Prologue

Simpson's Meadow, South Carolina

August 28, 1833

 The old man sat in his rocker and sighed. Two of his small great-great-grandchildren scurried on hands and knees about the floor, exploring the nooks and crannies of the old log house while their mother, his great-granddaughter, lifted the lid from a pot of stew simmering over the open fire in the hearth. Perspiration beaded along her forehead and trickled from beneath the band of her mobcap to flow in thin rivulets down the side of one rosy cheek. Strangely, he felt cool.

He patted the back of his wife's hand. It lay atop the thin white sheet that covered her as she slumbered through the hot afternoon. She smiled without opening her eyes. He studied her face, amazed at the intricate network of crow's feet that had crept across it over the years and at the thinness of her snow-white hair. She would turn one-hundred-years old tomorrow, and old Doc Hatcher had said that if she lived to see it, it would be a miracle. Of course, this wasn't the Doc Hatcher of his younger days, but his grandson, now also wrinkled with age.

He reached up with his free hand and unconsciously rubbed his chest. The burning sensation that had kept him awake for the past week faded as a bittersweet feeling of sadness overwhelmed him. He looked at his wife again and thought of how quickly their lives had passed. He could clearly remember seeing her for the first time. When was it? Twenty years ago? Thirty? It seemed like only yesterday. He chucked aloud as he silently accused himself of senility. His granddaughter cut her eyes in his direction and gave him a small, indulgent smile.

He smiled back and settled into the rocker, pursing his lips as he mentally calculated the number of years that he had spent loving this woman. His thoughts drifted back to that beautiful morning on the Savannah River when their path's had first crossed. He nodded to himself, satisfied and amazed. It had been seventy-seven years ago that he had first laid eyes on the woman that he was destined to spend the remainder of his life with. He absentmindedly rubbed the tips of his fingers across his smallpox ravaged face, thinking back to when he was young, so young--as was she.

* * * *

"Grandpaps," his granddaughter shook his arm to gain his attention. The movement startled him. He hadn't realized that he had dozed off. His first thought was for his wife. He reached out and lay a hand lightly on her chest. He sighed with relief when he felt it rise.

He looked back to his granddaughter. "Are you leavin', Eunice?" Her name reminded him of her namesake, also once young and beautiful, already dead for twenty years. The memory brought tears to his eyes and the new Eunice patted him gently on the arm again.

"I'll see you first thing in the morning'," she said softly. "There's stew warmin' by the fire if'n you get hungry."

"No need to hurry over. I think we'll sleep late."

She kissed him gently on the forehead.

"I'll see you tomorrow," the old man said again. But he secretly knew that he wouldn't. If his wife passed tonight, he had no wish to continue alone.

He waited until Eunice had gone before he pushed himself to his feet. It took all of his strength to rise. He rubbed his chest again, how it burned! And that cramp in his left shoulder just kept on naggin' at him. He rolled his arm to work out the stiffness in it and told himself that he had best skip supper tonight.

Leaving a long taper burning in a glass sided lantern; he shed his clothing and slid beneath the covers alongside his sleeping wife. He moved slowly, taking great care not to wake her.

Piling up two feather pillows, he rolled on his side so that he could watch her sleep. He had always enjoyed their moments alone. His thoughts glided back through the years. He remembered that she had once been beautiful. He leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the cheek.

She smiled in her sleep and mumbled, "I remember," in a voice so soft that it almost escaped him.

It suddenly dawned on him that she was still the most beautiful woman in the world. His mind began to wander through all of the lost years. He could see her now, as she had been in better days.

Chapter 1

On the Savannah River

April 10, 1756

Thomas Simpson stretched his long, corded arms indolently over his head as he yawned and shook his body in the crisp morning air. He was not a particularly tall man, little more than five feet nine, but years of guiding his father's flatboat through the submerged snags of the Savannah River had left him with a square physique. He seemed almost as wide as he was tall. His demeanor suggested unlimited endurance, his face conveyed unlimited kindness.

He stood at the edge of the flatboat, tied fast to a stately oak on the Georgia bank of the Savannah River. He yawned, stretched again, then turned to look towards the shore where his father sat on a moldy log, tending their morning meal over a smoky fire. The flatboat's crew lounged indolently around the small clearing, sitting up in their crumpled blankets half awake and waiting on their breakfast. They were two days out of Augusta, halfway through their downriver journey to Savannah. Their cargo--five tons of prime deerskins.

A slight mewing sound caught Thomas's attention and arrested his movement. He cocked his head to one side, focusing on the source of the sound. He heard it again; it was coming from beneath a tarp stretched between two bales of tightly pressed buckskins. Shaking his head, he pulled the cover back, expecting to see a mother cat with a brood of kittens. His eyes widened in surprise as he looked down, instead, at a slovenly dressed woman nursing an infant. She looked up at him, her eyes bright blue, firm, and defiant.

"Well, what do we have here? A stowaway?" Thomas said. He smiled as he spoke. "I thought that only happened on the tall ships down to Savannah." He studied her face as he talked, gauging the tone of his words; they were meant to put her at ease. He held out his hand, offering to help her rise. The woman made no attempt to take it. Her eyes darted quickly towards the shore, then returned to him. Thomas dropped the tarp back over her and let his hand fall to his side.

"Suit yourself," he said, speaking to her through the tarp. "I'm goin' to get some breakfast. Come on over to the fire if'n your hungry." He turned and sauntered off.

Taking a seat alongside his father, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. He made no mention of the woman, sensing that at some point he may need to deny ever having seen her. She had that look about her. Probably a runaway indentured servant from South Carolina, fleeing an abusive master, or husband. She would most likely be gone when he returned, fleeing in search of an uncertain future, pursuing the slight promise of a better life.

The men had just finished their breakfasts, and Thomas and his father were preparing to take their turns at scrubbing the frying pan and tin plates at the edge of the river, when the rumble of approaching horses drifted to them from the south. The unknown riders were moving rapidly in their direction. The men exchanged wary glances. Thomas's father jerked his head in the direction of the flatboat, his meaning was clear. Thomas dropped the frying pan and hopped onto the squared timbers of the boat. Entering the small sleeping compartment located in the middle of the craft, he quickly snatched a brass-barreled blunderbuss from its pegs on the wall. He flipped the frizzen open to check the priming, then snapped it shut with a metallic click. Pulling the hammer to full cock, he stood to one side of the open door, out of view of anyone on the shore, and waited tensely as the rumble grew louder. In the clearing, the other boatmen were fingering the knives and tomahawks stuffed into their belts. The man who had been assigned guard duty stepped behind the trunk of a large water oak, musket in hand, and waited.

Thomas's father continued to stand at the river's edge, facing the approaching horsemen; there were four of them. They reined in immediately when they saw the group of rivermen. Two of them separated from the group and approached, one of them held up his hand in greeting after reining his mount to a stop.

"How goes it?" he asked. "I'm Sheriff Wright, from Savannah. We're looking for a young woman with a baby." The sheriff spoke quickly, like a man in a great hurry. "To whom do I have the honor of speaking?" He directed the question towards Thomas's father.

"Richard Simpson, of Augusta. Heading down to Savannah with a load of skins."

"Pleased to meet you," the sheriff said. He jerked his head to indicate the other man sitting impatiently at his side. "The woman stole a broach and gold ring worth more'n twenty-five pounds from Mr. Savage here." He paused, waiting for an answer.

Richard shook his head, "No sir, I haven't seen a woman since we left Augusta two days ago. What's she look like? Just in case I happen on her."

Before Sheriff Wright could answer, Thomas stepped from the flatboat's cabin. "Mornin'," he said with a slight nod of his head. He eased the hammer to half cock and set the blunderbuss down, out of sight behind the door.

"Mornin'," the sheriff replied. "You seen a dark-haired woman with a sucklin' babe, son?"

Thomas pursed his lips and pretended to think for a moment, then said, "No sir, I ain't. What'd she do?"

"Thievery."

Thomas nodded knowingly, but said nothing. He leaned one shoulder against the doorframe and folded his arms. The sheriff looked around at the other faces in the clearing, gave his wide-brimmed hat a quick tug, said, "Thank you," spun his mount around, and continued his race northward. The other three riders followed at his heels.

"Now that's a job that I couldn't have." Richard muttered Sheriff! in a disparaging tone and returned to his dishwashing.

Thomas spent the remainder of the day using his pole to steer the boat clear of submerged snags in the river. Twice he paused long enough to fill the water bucket from the river and, after offering a dipper full of the cool liquid to his father and the other six crewmen, sat the bucket at the edge of the tarp where he was certain the woman was still hiding. He never saw her, but once when he looked, he saw that the dipper was gone. It magically reappeared later. After Thomas finished his lunch, he was careful to leave half of his cornbread next to the bales of skins, within easy reach of the woman's hiding place. It too disappeared.

That evening, they tied the boat to a gnarled oak limb waving like a lonely sentinel over the surface of the placid river. They would spend their last night here before floating down to Savannah the following morning.

Thomas stayed on the boat to tighten the lashings on the cargo while the rest of the crew kindled a fire and began preparing a meager supper ashore. When it was ready, his father waved him over.

"Bring that stowaway with you," he said causally. Caught off guard, Thomas hesitated. He turned and slowly lifted the tarp; looking down into those bright blue eyes, he smiled and said softly, "Come on out ma'am, it's suppertime."

The woman rose stiffly, the sleeping infant nestled against the nape of her neck. "Thank you, sir," she said meekly. Thomas moved to one side, watching her as she made her way to the fire. She sat using her soiled skirt as a cushion. They ate in silence.

When they had finished, the woman looked around the small circle of men, studying their faces. Her gaze settled on Thomas and his father.

"Thank you," she said, "I was famished."

"Our pleasure," both men answered. Thomas reached for the woman's plate, she stopped him. "If you will allow me to lay Roger on one of the cots in the boat's cabin, I'll wash the dishes. It's the least that I can do in payment for such a delicious meal."

Richard and Thomas, along with the other men, sat smoking their pipes and digesting their meals while they watched the woman work. She was a tiny thing, not quite five feet tall, probably no more than ninety pounds. Her hair was as black as a raven's wing and would have been as shiny except for the series of tangles and rat's nests in it. The woman sensed their eyes on her; she turned and smiled over her shoulder, then returned to her work.

"You reckon that's the woman the sheriff was askin' after?" Thomas said. He looked towards his father.

The other men in the circle simply grinned; they had known that from the moment they set eyes on her.

"Can't be no one else, I'd say," Richard answered. A wisp of gray tobacco smoke curled from his mouth as he spoke. "She don't look like a thief to me, though." He looked around at the faces of his crew. "Y'all keep this to yourselves," he said, punctuating his words with short stabs of his clay pipe. The tone of his words made it an unmistakable order.

"She don't look like one to me neither," Thomas agreed. He stood and left the fire. Stooping beside the woman, he gathered up the clean plates while she scoured the tin cups with river sand. "You're welcome to travel with us a spell," he told her.

She turned her head, studying his face intently. "That's kind of you, but you do realize that I am the woman the sheriff's looking for, don't you?"

Jacob nodded. "He says you're a thief. You don't look like one."

The woman laughed at his apparent bashfulness. "Thank you!" she said and laughed again. "May I ask what a thief looks like?"

Thomas blushed, "Well, er . . . I don't rightly know ma'am. I've only seen a few, and they didn't look like you. You have a way about you." He paused, seeming to search for the right words, then continued, "For one thing, you speak and carry yourself like a lady. You're fairly different from the womenfolk around here. May I ask where you're from?"

"Wiltshire, in England. I've only been in the colonies for a few weeks."

Thomas beamed. "I thought so!" he said, pleased with himself.

Without warning the woman began to sob. Unable to think of what to do about this unexpected event, he sat alongside her, feeling foolish and uncomfortable. What do you say to a cryin' woman? he wondered. His limited experience with the fairer sex left him completely at a loss. He was saved when the woman suddenly looked up and wiped her eyes with the back of one hand.

"I'm sorry," she said, still seeming to struggle to bring her emotions in check. Her eyes suddenly flared. "Bloody hell!" she exclaimed. "I had promised myself to be strong! Now, here I sit sobbing like a lost child!" She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "I must be strong for my child." When she opened her eyes she cast a measuring look in Thomas's direction. "I suppose that I owe you something of an explanation." She thrust her hand in his direction and waited for him to take it in greeting. "To start with, my name is Lynn Celia Claxton." She pronounced Lynn Celia as if it were a single word, Lyncelia.

* * * *

Late the next evening, they poled their boat alongside the merchantman, Meg, riding at anchor between the town of Savannah and Hutchinson Island, a long, thin sliver of marshland that divided the river into two parts. It was a sturdy, if somewhat worn looking brig that plied the waters annually between Savannah and Portsmouth, England carrying the annual harvest of deerskins, silk, and turpentine along with any other marketable commodities produced in the fledgling colony of Georgia. The Captain of the brig spied the boat and called a greeting to them through cupped hands. Almost immediately, two ropes tumbled down from the ship. Thomas grabbed one and secured the front of the flatboat to the side of the larger vessel while one of the crewmen tied off the rear. Moments later, a crane swung out over the side and ropes were lowered for the cargo. In less than two hours it was safely stored in the cargo hold of the Meg.

"You've brought a fine cargo down this year, Mr. Simpson," Captain Jones complimented Richard as they sat across the table from each other. The captain had invited both men to share his supper aboard the vessel. "Here's your receipt. I trust that you'll deliver it safely to your employer in the morning. We've already unloaded his consignment of trade goods." Captain Jones pushed the document across the table. "Ten thousand pounds sterling, as agreed, to be delivered in the form of trade goods on my next voyage. One pound per pound; not bad, not bad at all!" he opined.

"Any trouble that you know of, in town?" Richard asked casually.

"A young woman that I brought over this year has absconded with some valuable trinkets. It's gotten the colonials riled up something fierce. Half of them side with her, the other half are siding with some tavern owner that she robbed." He took a long drink of steaming tea from a pewter mug and slammed it on the top of the table with a bang. "Myself, I side with the woman. She's a fine young lass who came aboard with her parents and husband 'fore we left England."

At the mention of Lynn Celia, Thomas's interest peaked. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table and peered intently at the captain. "Why, we ran into the sheriff on the way down here. He asked us about this woman. What a coincidence! Can you tell us anything about her, is there a reward?"

"Not that I know of." The captain shook his head. " Not yet, at least." He took another long drink and called for a refill. "Her parents took the ship's fever and died on the crossing. We buried them at sea. By the time that we docked, her husband was fair gone too. He died about two weeks after he went ashore." He shook his head sadly. "A shame, I call it. A young woman like that, widowed in a strange land without anyone to provide for her. And her with a babe barely five months old."

"What's this about her stealing?" Thomas asked. He sat back in his chair, satisfied with what he had heard so far. It was the exact story that Lynn Celia had told them the previous evening.

The captain rubbed his hand across his whiskered chin. "Well, from what I hear, it's bunk. The tavern owner claims that she wouldn't pay her bill after her husband died, so he took a ring and a broach from her in payment. Then, he claims, she lit out taking them with her."

"But you don't believe his story?" Richard asked quietly. He tapped Thomas on the ankle with his boot and gave him a sharp look of warning. They mustn't give themselves away with too many questions.

The captain looked from Richard to Thomas, then back again before he answered. "No, I don't. For one thing, they're goin' to auction off her trunks tomorrow at noon. That alone should settle up whatever she owes for a few night's lodging." He smiled and nodded slowly. "Something mighty queer about that business," he said. "For another thing, her father had title to almost two hundred acres of land just north of Ebenezer. I've still got the deed in the ship's safe. Don't know who to turn it over to."

A knowing looked passed between father and son; they said nothing.

The captain waited for a moment; when no response was forthcoming, he turned up his tankard and drained it in a gulp. "Well, I think that I'll turn in," he said with a nod. "You and your crew are welcome to stay aboard tonight. You can pull your boat over to the docks in the mornin'. We'll spend the day taking on fresh water and clearing with the King's revenue officer. We can be on our way the day after tomorrow."

* * * *

The next morning they shoved off from the side of the Meg and steered towards the port's northernmost wharf. They tied up alongside the new structure that was still oozing sap and smelling of green wood. It seemed to glow a bright yellow alongside the tired gray timbers of the older wharves.

A well-dressed, middle-aged man on horseback, with a battered wooden peg protruding from the right leg of his trousers, hurried forward to meet them. The man smiled and raised his hand in a friendly salute. "Good to see you, Richard!" he said. He flashed them a good-natured smile and leaned from the saddle, offering his hand when Richard hopped from the flatboat onto the pier. Thomas could hear the sticky sound of sap on the soles of his father's boots as he stepped across the green boards.

"It's good to see you again, Morgan." Richard said with a smile. "We brought down ten thousand pounds of skins on this trip. Captain Jones was well pleased."

The other man laughed. "I suspect he was. Those skins will fetch a pretty penny for him in England--for us too." The man inclined his head in Thomas's direction. "Your mother doin' well?"

"Yes sir, Uncle Morgan," Thomas said with a quick nod.

Morgan smiled. "Good. You two stay put on the boat while your father heads over to the warehouse with me." His tone made it clear that the order included Lynn Celia, who stood in the doorway of the cramped cabin. He tipped his hat politely to her. "You best stay out of sight, ma'am," he said quietly.

* * * *

Loving Lynn Celia
by G.G. Stokes, Jr.

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