Till the Turning of the Tide: Alaskan Waters Series Book Three

By AnnaLee Conti

Is she jumping from a city firetrap into a wilderness icebox?

Violet Channing, orphaned at a young age, is tossed about by life's turbulent waters when the aunt who raised her dies. She wants nothing more than to be a schoolteacher. Living in a Boston tenement in 1915, barely able to survive, she accep

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stratton Press
• Release date: Nov 30, 2022
• ISBN: 9798887642673

AnnaLee Conti

AnnaLee Conti is an author, teacher, and ordained minister of the Gospel. She resides in the Mid-Hudson Valley with her husband, Bob. Together, they have pastored churches in New York State for nearly forty years. Her experiences growing up in a missionary family in Alaska during the fifties and sixties provide inspiration for her writing. For twenty-five years, AnnaLee wrote many articles, short stories, and curriculum on assignment for Gospel Publishing House. She has also published two nonfiction books, Frontiers of Faith and Footsteps of Faith. Till the Turning of the Tide (previously published as Beside Still Waters) is the third book in her Alaskan Waters Trilogy of historical Christian novels based on true stories her missionary grandparents told of their early days in Alaska.

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What Readers Say About

Till the Turning of the Tide

I have read all the books in AnnaLee Conti’s Alaskan Waters Trilogy. They are great stories. Well written, engaging the reader, making me anxious to see what’s coming next. The way people and events are woven together was masterful. Thank you to the author for her writing skills, imagination, and Alaskan geography. The stories of the characters are gripping.

—Rev. Donald Richardson

Tampa, Florida

Former Secretary-Treasurer of the New York District of the Assemblies of God

Just finished reading the Alaskan Waters Trilogy by AnnaLee Conti. I loved it. After 38 years living in Alaska, I learned a lot of new things about Alaska. The story kept me reading longer and later. The characters were hardy and faced real life struggles. She wrote so well on Who we should remember as our strength in time of struggles.

—Ann Stone Aiken

Retired Pastor’s Wife, Eagle River, Alaska

Till the Turning of the Tide (formerly Beside Still Waters) was amazing! Loss might just be the hardest challenge in life we must overcome when we face it.

This is such an exceptional novel because it is richly filled with so much historical information from the gold miners who sought their own future in the Alaskan wilderness and how the railroad lines were laid at the cost of so many lives. I find myself desperately wanting to read the first two novels in this series!

—Kathleen (Kat) Smith

Reader in New York State

Nuggets of inspiration throughout Till the Turning of the Tide (formerly Beside Still Waters). I thoroughly enjoyed the book.

—Barbara Hampton

Pastor’s Wife, New York State

Till the Turning of the Tide (formerly, Beside Still Waters)

I loved watching the character grow with each turn.

—Melissa

I really enjoyed Till the Turning of the Tide (formerly, Beside Still Waters). I thought the writing was perfect. Just when I thought things were going right and Violet would get her happy ending, something would happen and shift the tides. I loved watching the character grow with each turn that came her way. Loved everything about this book.

—Harvey Burian

Grew up in Mayo, Yukon Territory

Retiree in Parksville, BC Canada

AnnaLee Conti’s Till the Turning of the Tide (formerly, Beside Still Waters) takes us to the Alaskan frontier in 1915, with all its beauty and all its danger. Much like the Yukon Territory she comes to love, Violet Channing is a heroine we embrace through her heartaches and her triumphs. And heartaches she has a plenty. Till the Turning of the Tide is at times honestly heart wrenching. The sheer amount of grief that Violet has to endure hangs heavy over the reader too—a testament to the writer’s ability to connect us to this main character. From the beginning, nothing at all turned out the way I predicted as I read this tender story. And yet . . . especially in light of the other books in this series . . . it all turned out exactly as it was supposed to. And as Violet begins to understand more clearly how God is near to the brokenhearted, how He leads us beside still waters, we too as readers are reminded of His gentle hand in our own lives.

Bottom Line: Till the Turning of the Tide reminds me in a lot of ways of Janette Oke’s Canadian West series, and Violet grew into a friend just like Oke’s Elizabeth did. I cheered for her. I cried for her. I rejoiced with her. (I came really close to praying for her too, LOL.) Reading Till the Turning of the Tide has also whet my appetite for the rest of the series, and I plan to go back and read them as I have time. (You can absolutely read this one as a stand-alone, but after I read this one and then read the blurbs for the first two books, I very much wanted to go back and see the whole series in context.)

—Carrie Schmidt

Goodreads Reviewer

Dedication

To my grandchildren—Sophia, Stephen, Sam, Spencer, and Robert (Sonny)—with the prayer that when you encounter troubled waters, you will find that with Christ in your vessel, you can smile at life’s storms.

Acknowledgments

To Lisandra, Jan, Sandi, Phyllis, Rekha, Andrea, Celeste, and Laurie, members of the East Fishkill Community Library Women’s Writing Group, to which I belong, who listened to my story chapter by chapter and offered so many helpful critiques—you are not only fellow writers, but I’m proud to call you my friends;

To my husband, Bob, who continues to encourage me and support my writing in many ways—thank you for assisting me with research and proofreading until I get rid of all the typos;

To my longtime Northern friend, Harvey Burian, who grew up in Mayo, Yukon Territory—thank you for reading my manuscript and giving me suggestions that keep my story true to the Yukon;

To my readers who wrote that they can’t wait to read the next book—thank you for the encouraging words that keep me writing when I feel like giving up;

To my publisher and the staff at Stratton Press—thank you for all you do to edit and format my manuscripts into beautiful books;

And, above all, I thank God for the life lessons through the years that inspire stories that are carriers of the truth about His love, forgiveness, mercy, and grace.

Those who go down to the sea in ships,

Who do business on great waters,

They see the works of the Lord,

And His wonders in the deep.

For He commands and raises the stormy wind,

Which lifts up the waves of the sea.

They mount up to the heavens,

They go down again to the depths;

Their soul melts because of trouble.

They reel to and fro and stagger like a drunken man,

And are at their wits’ end.

Then they cry out to the Lord in their trouble,

And He brings them out of their distresses.

He calms the storm, So that its waves are still.

Then they are glad because they are quiet;

He guides them to their desired haven.

Oh, that men would give thanks to the Lord for His goodness,

And for His wonderful works to the children of men!

Psalm 107:23-31, NKJV

Chapter 1

BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS, MARCH 1915

Aunt Mabel was dead.

Violet Channing unlocked the door to the three-room flat she’d shared with her aunt, her only living relative, now deceased. The cloying scent of her aunt’s floral perfume could not obscure the rancid odors of garbage and stale food in the stairwell or the medicinal smell of sickness that pervaded the apartment.

Violet clenched her fists. Aunt Mabel was too young to die!

Closing the door behind her, Violet surveyed the tiny living room. It was stuffed with the nicest things Aunt Mabel had been able to salvage when she lost her large, Victorian house in a wealthy neighborhood to the creditors after her husband died.

Slightly tattered lace curtains draped the lone window, the only source of ventilation—if it could be called that. The soot-ladened air from the tenements’ stark chimneys had permanently stained the curtains a dirty shade of brownish gray. Hand-crocheted doilies covered the head and armrests to protect the Victorian sofa she’d managed to save when her house was repossessed.

The apartment felt empty without Aunt Mabel’s dominating presence. She had tried so hard to make this cold-water flat look like her lost home. But the two of them couldn’t even afford enough coal to keep warm in winter or the doctor’s fees when she started coughing.

If only she’d stopped taking a lunch to work sooner to save up enough money for a doctor’s visit. Violet shuddered. Her aunt’s fits of coughing had worsened so quickly. She had refused to see a doctor until her sputum became tinged with blood. By then, it was too late.

Consumption, the doctor told Aunt Mabel. Keep warm and rest.

He took Violet aside. There’s nothing I can do for her. Her lungs are too far gone. She probably has only a few weeks.

Keep warm. Ha! Violet spat out, feeling again how her stomach had clenched at his words. She groaned. Her throat tightened, and she sank to her knees on the Persian carpet Aunt Mabel had brought with her to cover the bare, plank floor. The torrent she had held at bay throughout the funeral broke forth like a sudden, angry squall.

When she had no more tears to cry, Violet mopped her face with her handkerchief. The cold had seeped through her skirt. Suddenly aware that she was shivering, she arose.

Hugging her thread-bare wool coat closer over her long, black mourning suit, she sat in her aunt’s Boston rocker to figure out what to do. She no longer had the responsibility of Aunt Mabel’s welfare and was now free to choose what to do with her life—if only she could find the means to do it. The rent was paid until the end of the month, but the simple funeral had required all but a few remaining dollars. She needed money.

Violet reviewed her options. Before her uncle died, she had been studying to be a teacher. That’s what she really wanted to do. Because Uncle Chester had mortgaged the house to the hilt to finance his risky business ventures, she and Aunt Mabel were left destitute when he died.

At eighteen, Violet had had to give up her education to take a low- paying job as a seamstress in a garment factory to provide for the two of them. Six weeks ago, she’d had to quit that job to care for her dying aunt. The thought of reapplying there made her shudder—and not from the cold. That ramshackle wood building, full of dust and lint, was a tinderbox.

But how else could she support herself?

Thoroughly chilled now in spite of her coat, she crossed the tiny living area to the kitchenette to make tea. While she had no appetite, she knew she needed to eat something to keep up her strength. She checked the cupboard to see what was there. Not much—a nearly empty box of Quaker Oats, a box of Morton salt, a half-full jar of Grandma’s Molasses, and a partially used can of Crisco. Since her aunt’s death, Violet had had no time to go to the store.

She took down one of her aunt’s delicate china cups. She couldn’t sweeten her tea because she couldn’t afford sugar, but she could drink it in style.

Feeling a little warmer, she set out for the dry goods store to buy a few staples to make bread, a pot of beans, and oatmeal. At least she wouldn’t starve this week.

As she paid for her groceries, she glanced at the stack of Boston Globe newspapers sitting at the end of the counter. At first, she turned away, thinking she couldn’t afford one. At the last moment, she snatched one up. Maybe the Classifieds would list a job she could apply for.

Back in her flat, she put the groceries away, lit the coal cook stove, and mixed up a batch of bread. While it was rising, she rinsed the beans and covered them with water to soak overnight. That done, she sat at the table, covered with a red checkered oilcloth, and picked up the newspaper. Articles as to whether America should enter the war to end all wars filled the front page. Ignoring them, she turned to the Classifieds and scanned for a job. Nothing.

A waste of two cents. She started to close the paper when a small square in the corner caught her eye: WANTED: a young lady to be a companion and tutor to a sick child.

She read the smaller print and sat up straight in the ladder-back chair. A teaching job? Even without teaching credentials? Room and board provided? Could this be the answer?

Before she could grow fainthearted, she jumped up and grabbed her stationery, pen, and ink to write the application letter.

***

A week later, Violet received a cream-colored envelope from a local address. Curious, she slit it open and withdrew the folded note. Her pulse quickened as she read the request that she come for an interview on Saturday at one o’clock in the afternoon. The letter was signed, Mrs. George Henderson.

On Saturday, Violet dressed in her best outfit. Even though she was in mourning, she thought it best not to wear black—too dreary for a sick child. She slipped into her royal blue, button-up-the-front hobble dress with long, slim sleeves and several inset gores near the hem that facilitated walking. Around the fitted waist, she fastened a narrow belt. To soften the sleek lines, she added a full, white lace collar and pinned it with a brooch. One of her aunt’s feathered hats and her own threadbare wool coat were necessary for the cool day. Pointed, black buckle pumps peeked out below her ankle-length dress. Even though her clothes were slightly out of fashion, she hoped she looked presentable.

When Violet rang the doorbell of the three-story brick house in Cambridge, she expected to see a butler. Instead, a genteel matron greeted her. She was dressed in a beautiful, Edwardian-style, mauve silk gown trimmed with lace. Noting that the woman’s clothing, though elegant, was not in the newer, shorter style either, Violet relaxed.

You must be Miss Channing. The lady smiled and reached out to grasp Violet’s elbow and draw her inside. I’m Mrs. Henderson. She gestured toward the parlor. A tea service and a plate of cookies sat on the coffee table. Have a seat, dear. Let’s have some tea while we talk.

Yes, thank you. Violet’s mouth watered at the sight. She couldn’t remember when she’d last eaten something sweet.

Mrs. Henderson filled a china tea cup and handed it to her on a saucer. Sugar? Cream? Help yourself to the cookies.

Violet stirred sugar into her tea and savored a snickerdoodle, its top sprinkled with cinnamon. Heavenly!

Mrs. Henderson sat back with her cup and saucer in hand. I suppose you were expecting a younger person to interview you. She took a sip. Actually, it’s my son who needs a tutor for his ten-year-old daughter. He’s a widower.

Violet stilled her features. A widower? That could be awkward. He lives in Whitehorse, Yukon Territory, in Canada.

Violet’s eyes widened. The Klondike?

Yes. My son, George Jr., is an engineer for the White Pass & Yukon Route Railway. Now that the gold rush is over, the narrow-gauge railroad carries mostly freight and a few passengers between Skagway, Alaska, and Whitehorse.

Violet listened without interruption as Mrs. Henderson described the job.

George’s daughter contracted rheumatic fever, and it affected her heart. The fever is gone, but Jenny requires lots of bed rest, so she can’t attend school. Since George has to be away so much with his job, he needs someone to entertain and tutor her while keeping her quiet. The few women there either have jobs or children of their own. George asked me to find someone here who would be willing to go to Whitehorse to care for Jenny. With your year and a half of normal school, you sound like the perfect match to our needs.

In the Yukon Territory? Violet hoped her apprehension wasn’t showing. My Uncle Chester had a copy of a Robert Service book. He regaled my Aunt Mabel and me with his reading of ‘The Cremation of Sam McGee.’ That’s all I know about the Yukon—that it’s wild and frigid.

She thought of her shabby apartment. She had nothing to keep her here. But did she have the courage to leave all that was familiar to travel across a continent to that wild place? Would she be jumping from the firetrap of a city factory into a frozen wilderness icebox?

I know it’s a lot to take in. Mrs. Henderson sat quietly, waiting for an answer.

Violet swallowed her misgivings. Anything would be better than spending her life in that garment factory, wouldn’t it? She’d try to think of this as an adventure. I have no family ties to keep me here, but I . . . She felt embarrassed but decided she might as well be frank. I don’t have the money to get there.

Oh, my dear, I’m sorry I forgot to mention that George will send the tickets as soon as I give him the go-ahead.

Then . . . y-y-yes. Violet nodded. More resolutely, she added, I’ll go to the Yukon.

***

A month had passed since Violet’s interview with Mrs. Henderson. Desperate for money, Violet had gone back to her old job at the garment factory. Today, the establishment had earned the workers’ unofficial designation of it as a sweatshop. An unusual hot spell for early May smothered the city. Violet’s shirtwaist and long, black skirt had clung to her moist body since midmorning. Sweat trickled from her upswept hair, down her neck, and into her face as she bent over the treadle sewing machine, pumping her feet up and down until her legs ached.

At dusk, as she trudged back to her flat, the heat and humidity dragged at her footsteps. In Boston, she sweltered in the summer and froze in the winter. She groaned. Oh, God, how long?

Not that she expected an answer. It was just an expression to her. As a child, she had gone to church with her parents. After they died in a carriage accident when she was eleven and she had gone to live with her uncle and aunt, church was no longer required. She’d spent Sundays in various other pursuits with them. She didn’t miss it.

As usual, the tenement reeked of sweat and frying oil and stale cigarette smoke. Removing her wide-brimmed straw hat as she approached her flat, she noticed a packet propped against her door. Maybe the tickets she was waiting for?

Her spirits lifted as she snatched up the thick brown envelope, noticed the foreign stamps, and saw it was addressed to her. She unlocked her door and stepped inside. When she tore open the envelope, train tickets fell out. She flipped through them—Boston to Toronto to connect with the transcontinental Canadian railroad to Vancouver, British Columbia. She upended the envelope and found a steamship ticket to Skagway and another ticket for the White Pass & Yukon Route Railway, plus a map, a letter with a list of what she should bring, and a travel itinerary on White Pass & Yukon Route letterhead.

She sat at the table and read everything. Mr. Henderson’s letter, in bold, masculine script, instructed her to pack and leave as soon as possible because she was needed immediately. Summer in the Yukon is glorious, he wrote. You’ll have time to acclimate gradually to the winter.

In this heat, the frozen Yukon sounded like heaven. I don’t have to spend my life in that old factory! she squealed as she jumped up and danced a little jig. Things were definitely starting to look up.

Chapter 2

BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS, EARLY MAY 1915

The next morning when Violet awoke, a sense of trepidation flooded her. Was she really going to the Yukon? She splashed cold water on her face and trembled but not from the chill of the water. Could she actually do this?

A glance around the shabby apartment calmed her nerves. To get away from this, she could do almost anything. Besides, she had gone too far to back out now.

After a cup of hot, sugarless tea and a slice of bread spread with a dab of molasses, she dressed in her dark skirt and white shirtwaist and set out for the factory. She had much to do, but that list from Mr. Henderson would require all the money she could accumulate. At the end of this day, she’d get paid and tender her resignation.

When her shift was over, she tucked her final week’s pay into her skirt pocket and, with a sigh of relief, headed home. Tomorrow, she would start shopping.

As she unlocked her door, she noticed the corner of something white sticking out from under it. An embossed envelope addressed to her in elegant handwriting. No stamp. It must have been delivered by messenger. A whiff of perfume momentarily blocked out the rancid odors of the hallway.

Closing the door behind her, Violet quickly slid her finger under the flap and removed the monogrammed note. Dear Violet, it read. By now, you have probably received the tickets and instructions from my son. Would you please call on me at my home tomorrow (Saturday) at ten o’clock in the morning? It was signed, Mrs. George Henderson.

Violet groaned. She hoped they were not rescinding the job offer.

All night, she tossed and turned in the hot, airless room and felt like a wilted flower by morning. Washing up at the sink refreshed her somewhat. She sat in the ladder-back chair at the table but was unable to eat her usual, unappetizing breakfast. The cup of unsweetened tea was all she could manage.

Should she wear her mourning clothes? They were so heavy. Did anyone really care? She finally decided on her best cotton dress in a soft blue and her straw hat. Walking to the bus stop, she noted the overcast sky. The air was muggy, as though it might storm by evening. She hoped it would hold off until she finished her business today.

In Cambridge, Violet knocked on the door of the Henderson home. As before, Mrs. Henderson graciously invited her in. I’ve set up brunch on the back patio. She led the way. Sit, dear, and help yourself. Is there anything else you would like?

Oh no, this is wonderful! Violet’s mouth watered at the sight of the scrumptious display. She hadn’t seen such a feast since her uncle died. Mrs. Henderson wouldn’t feed her and then rescind the offer, would she? Sitting on a cushion in a wrought iron chair, she relaxed a bit.

Mrs. Henderson served her a generous slice of egg casserole and a scone before she took the matching chair opposite her. You’re probably curious to know why I invited you here today.

I did wonder. Violet hoped she didn’t sound too fearful.

I want to take you shopping to buy what you’ll need in the Yukon.

Violet let out the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. When I received your note, I was worried you’d changed your mind about hiring me.

Oh no, my dear! The longer I know you, the more certain I am that you are the answer to my prayers.

You don’t know what it means to me to get this job. Violet’s voice trembled. I was afraid I’d have to work in that old dress factory forever.

I’m sorry I worried you. That wasn’t my intent.

That’s okay. So many hard situations have come my way so rapidly, I guess I’ve begun to anticipate the worst.

Did George Jr. send you a list of what you’ll need?

Violet fumbled with her fork. He did, but you don’t have to buy anything for me. I got paid yesterday.

Mrs. Henderson waved away her protest. You’ll need that money for food and other expenses on the trip. Besides, it’s not charity. I want to do my part to help my granddaughter.

Violet felt her cheeks grow hot. She knew Mrs. Henderson was being tactful, but the truth was, Violet had been wondering how she’d be able to afford everything on that list. Well, when you put it that way, thank you. I appreciate the help. She took a sip of her tea and smiled. It was sweet. Tell me about your granddaughter.

Jenny’s mother died of pneumonia several years ago.

How sad! I know what it’s like to lose a parent. I lost both of mine when I was eleven. I went to live with my uncle and aunt. They’re both gone now too. In fact, my aunt died a little over a month ago.

I’m so sorry, dear. Mrs. Henderson reached out to pat Violet’s hand. You are certainly the right one to care for Jenny. Mrs. Henderson brushed a tear from her cheek. She misses her mother very much. You’ll know how to comfort her.

I hope so. Sometimes nothing helps. Violet’s voice dropped away, and her appetite fled at the thought of the sorrow that still threatened to overwhelm her at times. Violet set her nearly empty plate on the coffee table, knowing that later she’d regret not eating more.

Mrs. Henderson didn’t seem to notice but kept talking. Twice a week, George Jr.’s job takes him away overnight. Jenny used to stay with a friend—until she contracted rheumatic fever. We nearly lost her. Even now, she’s not strong enough to travel, or George would bring her east to live with me. I’d go there myself, but at my age, I can’t stand the extreme cold.

So, that’s why I’m needed.

Yes, dear. I hope that by next summer Jenny will be well enough to travel. Mrs. Henderson handed Violet the fruit bowl. Here. Help yourself.

Thank you. Violet selected a large, red strawberry. Savoring its juicy sweetness, she tried to remember when she’d last eaten one. It was too early for strawberries here. It must have been shipped in from warmer places. It soothed her dry throat. I’ll certainly do my best. What are Jenny’s interests?

She’s an inquisitive child. She loves to draw and read, but the supply of books, especially for older children, is limited there. Today, we’ll look for some you can take with you. Mrs. Henderson gestured toward the back door. I’ve already gathered up the books I have here to add to what we’ll buy today.

Violet glimpsed a few of the titles: several of the Elsie Dinsmore series and Anne of Green Gables. She’d enjoy reading those to Jenny.

From somewhere inside, a grandfather clock chimed the hour. Oh, my! Mrs. Henderson stood. We’d better get going.

She piled the dishes on a tray and headed inside. Violet picked up the bowl of fruit and followed her into the kitchen. While Mrs. Henderson put the leftovers away, Violet brought in the rest of the dishes. Before long, they were ready to leave.

We’ll take the subway downtown and hire a cab to bring us back with all of our purchases. Mrs. Henderson took Violet’s