The Way of Peace

Prologue

"Shhh, sweet one," she murmured softly, cradling her wailing baby boy in her arms, her heart pounding with every sharp cry he let out. She'd just nursed him, hoping to ease his restlessness, but Oliver remained unsettled, his tiny fists clenched and red face twisting in frustration. She rocked him gently, bouncing him as best she could, but it only seemed to stoke his cries. Her older son, Caleb, huddled in the corner, his small hands pressed tightly over his ears, his own tears slipping down his cheeks.

"Please, love," she whispered to Oliver, casting a fearful glance out the window. Shadows grew long across the worn path leading back from the village. Her husband would be coming home soon, and she could already feel the tension tightening her muscles.

"Mum..." Caleb's trembling voice brought her back, his small fingers tugging at her skirts. His eyes were wide with fear. "Hush Ollie, before Papa comes."

Her heart broke a little more. "I'm trying, love," she replied, her voice barely a whisper as she tried to soothe Oliver once again. But her efforts were futile; her youngest only screamed louder, his cries echoing in the small, dim room. Caleb sank to the floor beside her, exhausted by fear and defeat, as though he already knew what awaited them all.

"Lord, please..." she prayed, her words barely more than a breath, a desperate plea that Hank, her husband, would come home sober tonight. That maybe, just this once, he'd leave his whip at the door. But when the door crashed open moments later, and Hank's roar filled the room, she knew her prayers had gone unanswered.

The terror that followed lived in her heart like a scar that refused to fade. Each memory a sharp, aching reminder of that night—of her sons' cries, of her own desperate shouts, of Hank's violence.

Melanie woke with a start, her breath catching as she jolted upright, her body damp with cold sweat. The same nightmare, night after night. She rubbed her eyes, forcing herself to focus on the dim, soft candlelight casting faint shadows across her quiet bedchamber. After weeks of weary travel, it still surprised her to find herself in such comfort, with fresh linens and a warm blanket. But the niceties did little to ease her restless mind.

Captain Fredrick Blyth, a man she'd known from years past as a brotherly figure, had found her and urged her to make the journey with him across the Atlantic. He'd assured her of a new life, a future with promise. She'd barely registered the words at the time, numb to the hope they were meant to convey. For her, it wasn't about a fresh start; it was simply a journey with no real end. She had lost her past and any sense of a future. Now, she was merely drifting wherever Fredrick said to go, allowing herself to be swept along without purpose, without expectation. She felt neither anticipation nor dread about America—it was simply another place.

Fredrick had made her journey as comfortable as possible, treating her with care and respect. His gentle manner was met by the rest of the crew, who were polite and often offered a nod of acknowledgment when she passed on deck. His first mate, Coley, had even brought her a warm blanket and clean water without her asking. At Fredrick's quiet but firm request, she was given private quarters in one of the ship's more comfortable rooms, away from the din and rattle of the crew's quarters.

She sighed, closing her eyes momentarily, then pulled her shawl closer around her shoulders. Some small part of her still clung to her old habits, rising each morning and going about the tasks Fredrick assigned to her, as though purpose alone might keep the memories at bay. She wasn't sure what he saw in her, why he'd chosen her for this journey, but it no longer mattered. She would work and serve, just as she always had, as they traveled over the vast sea, until they reached America or anywhere else fate might take them. There was no more direction in her life; she'd simply do as Fredrick instructed.

A quiet knock sounded at her door, and she opened it to see Coley, nodding his head in greeting.

"The Captain's asked to see you, Miss," he said with a courteous dip of his head. "Breakfast will be ready shortly."

"Thank you," she replied, pulling herself up with the same steady resolve she'd carried through each day since she'd left England. She tucked her worn Bible into her apron pocket, a habit she held to more from memory than faith these days. In a haze, she moved through the darkened hallway, her footsteps carrying her to her unknown destination across the sea. 

"Finally, brethren," she whispered to herself, "whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report; if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things."

Melanie breathed deeply, letting the scripture wash over her, giving her a moment of peace amidst the turmoil.

"Lord," she murmured, wrapping her shawl tighter around her shoulders, "grant me strength enough to make it through this day."