by Peter Roop
Mary giggled and ran for her mama’s skirts.
Sarah laughed at her youngest sister and hugged her. She held her at arm’s length and looked Samantha in the eyes. “Sam, you are changing, that’s for sure. You won’t be able to keep dressing like a boy much longer.”
“We’ll see,” Samantha said, handing Sarah the sack of wriggling crabs.
The little ones gathered around, asking her questions and waiting for a treat. She reached into the leather pouch hanging from her waist. Each time she visited, Samantha brought any unusual things that she had collected in the woods or on the beach: heron feathers, shiny shells, driftwood shaped like ducks. This time she had four smooth, round quartz pebbles, two for each child. She poured them onto the table.
The pebbles disappeared into eager hands. Mary and Luke scattered like hummingbirds, finding quiet spots to examine their treasure.
“I ironed your dress yesterday,” Sarah told Samantha. “It is hanging in the wardrobe. Go change. I’ll be in in a moment to help with the corset.”
“Do I have to wear the corset?” Samantha asked. “I hate it.”
“I know, but Mama will scold both of us if you don’t.”
Samantha went upstairs into her sister’s bedroom and pulled the dress, two petticoats, and the corset out of the wardrobe. She spread them on the bed. Then she put a petticoat back, deciding that one was torture enough.
She undressed slowly from her Sam clothes and put on her Samantha ones.
Sarah came in as she slipped on the corset.
“Don’t tie it too tight,” Samantha begged. “I can’t breathe with this thing on.”
“But you won’t have a fashionable figure if I don’t,” Sarah teased.
“Hang fashion!” Samantha argued. She took a deep, deep breath, filling her lungs and pushing against the corset as Sarah tightened it. When she let out her breath, the corset wasn’t as tight as it should be.
As Samantha slipped on her dress, Sarah gathered her Sam clothes and said, “I have hot water boiling. I’ll wash these while you sell your goods. We can all be together for dinner.”
“Thank you, Sarah,” Samantha said, reluctant to see her clothes go, but knowing they would be ever so much cleaner when she put them back on.
Luke and Mary stood opened-mouthed when Samantha came downstairs. Even though they had seen her change before, it always amazed them each time she did. Tucking her hair under a white linen cap, Samantha wiggled to get more comfortable in her corset. Then she walked back to Uncle John’s store.
Matthew had sold her crabs. Half of the oysters remained. Her uncle’s customers always seemed pleased with the quality of Samantha’s foodstuffs.
Matthew jingled a handful of coins. “Business has been brisk,” he said, handing her the coins. She placed them in her leather pouch before helping a waiting customer. It was Mistress Craig, whose husband was a silversmith and owner of the Golden Ball jewelry shop.
“Good morning, Mistress Craig,” Samantha said.
“Hello, Samantha,” she said. “How fresh are your oysters?”
“Gathered them myself just yesterday afternoon,” she answered. “I saved the best for you.”
Mistress Craig frowned and said, “I’m not sure why your mother allows it, but you do fetch the finest oysters this side of the Chesapeake. Mister Craig is always asking for your oysters. Prefers them to all others.”
“It’s all in knowing where to find their beds,” Samantha explained.
“I’ll take three dozen. Being as it is fair day, Mister Craig will want them at day’s end.”
Samantha thanked Mistress Craig and helped another customer. Whenever she had a chance, she scanned the crowd for Henry. She had to warn him. Henry was perfectly capable of defending himself, but still …
The sun hung overhead when they had sold the last of the crabs, fish, oysters, and turtles. The leather pouch thumped against Samantha’s thigh. She would spend some of her money at the fair, but the rest would go to Papa.
Matthew wiped his forehead and sat on her crab crate. Samantha started to wipe her hands on her breeches, then remembered she was wearing a dress. She dumped the saltwater from her oyster barrel, then wiped her hands on a rag.
“I’ll take these to the Fish Hawk,” she told Matthew. “Then I’ll see Uncle John. Treat you to the puppet show when I’m finished,” she said.
The Fish Hawk was just as she had left it. She carefully placed the barrel and the pot into the boat. She checked to see if the painter was properly tied before returning to her uncle’s shop.
Even though it was early September it felt good to be in the dark shop and out of the sun’s glare. Uncle John stood behind his long counter. His shelves were almost bare today. Last Christmas they had been full, but not overflowing like they had been before the trouble with England began. But because so many Virginians had stopped buying or using British products, Uncle John had little call for such goods. Even if he had wanted things like tea, gunpowder, lead, English cloth, lace, pewter buttons, plates, and china, they were not available for sale because trade with the mother country had almost stopped.
Why can’t the Americans and English get along? Samantha wondered again. Then things would stay the same. She ran her hands down the apron of her dress. The homemade linsey-woolsey apron was rough … but at least it was made here at home, she thought. I am beginning to sound like a Virginia Patriot.
Matthew followed her inside.
“Why, Miss Samantha Byrd!” exclaimed Uncle John. “Don’t you look absolutely ravishing today!” he teased.
Samantha blushed. Thank goodness it is so dark in here, she thought, or he would be teasing me about blushing too.
“What are you needing?” he asked.
“Gunpowder and lead. I’m running low of both.”
“Everyone is,” Uncle John said. “The militia needs every ounce I can smuggle in. Since Dunmore raided the powder magazine, we’ve treasured every barrel. But I saved some, knowing you’d be here for the fair.”
“Thank you,” Samantha replied, placing two small silver coins on the counter. Then she turned around and said, “Come on, Matthew. Let’s see the fair. What do you want to do first?” She was anxious to be back outside and looking for Henry.
“Let’s look and then decide,” said Matthew.
Samantha blinked as they returned to the bright sunlight. She wished she had her hat to shade her face. They joined the crowd strolling down toward Market Square where the fair was.
At one stall Samantha treated Matthew to bread. At another she bought cheese and cider. Then they watched a puppet show about a Virginian besting a British soldier in a shooting contest.
Suddenly they heard someone shout, “You should go back to England where you belong! If you like tobacco so much, here’s some you can have.”
A man no taller than Samantha took a large plug of wet tobacco out of his mouth and hurled it. Samantha didn’t see who it hit, but she knew why the crowd had gathered. Some poor soul was in the stocks.
Samantha and Matthew elbowed their way through the crowd to get a better view. Standing on her tiptoes Samantha saw a man, his arms dangling through the stocks, his bent head dripping with gobs of tobacco.
“Who is it?” she asked.
“That English-loving Alfred Whitesides,” someone said.
“What did he do?”
“Traded two cows to Dunmore’s men.”
Matthew spoke up. “He deserves this and worse.” He threw a stone at the man. Samantha picked up a rock too, but decided it wouldn’t be ladylike to throw it, so she dropped it.
“Should have been tarred and feathered,” the man said.
Matthew agreed. Samantha was not so sure.
When they worked their way to the edge of the crowd, she asked Matthew, “Why should he be punished for trading with Dunmore’s men? Isn’t Dunmore still the Royal Governor?”
“In the eyes of King George, yes, but not in the eyes of Virginians. Dunmore�
�s our enemy now.”
Samantha understood why Papa was angry with King George for not honoring the Crown’s commitment to the men who had fought the French and Indians. Papa had been promised 200 acres of prime land west of the Blue Ridge for his army service, especially since he had been wounded and would carry his limp to his grave. Lord Dunmore had claimed 20,000 acres for himself and his family, but none was forthcoming for the soldiers.
Matthew explained. “First, he stole gunpowder from the magazine. Then he fled like a thief in the night. Now he commands a fleet of five ships. He has called all patriotic Virginians rebels and promises to hang them. That means my father, your father, and Henry. He plans to put Virginia under his dung-covered heel.”
Samantha looked at her cousin. Normally quiet Matthew, content to hunt and fish with her without hardly saying a word, had just spoken a waterfall of words. He sounded just like Papa and the rest of the men who condemned Dunmore.
Samantha wiggled in her corset, trying to get more comfortable.
“Is this why you joined the militia and gave up sailing on your father’s ship?”
“Yes,” Matthew answered. “Henry and dozens of others have joined. You’ll see how many when we march this afternoon.” He paused. “You will stay, won’t you?”
Samantha agreed and they continued their tour of the fair.
Across the open square they heard delighted screaming and shouting. “Let’s see what that is about,” Samantha suggested. “Race you!” she said, and lifting her skirt, took off running. Matthew, caught off guard, couldn’t catch her. Even in a fair race he couldn’t catch Samantha.
When he stood panting beside her, Samantha said, “They are playing Soap’d Pig. It costs a halfpenny to play. Whoever catches the pig gets to keep it. I’ll treat you.”
Two men wrestled with the squealing pig. One man held its legs. Another smeared lye soap on the wiggling animal. A third held out his hat for the pennies being dropped in it by the players.
Samantha tugged Matthew in her wake. She untied her leather pouch, pulled out a penny, and dropped it into the hat.
“What about your dress?” Matthew asked.
Samantha looked at her clothes. She had forgotten she had on her one and only dress. Before she could change her mind, the man released the pig.
The pig ran in a circle, then broke through the crowd. People leaped out of its way as a dozen boys dashed after it. One grabbed the pig’s hind legs. It slipped right out of his hands. Another grabbed the pig’s back. His hands slipped off too.
With a whoop, Samantha joined the chase. She wasn’t going to lose her halfpenny.
The pig turned this way and that, dodging its pursuers. He came toward Samantha. She grabbed at him but missed. Matthew lunged at the pig as it came his way. He gripped a leg, but the pig wiggled free. Yelling, the others circled the pig.
Samantha had a mud puddle to her right. The pig ran in her direction. She spread her legs and stood firmly in its path. The pig had to swerve left to escape. But the pig had other plans. It ran directly at Samantha and veered to the right, straight into the mud puddle. Without hesitating, Samantha jumped to block it. Her feet flew out from beneath her just as the pig hit the mud. Samantha landed flat on her back. The squealing pig slipped and slid right into her arms. She hugged it with all her might.
The crowd roared in laughter as Samantha wrestled the pig into submission.
Above the noise, Samantha heard Martha cry, “Oh, Mama! Look what Samantha has done now. I’m mortified.”
Samantha looked over the pig’s back, directly into Mama’s eyes.
Chapter 8
Papa stood behind Mama, shaking with laughter. Mama shook her head and laughed too. Martha glared at Samantha.
Breathless, Matthew helped Samantha to her feet and took the pig from her arms. He handed the pig to a man who placed it in a nearby pen.
Mud dripped from Samantha’s arms. Her dress was mud-covered. Her cap was off, and her hair flew in every direction.
Papa and Mama walked over as Martha stormed off to Sarah’s house.
“Reckon that pig will fatten up some more by winter,” Papa said, still holding his sides. “You are a sight, child.”
“We can dress you up,” Mama said, “but we sure can’t make a lady out of you. Come on, let’s get you changed into your old clothes before anything else happens.”
Samantha’s old clothes (as Mama called them) were clean but still damp from the washing Sarah had given them. Samantha felt relieved to be shed of the dress and corset.
Mama told her, “You will take your dress home, young lady, and wash it there. Sarah has more than enough work without you adding to her load.”
“Yes, Mama,” Samantha said meekly.
“And the corset too.”
“Yes, Mama.” Samantha, feeling ever so much better dressed in her regular clothes, wasn’t about to argue.
Papa asked, “Has anyone seen Henry? We were to meet Uncle John to discuss business.”
Mama arched her eyebrows. “What business?”
“I have five hogsheads of tobacco from last year’s crop that I must sell by September 10. That’s the last day we may ship to England. After that, all 13 colonies will stop trading with Great Britain. I want John to ship it on his trading vessel, the Cardinal.”
Samantha looked puzzled. “I thought he stopped trading with England,” she said.
“He will after this,” said Papa. “Then he will trade only with the Dutch and the Spanish in the Indies. He’ll trade pine boards, ham, corn, and wheat.”
“And of course, tobacco,” Mama said.
“What will he bring to Virginia?” Sarah asked. “I haven’t seen a single bolt of silk in a year.” She pretended to pout.
Papa scratched his head and looked away. “Don’t rightly know,” he said evasively.
The conversation was too complicated for Samantha, so she helped Sarah put food on the table. Dinner at Sarah’s was always a feast. Today there was venison stew, crab cakes, boiled crabs, succotash, cornbread, ham, cheese, and apple pie.
Samantha noticed that everything they ate had been grown or raised or caught in Virginia. She wanted a hot cup of proper tea, but since 1774 only Tories drank English tea. That is, if they could get it. Samantha missed English tea. The homemade Liberty Tea that they drank tasted like dirty dishwater. If only we could get along, she thought.
After dinner, Samantha bundled her soggy clothes, took her musket, and said goodbye to her sister and her family. “I’ll meet you at the farm,” she said to Mama and Papa. “I want to ride the outgoing tide home after the militia marches. I promised Matthew I’d watch.”
Papa said, “Wait, Samantha. I’ll walk with you. I have to fetch James at the college. Henry will be with the militia.”
Samantha and Papa walked to Market Square. The open green field was filled with men carrying muskets, rifles, and small arms. Most wore dark-stained hunting shirts with leather fringe dangling from the sleeves. The hunting shirts, like Henry’s, were the closest things the Virginians had to a uniform.
Samantha and Papa joined the crowd to watch the militia drill. A drum rattled. A fifer played the popular new tune “Yankee Doodle.” The crowd joined in. Samantha smiled as Papa added his deep bass voice to the song. She liked the music but did not join in. To her it was one more thing keeping Americans and English apart.
The militiamen fell in behind the fifer and marched across the green. A tall man, skinny as a loblolly pine, gave orders. As he shouted, the men turned one way, then another. Some stumbled trying to keep up with their companions. Others turned right when the rest turned left. Henry and Matthew knew what they were doing.
Papa sighed. “With a militia like this, how will we fight England’s regular soldiers? When I was in the army, we could turn on a speck of dust. No man missed a step. We carried our rifles properly, not like a bunch of woodcutters.”
Samantha remembered that she wanted to ask Papa about Thomas Wormley. Pap
a rarely talked about the French and Indian War. When he returned from the fighting, he swore never to raise a gun against another man again except in self-defense. Samantha could not even imagine what it must feel like to sight a person along the long barrel of a gun, and then pull the trigger.
Papa never talked about Wormley’s role in the war, but Samantha’s curiosity overwhelmed her. She had to know, especially now as there was more trouble with Mr. Wormley.
“Papa, what is between you and Mr. Wormley?”
Papa’s eyes had that faraway look that he got when he wanted to avoid discussing something. The same faraway look Henry got when he talked about going over the Blue Ridge Mountains to Kentucky.
Papa looked at his daughter, her bundle of clothes and musket in her hands, and said, “Let’s sit by Uncle John’s store. You are old enough to know the reason for the bad blood between us.”
Samantha stood her musket against the store wall and set her wet bundle on the end of a wooden bench.
Papa took a deep breath and began, “During the French and Indian War, Thomas Wormley and I served together. We weren’t regular soldiers, but militia. Like so many farmers, shopkeepers, and lawyers were. Wormley was chosen captain of our unit because he owned the largest plantation. We were friends still. Not enemies. Yet.”
“What happened?” Samantha asked, squeezing Papa’s hand.
“We were in the Ohio Valley when the Shawnees and French ambushed us. I was shot in the leg and went down. Wormley saw me lying there, but the fighting was thick and furious. We were almost surrounded. Still, the men fought bravely on. That is, everyone but Wormley. Thinking no one had seen him, he ducked into the forest out of the battle. When we had driven the Frenchies and Shawnees away, he came crawling back like the coward he is. He knew from the look in my eyes that I had witnessed his cowardliness. From that day to this, he has hated me.”
Papa stretched his injured leg and stood. He glanced at the sun dipping in the west. “You’d best be going if you want to catch the tide. Slack water has passed. I’ll fetch Mama, Martha, and James home.”
