In Bristol Fashion

By Lillian M. Henry

In Bristol Fashion is the first of a two-volume fictionalized biography of the Lewis, the Hoopers and their extended families. Set in Glamorgan,Wales and Bristol, England, the sharp scent of the Celtic Sea seeps into the saga of smugglers, sailors and high sea adventures during the tumultuous years of Victorias reign. Faced with situations very similar to those of our current times: ill-conceived foreign wars, economic depressions, radical changes in life styles, the man in the street and how he copes, is a theme that runs throughout the book.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Dec 22, 2009
• ISBN: 9781449057718

Lillian M. Henry

Continuing her exploration of the family past, Lillian M. Henry is following this account with a more recent tale of life along the Saint Lawrence River before the construction of the Seaway. Her husband’s grandfather was a lake boat sailor during the days when the river was navigable only duing the summer and a lumberman during the winter months on the American-Canadian border. Lillian and her husband now reside year-round in Florida. Their family of five children and ten grandchildren has recently welcomed three grandsons-in-law. Her next book will be titled Lizzy, the Lakers and the Lumbermen A story of the North Country. Lizzy was Elizabeth Foster Burns, grandmother of Mrs. Henry’s husband.

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2009 Lillian M. Henry. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 12/21/2009

ISBN: 978-1-4490-5771-8 (e)

ISBN: 978-1-4490-5770-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4490-5769-5 (he)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2009913101

Bloomington, Indiana

Contents

Out on a Limb

Acknowledgements

Preface

Prologue

Part One

Chapter One The Way of the Sea

Chapter Two The Landlubber

Chapter Three Rosemary for Remembrance

Chapter Four Safe Haven

Chapter Five Shattered Lives

Chapter Six Resetting the Course

Chapter Seven Double Wedding

Part Two

Chapter One Learning to cope with what comes

Part Three

Chapter One A Family Tradition

Chapter Two Wedding Day

Chapter Three Victoria Regina

Chapter Four Both the Bitter with the Sweet

Chapter Five An End to an Era

Chapter Six Reading of the Will

Part One

Chapter One Death at the Door

Chapter Two A Birthday Surprise

Chapter Three A Winter Wedding

Chapter Four Married Life

Part Two

Chapter One A Test of One’s Mettle

Chapter Two The Great Exposition

Chapter Three Another Mouth to Feed

Chapter Four War and Rumors of War

Chapter Five A Grand and Glorious Quest.?

Chapter Six The Not So Merrie Month of May

Part Three

Chapter One The Kindness of Strangers

Chapter Two Keeping Body and Soul Together

Part Four

Chapter One Bells of Joy

Chapter Two Bells of Sorrow

Chapter Three Putting One Foot in Front of the Other

Chapter Four Calling the Roll

Chapter Five Outward Bound

Part Five

Chapter One An Outing Turns Tragic

Chapter Two A Problem to be Solved

Chapter Three In Service

Part Six

Chapter One Pink and Pretty

Chapter Two A Word to the Wise

Chapter Two More births, deaths, and weddings

Chapter Four Setting a new course

Part Seven

Chapter One Something that must be done

Chapter Two Reunion

Chapter Three Homecoming

Chapter Four Home is where the heart is

Part Eight

Chapter One A bit of belt tightening

Chapter Two My kingdom for a horse

Chapter Three Troubled Times

Part Nine

Chapter One An Unexpected Turn of Events

Part Ten

Chapter One War, Wine and Wild Water

Chapter Two Updating the Family Tree

Chapter Three Rites of Passage

Chapter Four Shattering of Innocence

Part Eleven

Chapter One From Whence Cometh our Help?

Chapter Two Making the most of it

Chapter Three Just putting one foot in front of the other

Part Twelve

Chapter One Drinking the Dregs of Despair

Part Thirteen

Chapter One A Small Step up the Ladder

Chapter Two A Fortuitous Fall

Chapter Three Taking the Next Step

Chapter Four Getting to Know You

Chapter Five A Leap of Faith

Part Fourteen

Chapter One The Birthday Present

Chapter Two Life Goes On

Part Fifteen

Chapter One Facing the Future

Chapter Two New Life and New Year

Chapter Three A Time for Sorrow, A Time for Joy.

Part Sixteen

Chapter One Food for thought

Chapter Two Shocking News

Chapter Three An Evening with John L.

Part Seventeen

Chapter One Saying Goodbye

Chapter Two More Goodbyes

Chapter Three No Turning Back Now

The Final Step

Genealogical Charts From about 1760-1890

Lyne-Hooper FamilyTree

Foot Family Tree

Hartley Family Tree

Mawditt Family Tree

ShortmanFamily Tree

Rolph Family Tree

Thomas Family Tree

White Family Tree

Other Families of Interest

Pearse FamilyTree

Power FamilyTree

Out on a Limb

or

Climbing Down My Family Tree

***

When you have the urge to know

Just who your forebears are

You have to inch your way along

The tangled limbs of family groups

That extend both near and far.

So, here you are, out on your branch

That sways close to the peak,

Surrounded by familiar names

That rise above you, so to speak.

Your children and their progeny

Are well-known to you, no doubt,

But, they cry, tell us, please

What are we all about?

Are there ‘black sheep’ in the fold?

Do we have some claim to fame?

Did someone long ago do good

Or have we cause for shame?

So, inching downward limb by limb

We descend with cautious care.

We examine each small leaf and twig

And wonder do we dare

To progress from the light of daily life

Back into the past?

The wide-spread branches thicken

As they converge into the trunk and

The tree seems firmly rooted

In ancient soil at last.

What have we learned when we arrive

At that crucial spot?

We stop and think and wonder

Have we reached the end or not?

One’s Family Tree was planted Many years ago,

From some little unknown sprig of green

This sturdy tree did grow.

Withstanding years of nature’s whims

Through many a drought or gale

Its roots go deep into the earth,

Hiding who knows whom,

So we keep on climbing downward

Listening to the old tree’s tale.

This book is dedicated to all of those who dared to make the journey

"… But I canna get a blink

O’ my ain countrie"

Refrain from

The Exile

By Robert Gilfillan

Dumfermline, Scotland

1850

Quoted twice in

Diary of Mary Ann Lewis Hooper

January 1, 1928 to November 16, 1932

(reflectingperhaps a homesickness she never overcame)

Acknowledgements

Saying thanks to my cousin Jean Hickok without whose inspiration and infinite patience for the research this book would not exist, is not enough.

I can only hope the hugs, the tears, the laughter and lunches have helped somehow to express my eternal gratitude.

She leads and I have followed as we have walked this path of exploration together.

***

Discovering our British cousins Brian Stanley Hooper, Ann Mawditt Perez, Helen Hudd and Yvonne Hartley has brought the past into the present. I am enriched and most grateful for their interest and invaluable input.

***

My debt to my friend Margaret Sirolly is impossible to repay. Her willingness to listen, her incisive comments and her unfailing encouragement are priceless gifts.

***

Thank beyond words to Ann Favreau for her belief in me and to Kit Henderson for her generous offer to help me capture the flavor of a by-gone era.

***

I am also indebted to A Steady Trade by Tristan Jones for his description of the seaman’s life, A Respectable Trade by Philippa Gregory for her insights into early Bristol and the slave trade, and Victorian London by Liza Picard and her description of English life between 1840 and 1870 and her chapter The Great Expositionas well as the dozen or so other books about the times without which I would still be woefully ignorant of these tumultuous years.

Preface

In Bristol Fashion

A seaman’s phrase from the days of sailing ships dating from John Cabot’s exploratory voyage to America, it implies that everything is in good order, performed methodically and with tidiness. The port city of Bristol, England became renowned for its ability to properly secure the multitude of ships that berthed there despite the extreme conditions of the second highest and most rapid tidal flow in the world. Captains entered the Bristol harbor assured that carelessly stowed cargo or poorly constructed ships whose backs might be broken if incorrectly secured would be properly moored to the extensive dockage available. Ships serviced and outfitted in Bristol were said to be shipshape, in Bristol Fashion.

Beginning circa 1830,Volume One, Book One, introduces the reader to the Lewis family of Llanmadoc, Glamorgan, Wales, the Joy-Prince family of Crewkerne, Somerset, England and the Hooper-Colborne family of Bedminster and Bristol, England, who will ultimately be combined when William Joseph Lyne Hooper, youngest son of Her Majesty’s Customs Officer, John Lyne Hooper and his wife, Mary Colborne Hooper, and Mary Ann Lewis, the only daughter of Christopher Lewis and his wife, Mary Joy Lewis, mature, meet, marry and ultimately make the decision to emigrate to America in February of 1881.

Volume One, Book Two, beginning with the English census of 30 March, 1851 in what has already become known as the Victorian Era, reveals the lives and loves of these families as they become intertwined.

Volume Two will carry the story forward to turn-of-the-century America when William and Mary Ann with their growing family put down new roots and become part of the forces driving these rapidly changing times. The saga will continue to unfold, told with a dash of Horatio Alger and a dollop of the American Dream, but always shipshape and in Bristol Fashion.

Prologue

I stared at the small coverless book in my lap. It had come into my hands after the death of my beloved Aunt Alice. Eagerly leafing through it then, I searched for references to my birth and the story I’d been told so many times over about how my incessant crying as an infant had driven my grandmother from our home. All I learned was that the sound of a baby crying was painful for this woman who had raised ten children to adulthood and given birth to two others who had not survived their first few months. Reluctantly, she lamented in those pages, she was leaving us to live with her childless daughter, Alice, feeling that she was abandoning her youngest child, Bert, my father, who had so lovingly provided her with her current home.

After that quick perusal, I’d stored the pages in our fireproof box intending to read more at some later date. Now, in order to answer some questions from my visiting young cousin, Jean, I realized that ‘later date had arrived. Retrieving the fragile collection of pages from its ‘safe place,’ I began to read. The neat, handwritten script encapsulated the final three years of my grandmother’s life. Bits and pieces of family history she had recorded there introduced me to her and to people I hadn’t known existed. The woman I knew only from the portrait that had hung on the wall in my childhood home slowly emerged from the shadowy past and began to reveal herself to me.

Today, thanks to Jean’s indefatigable research skills, we have begun to explore the past, much like peeling away the layers of a pungent onion. Rejoicing and shedding tears when each new level is uncovered we now find ourselves puzzled over how to proceed but determined to reach the inner core. Our family history carries the sharp tang of salt air, the fine powder of fresh plaster and the unmistakable aroma of paint. A whiff of working class poverty combined with a healthy smell of sweaty and determined toil emanates from the dusty, dry lists of names, places, and dates. Together we hope to dissect and dice these layers into a mélange of stories that will breathe life back into these bits and pieces of data.

Where do we begin? At the beginning would seem to be the answer to that. So, despite my eagerness to introduce you to this pert, curly-haired Welsh-born woman … Mary Ann Lewis Hooper, I will tell you first what I know about her most humble origins.

In Bristol Fashion Book One

How It All Begins

Circa

1830-1850

Part One

Llanmadoc, Glamorgan, Wales

Home of the Lewis Family

Circa 1830

Lewis Family Tree

1769—1850

William

b. abt.

1769

wife: Unknown

children: John

b. abt 1789

wife: Ann Unknown

children: (5)

1. John (aka Little John)

wife: AnnUnknown

children:

. Elizabeth, Daniel, Hannah, Mary Ann,

2. Christopher

First wife unknown (aka Rosemary)

child: Joseph

second wife: Elizabeth Unknown

3. George

wife: Sarah Richard

children:

Joseph, Sarah, George,

4. Charles

wife: Harriet Lewis

children:

Ann, John,

5. Ann

husband: William Edwards

Chapter One

The Way of the Sea

Llanmadoc, Wales

Circa 1830

The somber tolling of the church bell lay heavy on his ears as John Lewis climbed slowly down the seawall of the inlet to the muddy shore. The great tide was out and the air was full of screeching gulls swooping and diving in a feeding frenzy. His boots sinking into the soft sand, the man made his way along the beach to the heeled-over sailing craft that lay like a beached whale. Its bare masts rendered useless without the life-giving support of the capricious ocean water, the Madoc waited for resurrection. John studied the inert hull feeling akin to its obvious despair. The sound of the bell ceased, floating away on the mists that threatened to obscure the sparse vegetation clinging to the rutted sides of the overhanging cliff. He knew his mother, with his wife, Ann, and their children, was sitting stiff-necked and silent in the church above expecting him to be there.

Shivering, he hunched his shoulders against the dampness and eased aboard into the tilted cabin of the fishing boat that was the family’s source of income. My father is dead, he insisted to his mind that was refusing to accept the truth. Seeking some small shelter from the elements, he fumbled about for his stash of dry matches and managed to kindle a small fire in the stove, As the feeble flame caught, he warmed his stiff fingers, and drew a spark of comfort from the realization that it would be his hands and knowledge that would bring life back into the abject hull.

He brewed a mug of tea and went on deck cradling it in his hands. From a distance came the sounds of the small company of

mourners leaving the ancient church. A pile of stone from centuries back, the edifice anchored the village offering sanctuary to all in need. John had been taught that St. Madoc, grandson of King Muiredach of Ulster, had founded the church after studying the Christian faith with St. Cennydd at nearby Llangennith sometime in the almost mythical past. Legend had it that the sainted man had lived on bread and water alone, giving all his own food and clothing to the poor. Be that as it may, John frowned, his church is still here and so are the poor.

A shift in the wind alerted him. He sniffed at the rank air and fell silent. From afar the sound of movement built slowly. He felt the earth tremble and hastily returned his mug to the galley, doused the fire in the stove and leapt ashore. Within just a few short minutes the seasoned sailor knew his craft would shudder awake and be lifted up once again to pursue its reason for being. Would that I might return to my old life so easily, he yearned. He scrabbled up the hill and paused. Having no wish to be spoken to by anyone at this moment, especially the priest, he turned aside and walked along the cliff edge watching the incoming tidal wall of water crashing into the sheltered inlet once again. The gulls screamed in frustration as their exposed dinners were inundated.

When John could no longer see any activity in the church yard he cautiously approached. The raw earth of the new grave rebuked him. He knew the grass would grow again and his own sharp pain grow dull, but his father, his tad, was his hero. He’d learned all that he knew at that man’s side and now he must go on and do the same for his own sons. They were, after all, men of the sea and the sea was unrelenting and everlasting, constantly renewing itself.

Standing over the site he felt a tear prick his eye when he noticed the small flower lying atop the mound. He hadn’t seen her place it there, but he knew it had been so sweetly laid by his youngest child, little Ann. She had doted on her grandfather and he took much joy from her. That at least was something I was able to give you, John thought. Sleep well, William Lewis, you have earned your rest. The smoke rising from his chimney signaled that a meal was underway. His four sons were going about their chores. They nodded toward him when he came into the yard, but each man respected the other’s grief. No one spoke.

Later that evening John finished his silent supper, kindled his pipe and sat back with an ale to his hand. His wife busied herself with the washing-up while the three older boys hustled out the door to tend to their evening’s duties. More subdued than usual, they had wrestled themselves into their heavy jumpers, tugged their caps down low over their eyes and cast furtive glances toward him as if afraid of putting a foot wrong. He heard fourteen-year-old George whisper something to seventeen-year-old Christopher. Looking up he noticed Little John, his oldest, a grown man of twenty, hushing them with a frown.

We’ll be up to the pub for a bit, Mam, once the chores are done, the broad-shouldered young adult called back, avoiding his father’s eyes.

Watching them leave, John noticed his namesake pushing the other two ahead of him while winding his knitted muffler around his neck. When the heavy oaken door closed behind them, he glanced at Ann who was tending to young Charlie and shrugged his shoulders.

As the three boys made their way up the street, Little John sighed, I’d not thought him to take Grandtad’s death so hard. It will be up to me to take his place as mate now that he will be skipper. Wouldn’t do for the Madoc to cease to sail; it’s up to us now to help Tad keep it afloat. Will you be coming out with us Chris? It’s plain to me that you don’t much like the sea.

George broke in, I’m with you, Johnny. That’s if you’ll let me handle the sail and man the tiller from time to time. Tired of bein’ the nipper, you know. I’m big enough now to do a man’s work.

Christopher and Little John smiled at their younger brother’s claim. Where both of them were sturdy, broad-shouldered young men, George was still a somewhat scrawny boy lacking a year or two of growing yet. All three had sailed with their father and grandfather on the Madoc, mostly fishing but occasionally carrying a bit of cargo to other ports along the rugged coastline of their Welsh homeland and the English counties that lay across the channel. They all had the dark, good looks of their Breton heritage. Curly hair and deep brown eyes embedded in chiseled faces set them apart from their fairer English compatriots. A touch of the wild and a fierce independence caused more than a little trouble when the occasional crossing of paths occurred in those neighboring ports.

George skipped along side hurrying to keep up when they topped the hill. Say, Johnny? he asked. Do you know why Grandtad called the boat the Madoc? No one has ever told me. I know the church is St. Madoc’s, but he wouldn’t have named his boat for that, would he?

Well, Georgie, it is a tale to tell. Hang on a bit while we get settled in and order up and I’ll see if I can remember it all.

The customers in the pub greeted the three with quiet condolences and made way for them to find a place to sit. Death was all too common in a place like theirs and they understood that no one wished to make too much fuss about it. All the necessary things had been done. William Lewis had lived a full life and had now been properly sent off to meet his maker and receive his reward. Nothing much more was needed and it was only right to leave the three grandsons to seek solace in their own way.

George slid into a seat and waited for Chris and Little John to join him. He hoped that they would bring some of that laverbread the publican’s wife made that he liked so much. It tasted of the sea, he thought—sort of bittersweet. He felt a little shiver of anticipation. Tonight the other men were treating him like one of them. He wasn’t just the little brother any more. Now that his Tad would skipper the Madoc, he was a step up in the pecking order. Too bad brother Charlie wasn’t old enough yet to be the nipper, but he was hardly out of nappies. They’d have to take on one of the village lads for that job.

Little John and Chris arrived at the table with a pitcher of ale and some of the bread. They were more quiet than usual, George felt, but that was to be expected. He reached for his mug of ale when John filled it and pushed it toward him. Anxious to hear the story, he kept still, afraid of being thought a pest.

So, Little John began, taking a deep breath after a long swallow. Let me tell you Madoc’s tale. ‘Twas said he was a prince you know—Madoc ap Owain and a mighty man of the sea. Collected a great flotilla and set sail across the western ocean far out of sight of land, they say. For days and days through storm and dangerous creatures large enough to swallow ships he made his way until arriving at a place filled with strange and wonderful inhabitants. Claimed he had found a new world when he arrived back home. Of course, no one believed him, but you know, stubborn Welshman that he was, he just turned about and did it all over again.

George eyed his big brother sure that he was pulling his leg. If this is true why haven’t I heard of it before now?

Come now laddie, Chris broke in. If it was true you would have heard it at school, right? So you can suppose, can’t you, that someone long ago made this up around the fire on some cold and desolate night?

George looked from one to the other bewildered and finally grinned sheepishly. So you say it’s a story told for children or folks around the hearth? Why did Grandtad christen his boat so, then?

Little John chuckled, I’m sure he thought it to be a grand old tale. If Madoc could make such a voyage and come back safe and then do it again with the same result, surely the gods of the sea and storm would favor such a man. To have a boat bear his name was sure to bring luck to the sailor brave enough to use it. Don’t you think?

He sat back, regarding his little brother with affection. Come sail with our tad and me, Georgie. Together we will discover new worlds of our own, you’ll see.

Chris watched the two from behind his mug of ale, smiled, but said nothing.

Chapter Two

The Landlubber

Llanmadoc, Wales

Circa 1835

John, with Little John as mate and George as deckhand, kept the Madoc alive. Along with the rest of the fishing fleet plying the waters of the Bristol Channel and the inlets of the southeastern coast of Wales, father and sons supplied both themselves and the villagers all along the Gower Peninsula with their bounty of prawn, cod and flounder. A rough and dangerous life, its rewards were reaped by the sense of mastery of both the elements and themselves and an innate independence that set them apart from those who practiced other, more mundane, trades.

Christopher waved them off each morning thankfully. The siren song of the sea was not one he listened to with enthusiasm. Mam needed a man about the farm and he was more than willing to be just that. When the winds howled, blowing the sea foam high into the air above the rocky cliffs, he counted himself fortunate to be able to take shelter under the overhanging eaves of the cottage or even better, sit by the fire plaiting rope or mending a broken tool. He, with his own strong back and willing ways, provided his mother with the freshly dug earth in which to plant her vegetables and herbs that would see them through the winter’s dreary days. Fuel for the fires that fed and warmed them was also his contribution to the family’s welfare.

Watching his small brother and sister grow brought him great satisfaction. The sight of his mother tending to her household duties in her firm, quiet way, woke in him the desire for a family of his own. Surely a good wife and loving children would be the finest thing a man might wish to have. He had no illusions about the amount of back-breaking toil necessary to realize that dream, but that was what he was determined to do. Let his brothers, John and George, brave the wild vagaries of the deep waters that commanded their constant attention; his efforts were also needed. He was no less a man because he chose to work with the soil instead of the sea.

Straightening up from the row he was hoeing one evening, he took note of the setting sun. Burning like a ball of celestial fire, it was sinking slowly below the western horizon, its radiance tinging the crests of the incoming waves and rippling ever outward through the troughs. A gull shrieked and dove at the small skiff just heaving into sight. Chris smiled with relief. Each evening he kept an anxious watch from the headwall for the sail that signaled his father and brothers were home safely once more. He knew his mother purposely busied herself inside the house at this time of day so that she would not reveal her own fears for their safety.

Tad has done well, he told himself with a smile. He, with Little John, George and now Charles had made the Madoc’s trade thrive. He made his way down to the dockage greeting all the members of the homecoming fleet by name. Because he didn’t sail he never felt quite accepted by the rough and rowdy men, but his father and brothers were highly respected so he was welcomed warmly enough. Tad was in an expansive mood, he noticed.

Catch enough? Chris laughed. It wouldn’t do, he knew, to draw too much attention to their overflowing locker. Obviously the Lewis men had had a good day.

John shrugged with a satisfied grin. Good enough. Help your brothers sluice down the decks will you? I’ve saved one of these fine sole for our supper and I’m that starved for a taste of it. Tipping his hat to the other skippers, he tucked the prize catch under his arm and climbed the hill.

Little John chuckled. Should of seen him with that fish, he said to Chris. I thought for a while he was goin’ to jump right in the water with it. We ran into a school and couldn’t pull ‘em in fast enough. But, you know Tad. He spotted that one and that one he was going to have, no matter what. He gave Chris a long level look. You don’t know what you’re missing—the wind, the smell, the excitement of it, nothing grander on this earth than sighting a mess of silver backs just waiting to jump into your boat. The sun catches those scales just right and a man feels like he had struck a vein of rich ore.

Chris nodded. He envied his brother his enthusiasm for what he did, but couldn’t find it in himself to share it. He wondered if he would ever have reason to be that excited about something he was doing. Just the plodding quiet one, he thought, but then surely men like that are needed too. ‘Twouldn’t do if we all went about whooping it up and making a fuss.

The Madoc lay cleaned and secure for the night. It would not stir again until the tide returned. The brothers made their way home tired but happy with the day’s work. The grand catch would bring welcome money. Little John had another one of the sleek sole under his arm. He’d wrapped it in the seaweed that littered the exposed edges of the beach. What are you planning to do with that? George asked, as if I didn’t know, he added under his breath.

Charlie, who now sailed with his father and brothers as the nipper, muffled a guffaw causing Chris to eye the group with suspicion. What am I missing here? He wondered.

His older brother just smiled, clutching his small bundle more tightly. Never you mind, just be sure to tell Mam that I’ll not be home for supper this eve. Somethin’ I have to do over to Bore Hill. Tad knows all about it so don’t you go carryin’ on. Brothers! He laughed. Man can’t have a moment’s privacy.

A few weeks later Little John Lewis and his Annie from Bore Hill were married. The young couple moved into the Lewis home and in the fullness of time their first child, Elizabeth, was born. It didn’t seem long at all, Chris felt, before she was up on her feet, pattering and babbling about, filling their hearts and the small house with joy and laughter.

The Lewis men, with the exception of Christopher, continued to sail the sea in search of fish while Chris chuckled over the difficulty of trying to communicate with the three women in the house all named Ann.

Chapter Three

Rosemary for Remembrance

Llanmadoc, Wales Late

summer, 1839

After Little John and Annie’s second child Daniel made his appearance, the young couple moved to Hillside Street. Christopher knew that his mother was sorry to see them go, but fortunately it wasn’t far away. His sister-in-law and little sister had taken over a good deal of the heavier work around the cottage and his mother had spent hours in her rocking chair cuddling the newborn baby boy. Only that morning, now that they were gone, did Chris notice how still the house seemed without the sound of little Lizzie’s chatter and tottering footsteps. Of course, he had to admit, the sound of small Daniel crying had unnerved him. Poor mite, he’d thought, so helpless and frail. That plaintive but demanding cry was enough to drive a man clear over the edge. No wonder the women would get all clucking like hens until the child was soothed.

Before making his way out to hoe the field of potatoes and cabbages that would soon be ready to harvest, he rummaged through the collection of tools for the plowshare that needed repair. I’m up the road to the blacksmith, he called in at the open door of the cottage. His mother waved him on with a smile. The sea was calm today he noticed, like a vast, almost flat, blanket of gray. Even the birds were still. A sense of waiting for something hung over the land. He wasn’t sure whether it was a good or not so good feeling. Some vague dissatisfaction gnawed at his stomach as he shouldered the broken tool and climbed the hill into the village. The potatoes and cabbages would have to wait.

The smith’s shop lay up behind the church. Passing the church yard he impulsively opened the gate to the burial ground and entered. His grandfather’s grave lay to the east of the church with a view of the water below. He stood there for a long minute unsure of why he had come in. To his right, close by the stone wall, was a young woman on her knees digging with a stick. She seemed to be having some difficulty. Approaching her carefully so as not to frighten her, he offered the trowel he had tucked into his belt. She looked up at him in surprise, but smiled and accepted the tool.

Diolch, she murmured her thanks. I feel so stupid for not thinking to bring something suitable for digging. How I expected to plant my rosemary I don’t know.

Rosemary? Chris repeated.

Yes, you know, rosemary for remembrance—at least that’s what I’ve heard said. She held the small clump of greenery up for him to smell.

Well, that’s new to me, but I guess it’s a nice thought. The plant does have a pleasant scent. My mam puts some in her stew for flavor.

Why, my mam does too. Her eyes flashed a warm response with just a trace of tear he noticed.

Here, he said, squatting down beside her and taking the trowel from her hand, Let me do that, you’ve managed to get your hands all dirty.

She quickly tucked the offending hands under her apron. Oh, she said. I am so clumsy.

I don’t think you’re clumsy at all, Chris answered, displaying his own rather grimy palms. Those of us that work with the soil usually end up with dirty hands. Here, he rose to his feet and offered her his hand after wiping it on his trousers. Your rosemary is safely tucked into the ground, but we should give it a bit of water. The pump is ‘round to the back. We could wash ourselves while we’re at it, I suppose. She accepted his hand and allowed him to help her to her feet. While she straightened her skirts and tucked up the lock of dark hair that had escaped from her head scarf, he took note of her sweet face and lithe body.

Are you from around here, if you don’t mind my asking? I don’t remember ever seeing you before. Pausing, he drew in a long breath. I’m from up yonder. He pointed toward the top of the hill, Captain Lewis’s place, I’m Christopher.

She studied him for a few moments, her deep brown eyes causing him to flush a darker shade of red. I’m visiting my aunt, she finally said. This grave is my uncle’s. My folks and I left when I was very small, but I do remember him. He used to tell me stories about the selkies and the spirits that live in the trees. I thought he was the most wonderful man, next to my tad, of course, but in a very different way.

That’s how I feel about my grandfather, Chris said softly. That’s his grave over there. He used to have stories like that to tell us boys on a winter’s night. For awhile, I was afraid to go to sleep without looking under the bed to make sure nothing was hiding there.

They both laughed and gathered up their things. She had a basket and he, his plowshare. As they made their way out of the church yard, Chris dared to ask, I must leave this tool with the smith, but would you let me accompany you to your aunt’s? I confess I would beg for the chance to call on you. I feel we might have more things we could share than just the selkies.

A giggle erupted from her and he promptly fell in love. "I would be delighted to have you call on me, Mr. Lewis. My aunt will appreciate your asking. My name, by the way, is Elizabeth

Shelby, but, if you like, she hesitated with a twinkle in her eye, you may call me Rose."

Several weeks later, Elizabeth left for her home to Christopher’s distress, but soon returned to Llanmadoc. Greeting her joyfully he stood crestfallen when she tearfully explained that she was pregnant. Ah, cariad, have no fear, we will make it right, he said. I couldn’t be more pleased. His mother and father made her welcome and ignored the whisperings of the townsfolk. When the baby arrived Christopher found himself the father of a fine son they named Joseph. Needing to find work in order to support his new family, he quietly moved Rose and their child to Swansea where he found rooms on Princes Street and managed to get employment as a laborer on the docks. Kept busy almost every day, Chris continued to put off contacting a priest about having their union blessed. Time slipped by, but all seemed well until Elizabeth fell sick with the fever. Despite his frantic ministrations she drifted away. Overnight he had lost his beloved Rose. Sorrowfully he returned home needing his mother and sisters to nurture the child. They despaired of his mind as he retreated into solitude. His will to live lay buried in the churchyard under the rosemary.

Chapter Four

Safe Haven

Swansea, Wales

Spring, 1841

Finally unable to bear even the sight of the graveyard, Chris, leaving his son with his mother, returned to Swansea and resumed his work at the docks. The never-ending, exhausting work of loading and off-loading cargo sent him into the pubs at night too tired to feel anything but his aching muscles. Gradually the sharp stabbing pain of loss subsided into a dull coldness somewhere in the pit of his stomach. After a while the roistering good-natured bantering of the neighborhood pub’s patrons began to thaw the icy feeling and he found himself occasionally joining in the games and the singing he’d always enjoyed at home.

One such night he made his way into the warm and noisy room, shaking off the drops of rain that clung to his cap and beard. A familiar voice called to him from the corner and he made his way through the crowd that was already up and dancing among the tables. A woman he didn’t recognize was sitting nearby and he nodded politely before taking his seat with his mates.

The evening wore on and he noticed that she still remained seated while her companions were taking part in the festivities. Something about the slump of her shoulders and the far-away look on her face made him look again. He thought she smiled slightly when he did but felt he shouldn’t intrude. Surely she would be up and dancing too if she had wanted to.

Oh bother, he said silently. I could be a proper gentleman and offer her another drink. Might be she’s shy and lonely like me. Startled at the thought, he suddenly realized that it was true. He

was shy and lonely. He always had been. Meeting Rose had shown him a whole different world than the one he usually lived in and now here he was again denying that part of him that craved companionship.

Easing his way closer along the bench on which they sat, he attempted a smile of his own. Pointing to her half empty glass he asked if she would like a refill.

She had rich brown eyes, he noticed-soft and warm, but with some deep sadness in them. Instinctively he realized she would sense his need as he now believed he had hers. He raised his hand as the barmaid came by, indicating their empty mugs. A few minutes later they each nervously fingered their drinks afraid to take the next step. Finally, Chris, to his embarrassment, uttered what even he knew was a lame cliché. I’ve not noticed you here before. Do you come here often?

No, not really. Her voice was low and held a hint of far-off places.

I’m from the Gower peninsula, he offered. Llanmadoc. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?

Her eyes twinkled slightly. A whisper of foam clung to her upper lip and he itched to wipe it away.

I’m called Christopher, he blurted out. A lengthy silence followed while he felt her deciding what to say next.

My name is Elizabeth, Christopher, and I’m pleased to meet you. She hesitated for a long moment. I do hope you have no hard feelings toward English women like some I’ve met. I’m sorry to say I’ve found quite a few folk quite bitter toward my countrymen. I’m born and raised in Staffordshire, little place called Rollestone. Left for here just recently after my parents passed away. She retrieved a small hankie from her sleeve and patted her lips.

He shivered as if a ghost had crossed his grave. Rose’s sweet face swam into view. Hurriedly he downed his ale and cursed himself for the sudden warmth he felt sweep over him.

Forgive me, ma’am, I’d not meant to intrude upon your sorrow.

You are not intruding. They’re better off now where they are. Life was not too kind to either of them. But, if you’ll forgive me, I’d say you might be carrying a sorrow of your own?

How good of you to notice; I’ll not bore you with the details. His face darkened. Reaching for his mug he took a long swallow.

It helps to share such things, I’ve found, she offered. Since you are here alone, I’d venture to guess it’s your lady or your wife that you are mourning.

True enough, Chris’s voice shook, about a year now. He paused. My wife, Rose, was my joy and she’s left me with a fine son to raise, but with no woman to help I’ve had to leave him behind with my mother. I’ve not only lost her but the boy as well. A man alone cannot raise a child.

Elizabeth’s eyes filled with tears. Carefully she reached out her hand and laid it on the scarred and calloused fist that he was clenching. Christopher, she hesitated, we have only this hour met and I fear to speak my thoughts. You will think me a brazen woman, but your plight touches my heart. My fondest dream has always been to marry and have children. So far nothing of the sort has happened.

A loud cheer from the pub’s patrons interrupted. Elizabeth quickly withdrew her hand and sat back in her seat, blushing. Chris looked long into her glistening eyes. Please, ma’am, if you would be willing, he stopped and took a deep breath, afraid to go on.

Those eyes, like pools of calm water offering shelter from the stormy sea, held his, giving him courage. Please, he repeated. I would beg your permission to call on you."

Before she could answer her companions returned from their dancing. They’re about to call ‘Time,’ Lizzie, we best be off, they said, full of high spirits. Noticing Christopher, they acknowledged him with a nod while urging Elizabeth to her feet. Flustered, she rose, adjusted her shawl and leaned down to him with a whispered, Tomorrow, here, ‘bout six-ish?

Blocked in behind the heavy table, Chris could only nod his head and watch her being hustled away through the crowd of merrymakers.

Within just a short while the two lonely souls had found solace in each other. Making the trip down to Llanmadoc together, Elizabeth met Chris’s family and their union was blessed by the local pastor at a very simple private ceremony. Christopher’s Joseph was reluctantly given up by his doting grandmother and carried back to Swansea somewhat bewildered by the whole affair. After a day or two of unhappy fretting he accepted his new family and life began again for his bereaved father.

Chapter Five

Shattered Lives

Llanmadoc

Autumn, 1841

The gale hit the small fleet of fishing boats almost without warning. John fought the useless tiller and roared out his orders. Before Little John could strike the mainsail the sheet tore from his palms. Seconds later he found himself in the freezing water tangled in the rigging that still clung to the splintered mast and spars. He heard himself bellow at the shock. Frantically flailing his arms about, he searched for something to cling to. A coil of rope flung from the nearest boat struck him across the back and he spun around to secure it beneath his arms. When seated at last on the heaving deck of his fellow seaman’s skiff, he shook the gelid water from his eyes and cast them about hunting for his father and brothers.

Hold on there Lewis, his friend’s hand on his shoulder steadied him. Your tad and the lads are safe from what I can see. Sorry I can’t say the same for the Madoc though. ’Tis a shame for certain—grand old lady that she was-sea swallowed ‘er down like Jonah and the whale."

Little John’s disbelieving gaze swept the rain-drenched horizon and saw nothing but the heaving, angry expanse of murky water. The Madoc and everything aboard it was as gone as if it had never been. Unable to see much beyond the bow of the boat in which he sat, he huddled against the gunnel trying to keep out of the way as the frantic crew fought to bring the small craft under control.

When the village’s fleet reached harbor it was met by almost all of Llanmadoc’s inhabitants. Frightened wives sought out their

husbands and sons, their bewildered younger children clinging to their skirts. The priest stood on the crest of the headwall with his shepherd’s crook offering prayers of thanksgiving for those who survived and petitions for the souls of the departed.

Little John, still shaking from shock and cold, jumped ashore to help his rescuers secure their battered boats. Once the necessary work was done, the men parted with fervent handclasps and stricken eyes, promising to stand each other to drinks at the pub later that day. Each one sought out his wife and family and allowed himself to be led home and fussed over.

The storm raged on for several more hours until the tide turned. The receding waters snarled and gnashed like a pack of angry wolves under the leaden sky. John Lewis had watched from the cliff, counting the boats as they straggled in one by one. He had George with him when they were fished from the sea, and they had soon caught sight of Little John being rescued, but so far Charles had not appeared. No one seemed to have seen what happened to him when the Madoc went down. Now as he gathered his family around him in the safety of his home, his granddaughter Mary Ann edged her way into his lap while young Hannah leaned against her father’s chest. The young ones seemed to sense that something was terribly wrong. Little John and George waited anxiously for their father to speak.

Finally he cleared his throat. The Madoc is gone as you all well know. Our livelihood lies at the bottom of the sea; however, he paused, reaching for his mug of tea with shaking hands, Our situation is far more dire than that. We have apparently lost our Charles. We can replace the Madoc if we wish, but only God can restore Charles to us. My hope is that he has been picked up by some other fleet and will come trudging home within a day or two. But, his voice caught, As much as I would wish that to be so, I can’t find it in my heart to believe it. That sea was too fierce and too cold for any man to survive for very long. We must accept this truth, hard as it may be. He looked at his wife who stood behind him. Her face showed nothing of what he knew she must be feeling.

Little John, George, he went on, If either of you wish to continue to fish for a living, I will help you get another boat. As for me, I’m coming ashore. This farm will provide for me and mine. I’ll sail no more from this day on.

The younger men sat silently, too stunned to respond.

Say nothing now. Sleep on it at least. Tomorrow will be time enough to set our course anew.

Next morning the church bells tolled their solemn dirge again and the ragged, emotion-filled voices of the men rose from the choir in sorrowful gratitude for their survival. They all knew that when a man is lost at sea there is seldom a body to bury. Names were added to the roll of the dead and several wreaths of greenery and flowers launched upon the out-going tide. In the Lewis house the three Anns laid a late breakfast on the table for the hollow-eyed men of the family. The children had been fed earlier.

Captain John surveyed his sons with eyes that seemed to have gone half blind. The empty chair that would have been Charlie’s rebuked them and George rose to place it against the wall. You all know, the older man began, the Madoc was my life, he singled out Little John and then George and said, and so has it been yours. He paused to draw upon his pipe. I’d not thought that it would also be the death of one of my sons.

Little John leaned forward, It will not be the death of me he growled. The Madoc is gone and if you no longer wish to sail, I feel bound to also make my way on the land from this day forward. My Annie and I have talked it over. She wants no more of my going out on the water and I’ll not risk leaving my wife widowed and children fatherless, his voice broke. He glanced toward the group of women huddled together in the corner of the room. His wife sat with little Daniel in her lap. His daughter, Elizabeth, was watching the men with dark, worried eyes. Reaching for his mug of ale, his hand shook while he lifted it to his mouth.

His father acknowledged these words with a nod of his head, taking another long pull on the long-stemmed clay pipe. So be it, then, he murmured. We shall both be farmers from this day forward. Turning to his younger son, he sighed. George? What say you? Is the sea still running in your veins?"

George ducked his head and fidgeted with his hands for a moment. He looked with dismay at his father, but said firmly, If you are willing to let me go, I intend to head for Swansea. Chris and I have talked it over several times and you know he says there are jobs there for a man who knows how to work hard.

So you will leave me, too. Three sons, gone, just like that? A sour look flickered across his face.

The brothers looked at each other uncomfortably. No one said anything for several long minutes. The loud ticking of the clock echoed in the room. From outside, the harsh chatter of the soaring gulls as they flung themselves against the sun-lit sky raised the small hairs on the back of their necks.

John pushed his chair away from the table, stood up and left the room. Through the window Little John and George watched him take the path to the headwall. The village fleet was already back at sea. A glimpse of distant sail felt like a reproach. The freshening wind was scattering the remnants of yesterday’s clouds across the turbulent water and life went on. When their father’s shoulders disappeared from sight, they heaved themselves to their feet, nodded toward the silent women and went up the road to the pub.

Chapter Six

Resetting the Course

Swansea, Wales Early

winter, 1842

John, with his tearful wife and daughter watched stoically as George packed his duffle and left for Swansea. He managed to find quarters not too far from where Chris and Elizabeth were settled with Joseph on Princes Street. Having no marketable skills after his years of fishing he, like Chris, began to make his living as a common laborer. The docks were busy night and day with the copper the city was exporting all over the world. Never had the port city seen so much business. With the new-fangled horse-drawn railroad cars bringing the oysters down from Mumbles, or Oystermouth, as the fishermen called it, there was no dearth of jobs to be had at the moment. The country boy as Chris laughingly called him was a bit overwhelmed at first by the hustle and bustle of the place. The streets seemed crammed with people that didn’t seem to know anybody or care to for that matter. He quickly learned that frequenting the local pub was the best way to get acquainted and to feel at ease with the folks that surrounded them.

Weeks became months and almost two years went by. One late autumn evening in 1844 as he and Chris, along with Elizabeth and young Joseph, were relaxing in the neighborhood local he suddenly leapt from his seat at the back of the room. The sight of a burly, bearded seaman who had just come through the door brought him to his feet in astonishment. Wind-burned and tempest-tossed with his long, plaited dark curls hanging down his back, a knitted toque covering his forehead and eyebrows, the man

looked dangerous, but the glint in his dark eyes and the jaunty step of a born-to-the sea-sailor brought shouts of disbelief from both of the Lewis men.

Chris, with George at his shoulder, elbowed his way through the crowd. First to reach the newcomer, he snatched off the damp wool cap and, pummeling him on the back, laughed and cried, letting the tears flow unashamedly. By all the saints, Georgie, it’s Charlie! It’s Charlie, he shouted again, his voice crackling. Ye were dead, bach! Dead! We all believed it! All this time and nary a word, where in the name of Lucifer have you been? Look at you! Growed up to be quite the dandy now, haven’t you?

Elizabeth and Joseph looked on with some alarm. Elizabeth had shared Chris’s grief over the loss of his youngest brother, but the little fellow was completely bewildered. ’Tis a miracle I’m seeing, she exclaimed, hugging him tight to her breast. Look Joey, it’s got to be your Uncle Charlie, he who was lost at sea, she whispered, Your poor tad has mourned him these past years just like he has for your poor mam. She wiped away a tear of her own. ’Tis surely a sign from Heaven to have him walk in here just like that. Your whole family gave him up for dead, they did, when they never heard a word. Moaning, she rocked back and forth, clutching the child in her lap.

The three men, beside themselves with joy and afraid to believe their eyes, awkwardly approached the woman and child and eased into their seats all talking at once.

Laughing, Elizabeth threw up her hands. Hush yer gabble, you sound like a flock of chickens with the fox in the coop. Sit now. She smiled, sliding over to make more room at her side and patting the seat. You must be Charlie, sure as yer born. I’d never have recognized you with the beard and plaited hair. You were no more than a nipper last we met. So, sit man, sit. Rid yerself of that duffle and cap and get comfy. Ne’er let it be said that Swansea doesn’t know how to welcome a sailor home from the sea. Oh, she added when she saw the question in the young man’s face. This here is your nephew Joseph. You must remember him. But of course, he was still a babe in arms when we carried him away."

Chris studied her flushed face with bemusement and called for more ale as the barmaid approached. Charlie stared at the four faces who were watching him carefully. He hardly recognized his older brothers; they seemed almost like shadows of the men he remembered. He vaguely recalled meeting Elizabeth and the quiet marriage ceremony. The friendly smile was still there, but her eyes lacked some of the sparkle they’d held on her wedding day. Life here in Swansea is taking its toll, he realized. Reaching for the mug of ale the serving girl set before him he drank deeply before saying another word. Placing the empty in front of him he smiled when it was immediately refilled as if by magic.

So, Chuckie, ‘fess up! George hooted. Where in blazes have you been all this time? You surely must have some tale to tell. Little John and Tad will swear we are daft if we don’t get you home quick and let them see you for themselves. Folks in Llanmadoc will think you’ve been raised from the dead. Come on, let’s hear it. Whatever did happen to you that we’ve had no word from you in all this while? You must have known we thought you were drowned that awful day.

Taking another long pull of his ale and swiping the foam from his mouth with the back of his hand, Charlie set the tankard on the table with a grin. Ha! You’re not the only ones to think so. I swear I went down to the bottom and shook hands with ol’ Davy Jones himself that night. Next thing I remember is spewing my guts all over someone’s deck and feeling more cold than I ever had before in my whole life. Skipper of that ketch had me over a barrel with the whole crew taking turns pumping the water out of me. Must have swallowed half the Bristol Channel, if you were to ask me.

So, George interrupted someone saved your hide. Good for them. So how come you never came home or let us know you were all right?

Well, I surely meant to. Far as I knew you were drowned too. By the time we put into shore we were somewhere over east. I never did find out the name of the place. The skipper outfitted me with some dry clothes and a few pennies. Figured I could make my way home from there all right. Offered to put me up for the night, but that didn’t feel right to me. Man had his own worries to tend to after that storm. ‘Course the first thing I did then was look for some place to sleep and something to eat. He laughed bitterly. Shape I was in, I wasn’t sure which I wanted to do first. Anyway, I found a meal and a bed in exchange for doing the washing up at one of the dockside pubs. I figured to work long enough to get my bearings and some coin and then set my course for home.

Christopher fidgeted in his seat while he tried to absorb the startling change he could see in his little brother. This was no longer a lad full of high spirits and dreams. The man in front of him was someone he hardly knew. Hardened somehow he couldn’t explain, but that was to be expected wasn’t it? He felt Elizabeth pat his hand and he flashed a grateful smile. Clearing his throat, he spoke, Tell us what happened next, Charlie. Did the Queen’s men get you?

Sure did! Reeled me in like some stupid codfish. At least that’s how I felt at the time. In came these men in their fancy uniforms, all spit and polish you know, and I’m helpin’ to serve their suppers since the publican is short-handed. We get to swapping stories about ships and such. You know how that is. Charlie grinned and Chris and George nodded. "Any way they offer to stand me an ale or two and the next thing I know, I’m waking up in the foc’sle of the biggest ship I’ve ever seen… outward bound for who knows where. masts taller than the church steeple and more men aboard than in our whole village.

at least that’s how it seemed to me at the time. I swabbed decks and polished brass for a few days and by the time we hit the high seas they had me scampering up the rigging like some monkey in the jungles we heard tell about in school."

Catching the glint of amusement in Elizabeth’s eyes, he turned to her and swelled out his chest. Seaman Charles Lewis, at your service ma’am; best top-rigger in Her Majesty’s Royal Navy, I’ll have you know. And who might you be, Ma’am? I do seem to remember something like a wedding taking place a while ago.

"Well, of course, you do, my boyo, you were there. I’m Elizabeth, dearie, Chris’s wife. Tell us now, before we all die of curiousity, just how is it that you are washed up here