Homeward

By Maggie Wynne

A novel for young adults, Homeward acts as a time capsule to zip the reader back over two hundred years into a world difficult to envision-no cars, Internet, telephone, or air travel. Here we meet Esther Boyle in 1887, as a girl of twelve, when she arrives at her maternal grandmother's home in war-ravaged rural Virginia. The child of American missionaries, she has made the 3000 mile steamer journey from Brazil in order to further her education. Esther identifies herself as Brazilian, yet like any girl today, she wants desperately to belong in her new life. Her greatest challenge, one difficult for today's reader to imagine, lies in the delay of weeks or months for communications from her family. Her father's broken promises contribute to her feelings of isolation and abandonment. The friends she makes when she attends Moldavia, "a boarding school for young ladies," and her love of the piano provide solace and joy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Maggie Wynne
• Release date: Jan 22, 2014
• ISBN: 9780989606837

Book preview

Homeward

By Maggie Wynne

Published by Lilac Bush Press

PO Box 96, Montreat, NC 28757

ISBN: 978-0-989608068-0-6

Copyright © 2013 by Maggie Wynne

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, except as may be expressly permitted by the 1976 Copyright Act or in writing by the publisher.

This is a work of fiction based on the life of the author’s maternal grandmother, Esther Boyle, as pieced together from letters and family stories. Liberties were taken to create a world and characters through which Esther’s story could be told. Dates and place names are historically accurate as are family names except as noted.

Genealogical information for this book is from Womack, Egbert Hudson. Buffaloe: An Account of the Home and Ancestors to the Fifth Generation of Jacob Woodson Morton and of His Wife Mary Jane (Venable) Morton. 1951.

For a brief history of the American Missionary Movement please refer to The Foreign Missionary Movement in the 19th and Early 20th Centuries, by Daniel H. Bays, History Dept. and Asian Studies Program, Calvin College and Professor Emeritus Dept. of History, University of Kansas at

http://nationalhumanitiescenter.org/tserve/nineteen/nkeyinfo/fmmovement.htm. Accessed August 20, 2013.

The original letters from Esther Boyle to her parents in Brazil and the papers of John Boyle and other information on his impact on the missionary movement in Brazil are preserved in the archives at the Presbyterian Heritage Center in Montreat, North Carolina.

Book cover, interior design and imprint by Ginger Graziano

www.gingergraziano.com

eBook formatting by Maureen Cutajar

www.gopublished.com

Esther’s Tin Trunk and the author’s photograph on back cover ©Peggy Tabor Millin

The Missionary masthead courtesy of Presbyterian Heritage Center, Montreat, NC

All other photographs are courtesy of the author.

Dedicated to

Margaret (Marmee) Lears,

the aunt who gave me Esther’s letters

and

our three daughters, Elizabeth, Dana, and Rebecca,

their children, and all succeeding generations

Appreciations for special support and assistance

to my husband, Bob Wynne

our daughters, Dana Wynne Lindquist and Elizabeth Wynne Marshall

and Ginger Graziano, Peggy Tabor Millin,

and Hope Chandler Squires

Esther’s Maternal Family Tree

The following Morton family tree is historically accurate. For the purpose of this book, some persons’ first names were changed to avoid confusion. All first names used in the novel are in bold. Names in italics indicate family members who are not mentioned in the novel.

photo list

Esther’s Maternal Family Tree

Map of Field of South Brazil Mission

Introduction Esther’s Tin Trunk, (painting applied mid-20th century)

Chapter 1 To Grandma’s House Road to Buffaloe (taken 2008)

Chapter 2 A Place for Growing Esther Boyl, (age 12)

Chapter 3 Welcome to Moldavia Moldavia (taken 2008)

Chapter 4 Colds, Classes, Convicts Agnes and John Boyle, Wedding Portrait May 15, 1872

Chapter 5 Rebel Patient Esther’s Report Card, Moldavia School, November 6, 1888

Chapter 6 Christmas Vacation with Janie The Home of Lewis and Ann Halladay, College Hill

Chapter 7 January Settles In Books

Chapter 8 From an Old Trunk Steamer Trunk

Chapter 9 A May Day Child’s Tombstone

Chapter 10 A Long Summer College Hill Presbyterian Church

Chapter 11 Back to School Mary Jane (Venable) Morton, Grandma

Chapter 12 Mama’s Journal The Missionary

Chapter 13 Hard Times Medicine Bottles

Chapter 14 A Different Christmas Marriage Notice of Mary Littlepage Paigie Halliday and The Rev. Richard Lancaster

Chapter 15 High Hopes The Boyles, Brazil ca 1891: (from left) Woodson, Agnes, Lewis, John, and Gaston

Chapter 16 Back to Buffaloe Back Porch of Buffaloe

Chapter 17 Until Then Grand Piano

Epilogue Esther’s Recital Program at Agnes Scott Institute in Decatur, Georgia. Agnes Scott College, Atlanta, Georgia. Esther on right in group photograph

contents

Dedication and Appreciations

Esther’s Maternal Family Tree

Map of Field of South Brazil Mission

Introduction

Chapter 1 To Grandma’s House

Chapter 2 A Place for Growing

Chapter 3 Welcome to Moldavia

Chapter 4 Colds, Classes, Convicts

Chapter 5 Rebel Patient

Chapter 6 Christmas Vacation with Janie

Chapter 7 January Settles In

Chapter 8 From an Old Trunk

Chapter 9 A May Day

Chapter 10 A Long Summer

Chapter 11 Back to School

Chapter 12 Mama’s Journals

Chapter 13 Hard Times

Chapter 14 A Different Christmas

Chapter 15 High Hopes

Chapter 16 Back to Buffaloe

Chapter 17 Until Then

Epilogue

Introduction

The steamer trip north to the United States from Brazil was plagued by sea sickness and fears of small pox and yellow fever. But for twelve-year-old Esther Boyle, each mile of the three week journey wrenched her away from her parents, three younger brothers, and the home in Campinas she had known since early childhood. She was American by birth and being sent to live near Farmville, Virginia, with her maternal grandmother, Aunt Rachel, and Uncle Nat.

The relatives and the family home Buffaloe were familiar to her from a previous visit, but at school she would feel a foreigner with her Portuguese accent and newly cropped hair. Well before the ship steamed past the recently installed Statue of Liberty in New York Harbor, Esther was aware the next few years would be challenging. She could not, however, imagine how growing up separated from her family would impact her life.

Her only way to bridge the miles and temper her homesickness lay in keeping a journal and writing letters.

August 26, 1887

My dear Mama,

We expect to get to Barbadoes tomorrow noon if possible. Between yesterday at twelve o’clock and today at twelve o’clock we have made such a big run. It was 351 miles! We hadn’t made one that big before. We think we will be quarantined in Barbadoes and St. Thomas because we came from Para, where they have so much smallpox and yellow fever. One of our sailors really had it! But he did not take his in Para. He had already had the fever four or five days and the night we were in Para it broke out. The steamer whistled and whistled for a boat until it came and they took him ashore in the night. The crew did not want to let passengers know about it, but somehow they all found out. Now I am afraid to go to my big trunk anymore because near the baggage room there are ever so many steerage passengers and we are afraid that they may have taken smallpox.

We expect to get to New York on the 3rd or 4th of September and if we do then we won’t have but eight days more to go! But suppose we should be quarantined there I would be so near and yet so far from Grandma’s. I don’t see how I could bear it.

Does Little Lewis talk any yet? Has he grown much? How I do wish to see him and Woodie and Gaston. Tell them that we have seen so many whales on this trip and this morning we saw hundreds of porpoises jumping up and down in the water. The sea was smooth as glass.

You must excuse my writing with pencil, but I haven’t a good pen. Give my love to all.

Your loving daughter,

Esther

P.S. I will write another letter from New York.

August 31 from New York

Dear Mama,

Here I am in New York City. I do believe it has grown since we were here last year. There is building everywhere and lots of mud in the streets.

Your friend, Mrs. Hughes took me all through Central Park and we saw the animals. Lots of elephants and camels and tigers and a lion and lioness sleeping together. The funniest of all was the monkey eating his dinner with a knife and fork and wiping his mouth with a napkin. He would sit up to the table in a chair just like a man.

He was big as a man and he would cut his meat with the knife and put it in his mouth with the fork. How I wished Woodie and Gaston could have seen it.

This afternoon we are going across the Brooklyn Bridge on the train. And we will see the Vanderbilt houses too. If we go shopping, I will take very good care of my money. My next letter will come from Buffaloe. Won’t I be ever so happy to see Grandma and the home folks at last?

chapter 1

To Grandma’s House

September 6, 1887

Farmville, Virginia

Dearest Mama,

I am thankful to be safe and sound at Buffaloe and just in time for school. Grandma, Aunt Rachel, and Uncle Nat have made me feel so welcome after my long ocean voyage. It is a good thing our family spent last year here waiting for Lewis to be born so that the homeplace is familiar.

I know Farmville School will seem very strange—except for my wonderful Cousin Mary. I hope I don’t seem strange to my classmates. Never having been in a classroom with other children, I hardly know what to expect.

Aunt Rachel is buzzing around, shopping and sewing so that I will have dresses fitting to wear. I am keeping a careful account of everything we spend. I know you send as much money as you are able into my account. You sacrifice so much for me to gain a formal education. If only the Southern churches were able to do more, raise more support. The War has left Virginia in poverty.

I will write a note to Woodie and Gaston later today.

Miss Sims fired off her instructions, Tell the class your name, your age, and where you live.

It was Esther’s first day at Farmville School, and her teacher began by summoning each student to the front of the room to introduce him or herself to their fifteen classmates. She read their names in alphabetical order. After Billy Adams and Sam Baker, Esther was next, the first girl.

Slowly she came forward. Her face was red and hot. "My name is

Esther Boyle. I’m twelve years old and I live in Campinas."

No, no. I mean where you live now, Miss Boyle, Miss Sims said.

I live at Buffaloe with my grandmother, but Campinas is my home. I was born there.

Miss Boyle, one thing you must learn is to answer only the question you are asked. I’m certain you’ll have plenty of time to tell us about Brazil when you are called on. You may be seated.

Esther kept her eyes on the floor, and then sank into her desk. She was glad her assigned seat was right up front and she couldn’t see the faces of the boys and girls behind her. But she could hear whispers and muffled laughter. They must think me a fool—a fool and a foreigner, she thought. Maybe they were right. Standing before them, she had forgotten that Campinas was no longer her home. She had never seen the house in Mogy-Mirim that her parents and brothers lived in now. She could not even imagine them there.

She wanted her classmates to know that even though her parents were missionaries, she was an American citizen just like them. She didn’t want to be known as a missionary child. One of those children born in strange, faraway places, dressed in what they received in missionary boxes—cartons of cast-off clothing collected by the Ladies Missionary Society—and dependent on meager contributions from struggling churches. Even small children learned early about missionaries when they placed their pennies in specially marked envelopes.

The bell rang for recess. A boy who seemed twice as tall as all the others pretended to bump Esther by accident on his way outside. Oh, excuse me, please. I thought you were one of the boys. I didn’t know foreign girls cut their hair like boys. He elbowed a friend beside him, and they ran away laughing.

Tears burned in Esther’s eyes. She blinked furiously, fighting to keep them back. If only Papa hadn’t insisted on having her hair cut before her long voyage from Brazil. He thought it might make it easier for Mrs. Lane, the wife of a fellow missionary and Esther’s traveling companion. Mama protested and Esther cried, but Papa had his way as usual.

Esther hid from further teasing by dawdling on the way out and returning to the classroom before recess was over. The remainder of the morning she sat ramrod straight, her chin up. She could hear Papa’s proud voice, Always hold your head high. You are a child of God.

When Mr. Bass, the principal, rang the lunch bell, three classrooms of students stampeded into the sunshine of the schoolyard. Esther looked up to see Cousin Mary coming toward her. There could be no more welcome sight.

The night Esther arrived in Virginia, Mary reminded her that she would be spending the night at grandma’s five nights a week when school was in session because it was too far for her to travel to Farmville School each day from her home in Cumberland County. She vowed that though she was two years older and in another class she would be Esther’s companion at school as well. They would eat lunch together every day. Esther would have been unable to eat a bite if Mary hadn’t come to her rescue. Even with her cousin beside her she could barely get a swallow down. Her throat contracted. She had a horrid pain in her stomach.

At least none of the girls teased her. They only acted as if she were invisible or gathered in clusters, whispering and pointing when they thought she wasn’t looking. Mary saw Esther looking with longing at the clumps of girls.

Don’t worry, Esther. I know there are girls who want to know you and be your friend. They’re just shy and a little standoffish. They’ll come around. And those boys—their teasing won’t last. Bullies tire easily or go looking for someone else to pick on.

Esther wasn’t so sure. She had heard one of the girls in her class mimicking her accent when she passed by. I’m twelve years old and I live in Campinas.

And now, a week later, things were not much better. Esther heard the tip-tap tapping of her teacher’s feet. Miss Sims was coming closer and closer. Now she was turning up Esther’s row. Please, God, let me disappear. I don’t want her to call on me to recite. If Miss Sims would pass her by, Esther would be spared the snickers of her classmates when she stood to recite in her accented English. She was thoroughly frightened when the entire class turned their eyes on her. She hated to be the center of attention. She stammered and stuttered, her words tripping over each other.

As Miss Sims continued to call on students Esther realized that if she really did disappear, no one at school would miss her. She had not made a single friend. Mary was her only friend, if cousins counted; Mary would be sorry she was gone. Maybe the boys who teased her would miss having an easy target. They apparently still thought it fun to make fun of the hint of Portuguese that gave a lilt to her speech. What could she do? She couldn’t make it go away any more than she could grow out her cropped hair overnight. Why, Esther wondered, at the very time she wanted desperately to look and act the same as all her classmates, why was she such a misfit?

The bell rang. Esther held her breath.

After lunch we’ll start right where we left off, Miss Sims said in a voice loud enough to rise above the din of scraping desks and elated children.

Esther had believed for one brief moment that God had heard her, but now she realized she would still have to recite before the day was over.

Mary met Esther on the steps. Let’s hurry, she said, and she took Esther’s hand. If we get there first we can sit under the big shade tree. Esther could only nod her agreement.

Farmville School may be the pride of Prince Edward County, but it’s the place of my disgrace, Esther said. Everyone in my class must think I’m stupid. I wish they knew how hard it is for me even though I’m a good student. I study hard every night and know my lessons well. I just can’t recite before the class.

Esther’s chest heaved as she gave an enormous sigh. A slight trickle began down her cheeks. If I were only back in Brazil with Mama as my only teacher. At home no other eyes were on me while I said my lessons. Whether I was studying my assignments or learning a new piece at the piano, Mama was my teacher.

Mary and Esther each claimed a rock to sit on and spread their lunches in the shade. Esther had brought enough for both of them: apples from grandma’s orchard at Buffaloe and plenty of biscuits stuffed with ham Uncle Nat had cured. Mary began to eat, but Esther couldn’t swallow. She needed time to compose herself.

Why don’t you stay after school one day and talk with Miss Sims about it? Mary asked. I’ve heard that she’s really quite understanding outside of class.

I suppose I could, if you think it will help. Esther polished her apple with her skirt. It will be a little scary though.

If you’ll stay this afternoon, Mary said, I’ll wait for you outside and we can walk back to Buffaloe together.

All right. You know her better than I do. But I’m scared of her and Mr. Bass, the principal, too. Esther nibbled the edge of her biscuit and put it down. Her appetite was gone.

The bell rang to call them inside. Gathering up what remained of their lunches, Esther could hear boys laughing a few feet away. She automatically tugged at the sides of her hair as if she could lengthen it.

Let’s go, she said through clenched teeth.

Please be seated, Miss Sims said.

As Esther took her seat, she made every effort to compose herself. She took long deep breaths, counted and released one small poof at a time. No sooner had Esther settled in her desk than Miss Sims’ eyes met Esther’s and held them captive. Esther knew she would not escape recitation today. But at least she had chosen a poem she loved, even if it had four verses.

Miss Boyle, it’s your turn to recite for the class, she said sweetly, as if she were inviting her student to join her for a cup of tea. Please come forward, face the class, and recite the poem you have chosen to commit to memory.

Forever—it seemed to take forever for Esther to rise, her knees trembling furiously under her petticoats, and take the few steps to the spot where Miss Sims’ notorious pointer directed her. Her hands— what to do with her hands? At last Esther turned to face the blur of faces that appeared to swim in the air, then focused at last to become her fifteen classmates. Her mouth dry, her tongue clinging to the roof of her mouth, she recalled the first line and the comfort it brought.

You may begin, Miss Boyle. Miss Sims’ voice sliced Esther’s thoughts with a sharp edge of impatience.

Esther began, her voice steady.

Daffodils by William Wordsworth

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o’er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

The big boys at the back of the room began to flutter their eyes and sway in their seats. Miss Sims was busy making notations in her class record. She couldn’t see the boys but Esther did.

Esther could not recall the first line of the next verse. Something about estrela, stars that shine…the Milky Way. Frantically, words, rhymes, phrases spun in the air, close but out of reach. The classroom seemed to hold its breath. Miss Sims peered over her spectacles. Continue please, Miss Boyle. Or take your seat.

But Esther knew she knew the poem, and if it weren’t for those hateful boys—

Would you like to try again tomorrow? Miss Sims asked.

No, ma’am. Esther stared at her shoes—the only place she could look and avoid the eyes of her classmates. I want to continue now. Please give me another chance.

A whoosh of whisper swept the room.

Settle down, class, Miss Sims said, closing her grading book. Give Miss Boyle your attention. She sat forward over her desktop, keeping a sharp eye on her students. Begin. She tapped her pointer.

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the Milky Way,

They stretched in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay,

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The third and fourth stanzas spilled like cream across the room. There was not a sound. Had she done something wrong?

You may be seated, Miss Sims said, and called the next student to the front. Esther returned to her desk, bewildered.

As soon as the school day ended, Esther forced herself to approach her teacher. Would it be possible for me to talk with you for a few minutes, Miss Sims?

Of course, Miss Boyle. The teacher glanced up briefly from her papers. I’ve wanted to talk with you.

When the room emptied, Miss Sims pointed to a chair beside her desk. Do be seated.

Esther explained in fits and starts how frightened she was to stand to recite in front of the class. I want you to know that I know my lessons—I really do. I’ve always been a good student. It’s just speaking in front of the class. I have a hard time finding the words I need. Esther’s hands twisted each other in her lap.

What language did you speak in your home when you lived in Brazil? Miss Sims asked. Portuguese or English?

We spoke both. Papa and Mama wanted us to learn Portuguese. A mist began to form in Esther’s eyes. But they never wanted us to forget English. She looked down into her lap. Oh, I don’t know why this is so hard. Since I can only speak English here, it’s as if I’ve lost half my vocabulary.

Miss Sims tapped her desk with her pen. Didn’t your parents prepare you for an American classroom?

They told me about learning along with other boys and girls, and Mary told me some about what to expect. Esther’s voice began to tremble.

She must have neglected to tell you that you are now in Virginia and here you must learn to speak English just like all the other students. You know, Miss Boyle, you may never return to Brazil, and it will be necessary to make your way in this country. You must get over these foolish fears. I will expect exactly the same thing from you that I expect of your fellow students.

Esther was dumbfounded. Never return to Brazil? Why, she had never considered such a thing—never imagined not returning to her homeland. She loved Brazil. Mama and Papa and her three little brothers were in Brazil. It was home. How could Miss Sims suggest such a thing?

Has the cat got your tongue, Miss Boyle?

No, Miss Sims. Esther avoided her teacher’s eyes. I understand and…and I…I will try. I will really try very hard. Now, may I be excused? Before her teacher could give permission, Esther rushed to the door. She wanted to be outside before the tears started.

Well, what on earth? Miss Sims’ voice followed her out the door.

Esther rushed into Mary’s arms. What happened? You were out in a flash, Mary said.

"It was terrible, simply awful.