“’Tis just above us, at the front of the ship,” he said. “Ye’ll hang yer hammock between the cannons. The men have four-hour watches throughout the day and night, so they will be coming and going. Ye’ll report for duty each morning at six bells, and we’ll begin preparing the first meal of the day. The men get a gallon of beer a day, four pounds of beef a week, which they eat on Tuesdays and Saturdays, two pounds of salt pork...” He continued his litany of rations, but I could hardly keep up, wondering if I would need to know all this.
He began to work as he rambled on, instructing me to tote fresh water from a cistern to a barrel where we added several pounds of salt pork. It would have to soak for hours before he would boil it for the midday meal, which I was told was the largest meal of the day.
It was arduous work, and I began to sweat. The binding at my chest made it hard to take deep breaths, and it itched.
As the ship made its way out of the harbor and into the open water, it began to list slowly from side to side, making my head swim and my stomach turn.
I needed fresh air.
And, more importantly, I needed to relieve myself. But, for the first time since leaving the plantation, I realized the issue that this might be on a ship full of men.
A new sort of panic overcame me as I thought through the implications of this problem. Not only on a daily basis, but as a female. I would have monthly needs, as well.
Why hadn’t I considered this issue?
I needed to at least know where to relieve myself, and then perhaps I could make a plan from there.
When I told Harry what I needed, he said I could use the head. “’Tis at the bow of the ship. There’s a tow-rag hanging in the water if you need it. But be quick about it.”
I wasn’t sure what a tow-rag was, but I nodded nonetheless. I climbed the ladder to the main deck and looked left and right, trying to orient myself. The ship wasn’t nearly as big as the one I sailed on to reach France in 1927, but it was bigger than most I’d seen in the harbor at Charleston. Harry had told me there were three dozen crewmen aboard, and most of them looked like they were busy getting the ship underway.
I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, but there was a door at the front of the deck, so I opened it and found a room with hammocks hung between the cannons. This must be the forecastle where I would sleep later.
It was empty—though I couldn’t find anywhere that could be confused with the head.
There was another door on the opposite end of the room. I gingerly opened it, hoping no one else was using the toilet.
Thankfully, this area was empty, as well, and offered a little bit of privacy since it was behind the forecastle and at the front of the ship. There were holes cut into the wooden head for the purpose I sought and a long rope nearby that dangled in the water. It didn’t take long for me to realize what that was for, though the thought of using the same tow-rag as everyone else was disgusting.
What else hadn’t I considered? Surely, I would be shocked and appalled at each turn.
If they discovered I was a woman, I wouldn’t be safe in their company, and I would probably be abandoned at the closest port of call.
A dozen thoughts mocked me—but I wouldn’t let them deter me. I had to do this. I couldn’t go the rest of my life without talking to my mother. And if I hadn’t come, I would have been forced into a life of marital drudgery and unhappiness.
No. I had made the right decision, regardless of the unpleasantries and risks I would endure.
As long as they didn’t discover I was a woman, I could suffer almost anything.
4
JUNE 11, 1927
WASHINGTON, DC
I had never seen anything like the festivity that accompanied us from Paris to Washington, DC, after Lindbergh landed. Father had received a telegram from President Calvin Coolidge, inviting us to attend the welcome home celebration for Lindbergh in our nation’s capital. We extended our stay in Paris for a week and then set sail to Washington, instead of New York.
The following week, we had been on a ship making our way back to the States in 1927, while in 1727, I had been on a ship hugging the eastern shoreline of the southern colonies on our way to Florida and then on to the Bahamas. The two ships were vastly different in size, technology, speed, and comfort. In 1927, I was waited on by a maid and a steward. All three scrumptious meals were served in the stately dining room, and in between meals, I had the luxury to read, write letters, play shuffleboard, and listen to the endless notes Father was preparing for his radio sermons. In 1727, I was helping night and day in the ship’s galley cooking bland meals that I would serve to the captain, his officers, and then the rest of the crew. In between meals, I scrubbed the deck, cleaned out the goat pen, picked eggs, milked cows, and hauled supplies.
But now, Washington, DC, beckoned. We’d been here for almost a week. It was the first time I’d been to the capital, and it had amazed me from the moment we arrived. Excitement hummed among those who sat on the temporary stage under the Washington Monument at quarter to one that sunny afternoon. Red and white bunting, floral garlands, and American flags decorated the white pillars of the stage. I sat to Father’s left, while Mother sat to his right, and Irene was next to her. We had prominent positions near the front of the large stage to the right of the microphones. As the most popular preacher in America, it didn’t surprise me that Father would be included in the celebration. He represented the religious values of our nation, something the president would be keen to convey to the world.
Thousands of people stood under the shadow of the monument—so many, I couldn’t begin to guess the number. Maybe even a hundred thousand. Men’s bowler caps, white straw boaters, and fedoras bobbed up and down next to women’s colorful, wide-brimmed hats or tighter cloche caps.
Everyone who arrived on the stage stopped to greet Father. Genuine respect and admiration shined from their faces. Most knew him because of his passionate preaching, but some remembered his years as a playboy baseball star. It was hard to imagine Father living a loose and wild life as a ballplayer. After he’d found salvation, he’d given up his baseball career to attend seminary at Moody Bible College in Chicago. There, he met my mother, and for thirty-five years, they had built their lives upon their shared faith in the gospel.
“Reverend Baldwin,” a military man with a French accent said as he stopped in front of Father. “It’s a pleasure to meet you in person. My wife, Grace, and I had the honor of attending one of your tent revivals in Virginia last year.”
The gentleman was bedecked in US military whites with several pins and ribbons on his chest. The beautiful woman next to him, presumably, Grace, was in an elegant blue dress with a cloche cap covering most of her blond hair. At their side were two younggirls who looked to be somewhere between eleven and thirteen. The older one had blonde hair like their mother, but the younger girl’s hair was a deep red.
