The sailor and the south.., p.1
The Sailor and the Southern Belle, page 1
part #6 of Sailors and Saints Series
The Sailor and the Southern Belle
Sailors and Saints Series
Annie Boone
Contents
Copyright
If you enjoy sweet inspiring historical love stories
Annie Boone
The Sailor and the Southern Belle
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Epilogue
A Note from Annie
Also by Annie Boone
About Annie Boone
Copyright
Copyright 2019, Annie Boone, Sweet River Publishing
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form, electronic or mechanical, without written approval by the author, except for short excerpts used in a book review.
All characters, places, events, businesses, or references to historical facts are fictitious and products of the author’s imagination. Any references to actual people, places, or events are purely incidental.
AnnieBoone.com/arg
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The Sailor and the Southern Belle
Sailors and Saints Series
Annie Boone
1
Brewster let out a groan as he bent low to pick up the wooden box. It was rather heavy, and he was fumbling to get it to chest height. After a few harsh grunts and a couple of repositioned stances, he finally got it in his grip and had it lifted. He walked slowly, measuring his pace to keep from tripping. Brewster was more than averse to injuries. Since the burn he was careful in everything he did to make sure he didn’t go through anything that traumatic again. It was better to be safe.
So he moved slowly, waddling like a duckling on land, till he got to the wooden post where he had put the rest of the boxes. Ignoring the strands of his dark hair that the wind had blown around in his eyes, he lined the box of tools up on top of the other box and pushed it over.
Once the box was no longer taking all his strength to hold, Brewster let out his breath. He moved a few steps back to observe his morning work once again. He had been at the dock since the crack of dawn. He had actually been at the Bartley dock for over three years now and finally, today was the day. His last day on the docks. He didn’t know whether to be elated or disappointed. He was confused, that much was sure.
Dusting his dirty hands on the fabric of his brown trousers, he rubbed the back of his left hand against his forehead. Beads of sweat rolled down his arm, running through the ridges of the scar and falling off the jut of his elbow. It was April, and unlike New York, San Francisco was already warm. There was always a chilly wind blowing from the ocean to the docks but in the few times when the wind was absent, Brewster was reminded of how humid the air could be.
Another reason I need to move on.
“Brewster,” he heard someone shout behind him.
Brewster guessed it would be one of the crew men of The Voyager, the ship that just arrived. He was probably needed to help move some cargo. Brewster positioned his dirty grey ascot cap and started to turn around. He was willing to do more work, since he had no real plan for his future.
“Brewster Doyle?”
The man was tall, with a serious face and short dark hair. He was wearing a black trouser with bold stripes and a white shirt under a close fitting jacket. His watch chain jingled as he walked and Brewster was sure he would have turned to look at the man just because of the jingling, even if the man had not called his name. But the man had called his name and that fact concerned Brewster.
“Yes, I am he,” Brewster said, hesitance sounding in his voice.
The man smiled when he spoke and Brewster saw that the man had kind eyes making that uneasy feeling fade a bit. Brewster, despite not seeing this man before today, was sure he wasn’t a travelling man and didn’t work on the docks either. There was a hardness, an abrasiveness to dock men that the man didn’t show.
“Howdy, Mr. Doyle, I am Mr. Oakem, Birch Oakem,” the man said.
He extended his left arm to shake Brewster, a strange behavior that had Brewster confused until he realized that the man had been stretching his hand for a few seconds. Mumbling inaudible apologies, he stretched his left hand too and took the man’s hand. It occurred to him that the man was left handed and he had been silly and once again too conscious of his own scarred left hand. If Mr. Oakem noticed the ragged scarring that ran from the joint of his elbows to the end of his wrist, he didn’t show any signs. Instead, his face still held the bright smile that kept telling Brewster that the man had only brought good news.
“Can we speak for a few minutes, Mr. Doyle? Or are you too busy?”
Brewster laughed and shook his head. Busy? That wasn’t a term with which he would describe himself. He had been lifting and putting down boxes from ships and back into ships for the past three years, and he still hadn’t convinced himself that was something that could properly be defined as keeping him busy. He had left Ireland six years ago when he was twenty, hoping to come to America to make his fortune. He hadn’t lost hope on making his own fortune in the west but he was only a few ten dollar notes better than when he had arrived.
“No, I’m done with what I was doing, Mr. Oakem. Please come this way. And please, call me Brewster, everyone does,” he told the man.
He led him to the edge of the wharf, past the stack of boxes he had moved. There he pointed to a smaller but wider box. Grabbing a brown rag from the floor, Brewster rubbed off the dust from the top of the box and motioned for the tall man to take the seat. As he sat beside the man, the wind blew in a gust that almost took Brewster’s cap off. He quickly placed his hand on his head to keep the hat from flying down the wharf. It whipped around the edges of the other man’s hat, but he didn’t seem to notice. He only looked at the sea and then to Brewster.
“I’m sorry to take your time, Brewster but Mr. Pardew told me you’d be here,” Mr. Oakem said. “I hope you don’t mind that I asked about you.”
Brewster nodded. Mr. Pardew was the Bartley dock commissioner and Brewster’s boss. He always knew where Brewster was. He also knew that today was Brewster’s final day as a dock worker so Brewster wondered what this was about.
“No, it is no problem at all,” Brewster answered.
The man nodded and continued.
“He informed me about the status of your contract with the Winston shipping company.”
Brewster raised an eyebrow on hearing that the gossip that he’d soon be without a job was making the rounds. Mr. Pardew wasn’t a loud mouth and would have had a good reason to tell this man about his situation. He leaned closer to see why the man was really here.
“This is your final day as a worker here, Brewster. Am I right about that?”
“Yes, it’s my last day here on the docks,” Brewster answered with a nod.
“Okay,” the man said in a drawn out manner. “Do you have any plans for what you’ll do next?”
Brewster was not prepared for that question and he just shook his head. The truth was he had no plans. All he knew to do lately was lift boxes and put them down. He did know that when he left the docks he would find some other work to do but he didn’t know where the next job would be.
“You see, I have a proposition for you, Brewster. I run a small school for sailors with my wife,” Mr. Oakem said.
“School for sailors?”
“Exactly, we teach sailors and dock hands how to read and write.”
Brewster nodded. He had always wanted to learn to read and write but he had been too busy paying his debt since he came to America. And besides that, he had tried it a few times on his own trying to remember the little bit his mother had taught him. Reading was difficult. And he didn’t have any idea how to even write his name.
“Well, thanks a lot sir, but I don’t have any money to pay you and your wife,” Brewster said.
“Money? Oh, don’t bother with that. We take payment in many forms. Mr. Pardew informed me of your good behavior and suggested to me that I should tell you about our arrangement. A spot opened up and from what I hear you’re a good fit for our place. You don’t have to worry about payment. Can you farm?”
“Farm? Oh, that I can do. I used to help my parents on the farm over in Ireland. I actually have missed it. I’m particularly good with livestock.”
The man smiled again, that warm smile that had informed Brewster earlier that the man was kind.
“That’s great. So you can pay for your learning by helping out on the farm. I expect you’ll even be able to take a lead role as you get back into it. The school building is on a huge piece of land. The building is not big but we have a farm on the rest of the land. Truth is, we can use a few more hands. We also teach other skills, so there’s plenty of opportunity to learn from each other. I think you should join us.”
Brewster also thought he should join them too. But he had no other skills.
“I can juggle, Mr. Oakem. Does that count as another skill?”
Mr. Oakem laughed. His laughter was genuine and had his chest rocking. It rumbled out of his mouth in deep bellows and soon Brewster was laughing along with him. Mr. Oakem placed his hand on Brewster’s shoulder. His grip was firm although Brewster could tell that he didn’t mean it as a show of dominance.
“No, Brewster, that doesn’t count as a skill. Call me Birch. I think we’ll become friends for sure,” the man said.
Brewster smiled and nodded.
“So when will you be ready to come?” Birch asked.
“I’m ready right now.”
“Aren’t you doing anything?”
“I’m done with my assignments for the day, so that means I’m done on the docks.”
“What of your luggage?”
Brewster leaned behind the box they were sitting on and picked up a small satchel bag. It was the same brown leather bag he had brought from Ireland. Brewster hadn’t really gathered much luggage all this time in America and with that bag, he had all he needed and all he owned.
“Is this all?” Birch asked, a question to which Brewster shrugged and smiled.
“Follow me then,” Birch said, leading Brewster down the dock and into the packing station. He had a sturdy looking brown horse with a short wooden wagon waiting for them.
He loosened the reins where he’d looped them on the post and motioned to Brewster to get into the wagon.
“This is Boldheart, and she’ll take us home,” Birch said, referring to the horse. Brewster nodded and looked back to the dock as the horse took them away. He was going to learn to read and write. He didn’t know whether to be happy or scared about that.
2
The thick smoke from the train swirled in the wind and rushed all over Rosalie. Holding tightly to her leather bag, she stood still until the smoke rolled over her to the back of the train. The smell was overwhelming even though she’d become used to it a bit as she’d traveled across the prairie and finally into the hills and mountains.
She was here and as if to reiterate her thoughts, her eyes rested on a small wooden board that read Cheyenne, Wyoming. Tapping her hand on her head, to make sure her straw hat was still there, she nodded to herself on affirmation and started to move away. She was looking around, searching for the tall man with a wide brimmed hat who had promised to be waiting for her when she arrived.
She had been writing and receiving letters from Billy James Ricketts for about six months now and had finally made the trip from her home in Virginia to Wyoming. She hardly slept a wink throughout the trip, and it wasn’t because of the noise of the rumbling engine. She was excited to finally see Billy after all this time that they had written. She wanted to see exactly what he looked like and she was especially keen to hear his voice.
He had sounded like a nice, friendly fellow in his letters and Rosalie had long been eager to see him. Her parents had received a formal request from Mr. Black, her father’s friend and business partner, on his intention to marry her just one week after Billy’s letter had arrived containing his own intentions to marry her. Rosalie was not going to marry a man more than twenty years older than her, no matter how rich he was. And it didn’t matter one bit that he was her father’s trusted friend. And now that she had a suitor who was just a few years older than her and already a successful store owner there was no reason to settle for an old man.
Rosalie looked around her, hoping to see a friendly face. The train station was busy and there were a lot of people speaking, walking, and loading bags into wagons. Some smiled, laughed, and hugged. Rosalie closed her eyes as a chill of excitement ran through her. She had always wanted to travel, to come to the west. She had grown up in Virginia and as the last child of a house of three children, she had not been given the freedom to roam. Her mother fussed over her and despite that she was now three years over twenty, she still felt her mother treated her like a child.
The Markham’s aren’t the wealthiest family. We are not even rich, but we certainly act like we are. The truth hit her and made her wince inwardly.
Rosalie tried not to think about how her parents would be feeling at the moment. She had left without informing anyone, except her eldest sister, Alice, who she knew would not say anything till she was long gone. Rosalie reminded herself to write a letter to her parents once she was well settled. But first, she had to be well settled.
She raised her gaze, trying to spot the wide brimmed hat, black boots and white chestnut horse that Billy had promised she would know him by. After several minutes of looking around and finding no such person, Rosalie dragged her bags after her to get out of the way of the crowd. Leaning against the wall, she placed her small bag on the bigger leather bag and made sure it sat properly.
Trying to be patient, she sighed as she was losing that battle completely. She squared her shoulders and walked inside the small building and straight to the counter. Billy had stated in his last letter that in the case that she didn’t find him, she could go speak to anyone at the counter. Everyone knows Billy James Ricketts, he had written in his letter.
Rosalie dusted the skirt of her black dress, brushing away some dusty brown patches she saw on it. Satisfied that it was well dusted, she walked to the counter and tapped the surface in front of another young woman who looked to be barely tall enough to peep over the surface of the wooden construction.
“Please ma’am, my name is Rosalie Markham and I need to find Billy James Ricketts,” she said.
The young woman looked surprised that Rosalie had called that name. She certainly recognized the name.
She knows Billy. Good. It was just as he’d said.
But the woman looked reluctant, uncertain of what to say. “You’re here to see, Billy,” the woman said.
Rosalie nodded, feeling her heart speed up as she spoke. She pushed the niggling worry away that was creeping into her mind.
Why is the young lady looking so alarmed?
“Ma’am, Billy… um, Mr. James is…”
Then lady stopped talking and moved back from the counter. She must have been standing on a box to look over the counter because Rosalie couldn’t see her head or her red hair anymore.
“Are you there?” Rosalie asked, getting up on her tiptoes to look over the counter.
“Give me a moment, ma’am. I need to get the proper person to attend to you,” the lady said.
Rosalie couldn’t see her but she knew very much that the young woman had gone behind the wall.
Is something wrong? What in the world was this about?
Rosalie hated being worried, but she had been on edge since she left home. She had first been worried that her parents would be upset upon finding out that she was missing. But later she decided Alice would have informed her parents and assuaged their fears.
Then she was worried about what Billy would look like and if she would come to fall in love with him after knowing him beyond their letters. She had heard stories from her sisters about how their friends left to the west as mail order brides and came back years after, weather beaten and full of regrets. Rosalie was determined to return immediately if she found she did not like Billy. Then she had stopped being worried about that and was then worried of what Billy would think of her. Yes, she had sleek dark brown hair and dimpled cheeks, and her mother always called her the pretty daughter so she knew she was beautiful.
“But am I beautiful enough?” Rosalie had asked herself on the train.
