Tag Archives: Historical Fiction

Unexpected Detour Blitz

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Courage and Intrigue in Wartime San Francisco

 

Historical Fiction

Date Published: December 10, 2024

Publisher: Acorn Publishing

When bombs fall on Pearl Harbor, the trajectory of Faye Baxter’s
midwestern life takes an unexpected detour. Her fiancé Steve Connor
enlists in the Army, and Faye follows him to California for a
spur-of-the-moment wedding just days before he ships out. 

Eager to contribute to the war effort, Faye joins the workforce in San
Francisco, a city awash with jobs, handsome soldiers, cheap cocktails, and
nefarious secrets. When she is recruited to serve as a courier for a
government intelligence agency, the assignment leads her into a web of
misogyny, deception, and espionage. 

Will she learn to trust her instincts, value her own opinions, and raise
her voice against injustice? Or are the risks too great?

About the Author

Lynn Marie Jackson

Lynn Marie Jackson has spent many years engaged in the creative process
working as a marketing strategist, copywriter, podcast producer, blogger,
and novelist. Raised in California and Washington, DC, she is a long-time
San Francisco Bay Area resident. When not writing, she’s on the hunt
for inspiration; she can be found visiting museums, hiking new trails, or
exploring any place well outside her comfort zone.

 

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Instagram: @lmjauthor 

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The Blue-Eyed Butterfly Virtual Book Tour

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Historical Fiction

Date Published: Sept. 29 2024

Publisher: Jan-Carol Publishing, Inc.

 

 

Three women, Callie, Lillian, and Lydia faced an adversary that would
change their lives forever. He resided in the only home that Callie had ever
known, ensnaring her into his vicious web of dominance and cruelty. His
insatiable thirst for exacting fear soon traps Lillian and Lydia in his
household. In due course, his own demise takes him down the road of no
return.

EXCERPT

Author’s Note

 

Locked in silence. During the early to mid-1920s, women were forced to keep silent about domestic violence, unwanted pregnancies, or sexual abuse. They were hidden or sent away, but mostly, they stayed with no relief and no way out. As blankets of extreme poverty lay upon the Appalachian Mountains, women’s mental and physical survival relied heavily on their will to live. 

This book is based on true events of three women living in a time when there were no shelters, no crisis center, no groups to meet with, or counselors to call to help heal their troubled dreams or the scars that took root in their souls. Their circumstances forced each woman on a journey of brutality, resilience, love, and forgiveness, and united them in ways they could not have foreseen. 

Callie was strong-willed and determined. Her home was in the hills of East Tennessee, where her mother died with the birth of another sibling. Lillian, a young girl of eighteen, grew up in the western mountains of North Carolina during the Great Influenza Epidemic that took her father’s life and left her mother and sisters anguishing in poverty. Lydia, who had been briefly abandoned during the beginning of her life, tried to fit in with her new surroundings, though her appearance was strikingly different from Callie. It was Lillian’s love story that brought the three together and led to a blueprint for endurance and survival.

 

Callie

1917

 

The flames were fading to embers, and the night laid heavy on my shoulders, carrying a weight of which no child should be asked to bear. Failing to anticipate the shrill sound that pierced my tender ears and eventually my broken heart, I reached for the poker and angrily jabbed at the blackness of the fire, sensing the miseries that were coming. I sat motionless, gripped with fear, until only a flicker remained, and without thought I threw another split of wood on top of the smoldering cinders, daring the flame to die. Dread twisted my gut as her pleading screams exposed her helplessness, causing tears to pool in my eyes and spill down my frantic face.

Before the creak of the door sounded, his voice bellowed, and I shot off the chair. 

“You lazy piece of shit!” he shouted. “Git me some water.” 

Now, I knew I wasn’t lazy, because Mama had taught me a lot about managing the household. I cooked and scrubbed the cabin floor on my hands and knees. The garden rows were clean. The weeds were hoed out almost as soon as they broke ground. I looked after the young’uns and pretty near did everything she did.

Papa, with his dark brown, crinkled eyes sunk in a face of weathered skin, scowled. There had never been any attempt to hide his feelings beneath that haystack of burnished beard. Now his roughened hands flailed like a scarecrow in the garden, trying to keep the scavengers away. I knew when to mind my own business and keep myself from his reach if I could. Anger and frustration raged within his soul on this night when the death angel slipped through the cracks of our home, snatching life away from us and stripping Papa of his persistent control. 

I grabbed the bucket and flew out the door. My tattered nightgown and bare feet were accustomed to the wind, although it whipped around my legs as cold and calculating as a queen bee’s deadly sting. The dry season was upon us, and we started rationing water from the cistern last month. I pumped the handle and prayed there would be enough to lessen Mama’s fever, and soon the weighted pot challenged my strength. One last boost, and I hooked the slopping water pot over the fire, spilling so slightly a little on my garment. 

As I ladled the boiling water into the bowl, a chill passed through the warming room, and awareness perked every part of my soul. Silence slipped in and stole the air out of my breath, and my eyes glazed over, numbing me to the blistered burn on my hand. But I continued to carry the pan of water toward the still-barred door. It was of dire importance that I delivered the water. I could save her.

Papa stormed out of the room, oblivious to my presence. The smell and sight of the bloodied bed overpowered me, lurching me backward. Her eyes were closed, but the steady rise and fall of her chest offered new hope that she would survive the birth. Her newborn boy lay swaddled beside her. Still! His soul had left him before he could start living. Mama had already born my three older brothers and two younger sisters, who slept soundly in the attic. 

Mama slept too, and I gently wiped the beads of droplets from her forehead. They laid like dew, which had settled on tender leaves after a throbbing sun had scorched them. I tried to absorb every part of her face as I remoistened the thread-bare rag, then wiped down her arms and legs so I could remember her and her teaching us how to be good to each other. My finger traced every line in her face, as though following a map, showing a person direction on which way to go next. Then I followed the edge of her hair, down her cheeks, toward her lips, which uttered no message.

Whispering to her, I touched her so gently, “Mama, tell me. Tell me what I’m supposed to do next.” But she lay there, unmoving.

The door snapped open suddenly and forcefully like branches loaded with ice and snow, causing me to catch my breath in a hold. Papa staggered back into the room, smelling of stale whiskey, and blabbering words of ill-temper.

“What are you doing in here, you sorry…Git out! Are you trying to kill her?”

“No, Papa!” I shrieked. And I ran, leaving Mama alone with him. I stumbled to the attic, where the others slept, and huddled in the darkest corner, unable to suppress my sobs of hopelessness. Somehow, I knew she would be gone before the rooster’s crow.

Earlier in the night, Hazel had awakened from her fitful sleep. She was seven years old and almost as tall as me, but skinner than bird legs. 

“Why didn’t you call me?” she asked. “You’re always trying to do everything by yourself.” Hazel was soft-spoken, but the tenseness of the night enveloped an urgency and impatience that we all felt. She begged to see Mama and promised not to cry. So, I relented and allowed her to do so. We crept into the room where she lay quietly. Papa was pacing on the porch like a mountain cat cornered in a cave. 

He had never been a compassionate man. Whether he loved Mama, I couldn’t say for sure. His needs were unimportant now. As Hazel reached out to touch Mama’s trembling hand, she fell into a heap on the floor. I carried her limp body up the steps to her waiting bed, tucking her next to Rachel. A mop head of black curls lay tousled around her four-year-old chubby face. Our older brothers Peter, Baxter, and Stanley lay asleep in a bed on the other side of the room. The only privacy we all had was a quilt thrown over a line, dividing the space. The attic showed no mercy for any human.

I then slipped back to Mama’s bedside. Her eyes fell away as I warmed my cold hand against her feverish brow. She slept for a while, and when she awakened, she tried to speak, but no sound came. Her eyes were covered with sadness, and I was afraid. The sips of cool water I offered, quenched her parched mouth, but the quiver on her lips forced me to turn my head away, for fear that she would see my desperation and longing for her. She must have known her fate as she drifted into a restless sleep again. I pulled my chair closer, watching her chest rise and fall. I willed my breath to the same rhythm, praying that I could breathe more life into her frail body. 

There was no doctor. No midwife. No money. I kissed her cheek and said, “Mama, don’t leave me. I need you.” 

But this morning, sadness and despair ruled over the cold. My own will was broken, ladened with grief. They had taken her now soulless body before daybreak. All that was left of her and her baby were the blood-stained bed sheets that were witness to a ravage of pain that bound them together.

 

* * *

 

The wildflowers lay heavy against one another, sprouting among cracks and crevices, undeterred by a passel of rocks that had owned the land before Papa. I drank in their fragrance as I carefully gathered each one. There was still a crispness in the air, spring was nearby, waiting, teasing us into believing winter storms had passed. I gathered my shawl around me to fend off the bite and walked on toward Mama’s grave. It had been a long, unforgiving year, but we had pulled together. Life in the country was hard and brutal, drudging out a living, with few farming tools and little money. A meager existence was eked out of the unrelenting ground. Now, Mama didn’t have to worry about harvesting the field, canning, and the daily care of the children. 

I brushed off the dust that had clung to her tombstone and placed the flowers at the base. That had become my responsibility, along with pacifying Papa, impossible as it was. I sighed, told Mama goodbye again, and headed toward home.

At first, the neighbors came by, bringing freshly made meals and sugar cakes, but no one came now, because of Papa. He ran them off, saying he didn’t need their charity. However, at the supper table, there were only biscuits or cornbread to eat and milk from our cow, to drink. Sometimes, Rachel would get the sniffles at night from the hunger in her belly. We never talked about Mama when Papa was around. He wouldn’t allow it. I followed his command when, in the solitude of our bed, Hazel and Rachel would cry out, longing for her. 

“Hush,” I ordered. “It doesn’t do you any good to talk about her. That won’t bring her back.” Whimpering, they would fall into a tumble of nightmares, cradled in my arms, while my thoughts of her holding me the way she used to gave way to exhaustion from the chores of the day.

Rising before the morning sun dried the dewed windows, I gathered wood from the porch as I had on every morning. Hazel and Rachel, blanket wrapped tightly around them before the warmth came from the fire, screamed with both fear and delight when the wood popped and sparked, tossing an ember at their feet. While I went to the smokehouse to cut off a slab of bacon from the quarter of a pig Uncle Haynes had given us, the boys scuttled off to gather some eggs. Outside, I could hear the roughhousing between the three of them, but as soon as they reached the back steps, I could almost feel their backs straightening, and quiet composure ensue. Papa didn’t tolerate any nonsense. His critical tongue and well-worn belt often flailed to the boys and occasionally us girls. Mama had always been our safety net from his ire. Now, there was no one.

Once a month, he hitched Jack, our old mule, to the wagon and rode into town to buy flour and feed. When he was away for the day, I would make sugar cookies and treat Hazel and Rachel to them. They giggled with delight, and after they finished, they chugged down a tin cup of milk. On one occasion, I cut a piece of sackcloth that I had saved, tucked a ball of twine underneath, snipped a small length, and fashioned it to appear as a head. Then I sewed buttons on for the eyes and nose. I hid those makeshift dolls behind my back, taunting them to guess what mystery I held. They squealed and sprung to their feet, grabbing at my arms to see the surprise.

“Git back,” I said, “and I’ll show you.” They snapped back to attention. Then, I thrust the ragged dolls toward them, and they clasped their hands to their cheeks, astonished that they had a treasure to cherish. 

“Now,” I told them, “you must tuck them away, upstairs under your pillow. Papa mustn’t know.” They nodded their heads, still in disbelief. We loved each other and they respected me. That brevity of happiness would be my last, for years to come, with no thought in mind that anyone would need to care for me.

Our ramshackle home had provided one room of privacy, with a sleeping space for Mama and Papa. Not counting the open loft, which we referred to as an attic, the main room below served as our gathering place. It was filled with a faded couch, the arms well-worn from previous families, which had been given to us by Uncle Haynes. A rough-hewn table and chairs sat near the makeshift kitchen where shelves were nailed to the wall, holding a few chipped dishes, alongside a cast iron skillet and one pot. The boys often played marbles on the floor at night with Rachel and Hazel horning their way in, and Papa eventually swatting their be-hind. I sat, mending a sock in front of the fireplace, in Mama’s rocking chair, longing for her presence. Those were ordinary nights since Mama left us. But tonight was no ordinary night.

The boys lay snoring in their beds, their heads stuffy from colds as I offered Rachel one last sip of water. I tucked her in again and returned the glass to the kitchen. Papa had retired earlier, but now I saw a glimmer of flickering light between the cracks under the door.

“Papa, are you alright?” I asked, leaning closer, putting my ear close but not willing to knock. 

“Come in here,” he replied calmly. It was unlike him. He was sitting on the side of the bed in his dingy nightshirt, which I had washed so many times with lye soap and was shed of any whiteness which remained in the cloth. His hair and beard, left unattended since Mama had died, lay intermingled as one tousled mess.

I learned never to show fear to Papa, because when he raged at the boys, they tried to show courage. But their eyes failed them in their weakness. Now I stood alone before him, in my nightshirt, too. Vulnerable. Did I let it show? My eyes didn’t waver, but my heart pounded while I, standing there, scolded my heart for betraying me. Surely, he could hear! 

“You’re staying with me tonight,” he commanded. 

“No, Papa, no!” I began to scream before he could clasp his tobacco-fumed hand to my lips. Everything I had taught my heart and mind vanished. 

“Shut up,” he whispered in my ear as his burly hands lifted me onto his and Mama’s bed. “You’re going to do as you’re told.” 

I tried to leave. Truly, I did! But I didn’t cry. I wouldn’t let myself. It was the only control I had. I lay there that night, defeated. When I was certain he had fallen asleep, I slipped out of his bed, hating him, and climbed to the sanctuary where Rachel and Hazel, still innocent, lay. 

I held them closer than ever before, weeping, knowing that I had relented unwillingly to Mama’s place in Papa’s bed. At morning’s light, I still lay awake, dreading the sight and sour smell of him again. But there was no hiding place. To everyone else at the breakfast table, it was just another day, but my heart was hardened, and silence and anger brewed inside. Darkness would come too soon and snatch my sanity once more.

The nights were his, and the walls within held a secret. A secret my feet were unable to run away from. A secret that ripped my soul. Now, he had also taken Mama from me, for I could no longer bear a visit to her grave. I was ashamed because she knew.

 

Lillian

 

Hopelessness, an unwelcome intruder, lived in towns, as well as the countryside. It affected both the rich and the poor. My papa and five-year-old sister lay gravely ill for days, with consciousness ebbing and eventually claiming another two victims. Trees were cut, planed, and nailed, shaping the wood into a coffin, one for Papa and one for Lila. Neighbors and family members often bartered to pay. We, on the other hand, had nothing to barter. All we had to offer were our hands and feet, to work off the debt, clean homes, or sell baked goods. Papa and Lila had been buried on the cemetery hill. With snow brushing our chapped faces, Mama, my sisters, and I mourned our loss. Few family and friends came, distancing themselves for fear of the same fate. Now, we had to set aside our grief and survive and make a living any way we could.

Word traveled through the hills and hollers, of gossip and tragedies, but good news also trickled through as well. We heard that the Youngren family, who lived a good day and a half night’s walk away, needed a housekeeper and a keeper of the children. Without hesitation, the day after we heard, I quickly pressed the best of my two dresses, twirled my long black hair neatly into a bun, pinched my cheeks until the skin flowed pink, and headed down the dusty road. 

I left by the light of the full moon, as it was still ordering the stars about. It lit my way. By the time I arrived at mid-noon, two other older women of ages whose wisps of hair had started graying around the curve of a woman’s face were standing just inside the foyer, waiting their turn. Their hands were empty, but I had taken the time to make a caramel pie, knowing my young age would be held against me for lack of experience. I hoped to show Mrs. Youngern that I could cook. When they saw my basket, I quickly thrust it behind my back. Their wistful faces frowned, realizing they had not taken advantage of the moment. I turned my head away, pretending not to notice their displeasure.

Each one, in turn, was questioned and left without satisfaction. I dared not meet their stare as they left, keeping my eyes downward toward a loose thread on the sleeve of my dress that I fiddled with. Now I had to step forward and prove myself to be more efficient than the others. But leaving that early without breakfast caused my stomach to churn and growl like a starving animal. With the pie still in hand, I thrust my elbows toward that noisy beast. So hard that it stopped complaining, just as Mrs. Youngern approached me.

Graciously, she invited me into the parlor and offered me a seat.

“And what is your name, young lady?” she asked. 

“L-Lillian,” I stuttered. The hairs on my arms began stiffening, and my hands started to shake, losing my self-confidence.

“May I offer you a drink of water?” She must have noticed the color leaving my face. A brief nod was all I could offer. She returned with a glass of sweet tea instead.

“I thought you might need a little sugar. Did you have food today?” 

I sipped on the tea. “Yes, ma’am. I had a full breakfast.” 

I had no habit of lying, but before my tongue could be tied, that lie just slipped out. She didn’t challenge me, and I wasn’t about to admit I had used near the last bit of flour and sugar for her. Now, I wondered if she thought me such a weakling that I wouldn’t be able to do the job required of me in her household. 

“What do you have there?” She looked down at my hands clinging to the baked good, wrapped in cloth. I had forgotten it was still in my possession.

“A caramel pie for you,” I said.

“Did you make this?” she asked, taking it from me. 

“Yes, ma’am,” I answered. She smiled and thanked me. 

“How thoughtful. It smells delicious. We will serve it at supper tonight. Come with me, and I’ll put the pie away while I show you the house.”

Although she had born eight children, which was not uncommon in the hills, her porcelain skin had been spared the sun and wind of the harsh winters. Mr. Youngren had been able to provide for her and his family, more comfortably than most. We, along with all our other neighbors, had heard of him and the log mill, which he owned. It was thriving in a destitute community. And so far, they had been spared the fever and death that surrounded the rest of us. 

The two-story home, a white clapboard, resided on a knoll a distance from the town. The wrap-around porch beckoned to summers of rocking chairs and lemonade and ladies with handheld fans cooling the sweat on their brows. With eight children, every inch of space was used, both upstairs and down, as I noted when Mrs. Youngren showed me their home. It was clean as a whistle, with finely carved furniture gracing each room. She took me upstairs where large rooms were fitted with beds, three beds to a room. The youngest, she said, was still being held in a crib in her and the mister’s bedroom. 

“But our oldest boy, Hugh, sleeps when he’s here on the third floor. Says it’s nice and quiet. He works hard and deserves it. Won’t take you up there now. He’s sleeping. Getting ready to go on a big trip for his papa. He’ll leave at daybreak tomorrow and won’t be back for a while.”

Before I could ponder on the steps to the third floor, Mrs. Youngren turned purposely, asking, “And what experience have you with children?” 

I responded easily, “My younger sister, who recently passed…I helped Mama care for her since birth, and I cared for her when she fell ill with a fever. I know when a child is starting an earache or the stomach is swollen with waste. I know how to get rid of both. We never had a doctor, so we learned to heal ourselves with the herbs we grew. The fever was too much, though. I understand that the fever was too much, even if we’d had the doctor’s medicine.”

I wondered in that moment if I had said enough, or too much. But she nodded, and we walked on, ending up in the kitchen.

“Five of our older children go to school,” she continued. “They are responsible for their care. But pack lunches, only for the three youngest. After the older children have left, the younger ones, even though one is four, need attending. I will be taking them out during the day to visit relatives, and while I’m gone, you will have time for household chores. As you can see, there are always things to do. Sundays are for church. So that would be your day off. You can either stay here,” she pointed to a room off the kitchen, “or go home to your family. Oh, but please prepare something that I can heat quickly. Do you have any questions?” 

“No, ma’am,” I replied, suddenly realizing she was offering me a place in her family.

Mr. Youngren had fetched a driver to return me to my home, where I collected some belongings and returned the following day. It was the uproarious and chaotic environment that unsettled my former solitude.

I eventually was able to put a name to a face, except for one, the oldest, who was away from home. Four girls and three boys, not including the one I hadn’t met. I savored the early morning’s stillness, kneading dough for biscuits, popping them in the oven, and then sipping strong black coffee, while they baked—a reprieve from the rest of the hectic day.

There was never a doubt when they woke, for the shuffling footsteps and creaks from the ceiling gave them away. They ran and stomped and rattled the stairway, trying to beat the others to the kitchen.

“Hmm, something smells good,” they said as they clamored for a seat that they knew wasn’t their own. The mister and missus followed closely behind them, correcting the bad behavior. 

“Children!” the mister said. “Stop with your rowdiness this minute.” That’s all it took for them to straighten their backs and stiffen their lips.

Two weeks passed quickly, and the family’s kindness and patience, while learning their ways, had been comforting. Tickled toes and smudged cookie faces rewarded me with giggles and grins, momentarily forgetting the impoverishment and sadness that I left behind. My relief, not without guilt, came from knowing that my sisters and mother were fed from the money I was able to send. Work was so sparse that neither had found an offer to help provide.

Mr. Youngren, in his graciousness, demanded the children respect me, and when necessary, obey me. He left soon after breakfast, his back a little stooped, pulling on the same black hat that hung on the hall tree. Shades of sandy blond hair protruded from underneath, still giving him a youthful glance of his earlier years, though the brutal seasons of sweltering heat and the blighting cold had gnarled his fingers. His pointing finger was missing on the right hand, caused from a moment of distraction while feeding a piece of wood through the saw’s blade at the mill. At least, that’s what the oldest girl, Evelyn, whispered to me when he left one morning. I often saw him wince in pain, and in the evening, Mrs. Youngren would prepare a liniment for his comfort. And yet, the mill was all he knew. What he wanted. Even though he was the owner, it owned him, and the toll on his health was evident.

While serving supper, I couldn’t help but overhear the comings and goings of their lives. A confrontation at school, and an ensuing fight with another boy, had left the middle boy, Aaron, with a black eye. A light reprimand came from Mrs. Youngren to avoid such childishness, but a stronger response came from Mr. Youngren on how to defend oneself. The children “eyed” each other with a smile or a nod, depending on whose side they were taking.

But there was also news of illness and death from other families. The flu had not claimed a death in this family, but it had ravaged two of the younger children, Mae and Shirley. Fortunately, they had survived.

March held an aloofness, tempting us into believing it was spring. I cherished the nights in my room, squirreled away, hearing only my voice, reading from a borrowed book in their library. A welcome escape to lands I would never visit. Stories that were unimaginably told. Although I had little education, reading would be my gateway to learning. My dreams lay within each page. On this particular day, the sun streamed through the windows, spilling onto the floor and warming my cold, soap-drenched hands. After each meal, another meal lay discarded in bits and pieces on the floor. The remnants of sticky molasses dissolved as I scrubbed on my hands and knees. I hummed a song that Mama had taught me, although I couldn’t recall the name of it. Engrossed in my daily task, I brushed a wisp of hair from my face, all the while suddenly aware that I wasn’t alone. I looked up and was so startled that I knocked the pail of water over, flooding the floor, and trying to stand slipped in the soapy mess. I knew instantly who it was.

Mr. Youngren usually left talk of work on the front doorstep, casting the ill temper of the men aside. One night, though, I overheard him comforting the missus about their oldest boy, who had taken an order of lumber up north. She expressed concern that the trip was too long and dangerous for an eighteen-year-old, but he put his arm around her and reassured her that he had proven to be responsible and dependable, showing leadership at the mill.

Now, in the doorway, stood a tall spit of a boy, casually leaning against it, with legs and arms crossed. His tousled sandy hair was slicked back, head lowered, peering through blue eyes that pierced me like a paring knife. Not only his presence but his self-assured posture rattled me into an undignified rag doll, my flopping arms and disjointed legs grasping for a table, a chair. Anything of substance. But instead, he had eloquently as a shooting star at midnight caught my flailing body. As quickly as he had caught me, I pushed him away, flushed and disheveled, my heart pounding. But he stood smugly, as though he had captured and rescued a fallen bird. Anger and embarrassment stewed in me like a boiling pot on the stove. 

“You must be Lillian,” he said, taking the bucket from my hand. “I didn’t mean to startle you. What was the song you were humming? I didn’t recognize it.” 

I had already grabbed the mop, attempting to regain what pride I had left, but he had taken it from me and started mopping up the mess that was his causing. 

“It was nothing,” I said, reluctant to share anything personal about myself. 

“Well,” he said, “maybe sometime you could sing it for me. I’d like to hear it. You have a pretty voice.” 

“Thank you,” I replied as I straightened the table and chairs, putting everything in order once again. My face was still flushed with heat. I hoped he would leave. 

“I’m Hugh,” he continued, grabbing a leftover biscuit and a cup of black coffee. 

“I gathered,” I said with my back turned away, washing the remaining dishes, not taking a backward glance. I scrubbed harder on the skillet where I’d almost scorched the morning gravy. He sat at the table and talked endlessly, as though taking the presumption that he had known me for my lifetime. 

“I’m the oldest, you know.” 

I looked at him, annoyed. “I know.” 

It was of no importance to him as he continued, “Papa’s turning the mill over to me. Well, eventually. He said he trusted me. That’s important, isn’t it?” 

He waited for me to answer. I rinsed out the skillet and began to dry it, turning to him. “It’s one of the most important things you can give to a person.” 

He put the cup down and looked up at me, laying his arm over the back of the chair. “Not only with people,” he began, “but also with animals and things.” 

My curiosity was raised. “What things?” I asked. 

“Well, things like the rain will come, and the sun will follow. Sometimes a rainbow, if we’re lucky. And trust in hope and love.” His words were as warm as mittens on a cold day. His ability to put me at ease unnerved me even more, and when he left, he took the morning with him, empty as a ghost who no longer felt the need to linger. His touch was a memory now, and when he caught me, it ran a fervency through my soul.

Breakfasts and suppers now gave new meaning to casual greetings and stolen glances. He began arriving in the kitchen early before the others awakened. It was there that we talked, and I began to become at ease with our conversations. They conflicted with both joy and fear, and I dared my longing heart to betray me, to any improprieties. He continued to work in the mill, not returning until long after supper. Every night, I left his dinner in the warming drawer and usually was retired to my room before he came home. But when that happened, a knock came to my door, and a whisper traveled through it. 

“Thank you, Lillian, for keeping my supper warm.” 

At first, I never answered, hoping he would think I had fallen asleep. But I’m sure my light slipped under the doorway, and he knew. After a time, I laid against the door when he knocked and answered him. “You’re welcome.” 

He stood there for a moment before his steps faded away.

Ever since the first time I saw him, I could feel him watching me, even when I couldn’t see him. He would come home for lunch now, instead of eating in town. And he lingered at his papa’s desk, writing proposals and figuring costs for the mill. He sometimes labored over that the entire afternoon. But when Mrs. Youngren left with the younger children in tow, he put aside the business at hand and returned to his mischievous ways. I had become accustomed to his shenanigans and was unable to suppress a squirrelly smile when one was loosed. 

It was when he stood straight above me in the barn’s loft that I let out a squeal worthy of a piglet’s voice, grabbing the milk bucket before Josie the cow kicked it over. Hands on my hips and scolding words on my lips didn’t faze him as he jumped down. He belted out a laugh and took the bucket from my hands. My legs weakened and my arms fell to their sides when he placed his hands on my shoulders, taking a moment to feel the tremble in my arms. Then, cupping his hands to my face, he leaned toward me, his lips soft as newborn skin. They touched mine, and I lost all sense of reason, my mind spinning, blurring reality. He pulled me to him, and I wrapped my arms around him, my longing for him undenied. Lost in the moment of loving him, wanting him. I stepped back, breathless, my body weighted with his touch, not knowing what to say. Fear paralyzed me as my head snapped toward the open barn door that someone saw us. But no one was there. Only a wayward chicken in search of her brood. 

“Wait, Lillian,” I heard him say as I ran toward the house. But I didn’t dare look back, my heart in a twitch of confusion.

If I wasn’t in the house or barn, he knew where to find me—on the knoll, under a sprawling oak tree yet bloomed, not caring if the sun had warmed the earth. Book in hand. Or the time when I snuggled my face between freshly washed sheets, smelling the sunshine within them, when he, in a moment of surprise, crept behind me, seeing only my feet between the hangings, and pulled the sheet off the line, wrapping me in it, and with a swoop, bound me, helpless, covering my mouth with his hand, so the tortured sound would not arouse any suspicion. And times when he took his fingers and closed my eyes, allowing his hand to glide down my face and lips. I would bite him playfully until he released me, us tumbling to the ground. He tickled me unmercifully.

His intrusions became welcome, and I often lay my book aside during my reading time and listened to his dreams and ambitions. Touch became painful as our hearts longed for each other. His kisses burned when my tears became salt, knowing he would soon be leaving. I wondered, lying in bed at night, two floors above me, if he was awake as well in a rumble of thoughts fighting against each other. I wondered if I should leave.

 

* * *

 

 

About the Author

Sharon Suskin

Sharon is a first-time author, retired nurse, mother, and grandmother. She
grew up in the Appalachian Mountains and writes with a deep appreciation and
admiration for women who live there. She chronicles the life of each
character so her readers can be inspired by and benefit from their
remarkable stories.

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The Pawn against the King Blitz

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Historical fiction

Date Published: October 10, 2024

 

 

The King announces a contest open to everyone, regardless of their
financial status. The contest is simple: “Present me with a game that
is a true simulation of battle. Whoever succeeds will be richly rewarded.
However, anyone who fails and wastes the King’s time will lose their
life.” A humble carpenter, confident in what he holds, requests a
hearing with the great ruler. Now, he must present his idea at the risk of
his life and convince the King that it is exactly what he sought.

Thus begins a mental battle between the powerful and the powerless, the
strong and the weak. Genius versus authority.

 

Praise for The Pawn against the King

 

“A true gem that took my breath away with its claustrophobic
atmosphere.” – Panos Tourlis, book critic.

 

“The pawn against the king, an ingenious concept by Giorgos Katsoulas
to represent the eternal struggle between the strong and the weak.”
– Yannis Chronopoulos, historical author and publisher.

 

“Katsoulas’ ability to convey complex ideas and emotions in such a
condensed format left me pondering the story’s implications long after I
finished reading.” – K.C. Finn for Readers’ Favorite

 

“The Pawn Against the King: Genius vs Authority by Giorgos Katsoulas
is an absolutely brilliantly written book.” – Joe Wisinski for
Readers’ Favorite

 

“All in all, it’s a fantastic short story for readers of all
ages.” – Pikasho Deka for Readers’ Favorite

 

“The Pawn Against the King: Genius vs Authority by Giorgos Katsoulas
will appeal to strategists, especially those who enjoy mentally tasking
games like chess.” – Gabriella Harrison for Readers’
Favorite

 

“What surprised me was the writing style, which can be described as an
economy of force, not at a tactical or strategic level, but a literary one
instead. Overall, this is a great little tale.” – Gaius Konstantine for
Readers’ Favorite

About the Author

Giorgos Katsoulas

Giorgos Katsoulas was born on February 16, 1981, in Athens. He is an
honours graduate of the screenwriting school at ANT1, but he is self-taught
in literature. He has been diagnosed with Asperger’s syndrome and has
received numerous literary awards. He has written 15 books of all genres,
including poetry, plays, novellas, historical novels, and psychological
thrillers. His greatest passion is film music, and he is also a collector of
soundtracks and films.

 

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Unexpected Detour Virtual Book Tour

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Courage and Intrigue in Wartime San Francisco

 

Historical Fiction

Date Published: December 10, 2024

Publisher: Acorn Publishing

When bombs fall on Pearl Harbor, the trajectory of Faye Baxter’s
midwestern life takes an unexpected detour. Her fiancé Steve Connor
enlists in the Army, and Faye follows him to California for a
spur-of-the-moment wedding just days before he ships out. 

Eager to contribute to the war effort, Faye joins the workforce in San
Francisco, a city awash with jobs, handsome soldiers, cheap cocktails, and
nefarious secrets. When she is recruited to serve as a courier for a
government intelligence agency, the assignment leads her into a web of
misogyny, deception, and espionage. 

Will she learn to trust her instincts, value her own opinions, and raise
her voice against injustice? Or are the risks too great?

Unexpected Detour tablet

EXCERPT

 

UNEXPECTED DETOUR

 

Courage and Intrigue in Wartime San Francisco

 

Thirty-nine hours and 45 minutes later, Faye and Midge stepped onto the platform at Oakland’s 16th Street Station. Suitcases in hand, they caught the connector streetcar to the ferry for the final leg of their trip into San Francisco. The train journey was already a blur of packed cars, lines for the rest rooms, bad food, raucous laughter, and endless cigarettes. Civilians and soldiers alike sat on luggage in the aisles. The girls gave up their sleeping berth to a pregnant woman and her two young children, and they spent the 1,850 miles from Chicago surrounded by sweaty young men in various stages of inebriation..  

Now the fresh breeze off the bay hit Faye’s groggy face. She gulped in the crisp, briny air until her head was scrubbed clean of the dull ache caused by too little sleep and too many sips of whiskey from flasks of unknown origin. She was here, albeit rumpled and a bit rank. And, if all went well, she would be with Steve this weekend. 

Despite the day being chilly by Bay Area standards, it was downright balmy compared to Chicago. The sunshine prompted the girls to purchase cups-a-joe at the ferry’s snack bar and head to the upper deck. 

“We did it,” said Midge as they cast off.

“Yes, we did, sister.” Faye smiled as she sipped her coffee. “And I may never go back. Look at this. The folks back home would be pea green with envy if they could see what I’m seeing.” 

The clear sky was reflected by the water, making the entire estuary a perfect shade of aquamarine. As they passed under the Bay Bridge, the San Francisco skyline spread out before them. The Ferry Building and Embarcadero bustled with people, trucks and streetcars. Faye recognized Coit Tower and Nob Hill (so often appearing in movies), studded with elegant hotel buildings. To the west, the Golden Gate Bridge spanned the entrance to the bay like a lazy smile, as if to delude the entire nation that everything beyond would be just fine. Faye knew full well that these bright orange towers were the last glimpse of America for thousands of boys headed for war. 

As they entered the shipping channel, a gust of wind lifted Faye’s beret. In the split second she grabbed for it, her coffee went over the railing. Horrified, she peered down at a man sporting a splotch down the shoulder and sleeve of his well-tailored trench coat. He stared up at them, bewildered at first, then broke into a gradual smile.

“Sorry!” Faye yelled, then bolted down the stairs to the lower deck, Midge close behind.

“I am so sorry,” Faye gushed to the victim as they emerged on the main deck. Midge, in the meantime, found her hankie in her purse. “Allow me,” she said. Not

      waiting for a response, she started to daub the man’s shoulder.

“It was really a comedy of errors up there,” said Faye as Midge continued to daub. “My hat blew off, and before I knew it, my coffee just went flying.” 

“No worries. With a little more focus, you’d be excellent in the gun turret.”

Well, at least he isn’t angry. 

It was only then she noticed how nice looking he was—and was surprised by a twinge of guilt. 

Stop it. I’m NOT being disloyal to Steve just because I think this total stranger is nice looking. It’s not like I’ll ever see him again. What is that lilt in his voice? Does he have an accent? Never mind. Don’t think about his voice. Or his dimples. 

 

EXCERPT FROM PAGE 160 (745 words)

 

Faye emerged from Della’s Market, her net tote bag heavy with canned milk, peanut butter, margarine and some apples, and headed home on Bush Street. She was about to turn up Kearney when she heard some breaking glass and a muffled cry for help from Belden Alley. She made her way quickly and silently to the intersection and carefully peered into the alley, assaulted by the aggressive stench of garbage and urine. It took a second for what she was witnessing to register. 

One sailor lounged against the wall, holding a bottle of whiskey, smoking a cigar and rubbing his crotch. Another had a young girl pinned against the wall, his hand covering her mouth. The girl was dressed in expensive silk, her lip split and bruised, her fine Chinese features contorted with fear. As she looked over the sailor’s shoulder, her eyes made contact with Faye in a silent plea for help.  

“Hey!” Faye shouted, not considering for a split second that she might also be in danger. “Leave her alone!” 

Startled, both sailors jerked around and looked at Faye, then traded glances and sniggered. 

“Well, lookie here, Howie,” said Sailor Cigar. “This party is one girl short and here’s a babe just when we needed one. You’re an answer to our wishes, Blondie.” 

As the sailor circled around Faye and backed her into the alley, her memory flashed back to something her mother told her when she started working at the law firm—and knew instantly what she would do.  She slowly backed further into the alley as she gave Sailor Cigar her most alluring smile. 

“Well, this could be your lucky night, sailor,” she said in a voice as low and sexy as she could manage. “How do you like it? Nice and rough? Slow and deep?” 

Mesmerized, Sailor Cigar took a deep swig of whiskey and leered at Faye’s breasts.

Wham, bam!! 

In a flash, Faye jammed her knee as hard as she could into Sailor Cigar’s groin. As he crumpled at her feet, she swung her tote bag with all her might, thankful for Della’s two-for-the-price-of-one sale on canned milk as it made contact with the side of Sailor Howie’s face, knocking him out cold on the pavement. 

With that, she grabbed the girl’s hand, ran with her out onto Bush Street and didn’t stop until they were plumb out of breath. 

“Dang, you should take up martial arts, sister.” the Chinese girl said, her voice pure California without a trace of an accent. 

“Are you all right?” Faye asked through her panting.

“Yeah, I think so. A little bruised.”

“Would you recognize those guys again? Do you want to make a police report?”

“No way,” she said with certainty. “The cops would just say I was asking for it. I know how white cops treat my community.”

“Listen, I live really close by. Let’s get you some coffee and some ice for that lip.” 

“Yeah, that would be great. I’m Madeline Chu, by the way.” 

“Faye Connor,” Faye responded.

“Well, if you don’t mind. I’m going to call you Fearless Faye, Warrior-Goddess!”

 

*****

Madeline Chu sat at the kitchen table, a tea towel of ice against her lip. Hannah and Evie set out some coffee, eager to get the scoop. 

“How did you get hooked up with those sailors?” asked Faye. 

“Yeah, that was really stupid.  I know better, believe me. I was out with my friend, Christie, and things got out of hand. We were all dancing and had way too much to drink. I’m not sure when Christie decided to vamoose, but I wasn’t thinking straight, and I remember the sailors saying they would show me their ship.”

“Ship, indeed!” said Hannah as her cup clattered in its saucer. “They really wanted to show you their ‘torpedoes,’ if you get my drift.”

“Yeah, I’m such a lamebrain. I’m just lucky Fearless Faye here happened to walk by and had the guts to give it to ‘em good.”

“Look, you’re young, but you learned a valuable lesson for the price of a split lip,

     said Faye. “Just remember that some men are creeps, and it’s not your fault.”

Evie immediately picked up on that train of thought. “There are lots of lessons here,” she said. “Don’t get drunk. Don’t go with someone you don’t know. Always have a friend with you… ” 

“And if all else fails, kick them in the nuts,” Madeline added. “I got it, ladies.”

 

 

About the Author

Lynn Marie Jackson

Lynn Marie Jackson has spent many years engaged in the creative process
working as a marketing strategist, copywriter, podcast producer, blogger,
and novelist. Raised in California and Washington, DC, she is a long-time
San Francisco Bay Area resident. When not writing, she’s on the hunt
for inspiration; she can be found visiting museums, hiking new trails, or
exploring any place well outside her comfort zone.

 

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Freedom’s Ghost Virtual Book Tour

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Historical Fiction

Date Published: 10-25-2024

Publisher: Counterpoint Press

 

 

As the drumbeat of the American Revolution grows ever closer,
Scotsman-turned-American-patriot Duncan McCallum must navigate treacherous
cultural and political waters if he’s to secure a fighting chance for
the fledgling nation in this gripping installment of the acclaimed Bone
Rattler series.

 

Freedom's Ghost tablet

EXCERPT

      Chapter 1

 

 

                                 Late February 1770 Marblehead, Massachusetts Colony

 

“Dear Lord no, not the grinders!” yelled the elegantly dressed man at Duncan McCallum’s side. “Veer away, for the love of God, or all is lost!” Duncan could not recall if he had ever heard his companion so frantic, but the blood was rising among all the spectators of the race, and John Hancock’s desperate cries could be forgiven. It was his cherished personal yacht that was about to lose its keel to the notorious bed of submerged rocks and sandbars at the edge of Marblehead Harbor. “Too close, I say! Too close!”

 

Duncan, not sharing Hancock’s anxiety, watched through his pocket tele- scope as the women on board scurried on the deck and in the rigging, tightening one line, loosening another, while Sarah Ramsey kept her steady hand on the wheel of the sloop. Sailing had become a passion for Sarah ever since the day Hancock had taken them for an afternoon cruise months earlier. Duncan had commanded Hancock’s commercial ships on short runs to Bermuda and Newfoundland, and as their friendship blossomed the Boston merchant had generously offered the yacht with its crewmen for Duncan and Sarah to use on their own rare days of leisure. Knowing his fiancée’s questing ways, Duncan had not been surprised when she had asked if she might take the helm on their first such day, then asked him to name for her the sails and each element of the rigging. “A fair return,” she had quipped, reminding him of how she had once taught him the Iroquois words of her youth. Since that day she had become an adept sailor, and on the last harbor cruise with Hancock she had astounded Boston’s merchant prince by taking the yacht’s helm to thread a course through the outer islands.

 

No one, however, had expected Sarah to speak up days later at a dinner at Hancock’s regal Beacon Hill home to challenge the commander of the local revenue cutter to a competition. Duncan had often revisited that conversation, trying to navigate its many subcurrents. Sarah had no love for the British navy, especially the patrol vessels that enforced Britain’s onerous trade laws. Until that point she had adroitly guided the discussion among Hancock’s guests, avoiding the traps that seemed inevitable in Boston when the dinner company included both officers of the occupation troops and leaders of the Sons of Liberty.

 

Duncan did not recollect how, but the discussion had veered from the weather to the advantages of American-built ships in being able to sail closer to the wind than those from British shipyards. When the officers, at first surprised, then amused, that a woman could hold her own in such a conversation, had good-naturedly defended their shipwrights, Sarah had offered to prove her point.

 

“We must have a competition!” she ebulliently declared. “A match between boats of similar burden. Say the navy’s fast revenue cutter and one of the sloops crafted in Marblehead, ending of course in Marblehead Harbor.” The officers and Hancock had laughed but then leaned forward as she persisted. Sarah had turned to the youngest officer, who was well known and largely reviled in Marblehead. “Why, come to think of it, Lieutenant Oakes, isn’t that vessel under your command? Named for some archaic god, I recollect.” She knew perfectly well the name of the boat.

 

The lieutenant’s cool smile was close to a sneer. “I indeed have the honor to command the king’s revenue cutter Neptune. Bristol-built, and she can outsail any vessel she meets. But surely no captain of a comparable vessel would meet me, Miss Ramsey, since my nimble Neptune has already overtaken so many of them as they sought to evade the king’s customs duties.”

 

Duncan had suspected that Sarah had some hidden motive in openly taunting the arrogant Oakes, and her next words had removed all doubt. “Why, doesn’t Mr. Hancock have just such a Marblehead boat? Suppose we Americans give you an advantage. I will take the helm of the Hancock yacht myself and crew her with the doddering females of Marblehead. Shall we say Sunday, a week?” She fixed Hancock with a pointed gaze, and then the merchant’s face lit with understanding. Sarah wasn’t taunting the navy; she was trying to calm troubled waters. The tension be- tween the occupation troops and civilians was near the breaking point, and they desperately needed to find common ground, if only for an afternoon’s distraction.

 

Several of the officers had been aghast, but when Hancock had vigorously exclaimed “Brava! Brava!” and raised his glass to Sarah, they had joined in his gleeful toast, their vigor growing when he proposed to host one of his famous teas at the race’s end.

Captain Lawford, commodore of the navy’s inshore fleet, likewise embraced Sarah’s apparent intentions. “Why, that would be capital!” he exclaimed. “What say you, Oakes? I’ve no doubt we can arrange to have your cutter in those waters for a Sunday frolic with our American friends. What better way to celebrate the approach of spring!”

Sarah had shot a victorious glance at Duncan before raising her own glass. The women, he knew, would be from what she called her Nightingale Club, all from Marblehead sailing families. They would have cut their teeth on backstays, and all were secretly dedicated to Sarah’s increasingly bold efforts in support of the nonimportation cause, aimed at cutting off trade with Britain.

 

“But sir,” Oakes had protested, “we’ve had fresh intelligence that somewhere in the bay the traitor is at last going to—”

 

“Lieutenant! Have a care!” Lawford interrupted, then put on a more genteel expression. “Of course we shall defend the honor of His Majesty’s navy.” The commander of the inshore fleet raised his glass. “And fear not, Lieutenant. Surely you know the navy relies on the Heart of Oakes, eh?” he added, laughing at his word- play with the familiar maritime fighting song.

 

Now, as Sarah guided Hancock’s boat through the maze of rocky shoals and sandbars, Duncan began to worry not about her motive but whether her rash decision was going to destroy Hancock’s elegant vessel.

 

“Thank God!” Hancock shouted with glee a moment later. “She’s cleared it!” Oakes’s Neptune was close behind, the lieutenant having decided to preempt Sarah’s advantage by following her into the narrow passage between rocks and shore for the final sprint to the end of the harbor.

 

“It is not over, sir!” Lawford crowed. “My man has decided that two can play at this game! I shall soon have your guinea in my pocket, John!”

 

“Damnation, Duncan,” Hancock quietly muttered. “He’s right. Look at how the cutter’s sails fill with the breeze. That foolhardy Oakes has laid on extra canvas.” “But the Neptune’s keel—” Duncan began. He had no need to finish his sentence as groans shot through the group of gathered officers. The sound of shuddering masts echoed across the harbor. The yard of the added topsail Oakes had hoisted snapped, tumbling to the deck in a tangle of lines. The cutter had cleared the rocks only to have one of the sandbars seize her keel. She lost all headway, and the furious shouts of her commander could be heard above the chaos. For a moment Duncan thought she would move no more until the tide came in; then, long seconds later she inched forward. But as she finally cleared the bar, the signal gun at the finish line fired. A cheer broke farther down the harbor, where townspeople had gathered in dinghies and on the town wharf. Sarah was victorious. With a gleeful laugh Hancock extended his palm toward the captain. Lawford good-naturedly dropped a heavy coin into it and looked over the assembly of officers. “Our redcoat has missed all the fun,” he added, referring to Lieutenant Hicks, head of the small army contingent temporarily stationed in Marblehead. “I fear I owe him as well, for the scoundrel had the nerve to wager against the navy.”

 

Lawford grinned as Hancock hurried down the dock to congratulate the crew of his mooring sloop. “The Boston papers will love this story. I will get no end of ribbing, I am sure. Oh my,” the commodore added as the winning crew assembled on the dock. Two of the women had stripped to their petticoats during the competition and the others, including Sarah, wore sailor’s breeches. All had been saturated by the bow spray.

Sarah was shaking the water from her auburn curls as Duncan reached her. “I’m soaked!” she protested as he spread his arms to embrace her, then laughed as he ignored her warning.

 

“You laid a trap for Oakes,” he whispered as he held her close. “You knew he would scrape.”

“I seem to recall the very first advice I received from my sailing master,” she said with an impish smile, “was to always know the lay of my keel. Can I help it if the lieutenant doesn’t know the cut of his own boat?” Then “That’s good of John,” she added after a moment.

 

Duncan pulled away to watch as Hancock distributed coins to each of her crew members. The jubilant merchant then led them toward the long brick build- ing that was his Marblehead warehouse. At the far end, men stood at trestle tables, serving ale, fresh loaves, and boiled mussels to the townspeople who had gathered for the finish of the race. In the yard paved with crushed oyster shell at the near end of the building were other tables, draped with linens, where more robust offerings of lobster, oysters, pies, cakes, and wine awaited Hancock’s invited guests.

 

“Where is that scrub Hicks?” Lawford asked one of his subordinates as he heaped oysters onto his plate. “Not like him to miss a taste of the famous Hancock larder.” The aide leaned into the commodore’s ear with an apparent explanation. “Oh that,” Lawford said with a wince. “Damn the deserters,” he groused. “They should swing just for keeping a zealous officer from our frolic.”

 

Duncan caught the anxious glance Sarah aimed at the ridge that jutted into the harbor entrance. She had been so insistent on the place and time of her little competition that he could not shake the suspicion that she had other reasons in mind. But if she had intended to distract all the officers in the town to divert them from one of her smuggling operations, her plan had not been entirely successful. She turned to the captain. “I must beg your leave,” she announced to Lawford. “Allow us a few moments in the sloop’s privacy before we catch our death,” she said, indicating her wet clothing. The sun had begun its descent, and what had been a providentially mild day was cooling.

“Of course, my dear,” Lawford replied. “But make haste, for we can hardly celebrate these heroics without our heroine.”

 

Hancock’s guests energetically attacked the stacks of food. Only Hancock and Duncan noticed that Sarah paused at the foot of the wharf to speak with one of her crew, sending the woman up the street at a run. Hancock’s gaze shifted to the town’s two magistrates sitting farther down the table, and then he cast a worried glance at Duncan, who shrugged. Sarah did not share all her secrets with Duncan and fewer still with Hancock, who engaged in the delicate balancing act of maintaining close relations with the government despite being a leader in the Sons of Liberty.

 

The secret that most troubled Hancock, Duncan knew, was not one of Sarah’s but that of the dead infantry officer they had found floating off Marblehead ten days earlier, killed by a stab wound in the back. He and Duncan knew the presence of so many high-ranking officers from Castle William, the island headquarters of the military, was unprecedented. They, too, he suspected, had come for more than the sailing match. There had been no official reaction to or even notice of the officer’s murder, which made Duncan all the more uneasy. If they had kept the killing secret, so too might they conceal their retribution.

 

Hancock collected himself and turned to the table. “Gentlemen,” he announced as he reached into a case of wine and extracted a dusty bottle, “I give you the claret of sixty-four, I daresay the first case to arrive on American shores. Best of the decade, I’ve been told.”

 

“Have you the duty slip?” the port commissioner asked playfully. Hancock, who had had a ship seized by the government for failure to pay duties less than two years earlier, winced but then pushed a smile onto his face.

 

The guests enthusiastically gathered around the case as Hancock filled and distributed glasses, not looking up until Sarah reappeared, wearing a hunter green dress that set off her auburn hair. That at least two of the officers reacted coolly toward her did not surprise Duncan, though he could not tell if it was because she had bested the navy’s cutter or simply because they resented a woman who presumed to command a sailing vessel. But the others at the table cheerfully joined in when Captain Lawford raised his glass for a toast to “Miss Ramsey and the distaff navy of Marblehead!”

 

They ate with a camaraderie unusual for such an assembly of officials and citizens, and although the good humor of Lawford and his officers was sometimes forced, Duncan concluded it was because of Oakes’s defeat. Halfway through the meal, however, Hancock came up behind Duncan and gripped his arm, directing his gaze to Lawford. The commodore had gone silent and was staring at one of the larger fishing boats anchored across the harbor. The boat was painted a distinctive mustard with green trim, her net raised to dry along her backstays.

 

Hancock bent low to top off Duncan’s glass. “Good God!” he whispered. “He recognizes it!”

“Marblehead has the colony’s largest fishing fleet,” Duncan murmured. “It should come as no surprise that the boat would be here. It just triggered an un- pleasant memory.”

“Unpleasant?” Hancock rejoined. “A nightmare!”

 

Duncan saw now that the color had drained from Lawford’s face. He wasn’t seeing a fishing boat; he was seeing a ghost. Only the week before, that vessel had arrived at Castle William with the waterlogged, bloodless body of a British officer hanging in that very net.

 

Ten days earlier Hancock had invited Duncan and John Glover, one of the town’s leading shipowners and an able mariner, to join him on his coastal packet boat to help inspect the decrepit channel markers leading into the harbors of Lynn, Marblehead, and Salem. The governor was not shy about asking Hancock, as a prominent member of the legislature, to perform such duties, knowing his appetite for asserting authority and his willingness to personally pay for improvements to public property. It had been mere coincidence that they had spied the desperate waving of the crew of the mustard-colored boat. They had eased the packet close and accepted the line tossed to bring the boats alongside each other.

 

The fishermen’s net had been pulled to the opposite side of the boat. At first Duncan saw only the densely packed herring, but then a crew member shook the net and the silver flickers began to alternate with snatches of scarlet. The mate in command of the boat called for the crew to pull the net higher, and the body surfaced, shedding the crabs and eels that had been nibbling at its flesh.

 

They had laid the pale soldier out on the deck. He had been dead only a few hours, his flesh largely intact, not yet found by the larger predators of the bay. No one spoke, no one moved, aghast not simply at the gruesome death but also at who, or rather what, the man was. Judging by his once elegant uniform, he was a captain in the Twenty-Ninth Regiment of Foot, one of the hated regiments occupying Boston.

 

“Toss him back in, I say,” the mate suggested. “No one the wiser. Marblehead don’t need it.”

 

Hancock stared at the dead man, clearly confused, and then his eyes went round. “Captain Mallory! Dear God, he has dined at my own table! A most genteel officer! He and his fiancée were expected at the governor’s ball and never made an appearance.” Duncan took a deep breath and knelt beside the corpse. The officer had been a handsome, fit man in his forties and had been wearing his dress uni- form as if planning to attend an official function. Duncan quickly examined the limbs, then unbuttoned the tunic. Finding nothing suspicious, and fervently hoping he could declare the death a drowning accident, he straightened, then shook his head, knowing he had not completed the task. He bent and pressed down on the dead man’s abdomen. Only air escaped from his lungs. “Help me turn him over,” he asked with foreboding.

No one stepped forward until finally Glover bent and lifted the man’s feet. The compact, muscular mariner helped Duncan twist the man onto his stomach, then muttered a low curse. The back of the officer’s waistcoat had a slit in it, just to the left of his spine and over his heart. The blood had not been entirely washed away.

“Murder?” Hancock gasped. “My God, a senior officer murdered? No, Dun- can, we can’t . . .” His voice trailed off.

 

Glover wore a grim but more collected expression. “If he was out of Marble- head we’ll feel the wrath of the governor. He already lends an ear to those who say our town has become a den of murderers and thieves since last year. This will be their excuse to square accounts with us.”

 

“Marblehead don’t need it,” the mate repeated. Now Hancock understood his words.

The people of Marblehead hated the customs duties and other trade restrictions imposed by London but reserved a special loathing for the navy’s press gangs, which often detained their vessels at sea to seize men for involuntary service on their warships. The year before, a Marblehead man had been charged with harpooning the officer leading a gang that had cornered him on his own ship with drawn weapons. Although the court had ultimately ruled the killing justified as self-defense, rancor over the incident still simmered on both sides. Since then, when a naval vessel sailed close to a Marblehead boat, crew members usually taunted it with raised harpoons.

 

“No,” Duncan said as he contemplated the body. “The senior officer in Marblehead is a lieutenant. And he was going to the ball in Boston. The tide will have brought him from the inner harbor.” He looked up at the merchant. “Meaning they will think the Boston radicals are behind it.” Duncan glanced at Glover, and the men gathered around the body with new worry. He knew Glover was fiercely committed to the Sons of Liberty but did not know the political leanings of the others.

Glover instantly understood. “Committed patriots to the man here,” he said of the fishing crew.

 

“As are my lads,” Hancock murmured.

Duncan surveyed the men standing around him, then gazed at the steeples of Boston, just visible across the bay. “He goes back in the water,” he said, “back in the net. And the boat goes to Castle William.”

“Like hell!” the mate growled. “I’m not offering myself up to some mob of angry lobsterbacks!”

 

“I’ll go,” Glover said and turned to the mate. “Duncan’s got the measure of it. I’ll tell them it’s my boat, that as soon as we snagged the poor soldier we knew we had to take him to his comrades at the Castle. We never touched him, never raised him out of the water. They’ll identify him and know that he was from Boston. As a top officer he will have been missed by now. We’ll just be doing our duty to the king, ye see,” he said to the crew, who answered with mocking grins.

 

Duncan saw that Hancock was not convinced. “Otherwise, John, they’ll be turning Boston inside out to find him. The magistrates will give the army leave to search the house of every radical. Especially the leaders of the Sons,” he added. “They wouldn’t dare!” Hancock exclaimed. “There’s such things as bonds of

honor!”

 

“In Boston?” Duncan rejoined. “Where there’s an angry soldier for every four citizens, half of whom are equally on edge? I daresay we are beyond bonds and honor. Massachusetts is an uncharted land these days. And there are those on both sides who would be happy to transform it into a bloody battlefield. We can’t give them an excuse for doing so. You never saw the body, know only that Mallory missed the ball.”

Hancock grimaced, then slowly nodded.

 

Duncan turned to Glover. “Fix this as the position of the discovery, mark your chart, note the time. The navy well understands the flow of the tides here, knows that if he had been killed on the north shore he would have been swept far out to sea. Meanwhile,” he added to the crew, “bring in the herring. And this is a fishing boat. She’s too tidy. Cut up some fish and scatter the remains. Let some seagulls follow you in to soil the Castle’s wharf. Do what you can to make her stink so the Castle won’t want you to linger.”

 

The crew looked to their mate for direction. After several heartbeats he nodded, then kicked over a basket of fish. “Stink it up, boys.”

 

As the crew worked to fill the oversized baskets on deck with their catch,Duncan more fully examined the dead officer, finding no other signs of injury but also no sign of a purse or personal effects. Glover and the mate then restored the dead man’s tunic, placed him back into the now-empty net, and lowered him into the sea. As the boats drifted apart, Hancock stood at Duncan’s side. “Once again, Duncan, we may need you to protect us.”

 

Duncan gave no voice to the question on his tongue. Was Hancock referring to Duncan’s skills as a physician or as, in words Hancock sometimes whispered, the “master of secrets” for the Sons of Liberty?

 

While Sarah’s freshly attired crew mingled with the officers, Hancock lived up to his repute as a generous and attentive host. Duncan suspected his other guests would ascribe his nervousness to his compulsion to keep every cup filled and every empty platter quickly replenished. The merchant prince had warned all in advance that given the exceptional weather the tea was to be alfresco, in North Shore picnic style, meaning he had brought only one servant and, at Sarah’s urging, had attired the man in simple brown waistcoat and breeches instead of his usual brocaded livery.

 

The company was turning its attention to the stack of cakes and pastries at the end of the table when the gaze of the port’s senior customs official fixed on the point of rock Sarah had been watching.

 

“The infernal savage is lighting up again,” the commissioner muttered.

Heads turned toward the solitary figure who tended a smoky fire on the tongue of land that jutted into the mouth of the harbor. They were not close enough for Duncan to make out details, but he recognized the man’s slow, methodical dance and shoulder-length gray hair.

 

“Every few days we must suffer the aged fool, sir,” the customs man explained to Lawford. “One of those pathetic old natives, no doubt reliving some memory conjured from his barbaric youth.”

 

Duncan noticed the smile that flickered on Sarah’s face. The figure was their close friend Conawago, and the fire, Duncan knew, was a signal.

 

“Not at all,” Duncan quickly countered. “He is performing a blessing for the harbor and the town. The fishing fleet leaves soon for the Grand Banks on its first sailing of the year, what they call First Fare. He asks the favors of his gods for the First Fare mariners.”

 

“His gods?” one of the younger officers snorted. “Surely they are all deaf and dumb by now!”

As the words brought a round of guffaws, Duncan shot a worried glance at Sarah, who stared down into her plate without expression and, he suspected, was biting her tongue.

 

The commodore stifled the laughter with a raised hand. “You can recognize this as a tribal blessing?” Lawford observed with a lift of inquiry in his voice, then contemplated Duncan a moment. “Ah, I forgot. You and Miss Ramsey have a settlement adjoining the native lands, in the New York wilderness. That must breed certain”—the captain searched for a polite word—“certain awareness.”

“The Iroquois,” Sarah replied in a careful voice, “have generously accepted us as neighbors, yes. And you may be surprised, Captain, at how many natives live in this very town. Responsible citizens, mostly employed on the sailing vessels. Valued seaman, every one.”

 

“I have several on my own ships,” Hancock confirmed. “Fearless fellows. Always the first to scramble up the shrouds in a storm. I’m surprised the navy hasn’t—” Hancock caught himself, glancing awkwardly at the naval officers who sat across from him, many of whom would have commanded impressment parties. “Surprised they haven’t fully recognized the skills of such men,” he awkwardly amended.

 

One of the officers, well known for commanding bullying impressment squads, responded with a bitter expression. “Our coppery friends may hate what the Americans have done to their people,” he haughtily observed, “but put them in earshot of one of my press gangs and they become the most loyal of colonial residents, damn their eyes.”

 

Impressment had become such a source of friction that the navy had agreed not to seize any man who could prove an established Massachusetts residence. That proof could be hard to come by for the native mariners, many of whom lived wandering lives, but Marbleheaders were quick to support the natives, if just to spite the navy.

 

Out of the corner of his eye Duncan caught movement on the hill above the warehouses. A man was walking at a fast, determined pace toward the harbor. Sarah, too, took notice, studying him for a moment, then glancing uneasily at Conawago, who raised and lowered his arms through the thick, fragrant smoke of the burning juniper.

 

“One of your tidesmen, I believe,” Hancock observed to the customs commissioner as the port inspector approached their table. Sarah cast a nervous glance at the approaching tidesman. She had made a point of inviting all the local customs officers to the tea, but apparently at least one had declined. The commissioner rose and turned to receive a whispered report. Hancock offered the man a glass of claret, which he gulped down before departing. It was, Duncan knew, the mer- chant’s ploy to pry loose the news delivered by the man. “I daresay one of yours, Mr. Hancock,” was all the tidesman offered before leaving.

 

The commissioner, however, was all too happy to share the report. “Brig from the West Indies has dropped anchor,” he announced to the table. “Sugar and mo- lasses. In the outer harbor beyond the Neck. A bit odd given that we have ample berthing closer to shore.”

 

Hancock did a creditable job of hiding his surprise, but Duncan could see he had not expected the ship, at least not at Marblehead. His larger ships all ended their ocean voyages at Hancock Wharf in Boston. “Her captain is a God-fearing man who no doubt does not wish to disturb the Sabbath,” the merchant offered.

 

“But is he a king-fearing man?” the customs commissioner shot back with a thin, needling smile. “We shall see at first light tomorrow.” He would reap a rich bounty if he could prove another Hancock ship was engaged in smuggling.

 

Sarah, sensing the tension between the two men, lifted her glass. “Our noble competition arrives!” she announced, indicating the sullen file of sailors who had finally cleared the wreckage from the cutter’s deck and were now approaching their table. The face of Lieutenant Oakes reflected the ignominy of his defeat, but then he spotted Sarah and her crew and halted. He collected himself, straightening his uniform and ordering his men into a less ragged line. They advanced at a jaunty pace and upon reaching Sarah, the young lieutenant removed his hat and bowed to her.

“’Tis far better to have raced you and lost, Miss Ramsey,” the lieutenant declared, “than to have never raced you at all.”

 

“Hear, hear! Well done!” Lawford exclaimed. “A noble sentiment!”

The cutter’s men did not entirely share their skipper’s graciousness, for Dun- can heard one mutter something about “the vixen leading us into a trap,” but the tension melted as Sarah’s crew approached the sailors, holding mugs of ale. Fifty paces down the waterfront, where the townspeople were gathered, someone started playing a fiddle.

 

Duncan grinned as the women stepped into the open yard and began dancing a jig to the distant tune, pulling the chagrined sailors out of their line to join them. He felt Sarah tug at his arm and turned, thinking she was inviting him to dance, then followed her gaze toward a man stumbling down one of the side streets, running at a gasping, uneven pace in the direction of their table. His face was so pale, his long hair so disheveled, that Duncan did not recognize him at first. The man staggered to Hancock’s chair, bracing himself on its back as he struggled to catch his breath.

 

It was Simon Pollard, a retired schoolteacher who watched over Hancock’s operations in the port. His mouth opened and shut, but only a stuttering groan came out. Hancock hastily poured his deputy a glass of water. Pollard’s hand shook so badly that half the glass’s contents were lost before reaching his mouth.

 

“The belfry, sir! It’s . . . it’s . . .” Pollard glanced at the military men who lined the table and lowered his voice. “That lieutenant who runs the army patrols, he . . . Oh dear God . . .” His voice trailed away, and his head slumped. One more word escaped his lips, in a frantic whisper. “Crucifixion!”

 

Hancock leapt to his feet. Duncan was out of his chair an instant later and followed Hancock toward the long building that was fronted by the belfry, the name given to the tall structure at the end of the long rope walk Hancock had built to supply his merchant fleet. The tower’s latticework of timbers was used to suspend shrouds and special rigging in their finishing stages. Duncan last visited the belfry just three days earlier. He had watched in admiration as workers scrambled over the scaffolding, twisting and knotting fibers into a heavy backstay for a ship that was being refitted in the harbor.

 

As they reached the building’s door, Hancock halted Duncan. “There is trickery afoot, Duncan! They somehow know we were with that dead officer, I swear it! Did you not see the knowing gazes, the slippery glances? And now they surprise me with one of my own ships! They weren’t here for the race; they were here to beat down the leaders of the Sons of Liberty! It’s a plot to seize another of my ships! I’ll be ruined!”

 

“Steady on, John,” Duncan cautioned. “Something is afoot, but it’s still unfolding. Don’t indulge them by overreacting.” Duncan looked over Hancock’s shoulder. Lawford was bent over Pollard, and as Duncan watched, the captain spun about and hurried up the hill, followed by several of his officers. He took a deep breath and put a hand on the door, which was ajar. “Let us see what new trouble Lieutenant Hicks has brewed for us.” He stepped inside and froze. The timber scaffolding had not been used for its usual maritime magic this day.

 

“Blessed Jesus!” Hancock gasped as he entered the chamber, then retreated a step, stricken by the sight before them. Moments later Lawford and his companions arrived. One of the young officers made a croaking sound and doubled over, staggering to a corner as he retched onto the stone flags.

 

Duncan had taken Pollard’s muttered Crucifixion! to be just the expletive of a pious man, but now he saw the terrible truth.

 

Ropes had been tied to Hicks’s wrists, then strung through the pulley blocks fastened eight feet high on the side walls and fed through the overhead center block used to raise heavy rigging. The lieutenant had been hoisted six feet into the air, his arms stretched tight toward the opposite walls so that he was splayed against the scaffold. His face was drained of blood, his open eyes unseeing. His mouth and nostrils were sewn shut.

 

About the Author

ELIOT PATTISON

ELIOT PATTISON is the author of the Inspector Shan series, which includes
The Skull Mantra, winner of an Edgar Award and finalist for the Gold Dagger.
Pattison’s Bone Rattler series follows Scotsman Duncan McCallum on the
road to revolution as he fights to protect the cause of freedom. Pattison
resides in rural Pennsylvania.

 

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