Chapter One
Alice Riley pressed her back against the creaking wooden hull of the crowded ship, every lurch of the vessel sending a spray of cold Atlantic brine over the rail. The autumn wind howled through the tattered sails above. Around her huddled dozens of other passengers – gaunt Irish men and women indentured for the price of passage – all shivering and exhausted. By the weak lantern-light, Alice’s youthful face appeared ghost-pale, smudged with soot and salt. Only fifteen years old, she had already weathered trials that might break a grown woman. Yet in her wide green eyes burned a stubborn spark of hope.
“Hold on, Alice,” murmured Richard White, offering a calloused hand to steady her as the deck tilted again. Richard was just a few years older, with dark hair matted by weeks at sea and cheeks hollow from hunger. Still, he managed a reassuring smile. In the dim light, he looked as tired and determined as she felt. Over the miserable weeks since they’d left Ireland, he had become her anchor. What had begun as a chance friendship aboard the ship had deepened into something much stronger – a kinship born of shared hardship and whispered dreams beneath the creaking timbers at night.
Alice curled her fingers around Richard’s hand. His touch was warm despite the chill. “We must be close now,” she said softly, her voice hoarse. She tried to imagine the shoreline of Georgia, the colony that promised a new start. Stories had reached even the poor villages of Ireland – tantalizing tales of a New World teeming with opportunity. Alice was among those dreamers who dared hope for a brighter life in America, even if her path was fraught with uncertainty and held no promise of freedom or fortune. It was that promise which had carried her through the worst of the voyage. When rats gnawed at their meager sacks of biscuit, when the ship pitched violently in a gale and she retched for hours, Alice had whispered to herself that a better life waited across the ocean.
A better life – even if it meant selling years of her freedom. Seven years of service is a cheap price for a new world, she told herself whenever doubt gnawed.
At fifteen, orphaned and penniless, she had leapt at the chance to sign the indenture contract that bound her to a master in Georgia. She had nothing to lose; Ireland had offered only starvation and misery in the wake of poor harvests. Perhaps America held more.
Richard gently draped a threadbare wool cloak around her thin shoulders. It was the only scrap of comfort he had – they’d lost most of their belongings during a storm off the Azores when a rogue wave nearly swept two passengers overboard. For one terrifying hour, the ship had been at the mercy of the tempest. Alice remembered the deck tilting at a perilous angle as a mountainous wave crashed over the bow, sweeping two passengers screaming into the sea. Lightning split the iron-gray sky, striking the mainmast and showering the deck with sparks. Alice had slipped on the rain-slick boards and nearly gone overboard with the next lurch – but Richard seized her arm at the last instant, anchoring her to the ship’s rail. He held her fast, his own legs braced against the heaving deck, as above them the sails shredded in the howling wind. She could still recall how he had shouted encouragement over the roar, promising her they would survive the storm together. In its aftermath, they had emerged soaked, trembling, but alive – bound more tightly than ever by survival.
“I can smell land,” Richard said, sniffing the air. Through the overlay of brine and mildewed wood wafted a hint of something new – rich earth and pine resin. Alice inhaled sharply. It smelled like hope. She managed a smile and tightened her grip on Richard’s hand.
Just then a cry rang out from the foredeck. “Land ho!” came the call from the lookout. A ripple of excitement passed among the weary travelers. Those strong enough to stand staggered to their feet and made their way to the rail. Alice, leaning on Richard, peered ahead. In the gray pre-dawn light, a dark line lay low on the horizon – the New World.
Tears pricked Alice’s eyes. She whispered a prayer of thanks in Irish Gaelic, the language of her childhood prayers. “We made it,” she breathed. Richard slipped an arm around her shoulders in a brief, impulsive embrace. There was a fierce protectiveness in his eyes. “Aye, we made it. By God’s grace.”
As the coastline drew nearer, the extent of their ordeal became starkly visible. The other 38 Irish servants who had endured the voyage with them were as emaciated and bedraggled as she. Many leaned on each other or the rails, barely able to stand. Weeks of insufficient food had whittled them to skin and bone. A few had not survived at all – two small mounds wrapped in sailcloth rested toward the bow, awaiting a quick burial at sea. Alice crossed herself, remembering the old man who had died of fever and the young boy who succumbed to dysentery. It could have been any of us, she thought with a shudder. Indeed, by the time the ship limped into the Georgia waters, most aboard were on the brink of starvation.
Yet, starving or not, they had reached Georgia at last. The ship, its masts splintered and canvas patched, glided up a broad river flanked by marshy green wetlands. The rising sun painted the eastern sky a pale gold. In the distance, Alice glimpsed primitive wooden docks and a cluster of low timber structures – the settlement of Savannah, their destination. Beyond, the landscape was flat and lush with strange trees draped in gray moss.
On deck, an English officer barked orders and sailors rushed to their posts. The anchor splashed down, and with a grinding jolt the ship finally came to rest. A cheer, thin but sincere, rose from the passengers. Some wept openly – tears of relief and of sorrow for those who didn’t live to see this shore.
Alice held back, pressing a hand to her chest to steady her racing heart. She thought of the family she’d left behind – her parents long dead from illness, the younger siblings she’d had to bid goodbye in order to seek work abroad. I’ll send for you one day when I can, she had promised them silently as she boarded the ship in Cork. Now, setting foot in America, she silently renewed that vow. I will survive. I will make a life here, somehow.
The passengers were herded toward the gangplank. Alice stayed close to Richard as they shuffled forward. Her legs trembled with weakness when at last she set foot on solid ground; Richard had to catch her arm to keep her from stumbling. The planks of the dock felt strange after so long on a moving deck.
“Name and status?” a stern-faced official demanded as each person disembarked. When Alice’s turn came, she mustered her voice. “Alice Riley, indentured servant.” Her Irish accent turned the heads of a few Georgian bystanders on the dock. The official marked a ledger and waved her along with barely a glance. To him, she was just another piece of human cargo delivered to the colony – an indentured girl essentially sold as chattel for the price of her passage.
Richard gave his name after her – he called himself her husband to avoid awkward questions, and no one challenged it. In truth they were not formally wed, but in their hearts they felt bound as if by marriage. They had pledged themselves to each other during one desperate night in the ship’s hold, when the cries of the dying boy had driven them to cling together for comfort. No priest had officiated, but they had exchanged whispered promises. To survive, to find freedom, to start a life together – those vows were as sacred as any church sacrament to them.
Now, arm in arm, Alice and Richard stepped off the dock onto the soil of Savannah, Georgia. Immediately, the subtropical heat and humidity enveloped them like a heavy blanket. It was winter by the calendar, but here it felt closer to late spring. Alice felt sweat bead on her neck under her kerchief. The sky above was vividly blue, and unfamiliar insects droned in the tall grass by the riverside.
They were led with the others into the town square, where rows of simple wooden houses and tents were arrayed in a grid. Savannah was still a raw new settlement, only a year since its founding in 1733. Alice could see tree stumps and freshly turned earth at the town’s edges where the wilderness was slowly being pushed back. A few curious townsfolk gathered to watch the new arrivals, whispering behind their hands. Alice caught fragments of their comments: “Irish transports… convicts from the Old World…,” one man muttered. A woman in a homespun dress clutched her small child closer as Alice passed, as if fearing the ragged newcomers. Alice flushed with shame and anger at the prejudice in their eyes. She squared her thin shoulders and lifted her chin, refusing to be cowed. I am not a criminal, she wanted to shout. I am just poor. But she held her tongue.
Under a live oak tree in the center of the square, a tall gentleman in a neatly tailored coat stood waiting – a man with keen eyes and an air of authority. Whispers identified him as Mr. Thomas Causton, the chief magistrate of Savannah. At his side hovered an earnest younger man with an armful of papers – Mr. Thomas Christie, the town recorder. It was Christie who stepped forward to address the indentured servants.
“Welcome to Savannah,” he announced briskly. “General Oglethorpe sends his regards, though he is currently absent in England on the Trustees’ business.” The name Oglethorpe commanded a certain reverence. Alice knew he was the founder of this colony – the very man who had paid for the forty servants on this ship, at five pounds a head, to give them a chance here. For that, she felt a flicker of gratitude, even if it meant they were effectively bought like livestock. Oglethorpe was said to have a charitable vision. Perhaps he truly meant them to thrive.
Mr. Causton unrolled a list and began calling out names and assignments. It seemed each indentured servant was already designated to a colonist or a work detail. As names were read, individuals stepped forward to meet their new masters or overseers. Some were allocated to town magistrates or to widows with farms, and a few were assigned to public projects like the gardens and the new sawmill. With each name, Alice’s anxiety grew. Who would claim her and Richard? Would they be separated? She clenched Richard’s hand tightly as the list went on.
Finally: “Alice Riley and Richard White,” Christie called. Alice’s heart hammered. A figure separated from the small knot of townsfolk – a man in rumpled clothes, moving with an uneven gait. As he came closer, Alice saw he was of middle years, with a ruddy face stubbled in gray and a shock of unkempt hair. He leaned on a walking stick. His expression was hard to read – a slight twist of the lips that might have been a sneer or a grimace of pain.
“This is William Wise,” Mr. Causton said flatly, as if that name alone explained their fate. “The two of you are assigned as indentured servants to Mr. Wise, to work at the cattle farm on Hutchinson’s Island.”
Alice swallowed and dared a glance at Richard. Hutchinson’s Island? She had noticed a large green island across the river when they docked – an expanse of marsh and dense woods separated from town by the water. Working there would mean being away from the relative safety of the settlement, effectively at the mercy of this man, Wise. Something about William Wise’s eyes – a sharp, roaming glint – made her uneasy.
Wise looked them up and down. Alice resisted the urge to shrink under his scrutiny. He sniffed. “Bit scrawny, aren’t you? I asked Oglethorpe for strong backs and I get…” His gaze lingered on Alice a moment too long, traveling from her dirt-streaked face down her slim form. She felt heat rising in her cheeks and fought the impulse to step behind Richard.
Richard instinctively moved a half-step forward, subtly placing himself between Alice and their new master. “We’re hard workers, sir,” Richard said evenly. “We survived the voyage. We’ll do whatever is needed.”
Wise grunted. Up close, Alice noticed a sheen of sweat on the man’s sallow forehead despite the mild day. His hand trembled slightly on the top of his walking stick. He did not appear to be in good health. Perhaps that was why he needed servants – his own strength was failing.
“See that you do,” Wise finally replied. His tone was curt, but another fleeting look at Alice accompanied the words. It was a look that made her skin crawl – appraising and without kindness.
Without further ceremony, Causton dismissed them. “Mr. Wise, you may take charge of your servants. Their indentures will run for the standard term. You are responsible for their upkeep and behavior. Ensure they know the colony’s laws.”
Wise waved a hand irritably. “Yes, yes.” He beckoned to Alice and Richard. “Come along then. The boat’s waiting.”
Alice felt a flare of panic. They were to leave the town immediately, it seemed. She cast one last gaze around the square – the oak tree, the scattering of people already losing interest in the scene, the simple houses that to her represented civilization and safety. Her eyes caught those of Mr. Christie, who offered a brief sympathetic nod. But there was nothing he or anyone could do.
With reluctance, Alice followed Wise and Richard through the dusty streets back toward the riverfront. As they passed a pair of townsmen, she caught snippets of a muttered conversation that made her blood run cold.
“…That’s him, William Wise – the scoundrel who tried to pass off a harlot as his daughter on the voyage over…,” one man was saying under his breath.
“Aye,” replied the other in disgust. “Oglethorpe had to send him across the river, away from decent folk, to keep the peace.”
The two locals eyed Wise with open contempt. Alice’s unease deepened at their words. Richard heard it too; she felt his hand tense on her arm.
At the small dock, a burly enslaved African man – evidently Wise’s boatman – waited beside a wooden skiff. He helped Wise settle onto a bench in the boat. “Get in,” Wise barked at the young couple.
Alice stepped carefully into the skiff, sitting where the boatman gestured. Richard climbed in after. The boat rocked as the oarsman pushed off and began to row across the swift current of the Savannah River toward Hutchinson’s Island.
She looked back at the town of Savannah receding behind them. Already she felt a pang of longing – they had been in town for only an hour, yet she missed it, as it was at least filled with people and light. Ahead lay the island, dark with tangled forest save for a clearing at its northern end.
Richard reached over and squeezed her hand. “We’ll be alright,” he whispered, trying to sound confident. Alice managed a faint smile in return, but said nothing. She watched the dark water of the river swirl around the oars. A chill clung to her despite the humid air.
From the stern of the skiff, the boatman cast a pitying glance at Alice and Richard. In a low voice, he murmured, “Mas’ Wise, he not a good man. Make trouble with many folk.” His accent was heavy, but the warning was clear. Before he could say more, Wise snarled, “Quiet, you,” and the boatman instantly fell silent.
Alice’s heart pounded. She silently mouthed a fragment of an old Gaelic prayer for protection. Her bad feeling about William Wise had only grown. The only thing certain was that her fate and Richard’s now lay entwined with his, on that lonely island across the water.