Stranger in Williamsburg Read online

  STRANGER IN WILLIAMSBURG

  Wanda Luttrell

  Published by Wanda Luttrell at Smashwords

  Copyright 1995 by Wanda Luttrell

  All rights reserved. Except for brief excerpts for review purposes, no part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted for commercial purposes, except for brief quotations in reviews, without written permission of the author.

  This book is a work of fiction, based on the true experiences of many American colonists and pioneers. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.

  First printing, 1995 by Chariot Victor Publishing, a division of Cook Communications, Colorado Springs, Colorado 80918; Cook Communications, Paris, Ontario; Kingsway Communications, Eastbourne, England

  Cover illustration by Bill Farnsworth

  Cover design by Mary Schluchter

  Edited by Sue Reck

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  The Sarah’s Journey Series

  The Sarah’s Journey Series includes, in this order: Home on Stoney Creek, Stranger in Williamsburg, Reunion in Kentucky, Whispers in Williamsburg, and Shadows on Stoney Creek. Be sure to read them all!

  Dedication

  For my son, John Bradley Luttrell, who has made my journey through life an adventure.

  STRANGER IN WILLIAMSBURG

  Chapter 1

  There are more people on Duke of Gloucester Street than there were in the whole Kentucky territory! Sarah Moore thought as she stopped at the end of Palace Street when it entered Williamsburg’s busy market section. After a month of living here in Virginia’s capital city, she still was amazed to see no many people in one place. And, yet, in the midst of the crowd, she felt a pang of loneliness.

  Sarah pushed the loneliness aside. She had moped around for over a year in Kentucky, longing for her former home in Virginia. She certainly wasn’t going to waste one of the most beautiful June afternoons God had ever made pining to be back in Kentucky, especially when she had been given the rare opportunity to spend it shopping on what had to be the most exciting street in the world!

  Behind her, she could hear the shrill piping of flutes and the measured cadence of drums that marked time for the Patriot militia as they drilled on the Palace Green. To her right was the soft pink brick Bruton Parish Church, where she went each Sunday to worship with her Aunt Charity’s family. To her left, shops and taverns beckoned.

  Uncle Ethan had taken them all to the genteel Raleigh Tavern one evening for dinner, and just the memory of the chicken pie made her mouth water.

  She hadn’t seen Uncle Ethan since that night. He had come home for a brief visit, then had ridden off again on one of his mysterious missions. She had no idea what he did, but she knew it had to do with this war that so concerned everyone in Williamsburg.

  Sarah shifted the handle of Aunt Charity’s market basket to her other arm. The money her aunt had counted out—the exact amount to pay for the things she wanted from John Greenhow’s store—lay in the bottom of the basket, wrapped in a piece of white cloth. Some of the money Pa had sent for Sarah’s upkeep while she was living here was wrapped in two pieces of cloth. They were samples of the material she must match with ribbons and buttons for the two new dresses Aunt Charity was making her.

  Sarah couldn’t help giggling as she remembered the look of horror on her aunt’s face when she saw the clothing Sarah had brought with her from Kentucky. It was made of homespun linsey-woolsey and dyed with the juice of berries and hickory bark. Her shoes were deerskin moccasins. Aunt Charity had wasted no time seeing that she was fitted with a couple of hand-me-down dresses and a proper pair of shoes.

  Sarah waited for a carriage drawn by a pair of brown horses to pass, then crossed the street to her favorite store in all of Williamsburg. She stood aside to let two gentlemen leave the store, thinking that their black vests over white ruffled shirts, black knee breeches above white stockings, and white powdered wigs tied back with black ribbons gave them appearance of two strutting crows.

  Then she climbed the steps and stood in the open doorway, breathing in the pungent scent of cloves, mingled with the aroma of nutmeg and cinnamon, of scented wax candles and hard round soaps, of fresh-worked wood and leather. She savored the anticipation of plunging into the assortment of merchandise like a longed-for dessert.

  Sarah was convinced that just about anything a person could want was there in John Greenhow’s store, lined up in cubbyholes along the walls above the tall wooden counters, or in the wooden boxes and bins that crowded the bare wooden floor.

  How her ma would love being able to stock up on household supplies in John Greenhow’s store, after having to either make do or just do without for over a year in the wilderness! How Pa would glory in being able to buy square iron nails and iron hinges to replace their makeshift wooden pegs and greased leather hinges! How her brother Luke would enjoy the wooden puzzles and the big wooden hoops to roll with a stick down the wide streets of Williamsburg! How little Jamie would love spinning tops and tin whistles!

  Again, she was hit by a wave of homesickness for the family she had left in Kentucky. She wished they were here to share the tantalizing taste of the crisp, rolled wafers, or the wonderful little chocolate nonpareils that Nate had bought her that first day in Williamsburg, just before he had left her on Aunt Charity’s front stoop.

  Nonpareils would always remind her of Nate, she thought, reaching into her pocket to finger the store of coins he had given her so she wouldn’t have to ask Aunt Charity every time she wanted some small treat. She said a quick, silent prayer for Nate’s safety. Who knew what dangers her oldest brother faced as he fought with the Patriots to win the freedom of the American colonies.

  “May I help you, miss?”

  Startled, Sarah looked up and located the voice behind the tall counter on her right. The young clerk—surely no older than Luke—was smiling at her, a friendly smile that sent freckles dancing across his face to disappear into the laugh lines around his mouth and at the corners of the bluest eyes she had ever seen.

  “I...my....” She cleared her throat and began again. “I’d like a large cone of brown sugar and an ounce of nutmeg, please,” she said, thankful that her voice sounded more assured this time, more grown-up. “Oh, and some raisins,” she added hastily, as the boy turned to measure the spice into a twist of brown paper.

  He smiled again. “How many raisins?”

  Sarah could feel a flush mounting her cheeks. What had Aunt Charity said about the raisins? One scoop? Two scoops?

  The clerk held up three different sized scoops and quoted the price of each.

  Sarah flushed again. She raised her chin an inch or so. “Two of that size,” she said firmly, pointing to one of the scoops, praying the amount would suit Aunt Charity, and that she would have enough money to pay for them.

  She must have bought the right portion of raisins, though, for Aunt Charity had sent exactly the amount of money the clerk named. Quickly, she counted the coins into his hand, thanked him, and moved away to the back of the store, tucking her purchases into the basket on her arm. When she looked back, he was waiting on another customer. Sarah turned, with relief, to attempting to match the squares of fabric Aunt Charity had sent, but there just wasn’t any ribbon that would do. The buttons in the small wooden bins weren’t to her liking, eith
er.

  The pleasant-faced woman behind the counter must have noticed her frustration. “There’ll be more arriving any day now on Mr. Greenhow’s next boat down the James,” she offered.

  Sarah chewed her lower lip. She looked down at Abigail’s drab, brown hand-me-down dress. Now that Aunt Charity had agreed that it was time for some new clothes of her own, she didn’t want to wait for the next boat to come down the river before her new blue Sunday dress and the nice gray everyday frock could be finished.

  “If you’re in a hurry, you might try the milliner’s down the street, across from the magazine,” the clerk suggested helpfully.

  Sarah knew the magazine was that funny little eight-sided brick building where the Patriot soldiers stored their guns and ammunition. She was almost there when her attention was drawn across the street to where a young girl stood behind a small table in front of Chowning’s Tavern, drawing a golden liquid from a wooden keg into customers’ cups.

  All at once, Sarah realized her mouth was as dry as if it were full of sawdust. A cold cup of sweet apple juice made from fresh June apples would taste wonderful, she thought, fingering Nate’s coins.

  Aunt Charity would have a fit, though, if she went anywhere near Chowning’s. She said it was a “low-class, bawdy place, not fit for decent ladies to pass by, much less visit!” Sarah’s cousin Tabitha had whispered that there was gaming and riotous behavior among the tavern’s evening patrons who gathered there to eat, drink grog and other liquors, and gamble. If so, it was nothing like the Raleigh!

  Nevertheless, Tabitha and Abigail had been by Chowning’s many times, for Tabitha had her eye on a certain young man who served tables and cleaned up after the tavern’s midday and evening meals. Unwilling to go alone, she begged and bribed her younger sister to accompany her at precisely 2:15 on many afternoons, to catch a glimpse of Seth Coler as he came out to dump slop in the pigs’ trough behind the tavern.

  In fact, it was this very habit that had led to Sarah’s opportunity to visit the shops alone today. Aunt Charity had caught Tabitha and Abigail standing in the alley outside Chowning’s just last week. She had confined the girls to the house and yard for a week. And, busy with preparations for the week’s baking, Aunt Charity had bestowed on Sarah the unheard-of privilege of doing her shopping.

  Now Sarah stood at the edge of the dusty street, with her mouth growing drier and drier. She could almost taste the apple juice, smooth and sweet as honey on her tongue. She could feel Nate’s coins practically burning a hole in her pocket. And, almost before she realized what she was doing, she was standing in front of the girl, holding out her money.

  The girl smiled at her from under a white mobcap that did its best to hid thick, tangled brown curls. The smile displayed a missing tooth, but it lip up her brown eyes. “You have no cup? I can sell you this tin mug for....” The girl frowned in concentration as she counted out the necessary coins from Sarah’s hand.

  Absently, Sarah watched the girl drop the coins into the pocket of her blue and white striped skirt, straighten her white apron over it, and tuck in her full white blouse. Sarah hadn’t meant to spend so much on one cup of juice, but the mug was charming. It held an etching of a tall cedar tree holding some large bird with its wings outspread, ready to fly. From now on, she could carry the little cup with her, and next time, she would only have to pay for the drink. Sarah turned to look for a bench to sit down and enjoy her cold, sweet juice.

  Suddenly, there beside the courthouse, Sarah saw a sight she had not seen in the whole month she had spent in the colonial capital. The wooden stocks (which reminded her of a yoke for harnessing oxen) held a man, bent over, with his arms and neck locked into the holes. His dark forehead, under a mass of tight, white curls, glistened with sweat, and she saw him run his tongue over cracked lips.

  As she stared in horror, he raised his head and looked directly into her eyes. Then, at the demand of the cruel stocks, he dropped his head again, but not before Sarah had seen the look of resigned misery in his dark eyes.

  She wanted to run away, to go on about her business down the street. But that one glimpse of the man’s eyes held her rooted to the spot. All at once, Sarah knew what she had to do. Carefully holding her cup, she walked the few steps that separated her from the stocks.

  “Sir,” she began hesitantly. There was no response, and she cleared her throat and tried again. “Sir, would you like a cup of apple juice?” She extended the one she had just bought toward him.

  At last, the man looked up. Amazement crossed his face as he took in her earnest look and extended hand offering the cup. “You talkin’ to me, missy?” His voice was as cracked as his parched lips.

  She nodded. “Would you like this cup of cold apple juice?”

  The old man rolled his eyes to see who was watching. “Are you sure?” he whispered. Then thirst overcame his amazement at the offer. “Missy, if you’ll just put the cup to my lips, I’d be much obliged. I can’t....”

  Sarah realized that the stocks would not allow him to reach for the cup or move it to his lips. She held the cup, and the man drank from it thirstily. She held it again, and he finished it.

  “The Lord bless you for your kindness, missy,” he murmured.

  “My name is Sarah,” she said, placing the empty cup in her basket, feeling more refreshed than if she had swallowed the juice herself. “Why are you in the stocks?” she asked. She knew that the punishment was usually reserved for thieves and other lawbreakers.

  “Some of the townspeople think ole Marcus is uppity, with the manners and skills he learned working at the palace. They don’t think the governor’s lady should have given him free papers when she left. But they put me in the stocks because they think I’m a Tory!” He spat on the ground in disgust.

  Sarah hadn’t the faintest idea when the old man meant, except she knew that a Tory was someone who remained loyal to King George and England, instead of supporting the Patriots in their quest for freedom.

  “Go on, Miss Sarah,” he said gently, “before you get in trouble for talking to me. My time in the stocks will be over at sundown, or sooner if Governor Henry comes back from Richmond and finds out where I am. I can make it now. The Lord bless you!” he repeated.

  Reluctantly, Sarah backed away and walked slowly on down the street toward the milliner’s, haunted by the image of the misery in the sad, dark eyes of the man in the stocks.

  Chapter 2

  Absently, Sarah climbed the front steps to the open door of the milliner’s and went inside. She held out her samples of material and requested the ribbons and buttons her aunt wanted, barely noticing the merchandise that lined the walls and counters of the small shop, or the middle-aged woman who came to wait on her.

  When the milliner’s clerk came back to say she couldn’t match her material, at least not until a new shipment came on the next boat down the James, Sarah was almost out the front door before she thought to ask if there was another milliner in town.

  The clerk frowned, then grudgingly answered that there was a new shop down on Waller Street behind the Capitol, next to Christiana Campbell’s Tavern.

  Another tavern? Sarah thought. Which would displease Aunt Charity more—to go home without the buttons and trimming she wanted, or to go near another tavern? Sarah had already broken the rules once today by buying apple juice in front of Chowning’s. What kind of place was Christiana Campbell’s Tavern? Would Aunt Charity consider it “bawdy” too?

  Her aunt certainly knew what she wanted, though, and when she wanted it. Sarah sighed. It might be better to risk Aunt Charity’s disapproval of her walking near another tavern, than to incur her wrath over an uncompleted errand. Besides, she did want those new dresses!

  Sarah walked down Duke of Gloucester Street to where it ended. She turned right onto short little Blair Street, which led right past the Capitol. She always felt a thrill of excitement when she thought of the House of Burgesses meeting there to make Virginia’s laws. Kentucky’s laws, too, for that
matter, since Kentucky territory belonged to Virginia.

  The Capitol was built like a soft red brick castle. It had two round wings which were joined by a long, straight section that was topped by a cupola. Nathan had told her that not long ago, the British flag flew from the cupola, and Williamsburg was the capital of the British colony of Virginia. He said that the British governor disbanded the House of Burgesses because they protested against unfair laws England imposed upon the colonies. Then, at the start of the Revolution, the governor had taken his household back to England, and now the new flag of the American states waved in the breeze above the Capitol.

  Sarah remembered a friend of her pa’s, back in Kentucky, saying, “I ain’t never gonna bow my knee to no British king!” Well, it seemed that almost everybody in Williamsburg felt the same way. Of course, there were a few Tory families around who still pledged loyalty to England and King George. But, for the most part, every able-bodied man in and around the town had declared himself ready to put his life on the line for freedom.

  She stopped in front of the Capitol, chewing her lip. Where on earth was Waller Street? She knew it joined Nicholson one block over from Duke of Gloucester. Aunt Charity’s house was on Nicholson. But she had thought Duke of Gloucester went all the way down past the Capitol.

  Not wanting to waste time retracing her steps back to more familiar territory, Sarah decided to take the chance that the street ahead would join Waller a block over. She turned left at the end of Blair onto Francis, and was relieved to see that just ahead it did join Waller, again to the left. There on her right was Christiana Campbell’s sprawling white tavern. And just beyond it was a neat little brown cottage with a swinging sign that read “Milliner.”