Sarah's Journey Series

Ma’s scream went straight to Sarah’s heart. She ran to a hole in the hollow tree beside her brother Luke and saw Ma come running out of the cabin door behind two Indians who were scattering feathers all over the yard from the feather quilts. Another Indian jumped out the door right behind Ma. Ma’s eyes were glazed with fear and her hair had come down from its neat tuck. Sarah saw an Indian grab her by the hair and whirl her around. The other Indians were whooping and laughing inside the cabin. Sarah shut her eyes. “God, please don’t let him do it!” she prayed silently. “Please don’t let him!” But God hadn’t answered her prayers to stay in their cozy brick house nestled in its green valley near Miller’s Forks, Virginia, leaving eleven-year-old Sarah no choice but to come with her family to this untamed wilderness where harsh living conditions and constant dangers surrounded them. Could she trust God now to answer her desperate prayer for Ma’s life? This and other exciting adventures in the life of Sarah Moore and her family reveal what life was really like for pioneers in the time of Daniel Boone and the American Revolution. Historically accurate fiction skillfully blended with true-to-life characters and fast-paced action create a reading experience to be enjoyed by young and old alike.

Sarah was uncomfortable with the idea of eavesdropping on Aunt Charity’s and Uncle Ethan’s private conversation, but she was anxious to hear what her uncle had to say about their tutor, Gabrielle Gordon. “...spends most of her evenings in Christiana Campbell’s Tavern listening to the men talk about the Revolution,” he was saying as Sarah dropped silently beside Abigail beneath the open window. His words were as clear as though they were in the room with them. “We’ve suspected her for a while, but she’s very clever. We haven’t been able to catch her passing on what she hears to her British contact, whoever it is. Most likely it’s the infamous ‘Demon Devon’ who eludes our every trap! If only I could get my hands on him!” “But, Ethan, she’s so gracious, so genteel, so....” “So treacherous, Charity,” he finished for her. “You heard Sarah say she’s interested in me. I’m telling you, she only tutors our children to gain information about my activities and the action of the colonial army. She’s a Tory, Charity, a Loyalist of the King of England! She has caused untold damage to our efforts, and she would see me hanged by the British in a heartbeat!” Sarah gasped, inhaling the horsey scent of the boxwoods around her. She turned to find her own shock mirrored in Abigail’s wide blue eyes. Her mind whirled dizzily. Surely Uncle Ethan was mistaken! Their wonderful Gabrielle couldn’t be a spy! “I’ve got to find out if it’s true, Abigail!” she whispered.... Sarah knew Aunt Charity would have a conniption if she knew she was out here alone on this dark street, with soldiers—and spies?—all over town. But she had to see Gabrielle, question her. Warn her? If Gabrielle were being falsely accused, Sarah knew she had to help her somehow. And if the accusations were not false? The suspicion burned its way into her mind. What would she do then?

Sarah mounted Gracie and rode along the creek bank behind Uncle Ethan until the waters grew shallow enough to travel up the creek bed. Her heart quickened as she recognized the bend ahead. She urged Gracie up the bank, her thoughts going back to that first day they had seen the meadow beyond it, back before Stoney Creek even had a name. There was their meadow, surrounded by a semicircle of trees and filled with wildflowers. And over there, on that rise, was the cab.... Sarah sucked in her breath. Where the two-room cabin had stood was a black, gaping hole surrounded by a few scattered chimney stones. To one side, the scorched twigs of Ma’s peach and apple trees struggled feebly to put on new green leaves. Everything they had built—the barn, the corn crib, the animal pens—might never have been. Only those horrible ash-covered holes and some scattered poles that once had fenced them in from the wilderness remained to give a hint that the Hiram Moore family had ever settled there. Sarah felt tears sting her eyes and turned helplessly to Uncle Ethan as he rode up beside her. “Where are they, Uncle Ethan?” Sarah choked out. “Where is my family?”

Back in Williamsburg to continue her education, Sarah Moore discovers there is much more to learn in Virginia’s capital city than reading, writing, arithmetic, and the social graces taught by their mousy new tutor. For instance, why are there lights that come and go in the little brown house on Waller Street where their former tutor ran a millinery shop? Hasn’t the house has been empty since Gabrielle Gordon was expelled from the colonies for spying for the British? And why on earth did her Uncle Ethan, who hates slavery, buy three slaves at the slave auction on the steps of the Raleigh Tavern on Duke of Gloucester Street? And what do Governor Patrick Henry, Thomas Jefferson, and her best friend Marcus, the governor’s gardener, have to do with it? Most puzzling of all, what is the meaning of the mysterious code “John 3:19” she keeps hearing and its whispered response: “Darkness to light”? “Why can’t you be content to embroider pillowcases, Sarah?” her exasperated uncle asks wearily when he has caught her, once again, prying into his private affairs. But something in her has to know the answers to all these questions. Even the excitement of dance lessons with the intriguing Señor Alfredo Alvarez and new gowns in preparation for attending the Governor’s Christmas Ball cannot dampen her curiosity. Then, Uncle Ethan is captured and imprisoned by the British for his involvement with the Patriot cause. And Marcus’s wife, Dulcie, while entertaining the governor’s guests with her beautiful voice, is recognized and reclaimed by her former owner, the evil Basil Burwick. To whom can Sarah turn for help? She doesn’t know. She only knows she must do whatever it takes to bring Dulcie and Uncle Ethan home again.

Sarah took her cloak from its wooden peg at the back of the schoolroom and threw it around her. She knew the sound she had heard was not the wind and it was not her imagination. The children had heard it, too. Someone was out there calling for help. She unbarred the door, and the wind snatched it out of her hands and flung it against the wall. She saw two of the children running to shut it as she plunged into the snow. It was above her knees, and in seconds her moccasins and stockings were soaked. The cold air stung her nostrils and scraped its way into her lungs. Already, her body had begun to shake, in spite of the heavy cloak. She could see nothing except snow--falling from the sky, whirling in the wind, covering everything, drifting against the cabin and its wide stone chimney. She felt her way around the building by sliding her hand along its bark-covered logs. Without the wall to guide her, she could wander into the blinding fury of wind and snow and never find her way back. They would find her there, frozen solid, when the snow melted, she thought grimly, edging around the back corner of the building. Sarah gasped and stepped back. Had that big drift by the chimney moved? Suddenly she remembered the wildcat Trace had killed yesterday. Was there a second wildcat that had taken shelter near the warmth of the chimney? But wildcats do not call for help, she told herself. Had one of the Indians who attacked earlier crept back to make a second assault, using the English word "help" to lure her away from the protection of the schoolroom? Or did their unknown intruder hide there, waiting to...to what? And what could she do to protect herself and the children in her care? Was her dream of a school on Stoney Creek--and even her life--over almost before it began?