Portholes to Life

Order this book online at www.trafford.com

or email orders@trafford.com

Most Trafford titles are also available at major online book retailers.

© Copyright 2011 Gene Dick.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

Printed in the United States of America.

ISBN: 978-1-4269-9251-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4269-9250-6 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4269-9249-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011916817

Trafford rev. 09/14/2011

missing image file www.trafford.com

North America & international

toll-free: 1 888 232 4444 (USA & Canada)

phone: 250 383 6864 fax: 812 355 4082

Contents

Chapter 1

The Meeting

Chapter 2

Jesse

Chapter 3

Go West!

Chapter 4

On the Trail

Chapter 5

The Trade

1869

Chapter 6

True Love

Chapter 7

Sunflowers

Chapter 8

The Last Pioneers

Chapter 9

The Sod House Frontier

Chapter 10

Love in a Drift

Chapter 11

A Grand Adventure

Chapter 12

Across the Plains

Chapter 13

A Vision of Home

Chapter 14

A Ship is Born

Chapter 15

A New Generation

Chapter 15

Growing Up

Chapter 17

The Set Up

Chapter 18

The Day of Infamy

Chapter 19

The Real Thing

Chapter 20

Terror Below Decks

Chapter 19

Capsized

Aftermath

For those men and women

who gave their lives on that day of infamy.

Chapter 1

The Meeting

The intercom buzzed. I checked the clock. On time. Punctual clients are always rewarded with immediate response. I pressed the button and announced to the receptionist that I was on my way.

I pulled on my pinstriped jacket, straightening the collar of my blouse. Grabbing a legal pad from the sideboard, I checked my reflection once in the mirror. While brown hair usually did not require much work, it should at least be smooth. I walked down the hallway toward the front office and stopped to knock on the closed conference room door.

As I pushed through the door, I had my first look at the room’s occupants. The calendar memo had indicated a husband and wife. They were an older couple, probably late seventies. She sat quietly to the side, nervously twisting her small, manicured fingers. He was tall, distinguished. His military bearing was apparent. Short, cropped, gray hair framed his long face. His presence commanded attention and respect. I could see he was a man used to being in solid control of every situation. As I entered the room, his intensive blue eyes followed me. I shut the door and approached the table. He was looking me over while I was sizing him up. He was strong and alert, yet his handshake was gentle as he rose to his full height, looked down on me, and took my outstretched hand in greeting.

You must be Gene, I said with an engaging smile, motioning him to sit again. Pleased to meet you. I took my place opposite him and put my pen, folder, and paper on the table.

I picked up the new client sheet that he had filled out for my records. He wrote with neat, precise handwriting, with every blank completed. He sat carefully and said, I am also pleased to meet you, as he smiled slowly. He sat up straight, laid his forearms on the table, and tented his fingers. Leaning forward slightly, he stared at me for another moment. I studied the sheet, keeping my eyes down so as not to challenge his gaze. I had learned that it is often best not to rush into an interview, which tends to make clients uncomfortable. The better approach was to wait patiently under scrutiny, keep an open smile, and not rush anything.

Apparently, I passed inspection, because Gene relaxed and settled back into his chair. His face broke into a wide smile and, with a twinkle in his eyes, he turned to the petite woman beside him.

And this is my wife, he stated firmly. We have come about a legal matter.

I realized I’d been holding my breath. I let it out slowly before responding. This man liked to get straight to the point, I thought. He preferred being direct. No doubt he kept his life neat and organized, everything had a place and everything was in its place. Gene’s wife was a case in point. Well-dressed in a wool suit and pearls, she sat quietly back in her chair with her deep brown eyes on him.

When he introduced us, she merely nodded at me shyly, glancing at me once, and then looking back at Gene. In her lap, she held a small shiny black purse in manicured nails, matching her shoes. Skipping my usual icebreakers, I moved right into the interview, explaining my own credentials briefly and then asking Gene to tell me what was on his mind. I listened quietly, taking notes and asking for clarification on a few points. After the interview, I opened a file and calendared the work to be done. In just a few weeks, the documents were completed and the file put away. I thought it was the end of a story, but in fact the story was just about to begin.

Some months later, Gene sought me out one blustery spring afternoon. Like the interview, the telephone call was short.

Hello. It’s Gene. I need an appointment. My wife died.

Over the next month, we met several times, signing papers and reorganizing Gene’s life. Everything was finished and put away again. On one sunny morning, Gene called again and asked for another appointment. He would not tell me what he had in mind except that he did not know who else to ask. It was a warm day when he came to my office. Light streamed through the slatted blinds, casting horizontal shadows across the conference table.

By this time, he had started using a walker, so he did not rise to meet me, but we shook hands firmly in greeting. As I sat down, he placed what looked like a photograph on the table turned upside down.

I want to tell you something, he said.

I nodded encouragement, gesturing with an open hand. I looked into his blue eyes, seeing a mystery behind them. His calm, sturdy face gave away nothing. His look was intent, capturing my eyes with his earnest stare. I nodded again.

I am a survivor, he said slowly, dropping each syllable as if tossing pennies one at a time into a well. The statement held a challenge. His eyes held that same twinkle I had seen in our first meeting. He folded his hands on the cool gray tabletop. They were strong hands with long, slender fingers. He sat ramrod straight in his chair. I sensed that just beneath the self-disciplined, composed surface was a contained excitement ready to burst forth if given the right response.

What would be my reply? I gazed at him for a moment. Indeed, I said slowly, still wondering where this conversation was going. You must have some fine stories to tell.

Yes, and I want to tell my story. Again, he went straight to the point. I admired Gene for his brevity. He might give out a line or two to catch my interest, but the next statement would be direct. The plan was on the table, the invitation tossed at my feet. We looked at each other silently for a few more moments.

Tell me your story, Gene, I said.

And so he began as I scratched notes on my yellow legal pad.

No one can visit the log cabin where I was born. It no longer exists on any map, not as land, in any case. It’s at the bottom of Lake Entiat in Washington State. Like my birthplace, my ancestral roots are lost in elusive shadows. Our family’s tales were preserved around the hearth fire in hand-me-down traditions, in stories told from parent to child, from grandparent to grandchild. One generation built onto the next as my ancestors worked their way across a continent. Moving on in search of the promised land, those who came most recently left barely a trace of their past. In the 1800s, hundreds of thousands of pioneers headed west to lands that sparkled with silver and gold, or so it was rumored in newspaper headlines. My ancestors were among them. It was the promise of a new way that drew them. They left behind lives crushed by the American Civil War, then decimated by the economic depression and years of drought that followed. The way was rough, the future unknown, but they were a sturdy lot with nothing to lose. They walked across a continent to get to the Promised Land. My grandparents took the northern route through the Rockies on the Oregon Trail first forged by Lewis and Clark. On the Pacific side, they arrived in the territory now known as Washington. They brought only what they could carry in wagons and what livestock they could drive and keep alive on that harsh journey. It wasn’t much, but it was more than nothing.

"Farmers and ranchers by trade, they homesteaded in the mountainous valleys of the Cascade Mountains. There, they raised families, who grew up and started their own families. Then those new generations again moved on in search of a promised land. Even though much has been lost to time, I do know one thing about my relatives who came before me. Each parent passed a particularly tough gene on to the next generation. Into our family’s DNA is written a powerful trait of courage and faith. It is this trait that makes each of us rises up like a great grizzly bear whenever faced with insurmountable odds.

We will persevere against circumstances that would likely defeat others. We will win or die trying. It is this quality more than any other that unites me with my ancestors. We are all survivors against the odds.

He became quiet, lost in time. The minute hand on the clock ticked audibly. My hand paused over the paper as I looked up at him, expectantly.

I asked, What were your odds, Gene?

Twenty-one inches, the size of a porthole he replied. Those who couldn’t make it, died.

Chapter 2

Jesse

Lost in misty stretches of time, a Civil War mother sat rocking before dying embers, their warmth still spreading across the fieldstone hearth to touch the handmade quilt wrapped around her. The cabin air was filled with the smokiness of the birch logs still popping and crackling now and then. The red glow of the fire reflected off the simple pottery lining the shelves, cast the homemade table and benches in long shadows, and lit her dirt-streaked face as she listened to the silence of the night. She heard the quiet breathing of her children, asleep behind the curtain that divided the sleeping quarter of the little log cabin.

Her mind wandered back, leading her up the mountain to the forest’s edge. Four months back, on a cold, blustery winter day, her little family had stood at Poppy’s grave. Bury me under the pine on the hill, he had whispered to her in his last breath. There was already one round carved stone on that hill. He was at rest now next to his beloved wife.

Before Jesse left to fight for the US Northern Army against the Southern secessionists, he had helped his wife and three children move back to her family’s farm. They had all agreed that the move would be best for the little family. With three children and one on the way, a woman alone was no match for the hardships of the frontier world.

Her aging parents had welcomed her help warmly, and she quickly fell into the farm chores as if she had never left. She was old enough now for Poppy to teach her about plantings and seasons, birthing lambs, and killing chickens. Tasks that would usually be shared had become hers alone after her parents had died. Now she could only wait and ponder the news from the war, lovingly finger the irregularly posted letters from Jesse, and pray that he would return to them soon. It was nearly March; time for the spring thaws to begin in the mountains. Water would soon be flowing boldly in the stream, filling Poppy’s irrigation ditches. Spring planting would follow. Could she do it alone?

Never strong in her own constitution, she knew the burden she shouldered was terribly heavy. Yet her children were so young that she could expect little help from them in the fields. It was enough that they did the household chores and kept the herb and vegetable garden. Martha Lucinda had become quite the little cook. Tonight’s stew had been quite tasty, and even the youngest had licked his bowl clean. She smiled, moved from the chair to her pallet, and dropped into exhausted sleep.

She knew before official word arrived. Working in the field one afternoon to turn the topsoil and prepare for the first seeding, a sudden pain gripped her heart so hard she cried out and fell to her knees, sinking into the soft, damp soil.

At that moment, she knew Jesse was never coming back. She lifted her face to the blue sky, felt the sun’s warmth, and shouted in anguish, Jesse! Jesse, don’t leave! Oh please, please, please, I pray, come back to us!

In answer, peaceful warmth settled around her and his last whispered words ran through her head again, Though we are separated, my love, my heart lies here with you. I am forever yours.

His fingers had entwined with hers for a moment, and when they drew apart, she had found in her palm the tiny gold heart locket that she still wore. Her hand went to her throat now. She opened the locket and squinted at their wedding picture. Tears flowed, streaking across her soil-covered face as it turned toward the cloudless sky.

Mother! echoed over the field, calling her to attention. She rose quickly and shielded her eyes to seek out the source of the call. Thirteen-year-old Jake was clambering over the fence. Had he seen her fall? What could be the excitement?

There is news from town, Ma! They announced it at school today! They let us go early! She strode toward him. What is it, Jake?

The Great War has ended. The South surrendered! They’re dancin’, Ma! In the streets! You must come and see!

She smiled and gathered her son into her arms. She could not let him see her pain. The surrender had come too late for them, she thought. There had been no letter in almost a month. That pain, and then the peace in the field. She knew, but it was too soon to tell her son.

Now Pa’ll be coming home, right, Ma?

She tousled his hair and hugged him close again.

Let’s go back to the house, Jake. The shadows are long. It’s too late to go to town. We’ll head in tomorrow early.

Celebrations, speeches, excited greetings from townsfolk: the town buzzed with anticipation. Left-behind wives were busy making preparations for the anticipated return of their husbands. A school holiday was declared. There would be a parade. She let the excitement swirl around