Dear Mama, Love Sarah: Did You Hear Me Cry?

By Barbara A. Andrews

Dear Mama, Love Sarah . . . Did You Hear Me Cry? tells of suffering, love, and redemption. Sarahs Patriot family disowns her when her husband, Reuben, remains a Tory and leads a regiment in the Battle of Ramsours Mill where the Patriots are victorious and the Tories routed. Wanted by his enemies, Reuben hides leaving Sarah to tend a large plantation under enemy siege, rear thirteen children, and await his return. When he reunites with his family, Sarah strugggles as he refuses to accept himself as vanquished. They are forced to move to the squabble lands of the frontier and Kentucky. Through all, almost twenty years, Sarah writes Mama, reminiscing her past happy childhood, telling the joys and sorrows of her children and pleading for reconciliation.

During their shattered lives, Reubens belief that the British would win cuts their lifes thread,separating their hearts from each other. Years pass before he realizes that it is Sarahs forgiveness which makes them one again. Kentucky strong, she no longer blames him, but loves him.

Reconciliation with Mama does not come. At the news of Mamas illness, Sarah and her thirteen children desperately trek to North Carolina to reach Mama before she dies, but arrives too late. Mama, in death, finds a way to tell Sarah she loved her.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Oct 28, 2011
• ISBN: 9781462058976

Barbara A. Andrews

Barbara Andrews, a graduate of the University of Nebraska, has extensive experience in adult education administration, sales management, and technical writing. She has an avid interest in telling the stories of courageous women who lived during the early years of American history. She and her husband live in Richmond, Texas.

Book preview

Dear Mama, Love Sarah

Did You Hear Me Cry?

Barbara A. Andrews

Illustrated by

Rose Nuernberger

iUniverse, Inc.

Bloomington

Dear Mama, Love Sarah

Did You Hear Me Cry?

Copyright © 2011 by Barbara A. Andrews

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4620-5898-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4620-5897-6 (e)

Printed in the United States of America

iUniverse rev. date: 10/18/2011

Contents

Dedicated to the Courage of:

Acknowledgements

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Dedicated to the Courage of:

Sarah Sherrill Simpson

Avarilla Simpson Kilgore

Acknowledgements

The story of Reuben and Sarah Simpson is inspired by historical events at the time of the Revolutionary War when families were torn between loyalty to the Crown of England and the emerging spirit of the Patriots who sought freedom for a country destined for greatness.

Although the setting is historically true, the story is a fictional tale of what may have happened to those who suffered and survived the turmoil of this particular period of American history.

Special thanks is extended to the Houston Writers Guild whose faithful member critiques provided valuable suggestions in the development of this story. I am particularly indebted to Bill Stevenson, John Hathorn, Joe Lanza, Claudia Herring, Luke Chavain, Robin Beckwith, Bob Gregory, Kelly Matherly, Darla Rodriguiz, Marge Lelvis, and Tina Winograd. Special thanks go to Roger Paulding, President of the Guild.

Barbara A. Andrews

September, 2011

1

That Awful Piece of Paper

West of the Catawba River, North Carolina—1779

So it’s come to this, Sarah flushed with anger. Her shoulders sagged in despair, eyes hollow from worry. Her family now reduced to a drunken brawl. For weeks, menacing shadows formed like bloody mirages on the horizon. Cornwallis burned a crimson path through South Carolina. Red Coats advanced to Charlotte. Rebel militias marched back and forth in empty pastures in a fury of preparation. Neighbor accused neighbor, brother fought brother. Moment by moment, liberty exploded in the hearts of the Patriots like a flooding creek swollen beyond its banks. War was at the door of North Carolina, and after last night, her door.

Papa’s passion for Liberty and his hatred for Tories left no room for anyone, even his family, to disagree. Papa and Reuben’s brother, William, talked of nothing but Liberty, but Sarah saw no liberty, no love, no tolerance for her husband. Family ceased to mean anything to either of them. Reuben was a Tory.

Before dawn, she rose wearied, numb, and cross, but took care not to disturb Reuben who lay beside her, dead to the world, his chest rising and falling in the way of a heavy sleeper. Light from a three-quarter moon guided her to the kitchen where she roused her house maid asleep on a feather-filled tick near the fireplace.

Ma’am? A groggy voice responded.

Sh-h-h, Skeeta. Ain’t light yet. Not time to fix breakfast. I’m going to Mama’s.

At the sun’s first burst, she hurried to the barn, hitched her gig, and entered the road to Sherrills Ford—her childhood home, her Mama.

It’s me. Sarah pounded the brass knocker. Let me in. I have to see Mama.

Old Moonie opened the heavy door only wide enough for a narrow shaft of light to enter beyond her ample ebony body and large bulging arms. She wrung gnarled hands on her stiff white apron and squinted into the glaring sun. Oh, it’s you, Miss Sarah. Missus says if you come knocking at our door this afternoon, I can’t let you in.

What do you mean?

You ain’t one of us no more, Old Mooney responded, her voice gruff, almost angry. Sarah sensed she wanted no part of Mama’s edict.

Can’t be so. I belong here. You know Mama doesn’t mean that. Don’t pretend I’m nobody. You’ve known me since I was a baby. Stop this nonsense and let me in. Sarah jammed her foot firmly inside determined to push her way through the door into the parlor.

Old Moonie heaved her shoulders in despair and with a sideways shift, blocked her advance. Now you know, Miss Sarah, I can’t go against what your mama says. Just can’t.

She stood on the stoop, dizzy, a stranger in some other place, in some other time. Couldn’t be her house. Couldn’t be her Mama. Couldn’t be her old Nanny.

Moonie, Sarah begged, her heart pulsing rapidly. Please ask Mama again.

Chile, won’t do no good.

Please ….

I’ll ask, but stay right here. Can’t let you in. Old Moonie grimaced and closed the door firmly, moving the bolt across the lock.

Within minutes she returned shaking her head, her voice a raspy whisper.

Your mama says go away, she’s got nothing to talk to you about.

With the door closed its final time, Sarah’s heart sank, every part of her body raged. She wanted to rip the door from its hinges, but her stomach ached something terrible. Daylight would be gone long before she could get back to Reuben. Her desperation escalated to panic.

She went back to the door, pounded hard—then harder. Let me in. Pleease.

No one came. After long minutes, she staggered back to the gig. She looked over her shoulder staring at the house. Her eyes didn’t focus on the stark lines of the two-story structure, the white painted porch, or the shutter-bordered windows with their shining glass eyes; her home was where candles flickered a warm welcome, joys and sorrows echoed from the walls, and the kitchen smelled like browned crusts of bread, spicy raisin cakes, and herb roasted duck. Best of all at home at the Ford, she again was Mama’s child.

A shadow moved in the upstairs window, its shutter half open. Sarah’s heart surged and skipped a beat.

Mama! she screamed. Gone were Mama’s cheery eyes which made her entire face smile. Now her stare, nearly covered by her lace dust cap, gave way to sunken cheeks and down-turned mouth reflecting a forbidding sternness.

Before Sarah could wave for attention, Mama abruptly closed the shutter.

Is this how she would remember Mama—slamming the shutter? Surely not … an unbelievable mistake. Never did she think Mama would shut her out.

Last night’s madness returned with a vengeance. Fear burned through her heart as if bolts of jagged lightening struck the ground beneath her feet. She started her gig, then stopped. She could go no further. But what choice did she have? When night caught her, she would be alone, another matter facing a woman on this road—outlaws, runaway slaves, and looters who would kill.

She turned her old mare from the gate to retrace her journey, her mind too stunned to think clearly. The reins slipped through her fingers, her horse meandered untethered and uncontrolled. To return to the rutted path, she jerked her mare hard. She tried to put last night from her mind but the scene—her family arguing in a drunken brawl—played over and over in her head.

Papa, the Captain of the large Catawba militia, until now, battled Indians. An energetic man, he was short, well-built, usually affable, and one who teased his grandchildren with games as to which hand held the arrowhead. A well-trimmed, graying beard accented his tanned face, and he seldom talked without his briarwood pipe penetrating the air with woody, sultry smoke.

Now, a zealot, he committed himself to lead the fight. Along with Reuben’s brother, William, the first to volunteer for the new militia, he made wild accusations that the British ravaged land, burned fields, confiscated horses and cattle, and killed any rebel who resisted.

Some of it’s true, Reuben told Sarah. Happens on both sides.

Transplanted Englishmen, the Sherrill and Simpson families lived near each other. Over the years they maintained a strong friendship with sons and daughters marrying into each other’s family. Neither family prepared for the passion and hatred that now split them as they chose opposite sides. They no longer visited without violent arguments.

That’s what happened last night at Sarah’s table. As usual, Papa reeled off names of neighbors. John Perkins pretends he isn’t, but I know for a fact he’s a Tory. Ralph Bledsoe and Dave Caldwell are true to our cause. Don’t know yet about Pete Dellinger. Some say he leans Tory.

You sure Bledsoe’s a Patriot? William countered, lifting an unopened jug of Reuben’s whiskey. Heard he refused to sign the Allegiance.

No, you’re thinking of Ralph’s brother, Thomas. Ralph rides with me—has for years. He’s a true Patriot, Papa said.

Thomas is a goddamn fool, William swore, removing the rag plug from the stone jug. He took a large gulp and belched loudly sending the whiskey straight to his belly.

Sarah didn’t need to guess. William came for a fight. She watched Reuben remain quiet while William pressed the issue. Heard they passed the Allegiance around in Tryon County and everyone signed. Goddamn time you signed. Have you seen it?

Ain’t seen it. Don’t know what’s in it.

Well, since you’re the only one with any learning, and to you, I’m nothing but a whiskey-drunk asshole, I’ll read it to you.

To Sarah’s dismay, Papa didn’t stop him, but advised, Reuben, you need to listen, it’s a damn fine declaration.

William belched his last gulp of whiskey as he pulled a tobacco-stained sheet from his pocket and read:

We therefore, the subscribers, freeholders and inhabitants of Lincoln County, do hereby faithfully unite ourselves under the most solemn ties of religion, honor and love to our country, firmly to resist force by force and hold sacred till a reconciliation shall take place between Great Britain and America on constitutional principals, and do firmly agree to hold all such persons as inimical to the liberties of America who shall refuse to sign this Allegiance.

After a long pause, Reuben shook his head. And this, William, gives both sides reason to murder each other?

You damn well better sign. You’re lucky the Captain and I are giving you one last chance.

Plain to me you ain’t interested in anything I’ve said. I can’t sign this. Ain’t losing everything I’ve got.

William turned violent with blood rushing to his face like sleeping embers catching fire on a windy day. He drew his fist and lurched forward, the weight of his body crashing his chair to the floor. Missing Reuben by inches and unable to recover his footing, William stumbled, fell hard, and screamed, You’re a goddamn, son of a bitch fool, Reuben. I ain’t having you as my brother! I’ll go to hell first.

Sarah felt Papa’s fiery eyes. Helping William to his feet, he pounded the table, and swore, Make no mistake about it, Sary, ain’t going to be no goddamn Tory in my family. Not now, never! That’s all I have to say.

The pain of last night burned like a fireball. She knew she couldn’t reason with Papa. He’d told Mama only his side of the argument. Her last hope had failed. Mama refused to listen before she turned against her.

Now on her way home, trapped between Reuben’s stubbornness and Mama shutting her out, anger choked her. She wanted to flee anywhere to get away, but her old mare moved at a steady pace.

In the open gig, the cooler evening breeze caught the back of her neck, a chill shivered down her spine, goose bumps formed under her muslin skirt and thin petticoat. To the west, a vague outline of Ramsour’s Mill shadowed the horizon, and the evening’s dusky curtain descended upon the road. Their home place nine miles south of the village left a good distance yet to go. Soon she would be near families who respected Reuben. If necessary, she’d stop and ask for lodging.

Shadows and the sunset’s faded afterglow hid perilous ruts. Her gig took a sudden jolt, her skittish mare stepping into a deep, limb-covered rut halting her progress. The tender leg, now painful to Sarah’s touch, swelled like air forced into a sheep’s bladder. Her horse hobbled, but not enough to pull her or the gig. Sarah unhitched the harness and pushed the gig to the side of the road. With no lantern to light the way, she took the reins and picked her way one step at a time with her mare limping in tow.

She heard a rustle. What’s that? Bandits ahead? An owl screeched. A mockingbird called, followed by a chorus of shrills and caws. Had they signaled a bear or wolf or only scolded a mischievous squirrel? Her mare stumbled badly. This morning, she hadn’t told Reuben about going—he would have forbidden her to go alone. Instead, she’d told Skeeta. She shuddered in fright and wished she hadn’t come alone.

The woods quieted. She saw a late rising moon cast ominous shadows on the now darkened trees. She prayed the Lord to protect her. Relieved by the moon’s expanding light, she spied a familiar windbreak of trees. The Logans must be close.

Flickering candles at the Logans lessened her anxiety. She tied her mare to their house post and rubbed the neck of the old red lab barking her arrival. Their Jenny opened the door and asked, Whom shall I tell the Mistress is calling?

Sarah. She firmed her voice and repeated, Sarah Simpson.

Camelia Logan heard her friend’s call and came enthusiastically to the door. Tall with classic features, Camy carried herself in a soft, lady-like manner. Her smooth, porcelain skin belied the hardships she endured living on the frontier. She tossed aside glossy, shoulder-length hair which glowed a warm brown from the lighted candle in her hand.

Mercy, Sary, come in. What brings you this time of night? She looked beyond Sarah. Is Reuben with you?

It’s a long story, Camy, but I’m alone. If not too much an imposition, could you put me up? My mare’s lame and thankfully you were close. She started to explain, Went to visit Mama, but ran into trouble and couldn’t stay.

Camy reached for her robe and rang for Jenny. Please bring a pot of tea. Aim to sit a spell in the parlor.

Now tell me, Sary, how is your mama? Has she been sick?

No, nothing like that, she responded. Reuben wouldn’t sign the Allegiance and Mama refused to let me in to tell Reuben’s side.

Well, that makes three families, Camy counted. The Dellingers, your family, and ours. Trouble’s brewing everywhere. God help us.

Jenny brought tea. Camy poured, and with a smile, handed the thin, translucent cup to Sarah’s eager hands. Adding a broken cube of sugar and spooning it slowly into the tea, Sarah savored the tepid feeling of the soothing liquid in her throat. She relaxed. Camy possessed a special way of extending hospitality.

Soon horses sounded and James Logan entered the hallway, removed his outer coat, and in his shirtsleeves and leather vest, followed the women’s voices to the parlor. Taller than Camy and devoted to his wife, he bore himself an English gentleman in all manner of speaking.

Oh, Sary, you’re here, he said, showing his surprise. Reuben came through the Dellingers looking for you an hour ago. Old Moonie sent word to Skeeta you were returning alone.

James grabbed his outer coat from the hallway and touched his wife’s shoulder. Camy, I’ll take a couple of hands and see if we can intercept him.

Please, James, Sarah begged, find him before he gets to the Ford. Dangerous for him to be so close to Papa’s road rebels.

Camy lit extra candles for the windows and put a night torch in an old brass holder on the porch. Jenny, better see if Cook can make something with the chicken she’s cooling. It’ll be a long night and folks are hungry.

Sary, take this comforter. You’re plumb worn out. Can’t do any more until James finds Reuben. Rest in my rocker. I’ll call if something happens.

Sarah felt safe, her jittery nerves settled, and the warmth from the comforter brought sleep.

Pete, is Sary here? Reuben asked as he knocked on Pete Dellinger’s door. Skeeta said she’d gone to her mama’s and I thought she might have stopped here.

Haven’t seen her, Pete responded. Must be trouble though. Lil Joe said Old Mooney sent word Sary was on her way home alone.

Got to find her before it gets darker. She should have known better.

I’ll come with you. Pete grabbed his coat and pistol. We’ll need lanterns.

Reuben and Pete rode in silence with the lanterns bouncing light from one side to the other until Reuben spotted something at the edge of the road.

Oh my God, it’s our gig. Reuben dashed ahead and motioned Pete to hurry. Mare’s gone. Nothing’s left.

Don’t see other wagon tracks. I’ll scout back here. Pete slid off his horse, moving his lantern back and forth searching the grass and roadway. Have to be tracks somewhere.

Bring your lantern over here. I think these are her footsteps. Any more over there? Pete asked.

Reuben couldn’t figure. Nothing wrong with the gig, no reason to leave it behind.

Worried beyond his usual concern when Sary did things impulsively without telling him, this time he feared trouble. Sweat poured from his brow and his mouth tightened. His eyes lost focus as his mind imagined shadowy buffoons led by William snatching her mare and leading her off to God knows where.

The sound of hooves and a dark cloud of dust announced approaching horses. Someone’s coming over the hill. Pete raised his pistol. Several riders, can’t tell who.

Halloo. Halloo.

Reuben sharpened his eyes and in the dim lantern light recognized James Logan.

Sary’s at our house, James told Reuben quickly. Ain’t hurt. Camy’s got her resting.

Relief flooded Reuben and then he muttered angrily to himself. Can’t be a next time. When will she learn she can’t go off alone? Don’t matter the reason.

My men will bring your gig back, James offered. We will ride home faster if we don’t drag your old bucket.

Late in the evening, Sarah woke to find Camy at the door looking to the yard where lanterns bobbed in the dark as riders brought their horses to the house. Sarah stirred at the sound of heavy footsteps on the porch and joined Camy to see the men enter.

Sarah embraced Reuben and felt his large protective hands cupped around her face. Sary, you all right?

We caught up with Reuben and Pete where you left your gig, James explained.

What were you thinking riding alone? Reuben scolded.

I was so upset with Papa last night, the only thing I could think was to get to Mama before he turned her against us. Tears rolled from Sarah’s eyes, her shaky voice almost inaudible. But I was too late. Papa wouldn’t allow Mama to let me in.

2

Mama, Did You Hear Me Cry

Alone in her bedroom, Sarah sobbed until she had no more tears to shed. At her writing table, quill in hand, she slowly let the words in her heart speak.

Dear Mama,                                                            7 August 1779

Only with the heaviest of heart, do I write to you this morning. Surely, in God’s holy name, you have not closed your heart to me. That I cannot even think possible. Though my sense from yesterday’s painful journey tells me something terribly woesome, I cannot, nor will not, believe what was before my eyes. Your blood beats within my heart. I am your daughter, the babe you carried in your lap through Virginia and North Carolina when Grandpa settled this land and left his legacy for all Sherrills. Three generations crossed the Catawba on that raft so long ago, and my soul lies deep within the very soil I walk. I’m a Sherrill and my family is all of you.

The Lord says when a husband and wife marry, they leave their family and cleave to one another, which I did, with your blessing, when I was but sixteen. Reuben’s a good man—not of radical politik, but one whose every thought is our care. His fierce loyalty is my treasure. He’s the rock of the mountain and not the quick sand of the shore.

There is no room in my heart for hate for either the rebel or the loyalist. Let those who are of the heavy passions of politik light the tinder of hate; I will live in the love of God and my family. I tremble at the thought of losing you, but you have not lost a daughter. I beg your heart to find its way to keep me in your bosom and that we will stand before the Lord’s judgment as one.

MAMA, DID YOU HEAR ME CRY? You cannot close the shutter on my love for you. I will love you until I take my last breath.

Love, Sarah

She wiped the nib and rubbed her fingers fondly over the quilled lines so she could feel she actually talked to Mama. She heard the sound of Reuben’s boots heavy on the stairs and the knob turn as he entered. With his dark thick hair neatly combed, his tight olive green linen breeches tucked precisely over his long, white stockings, and his Holland shirt tailored to his lean frame, his muscles appeared sinewy like tough garden vines. Not a man to be casual about anything, Reuben was a studied man, more at home with his cousin’s borrowed books than in the fields. Sometimes when Sarah wanted comfort, he was slow to show emotion unless Truth and Religion were involved.

You’ve stirred early, Reuben said joining Sarah at her writing table. Looking toward the mirror, Sarah didn’t think herself pretty like Camy. She gave the impression of sturdiness and perhaps handsome described her best. Her features were distinct: broad, dark eyebrows, deep set eyes that brooked no nonsense, a straight forthright nose, a firm jaw—all in harmony with her rudely-educated opinions which she expressed strongly and openly.

She liked fine fabrics and the fragrance of roses. She wore an embroidered chemise night dress with lavender satin drawstrings at the neck smelling faintly of the dried rose petals she scattered in her chest of drawers, and in heart-shaped cachets hung with her dresses. Fine lace encircled her wrists. Her slim ankles and trim feet were tucked into lavender slippers matching the satin of the chemise drawstrings.

Didn’t sleep the rest of the night. Can’t get out of my mind Mama closing her shutter. She’s shut me out for good. Reuben kissed her and nuzzled her neck. I smell roses.

He asked, Are you sure? Won’t she reconsider when all this ends?

Papa won’t let her. Reuben, when is this trouble going to end? She wished it had never started. She wanted it to be a dream, a very bad dream that never happened. Dreams confounded her. She had to be asleep for dreams to come and of late she slept barely at all. Instead, nightmares prowled like panthers both night and day.

Don’t rightly know, Sary, but the British soon will demand surrender.

Papa doesn’t think it’s a lost cause. Was the Allegiance that bad? Couldn’t you sign but stay neutral? Some say others are doing just that.

Everyone knows everyone else. There’s no keeping a secret. You’ve heard your Papa count them off. Truth is, rebels are getting whipped.

Sarah felt Reuben’s stubbornness. She wasn’t convinced of Reuben’s view that standing apart from either side would be as hard for them as choosing the wrong side. He argued neutrals wouldn’t please anybody—regardless of which side won, there’d be no victories for neutrals. Only losses.

Nightly, Sarah and Reuben discussed the looming troubles—never quite agreeing. She saw Reuben doubtful the rebels, with only a militia of volunteers and the Tories with half as many more British soldiers and sympathizers, had any chance of winning. Besides, he insisted, he and everyone else previously signed a loyalty oath to King George as a condition for owning land, and it didn’t make sense to sign two oaths each exactly opposite the other. Land depended on King George, or at least his mercenaries, and although she knew Reuben disagreed frequently with taxes and conscription, he thought English law better than no law.

Sarah was not amused. How can you be so sure?

Reuben countered, I’d lick King George’s shoe rather than pass the time of day with King George Washington.

Loyalty means something. Reuben kept his usual style which told Sarah he’d studied the options and possessed the Truth for their family.

His righteous voice irritated Sarah. She had scarcely known Reuben’s father since he died when Reuben was young. Even so, she suspected if she closed her eyes, she wouldn’t be able to differentiate between Reuben and his father speaking. Baptists were like that; they were right, everyone else was wrong. She believed devoutly, but did Baptists always have to be so right?

You have to understand, Sary, if we want to survive when the British begin their big wipe-up, we better be with them. They don’t have nowhere to put prisoners—they’ll kill anyone against them.

Sarah frowned and started to walk away from an argument she didn’t want to hear. To her discomfort, Reuben continued. Sary, if it helps any, John and Nic say there’s no doubt in their minds the British are winning—says there isn’t much left of the South—no regular Patriot regiments exist anymore, only a few militias and most of those are farmers going home instead of fighting. The end will be here soon.

Do you believe them? she asked sharply. She doubted Colonel John Moore had the power to win the war, and felt he believed only what benefited him. She detested Nic, the pompous Major Welch. In her mind, an ounce, or more to the truth of the matter, a pound, of skepticism was in order when considering what either of them said.

Yes, I believe them. Without question.

Sarah shrugged, passed by Reuben without another word, and went to see if Skeeta had breakfast on the table.

Built over a