Anna's Crossing: An Amish Beginnings Novel (22 page)

“Anna, sit . . .”

Instead of sitting, she wilted against Bairn, sliding her arms around him, her face nestled against the curve of his neck.

His arms closed around her, crinkling her prayer cap. “You’re safe now.”

He helped her to sit on a barrel top, examined her face, dipped a cloth in cool water, and pressed it against her bruised cheek. He never spoke, but there was nothing but kindness in his eyes as he tenderly put that cloth against her cheek where it was bleeding. “Does it hurt?”

“No.” She drew back a bit. “He frightened me, but little else.”

He leaned nearer, his calloused fingers grazing her cheek. Apprehension and anger were etched around his eyes. “I’ll see t’it he doesn’t touch you again,” he whispered. “I promise you will always be safe with me.”

She nodded. She knew that what he said was true. Somehow she had always known it. She had always felt safe with him. For a few seconds she was struck with the power of his presence, the unspoken feelings between them. She twisted her hair into
a knot, pinned it in place along with the prayer covering. His eyes watched every move she made, almost reverently.

“Bairn, Georg Schultz says Felix is the one who stole the watch.”

“But . . . Felix would never do such a thing.” Less confidently, he added, “Or would he?”

“It’s very possible. Felix blamed the Baron of Ixheim for his brother’s death.”

Bairn jerked his head up. “Ixheim?”

“Yes. That’s the name of our village.” She flicked her dangling capstrings behind her. “Georg Schultz plans to take Felix back with him, with or without the watch.” He had the strangest look on his face, as if he had seen a ghost. “Bairn, did you hear me?”

“Hmm?”

“Georg Schultz says he is going to take Felix back to face the baron, with or without the watch.”

“Aye, I heard you.” He was peering at her so intently that she felt pinned in place. “Anna, tell me about that rose.”

“My rose? The one in my basket?”

“Aye. The one you gave water to durin’ the drought instead of drinkin’ it yerself.”

Felix must have seen her and told him. “The rose was given to me by a boy I once knew. I’d fallen in the hills and broken my leg. He knew I loved roses, so he dug up the rose and left it for me.”

“Left it?”

“He went to the New World with his father.”

At that, Bairn shuddered, then quickly turned from her. He went to Cook’s small window and gazed out at the sea. “Why . . .” He stopped, cleared his throat, started again. “Why does the rose matter so much t’you?”

Watching him, listening to his curiosity about a garden flower, made her wonder about the life he’d lived, the comforts he hadn’t had. She wondered what was going through his mind as he stared out the small window. Whatever it was, she’d probably never know. “We were just children . . . but there was something special I felt for him.”

Without turning around, he said, “And he for you?”

“I don’t know. I was younger than he was. He hardly noticed me.” The ship rose on a swell, hung there, settled into a trough, then rose again.

He turned back to face her with a look in his eyes that was so tender, so loving, her feelings for him came close to surfacing and she struggled to tamp them down. “Anna,” he said, his voice low and husky, “I doot the laddie would have left you the rose had he not noticed you.”

A sailor’s shout floated in the air and suddenly she remembered why she had come to the galley in the first place. “Lizzie! The baby is on its way and she’s having a dreadful time of it.” She looked up at him hopefully. “You’re the ship’s surgeon. Surely you must know something about delivering a baby.”

He shook his head. “I’ve seen plenty of pox and scurvy, but I ken naught about how t’prevent it. The older women ken more than I about birthin’ babies.”

She scanned the open cupboards of the galley. “Has Cook any hartshorn or chamomile?”

“Nay. China tea with opium drops.”

“She may need that after the child is delivered.” She heard the stroke of the ship’s bells. Had it only been a short time since she’d come up on deck? It felt like hours.

He helped her to stand. “I’ll have the hot water brought down to you.”

“Bairn, I don’t know what to do. I’ve never delivered a baby.”

“You said you raised sheep. I’m sure you’ve seen plenty of lambs come into this world. Could it be all that different?”

She looked up. “Maybe. But I don’t know. Bairn, I’m so frightened. About Lizzie. About Felix.”

His Adam’s apple slid up, then down. For a moment he didn’t say anything. He turned, then looked away and quietly said, “Let me do the worryin’ about the laddie.”

A kindness, but Felix wasn’t his problem. Still, she could only handle one crisis at a time and Lizzie was her chief concern right now. “I don’t remember a baby taking so long to get born. What if something goes wrong?”

He took a deep breath, fixing his attention on the top of her head. Her prayer cap. “Where is that strong faith of yers?”

She sighed. “Faith.” At that moment her convictions fell away. “I don’t know.”

For a moment, he closed his arms around her, held her close, his lips at her ear, his breath fanning her cheek. “Well, I have faith in you.”

He led her to the companionway and left her there.

But his warmth remained, spilling through her, easing her fear. Momentarily, her hands balled into fists before she managed to relax them. She could do this. She must.

September 10th, 1737

It was after midnight. In his carpenter’s shop, Bairn launched his frock coat and hat onto one of the brass hooks he’d screwed to the wall, then stalked to the workbench and slammed his palms onto the bench. Barrel staves rattled, stacked on floor-to-ceiling shelves he’d built on a better day.

And all that time he nursed a growing rage for Georg Schultz. The anger that flooded through Bairn turned the world red as hot, hot fire. Just the memory of Anna, pale-faced and trembling, so wounded and yet so brave, made him want to strike Schultz. He abhorred violence, always had. Yet violence was impossible to avoid—among men or among nature. The fury of a stormy sea, the brutality of the wind, the cruelty of some individuals. Even the act of giving birth, he realized, was a violent business in itself.

He thought of Anna and the suffering girl in the lower decks, and wondered how they were faring. He felt a strange surge of something unfamiliar—a sense of caring for someone, of protection. Something deep, long buried. He remained in his shop until the soft purple time before dawn, musing, until he realized that his hardened heart was betraying him. It had begun to shift—coming together like the individual wooden staves of a barrel, bits and pieces being moved around by an invisible hand to start to fall into place, to form a completely functional piece. A future he thought was forever lost to him was now right in front of him. Close but out of reach.

He loved Anna, yet he could never have her. Never
should
have her.

The knowledge that Bairn had faith in Anna had an extraordinary effect. All the tension and anxiety left her, and she felt calm and confident. Anna set about doctoring Lizzie with calm efficiency. She did every single thing she had seen her grandmother do and even invented some of her own, but dawn came and still the baby did not come.

Anna was so tired she could scarcely think. She tried to remember anything more she could do, but her brain wouldn’t work. Barbara Gerber worried the baby was breech, Esther Wenger suggested Lizzie should sit on a birthing stool—of which they had none—and Maria recommended she climb stairs.

Lizzie snapped at them and told them to leave her be. She only wanted Anna. Minutes passed, hours, and Anna stayed by her side, cooling Lizzie’s pale face with a wet cloth.

Then, as suddenly as it had started, it was all over. Lizzie gave a terrible cry, and a massive push, and a baby emerged, wrinkled and slimy, with a great gush of liquid behind it. Lizzie fell back exhausted.

Anna had very little experience caring for a baby, but Bairn was right—she had been present at the birth of many lambs. Her instincts told her what to do next: she checked the baby to remove the cord from around its neck and wiped any membrane from across its face, then turned it slightly downward so mucus drained from it.

She tore a coarse thread from the hem of her dress, tied the baby’s cord, cut it with a small knife brought down from the galley. Having no cumin to seal the cord, she spat on her hand and rubbed the cut end. She wrapped the baby in clean linen and marveled at the sight: A tiny, perfect infant, a boy, with the blond hair of his father and the pale face of his mother. He looked like a tiny doll. His arms and legs were small, yet a miniscule nail completed each finger. He was red and wrinkled and heart-achingly beautiful.

At the sound of the baby’s mewl-like cry, Maria pulled up the sheet flap and hurried behind Peter to see the ship’s newest passenger.

“Here, Peter.” Anna handed the baby to his father “No
stomach worm,” she gave Maria a glance with a lifted eyebrow, “but a boy.”

Then Anna turned her attention to Lizzie and felt a spike of concern. Lizzie’s breathing was rapid and her temperature high. She put a hand in the hollow of Lizzie’s chest and felt her heartbeat, faint and irregular, but it was there.

“Lizzie needs to be cleaned up and kept warm,” Anna said, trying to keep her voice steady. “She should have something hot to drink. Maria, hot water and honey would do nicely.”

Lizzie’s eyes flickered, and opened a little. “Baby. My baby. Where is my baby?”

Peter held the baby in one hand so that the child lay within Lizzie’s gaze. You could see the struggle and the effort it cost her to lift her head, and with a sharp intake of breath she put out a shaking hand to touch the infant. She smiled a beatific smile, murmured, “My baby. My darling baby,” her hand resting on Peter’s hand and the baby.

That was when Anna noticed there was blood everywhere. She wiped it up, but it kept coming. In the flickering lantern light, it looked dark as pitch on the white rags. The bleeding wouldn’t stop and Anna was starting to panic. She asked Maria for more fresh linens and wondered what kind of herbal remedy she could concoct from ingredients to help slow the bleeding.

Lizzie closed her eyes as if to rest. Then she fell quiet. Too quiet.

“Lizzie?” Peter asked. He shook her gently, trying to waken her.

Anna leaned down to listen for Lizzie’s breathing. She didn’t hear anything. She reached for her pulse and felt nothing. Slowly, she straightened and gave a slight shake of her head. “She’s gone.”

September 10th, 1737

As Anna and Maria prepared Lizzie’s body for burial, she felt a tug at her elbow and turned to see Felix. His eyes widened in shock at the sight of Lizzie on the table. “Bairn said to tell you that Captain Stedman wants to see you as soon as you are able to come.”

“Go ahead, Anna,” Maria said. “I’ll finish up.”

Anna washed, changed her clothes, combed her hair, and put on a fresh prayer covering before heading up to the main deck. Bairn strode over to meet her at the top of the companionway. She was so tired she practically collapsed in his arms when he offered her a hand over the coaming. It seemed the only time she could take a full breath was when Bairn was nearby.

“Felix told me. I’m sorry.”

“So am I,” she said, her throat tight with a wistful sadness. “If only I could have done more—”

He put a finger to her lips. “You did the best you could, under the circumstances.”

She sighed. “Christian said the same thing. He said Lizzie
knows a better life now, the eternal life, warm and safe in the glory of heaven.”

Bairn looked at her with that slightly amused look of his, wanting to believe her but doubtful. She was too tired to pursue a discussion about the afterlife.

“Why does the captain want to see me?”

He bit his lower lip. “News travels fast on a ship.” He led her down the deck to the Great Cabin.

The captain looked up from his table as Bairn led her in. “I was told of trouble in the lower deck.”

“A child has been born.”

The captain stared at her. “And lived?”

“Yes, though his mother passed soon after the delivery. I don’t think the child will survive the day. He is small and his breathing is labored.”

The captain pulled out his Bible. “I’ll conduct a funeral service at sunset.” He glanced at her. “Unless your minister prefers.”

“I think Christian would want to lead the service.”

“Fine, fine.” The captain looked more than a little relieved. “’Tis customary at sea to have the child wrapped with his mother.”

“But . . . that might be too soon.” She looked from the captain to Bairn. “Surely you wouldn’t wrap the child before he’s passed.” Anna sought Bairn’s help. “Could you not wait?”

Bairn kept his eyes lowered. “’Tis most merciful.”

“Please,” she whispered. “Please, wait.”

Captain Stedman and Bairn exchanged a meaningful look, then the captain shook his head. “Only until sunset. ’Tis bad luck to keep a dead body aboard a ship.”

To Anna’s shock and dismay, Christian did not object to
the custom of burying a babe with his mother. “It’s the compassionate thing to do,” he said when she explained what the captain had said. “Let us pray that the babe passes soon.”

But as the afternoon wore on, the babe had not died. Death was near, Anna felt, as his breathing had grown more shallow and his skin had gone nearly translucent. The men had already taken Lizzie’s body up on the upper deck.

As the sun was starting to drop low on the horizon, Christian came back downstairs. “It’s time, Anna.”

She swaddled the babe in a clean cloth and handed him to Peter. The grief-stricken father held him close to his cheek, tears streaming. They went up the companionway and joined the group of mourners. Christian took the baby from his father and gently tucked him into his dead mother’s arms. The baby looked even smaller now; only his downy hair was visible. As the other men started to wrap the body, a shriek stopped them.

“Don’t you dare! Give me that child!” Dorothea stomped over from the top of the companionway and grabbed the baby out of his mother’s arms. “It’s a tiny living soul!” Felix trotted behind her, with Decker’s dog on his heels. “Do we need another tragedy on this day?”

Anna put a hand on her shoulder. “Dorothea, the baby is soon to die. I’m sure of it.”

The effect on Dorothea was dramatic and immediate. She looked wildly round at everyone, thrust the baby down between her breasts, and folded her arms over him. “No,” she said. Then repeated louder, “No. He will not die.”

Anna brushed the beginnings of tears from her eyes. “Why do you say that?”

“Because I said so.”

Christian held out a hand to her. “Dorothea, even skill and love and care cannot overcome God’s will.”

“Don’t you
Dorothea
me, Christian. Let this child have a chance at life. Let him have a chance!”

Christian didn’t seem to know what to make of Dorothea. Nor did Anna. Dorothea hadn’t looked so spirited in . . . months. “But he is so small. How will he eat? There is no woman on the ship who can feed him.” As many young families as there were on this ship, there were no nursing mothers.

Dorothea looked frantically around her, then her eyes rested on the companionway. “The goat. The one that lost its kid.”

“The milk has dried up.”

“Not entirely. Especially since we have water now.” She jutted out her chin. “I will feed this babe. You mark my words. This child will live to see Port Philadelphia.”

Anna whispered to Christian. “Would it be so wrong to let her try?”

Christian looked at young Peter.

“Please,” Peter begged. “Please. For my Lizzie.”

Short of tearing Dorothea’s arms apart with brute force and grabbing the baby, which Christian would never have done, there was nothing he could do. He seemed astonished, then said quietly, “God’s will be done.” He nodded to Dorothea.

The men wrapped up Lizzie’s body and resumed the burial. After the body slipped into the frothy waters, Anna turned around and saw Bairn standing at a distance, a stunned look on his face.

She walked toward him, sensing his disquiet. “The little baby may not survive, but at least he has a chance.”

The baby was not on his mind. “Who was that woman?”

“Who? Which woman?” She turned to the clump of pas
sengers as they made their way back down the companionway. She saw Maria and Barbara. “Those two?”

“No. The one who insisted on saving the babe. What is her name?”

“That’s Felix’s mother.”

“Her name! What is her name?”

“Dorothea. Dorothea Bauer. Why?”

He looked at her strangely, all tight in the face as if it pained him to try to talk. She didn’t know what had upended him. “What’s wrong, Bairn?”

A terrible shadow fell across his face. He swallowed once, then twice. “Why is she going to Port Philadelphia?”

“To join her husband. Felix’s father. Jacob Bauer. Our bishop.”

A painful light flared behind his eyes. He looked . . . stricken. For a long time, he stared at the companionway, his face like a thunderstorm brewing. “Jacob Bauer is not dead?”

“Goodness, no.” She took a step toward him. “Why?”

She began to see that all the color had left his face and his eyes had gone stark and hard. She tugged at his coat sleeve. “Bairn, what is it?”

He seized her hands and backed away from her, a fierce tension in his gray eyes. “Leave me be, Anna.” He spun on his heels and left the upper deck, left her, without another word.

Felix’s eyes were swollen and aching. He wiped the tears off his face with the backs of his hands as he returned the kettle to the galley for Cook to find in the morning.

He couldn’t get the image of Lizzie wrapped up in that cloth out of his mind. And then the worst sight of all—the
sharks that snapped and tugged at her shroud, pulling it into the deep water.

He wondered how Johann would have handled that sight, if it would have bothered him as much as it bothered Felix. He expected to have nightmares over Lizzie’s funeral for a long, long time, like he did about Johann’s. He often woke up with a start, sure he could still hear the clods of dirt that filled his brother’s grave, shovel by shovel.

When he saw the baby being put in Lizzie’s arms, he panicked. He flew down to the lower deck to find his mother and told her to get upstairs, fast, to save that little baby boy from being tossed overboard.

She was sitting at the little opening by the cannon, that awful blank look in her eyes.

“Now, Mem! Now! Get up and get upstairs. They’re tossing the baby overboard to the sharks. That baby needs you!”

And to his astonishment, she did get up. She moved faster than he had seen her move in months. She took those stairs two at a time, and then she grabbed that baby just as Christian started to cover it with the sheet. She yelled at Christian. Yelled! His mother yelled at the minister.

What if that little baby had not been rescued by his mother?

Felix choked at the image, and his breath came in ragged gasps. His mouth was dry, his belly sour. He set down the kettle on a barrel and heaved into Cook’s sink. It was the first time he’d been sick on the
Charming Nancy
.