed a wide-blade hoe that had lost its handle onto the ground in front of him. They were used the barn as a backstop. Big Will would be the pitcher. Lil’ Will was squatting behind the hoe home plate.
“Alright, Will. Let’s go over a few reminders before we start. Dis is important for catchers. You got ta stay ready to block balls in de dirt wid your body. Stay in front of the ball. Next, ‘member to keep your throwin’ hand behind your back until the ball hits your mitt, and…”
Beagle barked. A car drove into the yard and followed the wagon track to the barn. Judge Stevens stepped out from his ’41 Ford.
Chapter 3

The front door slammed. Eighteen-year-old Dena flinched and dropped her pencil on her English homework.
“Dena! Dena. Where are you?”
“Here I am, Ma. Is something the matter?” Dena stepped from her doorway into the hall. She knew something was up when her mother called her “Dena” instead of the usual “Dee.”
Jessie was walking briskly through the front room, removing her hat as she went. “Yes, Dena. There’s something the matter alright. Talk is going around the neighborhood that that no-good boyfriend of yours assaulted a white boy uptown today.”
Dena’s right hand went to cover her mouth as she gasped. She hurried to meet her mother. “What? Ma, are you sure it was Will?”
“Just as sure as I’m sure my name is Jessie Mae Smith Miller. I overheard the principal say to the basketball coach that one of his ninth-grade dropouts named Will Wallace had hurt a white boy in town this afternoon. The nerve! On Broad Street – at the square – and in broad open daylight!”
“But, Ma, how would he know that? Wasn’t he at school all day? Besides, Will wouldn’t hurt anyone.” In spite of herself, worry wrinkled Dena’s brow.
“Hummph! Let me tell you! The principal said his brother called. You know the one, he owns that barber shop on Simpson Street. Well, according to him, your Will threw a big lump of coal and hit a white boy in the head. Knocked him out for a few minutes.”
“What? I refuse to believe that Will would just up and do such a thing. How would a barber know? Why wasn’t he minding his business and cutting hair?”
“Said a customer he had finished ran back into the shop with the news. Said Big Will and his son were driving their wagons out of town this afternoon when it happened.”
Dena, flustered, suddenly felt exhausted. She looked about for a chair, found one, and flopped down on it. “But, this can’t be. Will never hurt anyone before. Why would he just pick on some random white boy? He doesn’t even know one. Do you?”
“Y’all sho’ making a lotta racket in here. What’s all the fuss about?” Cecilia, Dena’s older sister by two years, entered the front room tying the belt of her chenille housecoat.
Jessie gave a sigh and sat on the sofa, arranging two small pillows behind her. “Dena’s no-good boyfriend is starting some trouble with white folks. Didn’t you use to like him?”
With a big grin and hands akimbo, Cecilia rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. “Sho’ did. What a hulk! ‘Course, he was too young for me. Very reluctantly, I had to let that one pass. Whew!”
Jessie frowned at her daughter. “Cee, don’t be crass.”
Jessie taught fifth and sixth graders in the county’s only colored public school. Dena could not remember how many times she received admonishments from her mother. She always heard Jessie and her father, the Reverend Joseph P. Miller, tell her and Cecilia to be refined and lady-like. After Cecilia worked for a few more months, she would follow her mother’s dream and go to Charlotte in the fall to attend Johnson C. Smith University in the second class to ever include women. As Dena remembered, Jessie was more excited than Cecilia when the acceptance letter arrived from Smith.
Cecilia sat beside Jessie on the sofa. “Can’t we speak our minds while Pa’s not here and do a little girl-talk? Uh-huh! Will is one fine specimen of mankind. What a body! Good catch, sis!”
Jessie shook her head. For the first time, Dena smiled. Her smile vanished as quickly as it appeared. She worried that the rumors were true. “Ma, what do you think might happen if Will did this thing?”
“What may happen,” corrected Jessie. “Nothing good. White folks may not know who did it – yet. But you can bet that sooner than later, some colored person will tell one of them. Then, who knows? A lynching? A riot? I just don’t know.”
“Aw, Ma. It’ll blow over in a few days.” Cecilia lifted a foot toward the coffee table, glanced at Jessie and caught the look on Jessie’s face.  Dena bet correctly that Cecilia would not make the move.  Cecilia returned her foot to the floor, leaned back, and crossed her legs.
“Cee, child, oh, how I wish you knew what you are talking about. That is hardly likely. My pa told me about the white-on-colored race riot in Wilmington – right here in this state. He also told me that in the summer after the First World War ended, seven race riots happened in seven different cities in the United States – seven in three months! I can’t count how many lynchings happened while I was growing up. When they get the notion that a colored man is forgetting his place, you can’t predict what may happen. Look at the race trouble in Detroit that started just two weeks ago. Now, that’s a riot you don’t need a history book to find. Believe you me, that thing in Detroit is not over.”
Dena leaned forward. She held her face in both hands with her elbows on her knees. She listened with intense interest. She glanced at the usually reserved and calm Cecilia, whose face had changed and now looked as glum as Dena was feeling. She reached over and picked up from the end table a small porcelain figurine of a white woman holding a vase. She turned it over several times. Haltingly, Dena spoke to her mother while gazing at the figurine. “Ma, it ain’t fair. Cecilia has dreams. Will has dreams. I have dreams. I don’t see how we can have a chance for a good life anywhere – North or South. Everything is against us. What I see is that there is no way to win.”
“Child, education is the key for us. Each generation that passes brings more progress. Education will help you be ready when opportunities come.”
Dena was quiet. There would not be education or opportunities for working men like the Wallaces. What of Will, another dropout? She was trying to frame her thoughts into words when Cecilia spoke.
“Ma, I agree that education is a better alternative than a life of domestic work or hard labor. But what does a person like Will have to look forward to? Say, Dena marries him. He wants to be a professional baseball player. I’ve seen him play – he’s really good. But he’ll never get the chance to earn much money in baseball. Not even enough to feed himself. It’s a white man’s game.”
“Game? If it pays money that comes from outside the colored community, we don’t control the game. When you go to college, I hope both of you will find respectable young men to marry who are preparing for a profession. Besides, baseball is not a profession. Why, when I was growing up, certain girls avoided soldiers, sailors, and ballplayers.”
Dena’s eyes filled with tears. Jessie and Cecilia were blurs.
Jessie walked over and put a hand on Dena’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Dee. But we need to end this now. I want you to stop seeing Will Wallace. Associating with him could bring disaster to this house, or even to your father’s church.”
Jessie disappeared down the hallway.
Dena’s tears spilled into her lap in a noiseless flood as she rocked back and forth in her seat. She beat her fists against her knees and bit her lower lip, determined not to cry out. She felt an arm embrace her. Cecilia swayed her from side to side, cradling, and drawing Dena’s head against her waist. Dena let her head lean on Cecilia while she repeatedly squeezed the figurine with both hands. Cecilia fingered Dena’s curly braids.
Jessie called from the kitchen. “Cee, come and give me a hand with supper.”
“Yes, Ma. I’m comin’.”
Jessie corrected Cecilia. “I’m coming.”
Cecilia rolled her eyes. “Yes, Ma. I’m coming.”
Cecilia used the soft raised flowers on the belt of her housecoat to wipe the tears from Dena’s face. She then turned Dena’s face up. Dena saw sadness in Cecilia’s eyes. Cecilia reached down and kissed the top of Dena’s head. “I hope you won’t go to your room and be alone. Please come with me to the kitchen. You can help me fry the fish.”
Dena had not reached the thought of going to her room, but realized that she would have if Cecilia had not spoken. Dena felt warmness toward her sister when she realized Cecilia knew her next thought and would guide her away from isolation. Softly, Dena said, “Okay. Give me a minute.”
When Dena entered the kitchen, Jessie was using a large bowl on the family dining table in the middle of the kitchen to mix yellow cornmeal, eggs, flour, baking powder, baking soda, salt, sugar, buttermilk, and butter. Cecilia was firing the wood range and melting lard in a large cast-iron skillet. From a cabinet, Dena took a tin pie pan to the small counter near the range. She poured buttermilk into the pan and dipped the whiting pieces that Cecilia had cut in the buttermilk. She seasoned each piece then shook them all in a brown paper bag containing just the right amount of cornmeal. Cecilia gently dropped the battered fish into the hot lard.
Without a word, Jessie put her cornbread into the oven and checked a pot of rice. Dena slow-fried two pieces of fatback in a pot while she chopped onions and washed and chopped cabbage.
They cooked in silence. Jessie and Dena avoided eye contact. Cecilia made it a point to smile each time she could catch Dena’s eye or touch her as they passed in the small kitchen.
The front door opened and closed. “Hello-o-o to my favorite three ladies of all time!” Joe Miller’s booming baritone voice was clearly heard in the kitchen.
In unison, his daughters responded, “Hello, Pa. How was your day?” Jessie was clearing the family table. “Hello, Joe. I’m glad you’re home.”
Joe made his way toward the kitchen. “My day was fine, considering I gave a eulogy at the Johnson funeral this afternoon.” He entered the kitchen with a smile and a jaunty step. He looked at the three women and stopped in his tracks. “Huh? What’s with the long faces? It smells too great in here for there to be unhappiness in any corner.” Joe gave them his famous big wide smile with his arms extended as if to hug the whole room.
No one said a word. Dena looked at the floor. Cecilia and Jessie found something to turn or stir.
Joe’s arms and countenance dropped. “Okay. Since no one is talking, I guess I know what the matter is. Dee, it’s about Will Wallace. Am I right? Your mother probably told you to stop seeing him. Right again?”

Dena’s room was next to her parents’. When the kerosene lamps were out and Dena was lying in bed and staring at her ceiling, she could hear her parents debating the matter of Will Wallace. She heard her father say, “Jess, do you remember what happened after Mrs. Lillie Mae Smith, my dear mother-in-law, told you to stop seeing ‘that no-good Joe Miller?’”
Before she slipped into sleep, Dena said through clenched teeth, “No matter what Ma thinks is best for me, nothing is going to stop me from seeing Lil’ Will.”

Chapter 4

Beagle barked as loud as he could. At the end of each three-bark sentence, he threw his head back and added a howl. Though he could see the approaching car, Beagle did not leave Lil’ Will’s side.
Judge Stevens closed his car door. “Howdy, Will. How are you?”
“Why, I’se fine, Judge Stevens. How’re you and the missus?”
“Oh, I’m fine and everythin’ is fine at home. How about you, Lil’ Will?”
“I’se fine, suh.”
Though Judge Stevens was all smiles, Big Will maintained a serious and unsmiling face. Big Will came directly to the point. “Judge, is dis heah an official or a friendly visit.”
“Oh, why, of course, this is friendly. On my way home, I thought I’d stop by and chew the fat for a few minutes with a great baseball mind.” Bill Stevens gave the smile of a traveling salesman.
Lil’ Will exhaled. He smiled and looked at his pa. Lil’ Will’s face changed and displayed his perplexed feelings, for his pa maintained a stoic look with arms folded. Lil’ Will expected friendly banter to begin between the two baseball heroes of Cardinal County. When that didn’t happen, he felt confused.
Lil’ Will remembered the friendly chatter between the two every time Judge Stevens would come to the ball field to see the Bears play. The judge would be the only white person watching their games. He would sit on the fender of his car and stay for hours. He would call out to players and root for the Bears along with the players’ girlfriends and wives. The judge always offered advice to rookies. He never stopped talking about the Atlanta Crackers and the time he hit this home run or that, or the great play at the plate when an opponent’s spike broke his ankle and ended his baseball career. Judge Stevens always told Lil’ Will he was partial to his pa because they were both catchers. He claimed that both of them were better talents than Mickey Owen, who, some say, helped the Dodgers lose the ’41 World Series by dropping a third strike that would have ended the game.
Lil’ Will noticed that Judge Stevens was, for a moment, uncharacteristically lost for words when Big Will didn’t respond as expected. Lil’ Will remained quiet, waiting for a clue as to how he should behave.
“Hey, Lil’ Will, I brought you three new baseballs. Lemme see if you can hit’em.”
Lil’ Will’s eyes lit up. He was stripping off his catcher’s equipment and reaching for his only bat. “Oh, yes suh, Judge. I’m sho’ I can hit’em. Yessuh.”
“Will, I see you have your catcher’s mitt on already. Why don’t you catch for me?”
“Dat won’t be much work, since you gonna pitch.”
There was an awkward silence. In a moment, they both made nervous laughter. Too loud, and too long. Lil’ Will was grateful. He took two deep breaths and joined the laughter.
Lil’ Will stepped up to the hoe home plate in the right-handed batter’s box. Instead of pitching, Judge Stevens rubbed his chin. “Can you hit left-handed?”
“I don’t know, suh. I guess so. I can write and throw left-handed as well as I can right-handed.”
Lil’ Will glanced back at his pa behind the plate. Big Will looked suspicious of the judge’s intentions and appeared to be in deep thought about something other than baseball.
“Lemme see you hit left-handed.”
Lil’ Will changed sides and his grip on the bat as a left hander would without appearing to think about it. Judge Stevens gripped the ball with two fingers of his right hand tugging at the seams, then wound and threw his first pitch. Lil’ Will could see the red strings binding the white leather appear to flash on and off like a light in the center of the sphere as the vertical back-spinning baseball approached. He swung and connected the sweet spot of his bat on the center of the ball. There was a loud crack and the three men watched the new baseball sail out of sight in the gray sky. While the men watched the ball disappear, Beagle gave chase.
Judge Stevens removed his felt dress hat. “My hat’s off to you, Lil’ Will. That was a hellva smash. Are you sure you never hit left-handed before?”
“Dis de first time. Suh.” Lil’ Will could never quite forget that he was talking to a white man – friendly or not.
“Let me pitch to you with you hitting right-handed.”
Lil’ Will was even more curious now. “But Judge, you’ve done seen me hit right-handed before.”
“Lil’ Will, what I want to understand is how you see the difference.”
Big Will alternated waving both hands in front of his chest. “Son, de Judge means dat opposin’ left-right thing.”
“Precisely.”
Lil’ Will looked from one man to the other as if they were speaking a foreign language.
“Ready, Lil’ Will?”
Lil’ Will shrugged his shoulders to shake off the conversation that he did not understand.
“Yessuh.”
Judge Stevens wound and threw a curve ball that was breaking away from Lil’ Will. He saw the strings rotating on a diagonal axis. He adjusted and whacked the breaking ball to what would have been deep right field.
“From which side did you see the ball better? Wait. That’s not quite what I mean to ask…”
“I get it, suh. From the left side, I saw the spin on the ball right off your fingertips. It was a bit later from the right side.”
“Wow! By Jove, you’ve got it. And, I’m a poor teacher. Reckon you taught yourself.”
At last, Big Will smiled. “So, son, now you can see there’s something to this left-right thing.”
Lil’ Will nodded. “Yessuh,”
Judge Stevens was excited. “Sure enough is. Why, I’ll bet you a dime against a hole in a doughnut that Lil’ Will can raise his average more’n a hundred points this year as a switch hitter. There’re only a handful of lefty pitchers around. You gonna be big this year.”
Big Will could not let a teaching moment pass. “Now, son, you’ve got to ‘member to keep yo’ body back when you hittin’ right-handed and not go flying forward after a pitch – no matter if it looks good enough ta eat. Be patient. Wait. You want all yo’ power and weight to meet the ball at about yo’ center. Now, on the left side, you look lak a natural – lak you were born over there.”
“Listen to your pa, Lil’ Will. He’s an old pro.”
“Yessuh.”
Beagle returned from the outfield and offered Lil’ Will a wet baseball. The three men had a genuine laugh.
“Judge, you threw two pitches and I ain’t caught nary a one. But ol’ Beagle sho’ did.” They laughed like old comrades. With the laughter, Beagle wagged his tail faster, as if he was in on the joke.
Big Will handed his mitt to Lil’ Will. “Okay, son. Dusk is comin’ on. Put everything away and shet and latch the barn for the night. Then, go on in and help yo’ sistah with supper.”
“Yessuh. Good to see you again, Judge Stevens. Good night, suh.”
“Always good to see you, too, son.”
Lil’ Will smiled to himself. He wondered if Judge Stevens had made a slip of the tongue. No white man had ever called him “son.” What did he mean? What was the judge feeling when he said it? Would he repeat it elsewhere? Aloud, Lil’ Will said on the back porch, “Aw, ain’t mean nothin’.”
Lil’ Will and Willie Mae were clearing away the dirty dishes. Lil’ Will had wanted to ask his pa during supper what had kept him so long in the yard with the judge. Big Will had talked on and on about the Bears and how much lumber he would haul in his new wagon. Willie Mae must have had the same thought. She spoke first. “So, Pa, what did the judge have to say?”
Big Will leaned back so that the two front legs of his ladder-back chair were off the kitchen floor. He withdrew a pack of cigarettes from a pocket on the bib of his OshKosh B’Gosh overalls and put one between his lips before he remembered his new agreement with Willie Mae to smoke only on the porch. He placed the cigarette behind his right ear.
“Y’all need ta know this. Both of you will soon be grown. Listen to what people have ta say. But, ask yo’self over and over, how will dey gain from what you tell or give dem. Don’t give up information too easily. ‘Specially, don’t volunteer nothin’ ‘fore you see what dey afta.”
Lil’ Will scratched his head. “Pa, what you mean?”
“Keep asking yo’self, why is dis person saying dis or why is dis person makin’ a present. Sooner or later, you will see what dey want. And, nine times outta ten, dey get some kind of gain. No matter if dey’s a janitor or a judge.”
Willie Mae wanted to know, “So, what does the judge want from us?”
“I don’t ‘xactly know.” Big Will paused, staring at the square Sauer’s Black Pepper can on the table. Neither child spoke. Willie Mae turned from her dishpan and waited. Lil’ Will held his dish drying cloth in front of him. At length, Big Will said in a low voice, “Yet.”
Willie Mae broke the quiet. “Why are you suspicious, Pa?”
“First off, I can’t ‘xactly ‘member the last time Judge Stevens stopped by ta chew da fat wid me. I believe last time he come heah was at de end o’ the ’41 World Series. Second, dis place ain’t on his way home from dat courthouse. Third, did he evah give a present to either of you?”
Both said, “No, suh.”
“Well, a visit, three baseballs, and lettin’ me know that he saw you chuck that piece o’coal upside dat white boy’s head got ta add up to somethin’. He want somethin’.”
Lil’ Will’s eyes grew wide, the whites shone. Big Will’s gaze was steady.
Big Will paused again, rubbed his chin. “Next thing, why did he want ta see you hit, and see if you can hit left-handed? Looks like he scoutin’ for somethin’.”
Lil’ Will and Willie Mae didn’t wash or dry another dish. They stood transfixed. Big Will continued rubbing his chin. Finally, he declared again, “He want somethin’. We’d best be careful.”
Willie Mae dried her hands and crossed the room to stand before her father. “Pa, do you reckon Judge Stevens has anything to do with Mayor Mitchell’s baseball team?”
Lil’ Will laughed. “Is a blue jay blue? If you put baseball in front of it, I’ll bet the judge gonna be in it.”
Big Will let the four legs of his chair touch the floor. “Baby Girl, where and what you hear ‘bout dat team?”
“Well, when I iron some on Saturdays for Mrs. Mitchell, sometimes I hear talk ‘bout the team. The mayor and his friends talk ’bout making a name for the town. Seems they hope a good baseball team can help make Oakton famous. They say some town in North Dakota did the same thing.”
Big Will interjected, “Bismarck.”
Willie Mae did not acknowledge him. “From what I heard, I think it was the mayor’s idea.”
Big Will frowned. “So, you think dat sorry team could be connected to da judge?”
“You said the judge wants something. You said their team is sorry. I heard the mayor is disappointed about losing year after year. You said folks talk and do things when they want to gain from you. On a day when Lil’ Will coulda been thrown in jail, the judge wants to see him hit and gives him new baseballs. Well, all that adds up in my head to the judge wanting our Will.”
Lil’ Will burst into laughter so loud that Beagle barked from his place under the back porch. He laughed so hard that he pretended to need to lean against the wall to keep from falling. “Lil’ Sis, you forgot ta notice dat I’m colored. Dat team is white.”
Willie Mae looked at her brother and shook her head. “You sho’ are silly.”
Big Will ignored Lil’ Will’s antics. His face was grim. He put his elbows on the table and supported his face in both hands. He slowly looked up at Willie Mae, took a long look at Lil’ Will, and turned to Willie Mae again. Then, he groaned. “Mae, child, as odd and as unlikely as it sounds, I reckon you nailed it. Dis could be de beginnin’ of a whole mess o’trouble.”

Read more about Will and Dena: Love and Life in World War II and Bob Rogers HERE.

Copyright 2009 Bob Rogers. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

Prologue

“Your mother looks serene, doesn’t she?” commented Isaac’s father with a sob, as he tenderly pushed a strand of long gray hair back from his wife’s face.
Isaac touched her cheek and shuddered.
Her skin was soft, yet had the stiffness of death underneath. “She looks so peaceful,” Isaac observed. “It feels like she could wake at any moment.” A raging tide of grief flooded him and before he erupted into unmanly tears, Isaac escaped his mother’s tent. “I’ll be back later,” he announced over his shoulder.
Feeling very alone, Isaac fled into the desert.

Rebecca’s head throbbed and she pressed her lips together to keep from blurting out what she wanted to say.
“Be quiet! Stop talking!”
But it wasn’t in her to speak the unkind words she was thinking. Meanwhile Lichel, the petite young woman beside Rebecca, who half-ran, half-walked to keep up with Rebecca’s long-legged pace continued her monologue, oblivious to her friend’s frustration.
Lichel’s high-pitched voice droned on about the latest in a line of suitors, “…So, then he looked at me, and….”
Rebecca lengthened her stride.
Her companion stopped her incessant flow of words long enough to complain. “Hey, I can’t keep up!” When Rebecca didn’t slow down, she pleaded, “Please, I can’t walk as fast as you.” Rebecca slackened her pace and Lichel broke up her self-involved spate of words again to ask for an opinion. “Do you suppose he thinks I’m pretty?”
Amused in spite of herself, Rebecca burst out laughing and asked, “Lichel, are you serious? This month alone, fathers of two very eligible bachelors in Haran have approached your parents to marry you. That isn’t including those in the last six months that they turned down. They don’t think anyone is good enough for you.”
Exchanging a sideways glance with Lichel, she asked, “Now, tell me. How would you like me to answer your question?”
When Lichel giggled, Rebecca couldn’t help but smile. The girl had an infectious laugh, and her lively dark eyes sparkled from under the drab cloth that concealed her hair. Rebecca had tolerated Lichel’s self-centered monologues for as far back as she could remember. Their mothers were best friends so it was natural their daughters were lumped together growing up.
Rebecca felt guilty for resenting Lichel.
If she was completely honest about it, her anger might just include a tinge of jealousy. The other girl was much more attractive and charming than she was. Rebecca resolved to be more patient, kinder.
She shifted the heavy clay jar on her shoulder and turned her head to speak pleasantly to Lichel, but something caught her eye. Strangers were lounging under shade trees between the spring’s entrance and the main road.
Judging by the camels resting on their haunches, and the way some of the men were slumped wearily against them, she guessed they had traveled far. A tall man, roasted almost black by the sun, stood watching the spring almost as if he was expecting someone.
For some reason, she felt strangely drawn to him.
“Excuse me,” Rebecca murmured. Leaving Lichel staring after her open-mouthed, Rebecca hurried toward the stranger, but stopped first to fill her jar from the well.
“Sir, please take a drink.” Rebecca held the heavy jar in her strong but small hands, and positioned it to lean towards the man. As he nodded his thanks and reached for the jug, she noted his dignified bearing and the long tapered fingers that circled the carafe as he drank deeply. Satisfied that he was done, she accepted the container back and asked, “I’ll also draw water for your camels until they’ve finished drinking.”
The stranger nodded and motioned his men to bring the camels.
Rebecca emptied what water she had left into the water troughs for the thirsty camels. Then she shifted the heavy jar back to her sturdy shoulder to retrieve more from the spring.
As Rebecca maneuvered the path, Lichel dragged her by the arm into the privacy of a nearby thicket. “What’s going on? Who are those men? Why did you leave so quickly to go to them?”
“I don’t know who they are,” Rebecca answered defensively, feeling attacked by Lichel’s barrage of questions. “I don’t even know why I felt so compelled to go to them.” She jerked her arm away from the other girl’s rigid grip. “You’re hurting me!”
“I’m sorry,” Lichel replied, dropping her hand, immediately contrite. “It’s just that you’re acting different than usual. You’ve never approached a man like that before by yourself. Normally, you would have asked me to go with you.” She tripped over her words trying to get them out. “I mean, you’re always inviting strangers to your house for meals, but not alone – oh, you know what I mean.”
Rebecca thought for a moment.
It was true. Lichel was right; she was predictable.
“I don’t know what came over me, but I promise I won’t do that again. Okay?”
Somewhat placated, Lichel reluctantly answered, “Yes, I guess.”
Rebecca chose that moment to escape.
Flashing her a grin, she left Lichel to finish retrieving water, and then returned to the caravan. When the stranger spoke to her again once he saw she was back, Rebecca noticed his voice had a refined quality to it.
“Whose daughter are you?” he asked casually.
She looked up shyly and answered him, “Sir, I am Rebecca, Bethuel’s daughter.”
At the questioning look in his eyes, she explained, “Bethuel is Nahor’s son.”
Trying to resist pushing her inquisitive nose where it didn’t belong, Rebecca kept her eyes down and refrained from asking any questions. She felt like a mother bird doling out nourishment to her young, as she busied herself once again pouring water for the camels. Rebecca glanced over through her eyelashes at the visitor, who was now busy removing something from under the heavy ropes that bound packs to the animals.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, almost dropping the jar. After wiping a glob of spit from her face flung by one of the camels, she then dodged to avoid another’s hooves as it shifted position.
Moving to stand in front of her, the stranger held up shiny objects that glinted in the sunlight. Rebecca fought to mask her excitement as he laid three golden bracelets in her palm. She closed her slim calloused fingers around their smooth surfaces, and examined them.
“Are these for me?” Rebecca looked up and asked warily. No one she knew had ever given such expensive presents.
“Yes, they are,” he answered her, his expression grave.
A sudden alarming thought jolted her back to reality.
Flushing red with embarrassment, she chided herself at having been so immature and accepting. She jutted out her chin, lifted her head proudly, and told him, “I can’t accept these. The water for your men was a kindness, not for pay.”
“Ah. I understand,” the stranger commented simply. And then he asked, “Is there room to stay in your home?
“We have plenty of straw and feed, as well as plenty of room for you to stay with us.” She pointed toward a small hill and hesitated, waiting. “If you would like to follow me, my family lives just over that rise.”
“Mistress,” he told her gently, “these gifts for you are for reasons other than your thoughtfulness. Would you please accept them?” he implored – his brown eyes warm and kind.
She melted.
“Yes,” Rebecca answered, before turning to lead him over the hill and across the field toward her father’s house. Looking back over her shoulder, she saw him signal his men to follow.
She wove through a herd of sheep as they bleated loudly, displaying their annoyance with her. Glancing back, she reassured herself the man was still following closely behind. As Rebecca reached the familiar cluster of one and two-story whitewashed buildings, smells of roasted meat made her mouth water.
When Rebecca reached the edge of the clearing near her home, she turned to her guest and announced, “You’ll have to wait here. Someone will be with you shortly.”
When he acknowledged her instructions with another nod of his head, she whirled back around and raced for the house. Rebecca pushed through the wooden gate and charged into the open courtyard.
“Rebecca,” called Laban, waving at her with a piece of meat in his hand, and grinning. As pungent smoke billowed upward, she smiled as he turned back to flirt with the girl smiling at him saucily over her grill.
“Laban and his way with women!” she muttered.
With her cheeks warm and heart beating rapidly, Rebecca climbed the narrow stairway to her family’s main second-story room. She burst in on her mother, who sat on a sheepskin floor mat with her back against a wall, totally engrossed in her sewing. “A man leading a caravan stopped for water and needs a place to stay,” she announced. “He brought gifts. Look!”
When her mother didn’t respond, Rebecca crossed the room and held out her arm to show off the delicate bands on her wrist.
“Who is he?” Her mother frowned at the hand under her nose and looked up. “Wait a moment.” After she finished tying off end pieces, she turned back to Rebecca and repeated a little impatiently, “Who is he and how many people are with him?”
“One,” Rebecca guessed and then noticed an extra place had already been set on the low square table. “I don’t know how many more there are. There’s a caravan of men.” Rebecca reached for an extra cushion mat from a pile against the wall and caught the twinkle in her mother’s eyes. “You already knew about him, didn’t you?”
Her mother smiled and stood up, tucking a stray hair under her head covering. “Of course.”
Rebecca tilted her head and asked, “How?” She never quite understood how her mother always stayed one step ahead of her.
“I heard there was another caravan in at the spring from the servants,” she answered, and walked over to gather Rebecca into her arms. “My kindhearted daughter never misses an opportunity to reach out to strangers, does she?”
Rebecca nuzzled against her mother’s neck, enjoying the softness of her skin. Then she pulled away so she could see Milcah’s face. “His expression changed when I told him who I was. He became excited and agitated. Mother!” she exclaimed. “He’s out there waiting for me!”
She stopped talking and noticed her brother Laban standing just inside the entrance.
“Rebecca, you have invited someone with little or no warning, again. Now, I’ll have to gather enough hay and straw to accommodate an entire caravan!” Laban complained. His brown eyes narrowed and by how his lips were moving, Rebecca figured he was counting how much money it would cost him.
“Look at these, Laban!” The bracelets jangled charmingly against each other as she held her arm out for his inspection. “He brought gifts!”
Laban’s worried expression fled as he fingered the small circles. “He brought gifts. Hmm.” Then he asked, “You won’t mind if I go look to his needs, will you?”
Without waiting for an answer, Laban charged out the door looking for their benevolent guest. Rebecca looked at her mother and they both laughed, fully aware of Laban’s weakness for money
By the time the meal was ready, Laban had returned. Bethuel followed close behind, and lastly, the stranger she had talked to at the spring. Laban’s eyes were alight with excitement as he moved briskly from the curtained doorway to a seat beside Bethuel. The visitor stood in the dim light waiting for his eyes to adjust after the bright sun.
“Come, come… join us. We’re expecting you!” Laban burst out heartily, motioning with ringed fingers for the stranger to drop to the cushion beside him on the cold stone floor.
Rebecca peeked out from behind the dark curtain separating her bedroom from the main room. She gripped the soft material, carefully keeping herself hidden.
The so-far unnamed stranger’s eyes were serious and somber in his dark face. Something told Rebecca this visit had something to do with her, and right then, she felt very alone and afraid.
“No, I am sorry. I cannot eat until you have heard why I have come,” the man insisted. He examined his elegant hands and waited.
“Yes, tell us,” replied Laban, while beside him Rebecca’s mother stood nodding her agreement.
Rebecca watched nervously as her mother’s dark eyes darted from face-to-face like a bird looking for somewhere to land. The way she held a sheepskin flask of watered down wine over an earthenware cup, and then put the container down without pouring anything was disconcerting also.
Why was her mother worried?
“My name is Eliezer and I am the head servant of my Master Abraham’s Household.
“God blessed Master Abraham, making him a very rich man. He has also blessed him in his old age, with a son, who will inherit all he has.” The man paused to include them all with a look, and then continued speaking slowly. “I believe that God sent His angel ahead of me as my Master asked Him to, because he wanted me to find a wife for his son Isaac.”
When Bethuel gave Laban a knowing look, Rebecca clenched and unclenched her hands. She had felt things were going to change, and she was right.
“Some time ago, my Master took me aside and asked me to take an oath. He asked me to travel to his family to find a wife for Isaac. On the way, I prayed that God would direct the right girl toward me. I thought that if she offered us water, and then invited us to stay with her family, it would be easier to find her. This is exactly what happened with Rebecca.” He paused to take a sip of water her mother had handed him. “Now that I have found the girl, I need to bring her back with me – with your permission. Whatever you decide is up to you. I believe the road that led me here was the right one, and that your daughter is God’s choice to be Isaac’s wife.”
Bethuel threw up his hands and looked over at Laban, who shrugged. “Since this appears to be from the Lord, who are we to argue? It’s up to Rebecca to decide. I see nothing to do, but let her marry this man as the Lord has directed.”
Bethuel signaled her mother, who called for Rebecca to come. “Rebecca, come here.”
Her mother moved to the curtain and drew her out from behind it to stand in front of Eliezer.
“These are gifts for her.” Eliezer unwrapped an exquisitely embroidered green tunic with matching robe and held it up. “Rebecca, these are from Master Abraham, along with a number of other gifts.”
Rebecca bit her lip to keep her excitement under control. Demurely, she reached for them. “These are very nice.” Then she looked toward her mother and asked, “Shall I try them on, Mother?”
“Yes, of course,” her mother exclaimed.
Rebecca slipped out to change and discovered to her delight that the ensemble fit perfectly. She almost flew back into the room, delighted with the elegant feel of the material against her arms.
“Do you like it?”
Her mother’s dark eyes sparkled as she smiled approvingly.
Eventually, tired out from all the commotion, Rebecca went to her room. Wrapped in her new clothes, she curled into a ball on her bed. She felt her eyelids drooping and smiled sleepily as sleep quickly claimed her.
She murmured something and struggled, as she dreamed of a man who stood far off in the distance obscured by a haze. He drew closer to her but she couldn’t make out his face. The dream was so vivid that it seemed as though she could walk forward and touch him.
She tried to but her feet were stuck to the ground.
“Hello!” Rebecca cried. “Hello!” she yelled louder.
His face was still a blur through the mist, but she could make out his hair. It was black and curly.
“Who are you?” she tried again, but still no answer came.
“Rebecca!” Her father tried to shake her awake as she frowned and resisted him, preferring to remain in her dream. She wanted to find out who the stranger was, and why he wouldn’t answer her.
“Rebecca!” Her mother’s stern voice broke through the fog around Rebecca. As she woke, the feel of the material against her skin reminded her that very real circumstances had inspired her dream.
Her parents stared down at her. Bethuel had an odd look in his eyes, and a frown creased his forehead. His pursed lips indicated thought, as if he was considering an important decision.
“Mother, is everything all right?” Rebecca asked, wondering what was going on. It was still dark. “Why didn’t you let me sleep until morning?” she asked groggily.
Her mother cleared her throat, which she only did when uncertain. Nervous anticipation had Rebecca biting her lip.
“There’s no time,” Bethuel replied. “You have to get up.”
“No time for what?” Confusion and doubt obscured the pleasure she had felt over the clothes and gifts. She didn’t like it.
“Rebecca. Can’t you see this is the Lord’s doing?” her mother asked.
“What are you talking about?” Rebecca shook her head to clear the cobwebs from her mind. “Yes, I know you’re talking about yesterday and I do think God sent our guest. What do you mean there isn’t time? The man just got here.”
Mother elaborated, “You’re being asked to leave now, this morning. There is to be no delay and you have to decide immediately.”
Rebecca swallowed a sob and asked in a choked voice, “What about my wedding? Why can’t I remain a few days to prepare? To spend more time with you, Father, and Laban?”
“We’ll understand whatever you decide you should do. Come now.” Mother stretched out her hand to smooth Rebecca’s hair. Tears welled up in her eyes, spilling over warm and wet on her checks as she stored away the feel of her mother’s touch. “The men are outside waiting for your decision. Dry your eyes; wash up. Come out – quickly.”
Rebecca started to argue, but closed her mouth as her parents kissed her and left the room. Where was God in this?
She wasn’t prepared to leave with so little warning, and she had so many misgivings! What could she do about Lichel? How would Lichel react? Would she feel abandoned? Rebecca was willing to go, but it was so far away.
Rebecca looked around the room. Her first doll sat in the corner, along with the first clay pot she had ever made. She touched the soft covers and remembered the love Mother had put into sewing them.
With a start, Rebecca threw off her blanket and jumped up. She was falling back to sleep and her father would get angry if she embarrassed him by dawdling further.
A short time later, with her face shiny from a good scrubbing, and her composure intact, Rebecca dragged herself onto the roof. With her chin jutted out and head held high, she forced herself to stare straight into the stranger’s eyes.
He, Bethuel, and Laban stopped eating to stare at her.
Bethuel guzzled some wine to wash the food in his mouth down, and then he asked, “Rebecca, are you willing to leave here with this man? Now?”
“Father, I am.” She squeezed her hands together. “My things?”
“I have packed them anticipating you would go,” Bethuel replied. At her surprised expression, with an indulgent smile he added fondly, “I know you, Rebecca. You’re your mother’s daughter, and you don’t ever turn down a challenge, especially one as exciting as this.”
After what seemed like only seconds, but was in reality a couple of hours, Rebecca was saying rushed good-byes to her family. There was no time for any other farewells.
A servant lifted her up onto a camel, and through a mist of tears, Rebecca said her farewells. Her heart was heavy with the knowledge she might never see her parents again.
“But what about Lichel?” Rebecca felt torn in two as she left all she had ever known. “Tell her good-bye for me! Make her understand how much I wanted to see her before I left – and couldn’t. Please?” Tears coursed down her cheeks as her mother reached up to hold her hand for what Rebecca was afraid might be the last time.
“Don’t worry, dear, I will. Good-bye Rebecca…” were the final words she heard over the clopping of camels’ hooves against the sand. Rebecca’s last glimpse of her brother and parents’ faces remained indelibly in her memory. How she longed for a way to transfer their images to something she could see and hold!

Rebecca’s first few days traveling were the most difficult. Having never gone far from home, she was unprepared for the unexpected waves of homesickness that often washed over her. She sometimes even missed Lichel’s monologues.
The second day after leaving home, bustling servants preparing to move camp woke Rebecca early from a restless sleep. As she lay on her sheepskin pallets in the semi-darkness that came just before dawn, she listened to the camels snorting and shuffling outside her tent, eager to be moving.
Rebecca’s tumultuous emotions made her sick to her stomach and she fought to keep from being sick. Though she had seen God’s hand in this enough to come, her faith was wavering. What if she and everyone else in her life had guessed wrong – and God hadn’t sent Eliezer.
Rebecca reluctantly pulled herself up from bed. With the help of her maidservant, she dressed, brushed out her long dark tresses, and then covered them primly with a headpiece. Rebecca felt the sun’s first rays warm against her skin as she stepped out from the dark tent into the clearing. She stared listlessly at a bright array of clay dishes set out nearby on a small table.
She had no appetite for breakfast.
“Is the breakfast not appealing?” A deep voice caused her to look up into the dark piercing eyes of its owner. Eliezer towered over her with a concerned look on his face.
“No. It isn’t that,” Rebecca answered nervously. “I was just thinking.”
“You are missing home,” he said sympathetically with a knowing look. “It is quite natural and to be expected.”
Tears came to her eyes, but Rebecca blinked them back. “I’m sure I’ll be fine,” she declared bravely, poking her chin out as she always did when trying to bolster her courage.
“May the Lord bless you for making this difficult decision the way you did.” Eliezer hesitated, as if he wanted to say more. His directness defused Rebecca’s fragile façade of strength and she fled to her private compartment just as the floodgates of tears burst.

Once her homesickness subsided, Rebecca actually started to enjoy the predictable but monotonous daily routine. Mornings found servants packing tents and belongings onto the pack mules, only to reverse the process each night. After a tedious day of straddling her camel along the desert road, Rebecca always enjoyed the cool stillness accompanying the evening meal.

Day after day, they plodded along. Sometimes, she found speaking with Eliezer a pleasant diversion.
“What’s Damascus like?” she asked one day as they rode side-by-side.
“It is a busy place,” he commented in his deep resinous voice. “Many people from all over come to trade.”
“How did you come to serve in Master Abraham’s household?” Rebecca looked at him sideways and noted the mask that often slid over his expression when she asked personal questions.
“That is a long story, Mistress,” he answered and moved away from her. “Excuse me, but I think I need to check on something.”

Several weeks into the trip, Rebecca came out of her tent to something different altogether.
“Where’s my breakfast?” she asked a servant, who just shrugged and hurried past her. Unaccustomed to such treatment, Rebecca opened her mouth to call him back and then saw Eliezer.
“Get that pack on the camel. Quickly!” he ordered the same servant she had planned to chastise for dismissing her.
Now she saw why.
Rebecca frowned. She couldn’t understand the tumultuous state of the caravan.
“What’s happening?” she asked another servant, who pushed a small cup of wine and a plate of dates into her hands.
“Today we will arrive,” the man explained, before dashing off to take care of some other task.
“Hurry, hurry!” There was another spate of activity, as even the normally quiet Eliezer barked at the servants. “Get that pack tied down tight,” he ordered.
“Eliezer,” she pressed him as he passed her. “Why is everyone hurrying?”
“We’re almost to Canaan.” When he said that, her heart skipped a beat. So far, Rebecca had only dreamed of meeting Isaac, but now she had to confront the actuality of it.
“Come here.” As an afterthought, Rebecca motioned one of the young girls she had brought to attend her needs. “I want my veil. Please get it for me from my things they’ve packed.”
She hadn’t worn her veil for most of the trip because it wasn’t expected, nor was it practical. Now, however, Rebecca needed yet one more barrier, one more piece of protection to help her feel safe.
Once everything was packed, someone helped Rebecca onto her camel and they set out at a brisk pace. Even the camels didn’t need coaxing to get started; they seemed to know the end of their long journey was at hand.
Rebecca flinched when someone shouted from behind her. “There’s someone over there on the field!”
She peeked out from behind her veil.
A man rested against a small tree but she couldn’t make out his features in the gathering dusk. His robes were far different from the field hands’ clothing she had seen working in the fields.
“Do you know who that man is?” Rebecca pulled her veil firmly about her face and addressed Eliezer as he drew up beside her. “He’s too well-dressed to be a fieldworker.” Her bracelets tinkled against one another as she pointed toward where he was, “There he is.”
“I don’t know for sure,” he answered, looking thoughtfully at her. Rebecca shifted in her saddle, trying to get a better glimpse. “It looks like Master Isaac, but he’s supposed to be living in the Negev Desert in Beer Lahai Roi.
“Look. He’s running toward us.” Nervous perspiration broke out on her forehead. Isaac might decide to send her back.
“Ho!” A brisk order and raised hand from Eliezer brought the line to a sudden stop. “It is Master Isaac.”
A stocky, ruddy-faced man jogged toward them, and Rebecca lowered her eyes as he approached. Eliezer slipped off his camel to wait.
“Master Isaac!” he exclaimed ecstatically.
“Eliezer!” Isaac cried.
Rebecca furtively eyed the man named Isaac from behind her veil. Wearing a broad grin, he clasped Eliezer’s arms and enthusiastically kissed him on both cheeks. “Where have you come from? I knew you were gone, but Father wouldn’t say where you had gone.”
Eliezer stepped back from Isaac and then asked, “Your father is well?”
“He’s as good as can be expected.” Isaac spoke quickly; pushing back unruly dark curls from his eyes. Rebecca watched and listened from a few feet behind. “With Mother’s death, it’s been hard. You’ve watched Father; you know how he is, Eliezer. He didn’t take Mother’s death very well in the first place. It was a long while before he even ate or drank. I came back to see how he was and stayed on for a bit.” He shifted his gaze toward Rebecca. “Who is this?”
She slid off the camel and stood quietly with her eyes down, hating waiting for an inspection as if she was a sheep at an auction. Remembering who she was, Rebecca jutted her chin out and stood up tall and straight. Though she remained demurely quiet with her hands folded, she watched what was going on through her lashes.
Eliezer explained, “This is your future wife, Master Isaac.” At Isaac’s surprised expression, Rebecca’s courage plummeted – he wasn’t even expecting her. “I was instructed to retrieve her from your father’s lands, then to bring her back if she was willing to come.” At the question in Isaac’s eyes, the man added, “The Lord answered my prayers for guidance and direction, her family recognized God’s hand in the situation, and agreed Rebecca should come.” Eliezer raised his eyebrows meaningfully and continued, “Furthermore, the girl came along with me exactly as your father asked – immediately – with almost no time to prepare.”
“She has lovely eyes.” Isaac stood looking at her thoughtfully, rubbing at his forehead, and frowning. The silence seemed to stretch forever as her heart thundered in her breast. He reached out to tip her chin up so she had to look at him. “A desert flower I knew nothing about, blooming in the wilderness far away.”
He was so handsome!
His serious brown eyes captured hers as he spoke to her. “You came so far knowing so little about what to expect. Why – what made you do this?”
“I believe in God, my lord.” She lowered her eyes again, shyly. “It appeared to be His will that I come, so I did. Could I do any less?” Rebecca’s heart was palpitating wildly. She was sure he could hear it.
What she said was true. If she hadn’t seen the Lord’s hand in this, it might have been too hard.
“Well, it has been an extraordinarily long journey for you. And for you, my friend.” Isaac grinned. “I see God has rewarded your loyalty to my family once again. Shall we move on?” With a twinkle in his eyes, he included Rebecca. “Let’s take our desert flower home.”

Twenty years later…
One cool clear night, Rebecca cuddled up against Isaac on sheepskin rugs in Sarai’s old tent. A lonely far-off cry of a bird sounded in the distance as Isaac rubbed her aching back as he told her, “I prayed you would become pregnant and God gave you the baby you asked for. Why are you complaining?” His next words stirred the guilt she had been trying to ignore. “Aren’t you happy?”
“Of course I’m happy.” Rebecca shifted onto her back, but turned her head to look at Isaac, “No man could make any woman happier.” She picked his hand up to lay it where the baby was kicking. “This baby is so active! What a lively one – like you!” Rebecca laughed and then sighed. It had taken so long to get pregnant that she felt guilty for feeling glad it would be over soon.
“Why don’t you talk to the Lord about it in the morning?” He laid a cool hand on her forehead. “Go in the fields. Talk to Him before the dew falls, as the sun is coming up.” He smiled reassuringly at her. “I would encourage you to take quiet walks early – now – while you can before the baby comes.”
Rebecca nodded slowly as her thoughts drifted.
It was fortunate for her they shared their faith so openly. What a difference it made in the atmosphere of their home to go to God in prayer, rather than take their troubles out on each other. She had avoided more than one argument by dropping to her knees first before opening her mouth.
Her robe jumped as the baby wiggled and Rebecca sighed. It didn’t seem normal to hurt so much from one unborn child’s movements.
How Rebecca envied Isaac his snoring.
She turned her head and smiled, watching his profile and listening to his raspy breathing. His mouth was wide open.
Once the kicking let up, Rebecca closed her eyes and fell into a deep dreamless sleep. The next thing she heard was Isaac’s insistent voice. “Sweetheart, wake up. If you are to spend time in prayer and meditation, this must be the time – before the workers go out.” At her hesitation, he reassured her, “I will explain to Father why you can’t supervise breakfast. He’ll understand and we’ll get someone else to cover for you.”
Once she actually made it outside, Rebecca welcomed the early-morning coolness as she skirted the tent and walked briskly away from the clearing. Dogs barked behind her in the distance, but she ignored them, confident the mongrels wouldn’t leave their scraps to bother her.
“Lord,” Rebecca began praying once alone on the path.
It had been so long since she had taken early-morning time like this to pray, she had almost forgotten how. “I thank you that you always hear me.” It was hard to know where to start. “Thank you for bringing me here to my husband. You know my faith. I try to do what I believe you want me to do. However, right now, I am constantly in turmoil. My concern isn’t so much for myself, but for the baby.” Rebecca was trying so hard to be brave, but she sobbed as she walked. “Lord, help me! I want my mother and I’m so far from home!”
The breeze shifted direction and gained force, nudging Rebecca away from the path toward an outcropping at the top of a small incline. After discovering a large flat rock shaped like a seat, she sat down to pray.
Absently stretching her long legs out in front of her, she examined her sandy feet peeking out from beneath her robe. The cool air felt so good on her bare face and it was nice that for once, nobody needed anything from her.
Her robe over her tummy jumped where the baby kicked, and she giggled.
Rebecca bowed her head; afraid if she knelt to pray she wouldn’t be able to get back up. “Why is my baby so painfully active in my womb?” she implored Him to show her.
She was so absorbed in prayer that when a voice suddenly came from nowhere, she jumped.
“There are two nations in your womb.”
“Hello?” she asked and sprang to her feet, looking around to see who was speaking. Her only answer was the dry wind blowing through the bushes and down the hill. She shivered with apprehension and suddenly felt very alone.
“The older will serve the younger,” someone said from close by.
“Oh!” Without looking around, Rebecca let out an involuntary cry and slipped to her knees on the rocky ground in spite of her protruding stomach.
She knew who it was – the Lord!
Twins – is that what He meant? How unbelievable.
Now, why would God speak to her?
Was it because she obeyed Him to come so far – or that she took such risks because she trusted Him?
Rebecca’s head hurt.
However, she felt better as His presence surrounded and enveloped her in a soothing cloud of peace. It seemed like hours before she felt released to get up to wobble home, shaken.
She arrived and almost collided with Isaac on her way into the tent. He was adjusting his headpiece and wasn’t paying attention, and nearly knocked her down.
“Sorry,” he exclaimed and steadied her as she almost fell. After seeing the look in her eyes, he exclaimed, “You look as if you saw a ghost!”
Rebecca could only stand there staring at him as sudden pains sliced through her. She grabbed her abdomen in a protective gesture and as water gushed down her legs, her eyes met Isaac’s.
At her unspoken question, he answered, “Yes, sweetheart, it’s time.”
He put an arm firmly around her and shouted for the midwife. “Help! The baby’s coming!”
“Isaac!” Rebecca cried, unable to take another step.
“Hurry!” he bellowed again as three women came from nowhere.
Rebecca panted as she felt herself half-lifted, half-carried into her and Isaac’s tent, and then laid on their bed. Only faintly aware Isaac had disappeared, she listened while the women tended her, their voices crooning and encouraging. Pain rifled through Rebecca again, and she screamed.
How she hated Isaac right then!
“Push!” someone yelled. Rebecca pushed with all her might. A wail sounded, then one of the women cried, “It’s a boy!”
Rebecca tried to get up on her elbows for a better look, but dropped back down to the bed as another pain came. Immediately, someone commanded her. “Push!” She bore down, and this time smiled weakly, as a second set of cries pierced the air. “It’s also a boy!” the midwife cried.
One of the women held up a ruddy-faced fuzzy-haired baby, and said, “This one had hold of the first baby’s ankle!” Then she held up the second baby, but Rebecca just closed her eyes – her hair was soaked with sweat, and she felt weak but happy.
About an hour later, one of the women bustling about tending Rebecca and the babies herded Isaac into the tent. He stood there uncertainly, and then broke out laughing. Rebecca looked up at him, a babe nestled on either side of her. “Do you see what happens when we pray? We never know what we’ll end up with!”

A few days later, while she nursed one baby at each breast after she and Isaac had finished eating, Rebecca asked him to do something for her. “Tell me about what happened in our family before Eliezer came and found me.”
She smiled up at him as one of the babies gurgled in her arms
“It’s a long story.”
“Tell me – please,” she cajoled him, giving him her special smile. He could never refuse it when she showed him her dimples. “I want to know why you are so much like your father Abraham…”
“Now?” he asked incredulously.
Rebecca smiled at each baby suckling, and then pointedly stared back at Isaac to say, “Do you have anything better to tell our boys than how God led our family?”
“Oh all right,” Isaac conceded and grinned sheepishly. “You win. My father used to be known as Abram before his name was changed… lean back, darling – it’s a long story.”

Read more about The Golden Thread and Catherine Craig HERE.

Copyright 2008 Catherine Craig. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

Prologue

From the time that I was able to comprehend the meaning of the word “immigrant,” sometime in second or third grade, I have thought of myself as a first-generation immigrant. I was born in India, and although I was only one year old when my family and I emigrated, I still am, in fact, a first-generation immigrant. My parents were the first of their immediate families to leave India for the United States; with no one supporting us, my parents and I had moved halfway around the world, in search of a better education for all of us. We were alone in our journey.

I did not learn of my other relations in the United States for many years. I made the discovery after a trip to India to visit my parents’ families. I had so many cousins whom I had never met, or even talked to on the phone, that I decided to make a family tree so I could remember them. I began collecting information from various relatives, writing names and questionable dates in my little blue notebook. My questions forced many family members to recall the names of dead relatives, but they also brought back wonderful memories for some. My parents and I spent many hours sitting on a cot learning about relatives whom we had never known, and my parents often interrupted the narratives to ask questions of their own.

After we returned to the United States, I temporarily shelved the family tree project. Sitting at a computer a few thousand miles away from the place where I had h e a rd their names made it difficult to organize my dead ancestors and their descendants. Weeks became months, months became years, and eventually I entered high school. I did not remember that I had planned to make a family tree until I returned to India after my sophomore year of high school. After asking our family’s health, the first thing my aunts asked me about was the status of my family tree. I told them I had probably lost my little blue notebook, but they coaxed a promise out of me before I left: I would find the notebook and finish the family tree or I would phone them from the United States and they would find the information for me.

When my parents and I came home to our New York apartment, I searched the old boxes that we were planning to put in storage. I found the precious notebook, and I turned the pages until I came to the information for my family tree. The penciled writing at the beginning and end of the accounts had smudged badly, so I asked my parents to help me decipher my notes. They promptly informed me that the notes were unreadable and that they did not remember the information themselves. My parents suggested that I seek out my cousins in Chicago. This was the first I had heard of any relatives in the United States, so my initial response was to ask just how long they had been in Chicago and why I had never met them. My parents were rather evasive in their answer. My cousins were not in fact my cousins, but distant relatives who had lived in Chicago since the late 1980s. Nevertheless, there was no justifiable explanation for my not meeting them. However, my mother and father were quick to
assure me that there was no time like the present to begin corresponding with my newly discovered Indian

Thus began my first meaningful familial relationship outside of my immediate family. My cousins were just as pleased and shocked to learn of my existence as I had been to learn of theirs, so we began a lengthy correspondence, sharing our experiences as Indian Americans. I visited them during the Christmas vacation of my senior year of high school. It was then that my cousins finally revealed to me that their mother had kept diaries of her early experiences as an Indian immigrant. They escorted me to an attic, turned on a desk lamp, and left me to read in peace.

I was intrigued by my aunt’s accounts of life in Chicago during the Cold War, and I kept reading for several hours, until, despite my best efforts, I was exhausted and struggling to stay awake. One phrase in particular caught my eye as I was falling asleep, and when I woke in the late afternoon, I re-read the diary entry. There was a mention of a relative in California working in the Ghadr movement. I knew very little about the Ghadr movement, except that it was a revolutionary movement for Indian independence from the British Empire. That fact alone placed this relative’s stay in America somewhere between 1850 and 1950. I kept reading to see if I might have some very distant relatives in California, until I skimmed over a mention of the Hindu Conspiracy Trial. I began overturning boxes on the attic floor in an effort to find more information, but there was nothing to be found. In a moment of frustration, I began physically abusing the desk, until, quite by accident, one of the drawers slid open, revealing a cardboard box small enough to hold some letters or perhaps a small book. The box held letters and a book, as I resumed my previous position at the desk and received a course in early Indian American history.

It was not for several months, until my history teacher challenged my class with an optional project about a certain group of immigrants in American history, that I conceived the idea of combining excerpts from the diaries of my Californian ancestor and my Chicagoan aunt. I returned to Chicago during my spring break and proposed the idea to my cousins. They were enthusiastically in support of such a project to understand Indian American history, but they had no time to devote themselves. I immediately agreed to begin the project in their attic. I spent two weeks in the attic, researching, taking notes, and formulating the organization of the excerpts. I searched online and in numerous library books for photos which corresponded with the stories I wished to tell. Miraculously, I finished my collection by the end of spring break and was able to show it to my cousins. They agreed that I should keep the album and take it back to New York.

I re-read the compilation of diary entries when I returned home. There were many gaps between entries because of missing information or omitted material, which made understanding the book difficult, but not impossible. Nevertheless, I began annotating the collection, and the first two-thirds of the current book were completed. I included the third part because I could not find a satisfactory conclusion to my ancestors’ stories. Reconstructing parts of their lives did not make the collection relevant to many people, so I spent an entire day mulling over the possibility of a third part, a counterpart in length and topic to the first two parts of my book. I brainstormed and discarded various topics owing to the numerous demands of my senior year of high school and the need to prepare for college.

It was not until I attended a Deepavali festival for the first time in three years that I finally was able to write the present conclusion to my family saga by drawing the first two parts of my family’s history together in a third part about my own experience in New York City. I finished my story and compiled all three parts within the next weekend, an amazing feat considering the years of b r a i n s t o rming and writing which had led to that moment. Several years after that important weekend, I find myself editing this book for what I hope is the final time. I would like this album to survive, so that it might become a repository of family history for my own descendants.

The first Indian in the United States is believed to have been a sailor who entered the country in 1790, but the first sizeable migration of Indians to the United States did not occur for more than a decade, in 1907. The “first wave” of Indian immigrants consisted of mostly poor, uneducated Punjabi farmworkers, younger sons with no land in India. They initially immigrated to California, Washington, and Oregon in the hopes of making a quick profit and then returning home with some extra money in their pockets.

Following these Punjabis, who were mostly Sikhs, came a smaller group of young intellectuals who hoped to study in the United States. While well educated in India, some of these students were not wealthy enough to pay for their education at American institutions, and they often worked alongside the Punjabi Sikhs during the summers to pay their tuition. My Californian ancestor became one of these student-farmer types on a more permanent basis when he was expelled from Stanford University for his participation in the Ghadr movement, which university officials viewed as anarchist.

The most famous of these Indian students were Lala Har Dayal and Taraknath Das, both Hindus who studied at Stanford University. In 1912, Lala Har Dayal and Taraknath Das founded the Ghadr Party, whose aim was to gain Indian independence from Great Britain. Drawing on the ideals of the American revolution and the social difficulties experienced by Sikhs in the United States, Har Dayal, the primary leader of the movement, managed to create a significantly large organization to worry British officials, who infiltrated the movement and persuaded American officials to prosecute Ghadr members on conspiracy charges. The result was the infamous San Francisco Hindu German Conspiracy Trial which lasted from 1917 to 1918 and temporarily

[Compiled from several entries all made in January 1917]

The day of the “Hindu” laborers begins before dawn, as we leave the bare cabins to work in the fields. The white employer is amazed at our industriousness, but for us, it is nothing. In the summer, we work especially long and hard by American standards. We normally wake up at 4 am and work with their teams until 10 am, use their hoes until 4 pm, and then their teams until 9 pm. Occasionally, workers wake up at 1 am if there is a great deal of work to be done. Our eagerness for difficult labor may seem odd to an American, but the work is nothing for an Indian who needs to make a living. The words of Professor E.E. Chandler at Occidental College are typical of the white employers’ attitude toward Indians: “I do not believe the Imperial Valley is a white man’s country and I am willing to hand it over to the Hindus and Japanese.”

The first Indian immigrants came to northern California in 1907, but the majority did not come for several years afterward. Many came to escape persecution and the British rule of India. They began working in the fields, orchards, lumber mills, and railroads around Marysville in Northern California. They were especially attracted to California’s narrow farming belt, which runs the length of the entire state. The climate is similar to Punjab, and the threats of typhoid and malaria are nothing to Indians and other East Asians. Many of the original immigrants became migrant workers, passing southward as the growing season progressed. By 1909, Indians were farming sugar beets in Monterey Bay, Visalia, and Oxnard; celery, potato, bean fields near Holt (a town near Stockton); and the orange groves of Indians have been working in America for nearly ten years, but we are still stereotyped by the white community. I am a true Hindu, while the rest of my comrades are Sikhs. This model is representative of the rest of the Indian population in California; there are Muslims, Hindus, and Christians, but mostly Sikhs. Still, the small minority populations have confused many Americans, who think all of us wear turbans, but call us Hindus. We are the “turbaned tide” of “ragheads” to the newspapers. While many of us fit the white stereotype of the uneducated savage, individuals like myself are largely ignored.

I was educated in India under the influence of British civilization, and I came to America to study at Stanford University. It was here that I made my connections with the Ghadr Party of the United States [party for Indian independence from England, founded in the United States]. However, I soon found out that revolutionary activities are not looked upon kindly in the country of the first modern revolution. I was warned to disassociate myself from the Ghadr Party or I would be expelled. But how do you give up your ideals and call yourself a human being? Now I have no money to return home, even if I desired to, so I remain as one of the few educated agricultural workers in the fields and orchards of California. Over the past few years, I have become a close observer of the largely Sikh Indian community and of the Ghadr movement in the United States.

The Sikhs are unusual in that they are isolated from every other community in the United States. There is no friendship between migrant workers of different races, especially because they are often competing for the same jobs. Only race, not a similarity of economic situation.

One such example is the situation of 1907, the first year of a considerable Sikh influx. In that year, the Japanese keiyaku-nin (labor contractors) were on the verge of forcing better wages in 1907. White farm owners would have been forced to hire the Japanese at rates close to $3 per day.8 Employers were in a corner until the Sikhs migrated to America. Working at first for $0.75 per day, the Sikhs formed a migrant labor force along with Mexicans and a few Greeks. Although many were unskilled in the fields, they worked their way up in the labor force. Now, some of them work for $4 per day, most of which they send to their struggling families on the other side of the world in Punjab. The Japanese, embittered by the loss of their near-win in the struggle for dominance, often call Sikhs “English slaves” and “poles” because of their height.

Still, despite Sikh successes, the early years of low wages have ruined the image of the Indian laborer, not to mention the 1909 U.S. Immigration Commission report’s admission that it is “practically universal to discriminate against the East Indian in wages.” In their dealings with employers, Sikh bosses often recall how surprised employers are that they and their men are competitive farmers. The white men consistently underestimate the Indian, even as they praise him. The same Professor Chandler from Occidental College once made a remark that was complimentary and racist at the same time: “The Hindu resembles us except that he is a black, and we are shocked to see a black white man.” Still, many Sikhs regard such remarks as compliments. On the social ladder, they say, they are much below African Americans and Mexicans. Sometimes the darker-skinned ones have even attempted to pass themselves off as African Americans to obtain higher wages, while the Banks may praise the Sikh, but almost no one else does. Angry whites, afraid that they might lose their jobs to a race willing to work longer hours for less pay, have called them names and beat them. In one incident in early 1908, many Sikhs who had worked for a man named George Pierce were driven out of Davisville. It was one of the most publicized attacks on Sikhs. The Sikh laborers had started work as orchard pruners, but the whites were afraid of the small, but growing, number of Sikhs in their little town. The white residents beat and terrorized the Sikhs, burning their camp, robbing them of $2500, and finally driving them out of town. At the end of its account, the Sacramento Bee happily declared, “All is quiet today and there will be no more trouble if the Hindus keep away.”

Another of my gang told me of another smaller, but not uncommon, incident. “I used to go to Marysville every Saturday,” he said, “[and] buy children ice cream and talk. One day a drunk ghora (white man) came out of a bar and motioned to me saying, ‘Come here, slave!’ I said I was no slave man. He told me that his (i.e. white man’s race) ruled India and America, too. All we were were slaves. He came close to me and I hit him and got away fast.”

The Sikhs, isolated from American society, have built their own organizations. They have formed labor gangs of pindi (village-men), even if their geographic p roximity in India was questionable. They have “discovered” tenuous family links so they could truly call themselves family. An extended family in India is very important, so often the gangs consist of twelve to twenty men. They are fluid organizations, with members often coming and going, and during harvest time, there are adopted American institutions. In Vacaville, Sotham Singh is known as a Sikh labor contractor, negotiating labor contracts for large groups of workers.

Sotham Singh has taken the place of the boss man in the traditional Sikh labor gang. The bosses negotiate labor contracts for the whole group. Sometimes, Hindus even join the groups because the work requires an extra laborer. Sharing living expenses and wages, the workers form gangs for a mutual support system, creating almost a collective organization. Each group of workers also takes care of an older man useless for field labor, and they pay him equal wages to serve as their cook.19 Gangs pay for weekly groceries, and when necessary, a funeral for their pindu (village-mate). They are often the only link to a past life in India, and it is for this that I stay with my gang, even though they are of a lower class and a different religion.

[Compiled from entries of February 1917]

There was another Ghadr meeting tonight. Increasingly, the leadership of the Party has struggled to stay in control of the meetings. The Sikh farm laborers have begun complaining more often about discrimination in the fields and the orchards. As soon as one man mentions how he is paid less than another worker of say, the African race, the others join in with a chorus of righteous exclamations.

The fools cannot keep their mouths shut about their difficulties in America. Ghadr Party members are forced to spend precious time listening to their complaints at a meeting of a political party designed to change the political, social, and economic balance in India. Their social complaints about life in America would be better addressed at one of their gurdwaras, those Sikh temples.

Despite their social concerns, the quality of life in America is not as important as whether the laborers are able to earn a living. Most plan to return to India after they have earned a sufficient sum of money to support their families. The men here are mostly younger sons who have come to seek their fortune and return home. The Ghadr Party is merely a political organization founded in the United States for the benefit of the sojourners, who are supposedly able to do more to win Indian independence in America.

Rather than formulating plans to achieve Indian independence, the peasants spend the meetings telling stories. A select group of Hindu intellectuals founded this movement five years ago with the name “Revolution.” Some translate it “mutiny.”  The name itself is Punjabi, and strangely enough, the farmers seem to have forgotten their native tongue.

It is most likely with the dissent in mind that Ram Chandra officially began the meeting with the singing of a particular Ghadr song, to remind the Sikhs of our purpose:

The time for prayer is gone.

It is the time to take up the sword.

Empty talk does not serve any purpose.

It is time to engage in a fierce battle.

Only the names of those who long

for martyrdom will shine.

The next textual items on the agenda were quotes from the works of Thomas Jefferson and others of his generation, who have long been regarded as the founders of the first modern democracy. They are one of the away from our families and all things familiar: this is America, the land of freedom and opportunity, where, more than a century ago, another group of men declared their freedom from the British Empire. They fought a war and won the right to form their own nation; what better place to start a revolution than here?

If there is any doubt about the purpose of the Ghadr movement, the American Declaration of Independence justifies our actions:

But when a long train of abuses & usurpations pursuing invariably the same object, evinces a design to reduce [the people] under absolute despotism, it is their right, it is their duty to throw off such government, & to provide new guards for their future security…The history of the present king of Great Britain is a history of repeated injuries & usurpations, all having in direct object the establishment of an absolute tyranny over these states.

In contrast to the American situation, the British have been abusing Indians for nearly three centuries. The first armed rebellion to our resistance movement caused the formal transfer of power from the British East India Company to the British crown, and there have been no other rebellions of note since. Only a collision of unbearable circumstances has forced us to rebel. In the early part of this century, many of us fled India for cholera, smallpox, the plague, swept across the country. In the midst of the deaths, the British seized our land, annexed the state of Punjab, and forced us into poverty. Granted, subdivisions of land below profitable levels has increased the number of landless farmers because of foreclosures, but the loss of Indian land is not the first instance of British tyranny. The British have been physically torturing and tormenting our people in various ways since the day they entered our country. There is no justice: if a native Indian does have an opportunity to testify at a trial, he cannot afford to leave his home. In “The Rights of British America,” Thomas Jefferson describes the American situation under British rule, which is similar to the subjugation of Indians:

Single acts of tyranny may be ascribed to the accidental opinion of a day; but a series of oppressions, begun at a distinguished period, and pursued unalterably through every change of ministers, too plainly prove a deliberate and systematical plan of reducing us to slavery.

Just as the Japanese field workers call us “English slaves,” Indians are verbally insulted everywhere we go. As one Ghadr song states,

The whole world calls us black thieves,

This abuse from those outside of our community ought to unite us in purpose, since the first step toward improving social conditions everywhere is respect from the rest of the world; that is, we must fight and win a war against the British in India. However, Sikhs have filled every Ghadr meeting for the past two years with complaints about the movement’s failure to improve their lives. There was a time, at the founding of our blessed organization in this country, that this tension between Hindus and Sikhs was not as apparent. However difficult relations between Hindus and Sikhs may be in India, in California in 1912, we all were able to ignore religion for a greater and nobler purpose: the freedom of India from the British Raj.

Our first newspaper, printed in San Francisco on November 1, 1913, proudly displayed an editorial written by Lala Har Dayal to describe our purpose:

Today there begins in foreign lands, but in our country’s tongue, a war against the British Raj…What is our name? Mutiny. What is our work? Mutiny. Where will mutiny break out? In India. The time will soon come when rifles and blood will take the place of pens and ink.

The patriotism of the movement, partly due to America’s own revolutionary history, led us for a year or so. Then, Lala Har Dayal, the Punjabi Hindu who founded the organization, was forced to flee to Germany, after he was arrested by American officials for preaching anarchism.

The movement nearly collapsed after Lala Har Dayal Hindu, in charge of the movement. Ram Chandra is not a Punjabi like Har Dayal, and even more prejudiced against the Sikh farmers than I could ever possibly be. In only three years of his leadership, Ram Chandra has managed to alienate almost every Sikh member of the Party. He has reorganized the Party to exclude all Sikhs from administrative or organizing positions. Ram Chandra has also openly disparaged the Sikhs, calling them all sorts of filthy names, while at the same time using their money for Party activities. Many have broken away and under Bhagwan Singh, have formed a new Ghadr Party with the same name and newspaper. Now there are two organizations claiming to be the real Ghadr Party.

The same year that Har Dayal left, four hundred of our revolutionaries returned to India to start the freedom fight. The meeting before they left was a celebratory one, in anticipation of the coming victory. We passed around old copies of the Ghadr, reading aloud the messages that had led to this final send-off, such as one editorial proclaiming:

Enough: Wake, O Hindus and rub your eyes. Open your minds. Store your wealth in the Ghadr office and register your name in the army of the Ghadr. Cleanse your blood. How long will you remain seated in lethargy? Be ready to spring like tigers.

The initial call for mutiny in India was painted on one wall of our meetinghouse, just as it had been printed in
WANTED

Fearless, courageous soldiers for

spreading mutiny in India

Salary: Death

Reward: Martyrdom

and Freedom

Place: The Field of India

Although many Ghadarites did succeed in rousing the peasantry, a large number failed and were arrested by British spies. The rebellions were quickly put down, and the initial failure caused morale to drop sharply in America. Since then, we have worked to rebuild the Party in America, but the arrests have cost us support.

March 3, 1917

It seems that the Ghadr movement has attracted more attention than anyone had anticipated. In the middle of the Great War, a combination of envy and distrust has served to make us the subject of an investigation. For a few brief months in 1914, we had begun communications with German intelligence through the agent C.K. Chakraverty. We broke off relations as soon as the war began, but still the relationship with the Indian National Committee in Berlin has been exaggerated in the press. Some have accused us of disloyalty and treason because we sought to better the economic and social status of our people.

March 18, 1917

The Party has suffered a significant loss. Several newspapers describe it as “the Hindu German Conspiracy,” but there is little truth in that statement. There have been no communications with the Berlin Indian National Committee since the official declaration of war, when the United States entered the war against Germany, but anything deemed “un-American” has been under suspicion since that time. The American newspapers have changed the German names of streets, foods, and everyday household objects, and anything remotely connected with Germany is under suspicion. The bad reputation of the arrival of the Sikh laborers as the “invasion” of the “turbaned tide” has not attracted much sympathy for the Ghadr cause. British spies have infiltrated our movement, and the agent Hopkinson has supplied false information about Ghadr activities to the American government. The newspapers are only too happy to supply fictional accounts of our monstrous doings to satisfy the appetite of the American public.

The first people arrested have been only those directly involved in the dropped India-Germany link, not active members of the main Ghadr movement. The agent Chandra Kanta Chakraverty has been arrested, along with the Germans Franz Bopp, Ernst Sekuna, E. H. von Schack, and William von Brincken. So far, none of the main body of the Ghadr Party has been affected by these arrests, but I can only assume that many of us will be dragged into this mess before it disappears, through the association of the arrested men with the Ghadr Party.

November 4, 1917

I have spent this long summer and most of autumn in hiding, disguising myself as a Mexican migrant worker. their group, but they have been surprisingly sympathetic, allowing me to hide my Indian identity.

American officials have arrested Ram Chandra and one hundred and five of our fellow Party members since March, the time of the first arrests. Their trial begins in a week or two, and I have elected to remain in San Francisco to hear the fates of my comrades. Unquestionably, the Ghadr movement has been shattered in the United States. Most of the leadership either has fled the country, or is lying in God-knows what condition in a filthy jail cell. I cannot visit the jail myself, but a few of my more adventurous Mexican comrades have taken their chances to peer inside the high-barred windows of the jail. They do not return with the same smile on their faces as when they had left, but they will not tell me anything.

Despite the dangers, I occasionally manage my own foray into town, although I am careful to stay several hundred feet away from the jail. It is not difficult to hide in San Francisco at this moment. Larger than usual crowds wander in the streets to catch sight of the new imprisoned attractions. Journalists from all over the United States are crowding around the courthouse and the jail, trying to catch a glimpse of those inside. They shout questions day and night at my miserable comrades cramped inside their prison cells.

May 1, 1918

It seems that it has been ages since my comrades first went on trial in the San Francisco courthouse, but it has only been a little over one year since the arrests began. On November 20, the first day of the trial, I finally dared windows, along with so many others who could not get a seat inside. The authorities had cracked open a few windows, so that the voices of the lawyers carried outside, and nearly all was silent in the streets as many people pressed up against the courthouse windows.

Inside, the dark, filthy, disheartened faces of the arrested Hindus and Sikhs on one side of the courtroom contrasted with the best clothes of the town officials and the handsome suits of the Washington diplomats. The prosecution was mostly calm and collected, confident of their ability to win, while my comrades were calm as well, but out of resignation rather than assurance of winning their case.

The trial began surprisingly with a reference to the esteemed Har Dayal. The U.S. Attorney said in his opening statement:

This conspiracy had its inception surrounding this one individual. This man, Har Dayal, was a rank, out-and-out Anarchist; he believed in a combination and consolidation of all Anarchistic forces in the entire world for the purpose of social, industrial and all other kinds of revolutions of the rankest character.

After this dramatic proclamation, the trial dragged on for weeks, which then turned into months. I cannot remember now when anything happened, but only what did happen. The highlights of the trial proved to be short bursts of drama, as the case took unexpected turns.

one of the former members of the Ghadr Party came forth to testify for the prosecution. His betrayal provoked the first reaction from the defendants, as they all stared in surprise and then glared at his reappearance. Jodh Singh was one of the four hundred Ghadarites who had left to stir up protest in India in 1914. The last the Ghadarites had heard of him, he had been arrested by British officials in Bangkok. It was obvious, now, that British agents had shipped him from Asia to betray the Party. Then, surprisingly, he refused to testify when he took the witness stand, shouting, “I will die with my own countrymen!” Officers removed him from the witness stand. I left the window to find something to eat, and to mull over Jodh Singh’s sudden changes of allegiance. I decided to return to work, and it was several weeks before I came to the courthouse again.

At the time of my arrival, there seemed to be an even larger drama than that of Jodh Singh’s reappearance unfolding inside. When I asked the watchers what was happening, they all told me in not-so-complimentary terms to be quiet. Phrase by phrase, I managed to hear the controversy through the courtroom windows. Apparently, one of the defendants was complaining of inadequate legal representation. The other Indian defendants shouted, “Give us justice–this is a farce!” It was at this point that I realized how long this trial could potentially last without any useful arguments being made.

The trial proceeded in a strangely comic manner over the following months. Each bizarre occurrence received the generally expected response, but for a few surprises. For example, one day, the agent Chakraverty decided to confess to his participation in a German-Indian alliance. The revelation caused a furor on the side of the defense,

Sometime after Chakraverty gave his confession, another Ghadarite accused Ram Chandra of selling him and five others into slavery to the Germans for $10,000 and alleged that Ghadr rules stated that he ought to be killed for exposing secrets to the public. The prosecution also made further ridiculous comments on the Ghadr agenda, suggesting that party members plotted to bring Rabindranath Tagore, the famous Indian poet and philosopher, to the United States as part of a conspiracy. They brought forth evidence of a letter which they had “decoded” to read that Chakraverty had played a role in Tagore’s visit to the U.S. The prosecution also brought forth other decoded messages that supposedly indicated that Ghadr agents stationed in countries such as England, Germany, France, Japan, and China, as well as those on Pacific islands, were agitating for Indian independence as per orders originating from the United States. While it is true that the Ghadr movement does have sister movements outside of the United States and India, any communication between these groups has been strictly between leaders, with no involvement of the large body of Party members. Still, the newspaper reporters scribbled furiously, attempting to record every one of these ludicrous statements.

In the midst of all these accusations, however, the defendants managed to cause a small furor in the courthouse. One of the defendants subpoenaed an American, William Jennings Bryan, who has written a book about India. The newspapers speculated that the defense lawyers might attempt to use Bryan’s book to show that the German link was not the cause of revolutionary activities, but rather the conditions in India. Regardless of the controversy excited by calling upon an American man in defense of a foreigner, the situation soon resolved itself and the trial continued its

The trial finally appeared to be coming to a close early this year, when the most unexpected event happened. The court had just announced a recess, when out of nowhere, Ram Singh, one of the defendants, shot Ram Chandra, who was also on trial. It appeared that the trial had succeeded in killing the American Ghadr movement. Newspapers based as far away as the Washington Post reported the incident:

Ram Chandra arose and started across the room. Ram Singh also a rose. He raised his revolver and began firing. Ram Chandra staggered forward and fell dead before the witness chair, with a bullet in his heart and two others in his body.

At the same moment Ram Singh fell. Holohan [a U.S. Marshal] had shot once with his arm high over his head, so that the bullet should clear nearby counsel. The shot broke Ram Singh’s neck.

Everyone had scrambled for safety after the first shot was fired. There was great disorder in the courtroom, and it took the judge some time to restore order. The judge ordered everyone out of the courtroom, except for the law officials. The crowd returned home in a subdued manner, and all of us watching through the windows followed.

One week later, Judge Van Fleet has handed down he been convicted of conspiracy in a fabricated court case. Their sentences are light, from one to eighteen months of jail time, but the loss still hurts the Ghadr Party. No one speaks of achieving equal status with whites in the United States, and there is little talk of revolution. The media has dispersed, but there is no talk of a Ghadr meeting or even a Ghadr newspaper. I suspect that after their jail time is over, many will return to India, or at least leave California. I myself have decided to return to India, taking whatever savings I have and finding a job there to support my family. America is no longer the land of opportunity for the Indian immigrant.

From 1918 to the late 1970s, my family remained in obscurity in India. Some members of the family may have continued participating in Ghadr activities similar to those of my Californian ancestor, but any evidence of those events remains buried in India.

What is evident, however, is that the family maintained its tradition of education. An education is highly valued in Indian culture, and a good education is relatively expensive, even in India. The family finances most likely recovered within several generations of the California scholar-turned-farmworker, since my Chicagoan aunt had enough money to immigrate to the United States in the late 1970s.

By the time of her arrival, my aunt was categorized as part of the second wave of Indian immigrants to the United States, which followed on the heels of the passage of the Immigration Act of 1965. The first wave, as described by the previous diarist, was mostly comprised of Sikh agricultural laborers. In contrast, the second wave of immigrants was composed of Indian professionals specializing in the sciences. They sought jobs, just as those in the first wave, but class differences and changing circumstances in America placed the new immigrants higher on the ladder of American society than their predecessors. The new immigrants were well educated and well versed in Western culture because of the modernization of India caused by British colonization. They were also well received in the United States because new federal programs such as Medicare and Medicaid called for more medical personnel, and the nuclear arms race of the Cold War created a niche in the other scientific disci
plines. By 1980, many lesser-educated family members of the professionals already in the United States migrated and opened their own Indian shops, founded Indian organizations, and organized

December 1, 1980

Excerpt from “Then and Now: Indian Immigrants of Chicago in a Period of Transition,” a newspaper column written by my aunt and printed in several Chicago-area Indian newspapers

It has been three years since the day I set foot in the United States. I knew almost nothing about the country when I arrived here, except for three things: I was a trained doctor, someone that the United States needed, and therefore I could find a job; Hollywood, the famous film industry, was located in the United States; and Chicago, my new home, was the home of the infamous gangster Al Capone.

Chicago is much different from what I had expected. When I first came to America, my knowledge of this country was mostly information gleaned fro m Hollywood films exported to India and a few works of American literature read in a university philosophy class. It was in an American bookstore several weeks after my arrival that I came across the works of Ralph Waldo Emerson again. When I went to the counter to pay for my purchases, the clerk remarked that I ought to read Walt Whitman as well. He handed me a worn copy of a book titled Leaves of Grass, and with a few misgivings, I purchased the additional book.

I was homesick for the first time when I re a d Whitman’s poems. They reminded me so much of the work of the Bengali poet Rabindranath Tagore that I opened my small carton of books to find a copy of Tagore’s Gitanjali (Song Offerings). I began comparing

on the other side of the world, with the unknown Whitman poetry written nearly thirty years before that on this side of the world. Their poetic style and subject matter are very similar: they both speak in similar tones about nature and society. In one religious poem, “For Him I Sing,” Whitman declares his devotion to a higher being:

For him I sing,
I raise the present on the past,
(As some perennial tree out of its
roots, the present on the past,)
With time and space I him dilate
and fuse the immortal laws,
To make himself by them the law
unto himself.

In contrast, Tagore has not yet sung the song he “came to sing” for a supreme being:

The song that I came to sing remains unsung to this day, I have spent my days in stringing and in unstringing my instrument.

The time has not come true, the words have not been rightly set; only the wind is sighing by.

I have not seen his face, nor have I listened to his voice; only I have heard his gentle footsteps from the road before my house….

I live in the hope of meeting with him; but this meeting is

While these poems are similar in subject matter, their tone differs greatly. Walt Whitman is not humble about his role as a singer and has already begun his work. Tagore is much more modest than Whitman; he has not yet fulfilled his purpose but “live[s] in the hope” that it will happen some day.

Tagore’s unassuming manner is similar to my own demeanor as an Indian arriving in the United States, while Whitman’s pride in himself represents my American colleagues. The shock of arriving in America and being confronted with such characters almost caused me to return to India, but several years later, I would like to think I am neither Tagore nor Whitman. I assert myself, but am also exceedingly polite, a balance unusual in both in America and in India, but more tolerated in America. For this reason, I have been assimilated into the Indian American community of Chicago, a group of people balancing somewhere between the mindsets of Tagore and Whitman.

Copyright 2008 Diya Das. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

INTRODUCTION

The tensions of the Civil War era, a turbulent time in American history, pitted immigrants against nativists, management against labor, and pro-slavery factions against abolitionists. In many northern states, support for the war was weak. President Lincoln had to draft soldiers to fight.

When the Northern draft was enacted in October of 1862, resistance built up in regions where the common people’s interests were in jeopardy. Riots broke out in several states, including Pennsylvania. The coal region and farmlands were hotbeds of resistance since losing a breadwinner threatened the survival of the family. The outbreaks of hostility in Pennsylvania were not as large or as violent as the ill-famed New York riot of 1863, but they highlight the lack of northern unity regarding the war. The slogan “rich man’s war, poor man’s fight” became popular among the masses.

Immigrants resented the hostile reception they received from the Know Nothing Party and other nativist groups who opposed the influx of workers from Europe. At the same time, the country was experiencing a surge of growth in industry and needed cheap labor to mine coal for the production of steel for railroads and other businesses.

Northeastern Pennsylvania had a particularly high percentage of immigrant workers. Irishmen who were recruited for mine work were usually poor unskilled laborers, not certified miners who commanded a higher wage. They performed strenuous and dangerous tasks and were paid by the miner from his earnings. The cultural and religious differences between English and Welsh bosses and Irish and German workers worsened already strained labor relations.

Pay was based on filling coal cars with good clean  anthracite, so important safety considerations, like shoring up the roof and clearing rubble, were often neglected in order to fill the cars. Colliery owners were known to pay workers in scrip which could only be used at the Company store, limiting their buying power and their independence.

Mine workers suffered when there were strikes or stoppages, but also when overproduction caused the price of anthracite to drop. Work injuries and deaths were common, and without public welfare agencies, the families had to rely on themselves, their churches, and their benevolent societies. The draft was a flame set to the tinderbox that was the coal region in 1862.

Benjamin Bannan, editor of The Miners Journal of Pottsville and Schuylkill County draft commissioner during the Civil War, blamed the “Molly Maguires” for voter fraud, political defeats, the draft riots, violence at the mines, and murders. He contributed to the anti-Irish hysteria of the era by associating the Molly Maguires with the Ancient Order of Hibernians, a benevolent association.

While Katie’s adventures are fictional, the events of Call Me Kate depict the common experience of those turbulent days.

CHAPTER 1

Coal Mining Crisis November 1860

“S’ter, s’ter, I need to see Katie right away!” The disheveled boy who burst into our classroom was my friend and former classmate, Con Gallagher. He bent to catch his breath beside the well-polished teacher’s desk.

Twenty pairs of horror-filled eyes turned in my direction, then darted back toward the frowning nun, expecting the worst. Sister Mary Charles never tolerated disruptions, especially to her beloved literature class. I was in for it unless Con had a darn good reason to be here.

Ink splashed from the inkwell as I jumped up from my desk, but Sister was even faster. Accompanied by the rattle of rosary beads, she dragged Con into the corridor by a sooty sleeve and told me to return to my seat. I hesitated, then plopped back down. What in the world was happening?

My friend Annie leaned across the aisle and whispered,  “This better not be one of Con’s pranks or you’ll both get paddled.”

“Shhh!” Everyone strained to hear the conversation in the  hall, but whatever was said did not take long.

“Miss McCafferty, go to the cloakroom and get your  belongings please.” Sister Mary Charles’s no-nonsense voice was tinged with kindness, usually reserved for the Latin scholars.

Since I expected a scolding, Sister’s concerned tone bewildered me completely. As I stepped forward, the piercing breaker whistle split the air. A mine accident!

The frightening sound spurred chaotic movement. Girls hugged each other and cried, then one by one my classmates slid to their knees. My whirling thoughts fixed on a terrifying conclusion. Please God, no. Please no.

I ran into the hallway without stopping for my shawl and screamed, “Con, what happened?”

Con caught me by the elbows. His blue eyes met mine. “The coal face your father was working collapsed. His legs are pinned. But he’s alive, Katie!”

I broke from his grasp and dashed out of the schoolhouse into the cold gray November morning, a day as bleak as Con’s news.

“Does my mother know?” Strands of my unruly auburn hair escaped its pins and stuck to my tear-dampened cheeks. I rubbed it back with my palms.

“Bad news travels fast. She may have run to the scene already, I don’t know. I went right to school to tell you to get home.”

“HOME? I’m going to the mine!”

“No Katie, go to your house. Someone needs to be there. Dinny went to get Gram and her remedy kit so she’ll be set to treat your da’ when he arrives. I’ll help you tear cloth for bandages and boil the water that Gram will need to clean your father’s wounds. Your da’ may even be home by now.” Con’s words made sense so I bolted down the alley, a shortcut to the house.

As we reached the side porch, I heard a measured clopping sound echo down Front Street. My heart clenched and missed a beat. The hoofbeats of the Black Mariah, that omen of misery and death, was headed to the mine. Panic flooded through my veins.

There was no sign of life at our house. I opened the back door and called for my mother. Hollow silence met my call. Down the cellar!

I ran out to the rear of the house while Con went to check with the neighbors. When I lifted the heavy door to the storm cellar, I heard Mother singing a cheerful tune as she sealed jelly jars in a pot of boiling water. She looked up, startled, as I dashed down the steps.

“Katie, what’re you doing home before lunch?”

“Didn’t you hear the whistle? Hurry, Father’s injured!”

The surprise on her face turned to horror. She ran up the stairs, using her apron to wipe her steam-flushed brow as she raced outside. “How do you know?”

“Con came to school to tell me. Father’s pinned in the chamber. The men are clearing the entrance to free him.”

“Oh God, oh God!” My mother wrung her hands and looked helpless.

I ran inside and got mother’s woolen shawl and my old cape. By the time I returned, Con was there, reassuring her that help was coming. “My grandmother is on the way in case her skills are needed.”

Con had left before anyone knew how bad Father’s injuries were, but the huge fall of rock had killed Johnnie Pat, the young nipper working the doors.

Mother and I set off for the colliery. Con didn’t argue this time. He offered to stay behind to read’ up for his grandmother. Mrs. Gallagher was a stickler for cleanliness, and her sickbed requirements were well known to Con and his brother Dinny.

A huge crowd had gathered at the mine entrance. Friends rushed up and offered sympathy and news. I turned my back on the large black coach and dark horses hitched nearby. The gloomy-looking Black Mariah reminded me of a large crow hovering over a dying rabbit.

Mother composed her face and stiffened her spine as she came to grips with the situation. I tried to imitate her restraint, even though I felt like sobbing. Our outward courage was shattered an hour later when an ear-piercing scream tore through the crowd.

Johnnie Pat’s mother saw her son’s body carried out on a litter. He was covered from neck down with sailcloth, but blood from his saturated shirt had seeped through the canvas, and smudge marks marred his still, marble-white face. The younger children, clinging to Mrs. McFadden’s skirts, began to howl, echoing their mother’s cry. She collapsed next to the litter, sobbing bitterly. Her elderly father comforted her, then turned to beckon to our parish priest.

Father Maloney, wearing a violet stole over his black cassock, anointed Johnnie’s forehead while intoning in Latin “Si es capax.” If thou art alive. No one here had any doubt that Johnnie was dead.

I automatically translated the Latin prayer. Through this holy unction may the Lord pardon thee of whatever sins or faults thou hast committed. Johnnie’s faults were minor -quarreling with his older sister, teasing his little brothers, maybe pocketing a few mints from the barrel at the Company store. Johnnie Pat had been in my younger sister’s class until he went to work in the mines. If God is just, then Johnnie’s place in Heaven will be higher than the biggest boss’s here on Earth. Where would the owners stand on Judgment Day?

The women of the Patch surrounded the boy’s heartbroken mother. They cared for the other McFadden children while their brother’s body was whisked away. In the Patch, giving comfort to the grief stricken was a well-cultivated skill.

I held my mother’s elbow to steady her as Father was brought out. Although he was alert, no one knew just how serious his injuries were. The priest once again stepped forward, this time to perform the last rites in full. Father clasped a crucifix while the priest anointed his eyelids, ears, nostrils, lips, hands, and feet. Mother moaned once, then bit her clenched fist to keep from sobbing.

After the blessing, the company men carried Father to the waiting coach. Mother and I kept pace alongside as best we could, but fell behind the horse-drawn vehicle on the steep incline of Ridge Street. I was glad Con had stayed behind to wait.

By the time we reached the house, the workers had taken Father from the tall black carriage and lowered his mangled body onto the splintery porch floorboards. Mother choked back a cry at the sight of his gray, pain-filled face and awkwardly twisted torso. She knelt and caressed his bruised hand.

“Here’s Gram,” said Con, leaping the bannister to help the white-haired woman who trudged across our yard carrying a bundle. Old Mrs. Gallagher, Con and Dinny’s grandmother, was renowned as a healer and herbalist. Her daughter-in-law, Deirdre, was right behind her, toting a large satchel. Dinny, Con Gallagher’s identical twin, arrived with a basket of supplies as the workers hurried off to deliver the next accident victim to his grieving family. Directions flew as the old woman went into action.

“Dinny, go over street and get Catharine McCall and Aggie McCafferty.” Dinny dashed off to get my grandmother and great-aunt who lived across town.

“Con and Katie, take hold of one side of this sheet and help lift Jack. Deirdre, you and Mary take the other side. Careful now!”

We shuffled our way into the parlor and placed Father on a pallet on the floor. Mrs. Gallagher opened her bag and took out several items.

“Katie, I need soap and water, and clean rags.”

Quickly cutting off Father’s shredded pants legs, she expertly removed scraps of fabric and embedded coal from the wound, then pressed it to stop the bleeding.

As she began sewing up the wounds, I frowned, sensing something strange. Father was not screaming with pain. He did not wince at the cleaning of the wounds or stitching of his flesh. Mrs. Gallagher shook her head and glared at me when I opened my mouth.

“Katie, take these soiled rags to the burner and bring fresh.” She shoved a bowl of blood- drenched cloth at me with a meaningful look. I scrambled to obey, but by the time I returned the procedure was finished.

“Rest and quiet are what Jack needs now. Go on, all of yeh, and let him sleep off the shock.”

Deirdre and my mother began cleaning the parlor while Mrs. Gallagher lifted Father’s head to give him sips of willow tea. Con and I went out on the porch where I asked the questions that were pounding inside my head.

“Tell me how the accident happened. Were you right there? Who else was hurt?”

“Hold on, Katie. Calm down. I’ll tell you what I know, if you’re sure you’re ready to hear it.”

I inhaled deeply and sat on the railing, hugging the post. “Tell me.”

“I was outside in the gangway loading coal while Sam Davison and his buttie were in the chamber preparing to blast the coalface. Your father had just taken a hand augur into the room for Sam to drill a hole for the powder when there was the creaking sound of a squeeze. I only had time to cover my head and crouch. It was pure luck that the coal car protected me from the shower of rock.” Con shook his head at his miraculous escape.

“Poor Johnnie Pat wasn’t lucky. He only started as door keeper last month, and he didn’t recognize the warning sounds. The rock slide shattered the beams, and Johnnie was hit by a flying splinter.” Con stopped and rubbed his forehead, screening his eyes from my sight before continuing.

“When I heard him scream, I ran to help, but the stake was lodged solid in his chest. I couldn’t do anything but pillow his head with my jacket.” Con’s voice cracked. “The poor lad cried out ‘Mama! Mama!’… then he died in my arms.” Con hid his face in the crook of his elbow.

“I’m so sorry for making you relive the horror, Con. Please forgive me.”

“No, I want to tell what happened.” Back in control, Con recounted the rest in a near monotone. Once started, he seemed incapable of stopping his recitation.

“I yelled into the blocked chamber and your father answered. He, Sam, and Packy were all injured. The only entry was blocked so I couldn’t get to them.”

“Thank God they weren’t suffocated,” I said. “Why aren’t there two exits?”

“We’ve been trying to convince the owners that there should always be two shafts sunk every time a new mine is opened, but they say the cost is too great.”

My sorrow simmered into rage at the operators’ neglect.

“When the rescuers came to free the men, I ran to school to get you.”

“Oh no, Sarah and Maymie! No one went to their classroom.”

“It’s better that your sisters stay in school until your mother is settled and your grandmother’s here. Maymie, especially, is too young to help, and she’d be horrified by the blood. Thank God she didn’t see Johnnie as we saw him today.”

That day permanently changed our lives. Father’s wounds healed, but he did not regain use of his legs. Everyone in the family assumed new chores, and a feeling of insecurity fell upon us. Then the Christmas season arrived, and the busyness of the holidays helped take our minds off the future. The money that Sarah, Maymie and I had saved to buy candy and small gifts for each other was put toward the household accounts, but no one complained. The best Christmas gift was that Father was still with us.

Our family income was at its lowest point. Father had been earning only part-time wages since late spring. The mines had just started up full time for the winter heating season when the tragedy occurred.

We sold Father’s tools and made a tidy sum, but much of the money went toward medical needs. Our family buckled down and made cuts in the budget.

December 1860 was a time of change for the whole country, not just our family. Distant events would have far-reaching consequences for almost everyone in the Patch.

The week before Christmas, my mother and I ran into Annie O’Donnell and her family at the Company Store. Annie and I were whispering about the handsome stock boy when the tone of our mothers’ conversation caught our attention. Mrs. O’Donnell held a newspaper with a banner headline that read, “The Union Dissolved.”

My mother frowned and said, “South Carolina has finally broken away?”

“Yes, Lincoln’s election gave South Carolina the reason it was looking for.” Mrs. O’Donnell looked disgusted. “This will mean war. President Buchanan will have to defend federal property in South Carolina.”

“Why do they want to leave the Union?” asked Annie.

“They’ve been threatening for years now, but the election of Lincoln set a flame to the slavery issue,” sighed Mother.

“At least South Carolina is far away,” I said.

Mrs. O’Donnell declared,”Not far enough. Even though no shots have been fired, my boys are already talking about going off to soldier.”

Copyright 2008 Molly Roe. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.