Flight from Alberobello

By David Abraham

FLIGHT FROM ALBEROBELLO is a story about John and Rose who fall in love in Italy at the turn of the 20th century. Rose is sent to America to forget about John, who, becomes an outcast. Beaten and driven from the tenant farm that he worked with his father, John, sets a course of action that will help him find Rose. Fearing for his life, John leaves Alberobello and follows Rose to America where he risks the ultimate sacrifice.

The novel focuses on Johns struggle as he attempts to meld old traditions into a new world laced with conflicting attitudes and values. After years of personal discord, John discovers that he, subconsciously, harbors many of the same intolerances that once forced him from the land of his birth.

FLIGHT FROM ALBEROBELLO chronicles, fictitiously, the life of an immigrant in a small upstate New York City. It is a story secreted in the roots of many who were brave enough to seek a new life, in an unknown land, fraught with uncertainty and contradiction. For immigrants flooding to American at the start of the 20th century, it was a new frontier.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Mar 13, 2007
• ISBN: 9781467082112

David Abraham

David Abraham has authored seven other novels. THY FATHER’S SEED, FLIGHT FROM ALBEROBELLO, LOVE AND PROMISE, THE PRINCIPAL, BAWDY TOWN, TAINTED JUSTICE and BLACK RIVER. He has a B.A from Syracuse University and a Masters degree from the University of Idaho. He is also an actor/director.

Book preview

Chapter One

The Italian sky was a bright blue, broken only by the flight of sea gulls that had drifted inland from the Adriatic Sea some dozen or so miles away. In the vineyard below that seemed to stretch for miles, small birds danced from grapevine to grapevine as if in a frenzy to feast on the bounty before it was taken by the harvesters. The warm sun darkened the complexion of two men as they toiled. John Danelli held a large basket as his father, Joe, cut the grapes from the vines with a small knife. The purple fruit hung lush and proud, lending color to Joe’s skilled hands.

Joe Danelli was a small man, hunched from years of hard labor who could easily pass for a man in his fifties even though he had yet to reach his fortieth year. Bald since the age of twenty-five, Joe had a ring of hair above his ears, and a pencil-like dash of a salt and pepper mustache under his nose; he was paper thin, weighing little more than a hundred pounds. Joe’s tired clothing hung from his slender frame as if it belonged to a much larger man. The sweat on his brow glistened as it reflected the sun’s rays.

John’s actions were rote as he moved slowly along the furrow fantasizing about Rose, remembering how they had met on an equally warm day during the olive harvest some three months earlier. The memory of her ample breasts under the peasant blouse she had worn excited him and he felt familiar stirrings. His mind raced as he contemplated the romantic possibilities. John was short in stature, but possessed the firm sculptured body of a farm boy. Shit, he thought, attempting to hide his embarrassment. I hope Pa doesn’t tell me to put the box of grapes down. He attempted to block Rose from his thoughts, but the fullness of the fruit gave added fuel to his lust.

Take the basket to the cart, his father ordered, and bring back another.

Dust from the dry earth polished John’s shoes as he scuffled up the row of vines leading to the wagon. Upon reaching the cart he carefully stacked the box he was carrying and picked up an empty. As he did so, the horse that had been standing patiently looked at John, curled its lip and shook its head from side to side as if to laugh. The horse’s heavy brown mane flicked a cluster of flies, causing them to seek shelter elsewhere. I wonder if animals can tell what humans are thinking, John mumbled. Off in the distance he caught sight of a buggy with billows of dust obscuring the path behind; he shaded his eyes for a better look. It was the landlord Rozio Faggi. As the buggy came closer, John could tell that Rose was seated to the right of her father. Papa, he called at the top of his lungs, Mr. Faggi’s coming.

Joe Danelli stepped out of the vineyard at the same time that Rozio Faggi’s buggy came to a halt. Joe smiled, removed his straw hat, and handed his padrone a bunch of grapes. Then, with as much respect as he could muster said, Bonjorno Signor Faggi. It is an honor to see you.

Rozio Faggi was a big man in both size and importance. He owned a thousand acres around Alberobello and allowed people like the Danellis to work the land as tenant farmers. In return, the tenants paid the Faggi family sixty percent of their earnings. Rozio had a six foot-one inch frame that supported fifty-five years of good living and more than three hundred pounds. The fashionable attire that hid his girth was covered with a haze of thick, brown dust. While generally a good-natured man, Rozio maintained a strict code of class distinction between his family and those who worked for him. He had already spoken to Joe on a number of occasions regarding the obvious infatuation that existed between John and Rose. Faggi had forbidden his daughter to see or associate with any of the tenant children. Joe Danelli was fully aware that his very livelihood depended upon how well he controlled his son’s ardor. As Rozio spoke he became greatly distressed by the flirtatious eye contact made between his daughter and the tenant-peon’s son. Rose was sixteen and mature beyond her years. Her soft brown eyes and long chestnut hair accentuated the yellow bonnet she wore tied with a white ribbon under her chin. A long black skirt and a high button jacket disguised her petite frame. Rose smiled, displaying even white teeth and lips that John longed to kiss. When he tried subtly to move closer to the buggy, Rozio snapped the reins, causing the horses and buggy to jolt forward. John and his father were forced to jump back.

Scowling Rozio growled, Mind you, Joe, I want this crop in the winery by tomorrow evening.

Joe nodded in agreement as Rozio cracked his whip and moved off down the path. Before the dust had engulfed the back of the wagon, Rose turned to John and mouthed, Tonight.

When the buggy was out of sight, Joe, still favoring a foot that had been creased by the buggy wheel, jerked his son around and snapped in cold determination, Forget her. You can’t afford to dream of things that can never be.

Moonlight blanketed the Faggi compound with a brightness that mirrored dusk when Rose, dressed in a peasant skirt and blouse, quietly left her room and eased her way along the dark hallway leading to the courtyard. She could hear her father snoring as she crept slowly down the stairs and away from the building. The moonlight made her extra cautious as she moved from shadow to shadow. One of the dogs started barking, but did not seek to investigate the noises which had alarmed it. Only after Rose had passed through the compound gates did her breathing return to normal. Her heart however, was still racing from the risks inherent in her adventure and from the anticipation of uniting with John. She stayed close to the stone wall that encircled the estate until she came to a row of low hanging trees leading to the wheat-field. She smiled as she thought about her lack of education and of her brother Alberto, who, without her family’s knowledge, had taught her the fundamentals of astrology. Under the thousands of heavenly eyes Rose charted a course that was to lead her into John Danelli’s arms.

Rose disappeared into a sea of wheat as she headed toward a large stone pile where she believed John would be waiting. The grain with its full shafts ready for harvest slapped against her clothing, so she slowed her pace to lessen the sound. After she had traveled less than fifty yards an arm reached out and drew her abruptly to one side.

John was smiling at the surprised look on Rose’s face.

My God, John! she exclaimed, Are you trying to give me a heart attack?

Laying her right hand against her chest, she clutched John’s arm with her other.

Are you all right? he asked.

Yes, but you scared the life out of me. I thought you were one of my brothers, or at the very least, one of my father’s farmhands. We agreed to meet at the other side of the field near the old stone pile. I wasn’t expecting anyone in the field.

I couldn’t wait to see you. After this morning I couldn’t concentrate on anything but you.

When John was certain that Rose had regained her composure, he led her to an area in the field where earlier he had made a bed of matted wheat. Holding hands they lay on their makeshift bed and spoke in whispers of what they planned for the future. Suddenly John kissed her. You are the most important person in my life, he shouted.

The sound of dogs barking could be heard in the distance, followed by an angry voice yelling for them to be quiet. There was a yip, as if one of the dogs had been struck.

Shhh, Rose warned, reaching up and placing her hand on John’s mouth. You will wake my parents.

John could smell the scent of perfume as her hand gently touched his lips. I’m sorry, he whispered. I forgot that the night has ears as well as eyes. Our secret could be betrayed with a single word spoken in the wrong place.

Staring into his eyes, Rose’s face revealed the sadness of what she was about to tell him. Well…Rose replied with a sigh, Our secret has already become a whisper in the town. We must be extra careful. My father has heard the rumors; I am under constant watch. That’s why Papa became so angry earlier today when you approached the wagon.

They kissed again, with a passion known only to those who love for the first time. Their bodies trembled with desire as each explored the other. John buried his head in her breasts, tasting for the first time the fruit he had longed for.

The very touch of him sent shivers through Rose’s body and her legs became weak with desire; her mind, beset with the conflicting emotions of religion and family values, contrasted sharply with her physical cravings and desires. She tried to push him away with a guttural, No, John! Please.

John tried to reach under her skirt but became lost in a maze of petticoats. This gentle soft-spoken boy had become a raging fire. I want you, he uttered, as if in terrible pain.

No, John. We can’t. I will not offend God or bring shame upon my family.

John ignored her and attempted to roll on top; Rose shifted from beneath him. I said no.

Suddenly he groaned, and as if someone had turned off a switch, regained control of his actions; he continued to lie face down as if totally exhausted from his ordeal and embarrassed by his behavior. I’m sorry, he managed in a soft apologetic voice. I don’t know what came over me. You know I wouldn’t do anything to hurt or dishonor you. He turned to her and they kissed. It was a gentler kiss filled with comfort and understanding. Both relaxed in the warmth of each other’s presence. They remained silent as she nestled next to him. When the time is right, John announced in a hushed tone, I’m going to ask your father for your hand.

Please John, Rose said, sitting upright. You must not. Papa might have you whipped and driven from the farm. He would arrange for me to be sent away from Alberobello and we would never see each other again. Their eyes met and John could see that along with the pleading was sadness and a fear of the future. My father will never agree to a member of his family marrying someone of a lower class. He plans to marry me off to an older man with influence, property, and money. There is such a man who continues to visit my home. Although he is almost my father’s age, he has expressed an interest in me. His wife died more than a year ago. He has no children and continues to say that he wishes to have sons. He believes that the best chance for that would be with a young wife.

I won’t let that happen! John said, anger creeping into his voice. We’ll run away. I hear great stories about America. There, people are free to do as they please without concern for their station in life. Perhaps one day you and I will run away to America. Perhaps we will go to South America. I hear the language there is very much like our own.

Ribbons of light were showing in the east when Rose stood and brushed particles of wheat from her skirt. John, I have to go now, before they realize that I am missing and start looking for me.

John rose and brushed the back of her blouse. They kissed briefly, then started walking back along the path that Rose had made on her way into the field. They held hands and the only sounds audible were those of the crickets and the shafts of wheat crushing beneath the weight of their bodies. Suddenly the wheat field was gone and they were surrounded by a group of men. The group parted revealing the presence of Rozio Faggi.

Rozio stared at his daughter with eyes of pain and anger. Turning his attention to John, Rozio’s countenance took on the darkness of one consumed by evil. Beads of sweat dotted his brow as he rolled the black handle of the buggy whip. The padron’s contempt for the young man standing before him was clear. You are a cancer that needs to be excised and banished, Rozio said coldly.

It’s not what you think, Papa, Rose blurted. John could sense her fear and humiliation. Please don’t hurt him; we’ve done nothing wrong. If you want to punish someone, punish me. It was my fault. She placed herself between John and her father.

Rozio gripped his daughter’s shoulder and eased her to one side. Get into the buggy. His directive was cold and deliberate. I’ll deal with you later.

Please Pa… Rose started to speak with outstretched arms.

Rozio cut her short and bellowed, I said get into the buggy! He grabbed her by the arm and jerked her forward. As he did so, Rose’s head struck the buggy’s frame; an elderly housemaid made the sign of the cross and took her by the arm. The woman helped Rose into the front seat, a gash clearly visible over her right eye.

Tie that bastard to the carriage wheel, Rozio ordered, as he removed his shirt.

Two men grabbed John and walked him to the carriage next to the one occupied by Rose. John did not resist.

Rozio approached John and growled, "Remove that rag he calls a shirt! His face was close to John’s.

I told you to stay away from my daughter, he barked, saliva building in the corners of his mouth. "And I told your old man it was his responsibility to see that you kept your place.

My father has nothing to do with this.

Quiet you little son-of-a-bitch! I’ve tried to be a reasonable man, but I guess my tolerance was taken as a sign of weakness. Now I’m going to send a message that everyone will understand. When I’m finished here this night you will be an example of what happens when people who work for me disregard my orders.

Standing back five feet from his target, Rozio lashed out with the whip, placing the full weight of his body behind each stroke. John bit down, grinding his teeth in the process. He was determined not to cry out. At first the lash marks left large welts on his back, but under Rozio’s onslaught the welts soon gave way to bleeding gouges as John’s flesh began to peel away. The whip sliced through the meat on his back like a razor, leaving deep jagged marks in its wake.

Sobbing, Rose turned away helplessly and clutched the old woman next to her.

John didn’t once cry aloud and he soon slipped into unconsciousness. His last thoughts were of Rose, and America.

Finally a hand reached out and gripped Rozio’s wrist. That’s enough Papa. Alberto, looking first at Rose, then back at his father said, If you keep this up you’ll kill him.

Rose buried her head in her hands and wept uncontrollably.

Rozio, breathing heavily, steadied himself against the wheel that held the object of his wrath. He gulped for air and tried to sit with his weight against the carriage. His thirst for vengeance assuaged, Rozio continued to look with distain upon the boy who he believed had violated his daughter. As a final insult he spit upon John’s torn flesh. I want this fuck’n peon and his old man off my land. If either of them give you any shit, shoot them.

Alberto brought a bucket of water to his father and handed him the dipper. After drinking his fill, Rozio dumped the remainder of the bucket over John. John coughed, spitting blood and tried to focus. Can you hear me, you fuck’n piece of garbage? Rozio yelled as if he were trying to get the attention of someone a mile away. John did not respond until his antagonist grabbed him by the hair and yanked his head backwards, repeating the inquiry with increased volume. John’s eyes fluttered then focused on the big man glaring down at him. Pain shot through John’s body. He longed for the quiet of unconsciousness, but his tormentor would not allow it. If I ever catch you on Faggi property again, I’ll kill you! If you ever so much as look at my daughter again, I’ll cut your balls off. Do you understand me? Without waiting for an answer Rozio turned to his men and ordered that John be taken to the edge of Faggi property in a garbage cart and dumped. No one who works or lives on Faggi land is to aid or help this snake in any way. Those who ignore my wishes will be punished. As if to punctuate his decree, Rozio flung the wooden bucket to the ground, shattering it.

Alberto helped his father into the buggy’s back seat. The big man slumped to one side, exhausted from the demands of his rage. Alberto draped his father’s shirt over him and watched as rings of sweat stained the garment.

Rose was still sobbing into her hands when Alberto addressed her. For our people it does not matter that you and this boy were having a harmless adventure. His voice was soft but accusing. Truth is not what is, but what people believe it to be. On this night you have brought shame upon both your character and your family name. That boy was encouraged by you to believe that he could somehow rise above his lot in life. You could have prevented the harm that has come to our family and to his.

I can’t help being who I am any more than John can help what his birth has made him. I love him, and he loves me. Somehow, someway we will one day be together. The crying had stopped and Rose held her head upright.

Love, Alberto said shaking his head. We will see my moon-struck, naïve little sister, we will see.

John lay bleeding and buried in garbage for almost three hours before his father and friends found him. The garbage beneath his body was soaked in blood.

Why? Joe sighed, as he began tending to his son’s wounds. I told you that your obsession with that girl would bring trouble upon us. Why couldn’t you find a girl of your own kind?

Many hands were busy helping with the excruciating process of cleaning the filth and caked blood from John’s body; he groaned and winced from pain, too weak to cry out.

I was informed of your beating and ordered off the land, Joe Danelli cried. We are without a place to live or means of providing food for our table. And you, he shook his head, there is an unspoken price on your head. Rozio Faggi would not kill you himself, but it is believed by many that he would look with favor upon the person or persons responsible for your death. You have made a very powerful enemy. You must leave Alberobello today before the arm of the ‘Black Hand’ exacts Faggi vengeance.

John was in a state of fever and pain when he was transported to the city of Bari. Joe hoped that there his son would be beyond the influence of the Faggi family. While John lodged with the La Porte family, friends of his deceased mother, Joe hoped that his son would have a quick recovery.

Fortunately you’re young, strong, and in good health, Mrs. La Porte told John. I don’t know about the scars up here, she said pointing to his head, but physically you will heal.

Less than two weeks after the beating, a stylish carriage pulled by a pair of well bred Arabian horses came to a halt at the La Porte home. Two veiled women dressed in finery not normally seen in that part of Bari exited the carriage and entered the La Porte house. The older of the two women told Mrs. La Porte that they were friends of John and had come to visit.

John! Mrs. La Porte called. There is someone here to see you.

John rose from his bed and walked gingerly to the living room where to his surprise he was greeted by Rose. The other woman, still veiled, remained silent as Rose began to cry. She hugged John, repeating time and again how sorry she was for what had happened. I love you, she cried, and I want to be your wife. The older woman listened, but made no comment.

I love you too, John said in a hushed tone. But we could never wed here, or anywhere in Italy for that matter. Your father would find us no matter where we went.

That is true, Anna Faggi said, removing her veil and making her presence known. My husband is not a forgiving man. He found you here in only a few days. Signor Faggi could, with time, find you anywhere. You are safe only so long as you remain a prisoner within these walls and maybe not even then for long. There is a price on your head and greed has little regard for the sanctity of home or innocence.

Anna moved about as if not sure of what she was about to say next. I have a brother-in-law in America. He lives in New York…in a small city called Utica. I have convinced my husband to send Rose there to repair the damage caused to her name by your insensitive behavior. I have purchased a ticket for you as well. Not first class of course, but it will get you there. Anna extended a gloved hand and gave John the ticket. Knowing that he could neither read nor write, she continued, "The Toronto Queen sails in ten days. It’s your responsibility to get to the dock undetected. If you are caught there is nothing I will be able to do for you. For all our sakes, I pray that will not happen. She then looked directly at John. Her voice took on a chilling tone. I don’t want your thanks, John Danelli, but hear me well. If you bring harm or shame to my daughter you will not be safe from my wrath no matter where in the world you may attempt to hide. I can be far more vindictive than my husband when it comes to the safety and happiness of my children."

John tried to muster a thank you and explain his intentions regarding Rose, but before he could speak, Anna Faggi had taken her daughter by the hand and had returned to the carriage.

That evening Joe Danelli visited his son and announced that he was leaving Alberobello to look for work in Umbria. It is the land of my birth; we have family there, he explained. I will find farm work. Please come with me. We will start a new life together.

Papa, John replied, You first came to Bari because you loved Mama. I love Rose and one day I intend to marry her.

I think you are foolish; if you stay they will kill you. Joe’s voice mellowed. I will not try to reason with you on matters of love. Love too often defies reason. Be careful. If you decide to look for me, go to the Piazza Matteotti in Assisi. The owner of the Duomo Inn is a friend of mine. He will know how to find me.

With tears in his eyes, John embraced his father. Something inside him said that he would never see his father again.

Chapter Two

A week after Rose’s visit two men began asking questions about John in front of the La Porte residence. Fearing for his safety, John left the house under the cover of darkness. His strength had sufficiently returned, enabling him to lower himself from an upstairs window in the back of the house. Leaving by the front door might have proven fatal. Dressed as a young girl and carrying a pillowcase filled with cheeses, meats, various breads, and a bottle of Chianti, John faded into the darkness. He was confident that the disguise would afford him safe passage out of the city, and that the staples within the sack would help ward off hunger until he was safely aboard ship.

Less than five miles west of Bari John happened upon an abandoned trullo-house on a hill overlooking the road. It was like the home he had shared with his father. This trullo was in poor repair with numerous stones missing from its foundation and the wood-framed doors and windows rotted. The inside had been reclaimed by the elements and its hard-packed dirt floor showed evidence that wildlife had once lived there. Dampness clung to his nostrils and filled him with the scent of mold. He fought the urge to build a fire, knowing that the smoke would signal others of his presence. He made a make-shift seat near an opening that had once served as a window. A breeze gently brushed his face and allowed him to breathe easier. Shafts of morning light began to penetrate the room; the rising sun helped to chase the chill from his body. Hours passed and his mind drifted to Rose and America. He wished she could be there with him to assist with his plans. As day turned to dusk, a cold loneliness gripped him and worked to weaken his resolve. He worried about his father and longed for life as it once was.

At dawn on the second day, John spotted an old farmer on his way to market with a wagon of grapes. How far away and long ago it seemed when he and his father had made plans for a similar trip. Toward the end of the day with his food gone, reason dictated that it was time to return to the Bari docks. It was imperative that he locate the Toronto Queen and, if possible, board her.

Still dressed in a bonnet and blue cotton dress, John left the trullo and arrived in Bari just as the city oil lamps were being lit. He made his way along a narrow cobblestone street avoiding, as much as possible, contact with others. Most of the people he passed were either on their way home or scurrying off to a favorite watering hole following a hard day’s work. It wasn’t until he arrived on the docks that John’s attire began to attract attention.

Hey sweet cakes, a man in a green shirt covered with fish gore yelled. Ya wanna have a good time?

John shot a quick glance at the callused, unwashed man then looked away. There was an immediate litany of lewd remarks followed by a chorus of laughter. He could smell body odor mixed with that of fish and seawater. John knew that the docks bred baseness, but this was the first time such behavior had been directed at him.

Avoiding eye contact John quickened his pace. What’s the matter, bitch; afraid of a little roll on the planks? There was a roar of approval from the onlookers.

Ducking behind a stack of canisters, crates, and cartons, John removed his costume and stuffed it into an open crate. Hearing music and men talking in muffled tones, he peered around a stack of cartons and viewed a poorly lit tavern at the intersection of two large warehouses. He searched his pockets and fingered some coins. The smells of pasta and tomato sauce drifted toward him, making his mouth water. Fumbling again with the remaining money in his pocket he determined that there was enough for both a dish of pasta and a glass of cheap red wine. In an attempt to look more like one of the locals, he rubbed dirt onto his face and arms; he wished for facial hair and a deeper voice.

Suddenly there was a tap on his shoulder. Have a match, dearie?

Startled, John turned to face a small woman dressed in men’s clothing holding a pipe. She was dock-hardened, of indeterminate age and uglier than sin. No. he snapped. I don’t smoke.

The woman’s eyes narrowed as she studied the young man standing in front of her. The she smiled, displaying a pinkish-white gum line and one solitary tooth. Chuckling, she gurgled, Ya, and I’ll bet you’re still a virgin. As she laughed the woman started coughing, hacking, and spewing up large chunks of colored mucus. Gaining control of her spasms, she added, I can change that quick enough dearie, if ya got the price of a drink. There was more mucus and than a hefty thewww, as she spat a conglomerate of blood, lung tissue, and tobacco all over a large canvass covered stack of boxes.

With a loss of appetite and an unsettled stomach John retreated around yet another pile of cargo and quickened his step toward the light in the tavern. Once inside he went directly to a table at the far side of the room. At one table several men huddled in whispered conversations. Another table served as the center for levity, with men talking in animated gestures and poking one another to accent the points being made.

The bartender was a short, portly, man with a monk’s hairstyle. Upon seeing a new customer, he threw a soiled towel over his shoulder and approached. The man wheezed as if the trip had been a major physical undertaking.

John reached for the coins in his pocket, withdrawing one. I’ll have a small glass of the house wine, he said, handing the man the money.

The keeper bounced the coin up and down in his palm as he studied his young customer. Without comment the ‘keep’ returned to the bar and engaged another patron in conversation; both men looked in John’s direction. The customer gathered up his money, downed the remainder of his drink and left. As the patron exited, the bar-keep returned to John and poured a tumbler of purple brew. Back at his post he continued to observe John with great interest.

They know who I am, John thought. With one tip of the glass, he swallowed the Chianti, and left. As he re-entered the cover of darkness, he heard the barkeeper yelling from the door, Hey! Hey! Have another drink. It’s on the house.

John hurried away, trying to put as much distance as possible between himself and the tavern. Looking back he noticed the man still in the doorway. Gripped with panic, he scuffled along the weather-beaten wharf until he found himself at the end of the pier facing a large vessel being loaded with cargo. He had reached the water’s edge with the Adriatic in front and certain death behind. Across the harbor he could make out the blinking of distant lights. His mind raced as it searched for solutions to his predicament. A rustling sound distracted him. In the darkness he could make out the figure of a man; John froze.

She’ll be in the Americas within the month, a voice said to him.

Focusing, John could tell that the man was stretching a large cargo net over some barrels of olive oil. He wore a seaman’s cap, a wool sweater, and baggy pants that had been patched several times.

Yup, she sails tomorrow!

I’m leaving for America tomorrow too, John remarked, not really knowing why he was confiding in the man.

Are you now, the man responded, leaving his task to stand upright. And what ship might ya be sail’n on?

"The Toronto Queen."

The man smiled. Well now, ain’t that something. This here is the Toronto Queen. We’re loading her before the passengers board in the morning; you‘re a might early.

I know, but I was hoping to board early. I arrived in Bari a day sooner than I expected and haven’t anywhere to stay the night.

Without comment, the sailor left and walked a boarding plank connecting the dock to the lower side of the ship. He disappeared for what seemed forever. When he returned he was with another man whom John took to be the captain.

Nick tells me you have a ticket to sail on my ship, the man yelled.

Yes sir, John answered, It’s third class passage, but I was hoping to board the ship tonight; I haven’t anyplace to stay.

The captain spoke quietly to the deck hand and then to John. Tell you what I’ll do. I need another hand in the hold to unhook the cargo nets. If you’re willing to give us a hand, I’ll let you sleep on board tonight and throw in a hot meal to boot.

John flashed a broad grin.

It was long after midnight when the last of the wine and oil was secured safely aboard ship. John was seated at a long oak table with the other workers, eating pasta and fish. The stevedores scooped