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Authors: Kerry Newcomb
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sea.
âAgreed.â Morgan bowed gallantly and took her arm in his. âOn one condition. This someone special had better not be a wealthy nobleman or his arrogant young offspring in heat.â
Juliaâs expression changed. Morgan sensed he had touched a nerve and he wondered if she was going to back out. But her reaction lasted a moment, then vanished, though when she spoke, a note of hidden sorrow colored her tone of voice.
âDonât worry, itâs a woman,â she explained. âMy mother.â
A GNES M ARIE E MERSON
BORN A PRIL 11, 1774
DIED O CTOBER 5, 1813
F AITHFUL S ERVANT
OF THE L ORD
The marker was carved of native stone, the letters scratched in an irregular, though legible, style. The Christian cemetery was atop a hillside north of town. A wheel-rutted path led from the cluster of villas beyond the city and wound through the lush green countryside until it reached the top of the hill. A Portuguese priest had erected a statue of the crucified Christ near the wooden gate. The cemetery itself was surrounded by a wall of stones piled two and a half feet high. A path of crushed shells led from the gate to the mission church and school approximately fifty yards from the cemetery. A small wood-frame house for the missionaryâs use stood to the side of the school. In stark silence, still as the grave at Morganâs feet, the Cornishman kept a sympathetic vigil with the girl.
âI prayed to God not to take her,â Julia sighed. âI made a pact with God. Iâd give up everything if only she would live. It was a cough that just wouldnât leave. It grew worse and worse, and then one morning she died. Early ⦠before sunrise, I was sitting beside her. She reached out and touched my hand and asked me who I wasâthen she died.â
Morgan was no stranger to death; he had faced the grim reaper on several occasions. But this was different. He watched a rivulet of tears spill down Juliaâs cheek and envied the young womanâs courage. Captain Morgan Penmerry did not fear death. But he dreaded being so close to someone that he could not endure a final farewell. He lacked her courage to be brokenhearted.
âGodâ¦â was all he muttered.
âDonât you pray?â Julia asked.
âDid it do you any good?â Morgan replied with a question of his own.
Julia had no answer, for in truth the captain had touched upon a grievous doubt she was loath to share. The loss of her mother had shaken Juliaâs own faith. She reached into an apron pocket and drew forth a wooden and cloth doll her mother had made for her long ago, a lifetime it seemed. Flowers were not enough to leave on this last visit to the grave site. She looked around at the other graves and markersâsome with Portuguese names, some with Chinese, others with English namesâjoining the dead of different nations by a common faith and a common fate. They had all perished in a foreign land, far from home.
The missionaryâs daughter knelt by her motherâs headstone and placed the doll against it. On this last day she must leave something of herself, a part of the innocent past when everything was sure and good and bright. Maybe it would be again someday. Or, perhaps, sensing the shadows on the edge of the brightness was all a part of growing up. She rose and faced the man at her side.
âWhy did you want me to come along?â Morganâs question hung softly on the stillness.
Julia turned and started toward the gate. Morgan dutifully followed. When they reached the carriage, Julia Emerson suddenly spun about and wrapped her arms around Morganâs neck and kissed him full upon the lips in a bruising and passionate display that caught the captain totally off guard. By the time he managed to respond, she broke away and backed toward the wheel of the carriage. Her bonnet had come off and hung down her back. Her chest rose and fell with each breath.
âToday
âAgreed.â Morgan bowed gallantly and took her arm in his. âOn one condition. This someone special had better not be a wealthy nobleman or his arrogant young offspring in heat.â
Juliaâs expression changed. Morgan sensed he had touched a nerve and he wondered if she was going to back out. But her reaction lasted a moment, then vanished, though when she spoke, a note of hidden sorrow colored her tone of voice.
âDonât worry, itâs a woman,â she explained. âMy mother.â
A GNES M ARIE E MERSON
BORN A PRIL 11, 1774
DIED O CTOBER 5, 1813
F AITHFUL S ERVANT
OF THE L ORD
The marker was carved of native stone, the letters scratched in an irregular, though legible, style. The Christian cemetery was atop a hillside north of town. A wheel-rutted path led from the cluster of villas beyond the city and wound through the lush green countryside until it reached the top of the hill. A Portuguese priest had erected a statue of the crucified Christ near the wooden gate. The cemetery itself was surrounded by a wall of stones piled two and a half feet high. A path of crushed shells led from the gate to the mission church and school approximately fifty yards from the cemetery. A small wood-frame house for the missionaryâs use stood to the side of the school. In stark silence, still as the grave at Morganâs feet, the Cornishman kept a sympathetic vigil with the girl.
âI prayed to God not to take her,â Julia sighed. âI made a pact with God. Iâd give up everything if only she would live. It was a cough that just wouldnât leave. It grew worse and worse, and then one morning she died. Early ⦠before sunrise, I was sitting beside her. She reached out and touched my hand and asked me who I wasâthen she died.â
Morgan was no stranger to death; he had faced the grim reaper on several occasions. But this was different. He watched a rivulet of tears spill down Juliaâs cheek and envied the young womanâs courage. Captain Morgan Penmerry did not fear death. But he dreaded being so close to someone that he could not endure a final farewell. He lacked her courage to be brokenhearted.
âGodâ¦â was all he muttered.
âDonât you pray?â Julia asked.
âDid it do you any good?â Morgan replied with a question of his own.
Julia had no answer, for in truth the captain had touched upon a grievous doubt she was loath to share. The loss of her mother had shaken Juliaâs own faith. She reached into an apron pocket and drew forth a wooden and cloth doll her mother had made for her long ago, a lifetime it seemed. Flowers were not enough to leave on this last visit to the grave site. She looked around at the other graves and markersâsome with Portuguese names, some with Chinese, others with English namesâjoining the dead of different nations by a common faith and a common fate. They had all perished in a foreign land, far from home.
The missionaryâs daughter knelt by her motherâs headstone and placed the doll against it. On this last day she must leave something of herself, a part of the innocent past when everything was sure and good and bright. Maybe it would be again someday. Or, perhaps, sensing the shadows on the edge of the brightness was all a part of growing up. She rose and faced the man at her side.
âWhy did you want me to come along?â Morganâs question hung softly on the stillness.
Julia turned and started toward the gate. Morgan dutifully followed. When they reached the carriage, Julia Emerson suddenly spun about and wrapped her arms around Morganâs neck and kissed him full upon the lips in a bruising and passionate display that caught the captain totally off guard. By the time he managed to respond, she broke away and backed toward the wheel of the carriage. Her bonnet had come off and hung down her back. Her chest rose and fell with each breath.
âToday
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