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"Freedom's Cry"
A novella in the Sweet Liberty collection (Barbour)
(April 2002 - Barbour)
"Freedom's
Cry" is a historical novella in a group of four novellas celebrating
America and dating from the Revolutionary War period--to the 1800's--to the turn
of the century. All have the theme of liberty and all involve special Fourth of
July celebrations.
(Authors are: Pamela Griffin, Kristy Dykes, Debby Mayne, and Paige Winship Dooly)
Indentured servant Sarah longs for her upcoming freedom. Cabinetmaker Thomas Gray needs freedom of a different sort--from the chains holding him to the past. When Sarah's life is in danger, Thomas intervenes--but the next time it could mean her death and his. Will Freedom's cry echo throughout the land and release them both from the bonds that enslave them? ("Freedom's Cry" takes place during the first official Fourth of July celebration in 1777 Philadelphia.)
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one
Philadelphia
Sarah
Thurston hurried from the humid kitchen, her grip tight on the platter of
steaming dishes. Swiftly she moved down the dim corridor toward the dining room
where the master entertained his guests.
“Best look lively,” Belle, a housemaid, warned as she bustled by
Sarah. “He looks to be in a foul mood despite the occasion. Likely because his
wife lies abed.”
Grimacing, Sarah turned the corner. The master’s five-year-old son
stood near the entrance to the dining room and peeked around the doorframe.
“Rupert,” Sarah scolded softly, “away with you. If your father
catches sight of you spying on him and his guests, there will be trouble—and
well you know it.” Soon Rupert would be six and ready for breeching, the step
initiating him into manhood. Sarah would miss seeing his blond curls, which
would be shaved off so the boy could be fitted with a wig, as the gentlemen of
the township wore.
The child spared her the briefest of glances, then looked back into the
well-lit room. “They are toasting the thirteen colonies now,” he whispered.
“Mr. Rafferty belched horribly after Father toasted Maryland. Father doesn’t
look happy.”
“Nor will he be if he catches sight of you. Run along.”
Rupert reluctantly moved away. “Will you play quoits with me later,
Sarah? It is so dull here, and Father will not allow me to go into town to watch
the celebration.”
“If my duties allow it. Now go, Child,” Sarah whispered before
entering the room.
Wealthy gentlemen in powdered wigs, colored coats, knee breeches, and
white stockings sat around the long table. Frills of lace or scarves in white
donned their throats above their buttoned waistcoats. Sarah’s master,
Bartholomew Wilkerson, stood at the head, his wine glass raised high. Catching
sight of Sarah, his heavy-lidded eyes remained on her seconds longer than usual,
and Sarah shuddered. How thankful she would be when her indenture was completed
and she could be away from this place.
“And finally, I propose a toast to the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania,”
Mr. Wilkerson said. “And to our most esteemed town of Philadelphia, the City
of Brotherly Love, which William Penn founded almost a century ago, establishing
this great township for religious and civil liberty—that all therein should
not suffer persecution of the same.”
Sarah clenched her teeth as she served the twelfth cake for dessert,
unable to bear the man’s hypocrisy. It was common knowledge that shipping
magnate Bartholomew Wilkerson had friends who were loyal to King George. Though
he spoke of liberty, Sarah suspected Mr. Wilkerson of secretly being a Tory
sympathizer. With recent local arrests of pro-British citizens, two of whom were
Mr. Wilkerson’s friends and prominent men such as he, it stood to reason he
would now hide any sympathy he might feel toward the British.
“On this fourth day of July, in the seventeen hundredth and
seventy-seventh year of our Lord,” Mr. Wilkerson said, “we declare to Great
Britain our right of independence. No, we demand it! And as the most esteemed
John Adams decreed a year previously, upon the signing of our Declaration of
Independence, we shall celebrate the day with great rejoicing, with parade and
cannon fire—this, our Independence Day. May God hasten this war to a glorious
end, so that we may not only declare our freedom but live it in the fullest
sense.”
“Hear, hear,” a portly gentleman cried.
“And may the Tories return with all Godspeed to their native
England—and keep their accursed tea with them,” another man exclaimed. His
remark brought a round of laughter from all except the master.
Sarah saw Mr. Wilkerson frown, then quickly give a feeble smile to his
comrade who turned to speak with him. The tea incident in Boston led to the
start of the war two years ago and was still talked about in drawing rooms. She
had heard how the Sons of Liberty disguised themselves as Indians and dumped a
ship’s cargo of highly taxed tea into the harbor.
Though she herself was a native of England and had sojourned in
Pennsylvania only five years, Sarah felt the people’s cry for freedom deep
within her heart. Soon she would be free from her indenture, free to pursue
personal interests and no longer bound to serve a wealthy family’s every whim.
That the master’s interests had not been of a more personal nature these five
years past was a blessing to Sarah; he exerted those particular interests in
another direction. Sarah felt sorry for the young and beautiful indenture named
Grace, who at twenty-one was four years younger than Sarah. However, lately Mr.
Wilkerson had been eyeing Sarah the same way he eyed Grace.
Determined not to dwell on ill thoughts, Sarah hurried to the kitchen to
resume her duties to Mrs. Leppermier. The elderly cook was bossy at times but
had a fondness for Sarah, and Sarah knew it was because she reminded the woman
of her daughter, now deceased.
Once dinner ended, they worked in the kitchen, scrubbing dishes while
quietly conversing. Suddenly Belle swept into the room. “Where is that young
scamp Morton? I have searched and searched for him!”
“Whatever is the matter?” Mrs. Leppermier asked.
“The matter?” Belle screeched. “The mistress has run out of her
tonic, and whenever she lies in such ill humor with her complaints, without fail
she asks for it the following morning. If I tell her she has no more, she’ll
cause a ruckus we’ll all regret. I have need of Morton to hasten to the
apothecary’s shop at once.”
“I’ll go,” Sarah said, removing her water- and gravy-spotted apron.
“I know where the apothecary resides.”
“You?” Belle said in shock.
“Aye, ’tis a good thing for Sarah to go,” Mrs. Leppermier quickly
intervened. “If Mrs. Wilkerson doesn’t have her tonic, the entire household
will suffer her ill temper come morning, as you have noted.”
“Very well,” Belle said to Sarah, her thin lips compressed in
disdain. “I suppose there is no other recourse, but do not dawdle.” Because
Belle had willfully signed a contract of indenture, unlike Sarah, she considered
herself superior and let Sarah know it at every opportunity.
“Take your time,” Mrs. Leppermier corrected after Belle exited the
kitchen. “Mrs. Wilkerson will have no need of the tonic until the morrow, and
Katie and I can finish here. Linger and watch the celebration if you so
desire.”
“You are too kind,” Sarah murmured with a grateful smile, looking
forward to the reprieve. Before setting off, she adjusted her ruffled mobcap,
which had gone askew during her work. Hurriedly she tucked a few errant tendrils
beneath the white puffy circle of cloth that was fitted to her head by use of a
drawstring. Smoothing her ankle-length gray skirt, she hurried outside into the
sunny afternoon.
The Wilkersons’ home, a stately two-and-a-half-story Georgian manor of
buff stucco and red brick with gabled roof and dormers, was in Fairmount Park,
as were other mansions. Tall poplar trees lined the walk, shielding the sun’s
brilliance. Beneath the fresh smell of grass and flowers, the acrid odor of
gunpowder filtered through the air. In the distance, Sarah could see white fogs
of smoke drift toward the delft blue sky, marking where guns had been
discharged. Throughout the day she’d heard muffled explosions of cannon and
musket fire, and the revelry had not yet ceased. Nor would it until the day was
spent.
The glaring sun had dropped a couple of notches by the time Sarah drew
near the heart of the city. Loud huzzahs and more reports of musket fire rang
through the air. Buildings of red brick trimmed with white painted wood,
soapstone, and marble lined the straight, paved streets. Charming gardens and
shade trees were in abundance. White towers could be seen on the roofs of a few
important public buildings, and inside the belfry of the State House on Chestnut
Street, the great Liberty Bell hung.
To Sarah’s left, three boys laughed and raced along the cobbles,
propelling their hoops with their sticks. A dirty terrier scampered at their
heels. To her right, a group of men stood in a circle, cheering the day with
loud acclaim. One decreed certain victory for the Patriots and discharged his
pistol in the air to the excited cheers of others. A few men threw their tricorn
hats upward in jubilation.
Sarah strode the crowded footpath, paying little attention to any horses
and carriages that traveled the road alongside her. Only men of means and men of
trade used coaches or wagons. Most, like Sarah, walked everywhere they needed to
go. In honor of the holiday all businesses were closed, and she wondered too
late, if she would have trouble finding the apothecary.
Through the thin soles of her shoes, Sarah could feel the heat radiating
off the cobbles in the stifling summer day. Five years she had worn these shoes
and was in dire need of another pair. When she left the Wilkersons, she would
have to acquire a job. Widow Brown ran a coffeehouse near the wharf. Perhaps
Sarah could find work there. Once she gained enough money to provide for her
immediate needs, she could save up her guineas to do the one thing she desired,
the one thing she longed for each night as she stared at the moon suspended
above tree-dotted hills. . . .
“Well, Gentlemen, what have we here?”
Sarah came to a halt, startled by the mocking voice. Three guests from
the Wilkersons’ dinner party moved to block her path.
“I’m on an errand,” she stated with an air of false bravado, her
heart skipping a beat. “Please, stand aside and let me pass.”
“Bartholomew’s estate must be in a sorry state of affairs that he
would send his kitchen maid on an errand,” Samuel Fenston, the biggest of the
three said. His dark eyes narrowed beneath his tricorn hat. “Why does Morton
not attend to such a task?”
“Methinks I detect treachery afoot,” William Reilly inserted, the
odor of liquor heavy on his breath. A smirk distorted his pockmarked face.
“Mayhap the girl lies and has slipped away to meet a lover. Perhaps we should
interrogate the wench. We owe it to our friend to right a wrong if we discern
trouble in his household.”
“Aye,” Clay Riggs, the youngest, agreed. “A private interrogation
might be just the thing to loosen her tongue.”
Alarmed by the sudden gleam in the eyes of all three men, Sarah backed up
a step. “I tell the truth. The mistress needs a potion for her ails, and
I’ve been sent to the apothecary to fetch it.”
“A likely story,” William sneered.
Clay reached out to fondle the curl hanging by her face. Sarah tried not
to flinch, but the brand of fear was leaving a deep impression on her soul.
People flocked everywhere. Yet if she cried out, the merrymakers would likely
think her cries ones of revelry in the day and not pleas spurred from alarm.
Indeed, jubilant screams, along with repeated gunfire, filled the city streets.
“My friends, let us not judge the lass too quickly or too harshly,”
Clay said, his gaze never leaving her face. “The matter is easily settled. We
shall retrieve Samuel’s coach and return with the wench to the estate to
inquire there.” A slow smile spread across his face, and he grabbed her arm
above the elbow. “A most expedient solution for all involved, I daresay.”
William laughed. “An excellent suggestion, Clay. I do admire your
rapier intellect.”
Sarah panicked when William took his place on the other side of her and
also grasped her arm. “Please,” she said, the word lost in the surrounding
din as she was forced to move with them to a narrow alley between brick
buildings. She struggled to be heard. “Unhand me! I have done no wrong.”
“We shall soon see,” Clay said. “Do not be anxious, Sarah. We will
deliver you safely to your master. In due course.”
At this the other men laughed.
“You heard the girl,” a calm masculine voice spoke from behind.
“Unhand her.”
Along with the others, Sarah turned. . .to observe the most handsome man
she’d ever seen. One hand behind his back, he stood with a casual, masculine
grace she had not perceived in many of his gender. Though his shirt, breeches,
and leather jerkin were those of a commoner, he filled the clothes out well. His
pleasing face was strong, unafraid. His head was bare, and Sarah would wager
that the thick, dark hair gathered back to hang in a queue and tied with a black
ribbon was his own and not a wig. His deep blue gaze briefly lit on her, then
made a scan of each of the two men holding her against her will.
William tensed. “You dare to address us in such a manner? Do you know
with whom you speak? Be gone with you, Cur!”
The man did not move a muscle, only stared at them in a way that showed
he wasn’t easily intimidated. Sarah felt her heart flutter with both interest
in him and fear concerning her predicament.
“Though it’s true I’m not aware of the identity of those I
address,” the man said, his rich voice sending flutters through Sarah again,
“I am well acquainted with the manner of men to whom I speak. I repeat, unhand
the girl.”
Samuel stepped forward, his face a mottled red. “You, Sir, are
overstepping your bounds! By your manner of dress it’s plain to see you’re
nothing more than a common laborer. What entices you to presume that you can
address us in such a manner?”
Clearly unruffled, the handsome stranger calmly brought his arm from
behind him. He held a pistol, which he raised to aim at Samuel.
“This.”
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