Voices Beckon, Pt. 1: The Voyage



  Voices Beckon

  Part One

  By

  Linda Lee Graham

  Voices Beckon is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Apart from well-known historical figures, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2011 by Linda Lee Graham

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or review—without permission in writing from its publisher, Repository Press, LLC.

  eBook ISBN 9781301813322

  Published by Repository Press LLC

  PO Box 72792

  Phoenix, Arizona 85050

  [email protected]

  Cover design by Jennifer Quinlan at Historical Editorial

  Cover image: (ship) © Jeff Wickham

  For my mother, who did all the hard work:

  how it might have been

  CONTENTS

  Part One

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Cast of Characters

  Glossary of Eighteenth-Century Vocabulary

  About the Author

  Map

  Also by Linda Lee Graham:

  Voices Whisper

  Voices Echo

  PART ONE

  Set in the late eighteenth century, Voices Beckon spans seven years in the lives of three young Britons who form an unwavering bond of friendship, love, and loyalty while on a life-changing voyage to a new nation. Rich in historical detail, this sweeping romance chronicles their coming of age against the vivid backdrop of the emerging United States of America.

  THIS NOVELLA IS THE FIRST OF THREE PARTS OF THE FULL LENGTH NOVEL, VOICES BECKON

  1

  River Avon, Bristol

  November 1783

  ELISABETH LONGED TO RETURN HOME, and it had been only days since they’d left it—two days, nine hours, and heaven knows how many minutes, every one of them biting cold. She stood beside the trunks, her foot tapping a quick rhythm beneath her skirts, and shut her eyes against the chaos of the quay. Faith, it would be months now, months, before she would know if Rhee, her best friend, had managed to snare William’s attention at church on Sunday. They’d had a foolproof plan worked out; it couldn’t have failed. Well, unless he—

  “Elisabeth!”

  Her father. Finally. Opening her eyes, she noted his grim expression and deduced it wasn’t the first time he’d called. In the midst of this mayhem, it was a wonder she’d heard him. Pushing back the hood of her cloak, she smiled.

  He looked so handsome. She’d finally convinced him to forgo wearing a wig, and his new hat hid his thinning hairline quite nicely. The cut of his coat flattered his tall, slim frame, and the garment hung without a hint of strain about his shoulders. His shoes were spotless, their silver buckles gleaming, and the ornate black clocked stockings displayed beneath his coat stretched taut to his breeches. He was practically in full dress to board a ship, for mercy’s sake.

  Thin lips pressed tight, he clutched a fistful of papers in one hand and gestured impatiently with the other. “We’re to board, Elisabeth. Pay close mind, now. You wouldn’t want to get lost in this rabble, would you?”

  “No, of course I wouldn’t, Papa.”

  Grabbing her elbow, he led her toward the longboat, his grip tight. His stride was purposeful and sure, and others, less sure, moved out of his way.

  “What of our luggage, Papa?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder at the pile they’d abandoned.

  “It’s taken care of. You needn’t concern yourself. Put your hood up. The wind is rising; I can’t have you taking ill.”

  “Mr. Hale!” A crew member called out, motioning them forward. Her father raised his handful of papers to acknowledge him.

  She pulled her hood up and turned again, feeling as if she were watched. Two men, members of the crew she hoped, were loading their trunks onto a cart. Neither paid her the least mind. Her father tugged, and she followed him onto the wharf. The man who had called reached for her with large, bony hands, guiding her into the boat that would transport them to the Industry.

  She wished she had thought to grab a bit of Bristol sand. She may never return; it would have been nice to have a small piece of some part of Britain. She looked back at the city, saying a silent goodbye.

  There! That man slumped against the side of that warehouse, his thumbs hooked in the waist of his breeches—he was the one staring.

  No, not quite a man; he probably wasn’t much older than she. But he was as big or bigger than most men. Even slouched, she could see that he was tall, his shoulders broad, and his chest wide. He didn’t glance away when he saw her turn; he met her gaze directly.

  A lock of dark hair escaped his cap and hung low over his brow. If his meager possessions were anything to judge by, he was likely one of those her father had named ‘rabble,’ one of those traveling in steerage. Or perhaps he was merely boarding one of the ships sailing to Ireland and didn’t need to carry much. She was too far to make out the details of his features, but his bearing intrigued her. He conveyed confidence; he certainly hadn’t lowered his eyes when she’d noticed him watching her. Not arrogance. Not a challenge. Merely curiosity?

  Feeling an odd pressure beneath her stays, she raised a hand and pushed at the sensation. Her father urged her to sit. Dropping to the bench, her gaze stayed locked with the boy’s as the crew rowed toward the waiting brig.

  DAVID PACED THE QUAY, watching for his uncle. The innkeeper had handed him Uncle John’s note first thing that morning, relaying he’d had to take care of some last minute details, that David was to meet him on the quay and board the Industry when he could. The man likely thought he was doing him a favor, letting him sleep, but he could have done without it. He wasn’t keen on doing any of this alone.

  Besides, if he were going to leave him alone, the night before would’ve been the time for it. He wouldn’t have minded then, not with the prospect of whiling away time with the barmaid at the inn. He smiled, her image a distraction from his worry.

  Betsy, her name had been, just here from Bath. An agreeable lass. Pretty, blonde, and plump; she had laughed at everything he’d thought to say and lingered over presenting their meals, hinting she’d still be about after the kitchen closed later that night.

  Which hadn’t been as pleasing a prospect to Uncle John as it had been to him.

  David and his uncle, the Reverend John Wilson, had traveled for close to three weeks now: on foot, by water, and by coach. His uncle had had the worst of it, traveling all the way from Ireland, stopping in Scotland to collect him. And though Ma’s lectures had always been delivered by Da in the past, she’d apparently taken advantage of that brief stop to pass the obligation on to her brother. Uncle John had taken the duty to heart many a time over the last three weeks.

  As such David had had his hands full with a far less pleasing prospect—steering the conversation from the barmaid and diverting his uncle’s attention.

  Sailors called down from a nearby ship as they
repaired its rigging, mocking him, he supposed; he couldn’t make out the words, but he knew well the tone. He ignored them. The early morning fog had lifted, and he had a clear view of the Industry. The brig had a tidy look to it; two masts, an uncluttered deck. Tidy was good; meant someone was minding things.

  Hands in his pockets, he rolled up off the balls of his feet as he studied the ship. His last day in Britain . . . for how long? Years? A lifetime? He added it to his round of ‘lasts.’ His last Sunday spent with his family in kirk. Ma’s last home-cooked meal with all his favorites. One last tussle with Cousin James . . . tucking his younger brothers in that last night. Then there was that last lecture from Da as they fished a lazy morning away. But Da could write as well as talk, so no, that likely wasn’t the last. And that final hour spent with Alice Ennis. He grinned as he thought of her beckoning him into her da’s barn. Now that had been a sweet leave-taking, for sure.

  As the quay filled with more travelers, he moved to stand alongside a warehouse, keeping in view of the ship, watching as the crew directed the loading of the cargo. He wished his uncle would come; it had to be getting close to boarding time. What in God’s name could be keeping him?

  Then he had seen her.

  She was standing alone next to a large heap of baggage, framed by the passel of gulls screaming and diving at the leavings of the fish trade on the sand behind her. Well dressed, her dark cloak was tied with bright blue ribbons, a color he thought might match her eyes; though why that thought should occur to him, he didn’t know. Bonny lass, a slight smile played around the corners of her lips, alternating with a grimace of impatience as she looked about. She seemed out of place, standing there alone, though he thought her family must be near, given the number of trunks she guarded. He wished his were, but they’d had a hard enough time scraping money together for his passage, much less the others.

  He watched her smile as a man called out, and his mouth curved in a grin of anticipation. Elisabeth, the man had called her, was boarding the transport for the cabin passengers of the Industry.

  She turned as she boarded, sensing his appraisal, and met his gaze. He thought briefly of looking elsewhere; he’d been taught better than to stare. But he didn’t.

  And then he couldn’t. He felt her gaze as it shot straight down to his boots, then meandered back up to scurry to and fro across his back and his shoulders, before it darted down to his fingertips. He flexed his fingers, staring at her, watching the longboat as it shoved off.

  Had he just imagined that?

  He narrowed his gaze, puzzled. He must have.

  The clouds began to disperse, the strengthening breeze chasing them about. Grabbing his bags, he joined in the push to the loading queue, the worry dissipating as he moved forward, the excitement growing as he listened to the chorus of voices around him.

  A man ahead struggled to keep three boys within arm’s reach. Not brothers, they were nothing alike, and they addressed the man as “Mister,” not “Da.” The man was of middling age, his kindly round face surrounded by a full head of sandy hair beneath his tricorn hat, hair he wore loose and wild about his shoulders. Possibly their guardian.

  The tallest boy, the one they called Liam, appeared his age. Grinning when he caught David’s eye, he pointed down the river.

  “How long do you suppose afore we get to Philly? Sean here says a fortnight,” Liam said, tousling the youngest boy’s curly red hair. The boy grinned at Liam, his round, freckled face alight at the touch. “Rob says it’ll be three to four times that. There’s a ha’penny banking on it, for them that’s closest.”

  “For the one closest, Liam. Mind your grammar,” the man said absently, his attention on the untidy heap of papers he held.

  “Aye, Mr. Oliver,” Liam said obediently, winking at David. “Well, what d’ye say, mate?”

  “It’ll be at least eight weeks, I’m thinking, being as it’s winter. Mayhap longer, if we hit more than a bit of weather,” David said. “And ye, your wager?”

  “Nay. Canna risk what I dinna have, and I dinna have a bawbee to spare. But I don’t mind risking what these two have,” Liam said, slapping the back of each of his companions.

  The one named Rob rolled his eyes and turned toward the water. David noticed he had a pronounced limp in his walk, evident each time they took a few steps forward. He appeared to be the oldest of all three, a sturdy and serious lad.

  “Where’s your family, young man?” Mr. Oliver asked, peering at him over his spectacles, seeming to notice him for the first time. “You best stay close to them in this crowd if you don’t want to risk crossing on your own.”

  “I’m not with my family, sir. Well, that is, just my uncle. He’s to meet me here, Reverend Wilson he is. He had some last minute things to take care of. I’m to board so he doesna have to waste time finding me. I have all my tickets and letters,” David said, patting his jacket with confidence.

  “Aye, well, he can follow us, canna he, Mr. O, just in case that hawker up there gives him trouble?” Liam said, canting his head toward the man incessantly shouting, “All aboard, have your tickets ready or step out of the way.”

  “I suppose,” Mr. Oliver said, his gaze sweeping the crowd for anyone resembling a reverend searching for a boy, clearly not relishing the prospect of another charge.

  David also scanned the crowd. It was easy enough to spot his uncle, his height being the one thing they shared, though of course his collar set him off as well. The resemblance ended there, his uncle being fair of skin and hair, his features rounded and pleasant, always friendly and approachable, reminiscent of his mother. David’s coloring was dark; his own features with more of an edge to them, at times appearing brooding and unapproachable, reminiscent of his father.

  What would he do if his uncle didn’t show by the time he reached the transport? Board as Uncle John had instructed?

  With an effort David returned his attention to Liam. It was hard not to like the lad straight away; he was alive with an excitement that was contagious. Almost as tall as David himself, he was of slighter build, with jet black hair that brought to mind tales of the sleek coats of the silkies off Orkney. His dark blue eyes were bright with intelligence.

  “Rob and I are going to help Mr. Oliver set up a school in the states. As soon as he heard the war was done he just upped and decided to leave and start over, didna ye, Mr. O? Ye can do just about anything you want in Philly with an education, says Mr. O. Sean here will be going on toward Pittsburg, to meet up with his brother and help him on his farm, maybe end up with a farm of his own. Land’s free for the taking I hear, if ye can work it. Are ye aiming to stay on in Philly?” He paused for a breath, then introduced himself. “Liam Brock,” he said.

  “David Graham,” David responded. “I’m to apprentice to printers Hall and Sellers in Philadelphia. Mr. Hall’s da knew my kin at the University in Edinburgh.” As they were pushed forward he turned to scan the crowd again. Finally! He closed his eyes in a quick prayer of thanks, then grinned broadly.

  “Uncle John! Uncle John, over here,” he called, waving his hand high above his head.

  John Wilson hurried forward with a small trunk, his brow furrowed with concern.

  “There you are, David. I worried, what with the sail being so close. If I didn’t see you, I was in a quandary whether to board or not. I should have arranged it better to assure myself of your whereabouts.” He paused, setting the trunk down and hunting for his handkerchief. “What was I going to tell your mother if I ended up in Philadelphia and left you here, or if I should stay and you ended up in Philadelphia on your own?” He took off his hat and wiped his hairline, his blond hair dark with a perspiration born of worry.

  “Dinna fash, Uncle. I did what ye told me and here I am. Did ye find what ye were looking for? Did ye—”

  “Are ye planning to make introductions, David?” Wilson asked, interrupting his queries. Setting his hat back, he pocketed his linen and studied David’s companions.

  “Oh, aye, of
course.” He introduced Mr. Oliver and the others.

  “Well, ain’t this cozy. This ain’t a tea party; are ye boarding or not?” They had reached the front of the queue and the ticket collector. “Plenty behind you want your space if not, so make it quick. Where’s your docs? That’s not them. You’re not getting far with your lodging receipt. Stop wasting these good people’s time; there’s a windward tide to catch, man.”

  Mr. Oliver continued to fumble through his paperwork, dropping several pieces in his search for the tickets. Liam reached over and quickly plucked the tickets from amid the scramble of documents, his foot moving atop the fallen papers before the breeze could take them.

  “Here they are, ye old sap, and don’t forget ye kept us waiting these last three days for the sail.”

  “Liam, tis better to return discourtesy with courtesy,” Mr. Oliver said quietly.

  “Right, Mr. O, sorry. Sometimes I get me back up and forget.” He bent and retrieved the papers beneath his foot, then took the balance of documents from Oliver, carefully placing them in the case at the man’s feet. He nodded toward the waiting barge. “Let’s board then, aye?”

  David passed the ticket he’d been safeguarding to his uncle, who handed it, along with his own, to the ship’s employee. The man motioned them along impatiently, adding “get on with ya man, keep it moving.”

  THE DECK OF THE Industry was a chaos of passengers milling about and seamen shouting orders. David grabbed his uncle’s elbow, steering him to an unoccupied spot along the rail. They stood silently for several moments, watching the pandemonium on the quay.

  “Well,” Wilson said, sighing and turning. “No looking back, aye? Let’s go below and claim a berth, shall we?”

  Even midmorning it was dim between-decks, lit only with the weak bit of sunlight streaming through the small open hatch. It took David’s eyes a few seconds to adjust.

  It looked full, people clamoring about everywhere. The berths were stacked two high on either side of the hold, and four long tables ran the length of the center. A woman was already making use of the slop bucket behind a board serving as a makeshift water closet.

  “Uncle,” he asked quietly, “will the women bunk here as well, then?”

  “We’re all in this together son, although we shouldn’t have to share a bunk with any women, since we’ve none traveling with us.”

  “Share . . . ye mean there’ll be more than the two of us in one of these?”

  “Aye, David, we’ll probably share a berth with two other men, maybe more.”

  David looked closely at the size of the berths and led his uncle toward the other end of the hold, where not as many people had gathered yet.

  Wilson laughed. “It’ll fill up over here as well, but aye, this will do.” He set his bag on the top berth.

  “Won’t ye be more comfortable on the lower berth?”

  “At first perhaps, but not when the seepage from the sick above makes it way down to those below.”

  David quickly lifted his own bag, storing it next to his uncle’s, hitting his head on the low-lying timbers as he did. “What’s in here, Uncle John?” he asked, lifting a trunk to the foot of the berth. “It’s heavy.”

  “It carries our dishware, as well as some provisions. It’s mostly oatmeal, but there’s also cheese, biscuit, flour, a bit of butter, and some vinegar . . . in case rations are tight.”

  “I thought all was provided?”

  “I heard talk. With the uncertainty of the winds, tis prudent to supplement rations. Now, if ye don’t mind, I’ll rest a spell. It was a long night spent worrying. Why don’t you go on up and watch our departure, while I close my eyes a bit?”

  David raced to the deck before his uncle reconsidered, nearly colliding with a young sailor who was carrying the log-line and sand glass.

  “Best be making yourself invisible abaft bucko, or Mr. Ritcher will have ye below faster than ye can say ‘but suh’,” the boy said, placing the items near the wheel. David nodded and moved farther aft. He supposed that was abaft; there were fewer seamen in that direction.

  “Loose sail!”

  Canvas cracked overhead as sails unfurled. The sound sent his blood racing, making it all real. After months of endless talk and ceaseless planning, he was truly sailing to America.

  Several sailors dropped from the rigging and raced to the front of the ship, hoisting two of the ship’s boats up from the booms and over the larboard side, down to the river to join the three boats secured with tow-lines. Men scrambled over the side, dropping into the waiting boats and manning the oars. Forgetting the admonition to stay out of the way, David went forward to watch. The anchor now up, the tide and the brig’s boats began the laborious task of towing them out to sea.

  Great limestone walls rose from the thick forests crowding the banks on either side of them, and as they rounded a bend he spotted two deer taking water at the shoreline, their heads rising warily as the ship sailed by. Smaller fishing boats passed by under sail, and farther ahead he caught a glimpse of another ship being towed out to sea. He briefly considered waking his uncle to witness it all, but that would require going back down into that hold. Besides, the man had said he wanted to rest.

  By the time the sun was high in the sky, the young sailor who had warned him earlier joined him at the rail. Clad in ill-fitting brown trousers, his coarse linen red-checked shirt tucked haphazardly about his narrow waist, the slight young lad was hatless, his long dark hair tied untidily back. The red scarf he wore around his neck was his only concession against the cold. He was not at all in keeping with David’s impressions of what a sailor should be: burly, weathered, and mean-tempered.

  “Watch all that did ya? Now you can say you know first-hand why the English be the best seamen in the world. Ain’t an easy thing to work a ship down a windward tide, backing and filling the length of it, especially not in a channel as narrow as the Avon Gorge. No matter how skilled the pilot. I heard it done, ain’t never seen it afore now.”

  “I’ll have to take ye at your word there,” David said, “Seeing as I havena a clue what ye’re talking about. Ye’re American? Have ye been at sea long?”

  The boy laughed. “Yes, I am, and no, I ain’t. Could be why I ain’t never seen it done! Alex Mannus,” he said, holding out a rough, wind-chapped hand.

  David shook his hand and introduced himself.

  “We’re at the Bristol Roads now. Soon as the pilot’s paid off, we’ll be on our way,” Alex said. “See? They’re bringing in the boats.” He pointed to the sailors hoisting in the ship’s boats and securing them, each one nestled inside another.

  David noticed one of the crew bearing down on them; a husky, rough looking man with an air of authority. “I think that man behind ye is looking for ye, Alex. He’s headed this way, and he doesna know me. First mate, is he?”

  Alex turned. “Aye, that’s Mr. Ritcher. Don’t get on his bad side. I’m off then.” He ran the short distance to meet the mate.

  “Make sail,” the captain bellowed at last.

  There was shouting from atop the rigging as more sails unfurled, snapping alive with the power of the wind. A brisk, salty breeze replaced the last of the pungent stench of the river, chasing away the final grey of the sky until all that remained above was a cloudless, brilliant blue. Gulls circled and dived, their screams a chorus of farewells.

  Three porpoises kept pace with the ship, sailing into the air from time to time as if to welcome them to their world. The sea was bright with small, white-capped swells, the sky alive with gulls diving now and then to snatch a meal. David savored the breeze, filling his lungs as he took slow, deep breaths.

  His hands tightened on the rail as the shoreline slowly receded. What was it Uncle John had said? He crossed the deck and instead faced a horizon full of possibilities, bounded only by the sky.

  Aye, no looking back.

  2

  Celtic Sea

  November 1783