Sarah's Spring

By Penelope Gladwell

A young girl faces an uncertain future after the loss of her entire family in a fire. Sarah's Spring is her story told in her own voice. Accompanied only by her cat, Sarah Budd ventures from villages on the Delaware River to a farm on the edge of the Pine Barrens named Bittersweet Acres.

Set in southern New Jersey in the 1870s, the novel provides a glimpse of social mores of the times as Sarah faces her fears with determination and resilience. She must make her way through a world of secrets and mysteries, shattered hopes, and disappointments in order to find a new family and a purpose for her life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Covenant Books, Inc.
• Release date: Sep 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9798888513835

Book preview

Table of Contents

Title

Copyright

Acknowledgment

Prologue

Spring 1874: A Fire

Fall 1874: An Ending

Winter 1874: A New Beginning

Winter 1874: My New Home

Winter 1874: Disappointment

Winter 1875: A New Year

Spring 1875: A New Companion

Fall 1875: More Disappointment

Spring 1876: Another Ending

Spring 1876: Another Beginning

Spring 1876: My Arrival at Bittersweet Acres

Spring 1876: A Mysterious Connection

Spring 1876: Settling In

Summer 1876: My New Surroundings

Summer 1876: Lenape Lessons

Fall 1876: The Cider Press

Fall 1876: An Accident

Fall 1876: A Festival

Winter 1876: A Quaker holiday

Winter 1877: The Cape Gordon Fire

Winter 1877: The Aftermath

Spring 1877: A Proposal

Summer 1877: A Quest for Clearness

Summer 1877: Sharing Feelings

Summer 1877: An Omen

Summer 1877: A Gift

Fall 1877: Answers

Fall 1877: Preparations

Winter 1877: A Death

Winter 1877: A Reluctant Visit

Winter 1877: The Trip Back Home

Spring 1878: A Visit to Graystone

Spring 1878: The Truth

Spring 1878: A New Chapter

About the Author

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Sarah's Spring

Penelope Gladwell

ISBN 979-8-88851-382-8 (Paperback)

ISBN 979-8-88851-383-5 (Digital)

Copyright © 2023 Penelope Gladwell

All rights reserved

First Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Covenant Books

11661 Hwy 707

Murrells Inlet, SC 29576

www.covenantbooks.com

For Rachel and Samantha with love

Acknowledgment

As I continue to explore my roots in South Jersey, I have been blessed to have high school classmates assist me. Thanks to Charles and Carolyn Schade who joined me for dinner, reminiscing and giving me insights into the Quaker history of our hometown. I also am thankful for the online archives and other resources of historical societies which contain photographs and documents of the era in which the characters in Sarah's Spring were living.

Lynn Swanson encourages me to continue to keep writing. She graciously edited this manuscript, and her sharp eye and loving critiques made Sarah's voice clear and strong.

My husband's interest in the history of railroads inspired me to investigate early rail travel in New Jersey and to provide train connections for Sarah's journey across the state.

And then there is my Lewis, a cat that appeared at the door of our house during the pandemic and won our hearts. I am thankful for his gentle purrs and calming snuggles.

There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens:

a time to be born and a time to die,

a time to plant and a time to uproot,

a time to kill and a time to heal,

a time to tear down and a time to build,

a time to weep and a time to laugh,

a time to mourn and a time to dance,

a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,

a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing,

a time to search and a time to give up,

a time to keep and a time to throw away,

a time to tear and a time to mend,

a time to be silent and a time to speak,

a time to love and a time to hate,

a time for war and a time for peace. (Ecclesiastes 3 NIV)

Prologue

Try as I might, I can remember only glimpses of my early childhood in the village of Mill Point, New Jersey. The faces of my parents and my little sister are a blur, and the sturdy clapboard lighthouse where we lived is shrouded in fog. Mill Point Light once stood its proud service on a spit of land poking out into the Delaware Bay at the mouth of the Morris River. The tower that housed the signal light was a square structure with a walkway and railing around the top. It rose several stories above the roof of our living space, which consisted of porches front and back, an ample gathering room with a fireplace at each end, a kitchen, and a spacious second story with two bedrooms.

Our family was provided the home rent-free. It came with a sofa, two rocking chairs, and a kitchen table with two long benches. Rope beds were placed in each of the upstairs rooms, the mattresses stuffed with corn husks. Mama made curtains for all the windows, wove colorful rag rugs for each room, and sewed quilted tops for our feather beds, appliquéd with dainty flowers and decorative stitching.

In winter, the rooms were cold and drafty, the glass in the windows rattling in a strong wind. The only heat came from a kerosene stove in the kitchen and the first-floor fireplaces. I preferred springtime when there were cool night breezes off the water, and the sheer curtains fluttered at my open windows. Yet even then I caught faint whiffs of kerosene that clung to fabrics and seeped into the walls and floorboards.

I liked to sit on the front steps with my dad, the keeper of the lighthouse, watching as the setting sun disappeared into the bay and the flashes of gold from the tower lamp fell across the water. He regaled me with stories of his boyhood home, like fishing from a pier with his father in the early morning or picking blueberries on hot afternoons from the bushes that flourished in sandy soil. His mother made the tastiest pancakes with them, he always said. Eventually, he married, moved away, and had a family. His responsibility as a lighthouse keeper was vital to all the shipping traffic on the Delaware, and he took it seriously. Still he made time to enjoy his role as a husband to my mama and father to Patricia and me.

One evening when we walked out in front of the house together, he pointed to the long ladder beside the steps. It ran up to the porch roof and two shorter ones that lay flat on the shingles leading to the second-floor windows. Dad explained to me that if there ever were a fire in the house, my sister and I were to climb out onto the roof and use the ladders to escape. The next day, I leaned out of my window upstairs and imagined gathering books and dolls in my arms, clambering across the roof with Patricia, and shinnying down the ladder to the yard with flames licking at our heels. But any true concern I may have had about such an eventuality was quickly forgotten.

I find some peace now in the haze that swirls around images of the past, allowing pleasant ones to surface and hiding hurtful ones from view.

West Jersey Gazette

Sunday Edition

April 19, 1874

Tragic Lighthouse Fire Declared an Accident

The fire that consumed the Mill Point lighthouse on the afternoon of April tenth of this year has been ruled a tragic accident by local authorities. After a thorough investigation, it appears that the temperature of the air off the water had been unusually cold at the time. Officials observed that the kerosene stove located in the kitchen of the home had been lit. Winds were strong enough that morning, according to neighbors, to have caused curtains in the home to come in contact with the stove and catch fire.

Mr. Morgan Budd, the lighthouse keeper, was reportedly making repairs to the exterior of the building, which delayed his discovery of the flames. His wife, Rebekah Budd, had accompanied their older daughter, Sarah, age 12, to school that morning as she usually did. So only their daughter Patricia, age 5, was inside. Once he became aware of the fire, Budd and his neighbors doused the flames with river water while waiting for the fire company to arrive. Upon returning from town, Mrs. Budd saw smoke billowing from the windows of their home. The front porch had become completely engulfed in flames. She and her husband entered the back door together in an attempt to rescue Patricia, who was in her bedroom located on the second floor. The two adults and their younger child were trapped on the stairs as they made their escape and were overcome by the smoke. When the roof and lighthouse structure collapsed, all three perished in the fire.

Sarah was notified of the tragedy while at school. She has been placed temporarily in the care of her teacher, Miss Constance Williams, while a permanent situation is sought for the child.

Note: A temporary navigational light will be set up on the treacherous point immediately. Construction of a new station will commence under the direction of the United States Coast Guard. It is hoped that a lighthouse keeper can be assigned by the fall. The new signal is to become operational by the end of the year.

Spring 1874: A Fire

Ibecame an orphan at the age of twelve. My mother had walked me to school, handed me my lunch, and kissed me goodbye just as the school bell was rung. My eyes followed Mama as she disappeared down the path back to the lighthouse. Then I turned and went into the schoolhouse. Several hours later, my teacher, Miss Williams, was given a note. Then she asked me to go outside with her to the play yard. We sat together on one of the benches there. Miss Williams put her arm around me and quietly told me that there had been a fire. My entire family had died.

I did not believe her at first. I looked over my shoulder at the path to my house. If I got up and ran home, the lighthouse would still be there. My family would still be there, just where I had left them that morning. But my body refused to move, so I just sat, shivering uncontrollably as the smoky air burned my eyes.

When Miss Williams and I returned to the schoolroom to retrieve my books and belongings, some classmates kept their eyes down on their desks. Others were crying. I remember feeling something heavy taking hold inside me, making it difficult for me to get a breath.

Miss Williams escorted me to her house that afternoon and let me carry my things upstairs to her spare room. You must stay here with me for now, she said. Her voice was kind and calm. She took me back down to her kitchen where we ate cookies and drank warm sweet tea with milk. When she tucked me into bed later that night, I told her I was fine, but in truth, my eyes still stung when I closed them. Each time I dozed off, I woke up a short time later sobbing, Patricia.

I lived with Miss Williams through the end of the school year and then all that summer. She took me shopping and we spent time each day at the town library or the playground. My friends didn't know what to say to me, not that it mattered really. I would have liked to see them, but they did not come to visit. I read books and played alone instead, all the time pretending my family was away seeing relatives who lived somewhere by the seashore.

When school began again in the fall, Miss Williams received an official-looking letter. I would be placed in a more permanent situation, it read, with another family. The lump in my stomach grew heavier. It only stopped hurting when I cried.

Fall 1874: An Ending

Anew lighthouse was completed ahead of schedule. Miss Williams and I did not attend the ribbon-cutting ceremony. Instead, we walked over together to see it the next day. The new tower was white brick, and it looked several feet taller than my father's light. The keeper's house had been rebuilt out of brick as well, but it was a smaller place and, this time, completely separate from the structure housing the signal light. A young man was in our yard planting shrubs, and a woman was hanging clothes on the line to dry. They smiled and waved to us, but I hid my face in my teacher's sweater.

Not long after that, Miss Williams was notified that I was going to be placed with my aunt, Ella Carson, who is my mother's older sister. She and Walter Carson lived in a town named Salem-on-Delaware, about thirty-five miles north of Mill Point. I could not remember much about my aunt and uncle, and I felt no strong attachment to them at the time. They had never visited us at the lighthouse, nor had we traveled to see them. I only heard Mama say they were quite wealthy. I got the impression that for some reason, they did not approve of us.

I did not want to leave Mill Point, and