The Patriot's Daughter

Chocolate and Chess

River Springs, North Carolina . . . May 6, 1778
5 hours before the attack . . .

GREY AND WHITE COLOR THE SKY LIKE ASH.
Of course it is just the clouds, but I like to think of them as proof of a wildfire in the heavens. My leather boots thump against wood, finding each stair in a familiar rhythm. My fingers wrap around the ends of my swooshing dress, gathering the material into a wrinkled ball . . .
Smack!
My body and solid wood collide, a grunt escaping through bitten down teeth. With a scrunch of my nose, my hands push off the porch.
Dumb dress.
I gather the material that had escaped my fingers, sneaking under my boot and causing the trip. My petticoat is soft and light in my hand.
If only I could trade you for a pair of trousers!
Heat from the sun hits my neck, warm and welcoming, accompanied by a mouthwatering smell from Annie's wafting deliciously in the air. Flicking my auburn braid behind my shoulder, I hasten into the shop. I'm met by its owner and cashier.
Miss Annie Hays.
Bouncy, honeycomb colored curls drape across her shoulders, framing a soft jaw and rosy cheeks. As the only woman in this part of North Carolina to own and operate her very own business, no one can disagree that her heart is as strong as even the fiercest patriot soldier. Her husband was killed at the Battle of Brandywine, leaving the store in her possession. Merchants from all around offered to buy, promising to leave a good fortune in her hands for the store. She refused to sell, making a promise to keep the little shop open in honor of her husband. She's admired by many, her determination impressing even the colonel.
The colonel . . . oh Papa . . . how much longer before—
"Maddie! So good to see you!" My thoughts are interrupted by her chipper voice. "What can I get for my favorite customer?" Miss Annie's mouth turns into a grin, soft and full lips protruding with a twinkle resting in her eye.
"Nothing out of the ordinary." I prop my elbows up on the finely smoothed counter, fists supporting my chin. Smirking mischievously, I reveal the secret behind my playful lips. "I snuck out."
She lowers her chin, the twinkle disappearing as her brow furrows in.
"It's only for a moment! She won't even know I am gone!"
She shakes her head. "And does that make it right?"
"Whoever said it was wrong in the first place? She is not my mother and has no authority over me." My eyebrows raise.
"I give up!" She exclaims, relinquishing the argument with shoulders slumping. I smile warmly, silently thanking her for understanding.
My hands slip into the pockets of my dress as I turn around, noticing the candies from Bakers Chocolate of Boston. I eagerly extend a hand to examine the rare sweets. As the tips of my fingers brush along the paper covering each one, I wonder at Annie's resourcefulness since she is the only one in this part of the Carolinas that has treats so rare. Rumor has it that one of the Baker boys was saved by Annie's husband at Brandywine, and the Baker family now supplies the new candies as a way of saying thanks.
I pluck one paper-wrapped chocolate stick from the bowl. "It's just, it's so hard to be around her, you know?"
"Maddie, you know she loves you—"
"Does she Miss Annie?" Years of irritation boil to the surface. "Because I often find that hard to believe." My eyes stare into her hers, blinking along with the heart beating in my chest.
She glances at the counter, fingering a piece of fabric on her dress. My head lowers to the treat in my hand as I fiddle with the paper. "I'm sorry. You don't deserve to take part in my burdens." I gulp, brow furrowing. "How's Lydia?" My hand quickly slips back into my pocket and grasps the pouch resting inside as I inquire about the vibrant five-year-old.
"Oh, she's doing well . . ." Miss Annie's eyes linger on mine as I turn the pouch upside down, various coins spilling out with a thump! thump! thump!
"That's good to hear." My tone is absent as I place the chocolate stick on the counter with the coins.
She continues to speak to me with her eyes, soft brown and glazed with sympathy, even though her words are saying something else.
"Will that be all?" The well trained cashier side of her voice comes back on cue.
"Just this." My shoulders lift with a shrug, lips pressing together tight. "Please."
She slides the coins into her palm. "Maddie." Her face softens, arms resting on the countertop. "You are so very dear to me. I hate to see you go through these feelings of enmity towards Sarah. Your father needed someone to look after you and Michael and she came along at just the right time."
I almost argue, ready to protest that it shouldn't have happened the way it did, Papa didn't have to accommodate Sarah and her nettlesome daughter.
But, what good would it do?
She hands me the candy. "Please let me know how I can help. What you're feeling will not last forever."
My eyes flutter under the arch of my brow, fingers wrapping around the scratchy paper covering the chocolate. I force my eyes to look into hers, but the way she looks at me makes me want to cower. Am I possibly the one at fault here?
If Miss Annie truly believes I should be more forgiving, then perhaps she should spend a meal with the imposter herself.
Clearing my throat, I grab the pouch. "Have a good day, Miss Annie." I turn on my heel, shooting back a glance and nodding politely as a farewell.
The bright spring sun nearly blinds me as I step out of the door. I mindlessly step off the porch, bundling my dress once again into a scrunched up ball with one hand, stuffing the chocolate in my pocket.
I take a few steps into the street, only to retreat just quickly enough to dodge an oncoming wagon. Horse's hooves stomp violently along with each lash of a whip, carrying the wagon by at an increasing speed.
That's strange. Normally it isn't ever this busy . . . must be new visitors.
Being far away from the larger cities has perhaps actually been in our favor, our lack of luxury helping to keep the fighting far from our small town.
"Whoa!" I veer out of the way, dodging a small boy dashing by. "Watch out young man!" He shoots back a smile and waves his hand, turning back just in time to sidestep the railing in front of Miss Annie's shop.
I continue walking along the side of the street, allowing myself to smile at the energy boiling over in the children all over town. A handful of kids dash past me, giggling to themselves and wondering happily about with their parents near by. Perhaps it's natural for the little ones to become restless with so many fathers away at war. The people of town do not reject the playfulness of youth, rather gladly welcoming it into the atmosphere. Their laughter makes things better. Less gloomy. Less dreadful. It is much needed during a time such as this, when war has broken out all over the country. As one paper quoted Papa after the British massacred the local minutemen at Lexington, "The Sword is now drawn, and God only knows when it will be sheathed."
The thirteen colonies have indeed come together and fought hard, but Papa believes there are still worse days ahead for us.
I cross the street and make my way to the wood shop, walking up steps and through the ornately crafted door, my ears tune in to the loud commotion coming from inside. My heart warms at the thought of the old man's awaiting presence.
"Uncle Henry? Hello?" I bang my fist against the doorframe in an attempt to be heard over the tool's loud, raspy voice scraping along wood.
No response.
I take a few steps more into the shop, placing my pouch with the last of my coins on the dark wooden table that has become one of my favorite places to spend time. Littered across the table are carefully carved figures, unrecognizable to practically every citizen of River Springs except Uncle Henry and myself. The table rests in-between a pair of rocking chairs, which sway gently from the breeze sweeping through the door, squeaking softly with each rock.
Peeking around the corner of a wall, I spot the elderly man working on some form of woodwork, planing back and forth, back and forth, then swiping the surface with a flick of his aging hand to rid the plank of any dust. Dressed in his leather apron, his skin is covered in a fine layer of saw dust.
"Uncle Henry?"
A smile lights his face as he glances up from his work. He beckons me over with his hand, mumbling a quiet but enthusiastic greeting. "Maddie! Come in, please, please."
I step forward into the room filled with every kind of tool imaginable, coughing momentarily at the fine dust floating in the air. "Th—thank—" My hand fans at the dust traveling around my nose. I catch my breath, holding back a sneeze. "Thank you Uncle Henry." He smiles at my reply as enough dust finally disperses for me to speak. "I came for that special order I placed awhile back. Am I too soon?"
"No, no. In fact, it's been ready for the last few days, mhmm. The last few days." He glances at the ground hesitantly as if to search for something he might have dropped on the ground, though he never bends down to retrieve it.
I look about the compact room with eager eyes. "May I see?"
"Yes, yes, of course." His feeble legs carry him to the opposite side of the room from where I stand. He opens several drawers before finding the one he wants and rummages through it's contents.
I attempt to see what lies inside, rising on my tiptoes and straining my neck.
After a few moments of rustling around in the draw, he pulls out a wooden object, small and almost swallowed in his wrinkled fist. Walking back over, he places it in my hand as I accept the little figure. "I placed your payment on the table where we've been having our chess matches." My eyes catch the present. "Oh, Uncle Henry!" I glance into his gray eyes, smiling. "It's perfect. He's going to love it."
He nods. "It's one of my finest pieces of work." He study the item as I run it over in my hand in fascination.
"It is exquisite." My fingers trace the detailed craftsmanship.
His lips press together in thought. The warmth in his gaze grows to be brighter, the fine lines around his mouth showing prominently as the corners of his lips turns up into a grin. "It is unique because of whom it is made for."
My face softens, and I move closer into his loving embrace, one that eases the worries inside of me. Though he may not be my real uncle, he has always been the one to comfort when Papa is gone. For that I am grateful.
"I better get going. Sarah will be looking for me." My right hand rests on his shoulder, my eyes peering into his. "Thank you Uncle Henry."
He lets out a mumble just loud enough for me to hear. "Anytime, anytime. Don't be shy about coming to visit me now. It's time I teach you a little trick with the Pawn known as En Passant!"
"I'll be back before you know it!" I give a playful wink and nod, vacating the room.
Uncle Henry is the only one in town that plays chess. He chose me to be his one student, often helping me pass the afternoons as I count the days until Papa's return. I've had to be creative with reasons to come downtown for lessons, since some people believe it to be a waste of time on a foolish game.
But Uncle Henry was right, it's undoubtedly made my mind more sharp.
As I step out of the door, humid air blows on my skin, though not much hotter than it was inside the wood shop. I walk beside the street, my dress gathered into a ball for the third time. "Heaven help me if I don't ever find a way to avoid wearing you." I gather the material even more.
My eyes linger on several young women sitting under the shade of a shop's roof, most likely gossiping over the mundane news of the town. I glance down at my wrinkled dress. It's not that I despise my plain attire. In fact, I prefer it over their hats with colorful strings and dresses with bows and lace; a depiction of pure silliness if you were to ask me. Exploring as I do throughout the forest would be impossible in a frilly dress! If it wasn't for Sarah's dismissive attitude towards my wardrobe, I'd be dressed like the others. Lucky for me, she pays no attention to my clothing, or anything else about me.
I wonder to myself what life would be like if I had the luxuries of those in richer settlements or even of these women nearby sipping on their refreshments and nibbling on delectable treats.
How different would I be?
A breeze finds its way around the ends of my dress, warmed by the summer sun. Laughter floats in the air, boots and different styled shoes sounding a rhythmic shuffle along wooden walkways.
I wouldn't be myself, that much I know.
I have much time to think about these things when Papa is gone. Today marks three months and fourteen days, and still no sign of him or his troops.
Some wouldn't give it much thought, being that he's a colonel, and his unique regiment is on active duty longer than others. But what has his regiment been doing these past winter months while most other soldiers are hunkered down, including General Washington and his men at Valley Forge?
Where could Papa be? Winter broke weeks ago and it has been unusually warm for May in Carolina.
I can't help thinking of the horrible possibilities. Is he alive? Is he on his way back with a wound? Or being held hostage in the darkest depths of one of the British's camps?
I wish I knew the answers to these questions, but I don't. Only when these long months of separation are over will I know. And when they are, my days will once again be filled with conversations by a fire.
I'll listen intently, knees huddled to my chest, eyes eagerly laid on his animated hand gestures as he retells his time away through stories. Stories of the countless battles. Stories of his men traveling throughout the vast forests of North Carolina, placing fear in the enemy's heart with their effective weapons and valiant acts. My favorite stories are the suspenseful ones, when he retells of leading his men through impossible odds, out-numbered and out-gunned by the superior and more experienced British forces.
The tales are invigorating. They carry spirit and life, stoking the burning sensation inside of me that I dare not share with a soul.
I want to be there. With him.
In the thick of it all. In the grime and the victories of those battles Papa recounts with such pride, in the very middle of the smoke rising from muskets being fired all around. And I want to hear things, like my heartbeat quickening as a rush of energy spreads throughout me like a wildfire, because a bullet just whizzed by my ear.
I want to taste it. See and smell it.
Feel it.
I want to live the story. Not just hear it.
But, of course, there are other feelings. Those that I wish not to feel. During this time when he is absent, during this time that I wait, and wait, and wait . . . this time is restless and the hours are long.
For weeks at a time, I wonder where he is, whether he's safely studying maps and charts, or staring into the eyes of a malicious Red Coat as a weapon is aimed at his chest. Days drag on and on, convincing me that things will never get better until he's home.
When he is, however, wearing a grin like always, everything in my world is alright.
I shake my head slightly to myself, deciding to focus back on the life around me here and now, on the busy noises echoing off each porch chair and every shop sign. My head turns to look back at the center of town, the sounds of activity fading as I walk closer to home. I don't even need to look ahead to remember that a small house sits a hundred yards away, guarded by a cluster of trees on all sides.
Although I feel the urge to turn around and run, I walk, staying on the path that leads to the place petty conflict always awaits inside.
She won't get to me this time.
She's won't . . . get . . . to . . . me . . .

*Thank you so much for taking the time to read! This is my first published work. I'm excited to get started and share my writing with you. Hope you'll stick around for chapter two!

Much love,
K