Hannah Allbright rode Lancaster, her husband’s favorite mount, down the charred and blackened streets of Pleasant Harbor Township, the stink of smoke and soot still lingered thick in the muggy summer air. Though it was her third visit into town since the burning she still wept at the site of her beloved village smoldering in ruin as she made her way to the mercantile, the lone building left standing after the Redcoats' unprovoked attack.
If only the men had been here,
she thought, bouncing sidesaddle as Lancaster kicked up filthy clouds of ash with each sturdy trot. The women of Pleasant Harbor had stood no chance against the British troops who marched upon their quiet village less than a week before and they could do little except watch and weep as the town that had taken nearly twenty-five years to build was reduced to cinders in a matter of hours. Hannah dabbed at her tears with a lace kerchief as Lancaster whinnied, gruffly blowing tarry soot from his stinging nares. It was early July, 1779.
Three years had passed since the people declared their independence from mother England but still, the revolution raged on. Lord Cornwallis and his British forces held most of the south despite meeting profound resistance from mercenaries, while in the north, General Washington and his troops were sustaining heavy casualties in their efforts to maintain control of West Point. In April, Colonel William Douglas of the New Haven Regiment, on his march to assist Washington, had recruited into his militia every able-bodied man and boy up and down the Connecticut coastline leaving Pleasant Harbor a village occupied almost exclusively by women, apart of course from the smallest of boys and the oldest and frailest of men.
Hannah persisted on towards the mercantile, passing the blackened remains of the grange, the silversmith shop, the tannery and finally, the First Church of Pleasant Harbor. It had been such a beautiful house of worship: heavenly white with a tall majestic steeple, four melodic bells housed within. Imported from France, the bells were gleaming domes of brass that would ring out joyously on special occasions as they had on that marvelous spring day in 1768 when Henry Allbright, a man at 29 and lawyer by trade, had taken 15 year old Hannah Griswold as his bride. Hannah could only imagine where her beloved husband was now: fighting courageously somewhere, dead in some makeshift grave, wounded perhaps. She tried not to think about it.
This time of year the church would be teaming with beauty and life: daisies and marigolds blooming vibrantly in her boarders, robins and starlings rearing their young in the secret alcoves of her spacious belfry; but today, the First Church was nothing more than a lifeless and smoky corpse. Among the debris Hannah spied the once proud church bells, blistered and warped from the intense heat, dormant and dull in the afternoon sun, never to ring again. Reverend Dandridge, Pastor of the First Church and far too on in years to join the militia, foraged through the rubble salvaging whatever he could of his decimated parish. Preoccupied by his labor -- and perhaps some rather un-pious thoughts concerning those scoundrel Redcoats -- he did not acknowledge Hannah as she and Lancaster trotted passed.
Upon reaching the mercantile, Lancaster’s metrical clomps came to a halt. Hannah dismounted and hitched him to the lone post outside. The powerful yellow steed neighed almost disappointingly at the barren trough before him, filled only with a grimy dusting of ash and a few buzzing flies rather than the fresh water he had grown accustom to.
The mercantile, undamaged by flame and seemingly out of place alongside the black ghosts neighboring it, sat at the far end of Main Street, overlooking the Harbor from which the Redcoats had attacked. General Tyrus, the man accountable for the burning, was a fierce warrior but he did possess some semblance of a heart. “Leave the mercantile!” he had ordered in his broad but delicate accent as he led his troops, loyalists and British regulars alike, from the harbor and up the cobblestones of Main Street, torches in hand, igniting all they surveyed. Tyrus burned Pleasant Harbor on orders of the King himself before steering his men north towards his true prize: the city of Danbury. Besides a smoldering pile of cinder, the General left in his wake a dozen or so sentries to maintain order and a fluttering Union Jack pitched amid the pyre that was once Pleasant Harbors Town Hall.
Mary Addams oversaw the mercantile, as she had each day since her husband had left for war, with her youngest son Owen at her side. Her two older boys fought along side their father. She welcomed the sight of Hannah Allbright as with her visits Mary always found much needed console as well as the latest news from the outskirts of town.
“Did you see any sentries on your trip, dear?” Mary asked as Hannah entered the quaint wooden building bringing with her a small cloud of ash that clung to the ruffles of her gingham dress.
“Not one, thank the Lord,” Hannah replied, meeting Mary at the counter with an affable embrace.
“I wish I could speak the same,” Mary remarked. “Two passed through today. Helped themselves to three fat rabbits they did, as well as a keg of cider. I swear that is why they left the merc standing: so they can pillage me blind.” Mary brushed a wrinkle from her apron and leaned in closer to Hannah. “So what brings you out of the woods today, dear Hannah?”
“Lamp oil,” Hannah answered. “Have you any?”
Mary shook her head with a grimace. “Not a drop, love. With the Post Road closed, getting supplies from New Haven is near impossible.” Mary noticed Hannah disappointment. “But, I could always spare a pint of my personal supply for you dear.”
Hannah’s face brightened. “Mary Addams, I am truly blessed to have a friend like you.”
“Anything for a friend.” Mary fetched the oil from a small cupboard in the rear of the store and added, “I also have some fresh candles that your neighbor sold me yesterday.” Mary looked over her shoulder to see what type of reaction the mention of Hannah’s neighbor would elicit.
“My neighbor?” Hannah responded innocently.
“You know,” Mary replied lowering her voice, “That Quincy woman.”
Lizbeth Quincy, or ‘that Quincy woman’ as she had become known around town, had inherited land west of the Allbright’s four winters past. Odd to say the least, Lizbeth was quite the conversation piece among the locals, especially the catty gossip types like Mary Addams. Twenty-Five years of age, Lizbeth had never married and lived alone in the woods with no man to fend for her. A descendent of the Boston Quincy’s, she led an arcane life, rarely journeying into town, only making the five mile jaunt once every few months or so to stock up on provisions and sell her candles, tobacco and quilts to the local merchants. A visit to the mercantile by Lizbeth Quincy always ruffled Mary Addam’s feathers.
“Lizbeth,” Hannah amended, detesting the term ‘that Quincy woman’ and always correcting those who used it, “gave me some lovely candles just the other day. But thank you for offering.”
Mary knew of Hannah’s friendship with Lizbeth and always fished to wet her curiosity whenever the topic of her peculiar neighbor arose. “She is unusual, is she not?” Mary pried but Hannah refused to bite. “I mean with her hair cropped so short and all,” Mary persisted.
“The Lord loves each and every one of us Mary Addams,” Hannah countered. “Even those whom choose to walk the un-tread path.”
“But are the rumors true, Hannah?” Mary Addams posed, returning to the counter. “Does she really fire a weapon and hunt her own game? Is it true she smokes tobacco from a pipe? Does she…” Mary lowered her voice to a whispered hush, “really wear trousers and boots and dress like a man when not in public?”
