By: Tim Fullerton
“Papa, there's a dispatch rider coming!”
Abraham Clark emerged from the house. Standing on the porch he squinted against the early morning sun. “That's a redcoat rider. Hatty, go inside and fetch your momma.”
The lank rider rode up to the house, and dismounted, keeping the reins in his hand. Abraham admired the chestnut steed, it seems the British even have the finest horses at their disposal.
“Are you Abraham Clark?” the rider asked.
“I am.”
“I have a note from Lord General Howe himself, sir. I'm to await your reply.”
Abraham descended the three steps, taking the sealed envelope from the rider with shaking hands for this could not be good news. He tore it open and read the note. By the time he finished, Sarah was by his side, still wiping her hands on her apron.
“What is it, Abraham?” she asked.
“Good news and bad, I'm afraid. Adam and Charles are both alive. But both have been captured. The note hints that if I renounce my “rebel ways” publicly, they will receive far better treatment than “common” prisoners. Otherwise...”
“Where are they being held?” Sarah snapped at the dispatch rider, “Are they together or apart?”
“I don't rightly know, madame,” the rider stammered. “I suspect they would be held on the prison ship, HMS Jersey.”
“Hell hole!” she spat. “What are you to do, Abraham?”
Abraham placed a comforting hand on Sarah's shoulder and squeezed ever so gently. “Go back in the house, dear.”
“Why?” she asked indignantly.
“Go back in the house, dear,” he repeated.
She lifted the front of her skirts as she climbed the porch steps, looking over her shoulder at her husband. She knew why he had banished her, and she didn't like it.
Abraham watched her. Once the door closed he turned to the rider.
“She's a good woman,” Abraham smiled with a far-off look in his eye. “I couldn't run this farm without her. I'm no farmer,” he chuckled. “Now my father, he was a farmer. Even he knew I didn't have it in me to farm. That's why he sent me off to study mathematics instead. I'm quite fortunate to have Sarah.”
“Sir?” the rider asks.
“Here is your reply to Lord General Howe,” he said the name with the kind of contempt one would reserve for satan himself.
“The cause of independence is bigger and more important than any one man – or any two. When I signed our Declaration of Independence, I pledged my sacred honor. That, sir, is not for sale, even to the expense of my two eldest sons,” his voice wavered but he fought to control it. “If Howe were a man of honor, he wouldn't need any proclamations from me to treat EVERY prisoner of war in a decent, humane manner.”
The dispatch drifted from Abraham's hand to the ground. He turned to re-enter his home. As the hoof-beats drifted away, Abraham and Sarah embraced and cried.
“Papa, there's a dispatch rider coming!”
Abraham Clark emerged from the house. Standing on the porch he squinted against the early morning sun. “That's a redcoat rider. Hatty, go inside and fetch your momma.”
The lank rider rode up to the house, and dismounted, keeping the reins in his hand. Abraham admired the chestnut steed, it seems the British even have the finest horses at their disposal.
“Are you Abraham Clark?” the rider asked.
“I am.”
“I have a note from Lord General Howe himself, sir. I'm to await your reply.”
Abraham descended the three steps, taking the sealed envelope from the rider with shaking hands for this could not be good news. He tore it open and read the note. By the time he finished, Sarah was by his side, still wiping her hands on her apron.
“What is it, Abraham?” she asked.
“Good news and bad, I'm afraid. Adam and Charles are both alive. But both have been captured. The note hints that if I renounce my “rebel ways” publicly, they will receive far better treatment than “common” prisoners. Otherwise...”
“Where are they being held?” Sarah snapped at the dispatch rider, “Are they together or apart?”
“I don't rightly know, madame,” the rider stammered. “I suspect they would be held on the prison ship, HMS Jersey.”
“Hell hole!” she spat. “What are you to do, Abraham?”
Abraham placed a comforting hand on Sarah's shoulder and squeezed ever so gently. “Go back in the house, dear.”
“Why?” she asked indignantly.
“Go back in the house, dear,” he repeated.
She lifted the front of her skirts as she climbed the porch steps, looking over her shoulder at her husband. She knew why he had banished her, and she didn't like it.
Abraham watched her. Once the door closed he turned to the rider.
“She's a good woman,” Abraham smiled with a far-off look in his eye. “I couldn't run this farm without her. I'm no farmer,” he chuckled. “Now my father, he was a farmer. Even he knew I didn't have it in me to farm. That's why he sent me off to study mathematics instead. I'm quite fortunate to have Sarah.”
“Sir?” the rider asks.
“Here is your reply to Lord General Howe,” he said the name with the kind of contempt one would reserve for satan himself.
“The cause of independence is bigger and more important than any one man – or any two. When I signed our Declaration of Independence, I pledged my sacred honor. That, sir, is not for sale, even to the expense of my two eldest sons,” his voice wavered but he fought to control it. “If Howe were a man of honor, he wouldn't need any proclamations from me to treat EVERY prisoner of war in a decent, humane manner.”
The dispatch drifted from Abraham's hand to the ground. He turned to re-enter his home. As the hoof-beats drifted away, Abraham and Sarah embraced and cried.