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| 50th anniversary of the Dutch immigrants to Sheboygan County, WI |
[Because I wanted to understand my own heritage, I read all kinds of local history books when our little family moved to Iowa from Arizona. It was 1976, America's Bicentennial, and like many others I was following the Roots phenomenon, trying to locate the Kunte Kinte that was in me, a Dutch-American. The stories I found were a delight. I'd always wanted to write. I was embarking on a career of teaching in higher education. It was time to put the pen to paper, so I did. Thus begat a collection titled Sign of a Promise and Other Stories. "Independence" is one of those stories, now forty years old.
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Johannes clung to the rail with his blistered hands, but relaxed his body as if he were in a saddle, absorbing the lurches of the ship in his knees as he stood, dumbfounded, staring out at the wind-driven schooner scudding across the waves. The winds had subsided as the storm passed, and the ship had responded, it creaking muffled in relief. But the ocean had continued its frantic throbbing, as if the entire drama had been staged in a theater of measurable proportions. Then, suddenly, its labor peaking, the sea had borne this ghastly three-masted schooner, torn and battered, its ragged sails flapping from what masts still stood on her decks.
He watched, silent. The others stood beside him on the deck, quiet, eyes focused on the ship that rolled, dipped, and rose with the swells of the ocean. Jagged wooden frames rose statue-like from the deck, and the base of one thick mast jutted skyward like a broken spear, its shaft snapped by the storm. The schooner danced like a specter, so close now that they could hear its shrieking timbers; then it jigged aimlessly into the purple horizon until it disappeared as suddenly as it had come, its past--its crew, cargo, even, perhaps its emigrants—as mysterious as its destiny.
He was awed. Two ships had been so close here. . .nowhere, yet he knew nothing of the other, nor would he ever. He couldn’t help remembering Zeeland and Middleburg, the town, the house and shop. It was all so close, so warm, he knew everyone; the very streets seemed lie family now.
“But the new country!” people had said. "America!" When he heard them, the streets, the village, the house and shop, had all become so close, so confining, so colorless.
And what of the people who had once stood on those decks, he thought, people just like them, watching and waiting, their eyes straining constantly toward the fickle horizons? He kept looking west, following the trail of the ghostly schooner, even though it already had passed into the mist. What he'd seen, what they'd all seen, was all he would ever know, he told himself again. No names, no faces, no trunks, no lives, no souls. Had the storm flung them all into this endless rolling sea? Had their lives been simply swallowed ? His own ship surged beneath him, floating like some trifling pendant on the breast of the sea.
He watched, silent. The others stood beside him on the deck, quiet, eyes focused on the ship that rolled, dipped, and rose with the swells of the ocean. Jagged wooden frames rose statue-like from the deck, and the base of one thick mast jutted skyward like a broken spear, its shaft snapped by the storm. The schooner danced like a specter, so close now that they could hear its shrieking timbers; then it jigged aimlessly into the purple horizon until it disappeared as suddenly as it had come, its past--its crew, cargo, even, perhaps its emigrants—as mysterious as its destiny.
He was awed. Two ships had been so close here. . .nowhere, yet he knew nothing of the other, nor would he ever. He couldn’t help remembering Zeeland and Middleburg, the town, the house and shop. It was all so close, so warm, he knew everyone; the very streets seemed lie family now.
“But the new country!” people had said. "America!" When he heard them, the streets, the village, the house and shop, had all become so close, so confining, so colorless.
And what of the people who had once stood on those decks, he thought, people just like them, watching and waiting, their eyes straining constantly toward the fickle horizons? He kept looking west, following the trail of the ghostly schooner, even though it already had passed into the mist. What he'd seen, what they'd all seen, was all he would ever know, he told himself again. No names, no faces, no trunks, no lives, no souls. Had the storm flung them all into this endless rolling sea? Had their lives been simply swallowed ? His own ship surged beneath him, floating like some trifling pendant on the breast of the sea.
His steps were cautious but weak as he left the deck. He moved slowly down the stairway, his left arm braced against the wall to steady himself. German emigrants moved carefully throughout the lower quarters, speaking very little. Children cried-they never seemed to stop; at least the passing of the storm would quell the rage of sickness among the passengers. For several days the hold had been littered with bodies and trunks, the floor coated with vomit, the halls cluttered with anything that couldn't be secured. In Johannes' mind, listless bodies sprawled there yet, for he had seen it all and would always remember. No dominie could preach human depravity and dependence on God so clearly as he had seen it, had heard it, had smelled it, had even felt it. But the halls were clear tonight, and the storm had broken.
He stopped at his berth and felt the dampness in the curtains that he had specially hung about his quarters. He had tried hard to make it livable. The sailors had smiled when they saw him decorating, preparing the berth for Maria and his Geesje, but it was useless. His wife and daughter could appreciate nothing since their departure . First, there had been the nearly constant quarreling with the Germans, then the disregard and cynicism of the crew, and finally the storm.
He lifted the canvas. Maria lay motionless in the berth, her mouth gaping, her face sallow and drawn. Geesje lay at her breast in a gray pallor, cramped and weak, thin and tiny for her nearly fifteen months. She would still take nothing but her mother's milk. Johannes backed into the berth, swung his aching legs into the bed, leaned back slowly, and pulled the cover over the opening behind him. The berth was dark and damp. He reached over, almost as an afterthought, and felt for his daughter's pulse, then his wife's. He found them both alive, crossed his arms over his chest and tried to relax. From within the hold the ocean felt smooth finally, as he said a silent prayer.
*
The sun rose above a calm ocean. His family had slept well, their strength returning in a tide of repose, when they were awakened by shouts from the deck and a cannonade that boomed like thunder through the sleeping quarters. It was early, very early.
Johannes turned on his side, drew back the canvas, and looked down the narrow hallway. All down the line heads popped out in similar fashion, searching for some explanation of the thunderous noise.
"What is it?" someone gasped. More curious questions, a waking babble of voices.
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Tomorrow: A celebration.
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