We were under way when the ship’s fever took them all. Mam breathed her last on a Sunday. Because of the contagion, the fallen were laid to rest at sea, a harsh business that repeated itself day in and day out amongst the passengers. In a shroud of fog, she was shipped overboard like a sack of ballast, sinking into the gray-green hillocks of waves that undulated like the wind through a field of barley.

When the boys fell ill and succumbed, I was too broken inside to rage against the fates that took them. Da drifted in and out of fever dreams and at the last, he looked at me and called me by name, and said I was a treasure and may the world treat me with kindness. As the roaring ocean swallowed him up, I was not merely broken inside but utterly hollow, as if everything had been scooped out of me, leaving me an empty vessel.

Indeed there was a thought as I stood at the ship’s rail that I might follow them into the next world, the paradise promised in our catechism. A slide into the icy depths, a brief and brutal second baptism, followed by blessed oblivion.

In that moment, a vast nothingness offered more comfort and solace than existence alone in a strange new world. I cannot write of the sadness that tore into my very marrow, my own dear family forever gone. Never again will I feel the brush of Mam’s hand on my cheek, or hear Da whistling through his teeth as he sharpens his cutter for the day’s work. Never to hear the boys squabbling and laughing.

In the city of New York, a Good Samaritan guided me to the railroad station, and I used the tickets provided by the Red Branch. The journey across this vast and frightening land lasted for days. While on board, I had the good fortune to meet Miss Josie Mendoza, who has a boardinghouse in the city of San Francisco. As she cannot read or write well, she asked for help with her papers and with reading the news of the day.

People wonder why I, born in a dirt-floored bothy with nary a prayer of coming up in the world, came to know my reading and letters and fine drawing. That I owe to the Wentworth family. Their daughter Annabelle was sickly and craved my companionship, and they indulged her every whim. At Annabelle’s side I learned to read and write, to draw and play the piano. I was afforded every advantage—except, of course, the privileges of her family’s wealth.

Mam was suspicious of allowing me to learn matters above my station, but the squire’s lady assured her that it was the Lord’s work I was doing, befriending a sick girl who was desperate for companionship. I considered it a blessing from on high when Mam allowed it.