The Fledgling Read online

  The Fledgling

  By

  Jeanie P. Johnson

  OTHER BOOKS BY THIS AUTHOR

  Native American books

  Across The River

  Apache Pride

  Beyond The Heart

  Broken Feather

  Cherokee Courage

  Dream Catcher Woman

  Emboldened Heart

  Gentle Savage

  Gedi Puniku (Cat Eyes)

  Kiowa White Moon

  Kiowa Wind Walker

  Little Flower

  No Price Too High

  Paiute Passion

  Papago Promise

  Plenty Proud

  Sagebrush Serenade

  Savage Land

  Shadow Hawk

  Shoshone Surrender

  Son of Silver Fox (sequel to Gentle Savage)

  White Hawk and the Star Maiden

  Within The Heart (Sequel to Beyond the Heart)

  Historical or Regency/Victorian Romance Books

  A Bride for Windridge Hall

  Defiant Heart

  Highroad

  Indentured

  The Deception

  Wild Irish Rose

  Winslow’s Web

  Contemporary Western Romance Books

  Georgie Girl

  Grasping at Straws

  Mattie

  Passion’s Pride

  Single-handed Heart

  Historical Western Romance Books

  Elusive Innocents

  20th Century Historical Romance Books

  Italy Vacation

  Moments of Misconception

  Radcliff Hall

  Reluctant Flapper

  Samuel’s Mansion

  Taxi Dancer

  Action and Adventure Mystery Romance Books

  Ghost Island

  Holding On

  Payback

  Futuristic Action and Adventure Romance Books

  Chosen

  Pony Up

  Project Rat Pack

  Surviving

  The Division

  The Dominion

  The Mechanism

  Time travel/Reincarnation Romance Books

  Egyptian Key

  Letters From The Grave

  Seekers

  Seekers Two

  Seekers Three

  The Locked Room

  The Vortex-book One

  Non Fiction Books

  A Collection of short stories (some true)

  Chief Washakie (short history of Shoshoni Chief)

  Dream Symbols Made Easy (how to analyze dreams)

  Peaches (inspirational)

  The Prune Pickers (my childhood)

  Whimper (true story of racial conflicts)

  Children’s Picture Book

  Dandy The Horse

  Monster In My Closet

  The Hen Mrs. Cackle

  This is a work of fiction. All characters in this book are out of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to anyone living or dead is unintentional.

  Story by

  Jeanie P. Johnson

  Copyright 2019

  All Rights Reserved

  CHAPTER ONE

  The rain dripped from the eaves, and I watched it as little miniature rivers made their way down the glass. It had been raining for several days now, and I wondered if it was God’s way of trying to wash away the sickness?

  The sickness had come, brought in by rats, so they say, or maybe something else. It had been rats before, so it stood to reason that rats would bring the sickness again. No one could ever get rid of the rats, it seemed.

  The rain tried, without accomplishment, to wash away the centuries of soot from the buildings, along Park Square, with its constant steady drizzle. It had never succeeded in the past to do it, and it was not doing it now. All it really accomplished was to create rivers of black sludge along the cobblestone street, washing through slop, and vomit, that had been tossed from the windows, as the residents suffered inside. Going out on the streets was not safe. Now the rain had made it worse.

  A pitiful dog, tried shaking off the water that clung to its fur, before crossing the street and sniffing at the leavings along the gutters. It was skinny and sickly looking, and I wondered if it too had what everyone else seemed to be getting?

  The servants had left days ago, to be with their families. They feared getting the sickness right after the scullery maid had contracted it. She died. Many people died. Not like the black plague, that had been spoken of and feared, every time someone managed to sneeze, but some worried it would turn into something like that.

  They called it the Spanish flue. I suppose they wanted to blame it on someone else, and claim that the Spanish had brought it here. Maybe it did come from Spain. How could they know? Who cared where it came from? I just wanted it to leave.

  The grey skies let little light through the windows, and the gloom settled over the house like a heavy hand, threatening anyone who braved to come near. No one ever came, once the doctor left. He was too busy tending to others. We paid him well, but that was not the problem. Everyone seemed to need his services, so he merely gave us instructions on how to deal with the sickness. All his instructions hadn’t seemed to change anything. My father had already died, and they had reluctantly carted his body away yesterday. It was hard to find anyone who would come into a house of sickness, let alone touch one of the bodies that had died from it.

  I had gone out in the rain to fetch someone, and I had to pay them more than ordinary circumstances would have dictated. Everything that had touched him would be burned, including the clothes the person who took him wore. The fee had to cover the cost of new clothes, the men said.

  The rain labored at putting out any fires used for this purpose, causing more black sooty smoke to collect on the buildings, and filling the air with stench. There would be no proper funeral, in spite of our ability to pay. The bodies had to be buried immediately, so the sickness could not spread even more.

  I could hear the weak voice of my mother calling. She and I were the only ones in the house, now. I had nursed her and my father as best I could, but all my efforts seemed nil. Only I was strong. I had not gotten the sickness. God had seen fit to pass over me, while he condemned me to watching others die. I was only fourteen years old.

  “Flori.” It was my mother’s pet name for me. Flori was short for Floriana. Her voice was faint. I turned from the window, and hastened to her bedside. She had been moved downstairs, so I would not have to cart anything up the stairs to care for her. I had managed to drag a couple of the servant cots to the parlor, where she and my father had been put.

  The empty cot next to her, spoke of my father’s absence…his complete absence. Andrew Cunningham, no longer existed, and his wife Patricia, was marked to follow him. I had held out hope, that she would be spared, but I had watched him die, and now my mother showed the same last day symptoms, he had experienced before his head lolled on the pillow, and his eyes stared at the ceiling. The sheets and bedding had been burned. I burned them myself, in the fireplace, since it had been raining outside.

  I changed and washed my clothes every day. I washed my hands every minute. I knew that the sickness spread from one person to the next, when they were touched, or cared for. It stood to reason, whatever caused the sickness, had to be washed away, if it couldn’t be burned away. I wrung my shaking hands, as I entered the parlor, where my mother lay dying. My hands shook, because once she was gone, I didn’t know what I was supposed to do.

  “Flori, dear,” my mother whispered. I could tell it took effort even for her to speak. Her voice was so weak I could barely hear her, but I dare not put my head any closer, for fear of catching what she was dying of.

  “Do you need somet
hing?” I cried in dismay, from the tortured look in her eyes.

  “No, sweetheart, I am not long for this world. I should join your father soon, but you must be cared for.” The words were interrupted by a cough racking her chest, and she seemed to strain for breath.

  “I will be fine,” I lied, grasping her hand, in spite of the contamination I may encounter.

  “You must go to your Godfather’s house,” she mumbled.

  I knew who my Godfather was, but I had only met him when I was very little, before we moved to the city. Aldridge Bogart lived at Heather Ridge House, but I had never been there before. It was in the country. I had not heard a good word spoken of him by my father, though, and the thought of going there frightened me.

  The voice of my mother brought me back from my rebellious reaction to the suggestion of having to go to my Godfather’s house. If he was so horrible, as my father claimed, why would they make him my Godfather, I was wondering? “There is a pouch of gold in your father’s dresser drawer. You can use that to pay someone to take you.”

  “Let me hire a governess, and stay here,” I begged.

  “The city is not safe. Too many people are dying here. No governess would come anyway. You need to remove yourself to the country.” My mother’s breath came in rasps, as the effort to talk took its toll.

  “I don’t even know my Godfather,” I argued.

  “He knows you. He loved me once. He agreed to be your Godfather, and care for you, if anything happened to us. Now it is time.”

  “You will get better!” I insisted.

  Mother shook her head. She knew she was dying. I knew she was dying. I did not want to admit it.

  “Go, while there is still a chance before they quarantine the city. There is no use staying here to care for me. I will die anyway.”

  “But you may suffer, if I leave,” I begged, tears streaming down my cheeks, like the water trickling down the window panes.

  “Your care will not alleviate my suffering,” she murmured. “Save yourself before you are lying in the cot beside me.” I stood there, stubbornly, not wanting to obey her. “Go,” she barely whispered. “It is my dying wish,” she insisted.

  Slowly, I turned. She had closed her eyes. I wasn’t sure if she was dead, or had just needed to rest. I didn’t want to find out. I wanted to remember her as alive, just in case she was able to pull through the sickness. I went to the kitchen and got a pitcher of water, and set it by her cot on the table, where the lamp and the glass sat. I didn’t think she had the energy to pour any water, though, but just in case she got stronger, I told myself. She had to get stronger, and then she would send for me. It was a prayer that had little hope supporting it, but maybe by some miracle, God would hear my prayer. Miracles seemed to be scarce for me, though.

  The money was where my mother told me it would be. I packed a few clothes in a satchel. I didn’t even know where Heather Ridge House stood. I just knew it was in the country on the coast. Someone must know, though, I told myself. How much of the money was I to offer someone to take me there, I wondered? My mother hadn’t gone into any detail, but her condition had prevented it, I suppose. It was still raining outside. Where could I hire a hack, I wondered?

  The door closed with an eerie echo, behind me, as I stepped out onto the generous front porch. Our house was on the upper side of the city, where the wealthy people lived. I had not thought about how wealthy my parents were. Only that we were comfortable, and had servants. My clothes were nice, and I had a tutor that gave me my lessons. He stopped coming though, when my parents got sick. I knew nothing about finances, or where money came from. I only knew that somehow my father had the money he needed, and mother never questioned it continuing to be there. I felt the bag of coins in my pocket, and wondered if that was all the money that was left? Where did people keep their money? Father always seemed to have some handy, when he needed it.

  I stood there for a long time, watching the rain drip from the roof, until I was starting to shiver, and standing there was not going to help me. I pulled the hood of my brown cloak over my head, and timidly stepped into the downpour. The rain was coming down faster now, and the wind grabbed at my cloak, so I was forced to hold it at my throat with one hand, while clutching my satchel in my other.

  The streets were empty. People stayed in their houses, hoping to bar their homes from letting in the sickness. Less coming and goings prevented its spread, they were told. This made it difficult to find a hack on the streets. I didn’t know where the holding place was, where for hacks were kept. Did they have such a thing? Father always had the groom take us in our own carriage, whenever we needed to travel. I wondered who was taking care of the horses, after everyone left. Maybe the groom remained.

  I ran to the back of the house, but the horses were gone. The groom must have taken them with him, when he left, to care for them until he could return again. I felt alone, and an outcast. I felt like that dog I had seen earlier, not knowing where its next meal would come from.

  However, I had enough foresight to pack some food to bring with me, since I did not know how far away Heather Ridge House was, and I carried it in a canvas bag slung over my shoulder. I hoped the canvas would not let in the rain, and spoil my food.

  My mind was filled with everything, except for what I had left behind. I did not want to think about what I had left behind. I wondered if I would ever see our home again. I had a sinking feeling I probably wouldn’t. If that bag of gold was the last of my father’s money, I couldn’t remain in the house, even if I wanted to, and it was safe. That was probably why my mother was sending me to Aldridge Bogart. She knew I would not be able to support myself, once my father and she were dead. If there was more money, she would have told me, I reasoned.

  No hack had passed me, and I could see no hack in the distance. My cloak was saturated, but the rain slid off of it, so my dress beneath it had remained dry. I put the sack of food under my cloak as well, to make sure it remained dry too.

  I heard a rumbling behind me, and released my breath. It wasn’t a hack, though. It was a wagon. An old man with a beard was driving it. I decided to flag him down, to see if he would give me a ride.

  “What are you doing out all alone?” he asked me, eyeing me with a certain amount of trepidation in his stare.

  “I need to go to the coast,” is all I said.

  “I’m not going to the coast,” the man replied. “My wagon is full of corpses. My next stop is the graveyard.”

  I shuddered, but I forged on. “Could you take me as far as the grave yard? I need to find a hack to hire,” I confessed.

  “Fleeing the city to save yourself?” he asked.

  “My father died, and my mother is dying. She is sending me away to be safe. I will pay you.”

  The man smiled, revealing a few missing teeth. “I suppose I can’t get any more contaminated than I already am,” he half chuckled. “Throw up your satchel, and let me see your money.”

  I threw my satchel up to him, and held out my pouch of coins to show him I was capable of paying. He reached out his hand, and grabbed my hand that held the pouch, pulling me up into the wagon beside him, but yanking the bag from my hand.

  “Where’d you get all this coin?” he asked, looking into my pouch.

  “My mother gave it to me to pay my fair to the coast,” I told him, trying to snatch the bag back from him, but he held it out of my reach.

  “I’ll just hang onto this until we reach the graveyard, but you will have to help me remove the bodies, before I give it back to you. Someone else will come to bury them.”

  I glanced in the wagon bed, behind me. Thankfully, the bodies were wrapped in sheets, so I didn’t have to look into their dead faces. I swallowed hard.

  “Alright,” I whimpered. I had already walked a long way, and was thankful for the ride. I knew the graveyard was on the outskirts of town, which got me closer to my destination, anyway. I wondered what made these dead people privileged enough to be buried instead of bu
rned, but I didn’t bother to ask.

  The man snapped the reins on the horses’ wet rumps, and they picked up their feet and continued to clop slowly along the cobbled road that led to the graveyard. The man had tossed my satchel at our feet, but it was out of my reach, and I eyed it, worriedly. Sometime later, the wagon slowed. The man had deposited my pouch of money in the pocket of his ragged overcoat. He helped me down, and motioned to the back of the wagon.

  “Glad I came across you,” he grunted, as we started to pull one of the bodies from the wagon. “The boy that was supposed to help me didn’t show up. But you look strong. You will do just fine,” he assured me.

  I took the feet, and he took the shoulders. I tried not to look at what I was doing. There were six bodies. Two of them were children, and I shivered as I helped him carry the bodies, thinking about their short lives. We laid all the bodies in a row. Then he threw down a canvas cover at me. “Cover them up,” he directed. I shrugged and began doing as he ordered.

  I was focused on covering the bodies from the rain, shaking, as I did so. I heard a noise and looked up. The wagon was pulling away.

  “Wait!” I called. “You have my money, and my satchel!”

  “Sorry, missy, this was the end of the line. You are on your own now.”

  He yelled at the horses, and they broke into a brisk trot, now that the wagon was empty.

  “Stop! Stop!” I called, as I started to chase after the wagon.

  My lungs heaved, and my feet slipped on the wet cobbles. I landed on my knee and tore a hole in my black stocking. The blood trickled down, and mixed with the rain, I could barely see the color against the black of my stocking. My hood had blown back, when I started running, and now my hair was soaked and dripping. I sat in the puddle, I had landed in and my body was wracked with sobs. I don’t know how long I sat there crying.

  Eventually, I pulled myself up. I drug myself back to the grave yard, and found shelter in one of the above ground mausoleums. The iron gate groaned, as I pushed it open. A musty smell greeted me. But it was dry. It was also cold. I slid down the wall, in a huddle, and hugged my knees. At least I still had my food, I told myself. I wouldn’t starve.