If Ponies Rode Men: A Soldier’S Story

By Sylvia Goodrum

Unable to find work in London in 1771, Samuel Daniels comes to America as an indentured servant to farmer Silas Weatherby. Although Weatherby is nothing but generous and kind, Samuel wants more in life than the lowly position of farmhand. But he will not repay Weatherbys kindness by breaking his agreement, and he stays on until his indenture is fulfilled.

Meanwhile, rebellion rages through the colonies, and Samuel sees his chance to secure his future. He joins the Continental Army, and his fi rst day in camp forms a friendship with a man named Spencer. A few days later, outside Hartford, Connecticut, he befriends a twelve-year-old orphan and forms another lasting friendship. Th ough life as a soldier isnt what he thought it would be, Samuel savors his independence and earning his own income. But the reality of war intrudes as they struggle against the cold and the British.

Wounded at Saratoga, Samuel is cared for by the beautiful Mary Elizabethand he cant help but fall in love with her. But she is promised to Samuels good friend and fellow soldier, Jeptha Isaacson. Confused and tormented, Samuel decides to return to his unit before he is fully healed.

Dark days lie ahead on the battlefield, and now, Samuel must fight for the birth of a new nation, one where he will finally find true freedom.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jul 24, 2012
• ISBN: 9781475938364

Sylvia Goodrum

Sylvia Goodrum resides in Houston, Texas. She studied journalism and creative writing in high school, Houston Community College, and the University of Connecticut. She has two sons, a daughter, and six grandchildren.

Book preview

IF PONIES

RODE MEN

A Soldier’s Story

Sylvia Goodrum

iUniverse, Inc.

Bloomington

If Ponies Rode Men

A Soldier’s Story

Copyright © 2012 Sylvia Goodrum

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.

Certain characters in this work are historical figures, and certain events portrayed did take place. However, this is a work of fiction. All of the other characters, names, and events as well as all places, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. If there are only a few historical figures or actual events in the novel, the disclaimer could name them.

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ISBN: 978-1-4759-3835-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-3837-1 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-3836-4 (e)

Contents

Prologue

PART ONE Servant to Soldier

Chapter 1 A Proposition

Chapter 2 Camp Life

Chapter 3 Trenton

Chapter 4 Saratoga

Chapter 5 The Last Time I Saw Murphy

PART TWO Miles Through the Night

Chapter 6 What About Mary Elizabeth?

Chapter 7 On the Road to Allentown

Chapter 8 Yorktown

Chapter 9 Hampton

PART THREE The Long Road Back

Chapter 10 Discharged at Last

Chapter 11 Reunion

Chapter 12 Samuel’s Here

Chapter 13 Plans

Chapter 14 The Visitor

Chapter 15 Nature’s Revenge

Chapter 16 More Angry Storms

Chapter 17 Samuel’s Dilemma

Chapter 18 Savior

Chapter 19 Mountain Blizzard

Chapter 20 Food

Chapter 21 Journey’s End

PART FOUR Over the Dawn

Chapter 22 Meet the Dalrymple Girls

Chapter 23 Jeptha’s Ordeal

Chapter 24 Bridget Comes Calling

Chapter 25 A White Horse for Magma

Chapter 26 An Unwelcome Guest

Chapter 27 Jeptha in the Balance

Chapter 28 Boy in Peril

Chapter 29 What a Tangled Web

Chapter 30 Samuel, Won’t You Help Me?

Chapter 31 A Bride for Jeptha

Chapter 32 Au Revoir, Johnny

Prologue

APRIL 1771

Samuel Daniels first met Silas Weatherby while examining fruit in a busy London market. When their hands touched reaching for the same orange, Samuel smiled at him. The old man smiled too, and then he introduced himself as Silas Weatherby and the charming young lady with him as his daughter Lydia. You take the orange, he said amicably. I’ll find another.

Samuel said, Thank you, and walked away, trying to keep his eyes off Lydia. He found the young lady’s dark hair and blue eyes appealing, not to mention her stylish clothing. Suddenly self-conscious of his shabby tweed coat and too-short corduroy trousers, he hastened his pace.

He ran into Mr. Weatherby a few days later at the docks, while seeking work on one of the many ships that were preparing to sail. Mr. Weatherby touched his shoulder. I overheard that you are looking for work, young man, he said. Would you consider going to America and working for me?

The words stunned Samuel. Doing what? he asked.

You would be an indentured servant for four years helping with my farm. After that you would be free to do whatever you please.

Questions popped into Samuel’s mind. What was an indentured servant? Who would pay his passage? He had no money. How would he get home? Let me discuss it with my family, he stammered.

Very well, Mr. Weatherby replied. My ship sails in four days. Why don’t you meet me here day after tomorrow to give me your decision? With that he handed Samuel a copy of the indentured servant agreement.

At home that evening, Samuel studied the legal document Mr. Weatherby had given to him. Holder of the contract must furnish him with food, clothing, and shelter. That made sense. He couldn’t marry during the period of servanthood. The contract gave Mr. Weatherby the right to physically punish him. Well, he couldn’t visualize Mr. Weatherby inflicting physical punishment on him if he did his work properly, and he had no intention to marry. When he fulfilled the contract, he would be given freedom dues by Mr. Weatherby and become a free American, able to buy and sell. However, the word property seemed to choke him. It struck Samuel with an unexpected ferocity. If he signed the contract, his life would no longer be his own. Like land, livestock, and machinery, he would be nothing more than property. On the other hand, if he came up with fifteen pounds British within twenty-one days after his arrival in America, he would be free. How in the world could he raise that much money?

Yet what choice did he have? With a widowed mother of seven children at home in London, servitude to grant him entrance to America was a small price to pay to release his family from the burden he placed on them. Thus with hesitant strokes, he scrawled his name at the bottom of the page. He accepted Mr. Weatherby’s offer as an indentured servant and refused to look back.

So it was that six days before his eighteenth birthday, Samuel Daniels, along with Mr. Weatherby and Lydia, set sail for America, the wondrous new land that promised opportunity to British commoners.

Day after day, the sailing ship bounced about on the waves of the Atlantic until Samuel decided it would never stop. At night, he had trouble falling asleep, disturbed by the constant heaving of the ship and the doubts and dreams that filled his head. The terrible seasickness of his shipmates perturbed him too. It seemed some of them spent the entire trip leaning over the rails. He thanked God he did not suffer the same sickness.

The ocean voyage finally ended on the sixtieth day. Islands around Boston Harbor forced the ship to approach from the southeast. Long before they docked, Samuel caught the scent of the slimy fishing boats and prayed it didn’t invoke one last bout of sickness for his fellow travelers. The setting sun almost blinded him. His hand shading his eyes, he ignored it, elated at the glimpse of the city that would be his home. After so many days at sea, he thought it the most welcoming sight that had ever appeared before his eyes.

An old man, whom Mr. Weatherby introduced as Zekiel, waited for Samuel to disembark. Samuel took an immediate liking to Zekiel, probably because he was a servant too. He led them to a carriage with large wheels; the vehicle was open on all sides, but it had a covered top. Surely, Samuel thought, the top keeps out the sun but offers little protection from rain. While he helped Lydia inside, she whispered, It’s called a phaeton.

Lydia and her father rode in the backseat of the carriage. Samuel rode up front with Zekiel—or in other words, the two servants rode together. Samuel thought that he might as well get accustomed to thinking of himself as a servant, because that’s what he was. Humiliating as it seemed, Samuel Daniels, once the son of a well-to-do diamond merchant, was now property. Quickly forcing the thoughts from his mind, Samuel concentrated on the countryside. Much of it had been cleared and turned into farmland, now lush with crops, mostly maize, barley, clover, and alfalfa. Gardens grew close to the cottages, colorful with corn, tomatoes, zucchini, green onions, and eggplant. Most of the dwellings were small, no more than two rooms, and children frolicked about the clearings, running in and out of the unspoiled wooded areas, reminding him of his childhood on the outskirts of London. A wave of homesickness almost overwhelmed him, but he forced it aside as well, determined to love his new home. Thoughts of his future excited him, and he intended to keep it that way.

At last, they came to a fork in the road, and Zekiel reined the horses to the right. His first glimpse of his new home exceeded all his expectations. It must have had at least ten rooms and several outbuildings. A lady came from one of them, her dark face beaming. Welcome home, Mistah Weathby and Miss Lydia. It’s mighty good ta see y’all. She helped Lydia from the carriage while Zekiel and Samuel started unloading the trunks.

He planned to write Mother the first chance he had and tell her all about it.

PART ONE

Servant to Soldier

Chapter 1

A Proposition

NOVEMBER 30, 1776

Samuel Daniels tugged the reins and brought the wagon to a halt. For the last mile, fierce winds had kept the horses plodding along with their heads down and Samuel constantly tugging at his cape. Hoping to spot a familiar landmark, he stood and glanced around in the whiteness. Except for swirling snowflakes, he saw nothing. Perhaps he had veered off course. Finally, he stepped onto the wagon wheel and jumped. His boots were buried in ankle-deep snow, but he hardly noticed the icy chill. His feet had been numb almost from the time he left Boston. A few paces forward, he knelt and swept away the snow, searching for any sign of the trail. He should have paid closer attention—not let his mind wander—especially after a sleepless night. However, he couldn’t help thinking about what he’d done. Last night he had become a man—at least he would become one at the year’s end. Every time he thought about it, his heart beat a little faster.

The first time Samuel heard the urgent plea, the gray-haired old stable master whispered in his ear, Would ye be interested in joinin’ up with the Continental Army? When Samuel nodded slightly, he pulled a dog-eared petition from inside his shirt and handed it to Samuel. General Washington offered good pay and land to any able-bodied man willing to volunteer for long-term enlistment. The same thing happened for the rest of the day. Wherever Samuel went, shopkeepers passed the word to him, along with admonitions for utmost secrecy lest one of General Gage’s soldiers should hear.

Throughout Boston, reason for secrecy was obvious enough. Redcoats were visible on every street. British ships filled the harbor. Since Samuel’s last visit, quartering laws had forced Bostonians to give up their homes to house the influx of troops. Only a few businessmen and shopkeepers remained, making a feeble effort to protect their livelihood.

As Samuel started to leave, haughty Redcoats delayed him for almost an hour while they searched the wagon. Half his supplies were gone by the time they finally raised the iron gate and allowed him to pass through. Thank goodness, he had hidden Mr. Weatherby’s tea in a tiny cache beneath the seat. The soldiers arrested any man caught with tea not bearing the British stamp.

The plight of his new countrymen incensed Samuel, but it had little bearing on his decision. He didn’t stay awake agonizing about what he should do. He had already done it. Sleeplessness came from excitement. Under cover of darkness in the woods south of Cambridge, he volunteered for Captain Fleming’s Company, Sixth Massachusetts Regiment, commanded by Colonel Jacob Oliver. The name Samuel Daniels was officially on the roster.

Yesterday, the Continental Army had given him the opportunity to change his status as servant. For the first time in his life, Samuel Daniels would earn money—his very own money—and when his enlistment was up, he would be a landowner. The soil he tilled, the crops he planted, tended, and harvested, would be his, not somebody else’s. Most important of all, he would be a man, not property. In spite of being lost in a storm, Samuel had much for which to be thankful. Right there, as he knelt in the road, or wherever he was, he bowed his head. With a blizzard howling about him, Samuel Elisha Charles Morgan Daniels did just that. He thanked God. Winds whisk the words away as they came from his lips, but nothing could whisk away their truth. After four long humiliating years, he would finally become a man—a strong, able-bodied, free man.

Finally lifting his head, Samuel decided the snow was too deep to find the trail. In the few minutes since he hopped from the wagon, his footprints had all but disappeared. Flakes now swirled with greater fury. Dark would come soon—earlier because of the blizzard. Wearily, he climbed back onto the wagon seat. Perhaps if he let the horses have their head, they would find their way home. When he snapped the reins, without raising their heads, the team trudged slowly onward through the storm.

Soon, Samuel’s thoughts returned to what he’d done last night. Undoubtedly, Mr. Weatherby would be saddened and upset. Samuel didn’t relish the thought of telling him. The old man considered him the son he never had.

Breaking the news to Lydia posed an even more unpleasant task. Over the years, he and Lydia had grown fond of one another. Although he wouldn’t admit it to her, or to himself, Samuel loved her and he knew she loved him too—sweet, beautiful Lydia, in every way his opposite. She had dark hair; he had light. She had deep blue eyes; he had brown. Most intriguingly different, she was female and he was male. There was also a distressing difference—a difference he could never overcome. She was heiress to a fortune. He was her servant. Definitely, the task awaiting Samuel at the end of his journey would not be pleasant.

When the horses abruptly turned north, Samuel knew they had reached the crossroad. In a few minutes, he would be out of the blizzard. Relieved, his thoughts turned to the warmth of the fireside and a steaming bowl of Lisha’s stew.

Before he stopped in front of the barn, Zekiel came from the servants’ house, a blanket covering his head and wrapped tightly about him. He had been waiting. He must have the ears of a dog to hear the wagon above the roaring wind. Go on insi’, Sam’l. Leave da unloadin’ ta me. Lisha, she done kep yo’ suppa waitin’. Ol’ Zeke take keer da hosses an’ unload da wagin.

Samuel didn’t argue. Perhaps he should. Zekiel was getting on in years, and undoubtedly he had spent a few hours in the freezing weather too. Hunger and cold overruled his affection for the old servant.

As Samuel stood on the sheltered back porch stomping snow from his boots, Lisha’s black nose pressed against the windowpane. Before he could open the door, she jerked it open. The smell of the anticipated stew greeted him. We done been right worried about yo’, Masteh Sam’l, Lisha said.

The storm’s mighty bad.

Samuel smiled at her anxious face. Mighty bad, Lisha. In the open doorway, he removed the invernessinverness and shook snowflakes onto the back porch. Lisha busied herself cutting hot corn bread into wedges. Deciding not to go upstairs just yet, Samuel rolled his sleeves up at the kitchen washstand. He preferred it to the hand-painted porcelain bowl and pitcher Lydia had bought for his bedchamber. By the time he finished washing, supper waited on the table.

While he ate, Lisha leaned against the cupboard, her arms folded beneath her ample bosom, waiting for him to finish. Mastah Weathe’by say come up when yo’ finish eatin’.

I’ll do that, Lisha. You go on before the storm gets worse. It won’t ruin the bowl and spoon to wait washing until morning.

When Samuel finished the stew, he took time to wash his face and make himself presentable. In front of the long oval mirror in the hallway, he smoothed his neatly cropped hair and finally climbed the stairs to Mr. Weatherby’s bedchamber. Outside the door, he paused and knocked softly, waiting until he heard the faint, Is that you at last, Samuel?

The old man slumped on several pillows, about half sitting and half lying down. Come on in and sit with me. Samuel closed the door and sat on the bed facing him. Mr. Weatherby reached his wrinkled hand to take Samuel’s hand. Did you have a pleasant journey?

Very pleasant except for the storm. Then it was somewhat cold and wearying. It’s good to be back.

Did you manage to get all the supplies?

Not all of them, sir. Supplies are scarce right now. No goods come from England these days, you know. But we’ll manage with what I bought.

Did you bring tea?

The question brought a smile to Samuel’s face. I brought tea, sir. I know your fondness for it. I wouldn’t have come without it, if I had to travel all the way to Philadelphia.

The aged face brightened noticeably. He squeezed Samuel’s hand and then held it in both of his.

I had to do a bit of bartering, Samuel said, being cautious how he chose his next words. He wasn’t ready just yet to break the news. Not at bedtime—morning would be soon enough. Perhaps next trip you will not be so fortunate. You should prepare for it.

For a while, Mr. Weatherby closed his eyes, and Samuel thought he had fallen asleep. He seemed somewhat stronger than two days ago when he had left for Boston. Tired and eager for sleep too, Samuel laid the wrinkly hands aside and pulled the quilt to cover them. Careful not to disturb his rest, Samuel slipped from the bed. The old gentleman opened his eyes. Before you go, tell me, do you bring news of the war?

I bring news of the war, but you are tired. Perhaps it would be best to wait until morning.

Is it not going well?

It’s not going at all, sir. Just small skirmishes here and about. Major fighting has ceased until spring. British soldiers find American winters a bit too harsh. He wouldn’t mention all enlistments expired at the year’s end—that already many men had gone home and would not be returning, and that General Washington was frantically seeking volunteers. Not yet; tomorrow was soon enough. Besides that, fields covered with snow offer no grazing. Their animals would starve.

Ah, so it is. Troops will be demanding our stores, I suppose.

We have fodder to spare. Don’t concern yourself with that; your stock will eat well.

For a few seconds Mr. Weatherby smiled contentedly. Again, Samuel stood to leave. Again, the old man stopped him. Tell me what’s troubling you, son.

Troubling me, Samuel said evasively. What could possibly be troubling me?

I don’t know, Samuel. That’s why I asked. Tell me, or I shall not sleep a wink.

Still Samuel hesitated. Mr. Weatherby was tired and needed rest.

Come on, lad. Out with it.

Samuel took a few deep breaths and hesitated some more. I fear you will not sleep a wink if I do tell you.

Pulling his hands from beneath the quilts, the old man reached to take his hand once more. Am I so old I cannot tolerate news?

Even as he signed the enlistment papers, Samuel had dreaded this moment. Sir, he said, General Washington did not foresee the fighting would last so long. Enlistments will end with the year. When fighting resumes, without more volunteers the army will be much too small. The colonies will surely fall and condemn those who dared oppose King George to certain death.

That is General Washington’s worry, Samuel. Not yours. For a long moment, Mr. Weatherby studied him before his weary eyes slowly clouded. What have you done, son?

He might as well tell him. The two of them had spent too many hours together—knew one another too well, like father and son. The old man knew. Already, disapproval darkened his face. At the end of the month, I shall be leaving. While in Boston, I volunteered.

Mr. Weatherby stared as though he couldn’t believe what Samuel had said. A strange expression, part anguish, part anger, slowly crept over his face. After a while, without a word or hint of forgiveness, his eyelids drooped and covered his eyes. For a long time, Samuel waited, wishing the man would say something. When he didn’t, Samuel finally left the room. At least he had that unpleasant duty behind him. However, Samuel knew that soon Mr. Weatherby would have words on the subject—do everything in his power to persuade him to change his mind. As he crossed the hall to his room, a premonition made Samuel fear what those words might be.

When he opened the door, glowing embers in the fireplace greeted him. Zekiel had laid a fire for his return. Well fed and cozy, Samuel was soon overtaken by fatigue from the daylong journey. He quickly undressed and climbed into bed. Snuggled beneath the quilts, with embers bathing the room in soft and soothing warmth, Samuel fell asleep.

Brilliant sunshine, along with smells of coffee and sizzling ham, woke Samuel. Even before he opened his eyes, exciting images of the future greeted him. Tossing the quilts aside, he hurriedly took two logs from the bin and knelt to place them on the smoldering coals. He might as well be warm. After the harvest, he had chopped enough wood to warm the family for two winters. Humming a happy tune, he quickly shaved and dressed.

Before he reached the kitchen, Lydia intercepted him on the stairs. I don’t know what’s come over Father, but he would like you to help him down to breakfast this morning.

Lydia seemed surprised at the change in routine, but it didn’t surprise Samuel at all. Last night’s silence was a ploy to give the old man time to plan a strategy. Samuel knew a confrontation was bound to come, though perhaps not so quickly.

Now it would start—the long, tiresome battle, the battle that prompted his hasty decision in Boston for fear that Mr. Weatherby could wear him down. No matter how much or how long the man quibbled, Samuel had left himself no means of escape. Once he signed the enlistment papers, he couldn’t turn back.

Afraid that Mr. Weatherby’s legs would fail, Samuel wrapped his strong arm about his feeble body to steady him. Slowly, they inched down the long spiraling staircase and into the dining room. Lydia pulled a chair from the table and waited until Samuel lowered her father into it.

Since Mr. Weatherby’s health started to fail, Samuel usually ate in the kitchen alone while father and daughter breakfasted in bed. However, this morning the three of them would eat together in the dining room. From Samuel’s first day, Mr. Weatherby insisted he eat with the family—insisted he was family. A sudden wave of guilt gripped Samuel’s heart. His resolve weakened.

Stacks of buckwheat cakes and huge slices of ham awaited them. Lydia and Samuel had coffee, leaving the tea for Mr. Weatherby. When tea became scarce, knowing the old man’s craving for it, Samuel gave it up. What little he managed to buy, he wanted to go to the family. Soon after, Lydia gave it up too.

As always at mealtime, the three bowed their heads. Instead of blessing the food, Mr. Weatherby thanked God for giving him a son in his old age. Then he proceeded to thank him for each of Samuel’s virtues: loyalty, faithful service, kindheartedness, willingness to labor and toil hour after hour without complaint, willingness to carry on alone when an old man no longer had the strength. Inwardly, Samuel began to squirm. The list went on and on. Next, he pleaded with God not to take this treasure—his only son—away. When he begged God to please make Samuel understand what his leaving would do to a worn-out old man, Samuel opened his eyes a little to see how Lydia was taking it. Her eyes were wide open and fixed on Samuel. His resolve weakened more. He wished God would make the man shut up. Finally, Mr. Weatherby finished the prayer. When he lifted his head, tears were streaming down his wrinkled old face.

Staring at Samuel in blank shock, Lydia passed the buckwheat cakes, the ham, and then the maple syrup. They each filled their plate. Nobody ate. Nobody spoke. Samuel’s resolve was almost too weak to carry on. Against that possibility, he purposely had left himself no way out, but he never had anticipated Mr. Weatherby would be so undone. If possible, he would repent, yield, and admit defeat. It wasn’t possible. He had signed his name on the enlistment papers. His heart in shambles, unable to face Mr. Weatherby or Lydia, Samuel squirmed visibly.

After a long time, Mr. Weatherby said, Help me to the library, Samuel.

Slowly, Samuel pushed away from the table. The prayer was only the beginning. Now the real tribulation would come.

Inside the library, behind closed doors, Samuel waited quietly. Absentmindedly staring at the book-filled shelves, he tried to regroup his battered emotions. Before things grew better, they would grow much worse.

Despite all his preparation, Samuel was ill prepared for what happened next. He had expected the old man to sit behind his desk acting and looking pitiful while he attempted to wear him down—beseeching until he surrendered in defeat. Instead, looking amazingly vigorous, Mr. Weatherby said, I have a proposition for you, son.

Again, Samuel fidgeted, ran his fingers through his hair, rubbed his thigh a few times, and finally asked, What kind of proposition?

God saw fit to give me daughters, all married now except Lydia. Remembering last night’s premonition, Samuel realized what the man had to say. Perhaps God had revealed it to give him a little advance notice. My sons-in-law are riotous, mindless, pleasure-seeking men. They are not sons to me. You’re the one who treated me as a proper son should. Before the ship docked in Boston harbor, I considered you my son. He choked, and tears came into his eyes again, but he sat erect and looked as healthy as he had the day Samuel arrived in America.

I’m aware of that and am most grateful, Samuel said. But sons inevitably leave home, sir. A man must make his own way in the world.

As if Samuel hadn’t said a word, Mr. Weatherby continued, Marry Lydia and right now, this minute, I will deed you this farm, the livestock, the crops, everything I own.

Suddenly, Samuel was speechless. Although he knew the words were on the way, once Mr. Weatherby spoke them, they stunned him. How could he tell the man he could never marry his daughter? He couldn’t tell him. When he tried, the words stuck in his throat. Shaken, but determined, he avoided the subject. Sir, I made a commitment.

If Mr. Weatherby listened at all, Samuel’s statement had little impact. Sounding stronger than ever, the old man said, I have seen your eyes when you look at her. You find Lydia a suitable wife.

That is true, sir. I find Lydia quite suitable, proper in all her ways and most attractive. I find her a splendid young lady.

Then it’s settled.

No, sir. It is not settled. I cannot marry her—not on those terms. Lydia is too fine for you to barter for a plot of land … but that’s hardly the point. You don’t seem to understand, I made a commitment to the Continental Army. I honored my commitment to you, and now you must allow me to honor the commitment I made to my new country. Samuel paused, waiting for a response. After a long time, when Mr. Weatherby offered none, he finally asked, Did you hear what I said? I honored my commitment to you, and now I must honor my commitment to the revolution. Right before his eyes, the old man wilted. You’re not well, sir. Let me help you back to bed.

Looking sickly and conquered, Mr. Weatherby said, I offered you everything I have, my son, and you refused it. Even so, when you are gone, I shall have nothing left. Please ask Zekiel to help me back to bed.

What was left of Samuel’s resolve completely disappeared. He realized his refusal to accept Mr. Weatherby’s worldly possessions and Lydia to wife was the ultimate rejection to the man. Likewise, refusing Samuel’s help was Mr. Weatherby’s ultimate rejection of him. He never spoke with his former master again.

After finding Zekiel, Samuel waited in the kitchen. When Zekiel had the old man safely upstairs, Samuel went upstairs too. He wasn’t due to report for duty until the first of the year, but he might as well get his things together and go.

Saddened, he stood at the chiffonier for a long time, staring at the rack of clothing, all provided by Mr. Weatherby. Any garments brought from England soon had become too small as he grew older and hard work on the farm developed his muscles. His owner generously met all his needs, whether for clothing, shoes, food, haircuts, or comfort. Reaching his fingers, Samuel stroked the soft wool of the suit Mr. Weatherby had tailored for his twenty-first birthday. He remembered the pleasure on his kindly face while the tailor had him stand with arms outstretched to measure a perfect fit. Mr. Weatherby never realized his gracious gift heaped more shame on Samuel’s sorely humiliated soul. He loathed hurting the old man worse than he had ever loathed anything. His love and respect for the man were as deep as the love and respect he once held for his father. Perhaps someday, Mr. Weatherby would understand that the time always came when a son must move on and become a man.

Parting with Lydia would be just as painful. Now that she knew, he might as well face her too. Samuel quickly shed the fine black wool breeches and stiff linen shirt. The shoes with shiny silver buckles must go, in favor of simpler and more serviceable boots. He slipped into plain cotton breeches and donned a brown homespun shirt. After taking the woolen inverness, he closed the wardrobe for the last time. He had come here with nothing but what he