Anna's Crossing: An Amish Beginnings Novel by Suzanne Woods Fisher Page A

his eyes wide and dry, his breath scraping through his throat. He gave himself up for dead, sure he was doomed. He’d been seen, and you dared never be.
    “Well, now, what do we ’ave ’ere,” Squinty-Eye said. He spewed a thick glob of spit onto Felix’s bare toes. “Could be we need to give this little Peculiar a swimming lesson. Drop ’im overboard and see if ’e can outswim the sharks.”
    Felix whirled and broke into an all-out run, just ahead of Squinty-Eye’s slap. He scrambled down the deck, his feet moving faster than his thoughts. He ran awkwardly, with his coat flapping and his thin arms splayed out from his sides, not stopping until he reached the top of the companionway. He took the stairs two at a time, blowing past Catrina, who stood at the bottom with a chicken in her arms. She stared at him as he flew by. At least one eye did.
    He dove into the pallet where his mother sat, idly mending, and pulled the blanket over his head. He was sure he could hear Squinty-Eye’s mocking laughter through the cracks in the deck planks.

    July 2nd, 1737
    Anna’s stomach seized up like a fist. She had no idea that seasickness could lay a person so low, day after day. The entire lower deck, save the noisy Mennonite toddlers, were laid low, prostrate on bunks and floor pallets. But how could they have known? None of them had sailed before.
    She’d eaten little since the ship had left Rotterdam and now, tossed about the channel, her stomach had gone from queasy to rebellious to violently ill. Not eating made it worse. She knew that. She must eat.
    “I need air,” she said to no one in particular. She knelt by the cannon portal and leaned out as far as she could, grateful that Maria had inadvertently appointed them to a place with something like a window. Sea spray slapped her face and she gulped in the cold, fresh air. Her throat burned, but she was done retching for now.
    She hoped.
    “Anna.”
    Anna spun around to find Lizzie Mast standing in front of her, clutching her middle. Lizzie was a tiny slip of a girl, barely sixteen. She had married Peter Mast, also sixteen. “Is something wrong?”
    “Is this normal?” She took Anna’s hand in hers and held it over her abdomen.
    Anna nodded. “It’s a tightening. It’s normal. They’re practice for the real thing. You’ll feel these many times in the next few months.” She stepped back as though struck. “Lizzie, my grandmother said you told her the baby would be due in late autumn, yes?”
    Lizzie kept her eyes down. “Sometime in fall. An autumn baby.” She crossed the deck to return to her sleeping shelf and curled up like an overcooked shrimp.
    Anna’s mind was moving slow from the seasickness . . . but she started to count out the months. If Lizzie was due in late fall, then she shouldn’t be experiencing those tightenings for a while longer.
    She started across the deck to go question Lizzie, but the ship lurched and she went flying onto the cannon. Her knees sagged and she felt ill again—twisted stomach, spinning head, a brain that had lost its ability to string two thoughts together.

    July 3rd, 1737
    Four days at sea and Felix had yet to lay eyes on the captain. He’d heard his voice up above, yelling orders in what Anna said was a thick Scottish burr. Wouldn’t Anna’s grandfather love to hear the way he rolled his r ’s? He could mimic any accent, her grandfather.
    This morning, when Felix was hiding on the upper deck, he finally caught a glimpse of the captain and he wasn’t at all what Felix expected. He was a small man, with enormous muttonchop whiskers, dressed up in fancy clothes. He looked more like the Baron of Ixheim heading off to a party than a sea captain.
    But then Felix saw him pick up a speaking trumpet and gaze out over the seamen for a moment, saying nothing, letting his attitude silence them. It reminded Felix of the way his father would begin a Sunday sermon—in silence, until all eyes were focused and minds were