Ruined

By Thomas Macy

During the California Gold Rush, Ann and Bekah forge an unlikely bond. When twelve-year-old Bekah is abandoned by her father after her mother passes away, Ann adopts the girl into her life. Just as they are planning to head East, Bekah’s father returns and coaxes his daughter back to him; but life with her dad is far from ideal. After hearing of the abuse Bekah is suffering, Ann embarks on a treacherous journey to rescue her. Escaping, Bekah must survive the wilderness around her and inside her...alone, defiled, and abandoned.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Thomas Macy
• Release date: Feb 15, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370107209

Thomas Macy

I grew up as the son of a small town weekly newspaper editor. With no lack of paper, I 'wrote' from before I could write. But, as life happened, I immersed myself in my growing family and my computer programming career. My writing was limited to a few hours here and there. I wrote short stories, composed Bible studies, and just plain loved researching and writing. Then, in 2003, I came across the account of Rebecca Ann Johnson and, after verifying its authenticity, decided it was begging to be told. Today, my wife Sandy and I live in Windsor and, now that I am retired, I spend a lot more of my time in the craft of writing...that is when I am not feeding her flower fetish.

Book preview

Ruined

by

Thomas Macy

See http://www.RuinedFury.com for documents, photos, links, etc.

"There is hope for a ruined humanity—

hope of pardon, hope of peace with God, hope of glory…."

J.I. Packer

Copyright © 2015

Thomas B. Macy

P.O. Box 927

Windsor, Colorado 8005

All rights reserved.

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015901785

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to Sandy and our family, blessed with mutual love and support, and to all who have struggled to overcome the failures of those who should have showered them with care and affection.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The idea for RUINED came about from morning meetings with my friend Andy. One of the things we loved discussing was our common childhood background—walking the wilderness of the Colorado Rockies alone with God. Each of us was changed by these encounters. Such backwoods campouts helped me come to grips with the emotional highs and lows of youth. I wondered what impact that kind of experience would have on someone working through trauma. These early morning discussions helped bring RUINED to life.

As the work progressed, input from Deb Kastner (http://www.debkastnerbooks.com) and Keith Olszewski helped develop Bekah’s emotional journey. True North, our local group of Christian Writers, critiqued various sections. And when it comes to horses, I relied on input from my friends Gordon and Jody Niswender.

With the work complete, I needed to come up with a cover. The best illustrator I know is Mark Ludy (www.MarkLudy.com). When I met with Mark to discuss the cover, he said the artwork should depict the emotion of the story. People who saw the cover prior to publication called it haunting. Others said they knew the book’s topic just from the cover. Thanks, Mark, for your insight and your eye for emotion.

There is hope for a ruined humanity, and there is hope for us as individuals. We are all part of a story much bigger than our individual roles. While the climax of God’s story has not been reached, the Lord has a part for each of us in bringing it about. If we look to Him, He will never fail us.

Map-The Journey East

Bring About

Friday, August 24, 1849

Ann’s eyes burst open, onto a world soaked in the familiar black of the cabin’s lightless night. An instant later her ears awoke to echoes in the dark that shouldn’t be there. Feet pounded the deck, and muffled voices filled her head. The ship was steady; this wasn’t a storm! Jumping from the bunk and feeling for her clothes, she threw on a blouse, dress, and jacket, tying the jackknife to her waist with a rope. A whaler was never without her knife. Not bothering to button the jacket, she hurried into the passageway.

Brushing her hands along each side of the narrow corridor, Ann picked her way forward. The doors to the Mate’s cabin and the Captain’s cabin rattled haphazardly; no light shone from either. Her mind paused but a moment on the peculiarity of this disorder. The mid-ship’s gangway was just ahead. Taking it two steps at a time, she emerged onto a deck cloaked in the stygian gloom of an overcast sky.

A flash lit up the foredeck like lightning, and the wood in the main companionway exploded just behind her. A gun! Someone shot—at her! Falling to the deck, she tried to crawl; but the dress tugged against her knees. Rolling and pulling herself along the side of the companionway, she moved aft.

Captain! Give up the ship! That was the forceful, tenor voice of Mr. Kirkpatrick, the First Mate. Ann had shared meals with both him and the Captain. We just want you to put us ashore.

This was a mutiny! Men worked their way hesitantly aft from the foredeck.

Rising to a crouching position to free her dress, she glanced over her shoulder and scurried a bit faster. Stumbling, she slid across the deck. Tremors wracked her gut as her lungs clawed for breath. Blood raised a salty taste in her mouth. It took a moment for the yells and cries to overpower her gasps.

With a roar of pain in her head and chest, she fought to move on; they were coming! Prying herself up, she glanced at her feet; they still clung to what tripped her. A scream clamored about inside her, unable to find a way out. On whaling ships, blood on the deck was common, but not here, not like this.

The Captain would not be answering the mutineers; eyes stared blankly from a head with a gaping wound. Wheezing surged from her chest as everything in her scooted backwards toward the rear of the mid-ships companionway, away from the bleeding flesh that had been a man. Standing, she flattened herself against the aft wall.

Captain Thompson! You ain’t got any crew but a few, and we have the weapons. Short of stature, with a large barrel-like chest, Sy’s gravelly voice was unmistakable. The foul smelling, vulgar man was as clear in Ann’s mind as if it were day. From the start of the voyage, she stayed away from him.

Reaching under her jacket, she pulled out and opened the jackknife. Clutching it tightly to her chest, she breathed in short quick gasps, eyes wide, staring aft, muscles taut, waiting. A knife was a weapon to be used—but against a gun? She closed her eyes and groaned, replacing it.

Someone stumbled over the body.

You shot the Captain! yelled Kirkpatrick.

No answer. They worked their way aft—toward her.

Darkness was the only help now. There, concealed in the black of night, the mizzenmast shrouds reached down to the bulwark. When she was a whaler on the Christopher Mitchell, the rigging had become an extension of who she was. Sailors lived like parasites on their ships, pruning, cleaning, and caring for the vessel that carried and fed them. With eyes closed she could maneuver the deck, find those ropes, and climb to the tops of the masts. Quickly, Ann pulled up the bottom of her dress tucking the front into the rope belt. Diving for the bulwark, she reached up and grasped the ratline, right where it was supposed to be. With the smoothness of experience, she bent to the outside and ran up the rigging. Grabbing onto a rope stay with one hand, she pulled herself into the mast with the other. Taking a deep breath, she listened…no one had seen her climb. Kirkpatrick moved along the starboard side while Sy worked his way down the port bulwarks.

Take care! yelled Kirkpatrick. I want no more deaths.

Aye, Sir! replied a few men, spread out between the First Mate and Sy.

Did you all hear me? Kirkpatrick’s voice rose a notch higher and demanded an answer.

Aye, Sir! grumbled Sy.

Below Ann, men huddled now behind the companionway whispering. She couldn’t tell how many.

What are we going to do?

They killed the Captain.

Any of you got weapons?

Silence.

We gotta do something!

We…have…no…guns.

"But they killed the Captain!"

Silence.

Sy’s crazy. I ain’t gonna give up to him.

The sound of scurrying.

Mr. Kirkpatrick!

Here!

Don’t shoot! We’re coming unarmed.

Good! said Kirkpatrick in a relieved tone. All the men moved toward him. The deck was silent now except for the hum of voices around him.

Then we’re agreed, eh, said Kirkpatrick. We’ll come about and head for San Francisco?

Wherever you want to go.

Where’s that woman? Sy growled. She’s still up here.

Why would she be on deck?

Don’t know! But I saw her. You…

"I am now acting Captain!" Kirkpatrick angrily interrupted him.

Aye, Sir, Sy growled. But the little tart must be dealt with.

"She will be…dealt with…as I see fit. You and your men make a complete search of the deck. If you find her, return her to her cabin. The rest of you, come with me. We’ll go below and search."

It sounded as if the mutiny was over, at least for the moment. Ann adjusted her stance. By the time the sun rose, her situation would need to be resolved. For the moment though, she was safe here in the dead of night. Uncomfortable at that thought, she hugged the mast tighter and took reassurance from its familiar feel. The last two months in Paita, Peru, hadn’t removed the sea from her. In fact, those days confined to shore felt like years!

The Consul in Paita put her on this ship three days ago. They were supposed to round the Horn and return her to Nantucket. She ate with the Captain and the First Mate! She knew them. The Captain was a good man; they both were good men. What made Mr. Kirkpatrick turn against him? Always the gentleman, his black hair was clean and combed, his moustache and beard neatly trimmed, his demeanor kind. The considerations he showed her during meals and the thoughtful courtesies throughout the day had brightened the dusky atmosphere. How different from the Mitchell, for an officer to be flirty—with her. On this ship she was no longer the ruined girl cast off by her parents; all things had become possible. Now, this man who dallied with her feelings threatened to end the voyage.

Shivering, she forced herself to take a deep breath. The salty smell of the sea eased her trembling like an anchor in a storm, and she remembered the Quaker on the Mitchell. As the ocean breezes moved the ship, now Joseph’s God guided her; that was what her friend had said.

She had been gone too long. That first day out from Paita, the rolling of the deck rocked her gently in the shade of majestic white canvas spread out, like clouds above her; masts and rigging rose up, like trees and vines around her. The ship played its song just for her—the deep hum of rope on wood, like strings on a giant instrument, a sound the uninitiated might call creaking, the driving rhythm of waves against the bow, the cry of the gulls pursuing them that first day, like a crowd sending off a friend.

And the ship carried her on a journey home; at least it was supposed to. Closing her eyes, Ann took a deep breath and leaned into the mast as if it were Tom, and hugged it tighter. It didn’t feel right to be wearing a dress, here, on the mast. Of course she hadn’t planned on fighting a mutiny when she tumbled up onto the deck. And climbing the masts was supposed to be in the past!

We can’t have no passengers left to tell what happened. The conspiratorial sound in Sy’s voice jerked Ann back to her present situation. Go down and get the old man. But make sure the Mate don’t see.

What are you going to do? The voice of hesitation belonged to Jacob, the crewman who, to all appearances, was Sy’s minion.

"Like I said, no witnesses."

But…

"Just do it!"

As the edge of day crept over the eastern horizon, Jacob returned with a man shuffling awkwardly on bare feet. Conrad Dithers, the only other passenger, looked around wildly for help. Wha…what are you doing? His sparse, unkempt white hair was just visible. The wiry old miner from the California gold fields, not much taller than Ann, still suffered from seasickness.

Sy grabbed the old man and shoved him toward the bulwark. Sy’s tattered black English visorless cap came halfway down his forehead making him even more intimidating. A badge in the shape of an anchor decorated the front. He probably thought the emblem gave him some kind of authority.

C…Captain! Shouted Dithers, glancing quickly about the deck.

Sy tugged the old man’s collar and pulled himself right into Dithers’ face. Call all you want. He’s dead!

The rope stay Ann grasped ran forward to mid deck with Sy right next to its end, his back toward her. She drew her knife, flipped it open, and cut the bottom hem of her dress. Replacing the knife, she folded the strip and wrapped the fabric around the rope stay. She had done this a hundred times on the Mitchell, just never to save a someone’s life.

Still gripping Dithers’ collar, Sy shoved the man backward.

Holding the ends of the overlapped strips, Ann flung herself from the mast and flew down the stay with the cloth gliding smoothly over the rope. Her dress and open coat flapped out on either side, like wings.

Dithers’ eyes bulged.

It’s the Captain’s ghost! yelled one of the men at the sound of her approach. He rushed forward as Ann careened over his head.

Rather than using the fabric strips to apply pressure on the stay and soften her landing, she let gravity increase her speed. Raising her legs, she pointed them toward Sy’s back and gritted her teeth.

Sy began to turn in the direction of the commotion just as she slammed into him. His back gave way and the air left his lungs in a grunt; he shot past Dithers head first into the bulwark and collapsed to the deck.

Everyone, including the old man, stared at her, shock on their faces.

Run! She shoved Dithers aft, before the crew realized just what had happened.

Pushing the old man into the companionway, she waited but an instant. He was too slow! She moved on back behind its wall for protection. Sidling to its port side, she turned and faced the corner where one of the crew now inched forward. Heading further aft would make her an easy target. Something scraped the deck—a wooden pin—she picked it up. Taking a deep breath and gripping the knife, Ann waited for whoever came. A sailor’s hand tentatively felt around the corner about her eye level. She squeezed in as close to the wall as she could get and tossed the pin into the bulwarks a little ahead of the sailor. Immediately, he stepped toward the sound.

Jacob stood right in front of her. The top of his head was bald, supported by a partial ring of bushy hair that ran from eye to eye around the back of his head. Before he could turn, she wrapped her left arm about his neck and pushed her right knee into his buttocks, lowering him to her level. He struggled only until she raised her knife to his throat and whispered, Be still or you wind up like your Captain! She hoped he didn’t hear the fear or feel the quivering that began deep inside her and spread outward, consuming every sinew of her being.

Using him as a shield, she backed toward the aft companionway. Maybe, if she made it to her cabin, she would be safe.

A silhouette moved on the other side of the companionway. Jacob? Sy’s voice was more moan than threat.

Stay put! yelled Ann.

You! Sy tried to stand up straight but winced in pain. Like a wounded bear, he moved slowly toward her.

I said stay there! She poked the tip of the blade into the soft flesh below Jacob’s jaw, under his right ear.

She’s got a knife! croaked Jacob.

Sy hesitated, winced again, then forced a sneer.

She moved a little faster.

Well, I have a gun, he said.

The aft companionway was close. If she could just….

Something sharp poked her back and a voice said, Miss Ann. Let Jacob go. A hand reached around, gripping the wrist that held the knife, and pulled it from her prisoner’s throat. The cook slowly moved his hand down hers and removed the jackknife.

Jacob jumped forward, grasping his neck where the knife had been pointed. He turned toward her and gasped, You might have killed me! The whites of his eyes looked directly at her.

The cook held his fileting knife pointed into her back just below the left rib cage.

Sy hobbled slowly toward them. Grabbing the front of her jacket at the neck, he pulled her away from the knife and breathed right into her face. You ought not have got involved like that. He thrust her toward the bulwark rail. You been nothing but trouble. When he shoved her again, Ann gripped the railing to keep from going overboard. As he lunged at her, she jumped to the side. Bracing her feet against the base of the bulwark, she grabbed the back of his collar and pulled him forward. If she was going over, he was too.

Sy hit the railing and reached out for her. Spinning around, she grabbed his neck with both hands and pushed. His gun flew up in the air and into the water.

A hand gripped Sy and pulled him back. Enough! commanded Kirkpatrick. The Captain’s dead. We don’t need any more problems. The ship is ours.

"She’s a problem! Sy steadied himself as the First Mate released him. He glared at Ann. We can’t have her telling what happened here."

Now’s not the time! Kirkpatrick turned to the cook. Take her below. Put her in Dithers’ cabin and guard them both.

Yes, sir!

The cook started down the gangway first.

Why are you doing this? asked Ann.

No one’s getting rich on a merchant ship, he said matter-of-factly. But we heard Dithers talk about all the gold in California.

Ann shook her head. Even if what he said is true, how could you…. She struggled with the words. But the Captain… she forced it …you killed him!

Oh, no, Miss Ann. He opened Dithers’ stateroom door. ’Twasn’t me. I don’t have no gun. Nuh-uh! I didn’t kill no one. Now get on inside there like the Mate said.

The cook shut the door.

"Miss Ann, what’s going on? They woke me, took me on deck, tried to kill me. Conrad Dithers sucked in a shallow breath. Thank you…thank you! Did they really murder the Captain?"

She nodded, pointless in the black of the cabin. Captain Thompson is dead.

A short soft gasp, then silence. How? he finally asked hoarsely.

She stated the obvious. It’s a mutiny, Coonie. Mr. Kirkpatrick appears to be in charge now.

But the Captain, he seemed a kindly officer to me. His voice sounded old for even him. Why….

It’s the gold. When the crew heard you say how easy it is to find gold in California, they would rather go there than to New York. Captain didn’t agree.

Ohhh! moaned Coonie.

A soft rustling sound came from his direction, and Ann pictured him rocking back and forth clutching his bed sheet.

Ohhh! he groaned again. I should never have told them about it.

Conrad Dithers came from the mining camps west of Sacramento. He and his brother had done well. Gold covered the river beds just waiting to be picked up. At least, that was his story. In a pouch in his pocket, he carried nuggets the size of the tip of his thumb. More was in his chest. Now Coonie was supposed to be on his way home.

Bring her about! Kirkpatrick’s voice boomed loudly from the deck above.

§

Sy didn’t share Mr. Kirkpatrick’s concern about the…ah, unfortunate…death of the Captain. As far as the crew was concerned, they all agreed to say he died unexpectedly during a storm after leaving Paita. And, since they had to make port somewhere, San Francisco was as good as anyplace. No one would find any fault. And if the crew, to a man, decided to stay in San Francisco, so be it. The owners of the ship could deal with getting their cargo back to the States.

He had been taught to do a job well. Leave no loose ends. That’s what his Dad always said. And I don’t. Everyone on the ship will benefit from a…slight…course correction to California. If all we have to do is pick the gold up, like the old man says, we can all get rich. The Captain should have seen that.

But Sy knew; yes, he knew what the Captain should have known. The cook was only working one voyage; he has a woman back home. Jacob wants a small clipper ship to haul passengers and cargo along the east coast. They all had dreams of something. The Captain should have known about his crew but obviously didn’t care. He had been one of those loose ends. Yeah, going to California just feels right. This is the best for everyone.

Sy smiled. Even the First Mate hadn’t seen what was necessary to get to the gold. He just didn’t understand that any job worth doing should be done well. Mr. Kirkpatrick hadn’t planned on killing anyone. A short diversion to San Francisco was all the Mate wanted. Then the crew would jump ship, head to the gold fields, and leave the Captain restrained on board. By the time he was found, they would all be long gone. He could then find another crew and continue his voyage.

What a stupid idea! Obviously, Mr. Kirkpatrick didn’t care about loose ends. And those two passengers—the job wouldn’t be done well if they were left to their own devices. Even better—and he smiled at the idea—what if the old man were relieved of his gold! Now that would be a job well done. Sy stared at the horizon. It moved slowly up and down as the ship took them north to rivers of gold; he would be able to do anything he wanted. This was proving to be the voyage he always hoped for.

He leaned back against the rail and scanned the deck. The Mate stood in the companionway gazing out to sea with a blank look. As far as Mr. Kirkpatrick was concerned, the Captain’s death was an accident. Let him think that; it didn’t change a thing. His problem is in his head. Guilt is a pointless anchor holding back the weak. Sy laughed out loud. Soon they all would have the means to anything they desired. Yes! This was going to be a great trip, except for two small, very real problems.

He casually walked aft. As the instigator of the mutiny, Sy was now seen as the First Mate. He liked the authority of the new position. Really, he should be Captain. But, no matter, this all changed once they reached port. Then each man would be his own master.

The Mate’s forlorn look didn’t change; in fact, he didn’t seem to be aware that Sy was standing next to him.

Sy shook his head; this was not a time to be sad or worried. Good things were coming. He cleared his throat. Sir?

Without answering, Kirkpatrick turned toward him.

Care was required as to how he raised the subject. Sir, have you considered what to do with the woman and the old man once we get to San Francisco?

Kirkpatrick took a deep breath and let it out slowly. I suppose we’ll leave them locked up while we disembark.

You do realize they will tell the authorities about the mutiny and say we killed the Captain in the process?

Mr. Kirkpatrick sighed. They probably will. But Dithers said the town is full of people, too many to keep track of. We should be able to get lost without any trouble.

You know there is a safer way.

I told you before; I don’t want to compound our problems. Shooting the Captain is bad enough. Murdering two people…. He shook his head and gazed out to sea.

But….

It’s your job as acting Mate to see that the crew honors this order. The guards I’ve posted should make it easier. I know many of the men would feel safer if the passengers were…eliminated. But I don’t want their death on my hands in addition to a mutiny.

Aye, Sir. Grumbling, Sy returned forward. Mr. Kirkpatrick would leave the job half done. He would be their undoing!

§

Mr. Kirkpatrick moved about Ann’s stateroom like a derelict boat, slow and beat down. His hair was a mess, his moustache hung over his upper lip like some old walrus, and his beard was untrimmed. I apologize for not giving you more time on deck. His voice no longer carried the exuberant tone of the First Mate. He glanced about the cabin. This is not what I would like for you.

The stuffy scent of the candle, burning in the lantern above her, pestered Ann’s nose. Though the stale air was bearable, the fresh breeze on deck is what she longed for. I just appreciate that you gave me back my own stateroom, she said.

No more effort to guard two doors than one. He sighed with a weak smile. I wish things had turned out differently.

Ann did too; she studied the acting Captain.

The guard is to protect you more than to keep you prisoner. He stood stiff as a mast. Even the wringing of his hands took a grim effort with arms as taut as a stay.

Ann couldn’t tell if he was trying to convince her or himself.

He exhaled wearily. It’s just not safe for you on deck.

Sy? asked Ann.

He nodded slowly and closed his eyes. I think he killed the Captain on purpose.

You think!? With a subtle effort, she shook her head. So, Mr. Kirkpatrick, what are you going to do about it?

With an almost imperceptible shake of his head, he looked away. Yes, he said wistfully that is the question. His words faded into silence. Sometimes things start off with good intentions and end up poorly, he added, almost to himself. Then, more attentive, he turned back to her. And, under these circumstances, please, just call me Seth. Formality seems… He searched for a word. …such an insult to the senses. Meeting her eyes, he continued, I would still like us to be friends, eh?

After what occurred? Ann shuddered at the thought.

In a quick transformation, Kirkpatrick leaned earnestly toward her. "I am so sorry that all this happened. It started out as a simple request of the Captain, a modest appeal for the opportunity to look for gold. I even thought he might take advantage of what Dithers described. At least he could have put us off and found another crew. The words just flowed out of him like oil being boiled from blubber. It wasn’t supposed to end up like this. It wasn’t…. He took a deep breath. As if catching himself in a slip from his position, he cleared his throat and resumed his rigid upright posture. Anyway, I just wanted to say I’m sorry. Here. He handed her the jackknife that was confiscated the morning of the mutiny. Not as good as a gun, but it’s yours. Should be in San Francisco in a couple of days. While I am on board, you will be safe." He walked out and shut the door.

The lantern rocked slowly back and forth above her giving a semblance of life to her shadowy world.

San Francisco

Saturday, September 15, 1849

Shhh! Motioning for Coonie to be silent, Ann moved closer to the door, listening.

Since the mutiny, she often joined him for meals in his stateroom. These last two days, they seldom ventured away from their rooms and never considered going on deck even when Mr. Kirkpatrick allowed it.

…San Francisco late in the afternoon, said Sy. We’ll need to get rid of these two before then.

Mr. Kirkpatrick don’t want them killed, said the Cook.

No one’s going to come looking for them once we’re in the bay. You just get on up when the Mate calls all hands on deck. I’ll take care of the old man and the tart.

They’re going to kill us? Coonie’s voice was a high-pitched, hoarse whisper.

Ann motioned him to be quiet, straining to hear. But the conversation was done.

She turned back to Coonie whose open mouth held a bite of half-eaten bread. Yeah, that’s what they want, she said.

He fell back onto his cot, staring straight ahead.

But we aren’t supposed to know that, she continued. The trembling in her gut didn’t fit the confidence of her voice. Maybe Coonie would believe her; maybe she would believe it herself.

So?!

So we can get ready.

What? His voice grew a little louder to match the increased anxiety in his eyes.

Shh!

He spit out his uneaten food. What can we do against guns? he whispered.

Well, if they can’t get in here, they can’t shoot us. But, if someone really wanted access to the cabin, a way would be found, given time. What else was there to say? No other options came to mind. The quivering inside her began to work its way out.

Coonie’s sea chest was a foot and a half high, a little over two feet wide and about four feet long. Maybe action would quiet her nerves. She knelt down and pushed. It moved, but with difficulty.

Nodding, Coonie stood and pulled on the foot of the bed. It didn’t budge.

Like hers, nails fastened it to the bulkhead to keep it stationary. See if you can loosen it! she said.

He was already ripping the mattress off the frame.

Quietly! she whispered.

As he worked, Ann picked up the table and moved it to one side.

What’s happening in there? The Cook creaked the door open.

Uh, I just want my stateroom rearranged, said Coonie. Miss Ann is helping.

You better hold off, said the Cook poking his head in and looking at the dislodged table. Captain’s got…I mean the Mate’s got to okay it.

We’ll be in port soon, said Ann. Do you really think anyone’s going to care what the stateroom looks like? None of us will stay on board when there’s gold to be got.

The Cook grumbled and