Chapter 8: The Letter

                                                                        


                                                                      Vaughan, NC, Oct. 1, 1780


My Dearest Benjamin,

     Sincerest greetings from what has just become Warren County, North Carolina in honor of a Dr. Joseph Warren who died at the Battle of Bunker Hill. I suppose you should know that my family along with most others in our beloved former Albemarle have sided with the colonies. I've heard that your deceased father's kin down on Currituck Sound have stayed with the mother country, though their land, such as it is, unsuited for tobacco, now falls within the newly formed Gates County, also named for a colonial war hero. We shall see whether it is my Greens or your Reads that keep their claims in these eastern regions.

     Shifting allegiances not withstanding, I write to you now of loyalties of another stripe. My second cousin Charity Green is coming of age and in need of a suitor for the dumb supper on Hallow's Eve. Supposing, as I am, that companions of the female sort are still scarce on the frontier, we are requesting your midnight appearance at her dinner setting.

     Charity is a sturdy and hard-working young woman eager for a life and family in the west. She too lost her father, in her case more recently and to the crown at Camden Court House. I believe she would be a good match for your industriousness, and there's nothing that would make me happier than to see you settled into a farmstead somewhere along the Great Wagon Road.

     In that regard, it is with regret that I inform you that your father's claim in Tazewell is no longer valid. My petition with the colony of Virginia was rejected, ostensibly because there is no homestead or orchard on the premises. I suspect that the one-hundred and sixty acres fell within another larger claim of one of the royal magistrates. I only wish that I had understood the implications of not rebuilding after the raid and fire that took my beloved.

    Though the mail is prohibitive through the United Colonies Post and uncertain with westward travelers, I'll trust this missive's arrival and await your appearance on All Saints. It's my sincere hope that you'll grant me this small act of charity by accepting Charity as your companion and wife. If so, I'd venture one last suggestion, that she change her surname on the wedding certificate to remove you forever from the stigma of our Turkish skin in this territory ruled by white landowners.

                                                                  Yours truly and forever,


                                                                   Sarah Green Read




Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Chapter 9: Unbeholden

Image
  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cable_ferry      " Yo Mr. Ferryman," Benny calls as he follows Lottie and leads Ajax off the cable ferry that had just pulled them across a placid stretch of the New River. "Can a fellow hire a delivery?" "Bill Ingles is the name," replies the old man tying off a heavy hauling rope in the early dusk of late October. "That would depend on the job, young fellow." "Taking this here cask to William Preston," Benny answers with uncharacteristic directness as he hands Ingles some silver coins. It had been a long day of riding the fifty miles from his cabin in the Tazewell hills. "Just so happens that my son Thomas is coming through in a few days on the way to Smithfield," Ingles assents, barely hiding his amusement at the cavalcade of black and tan coonhound, white quarter horse, and brownsmith moonshiner.      Benjamin Reed had decided to make the one-hundred-fifty mile trek in three days to get to t...
Read more

Chapter 2: A Droplet Of Red

Image
       After a moment of silence following the raven's call, Charlotte gives a soft whine and looks up at Benny. He tilts his head and, hearing that she senses no danger ahead, waves his hand forward. She trots up the rocky trail and he follows soundlessly, feeling each boot fall before placing weight on it.       He skirts the log lean-to he'd hewn into the hillside of the narrow hollow five years before, his hatchet at the ready on his right shoulder. Beyond a little clearing along his still race, he creeps up a last rocky ledge and peers over a boulder at a spring-fed pool below a tiny waterfall.       At first there are only feint rippling reflections on the water.  Benny whistles a short tweet in mimicry of the parakeet that flits in these Appalachian forests. A movement by the pool lifts his hatchet to the ready, but then tan pumpkin-seed spots approach through the dark and the tall dog comes back with tongue wagging...
Read more