Newgate Prison Copper Mines and The Irish Lass - A 1700s Colonial America Sweet Romance Novella: Connecticut Revolutionary War Historic Romantic Tale, #1

By Lisa Shea

The Colony of Connecticut in 1773. Christina O'Donovan's beloved older brother was dead. Her father, a veteran of the French and Indian War, was injured and unable to keep up with the family farm. And so she'd reluctantly agreed to a marriage with a miner who worked at the local Simsbury copper mines. His courtship was a business transaction - nothing more.

 

But when Seth somehow slipped and fell, descending a ladder he'd traversed a thousand times before, Christina was drawn into a maze of subterfuge she never could have imagined coming.

 

And at its center stood William Johnson Crawford, a New Hampshire man who would change her life forever.

 

...

 

Newgate Prison Copper Mines and the The Irish Lass - A 1700s Colonial America Sweet Romance Novella is a historical series set around the real-life copper mines in Simbsbury, Connecticut. In the late 1700s these mines had been run dry. They were then converted into the infamous Newgate Prison, one of the first federal attempts in the new United States to hold and incarcerate dangerous men. These mines were notorious in their own time, spawning delightfully adjective-rich newspaper write-ups as well as terror amongst the Tories who were threatened with a stay. 

 

The history and many characters are as authentic as I can make them. William Johnson Crawford is a documented person from this timeframe.

 

You can read these novellas one at a time as I write them, or you can wait until I finish the boxed set and present the complete story. Some readers prefer to read as I go, while others like to wait. It's wholly up to you which you prefer!

 

Contact me with any questions - I'd love to hear your feedback and ideas! And definitely make plans to visit Newgate when you can. It is an absolutely amazing experience, to descend into those historic copper mines and to feel what it was like.
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lisa Shea
• Release date: Aug 16, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393820314

Lisa Shea

I love writing in a variety of genres. I currently have over 300 books published in all lengths from full 500+ page novels down to short stories. I love writing series. Some are with unconnected characters, like the 14 full-length medieval novels with a sword being passed from heroine to heroine. Some have connected characters, like the 31 mini-mysteries featuring a detective in Salem, Massachusetts. All of my books are written "clean" with no explicit intimacy, no harsh language, and no explicit violence. All are suitable for teens and up.For a full listing of my books please visit:http://www.lisashea.com/lisabase/writing/gettingyourbookpublished/lisalibrary.html

Book preview

Author’s Note

In 1707, an intrepid group of businessmen in northwestern Connecticut tried their luck at copper mining. They dug a 25-foot shaft straight down and then began mining sideways from there. Wherever the copper veins ran, in whatever twisting direction, the miners followed.

By 1773 the copper had been depleted and the meandering mine tunnels lay empty. In the meantime, rebellion was fomenting throughout the colonies, and along with it, new lofty ideals. Rather than lopping off hands of criminals or killing them outright, the thought arose to simply lock them away from society for a while.

The mines seemed the perfect solution.

A tavern lay right across the street from the mine entrance. John Viets, the owner, had worked the mines himself in his younger years. Now he offered to act as guard for whatever miscreants would be tossed within. After all, it shouldn’t be that hard. You send a man down the shaft, lock the top, and in he stays.

And thus begins my story.

A number of the characters mentioned in this tale are based on real people. The Newgate copper-mines-turned-prison are real and can be visited in person, with the benefit of modern stairs, too. I highly recommend making the trip to experience those twisting tunnels for yourself.

What follows is a fictionalized tale of what might have happened back in these vibrant, tempestuous times, based on contemporary accounts, newspaper reports, court records, and a healthy dose of my own imagination. I grew up in Connecticut and now live right next door in Massachusetts. I adore these wooded rolling hills with a deep-seated passion.

To learn more about the Newgate mines-turned-prison and their history, be sure to check out my Appendices.

Now, on to the story!

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Chapter One

You never miss the water

until the well has run dry

- Irish Proverb

Simsbury, Connecticut Colony

October 31, 1773

Christina kept a steady hand on the reins as the wagon made fresh tracks through the ever-deepening snow. The pale afternoon sun was barely visible through the gray clouds and tumbling flakes around her. She tucked her flame-red hair back beneath her cap and pulled her cloak in against her fawn brown hemp dress. In all her twenty-four years, she’d never seen a storm come up as quick as this. There’d been no hint of it when they left the house for church this morning.

And now on their return trip, only four hours later, here they were, deep in the thick of it.

Beside her, her father pulled his blanket more tightly around his frail body, his rheumy eyes barely peering out through the folds.

She pressed her lips together. Somehow they would make it home.

She wished for the hundredth time that Seth had been with them at church. Her fiancé knew well that he could be fined for non-attendance; the rules here in Connecticut were more stringent than they were in his native Rhode Island. She had no doubt that it was his overseer at the copper mines who had violated the Lord’s Sabbath and forced Seth to work.

She offered her gratitude to God that the mines were finally closing down. Seth would be free of Mr. Richardson for once and for all. And then, in a few weeks when they were married, there would be plenty enough to keep Seth busy.

After all, the roof needed mending before winter came on full force. The barn could use its share of repairs, too. When spring finally arrived, they’d have his strong hands and back available to properly plow the fields. To plant the tobacco. To turn the farm back into a healthy, solvent enterprise.

The wagon skidded, and her heart hammered against her ribs. She gently called out, Careful there, Esther. Mind your footing.

The mare whinnied and moved back on course.

Christina willed her shoulders to relax. One more mile. One more mile and they’d reach the two-and-a-half-story saltbox which her grandfather had built with his very own hands. She’d get the horse and wagon into the barn, get her father settled in his chair by the fire, and at last she’d be able to ease. She’d read to him his favorite passages from the Bible. Maybe of the Exodus. He always enjoyed that, perhaps because it mirrored his own parents’ flight from Ireland.

Or maybe, on a snowy afternoon like this, he’d prefer the Song of Solomon. It always brought back memories for him of her mother – his beloved wife, who had died in childbirth along with Christina’s stillborn younger brother.

Christina had only been five. Still, she remembered how joyful the family had been up until that moment. How she and her older brother had eagerly looked forward to the arrival of the bairn.

And now she was the only one left.

She squinted against the snow and kept a steady hand on the reins.

Just one more mile. They were close.

The mare stepped steadily through the deep snow, each hoof leaving a deep furrow in its wake.

The oak and maple glistened as the weight of the snow pulled them curving across the width of the road. Many still had their autumn leaves on them, providing surface for the flakes to gather on. The arch was almost magical in its appearance. It was as if she were entering a passageway to the realm of the aos sí.

They crested a rise.

The world held its breath -

A jet-black raven burst out of a nearby oak, startling Christina, and she cried out in alarm at the dark portent.

The horse shied, fearfully twisting on its straps.

The wagon jerked, bumped, slid down the hill, slid for an eternity …

Its back end caught hold on a stump, jarring to a stop, its frame tilted up at an angle. The forward left wheel was up off the ground.

The wheel spun … spun …

At last Christina breathed again. She put a hand on her hammering heart, willing it to slow. She looked over to her father. Are you all right?

He nodded to her. I’m fine. I’ll come down to take a look.

She tenderly put her hand on his arm. You stay here, Father. Hold the reins. Talk with Esther; ease her fear. She listens to you more than me.

To her relief, her father nodded and began to speak in soothing tones to the steed.

She climbed down into the thick snow to examine the challenge.

They had slid half off the road into a ditch. The lower wheel was caught up against a thick stump. She could see where the axle of the wheel was braced against the wood. If the horse simply pulled against that friction, it could yank the wheel clean off.

And then where would they be?

Christina braced herself in the snow alongside the stump and put her full weight into pushing the wagon sideways.

It did not budge an inch.

She looked up and down the road in growing desperation. They had been late leaving the church, as her father had wanted to make some arrangements with Reverend Miller about the upcoming wedding. The conversation had taken a while, meaning they had been the last of the congregation to finally leave for home. The chance of another soul coming upon them in this thick storm was slimmer than her elderly rooster’s neck.

And yet, was that a shape in the distance, coming from the east?

She scrunched her eyes against the sea of gray-white.

Yes. It was a shadow. A ghostly form.

It was coming ever closer.

She gave a shiver despite herself. She was a modern woman, past such childish contrivances, but her grandmother had been a true daughter of Ireland. Nana had believed whole-heartedly in faeries and leprechauns, in banshees and changelings. After Christina’s mother had passed in childbirth, it was Nana who had raised her and her older brother, especially when Christina’s father had been away at war.

Christina had learned all of the rules. She put out a portion of food and water each morning, lest the house faerie feel disrespected. If ever she spilt salt, she would quickly toss some over her left shoulder to dispel the bad luck.

And here it was, All Hollow’s Eve. The night when the veil between the worlds was at its thinnest.

The ghostly shape was approaching.

Christina quickly crossed herself, putting herself between the cart and the threatening form. If this were Death himself, coming at last for her sickly father …

Relief coursed over her as the figure resolved into a man on a dark horse. She scolded herself for being silly; for allowing her Nana’s stories to sway her. She waited by the back corner of the wagon as the man drew close. The moment he was within short distance he dismounted and strode over to her.

He seemed a few years older than her, with thick, dark hair which curled to his shoulders. He was in a dark brown waistcoat and breeches beneath a long, flowing cloak of similar color.

But it was his face which caught at her.

She had to guess that one parent had been Native while the other had been Black. For his skin was the beautiful color of rich tea on a calm, spring morn, while the strength of his jaw, the dark alertness of his gaze –

His eyes went from hers to the wagon in a quick, evaluative scan. His voice held a faint hint