In Ship of Mercy, author Betty Ruth Weatherby creates a gripping tale of a heartbreaking past, and the hope of a bright future.

West Africa, spring 1943: Mary’s family is tragically murdered by marauding German soldiers in the middle of the night. She is desperate to protect herself and get to Casablanca to board a military hospital ship. Accompanied by a young African woman, Mary flees the dangerous city, promising to return as soon as the war is over.

One year later, Mary’s story is interwoven with Shingi Houkana and the returning American soldiers, disembarking the military hospital ship, Mary Louise. In her sojourn, Mary connects with Russell Graham, a wounded soldier, who challenges her faith and their own romantic future.

“Mary, a survivor of tragedies in Africa, thinking all is lost, returns to America at the end of WWII. Her journey and revelations during this trip grabs us and takes us with her—through pain—sorrow and joyful renewal. A wonderful, heart-lifting read.” —Jo Sarti, GG’s Editing Service

“Betty Ruth Weatherby’s novel, Ship of Mercy, takes you on a voyage across stormy seas of sorrow and loss, and delivers a beacon of hope for searching readers.” —Kathy Boyd Fellure, author of When the Birdies Came to Tea

Chapter 1

The Burial -West Africa– 1944

Stunned at the murders, the woman bent over the grave and reached for a handful of dirt, rich-red, grainy clumps of clay. Breaking them, she let the dirt fall through her calloused fingers over the shrouded bodies far below. I’ll never see you again, she thought. 

A soft blue sheet from their marriage bed wrapped Charles’ body. It was well worn, from their warmth-seeking comfort each night in a reassuring embrace. Mary’s eyes shifted to the small boy in the grave. My son, she cried. Now her dead husband embraced the body of her once-lively son. And my daughter, who knows where?

< p > & n b s p ; & n b s p ; & n b s p ; & n b s p ; & n b s p ; & nbsp;          Mary held out the dirt and dropped it.  Down it fell, quietly like tears in the night.

< p > & n b s p ; & n b s p ; & n b s p ; & n b s p ; & n b s p ; & nbsp;          The West African natives surrounded her, while her tears fell on the dirt below. Mary sobbed. While on her knees she shoved, layer on layer. The soil pushed their life, their brief time together, away. 

God, where are you now?  How did you let this happen?  My husband … our little son … brought into the world with such hopes … gone, questions fought in confusion. She frowned, her lustrous blond hair slipped over her eyes, matting on the tear-stained cheek.

The Houkana family with downturned eyes waited next to Mary. Sarah, her hand tightly gripping Djemimana’s hand, looked away.

Mary’s knees slipped. She started to fall. “Ahh!”

Sarah jerked the curious child, trying to reach for Mary when her husband intervened, pulling Mary back from the crevasse. Sarah reached her arm to comfort the whimpering little one she had awakened, swaddled on her back. She shook her head. “God help us,” she cried. Putting one leg slightly forward, she bent her other knee relaxing her strained back.  She wiped her soft brown eyes with the back of her hand as she admired the strength of her husband, stretching out his arm to Mary. His glistening muscles rippled as he helped her return to her feet.

< p > & n b s p ; & n b s p ; & n b s p ; & n b s p ; & n b s p ; & nbsp;          Sarah called the children to her, preparing to leave. She held out her arm. “Mary, come. You will stay with us.” She glanced back at the Lanover compound. The high concrete walls surrounded a half acre of privacy complete with trees, a goat enclosure, and garden patch. The outhouse on the northwest corner was covered in vines blooming with clusters of white blossoms. Its door hung ajar on worn leather hinges. 

Shingi slouched, huddled next to her mother, her glazed eyes riveted on Mary and the dirt that cascaded down. Looking up, she observed Jimmy concealing himself in a nearby baobab tree. He peeked out behind its large dangling leaves. Next to her, Asa’s stern face was black and grim. Clenching his fists, he glanced over at her. He grimaced and limped over to pat her on the shoulder. She whimpered and put her head in her hands, stifling a sob. He held up his bony arms and encircled her in them. “What about Charlotte?” she muttered.

< p > & n b s p ; & n b s p ; & n b s p ; & n b s p ; & n b s p ; & nbsp;          Mary took Sarah’s hand and followed her with the others like an obedient child.

Betty Ruth Weatherby was born in the WWII shipbuilding community of Sausalito, California. She wrote this novel based on her experiences in Africa. She has worked in churches, at Bank of America, and as a public school teacher. She writes from a world of experience in fulfilling the Christian walk. Miss Weatherby holds a BA from California State University, Stanislaus. She earned her teacher’s credentials from Chapman University, as well as a cross-cultural language and academic development certificate from Sacramento State University. She is an active member of Sierra Baptist Church, in Pioneer, California, and travels extensively. Betty Ruth Weatherby currently lives with her dog, Buttons, in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada Mountains. Visit www.BettyRuthWeatherby.com for more information.