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  “Don’t tell me about the crow’s nest when I told y’ to stay in my quarters. It’s past midnight!” That laddie! He was wearing Bairn to a frazzle. “Go. Now. Go to bed. Stay there. You’d best pay heed to me.”

  “But I couldn’t sleep.”

  Felix’s lip trembled, and his troubled look scored Bairn’s heart. At times he forgot how young his brother really was. “Why cannae y’ sleep?”

  “Too quiet tonight. Maybe I could sleep if you told me a story.”

  Bairn sighed. “One story. Then I must get back on watch.”

  He followed Felix down the deck to the first mate’s quarters, dog trotting behind. Felix jumped up on the top bunk and Bairn sat on the floor, back against his own bunk. “What do you want t’ hear?”

  “Squivvers told me that there were giants in the bilge.”

  “He’s tryin’ to scare you. He wants you to stay out of it.”

  “I’m not scared.”

  Yes, he was.

  “Do you know any story about giants?”

  A memory flitted through Bairn’s mind like a starling. His father, preaching to the small church in their home in Ixheim. Preaching about the twelve spies that went into the Promised Land to scope things out. A Bible story would be good. The laddie needed some Bible training.

  So he strained his memory to pull forgotten details to the forefront.

  “. . . And when the twelve spies returned,” Bairn said, “they reported to Moses all they’d seen—a land of milk and honey. They even brought grapes as proof of the land’s abundance. But ten of the spies had more to tell. They spoke of giants in the land and caused great fear among the Israelites. Utter panic.”

  “Were the spies lying?”

  “No. No, they weren’t lying.”

  “So what happened next?”

  “God forbade that generation from enterin’ the Promised Land. They stayed in the desert for forty years because of their fearfulness.”

  “That seems a little harsh,” Felix said, yawning. “Giants are giants.”

  “The problem, you see, wasn’t that the giants weren’t real, but those fears became bigger than the other good things they’d seen.” Bairn let that settle for a moment. “Fear can be like that, can take hold of a person.”

  Fear. Bairn ran a hand over his face. The truth was, he had left Port Philadelphia because he’d been afraid. Afraid as he had been only once before in his life. Afraid he was losing control over his life.

  He had run away because he did not have the courage to stay. He had run to the sea, to a life that welcomed him. Welcomed him, perhaps, but not saved him. It was a sobering realization.

  Abruptly, he rose to his feet and tiptoed to the door, pleased that the laddie had fallen asleep at last.

  “Bairn, have you ever seen a giant?”

  Bairn stilled, his hand on the door handle. Just one giant, he thought. My father.

  Ephrata Community

  November 5, 1737

  Dorothea answered the knock at the door and found Brother Andrew standing there, a solemn look on his somber face. “I’ve come to purge your husband of the sickness.”

  She looked at the instruments in his hands—a large bowl and a sharp kitchen knife. Oh dear. “Bloodletting?”

  Brother Andrew nodded. Dorothea let him pass by her to pull the chair next to Jacob’s bedside.

  She felt her knees start to sway. “But why is that necessary for this kind of illness?”

  “To restore his four humors.”

  In her nervous discomfort, she tried a poor pun, and instantly she regretted it. “Jacob has always been missing some humors.”

  Brother Andrew furrowed his large brow and stared at her, unblinking.

  This brother might also be missing some humors. “Would you mind if I got some fresh air while you’re doing the procedure?”

  Brother Andrew lifted a hand in a dismissive wave. She picked up the baby, grabbed her shawl, and went outside. The autumn sun felt wonderful on her face. She felt almost guilty as she wandered around the gardens, enjoying the peace and quiet of the community, while Jacob was inside getting purged.

  Dorothea walked around the paths in the center of the community, amazed to see how far it extended in each direction. Nearly two hundred acres, Sister Alice told her. Being here was a haven to her, as close to Germany as she would ever get. The milled lumber buildings spoke to her heart—so similar to the architecture of Ixheim, in the Palatinate near the Rhine Valley. Steep roofs, multiple small dormer windows, central chimneys in each building.

  She should never have left Germany. This New World had brought nothing but disasters.

  She sat on a bench in the sun and noticed Father Friedsam walk down the path with a young man, a stranger to the community. They walked slowly, not noticing Dorothea, and stopped close enough that she could hear them. The man was no youth, but a certain boyish enthusiasm snapped in his eyes.

  “Why are you here, in the New World?” Father Friedsam asked.

  “God gave me a vivid dream. He called me out of my old life. Everything had to be left behind in this venture into a life of faith. Complete obedience.”

  “Yes! Yes, that’s exactly the right response to a call from the Almighty. Complete obedience.” Father Friedsam gripped the man’s shoulders. His long beard ended in a dagger’s point, jabbing the air, punctuating his words. “Do not depart from us. Stay with us awhile. We are creating a society that lives a radical faith.”

  “Thank you.” The young man’s eyes glowed. “But this group I’ve joined up with, they are sheep without a shepherd.” Silence swelled for a moment, then the young man spoke in a tone of infinite tolerance. “I have come to see—to know, actually—that these people need me. I think that God led me to them, to help them and guide them.”

  “The people you are caring for—they too would be welcome here. Consider bringing them to the community. There is a place for you here. For all of you.”

  “Perhaps I’ll suggest it to them.”

  “If there are some married individuals, they are free to live as Householders. And those who are single join the celibate order.”

  “Celibate order? Did you say celibate?” The young man’s voice rose an octave and Dorothea had to stifle a laugh.

  As Father Friedsam explained the importance of celibacy to him—that it was the only way to free a believer from earthly concerns and enable him to focus all his attention on union with God—the young man’s enthusiasm seemed to rapidly diminish.

  “I’ll have to give this matter some prayer.”

  Chimes rang, and Father Friedsam lifted his hooded head. “I must go. Godspeed to you.”

  The young man watched him go, then suddenly noticed Dorothea on the garden bench.

  She shifted the baby on her hip and gave him a slight smile. “You are a seeker?”

  “I suppose you could say that.” He approached her. “I find the Ephrata Community to be an eccentric place.”

  “Eccentric, strange, odd, yes, all that. But wonderful too.” She tucked a blanket under the baby’s chin. “It is only strange at first. In time, you begin to see why they do what they do. They long to know God in a deep way, so every part of their life holds meaning to bring them closer to God.” She pointed up the hill and explained to the young man that the buildings were set in a triangle because Father Friedsam believed it best represented the Holy Trinity.

  “I’m sorry to say I must make haste and leave. I am on an errand.” He took off his hat to scratch his head and she noticed an unusual white patch in his hair. “Are you one of the Householders?”

  “No,” she said. “I am here as a guest. My husband is ill. They’ve been kind enough to take us in.”

  The young man stared at her, then the baby, then back at her, and she colored a little at the intensity of his staring. An expression of confusion crossed his face; then a light went on and he grinned. “Are you, by chance, Dorothea Bauer?”

  She stilled. “How would you kn
ow my name?”

  He sat down beside her. “Your people have been worried about you.”

  Her heart started to pound. “My church? The people from my church? You know of it?”

  “Yes.” He smiled. “Anna König, Christian and Maria Müller. Their little girl with—” He pointed to the corner of his eye.

  “Catrina.” She covered her mouth with her free hand. “Lieber Gott. You know them? You know where they are?”

  “I do. I’m returning there this very day.”

  “Oh, you must tell them Jacob is ill. He’s very, very sick.”

  “The bishop? He’s sick?”

  “Yes. Near death. But I am praying for a miracle. Tell Anna and the others to pray too. And my sons—please tell them where we are! Ask them to come for us as soon as they can.”

  His smile faded. “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, Dorothea. Your sons, the tall one and the young one—they left Port Philadelphia on a ship to sail across the ocean.”

  “What?” The word came out as a tiny squeak. She turned sharply to look at him.

  “They’re gone.”

  She lurched to her feet, almost falling, so that the young man reached out to steady her. He said it so easily. They’re gone. A moan slipped out of her. “Why? Why did they leave?”

  “The tall one, he was offered a first mate position on a ship. From what I understand, he couldn’t refuse. And then the young one, Felix, he followed him and stowed away on the ship.”

  Dorothea’s eyelids squeezed shut, and her face tightened in pain. The news made her heart ache.

  The young man asked if he could get her something. “Water, perhaps?”

  She shook her head. “I just need to let it sink in.” She was shocked by this news, and yet, in a way she couldn’t explain, not shocked at all. She felt the young man watch her, and turned her head to meet his gaze. “He’s not coming back, is he?” she said, her voice shaking.

  “I don’t know.”

  Dorothea could feel herself hunkering down inside, trying to protect herself from the hurt she felt.

  Jacob did this. This wouldn’t have happened had he just stayed in Philadelphia with the church, waited until they could all go together. He expected too much of their son, too soon. And Felix—he’d already lost one brother to an early death. She couldn’t blame him for not wanting to lose his other brother.

  The baby started to whimper, then cry. He was hungry. And then the door opened to the building where she and Jacob were staying, the Bethaus, and she saw Brother Andrew leave with a bowl full of dark liquid. “My husband. He needs me. I must go and return to his side.” She grabbed the young man’s arm. “Please. Tell Anna we are here.”

  “Dorothea, would you like to return with me?”

  She lifted the infant against her shoulder. The baby only wailed louder.

  She shook her head and reached out to firmly grasp the young man’s hand. “Jacob is not able to travel. Please—just let Anna know. She’ll know what to do.”

  “Of course. Of course I will. Don’t worry about a thing.” He whispered the words like a prayer.

  Dorothea watched him go, feeling greatly relieved. Soon, soon! someone would come to get them, to help them get home. Home. Wherever home was, whatever it looked like.

  It was only after the young man rode off down the bridle path that she realized she had never found out his name.

  When she returned to Jacob, she went to his bedside and studied him. A strange hue had overspread his face. She sank into the chair beside the bed and sat for a while, feeding the babe in her arms with sips of goat’s milk, thinking.

  Weary thoughts. Jacob did this. He did this to me. After the baby had its fill and drifted off to sleep, she laid him in the cradle. Though the room was not cold, she was shivering. She added a log to the fire and sat, cross-legged, on the wood planked floor near the hearth.

  She lowered her head into her hands and surrendered to the tears that had been stinging her eyes. She could only weep.

  She wept for her stubborn, sick husband and the children he had lost. She knew that if she lost Jacob, if she lost any more, she would never be able to bear it. Knowing that she had lost her sons to the sea, she simply could not bear it.

  Lady Luck, Atlantic Ocean

  November 6, 1737

  Felix’s feet twitched, wanting to take off running, but he knew he would be found out. It was a gloomy day and dark in the lower deck, with the barest of light coming in through the cracks of the upper deck and the cannon portals. He would have to remind his brother of the need to add oakum to those gaps in the planks. He heard a rustling sound and looked up through the wooden grate above his head, and nearly jumped out of his skin as he caught sight of a long thin tail out of the corner of his eye.

  It was a rat.

  His blood pounded in his ears and a scream clawed at his throat, but he wouldn’t let it out. He hated rats, really hated them, but at the moment their company was preferable to another tongue-lashing by Captain Berwick. He wasn’t scared of the captain, exactly, but he’d taken a dislike to Felix for some reason.

  Just moments ago, he’d been poking around the Great Cabin and found a detailed map of the western coast of Africa in the captain’s bunk, under his bed pillow. He leaned against the wooden frame to examine it. He was proud of himself for identifying the African continent—Bairn had made him memorize each continent by recognizing their shape. He’d like to tell his brother what a good teacher he was, but he didn’t want to tip him off to snooping through the Great Cabin.

  “Are all little lads as nosy as y’, Felix?”

  Flinching, he looked up and saw Captain Berwick, standing at the coaming of the Great Cabin. He had been so sure the captain and Bairn had been occupied on the fo’c’sle deck. So sure. But then he’d become absorbed with the map and lost track of time. It was always the little things that got him in trouble.

  His gaze took in the map in Felix’s hands and his horrified expression.

  “I’m—I’m sorry.” Heat suffused Felix’s neck and cheeks as he stuffed the map back under the bed pillow. He was frantic. But sometimes he got his best ideas while in that condition. “I was looking for the cat. To eat the rats.”

  The captain’s sour countenance revealed he did not believe Felix’s excuse, and he proceeded to give him a lengthy homily on what happened to boys who made a habit of lying. Felix considered the sermon to be punishment enough, but then the captain told him to go find Squivvers and order him to tie Felix to the rudder as shark bait. Felix backed up to the door and sprinted away as fast as his feet would carry him, down to the lower deck.

  And now he sat unmoving on the companionway for the longest while, hardly daring to breathe as his eyes got used to the darkness. Slowly, he craned his head back and peered up through the hatch on top of the companionway again. He saw Squivvers climb up the tall mast to the crow’s nest to take a turn on watch. Felix was safe, for now.

  And the rat, thank goodness, was gone.

  Jacob’s Cabin

  November 7, 1737

  Anna gazed down the path, silvered in the gathering dusk. She had heard something, and then she saw a horse and rider emerge out of the woods. “Christian!” she called. “The newcomer has returned.”

  Christian and Maria had been standing by the fire pit, warming their hands, and he hurried over to where she stood watching Henrik’s horse come up the long path. “Is he alone?” His question put the instant worried look on Maria’s face.

  “No. No! Someone is with him!”

  Christian and the others gathered down the path to greet the newcomer.

  And Peter! Peter Mast had come home.

  “Look who I found stumbling through the woods!” Henrik said. “Our Peter has had a change of heart.”

  The teenager looked hungry, filthy, and so grateful to be back among them. He hopped off the back of Henrik’s horse and was swallowed up in hugs by Maria and Anna, by Christian patting his back. When Peter saw
his father standing by the cabin door, he broke loose of their hold. He took a tentative step forward, then another, until he was walking slowly toward his father. Isaac watched him, first with a stern, fierce look on his face. Then his heart won out, and his face crumbled into a grin and he opened wide his arms for his boy to run into them.

  Pleased, so pleased, Anna turned her attention back to the newcomer. “And Jacob and Dorothea? Did you find them as well?”

  Henrik slid off the horse in one graceful movement, one breath to the next. With reins in hand, he shook his head. “No sign of them at all. Nothing. It’s like they vanished from the earth. Like Enoch. Like Elijah. Gone, without a trace.” He took a step closer to Anna and whispered, “I fear they are no longer.”

  17

  Ephrata Community

  November 10, 1737

  They hadn’t come for her yet. Dorothea had thought by now, surely by now, the young man would have returned with Christian, Isaac, or Josef. Even lazy Simon. She wasn’t sure how far away they were from the Ephrata Community, but the young man had been gone for five days. What could have happened? Where could they be?

  Sister Marcella had spoken to Father Friedsam to ask if he had any information about the young man with the patch of white hair, but he remembered nothing other than his name was Henrik. Perhaps something had happened to him along the way.

  She had a terrible dread that they weren’t coming for them. For her. Jacob drifted in and out of consciousness. Dorothea lifted a dipper of water to his lips, trying to help him sip some water. Most of the water leaked out the corners of his mouth and dribbled down his bearded chin.

  “Keep trying,” Sister Marcella said. “It’s important that he has water.” One sister or another checked on them frequently throughout the day, bringing food for her, goat’s milk for the baby, wood for the fire, all for which Dorothea was thankful.

  As Sister Marcella straightened the covers over Jacob, she said, “Dorothea, most immigrants come for one or two reasons—to own land or to escape religious persecution. What brought you here? Did you come to escape hardship?”