Celebrating July 4 and 250 Years of America

I am honored to have my historical fiction short story featured in this anthology. To celebrate the founding of America and many ordinary men and women who sacrificed to create our country, I have included the opening to my short story which is set in Williamsburg, Virginia in 1774. I hope you enjoy it.

                                          Pressed on All Sides

                                                  1774

         Pitiful wailing fills the air. The crying makes me shiver despite the humid July night and I blow out my candle. With haste, my lips finish kissing the soft foreheads of my children. On tiptoe, I move to the window, afraid of what I will see.

         A British red coat with a lantern in one hand leads a tired horse on the road past my front door. While the sight of any military in Williamsburg is surprising, especially after all the troops have been sent to deal with the unrest in Boston, it is the rider who makes me wince. A man, slumped forward in the saddle, clings to neck of a mare. He is sobbing, covered in tar and feathers.

         Before I can step back and draw the curtain, the pair stop. The soldier reads the sign over my shop, then looks up to our second story. He catches my eye. When his face hardens, my mouth goes dry.

         “What is it?” asks Micah, ready to spring into action from his trundle bed.

         I turn to him, aware of my duty as a mother. My words are forever careful these days, measured due to being alone. With a tight smile, I force myself to loosen my shoulders.

         “Tis fine. Merely a man has come to town.”

         “Is he crying?” Sarah whispers, her lower lip quivering. She clutches her rag doll with the fierceness of a cat protecting her kitten.

         I give a quick glance back into the inky night. The horse is now tied up in front of the apothecary, and the two men are stumbling up to the door.

         “Aye, but he is headed to see Dr. Carter. No doubt he will be better in no time.” My tone carries a conviction I do not believe, but I use it none the less. “Now get some rest.”

         Before my children can protest, I move to the stairs. Not only do I long for them to sleep, but there is a gnawing hand of dread tightening around me. So many terrible things have been happening. Each side is determined to inflict some new pain upon the other.

         The dying embers of the fireplace light my way as I descend, and I am careful to walk with hushed steps. By the time I reach the bottom, my mind is resolved. Without lighting another candle, I take the musket from above the mantle. The metal is heavy, yet cool to my touch. Such a contrast is often comforting, especially on a hot night, but now I take deep breaths to steady myself. After checking the barrel for shot, I settle into my rocking chair and rest the gun across my body.

         For a time, I sit, my attention trained on the front door. Every so often, my eyes drift, sliding over to the middle of the room. The printing press looms large, its vertical shadows fan across the wall. The common sight is often comforting, reminding me of William and our years together, but now I stare at the wooden structure with no such sentiment. Instead, I am once again plagued with uncertainty. If I create what has been asked of me, there will be no way to claim neutrality should the patriots lose their zeal.

         Just as I am growing weary, convinced my fears are getting the best of me, I hear it. Footsteps. The heavy plod of boots grows louder on my front steps. Is the door lever moving? Without a sound, I raise the barrel, my finger gripping the trigger.

Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed it. Would you like to read more of this story? I am happy to send the complete story to anyone who emails me at Bethkrewsoncarter@gmail.com