The Seagirls of the Irene

By KB TAYLOR

Twelve-year-old AGGIE has never manned a steamboat on her own until she is forced to the wheel.  When she reunites with her younger sisters aboard the IRENE, their sixty-foot steamboat, the sisters are trapped with thugs intending to steal their boat.  As Aggie pilots the IRENE from port to port, conjuring up schemes to gain the upper hand, the sisters search for DADDY.  

 

WILLA AWARD WINNER and San Diego Book Award Winner. The Irene was built by the author's Great-Grandfather and  manned by his three young daughters. Aggie was the author's grandmother. 

 

WILLA Judge Review:  What a great Western narrative and the Washington landscape and waterways are so well drawn that they become another character in the story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BOOT TOP BOOKS
• Release date: Oct 18, 2019
• ISBN: 9781733369718

Book preview

The Seagirls of the Irene is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents, either are the creation of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, boats, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright© 2019 by Karen Bishop - All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission of the publisher, except brief excerpts for printed review/articles.

The Irene drawing by Aggie Cline 1920 - gifted to author.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Bishop, Karen (KB Taylor), Illustrations: PB Taylor

LCCN:  2019948912

The Seagirls of the Irene/KB Taylor-1st ed.

p. cm: includes bibliographical references.

Summary: In 1898, after Daddy goes missing at sea, twelve-year-old Aggie and her two younger sisters are trapped aboard the Irene with thugs intending to steal their boat, but they outwit them at every turn.

ISBN:9781733369701(print) 9781733369718 (ebook)

1. Self-reliance—fiction.  2. Steamboats and machinery—fiction.   3.  Pacific Northwest  (Washington State) 19th century—fiction. 4. Sisters—Fiction. 5. Boating,  crabbing,  fishing —fiction. 6. Spanish-American War—fiction.

Printed in the United States of America—October 2019

Boot Top Books, Lacey, WA

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thank you to my dad and my grandmother for their love of steam, cherished stories, and enthusiasm to keep the Cline history alive.

My literary sister, Diane, for her proofreading, historical research, and  keen insights used to captivate the reader’s interest.  

To my special friends who have been on this journey from the very beginning: Kathy McCracken, Cindy Norton, and Janet Pace. Other close friends who spearheaded me forward: Sandra Berry, Cecelia Black, and Heather Zarcilla. My critique group: Barb, Dave, and Jill for the final review.

Yvonne Nelson Perry, an accomplished author and mentor, whose guidance brought this book to life. Thank you, Yvonne. And thank you for pushing me to enter the San Diego Book Award contest.

Harv Lillegard and Stephanie Hylton of the Northwest Steam Society for their evaluation of all the steam references used in this book.

Lastly, my husband, for his love and support as my first reader, a re-reader, and knowing only-to-disturb with a fresh-brewed cup of his outstanding coffee.

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THE IRENE’S LOWER DECK

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THE IRENE’S UPPER DECK

AUTHOR’S NOTE

STEAM MACHINERY HAS been a part of my life since I was a child. My father, Paul Taylor, a steam collector, inherited the love of steam from his grandfather, Fred Cline, and mother, Agnes Cline Taylor, the inspiration for this book.

My grandmother and her sisters were born in the early 1900’s, but I pulled the timeline back to incorporate historical events that affected their parents: the Spanish-American War and the Alaskan Gold Rush. Even though the story is fiction, it’s interwoven with facts of my family.

HISTORICAL BASIS FOR THE CHARACTERS:

The Irene, built in 1912 by my great-grandfather, Fred Cline, was named for his daughter, Irene, who died at age two.

At sixty feet, the Irene was the largest of his nine boats and manned by his three young daughters; one was my grandmother, Aggie.

My great-grandmother, Mary Belle, designed the interior, chose the boat’s color: robin’s-egg blue, and referred to the Irene as her luxury hotel. It had a bathtub and flush toilet, luxuries not found in their wilderness cabin, and a cast-iron stove. The engine room had a triple-expansion engine and an oversized upright water-tube boiler that could handle four-foot logs on long trips, unusual for this time.

The Clines lived winters in their Humptulips cabin and summers aboard the Irene. Artifacts of the actual Irene and the family history have been on exhibit in several Washington State museums.

The Belle, built in 1909 by my great-grandfather, was his first steamboat and named after my great-grandmother, Mary Belle.

Fern Hill School. In 1912, Agnes (eight) and Viorene (six) attended the newly-built Fern Hill School. The two girls rowed the school-rowboat up Gillis Slough, picked up other children along the way, and walked two miles on the railroad tracks. Wilma attended with her sisters two years later.

Humptulips (Hum-tu-lups) a Native American word meaning hard to pole or chilly region. Fred and Belle Cline homesteaded the region in 1897 and it remained the family homestead until Fred’s death in 1959.

Old Betsy, the Polson Logging Train, was real. As the girls got older, they’d catch trains to and from town.

April 1896, the schooner, W.J. Bryant, transported prospectors to Hope City, Alaska (Turnagain Arm region). Fred Cline was a crewman on this voyage. His story was published in the Alaska Sportsman magazine in 1954.

Stories: As a boy, my father, Paul Taylor, sailed with Grandpa Cline, learned about steam engines, and gathered stories. He visited the Humptulips often and prowled the old decks of the Irene. While anchored at Pt. Grenville behind Bird Rock on the steamer, Heather, they set a crab pot and used water from the boiler for a feast. This actual event is depicted in the book.

CHARACTERS:

Agnes Beckman was based on my grandmother, Agnes Cline—also known in real life as Aggie the Navigator and Captain Paddy. By age twelve, she could man the boilers and the triple-expansion engine better than most seafaring men. In 1920, the Tacoma Ledger published the article Captain Paddy—Pride of Harbor.

Captain Paddy—Agnes Cline is the boast of Grays Harbor seafaring folk, and, what is more, a fact, can navigate the Irene as well as Captain Cline himself.

In the book, I first referred to Captain Murphy as Captain Paddy. Later, Aggie claimed the nickname as her own.

Viorene Beckman was based on my great-aunt, Viorene Cline. My grandmother described her sister as a sweet-natured, prim and proper girl who liked to read and cook.

Wilmina Beckman was based on my great-aunt, Wilma Cline. She was the only one of the three girls who inherited their mother’s Portuguese looks. She loved all animals. A picture of her rowing a dug-out canoe with a cat inside followed by a pet goose swimming behind supported that fact. She also hated the smell of hot oil on the boats.

Captain Murphy was based on my father’s friend, Holger—a hermit I knew when I was a child. He lived in a run-down shack along the Hoquiam River, rowed his rowboat to and from town, and always wore a crumpled captain’s hat. Holger had a similar stature to Captain Murphy and spoke in a thick Danish accent.  I made Captain Murphy Irish.

Mrs. Hill was based on a close friend, Mrs. Cultee, a Native American who lived nearby in the Humptulips region. Her description is fictional, but the friendship was real. Belle and the girls would visit often with fresh salmon and baked goods. Mrs. Cultee weaved cedar baskets and gifted several to Belle’s basket collection.

Fred Beckman Cline, my great-grandfather, was born in 1874 Willamette, Oregon to German parents. After his father died in a steamboat explosion, Fred was raised by a Prussian family (Kleinsarge) and put to work in a chair factory. By age twelve, he ran away, dropped his birth surname Beckman and went by Cline. In the book, I used Beckman. During his life, he was a port-light tender, tugboat boiler-man, boat builder, sea captain, fisherman, inventor, and builder of pile-driven fish traps.

Mary Belle Cline (Belle), my great-grandmother, was born in 1880, Rainier, Oregon. Her Portuguese father died when she was two-years-old. It was Mary Belle who was ridiculed during the Spanish-American War. (In the book, I have this happen to Wilmina.) After Mary Belle and Fred wedded, they lived in a shack at the mouth of the Humptulips (Hum-tu-lups). For over thirty-five years, she cooked and washed without electricity or plumbing and knitted over 3,000 feet of netting for the fish traps. The girls also learned this skill.

The Clines had five daughters (no sons). Heather, 1898, lived two weeks, Irene (1902-1904), Agnes (1903), Viorene (1905), and Wilma (1907).

Grandma Margaret. Portions of her character were based on Mary Belle’s mother, Sarah Elizabeth (my great-great grandmother). Sarah had been married three times. First, to my Portuguese grandfather who left her a widow at nineteen with two daughters, one was my great-grandmother, Mary Belle. A family historian stated that Sarah Elizabeth was a sweet woman, but a firm, devote Christian and a member of the W.C.T.U. (Woman’s Christian Temperance Union).

When Fred and Mary Belle eloped, the Grays Harbor Washingtonian newspaper, 1897, published: Wedded at Sea, mentioning Sarah’s disapproval of the marriage:

The bride being but 17 years of age, her mother strongly objected to the marriage and  refused to allow a license to be issued...

Captain Hill was a real keeper at Destruction Island and a good friend of the Cline family. The Clines visited Destruction Island many times and Belle wrote to the lighthouse families for over forty years. On one of their visits, Agnes took pictures with her Brownie. One included two goats with the lighthouse in the background.

Lester Hanson was a half-brother to Mary Belle and fished with the Clines on the Irene.

The Seagirls of the Irene

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The IRENE drawn by Aggie Cline (1920)

GRAYS HARBOR BAY

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CHAPTER 1

HUMPTULIPS, WASHINGTON

APRIL 1, 1898

I HAD DEVISED A FLAWLESS escape, or so I thought. Umtalah skalus, Mrs. Hill called out in her native tongue. It meant Humptulips sun for my yellow hair. Boat, boat, she said, pointing to a canoe rowing up to her landing on Gillis Slough, a tributary off the Humptulips River.

Standing on her porch, I grabbed the binoculars, looked through them, and saw my skinny-as-a-stick fifteen-year-old uncle stepping out of a rowboat. It’s Lester, I gasped, my heart pounding clear up to my throat, and his friend, Harold.

Who?  She looked up at me with a quizzical stare, unique to her.

Lester, I repeated. "He’s a half-brother to my mama, but you wouldn’t know it by his red hair and freckles. Please don’t tell him I’m here. It’s important that he not find me."

Mrs. Hill furrowed her brow, then gave me a quick nod.

With no time to spare, I raced down the steps and crawled under the porch, looking up at her feet through the cracks.

Mrs. Hill, at eighty-four, was one of the wisest women I knew and had a distinguished look, not of any tribe seen in these parts, which made her even more special to me: stubby build, tan-leathered face, and a flattened forehead that extended down to a straight nose.

I had let her believe that I had rowed up the slough for a short visit, not that I had run away four days ago. Now I felt bad to have hidden the truth.

Stay, she told me, then turned and trudged toward the boys as her thick white hair, tied at each side of her head like horses’ tails, bounced with each step. Welcome, hello, I heard her say.

I know she’s here, Lester said without a return hello or introducing himself. That’s Aggie’s rowboat buried in the bushes.

I had done my best to camouflage my boat, and for all Lester knew, it could have been one of the communal rowboats or canoes borrowed and left for another to use, except my name, Agnes Beckman, was carved on the portside hull.

Yes, yes, she said with a carefree tone. Come, we’ll have blackberry tea. She led Lester and his friend, Harold, to the porch steps, which provided me a close-up view.

We don’t have time for tea, Lester spouted. We have to catch the logging train back to town.

Lester lived with Grandma in Hoquiam, the closest citified town, which was a six-hour steamboat ride depending on the tide, but sometimes shorter by Old Betsy, the logging train.

I insist you get her now, he said, trying to sound grown-up, but truth be told, I, twelve-years-old, had a lot more savvy than fifteen-year-old him.

Mrs. Hill cupped one hand over her eyes and looked up at the sun. Old Betsy doesn’t blow her whistle for hours. Sit, she said, motioning the boys to two wooden chairs perched on her porch.

Lester wrinkled his forehead and scowled. No. You produce Aggie right now.

Mrs. Hill smirked, making it clear that this red-headed string-bean had no scare in him. His friend, Harold, more lumpy than big, put his hands on his hips and gave Mrs. Hill a stern stare, which seemed to amuse her even more.

Come along, she told them as she climbed the stairs to the porch. What the boys didn’t understand was that if Mrs. Hill extended hospitality, she expected a visit.

Lester sighed, followed her up to the porch, and plunked down into a chair. Harold did the same.

I’ll get the tea, she said, disappearing into the house.

Breathing shallow as I could, I did my best not to move, but my heart was thumping so hard I feared they might hear.

What’s that woman’s game? Harold asked.

Who knows, Lester said. We’ll play for a bit.

It seemed an eternity before Mrs. Hill returned with the tea. Soon as she handed them each a cup, she pulled a chair over to face them, but best of all, positioned herself so I could see her plain and clear.

Why is it that Aggie can’t visit? She comes all the time.

She’s a runaway, Lester said. My mother was visiting the girls and planned to take them home with her, but before the ferry arrived, Aggie snuck out and hid.

I see, Mrs. Hill said, darting her eyes downward at me, then back to Lester. Aggie can stay here until her father returns.

No. I was given strict instruction to bring her to town.

But I have a letter that says she can stay with me.

From a beaded pouch hanging around her neck, she pulled out a coffee-stained note and handed it to Lester. I recognized it as the note that Daddy had written almost five-months back, right after Mama had died. He had requested that Mrs. Hill watch after my sisters and me, whenever needed.

Lester scanned the note. This doesn’t have merit. Her father’s been gone almost six weeks and my mother believes that he’s deserted the girls.

I gasped under my breath, how dare she say such a thing, and in my anger, didn’t realize until too late that my leg had given way and pushed gravel beneath my feet.

What was that noise? said Lester.

I froze, my heart now pounding even harder.

I slowly looked up.

He glued his eyes onto mine. There you are, he said.

I scurried from under the porch. Soon as I got to my feet, ready to run, he had stomped down the stairs and grabbed onto the back of my overalls.

Where do you think you’re going? He chortled as I twisted back and forth, trying to get loose from his grip.

Mrs. Hill hurried down the steps. Stop, she said, waving Daddy’s letter in her hand. She has permission to stay.

Keep out of this old woman, he snapped, dragging me toward the trail. Harold followed behind.

Lester, I pleaded, please let me stay. At least another week to see if Daddy comes home.

No. I’ve already wasted too much time looking for you.

I dug my leather boots into the ground, forcing him to stop, and looked for Mrs. Hill, but she was nowhere in sight.

Lester turned to Harold. Get her feet, let’s carry her down.

One good thing about being lanky, I had the flexibility of a monkey. Before Harold grabbed me, I kicked his shin. He jumped back.

Ow, he mumbled, rubbing his leg.

I glared at Lester. "You owe me; remember when I caught you kissing Mary Jane Hawkins behind the bushes? You swore me not to tell and I didn’t. Not to one person did I spill. And when you took that dollar from Grandma’s purse." I knew if I raked my brain, I could come up with a lot more negatives that he didn’t want shared.

No one’s going to believe you.

Maybe not, but Grandma will listen to Viorene.

Viorene, my middle sister and one-year younger than me, resembled a porcelain doll:  blonde curly locks, dimples, and Daddy’s perfect smile. I was blonde too, but my hair was straight as a yardstick and I had gopher-like front teeth.

Viorene’s Grandma’s jewel, I added.

I could see by his face he was chewing on my words, but before he could respond, Mrs. Hill appeared and called out, Better get your boat. Lester had left their canoe on the edge of Mrs. Hill’s landing without tying it down. The out-going tide was carrying it away.

Lester gasped, studying the situation until a sneer crossed his face. He turned to Harold. We’ll use Aggie’s boat.  What he didn’t know was that on my way to Mrs. Hill’s I had hit a snag, putting a fist-size hole in my boat’s hull. When I had reached Mrs. Hill’s landing, my overalls were soaked up to my knees.

Mrs. Hill shook her head. That rowboat is broken. Won’t float with three people; you’ll miss the train.

To catch the logging train did take some maneuvering. First, they’d have to row to the school landing, then walk two-miles along the rails to the watering tank, and hope with all their might, they got there in time before Old Betsy continued on to town. And she didn’t go by a schedule. It all relied on the size of the logs and how long it took to get them loaded at the logging camp, which was a good hour or so farther back into the woods.

Lester looked at Harold. We don’t have far to row; the school landing is just around the bend. Let’s get her into her rowboat and out of here.

When they grabbed me, I wiggled and kicked, but couldn’t stop them from putting me inside the boat. And with one quick push, the boys got my rowboat into the slough. It was floating, all right, but water was gushing in and soaking my feet.

Start bailing, Lester barked, motioning to an old bucket stuffed under the thwart.

Don’t squirm, Mrs. Hill called out from the shore, as if she was providing friendly advice. I knew better, recalling the time she had sabotaged her grandson’s boat ride.

After she figured out that her grandson, John,