Being The True Chronicles of Jenny Everdine
We ran as far as the ocean would take us.
The first night was fear, black fear, as the fighting went on. He could not raise his fist, and the thought of bringing about more bloodshed sickened my heart, though I would do what I must.
The fighting broke at the end of a week, though I can't rightly remember the day; I know it was on a Sunday. I hadn't prayed since my Ma had passed. I had not even prayed for Amsterdam on the night before the Draft Riot.
But I prayed that morning to be free of this damned town, that The Lord would give me grace and forgive my sins.
And so his leg would heal, though he would always walk with a limp. Forced to hide until the world forgot about Bill The Butcher, I would work at my schemes, my small charades, until I had enough money to get us passage.
I did things to be forgiven. Things I have repented when in leisure.
San Francisco; how I believed in it. How I thought it might better our lives. In the end, we could not afford her, and, by the grace of God, instead took a passage up the coast, to the world above the Yankee territories.
He did not make much of a protest; the lust of his life had been satisfied. In the end we buried our dead across the bridge; making new graves with the old. He didn't know that I had seen him bury the knife; bury the past. Soon enough we were in the tossing belly of a ship.
Knee-to-knee, in a shared berth with so many others. Most were Irish, but I knew no one but Amsterdam, and so trusted no one else. In the dim swing of a lantern, I watched his face for an evening. He seemed strange, new to me, as though he was not the same rough boy I had drawn and fought in the Point.
"I heard them above deck. Said the storm will break, soon." Tiny words from other conversations slipped through over my ears as I walked, back to the pallet we bought.
When he spoke, it was in complete disconnect as to what was going on around us. "Twenty years, Jen. For twenty years, I had none other dream. What do I do now?"
He sounded as a man of forty does; he sounded double our ages. It frightened me out of my wits.
He watched me as I crawled close to him.
"How can ye go on if ye don't rightly know yer own true soul, Master Vallon?"
"For Christ's sake, Jenny, spare me formality." For the first time in my life, I saw him truly smile. "We never had it in the first."
"No." I laughed, rubbing the sweat from my brow.
"It will be beside the point soon enough." His hand finds my own, and clutches it. "We'll be findin' a church when we make landfall. And you, Jenny Everdeane, will be my wife."
How contrary he was; I pulled my hand away. "What a fine way to be proposin' to me!"
"Fain! T'was a proposal fit for a lady."
"And I ain't a lady. But sweeter words are given to the sow!"
He laughed; dear Mother, his blessed laugh. "Fine. A lady I will make ya." He closed his eyes for a moment, without making enough room for myself on the pallet. I shoved him gently, and he rolled over.
Suddenly, his eyes flew open. "Jen?"
"Yeh?"
"Can you read or write?"
I smiled. "Ye know I can read. Of course, I can write."
"On my first wage, we'll send a letter to yer da."
A chill came over me.
"My Da walks with the angels."
He was kind not to laugh at my words. "Sweet Jesus, Jen." Affection lies heavy in his touch. I did not know why he felt sorry for me. My father's death was pathetic, born of desperate starvation, compared to his own loss.
"Amsterdam, how little ye know of me."
"We have hours to go. Tell me."
"I was born in County Cork..." Faith, I had told no one but Bill.
The boat rocked, and I said everything I needed to, everything I wanted to.
He did not leave me in the morning.