deeper water near the bend of the creek.
“Okay, Mister Catfish, it’s time for you to head for our supper table. You hear me?” John whispered.
It wasn’t long before his fish line bulged with catfish and red-bellied bream. Confident that he could more than place a meal on the table, John’s mind began to wander. He stuck his pole down into the soft creek mud and lay back on the bolder that had now become pleasantly warm and comfortable, especially welcomed on this cool spring afternoon. As he looked up through the massive tree limbs, he studied a clear blue sky with puffs of white clouds moving slowly as if to say, “Can you make out my face?” or “Who or what do you think I might be?” John picked out funny faces and weird looking animals. Then one cloud caught his attention. It looked like a beautiful young lady. It suddenly began to look like his own Rebecca Ann. Her hair was bouncing just like when they were running the horses at full gallop.
He had known Rebecca since they were children. Her father had come to Little Rock to open a general store when she was three years old, and he and Rebecca were always taking up for one another...kind of puppy love, he often thought. It seemed Rebecca, or Becca, as they called her, was just one of the boys. She loved to go fishing and hunting with John and his older brothers, and it was many a late afternoon that she helped the boys clean a mess of squirrels out behind the woodshed. She also could outrun and outride most of the boys in Little Rock.
As the years passed, she grew into the most beautiful girl in the community. Not only was she pretty with her silky reddish hair, emerald green eyes, long but muscular legs, and full bosom, but she was a lady in every way, at least every way John could imagine. Becca always loved competing with John and the other boys. Whether it was in the classroom or in a political debate after church, when the ladies and girls were supposed to be cleaning up the tables after lunch, Becca always found a way to get the best of her adversary. She felt women didn’t have to be just housewives. Becca would often say, “Us girls, one of these days is going to change this country. I might even be the Gov’nor of this great and glorious State of Miss’sippi.” But what John liked the most was the way she could say, “Mister John Wilson, you know one day I’m going to be Mrs. Rebecca Wilson, whether you like it or not.” John would always answer, “We’ll see young lady, we’ll see.”
As the clouds were finally swept from the sky, John recalled the stories of how his grandparents came to this United States and how his father and Uncle Jake settled in this wilderness and carved out a farm and a home.
LAND OF HOPE
Crewmen worked rapidly to strike the sails and prepare for docking at the port of Savannah. The area was swarming with people. Supplies were being moved from other ships to wagons ready to deliver their long awaited cargo. Breezes rushing across the Savannah River caused sails to flap vigorously and scared the seagulls that had encircled the ships seeking a handout. The sky was filled with screams of distress as they flew in a frenzied search for food. The latest arrival edged slowly to the dock where it was then secured and made safe for unloading. A gust of unanticipated wind caused passengers to grab their caps and bonnets or lose them forever to the muddy, swirling currents of the river. Near the side of the ship a young couple stood quietly, feeling a special joy at the realization that they had at last reached Savannah after long weeks at sea. But this joy was tinted with the uncertainty of what this new country would hold for them.
“Mary Ruth, fm not sure what our future is going to be here in America, but at least it’s a new beginning. They say there is a fresh kind of freedom of expression here which may even keep my spontaneous and unrestricted pen out of trouble,” Jonathan Wilson said, as he placed his arms around his wife and pulled her close to his side.
Mary stared out toward the wharf almost ignoring his attempt to make her feel secure and breathed the reply, “Look at all those people! They are moving like ants and Jonathan we don’t know anyone. Not anyone.”
Jonathan turned her around and, looking straight into her face, reassured her that they did have a contact waiting for them.
“Remember,” he said, “we are to get in touch with a Mister Albert Haskins who will help us.”
Suddenly, Mary’s thoughts were interrupted.
“All right, all you Scotch-Irish, get your belongings and get off this ship unless you want to sail with us to the African coast,” bellowed the Captain. “I guess you’ve probably had enough of this old crate.”
The crowd of passengers gathered their boxes and suitcases and briskly moved down the walkway leading to the pier.
The Wilsons soon found themselves on the cobble-stone street below the ship, surrounded by people disappearing in all directions.
“What do we do now, Jonathan? Where do we go?” Mary asked, as she held tightly to her husband’s hand.
With the clamor of talking, laughing, and carts and goods being moved from one area to another, Mary could hardly hear her husband shout, “Mary, let’s just wait until some of these people leave, and then we will begin our search for Mister Haskins.”
All of a sudden, above the ruckus came the most beautiful sound the Wilsons had ever heard, “Jonathan! Jonathan Wilson! If you’re here, raise your hat above your head!”
Jonathan immediately raised his hat and bellowed in reply, “Jonathan Wilson is here. We are here.”
Through the crowd came a large burly man with a most pleasant smile. “You Jonathan Wilson?”
“Yes indeed, and who might you be?”
“I’m Albert Haskins, and I’ve been waiting for you two. Let me help with your baggage. My wife is expecting you for dinner.”
“Mister Haskins, we are certainly glad to see you, and let me introduce my wife. This is Mrs. Mary Ruth Wilson,” Jonathan said proudly.
Haskins tipped his hat and in a polite manner stated, “Welcome to Savannah and to America. I hope this country is as good to you as it has been to me. Let’s get out of this crowd. I hate crowds. Shall we go?”
They soon reached his wagon and were on their way to the Haskins’ home on Liberty Street, just two blocks from the docks.
Mrs. Haskins was waiting at the door. “Welcome to our humble home. I know you must be completely famished from your long trip. Please come in.”
After dinner while the Haskins and Wilsons were relaxing and getting to know each other, Mister Haskins tipped his glass to Jonathan and almost like a toast said, “Jonathan, tell me about your problems in Ireland; and by the way, I’ve heard some good things about you. Talk straight, you’re in America now.”
Jonathan leaned back in his chair and recounted what had happened during the winter. As a promising young printer and writer, he had become too bold and aggressive. Several of his editorials displeased the local politicians and the Crown, and soon he was without a job or a future. His salvation came when one of his wealthy friends offered to lend him enough money to make the trip to America. The debt would be repaid as soon as Jonathan was financially able. In addition, a contact in America would be made for the Wilsons.
“Mister Haskins, you are going to help us, aren’t you? You can help us?” inquired Jonathan, as he once again reached for Mary’s hand.
“Yes, Jonathan, I think I can be of help if you think you can put up with my cantankerous ways. I run a little printing
