The Long and Happy Life of a Child of the Great Depression

By Patricia Maureen Turl Bloebaum

How a child born in the Great Depression can thrive and enjoy several challenging and fascinating professions that would have seemed impossible to imagine.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 28, 2018
• ISBN: 9781984510389

Patricia Maureen Turl Bloebaum

Born in 1930, the author had several varied and interesting professions before marrying her soldier husband and spending the next 21 years moving around the world. After locating to Jacksonville, she worked as a writer for Florida's then-largest advertising agency until retiring to travel with her husband and enjoy civilian life.

Book preview

Chapter 1

BRUCE’S STORY

The Turls

February 27, 1852

Frances Turl couldn’t have dreamed that his life was about to change drastically—and for all time—as he plodded ahead, step by step, on this very ordinary day. He shifted the heavy coil of rope that lay across his shoulders, and rubbed his rough, red hands together in an attempt to warm his stiff, cracked fingers. Oh, the chilblains were terrible painful, they were—but he was getting used to them by now, with nearly three months of freezing winter weather gone by already.

The morning was cold, with a heavy mist that lay across the Devonshire meadowlands. Frost had turned the winter grass to a tiny ice forest, and with each step he took, he could hear a clear, crackling sound, as if he were walking across tiny shards of broken glass.

He brought his hands up to his mouth and blew on his fingers. It was so cold! He stamped his feet and wiggled his toes, chilled and tingling inside his rough hob-nailed boots. Thank goodness Ma had knit him the heavy wool stockings he wore, or his feet would be fairly frozen by now. Sometimes, if he tried very hard, he could almost recall what it felt like to be warm, to wake up on an August morning with the heat of a summer sun already shimmering across the landscape. But as the winter days passed, each one moving as slowly as the nearly frozen stream that fed the millpond on this February morning, his memory of warmth and sunshine and flowers and buzzing bees had been harder and harder to recapture.

Now, he simply resigned himself to getting through the winter, one miserable day at a time. He couldn’t waste time in feeling sorry for himself, couldn’t waste energy in whining about the constant, unceasing chill that encompassed his body and his spirit. Couldn’t dwell on the nagging hunger that glowed like a banked fire in his stomach, ready to flame up without warning at any moment.

He was much too old for that sort of childish self-pity. He was thirteen years old, after all, and indentured to Squire Wibner, the rope-maker. He was almost a man.

His future had been settled last year, when Father arranged for him to become an apprentice rope-maker. He thought of his parents now, and wondered what they were doing. They lived in the next village in a cottage that was still home to his younger brother, George, and his sisters Sarah and Amey.

He hoped his father, James, was all right. Pa, who had lived here in Devonshire all his life, had come into the world on the fifth day of July in 1801—fifty-two years ago, so he was getting on in years. Pa was in fairly good health, in spite of the fact that he was starting to show his age—taking a bit longer to get up out of his rocking chair beside the kitchen hearth, stooping just a bit in his shoulders when he walked out to the barn, rubbing his hands together to get the stiffness out of the joints before he started the morning milking chores.

Ah, it was silliness to be worrying about Pa. He probably still had a good number of years ahead of him. Pa was a Turl. And the Turl family was a hardy clan, known about the countryside for their long, hardworking lives.

His grandfather, James Turl the Elder, had died only last year at the advanced age of 81. Grandma Maryann lived only a few months after Grandfather’s death. Everyone said she had died of consumption, but privately, he believed she had probably just died of a broken heart. Grandmother’s family—the Wilsons—lived in the next county, and he had a lot of Wilson aunts and uncles and cousins, but he rarely saw them. He had neither the time nor opportunity to enjoy frivolous events, such as visiting faraway relatives. In fact, he scarcely ever had a chance to see his own Ma and Pa.

He grabbed hold of the heavy rope coil on his shoulder and began to trudge once again along the narrow footpath. He missed Ma and Pa. And he missed the rest of his family, too. He missed his big sister Elizabeth, who had married last year. Elizabeth was 24 years old when she wed, nearly an old maid by then. The family had begun to wonder whether she would ever find a husband at her age, but she had been courted by a neighboring farmer, Edward Purchase, and now they were expecting a baby in a few weeks.

You just couldn’t ever guess what was in the future. The family was relieved that Elizabeth was taken care of. But privately—although he would never think of saying so to Ma or Pa—he was fairly certain that Edward Purchase barely could support his little family on the earnings from his small holdings.

His sister Mary Ann had just turned 21. To the best of his knowledge, she had no marriage prospects as yet. She spent her days helping Ma take care of the house, and sometimes helping Pa work in the fields, along with his younger brother George, and his little sisters Sarah, and Amey. They were the only ones left at home now.

His two older brothers—James, 17, and William, 15, had been apprenticed out by their father when they turned twelve, just as he had been. He felt a sudden stinging behind his eyelids as he thought of Jim and Will. Were they as miserable as he? Did they have good masters? Or were they in thrall to a mean, uncaring man like Squire Wibner, who treated them like dumb farm animals instead of human beings?

And what of little George? George was ten years old now. In another year or two, it would be his turn to be rented out like a piece of property—perhaps to begin living the kind of mean existence that he had to face every day.

Tears started to slip out of his eyes, and he rubbed them away with his chapped hands. Stop it, Frank! You’re too big a boy to be feeling so sorry for yourself. This was just the way of the world. Each fellow had to pull his share of the weight when he reached a certain age. There was naught he could do about it, so why waste tears on such a situation.

There was a bright side to his misery. When his seven years of service with Squire Wibner were completed, he would know a trade—he’d be a journeyman rope-maker. Then, he could start his own rope-making business. And become successful. And make a lot of money. Then, he would buy little George’s freedom and put Jim and William and George all to work in his factory, and they would …

Oh, but what was the use of this useless daydreaming? He knew such things would never come to pass. He would live his entire life in this small part of England, performing backbreaking labor day after day, with no hope of escaping the meanness of his life. With no hope of helping his family break out of the never-ending cycle of hopelessness. With no chance ever for a fresh, new start in some faraway place where they would have enough to eat every day, and warm, un-patched clothes to wear, and a house with enough rooms and enough chairs for everyone to sit down at once and a decent bed—a bed all to himself—and a warm fire in the grate all winter long.

He felt a slow anger building inside him as he tramped along the frozen path. No human should be treated the way he was treated by Master Wibner. Even though he was only thirteen years old and not quite a man, yet, he deserved a better life than what he had. It was only the thought of being free to go his own way, after the years of apprenticeship were completed, that kept him from bolting and running away.

He vowed that, once he was his own man, independent and free of his years of bondage to Wibner, he would never be cold again. Nor would he be hungry. A wave of pure fury rushed through him at the thought of how he lived out each pathetic day of his pitiful life in the Wibner household. Each miserable day like the one before it, and the one before that. And like the very one today. It had started like all the others of the past few month—cold and wretched, awakening on the cold stone floor of the Wibner house.

Squire Wibner had allowed him to sleep in the house during the winter, instead of in the rope factory, where he spent his nights in warmer weather. Mistress Wibner had made a thin pallet of straw in the far corner of the kitchen. His bed was not too far from the fireplace. But no matter how heartily the fire blazed in the evening, when Mistress Wibner was cooking the master’s supper, it always died out by midnight, leaving him to shiver on the hard, cold stones, with only a threadbare and ragged blanket to cover him.

No, he would never be cold again. He would have a cozy bedroom with a fireplace, and he would have a servant to come in and keep the fire crackling and blazing all night long as he slept. And he would have a big, soft bed with a feather comforter and two pillows. And his servant would bring in a warming pan in the evening, and run the pan across the fine white sheets every night so that when he climbed into it, there would be not the least feeling of chill against his bare skin. Ah, now that was a dream worth working for.

He walked a little faster at the thought of such comfort in his make-believe future. Yes, he would be warm—always warm. But that wasn’t the extent of his daydreams. There would be even more luxury in his life. For he would also have food—plenty of food—delicious, nourishing, satisfying food, as much as he wanted to eat, and there for the taking whenever he wanted it.

No matter how small his lodgings might be—even if he should have a tiny garret room under the eaves of some boarding house, he would have a larder filled with food. Bread. And fresh-churned butter. And cheese—a wheel of Cheddar, and wedges of Stilton, or Colby, or any kind of cheese that took his fancy. He would have plenty of meat to eat, too. Ah, that was a dream of his—always to have meat to eat.

His mouth watered at the thought. He would always be sure to have meat in his larder when he was no longer a lowly apprentice. A slab of roasted mutton. Perhaps a ham. For special occasions, he would have a joint of beef, all for himself. He would eat as much as he wanted—as often as he wanted. And he would have plenty of potatoes and carrots and onions. And …

His stomach twisted at the thought of so much food. He lived on the bare scraps that Squire Wibner permitted Mistress Wibner to give him. Sometimes, when Master Wibner was gone away, Mistress Wibner would take pity on him and give him the dog’s plate. The dog always had better food than he received. This morning had been such an occasion. Mistress Wibner had come into the kitchen very early to start preparing her husband’s breakfast.

He had lain still and watchful in his dark corner, grateful for the first small waves of heat that began to radiate from the fire Mistress Wibner had built. He heard a popping, sizzling sound as she dropped rashers of bacon into the heavy cast-iron skillet that stood on the spider over the crackling blaze. The smell of it had nearly driven him mad. He curled up in a ball, wrapped his arms around his empty belly, tried to close out the smells and the sounds of the good English breakfast being prepared only a few feet from him.

Mistress Wibner turned the bacon in the pan, cracked eggs and dropped them into the hot grease, then laid a thick slice of bread next to the eggs to fry. As she turned away from the fire to set plates and silverware on the table, she glanced over to where he lay. He closed his eyes quickly and pretended to be asleep, but he was afraid she might have seen the gleaming of his eyes in the flickering light of the fire. He didn’t want her to know he was awake—certainly didn’t want Squire Wibner to know.

He wanted to lie still in the darkness, feeling the warming air wafting around his stiff arms and legs, smelling the odors of hot food, being left alone. Being safe for just a little while was a treat. He opened his eyes just a bit, only enough to watch Mistress Wibner bustling about the kitchen. Her graying hair was wound into a tight knob at the back of her head, and she wore a stained white apron over her drab calico everyday work dress. He often thought that she might have been a kind person, had she not been married to the large, bombastic man who ruled this house as if he were the King himself.

But in a way, Mistress Wibner was leading an indentured life much like his own. The Squire treated her like a servant, never showing any sign of affection or concern for her well-being. Her clothes were patched and threadbare in spots, and her hands were red and work-worn from years of scrubbing clothes in lye soap and digging in the kitchen garden and scrubbing the stone floors of the old house, to which the rope-making factory was attached.

She had just forked the crisp rashers of bacon out of the frying pan and placed them on a large ironstone plate that sat warming on the hearth when the kitchen door opened with a bang, and Squire Wibner stomped in. He hung his big black cloak on a peg beside the door and pulled a chair away from the table.

I want me breakfast, he said, and I want it now.

Mistress Wibner straightened up and turned to him, the long kitchen fork held in her right hand like a sword. It’s nearly finished, Mr. Wibner. I’m just now waiting for the bread to be done frying. She turned back to her cooking, making ferocious jabs with the fork. He held his breath, not wanting to make a sound that would call attention to himself. Poor Mistress Wibner. No, she wasn’t much better off than he was himself, even though he was only an apprentice, and not much higher in the order of the household’s life than a kitchen mouse that stole into the larder to nibble at any crumbs it could find.

Surely she must often have feelings like his own. Surely there must be times when she wished Squire Wibner would go into town one morning and never return. Perhaps she was wishing that today would be the day when Squire Wibner would fall off the face of the earth and leave her in peace. He watched her through slitted eyelids as she wrapped her apron around the handle of the frying pan and lifted it from the fire.

It’s ready, she said, as she tipped the pan over the plate and slid the fried eggs next to the bacon. Then she placed the fried bread on the plate and carried it to the table. She had scarcely set down the plate when Squire Wibner attacked the food, cutting off huge bites of egg and bacon and fried bread and stuffing them into his mouth—just as if he hadn’t had a huge and hearty meal the night before.

Mistress Wibner sat down across the table from her husband. Where are you off to so early this morning? she asked.

Squire Wibner looked up at her, chewing noisily. He swallowed, wiped his mouth with his shirt-sleeve, and growled, Where’s me tea?

She jumped up and hurried to the fireplace, where the big teakettle was steaming on the hob. She snatched it off and poured boiling water into the teapot. It’ll be ready in just a minute, Mr. Wibner, she said. Then, as if to deflect his attention from the fact that his tea had not already been brewed, she said, Where are you going, and what do you want young Francis to do while you’re away?

The squire shoved more bacon and egg into his mouth. Going to Exeter to take care of some business, he mumbled through his mouthful of food. As for Frank, I’ve left a new coil of rope in the factory. It’s to be taken to the Crosswood Farm, and I want it there before nine o’clock. He lifted his cup and took a long swallow, then put it back on the table and began to mop his plate with a piece of fried bread.

He stuffed the bread into his mouth and chomped on it, swallowed, and took another long draught of tea. D’ye hear me, woman? I want that coil of rope at Crosswood Farm before nine o’clock!

I’m not deaf, Mister Wibner, she said. I’ll see that Frank does his chores and leaves early enough to have it delivered in time.

Wibner grunted, wiped his sleeve across his mouth once again, and got up from the table. That boy’s scarce worth his keep around here, he said. I’ve almost a mind to return him to his father and get me money back.

Now, Mister Wibner, she said, in a placating tone, don’t be worrying yourself about Frank. He’s a hard-working enough lad. And when he gets a bit bigger, he’ll be able to do more. Just put your mind to rest about that. She rose from her chair now, and stood next to the fire, shielding him from Squire Wibner’s sight.

He had put his hands over his mouth to muffle his breathing, and had lain as still as a corpse, praying that his master would forget he was hiding in the shadows, praying that the man would just put on his cloak and leave. After a long, tense moment, his prayers were answered.

Master Wibner snatched his cloak off the peg and pulled it about his shoulders. Then he picked up his tricorn hat from the chair next to the door and jammed it on his head. I’ll be coming back here by 8:30, and Frank had better be on his way to Crosswood by then, he said, leaning toward his wife with a menacing scowl.

She backed up a step or two and said, Yes, Mister Wibner. I’ll see to it.

And then, in a whirl of black cape, Squire Wibner was gone, banging the kitchen door shut behind him.

Mistress Wibner let out a long sigh of breath and turned toward his corner. Frank, are you awake?

Yes, Mistress Wibner, he said. He scrambled up from his thin bed of straw and rubbed his eyes. The clock on the wall struck six. It was time for him to begin his day’s work. He looked with longing at the skillet, now empty, that sat on the hearth, and wondered what kind of scraps he would be given for breakfast this morning. Last night, he had consumed a moldy leftover heel of bread and a bowl of watery turnip soup. Now, he was ravenous.

Mistress Wibner followed his gaze. Then she picked up the skillet and said, Well, there’s a bit of bacon grease left here—much too good to throw out, and not enough to save. But I think I could spare an egg and another slice of bread to fry along with it. D’ye think that would be a good enough breakfast to get ye to Crosswood Farm this morning?

He could scarcely believe his luck. An egg—and unmoldy bread. Fried in hot, sizzling bacon grease. It was a special treat that he had hardly dared expect. He felt a lump in his throat at her small act of kindness. He wanted her to know how much he appreciated her offer of a decent meal, for he knew that if Master Wibner had been there, no such offer would have been forthcoming.

He looked into her eyes, turned his lips up in a smile, and said, Mistress Wibner, I think that would be a good enough breakfast to take me far beyond Crosswood Farm. He paused for a moment and then said, I thank you for your kindness.

Mistress Wibner coughed and blinked a few times. He thought—just for a fleeting moment—that he had seen the gleam of a tear at the corner of her eye. But, no. That must be in his imagination. Kindness from a Wibner? He hadn’t experienced much of that.

I’ll go outside and wash up, Mistress, he said. He crossed the room and opened the door that led into the passageway. It was even colder out here than it had been in the kitchen last night. His breath came out in steaming clouds as he walked down the flag-stoned passageway to the door that opened onto the back garden. He hurried to the iron pump that stood a few feet away from the house and began to force the pump handle up and down. After a few minutes, cold water began to flow, and he bent to put his face under the stream. It was near to freezing, and he rubbed his face hard, trying to scrub away the despair that had settled in his mind. To live a life like this wasn’t living. He had relatives who were much better off. Some of them lived in Oxford. He’d even been told that one of the Turls owned a public house there. Perhaps he should run away from the Wibners and go to Oxford and throw himself on the mercy of his distant kinsman.

Or he could go to London. There had been mention of a Turl in London whose name was graven on a wall in Westminster Abbey. He might find employment as a servant with one of the more affluent Turls in that grand capital city of all England. Another splash of cold water brought him back to his senses. This was all daydreaming. Silly, pointless daydreaming. His fate was here in this backwater village. His fate in life was to be an underling—an indentured servant, for God’s sake.

He heard Mistress Wibner’s voice calling to him. Come in for your breakfast, Frank, she said.

He took a rag from his pocket and wiped the icy water from his face. At least he would have a decent meal today. He might be condemned to a life of lowly servitude, but—for today, at least—he would have an egg and a piece of fried bread to start his miserable drudgery. He began to walk toward the house. And his breakfast.

Now, more than two hours later, the fried bread and egg were only a dim memory. He had done his regular morning chores, and had started off to Crosswood Farm a little after eight o’clock, bearing his heavy rope burden. Only two more miles to go. He looked ahead and saw the millpond, wisps of cold steaming off its surface as the first rays of the winter sun began to warm the countryside.

He dreaded crossing the millpond. Normally it wasn’t so daunting, but there was only a narrow plank walk bridging its surface. If the coil of rope on his shoulder shifted at all during his crossing, he might be thrown off balance and pitched into the icy water. He dreaded losing the rope, for it would surely prompt Master Wibner to give him a good thrashing, and he had already endured enough of those to know he wanted no more of them. He simply wouldn’t take any more whippings. He wasn’t a mangy cur, to be flogged like a worthless animal. He was nearly a man. He was Francis Turl, an honest Englishman, a citizen of the most powerful country on earth.

He took his first cautious step onto the narrow planking, balancing his weight and the weight of the rope, looking down at his feet, moving forward one step at a time.

Right foot, left foot.

Right foot, left foot.

He inched his way across, holding his breath, holding first one hand and then the other out to equalize his moving weight. He was nearly across, when a shadow fell across him. He stopped moving, lifted his eyes from the plank, looked up to see whose shadow it was.

There, on the bank of the millpond, stood Squire Wibner, looming like a giant black beetle above him. He remained frozen in place, wobbling just the littlest bit, trying to keep the heavy coil of rope from shifting, from slipping, from falling into the water.

Then Squire Wibner opened his mouth and growled, Go back! I want to cross!

Go back? After he had come nearly all the way across the pond? That wasn’t right—not at all right! Squire, I’m nearly across. Let me come the rest of the way, he said.

Go back, you worthless piece of dog dirt, Wibner roared. I mean to cross this pond—and I mean to cross it now!

This was too much indignity for any man to bear. His brain suddenly seemed to be swimming in a fury of racing blood, and his breath came in hard, pounding bursts. I shan’t go back, Master Wibner. Now, move aside so I can come ashore.

The big man’s face turned black with fury, and he took two steps onto the plank. Oh, but he was in for it now. Wibner’s eyes glared into his, and he felt Wibner’s foul breath hot on his face. He began to falter, nearly put his foot back a step, almost gave in to Wibner’s outrageous demand. Then, from somewhere deep inside him, the fires of resentment that had been kept banked for all these months of his slavery flared up into a blaze of furious anger. He would not move out of Wibner’s way. He would stand his ground, like a man.

Wibner took another step toward him, reached out a hand to push him back. But he would not be pushed. Instead, he shrugged the coil of rope off his shoulder. It fell into the pond with a mighty splash. Wibner’s eyes grew wide as he watched the valuable coil of strong, new rope disappear into the black waters.

This was his chance. He didn’t stop to consider the consequences of what he was about to do. He simply acted. Without a second thought, he reached out with both hands and gave Squire Wibner the hardest shove he could manage. He watched as the big man teetered back and forth on the plank walk, trying to regain balance. Then, as he felt his eyes widen so far he feared they would pop out of their sockets, he watched Wibner begin to fall. It was as if every action had been slowed to a snail’s gait, and he instinctively reached out a hand to catch his master and bring him back upright. Too late. With a howl of anger, and a splash that sprayed cold water for yards around, Squire Wibner plunged into the depths of the nearly frozen millpond.

He stood motionless for a fragment of a moment. Then, as Squire Wibner began to rise out of the water, snorting and growling like an enraged animal, he hurried across the remaining few feet of the board walk, gained the grassy bank, and took off as if the hounds of hell were barking at his heels.

What was he to do now? He had gone too far, and knew that neither he nor his family would ever be forgiven this treacherous act of an apprentice toward his master. He had brought a terrible trouble to his family, and didn’t know how it would ever be made right. He was only thirteen, and he had consigned himself and his father and mother and sisters and brothers to the wrath of Wibner for all time.

He did the only thing he could think of doing. He ran straight for home.

Chapter 2

BRUCE’S STORY

April 8, 1852

They stood at the ship’s rail, brisk wind whipping at their cheeks, sending Pa’s beard flying like a grizzled gray flag, and tearing at Ma’s bonnet strings. Plymouth Harbour was receding in the distance, and Francis breathed a sigh of relief. At last, he was beyond reach of the constable. He had heard that Squire Wibner was after him, trying to bring him back to his apprenticeship to fill out his term. But he had also heard that Wibner also wanted to extract his half-pound of flesh by having him serve a term in the jail as punishment for his act of aggression when he dumped his master into the millpond.

When he arrived at home just weeks before on that dreadful February morning, he was gasping for breath, heart pounding with fear and apprehension of what might be in store for him as a result of his misdeed. Mother had been astonished to see him limping into the kitchen, and had immediately sent little Amey out to the barn, where Pa was sharpening his plow blades in preparation for Spring planting.

Ma had just given him a slice of bread with a scrap of cheese, and he was gulping down a cupful of hot tea when his father burst into the kitchen, Amey trailing right behind him.

Francis, Pa said, what’s happened? What are you doing here?

He swallowed his tea and jumped up from his chair. Pa, he started, then began to stammer, I … I … I’ve done a terrible thing. His stomach began to churn and he feared he would lose the tea he had just downed.

Pa came over to him and placed a gnarled hand on his shoulder. What, Francis? What have you done?

He looked into Pa’s blue eyes, staring out at him from a weathered countenance that was a result of spending his adult life toiling in the fields. He felt sick, knowing that Pa would now have to repay Squire Wibner for the indenture money he had paid Pa—and also knowing that his violent act would likely bring the force of law into his family.

I’m sorry, Pa, he said. I pushed Squire Wibner into the millpond this morning. He felt all his strength drain away, and dropped into his chair with a thud. He dared a glance at Pa and saw Pa’s face crinkle as if he were about to burst out laughing. He could only repeat what he had just said, I’m very sorry.

Pa stared at him for a moment, then pulled out a chair and sat down at the table across from him. Son, Pa said, I know that Mister Wibner is a hard man. I knew it when I arranged your apprenticeship, but I thought that he might not be too hard a master, considering that he had paid good money for your services.

He watched Pa’s face carefully, looking for signs of forgiveness. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Ma hovering in the background, hands twisting her apron. Amey had sidled over to where he sat and placed her hand on his arm. He felt terrible. He had put his family in jeopardy, and for what? All because of his hot temper. Would he never learn to control it?

He lowered his head and mumbled, I’m sorry about the money, Pa. Tell me how I can make things right.

Pa leaned back in his chair, hands clasped loosely on the tabletop. He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them and looked over at Ma with a questioning look. She bit her lip, then gave a tiny smile and a slight nod of her head. Pa turned back to him and said, Francis, your mother and I have been talking about the future of our family for a while now. Things are hard for small farmers in England, and I know I’ll probably never do any better for my family in the years to come than I am doing right now.

I know, Pa! That’s why I am so sorry for what …

Don’t interrupt your father, Francis, Pa said, with a kindly smile. We’ve been making plans, and now we’ll just do it now instead of next year.

Do what, Pa?

We’re going to America.

We’re … what? Going to America? All of us? He was almost speechless at this revelation. He hadn’t even dared to dream of going to America. Such an action was beyond the realm of reality, especilly for a poor family like his own.

Ma walked over to stand behind Pa, hands on his shoulders. Yes, Francis, she said, all of us can go. We have the money.

But how? How could they have enough money to go to America? Maybe Pa could have saved enough for one or two passages—but the entire family? Counting Elizabeth’s husband, Edward, and the new baby, that would be … twelve people, unless they needn’t pay for a tiny babe.

Even so, that would leave eleven people. Ocean passages to America? For eleven people? It was impossible. He held his breath at the thought. Then, said, Pa, Ma … how could you pay the price?

When your grandfather died last year, he left me his property.

But, Pa, your brothers? Your sisters? Didn’t they have a share?

It’s the way of the law, Francis. I was the eldest of the lot, and so the property went to me. Pa leaned toward him and continued, I didn’t forget the others, though. I sold the farm and put some money aside for each of them. There’s enough left to get us to America.

Yes, there was just enough left to get the entire family to America. And here they stood, all lined up along the ship’s railing—even baby Sally, who was but three weeks old. His brothers and sisters and his brother-in-law, Edward, and his ma and pa and himself. Going to America. He could scarce contain the excitement that was ready to erupt from deep within himself. Going to America. Going to America. It was beyond a dream come true.

He glanced over at Pa, and Pa looked straight back at him and smiled. He felt a flood of emotion rising, and blinked his eyes hard to contain the tears of gratitude that threatened to overflow. He smiled back at Pa, and said, I’ll work hard, Pa. I’ll make you proud.

Pa nodded his head, then put his arm around Ma’s shoulders. It’s a grand new beginning for us, Maryann, he said. A grand new beginning.

The crossing took six weeks, and the ship encountered many storms and icebergs as they sailed across the Atlantic. Francis and his brothers joined Pa and the other men on board at the pumps, working in shifts during the worst of the weather to keep the frigid sea water from collecting in the hold of the ship and causing it to founder. It was miserable hard work, but they had to pitch in to keep the vessel—and its human cargo—afloat.

Many of the people were seasick. Baby Sally seemed not to be affected, although Elizabeth spent much of the voyage alternately nibbling bits of hardtack and throwing up into a bucket. It was a wonder that Elizabeth could nurse her baby at all. Sometimes, Ma would grate a bit of sugar into some water and soak a twisted rag in it and let Sally suck on it. That seemed to quiet the baby when she became fretful.

Day by day, the ship inched its way through the black waters, gliding smoothly and swiftly when the weather was fair, rising and falling like a hobbyhorse when the wind whipped the water into high, crashing waves. Day by day they came closer to America. And then, one day, they went up above deck and saw land in the distance. Canada. Their first stop on the journey to their ultimate destination.

The waters calmed as they sailed along the St. Lawrence River, the passengers lined up along the deck rails, watching the spring-green hillsides glide past them. It was nearly the end of May, and there were buds and blossoms on the trees, wild-flowers nodding their heads from the riverbanks, the sound of birdsong from the trees, the warmth of the sun shining down on this ship that had come so far. Shining down on its cargo of human beings who had come in search of a better life.

Frances went to his pa’s side, stood close so he could feel his pa’s strong arm against his own, reached over to take his pa’s hand. Pa turned and looked down at him.

Thank you, Pa, he said, feeling his throat constrict. Thank you for bringing me here. You won’t be sorry.

I know, Frank. I’ll never be sorry for this new start.

He was caught in a wave of gratitude that bubbled up inside him like a fountain of hope and exuberant joy. His new life was about to begin.

Chapter 3

BRUCE’S STORY

The ship docked in Montreal, and the Turl and Purchase families disembarked with assets totaling five dollars among them. The older boys went out and managed to find day work, while the family crowded together in temporary lodgings. Within two weeks, they had saved enough money to take a boat to Sandusky, Ohio. The next five years was devoted to working and accumulating enough money take them on their next step of the journey. They would push on westward, where the new land was beginning to offer rewards to hard workers.

By 1857, they had enough money to board a train and travel to Fulton County, in the State of Illinois, where hundreds and thousands of acres of land rolled gently across the surface of the vast prairie. Pa bought a farm, and the family set out to plant—and reap—their fortunes from the black virgin soil of America’s Midwest.

Pa augmented their farming income with butchering, and as the years passed, their fortunes increased. Edward Purchase bought a small plot of land and built a house for Elizabeth and Sally and their other babies. The other boys worked hard alongside Pa, and saved their modest wages until some of them were prepared to go out on their own, too.

Francis, with the memories of his terrible experience with Squire Wibner still graven on a part of his brain, worked especially hard. He was determined to have a place that belonged to him—a place where he could make his long-ago dreams of a warm bed and a full belly a reality. In 1859, at the age of twenty—a man at last—he married Martha Vance, a local girl, and started his own family.

Chapter 4

BRUCE’S STORY

August 11, 1863

Francis lay still in the early-morning darkness, staring at the ceiling, wondering how he could possibly tell her that he was going to war.

Martha was still sleeping beside him, breathing softly, worn out from her long days of back-breaking housework and tending to the children. He knew that as soon as he woke her, she would start another day of labor, setting a big bowl of bread dough to rise, slicing bacon, frying eggs, making breakfast to feed him and their children–little William, nearly four now, two-and-a-half-year old James, and year-old Albert—before starting her full day of chores.

He turned his head and looked at her, trying to make out her features. His heart wrenched at the thought of waking her. He knew what her waking-up would bring—a moment of transition from unconsciousness to awareness, and then remembrance and more grief. Remembrance of their baby, Lloyd, who had been born last month. Born and died within days. Lloyd, their fourth baby, dead and buried for three weeks already. Poor Martha, grieving for that lost little boy, and having to go on with her days of cooking over the wood stove and scrubbing clothes in the washtub on the back porch, and hoeing the beans and tomatoes and turnips that grew in the kitchen garden, and all the time grieving for their dead baby.

And now he was going to add to her troubles. He was going to go to war.

He’d thought hard about it since his visit into Farmington last Saturday. He had gone in to town with a wagon-load of fresh corn, picked before dawn and ready for sale at the market square. He saw many of his neighbors there, some with bushels of tomatoes or fresh peas or peck baskets filled with strawberries or blackberries, picked fresh from the brambles that edged the patches of woods that dotted the countryside.

His Saturday visits to Farmington were always profitable in money—and in news. And last Saturday had been no different. The talk was of the war, of course. The men would gather around the news sheets posted at the general store, reading about the latest battles, the casualty lists, the descriptions of heroic acts performed by local boys. And they would learn the names of the latest batch of Fulton County men to be caught in the draft. It was there that he saw William Tindal’s name.

He knew of the Tindal family, who lived in a big house on the edge of Canton, a few miles along the road. The Tindals were rich, the children spoiled. Mr. Tindal, owner of the local bank, spared no expense to make his sons and daughters happy. And now William Tindal was being called up to duty. He stood staring at the name printed on the news sheet. It was his chance to make a good deal of money, perhaps the only chance he would ever have in his lifetime to increase their fortune and secure the future of his family.

All he had to do was go to Mr. Tindal and volunteer to go into the Army in William’s place. It was done all the time. Rich people paid small fortunes to keep their cosseted sons far from the bloody battlefields of this War Between the States. He might never have another such opportunity. And he was convinced that he would come back safely to Martha and his children. He had survived his apprenticeship with Squire Wibner. He had survived the stormy trip across the Atlantic, the years of working and saving in Ohio, the added years of laboring on Pa’s farm, the scraping-together of a down payment for his own farm.

He wasn’t afraid of hard work. That wasn’t what made this opportunity so tempting. It was just that there was no other way he could make as much money—at one time—as he could make by going into the Army in Tindal’s place. He had made up his mind. He had talked to his brothers and offered them part of his windfall if they would keep his farm running while he was gone.

He knew he’d have to get up soon. He had a full day ahead of him—forking clover and hay into the animal stalls. He had to feed the plow horses. Milk the cows. Gather the eggs. Slop the pigs. Tell Martha he was going to war.

Was he crazy for the decision he had made? The Great Civil War had been raging for nearly a year now. His farm was important to the Union Army. He provided grain and meat to the Quartermaster who was headquartered in Canton, just a few miles away. He knew that, as long as he wanted to continue supplying the Army with what it needed, he could stay on the farm and plow and plant and harvest for the duration.

But that wouldn’t gain him much in wealth. And he needed dollars. Gold. Hard money. He was ambitious—wanted to give his family advantages.

The only thing left to do now was to tell Martha.

He reached over and shook her shoulder gently. Once, twice, a third time. She turned toward him and opened her eyes. What is it, Frank? Is it time to get up? And then he saw the remembrance of the lost baby pass across her pale face, saw the dark rings under her eyes, saw her brows draw together as she realized her heart was still broken. Could he add to her pain this dark morning?

He took a deep breath, and said, Martha, there’s something I must tell you.

Chapter 5

BRUCE’S STORY

Frank Turl returned from the Civil War with a head full of memories and a pocketful of money. He had been shipped out as a military guard on steamboats that plied the Mississippi, looking out for snipers. It was dangerous work, for Johnny Reb was always ready to stop a supply boat, put the crew overboard, and confiscate the cargo for the Confederate Army. But it was