Sarah's War

by Eugenia Lovett West

  SARAH’S WAR

  Copyright © 2019 Eugenia Lovett West

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  Published by SparkPress, a BookSparks imprint,

  A division of SparkPoint Studio, LLC

  Tempe, Arizona, USA, 85281

  www.gosparkpress.com

  Published 2019

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN: 978-1-943006-92-2 (pbk)

  ISBN: 978-1-943006-93-9 (e-bk)

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2018959804

  Cover design by Mimi Bark

  Formatting by Katherine Lloyd, The DESK

  All company and/or product names may be trade names, logos, trademarks, and/or registered trademarks and are the property of their respective owners.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  CHAPTER

  ONE

  September 1, 1777

  A violent afternoon storm was darkening the skies over Philadelphia, as ominous as the shadows on the country below. A small rebellion in Boston had escalated into war. Now brother fought brother over independence. The chance that thirteen colonies could hold together was fading.

  Three travelers left the stage wagon: the driver, an old lady, and a young woman. They stood motionless on the Jersey shore of the Delaware River as the ragged bearded ferryman stomped toward them, shaking his fist.

  “Sure as this storm will strike, sure as God destroys fornicating sinners, the murdering redcoats have marched through Maryland, and they’ll be in the city tomorrow,” he shouted. “Cross the river and ye’ll be caught like rats in a trap.”

  The driver spat and looked at his two remaining passengers. A week ago he had picked them up in a little town in Connecticut. The old one was a troublemaker with a bad mouth. The girl’s looks had men trying to get close to her at the inns and on the wagon.

  “Pay attention, ladies,” he said under his breath. “If the redcoats were that close, we’d likely have heard, but news travels slow, and these days nothing’s certain. I’m obligated to cross and change horses, but you can wait in the house down the road. I’ll be back in a few hours. What’s it to be?”

  Mrs. Proctor hit the ground with her cane. “I must go, I must save my house,’’ she screeched. “Soldiers, they’d burn my furniture for firewood, but the girl goes home to Myles. The Lord knows what would become of her, men being the beasts they are.”

  The driver turned to the girl. “Quick, missie.”

  Sarah Champion stared at his face, red as a swamp maple leaf. Nothing had prepared her to make this decision. Her mind veered wildly. To be trapped like a rat in the city—but her parents had sent her to perform a duty. She was expected, and the old lady had no right to speak for her.

  “I’ll cross,” she said loudly.

  The ferryman waved his arms. “Be warned, be warned,” he howled. “The streets will run with blood!”

  The driver spat again. “Enough of your rant. There’s a storm brewing, and my horses ain’t good with thunder. Up into your seats, ladies,” he said, leading the horses onto the barge. The heavy rope that pulled it across the river began to creak.

  As they swung into the current, wind ripped at the canvas roof. For a moment Mrs. Proctor was silent, hands folded in her gray mitts. Then she turned and pinched Sarah’s arm.

  “It’s my Christian duty to speak out before it’s too late. This aunt you’re here to visit. When did your mother last see her?”

  “Not since she left home to be a maid in Philadelphia. She is many years older than my mother and writes once a year.”

  “Just as I thought. Your parents know nothing about her. Go back on the stage, girl. If you haven’t the fare, your father will pay at the other end.”

  “I can’t, ma’am. My aunt may need me.”

  “Need you? Pah! Your parents were fools to let you leave, a country parson’s daughter who never set foot outside her village. They should have asked my advice. I know of Mrs. Sage. The way she lives is a disgrace. You are warned and that is all I will say.”

  Sarah stiffened. For seven long days, as the stage jolted through barrens and hamlets and towns, she had helped Mrs. Proctor find the best seat on the vehicle. She had held her tongue and listened to the stream of complaints that the beds at crowded inns were too short, the food poisoned. By now she knew all too well that the old lady took great pleasure in stirring up trouble. Her aunt might live in a shabby house, but being poor was no disgrace.

  As the barge moved slowly over the choppy water, she pulled her shawl tighter. True, little was known about Mrs. Sage except that she had married a grain merchant who had died leaving her alone and childless. When the rare letter had arrived, Mrs. Champion read it several times. Sighed and put it down.

  “This is from my sister Elizabeth,” she said at last. “She never asked for help before, but she needs a niece to be with her for the winter. That means she may be poor and ill. I must pray.” A long silence. At last Mrs. Champion raised her head. “Sarah is needed on the farm, badly needed, but it would be wrong not to help my only sister. Old Mrs. Proctor is ending her visit to her son and will be going back to Philadelphia. Sarah can go with her on the stage.”

  Sarah had protested. “We still have to get in the corn, and that old lady is mean. Her son can hardly wait to be rid of her.”

  “You’ll be missed, my child, greatly missed, but to go is an act of kindness. You will show respect for an older person like Mrs. Proctor, curb your high spirits, and do your best for your aunt. After all, it may not be for long.” The parson and his wife were bringing up their children to show Christian charity at all times.

  Thunder sounded in the distance. A few drops of rain spattered on the water. Sarah shifted on the hard seat. British in the city—dear heaven, if she ever saw a redcoat she might lose her head and run at him screaming “Murderer! You killed my brother.” James, her twin, had died a year earlier at the battle of Long Island, a disaster for General George Washington and his Continental Army. She and James had been close, the two restless redheads in Parson Champion’s large family. Only backbreaking work in the fields had dulled the anguish of losing James.

  At last they were nearing land; the outlines of buildings loomed ahead. The barge slowed and bumped into the end of a long wharf. The ferryman secured the rope.

  “The trumpets are sounding,” he shouted. “Those that God punishes will be butchered in their beds. Young girls will be taken in lustful sin. Ye’re doomed, doomed, I say.”

  The driver thrust money into his hand. “You belong in the asylum, old man. We’ll soon know the truth.” The whip cracked, and the stage clattered off the wharf.

  A sturdy man wearing a leather coat was standing on the corner. The driver pulled on the reins and called out, “What news of the redcoats, sir? Are they near the city?”

  The man scratched his head. “Recoats near? No, or we’d have heard.”

  “Obliged.” The whip cracked again, and the stage moved on down the wide, cobbled street.

  Sarah let out her breath, almost giddy with relief. Ignoring the light rain, she leaned out. The city was known as the crown jewel of the colonies, but she could never have imagined walkways crowded with people. There were dozens of shops with bright awnings. Boys carrying wig boxes pushed between wagons with white hemp covers. And everywhere—brick. The houses, the walkways, even the watch boxes—all built of warm, red brick.

  The stage slowed and turned sharply under a sign picturing a knight, a sword, and a fire-eating d
ragon.

  “Stop!” Mrs. Proctor poked the driver in the back with her cane. “You’re to take me to Gray’s Alley.”

  “I’m contracted to take you to Saint George and the Dragon and not an inch further,” he said, pulling into the yard. “Ho! Hold my team,” he called to a lounging stable boy. Then he got down and began to throw out the hide trunks.

  “Insolence! I shall report you,” Mrs. Proctor snapped. “Girl, wait here and guard the trunks while I find the innkeeper, Mr. Beale. It will cost me, but he has chaises for hire.”

  Sarah bit her tongue and stepped down. Her hair itched, her homemade dress was filthy, but the journey was almost over, and she had managed to keep the temper her mother had struggled to subdue. “No matter what the provocation, never be unmannerly to the elderly.” Mrs. Proctor would have no reason to complain about Parson Champion’s rude daughter.

  Two sturdy men came out of the inn and paused nearby. One shook his head. “I told Mr. Beale he’d better start laying in drink for those thirsty British officers.”

  “You told him that?”

  “Bad news. Yesterday I met a man who’s been watching the troops since they landed at the Head of the Elk in Maryland. Seems that after leaving New York, they were becalmed at sea for weeks. Horses starved and thrown overboard. Now the troops have recovered, commandeered horses, and they’re on the march, coming this way. Lines of men and cannon as far as the eye can see. It’s the largest force the British ever sent off. Fusiliers, dragoons, Hessians, and hordes of camp followers in the rear.”

  “Good God. In July we heard they’d sailed north to join General Burgoyne. What about General Washington?”

  “His ragtag militia has only drilled on village greens. There’s no way he can keep the British from taking the city. What’s more, our Congress is weak and unable to put aside their politics and grievances. These are hazardous times, my friend. We must prepare for occupation.

  The men walked off. Sarah stood motionless, twisting her hands. Occupation. No escape. The stage was still here. She could get a seat and go home, but that seemed wrong. What would James do? His friends in Colonel Selden’s battalion told the family that he had died bravely from a bayonet wound in the stomach—and she knew the answer. James would stand straight and face the enemy. James would not turn tail and run.

  A shabby chaise driven by a hollow-cheeked driver pulled up, and Mrs. Proctor leaned out. “Get in, girl.” The driver loaded the trunks and the chaise moved into the busy street.

  Mrs. Proctor sat back, plucking at her skirt with gray-mitted hands.

  “They’re saying that the British will be here in a few weeks. My poor city. I warned you, girl, but you refused to listen. Now you must face the consequences.” She turned her head and looked at Sarah. “A pity, because you have a good heart, girl. The Lord should never have given you that face and figure. Our paths won’t cross again.”

  At Gray’s Alley, boys playing games on the footway made faces when they saw Mrs. Proctor. She climbed down, ordered the driver to carry her trunk, and limped toward her small house, rapping a boy on the head with her cane as she passed.

  Sarah ran her hands over the worn leather seat and took a deep breath. One trial was over. Her aunt might live in squalor, but no work could be harder than forking hay and shearing sheep. If faced with unreasonable demands and bad temper, she must think of her mother and not complain.

  The sky overhead was now a solid black. The driver snapped his whip as the chaise rattled over a narrow bridge spanning a stream of green water; the street was deserted except for a fashionably dressed lady hurrying along, holding an umbrella, and leading a little girl wearing a hoop skirt. At the corner, Sarah watched as a maid drew water from a public well, her shoulders hunched against the rain. Tomorrow she herself might be standing at a public well.

  The chaise started down a long, sloping street; even in the dim light, she could see that the brick houses were very fine. Three stories high with fan lights over the doors.

  Suddenly a deafening crash of thunder shook the chimney pots. The thin horse flung up his head. The driver tugged at the reins and stopped in front of the largest house. She leaned forward.

  “Why are you stopping?”

  “My horse is skittish in storms,” he shouted. “I can’t let go the reins. You’ll have to lift the trunk out yourself.”

  “But this isn’t the right house.”

  “Miss, I’m paid to take you to Mrs. Thomas Sage’s house on Third Street. Everyone knows it.”

  “No, you’re wrong. This can’t be right. My aunt isn’t rich. Wait while I ask at the door.”

  The hide trunk was heavy. She managed to get it onto the walkway, then ran up the steps and began to bang down the brass knocker.

  “Louder,” the driver called.

  A barrage of thunder cut off his words. Lightning flashed. The horse reared up. Seconds later the chaise was careening down the street, rocking from side to side.

  She stared after the chaise, already at the bottom of the hill. During her life there had been moments of extreme fear: the axe falling on her father’s foot cutting deep into the bone, the fire in the barn, but nothing so terrifying as finding herself alone in a strange city. Alone in a terrible storm. Alone at the wrong house.

  A chimney pot fell and shattered a few feet away on the walkway. She beat on the door.

  “Let me in,” she screamed. “Someone come and let me in.”

  At last bolts slid back. An old black man stood there, buttoning his maroon and gold coat. He looked at her dripping dress and bonnet.

  “Mrs. Thomas Sage,” she gasped. “Is this her house?”

  “Mrs. Sage not at home, an’ we don’ give to beggars.” The door began to close. She reached for the handle.

  “Wait. I’m not a beggar. I’m her niece from Connecticut. She wrote and invited me to come.”

  “Don’ know ’bout any niece. Be off with you.”

  “No!” She held onto the handle. Mail was uncertain; her mother’s letter must never have arrived. Somehow she must keep the old man from turning her away. “Mrs. Sage is my mother’s sister. I was invited here for the winter. Tell me your name,” she said in the firm voice her mother used with hired help.

  “Me Cato.”

  “Listen to me, Cato. I’ve been a week on the stage. My trunk is on the walkway, and I’m very wet. Let me in at once. It’s what your mistress would want you to do.”

  He sniffed, stuck out his lower lip, peered at the trunk lying between rivulets of water, and opened the door. “Wait here. I get Lorelia. Maybe she know somethin’ ’bout a niece.” He disappeared, muttering under his breath.

  The hall was wide with tall mahogany doors and a long curving staircase. With shaking fingers, she took off the dripping bonnet and laid it on the floor, afraid it would mar the table.

  High-pitched voices were coming toward her. She put a hand on the wall to steady herself. First the dire news of a British invasion, now the shock that Aunt Sage wasn’t poor and ill. She was rich. She had servants. She didn’t need help from a country niece. It made no sense—no sense at all—but anything was better than being abandoned in a fierce storm, screaming like a two-year-old as chimney pots crashed down on her head.

  CHAPTER

  TWO

  September 4, 1777

  Sarah was not thrown out on the street. Big, smiling Lorelia was in charge of the household when the mistress was away at Sageton, her country house. When summoned, Lorelia remembered that the mistress had invited a niece from Connecticut for a long visit, though no one knew when she might arrive.

  From that moment on, pretty young missie was made welcome and given every attention. Instead of sleeping with her little sister Mary in a cubbyhole behind the keeping room, she had a large bedroom with a fireplace decorated with Delft tiles. She was served tempting food, and her homespun dresses were washed and ironed.

  For three days, she darted around the city like a hummingbird, absorbing new si
ghts. She visited the busy market where ladies, followed by maids with baskets, pinched cabbages and smelled butter. She saw a courthouse with a double staircase and an asylum where lunatics stumbled and danced behind the walls. And everywhere she went, she was amazed to see people going about their business as if the British had never left England. Few wore the black cockade of independence.

  In the evenings, she explored the big house with its white ballroom and admired the harpsichord and crystal sconces. She sat in the elegant front room with swagged brocade curtains and a Turkish carpet.

  But at night as she lay in the big four poster bed hung with crewel, insistent questions loomed. Why hadn’t Mrs. Proctor told her that Mrs. Sage was so rich? Why on earth had this aunt sent for a niece she had never seen? What was she expected to do in a house full of slaves?

  Late in the afternoon of the fourth day, she was upstairs brushing the street dust out of her hair when the quiet was broken by the sound of running feet and cries: “The mistress! The mistress is come!”

  She ran to a window and looked down. A maroon and gold carriage had pulled up to the door. A young black boy in matching livery with an ostrich plume in his hat jumped from the box. Cato stood on the walkway, bowing and smiling.

  A lady stepped out. Her face was turned away, but Sarah could see that she was tall and held herself very straight. Saying a word to Cato, she proceeded up the steps. With the air of a reigning queen, Mrs. Sage had returned, and Sarah knew that her carefree days were over. From now on she must be watchful and polite, and never give in to the impulsive high spirits that her mother had tried so hard to correct. She adjusted her collar, smoothed her hair, and went down to meet her aunt.

  Mrs. Sage’s greeting was courteous and cool. “I had no word that you were coming, but I trust Lorelia looked after you well.”

  “She did. Very well.”

  The evening meal was served by Cato wearing white gloves. As she ate, Sarah made a quick assessment. Her mother and her aunt were both tall, with dark eyes and strong narrow faces, but Mrs. Sage wore a powdered wig; her dress was made of silk. She asked perfunctory questions about the family; then she rose and led the way to the front room.