Dreams of Revolution: A Novel

~ Chapter 1 ~

September 1777, Hopewell Village, Berks County, Pennsylvania

Fifteen-year-old Rachel Palsgrove slunk along the side of the rough stone building, hugging her body so close to it that the sandstone scoured the skin on her face and arms. The new crescent moon was barely visible tonight. The silhouettes of trees and buildings were hardly discernible, and this side of the furnace building was dark and deep in shadow. She moved slowly, her feet whispering in the tall, sweet-smelling grass. There were no trees nearby, so no dry leaves crackled underfoot. Her heart thudded, and bile rose in her throat, but curiosity drove her forward to the one small window. Her booted feet felt the ground tentatively. A soft spot or rabbit hole might twist an ankle. Reaching the window in the middle of the long wall, she peeped around its corner, spat on her fingers to wipe the caked-on dirt from the glass, and then rubbed her grimy fingers on her pants.

What is happening inside, she wondered. A brilliant glow illuminated the interior of the building. Red-hot liquid iron poured from the giant ladle hung from the pulley overhead. Sparks flew everywhere. Men scurried with their sand-filled mold boxes, positioning them under the river of metal. Near them, a team of workers struggled with a much larger mold box several feet high. Fascinating. She had never seen a mold that size. Usually, the furnace cast stove parts or iron pots. Furtively, she glanced down the wall to make sure no one was coming. Yells from inside made her turn back to the window. Her father, the furnace founder, shouted and gestured for more men to help support the large mold box as a heavy load of iron filled it.

A rustling at the far end of the building startled her. She could see nothing in the darkness, but the sound of someone approaching was unmistakable. She slithered as quickly as she could in the opposite direction. Before she turned the corner, she glanced back to see someone outlined by the glow of the window. Who else is here?

As Rachel backed around the corner, strong arms encircled her, squeezing her tight. Hot, rancid breath filled her ears. I warned you yesterday evening to stay away, and here you are again, George Coggins growled.

She struggled in his grasp. Let me go! she squealed. You’re hurting me.

A teamster loading his wagon across the way looked up at the commotion. His cream-colored team stamped their feet. Do you need help, Miss? he called.

Mind your own business, Jesse, George retorted. She knows she shouldn’t be here.

The teamster looked away and continued his loading.

What did you see in the window?

Nothing, she lied. I never got that far.

He relaxed his grip, then grabbed her arm and jerked her away from the building. She stumbled behind him.

Go home, he commanded, flinging her forward, and don’t come back.

Please don’t tell my father I was here, she begged, rubbing her bruised arm.

I must. You’ve left me no choice. Now go.

She sniffed back tears, then hurried down the lane toward home, glancing over her shoulder once. He was still glaring at her, a greasy lock of black hair draped over his forehead and burly arms crossed over his chest. Father is going to whip me when he finds out.

Rachel crossed the little wooden bridge spanning French Creek that carried runoff from the waterwheel at the furnace. A short distance later, she turned onto the path to her house, then peered in the window. The keeping room was empty. The structure was dark, just as she had left it several hours ago.

She lifted the latch and entered the kitchen. The smell of freshly baked bread in the pie safe permeated the room. As she turned to tiptoe up the stairs, a stern voice from the keeping room commanded, Come here, Rachel.

Now I’m caught again, she thought as she slunk into the room. Oh, Mother, I thought you were in bed.

Sit down.

Rachel crossed the room to the chair. Her mother struck a match, and the candle on the table beside her flickered to life. Silhouettes of Rachel and her mother danced on the walls. On the settee, Rachel saw the shirt her mother had been sewing earlier beside the sewing basket. Her mother sighed at the sight of her daughter crumpled in the chair.

I’ve been waiting a long time for you to return. Where have you been? I’ve warned you over and over about going out at night.

Rachel’s leg jigged. I get so restless, Mother. I can’t stay inside.

Running around the village in the middle of the night is shameful behavior for a young woman. We’ve been through this before. Why don’t you listen?

Hopewell is so different at night, Mother. Everything seems to come alive. The creatures roaming around—skunks and possums and deer. There are the nighttime sounds of crickets and katydids in the meadow and the people bustling at the furnace. I want to see it all.

There’s no time to explore every night. Your curiosity will get you in trouble. You should be in bed, especially tonight. You must prepare for the dance tomorrow evening. There are lots of chores to be done before then.

Must I go to the dance? Rachel whined.

Yes, your schooling will be done soon, and you need to find a beau. You’ll never meet one spending all your time in that smelly barn with horses or with your nose in a book.

But I don’t want a beau, Mother.

You can’t stay with Father and me the rest of your life. You need to start wearing dresses and not breeches all the time. They’re not ladylike. You don’t want to end up a spinster with no means of support. Now go to bed.

Yes, Mother. She knew further discussion about dresses, the dance, and marriage was hopeless, but she wasn’t about to give up her late-night excursions. Hopewell bared its secrets at night, and she yearned to discover them, no matter what the consequences. You can’t stop me!

~ Chapter 2 ~

In the parlor of the Big House, Rachel sat beside Susanna Sterling at a wooden card table inlaid with fancy scrolls and cherubs. Rachel marveled at the opulent furnishings of the room. There was a wide fireplace, with ornately carved woodwork and brass andirons, below the almost life-sized, gilt-framed portrait of Daniel Sterling’s father staring from above the mantle. A colorful wool rug lay on the gleaming hardwood floor. Heavy floor-to-ceiling, green velvet drapes graced the large multi-paned windows, leather-bound tomes overflowed the bookcases, and a flint-lock musket hung over the doorway. A massive map on the wall showed, in shaded red areas, the Sterlings’ land holdings, and the pigeonholes in the ironmaster’s mahogany desk were bursting with papers. A small fire crackled and popped in the grate, taking the autumn chill off the room.

The girls were here for their lessons in math, classical poetry and literature, and writing. Mr. Elliott, their tutor, was a lanky man with soft, brown eyes topped by a high forehead. At the nape of his neck lay a wild shock of curly, shoulder-length, dark hair. His simple suit was well-worn and a little frayed at the edges. He handed their papers to them.

"Rachel, would you please read your review of Robinson Crusoe?"

She stood and read her prose with enthusiasm, describing the plot and her favorite characters. Susanna, slouched in her chair, played with the cuff of her sleeve.

Rachel sat down and looked expectantly at her teacher. He said, That was a marvelous report. It sounds like you immensely enjoyed Daniel Defoe’s novel.

Yes, I barely put it down long enough to do my chores. I would love to read similar books if you have them.

"I’ll drop one at your house sometime this week. Susanna, let’s hear your essay on Gulliver’s Travels."

Susanna reluctantly rose, holding her paper in front of her. Oh, I don’t understand why it’s necessary to read these stories and write about them. That’s not going to help me run a household or catch a man, she lamented.

A well-rounded lady in society has to be able to converse intelligently about the popular novels of our time.

Well, I can understand the need for reading books, but writing about them ruins the book for me.

Writing a composition is my way of making sure you finish the assigned work.

My essays aren’t as exciting as Rachel’s and never will be, she protested. How can I compete with her? She could be a writer herself.

We are not competing. By composing essays, you sharpen your letter writing skills too.

But the people to whom I’ll send letters won’t judge my grammar, punctuation, and penmanship like you do. There’s too much work to do it perfectly.

"I’m sure at times you will correspond with influential people. They may not know you personally, and they’ll judge you by how well you write. It is important," he insisted.

Susanna sighed, defeated again. She began to read haltingly. Rachel sat patiently, her drifting mind wondering what book the tutor would choose for her. Why does Susanna always make such a fuss? She supposed part of it was being a spoiled rich girl being bested in academic matters by a mere founder’s daughter.

The Palsgroves paid for the tutor’s services since schooling was neither mandatory nor free. Mr. Elliott thought Susanna might enjoy her education more if she had a companion close in age studying with her. But age was where their similarities ended. Susanna’s interests were fashion and hair, boys and city life. Rachel dressed like a tomboy, usually didn’t check her hair after combing it once in the morning, and wasn’t very interested in the opposite sex. As for life in the city, Rachel had never even seen a city. Susanna delighted in accompanying her parents to Philadelphia to go shopping and to visit friends. Intellectually, Susanna was bright, but Mr. Elliott’s best pupil was Rachel, who was constantly questioning and eager to learn.

Susanna finished her report and slumped in her chair. You did a fine job, the teacher praised. When he glanced at the clock behind him, Susanna stuck out her tongue at Rachel.

This new assignment is for the next time we meet. I want you to imagine what you want to accomplish in the future. What will you be doing in five years? Ten years? What are your dreams? I’ll expect at least one written page with good grammar and penmanship, so don’t dash it off the night before. Give it some thought, scribble your ideas, make a rough draft, and write a perfected final copy. Any questions? This will be our last requirement for our time together.

I understand, said Susanna. Thank goodness we aren’t writing about a book. That will make it easier. I can make it up from my head.

Rachel nodded in agreement as Mr. Elliott gathered his books. Meet here next Tuesday.

The following week, the girls sat primly on the chairs around the table, holding their final essays. Rachel wore a simple, floral frock, and Susanna wore a yellow ruffled dress that accentuated her blonde curls. The stately tall case clock in the corner ticked loudly as they waited for their tutor to get settled.

Who wants to read their composition first?

I’ll go first, volunteered Susanna. Both Mr. Elliott and Rachel looked surprised since Susanna never volunteered to share first.

She stood, smoothed down her petticoats, and coughed daintily. "My Future. Within the next five years, I will be living in Philadelphia in a mansion with lovely, manicured gardens filled with topiary plants shaped like exotic animals. In front, there will be a broad porch where guests can relax on wicker furniture on hot summer days. Six bedrooms will enable my friends and family to stay over anytime they visit. A cook, a maid, and another servant will tend the house and grounds.

"The carriage house in the back will stable two sleek, black horses and a black chaise with gilt accents and red leather cushions. I’ll use it to attend parties and theater engagements with my friends. My clothes will be the latest fashions from Paris, and I won’t wear the same dress more than twice. Ostrich feather plumes and fresh flowers will adorn my hats, and I’ll own a set of gloves to match each outfit.

"To accompany me to social events, I’ll choose from several suitors, each one more handsome than the other.

"In ten years, I picture myself happily married with two small children. My husband, a successful businessman, will be tall, with dark wavy hair and a mustache. He’ll adore me and will be a doting father who roughhouses with our healthy, freckle-faced boy, and reads nursery rhymes to our blonde, curly-haired little girl.

"Every month, we’ll host elaborate parties, attended by all the important people in Philadelphia. My husband’s many business contacts will bring their lovely wives to view our richly decorated home. Everyone will eagerly attend our lavish fêtes.

My days will be filled with running the household, pampering my children, and planning our social engagements. I’ll be an envied pillar of the community.

Susanna sat down with a grin. Mr. Elliott was speechless. Susanna envisioned a life dreamed about by many women, but such a life was possible for her. He would never achieve such riches. He was a poor tutor, relegated to teaching the wealthy, not to experience being one of them.

Recovering from his initial shock, he said, You did a fantastic job on your paper, Susanna. You gave the assignment a lot of thought and added some excellent details. That’s your best work this year. Well done.

Yes, I found this assignment easy. Her face glowed with pride.

Rachel, could you read us your essay?

Rachel now was the dismayed student. Her aspirations weren’t anything like Susanna’s, and they would probably both laugh. But if she were to achieve her goals, she had to acknowledge them to herself and everyone.

Rachel stood and said, My dreams are quite different from hers. We have dissimilar personalities and stations in life, but these goals are as real to me as Susanna’s are to her. I hope you won’t think them odd or unachievable. She glanced nervously at their faces.

I’m sure whatever you have written is fine, Rachel, Mr. Elliott encouraged. There are no right or wrong ideas. Susanna smirked and gazed into space.

Rachel began. "My goal is to become a teacher, like Mr. Elliott. I admire the work he does, educating young people, and expanding their knowledge of the world. Learning is my greatest passion, and I want to not only know more facts and skills but learn how to instruct others.

"I want to attend the university in Philadelphia. When I graduate, I hope to find a teaching job in the city or a village like ours. By teaching scientific principles, perhaps students will invent products to make our lives easier. I want to enrich their days by exposing them to novels and newspapers that describe events here and elsewhere. They will learn mathematics, so unscrupulous people will be unable to cheat them. I want them to delight in music and dance and art to relieve the drudgery of everyday life.

In ten years, I hope to have established a class of youngsters of various ages whom I have taught for several years. I’ll add new young students each year, and as the older children mature, I’ll feel fulfilled in having been a part of their development into productive young adults.

Rachel sat down. Susanna looked puzzled. You didn’t say anything about what kind of house you’d live in or your husband or children.

The house where I live is not important, as long as it’s adequate. I won’t want a husband or children because I’ll be too busy. I won’t be responsible for cooking and cleaning and taking care of others since too many other exciting pursuits will occupy my time.

I’m flattered you want to become a teacher, but Rachel, you know most young ladies desire a family and need to run a household. There are no female tutors for that reason.

Don’t you think I would be a good instructor, Mr. Elliott? implored Rachel.

Yes, I think you would be a great teacher, but it would be difficult to tend to a family and teach too.

I realize a career and a busy home life aren’t very compatible, though some women here at Hopewell have both. Look at Sally, who mines iron. She’s doing a man’s job and earning money. Then there’s Tacy, who cuts wood for the colliers.

Yes, but those mothers work due to necessity. Their husbands died young, and they need to support their children. You must admit, most women do not work outside their homes.

But they do extra chores at home to earn money. They harvest excess food in their gardens to sell to the store, raise chickens or livestock for eggs or meat, spin yarn and weave cloth to sew clothes, or dip more candles than they need. Women are constantly working to make additional funds to help support their family. The only difference is men’s jobs are valued more and pay more than women’s work. I prefer a job I love and get paid decently for it than to do jobs around the house I don’t enjoy.

How will you be able to go to the university? I don’t believe they allow ladies to attend, and even if they did, can your family pay the tuition?

Rachel sighed. That’s the main problem with my dreams. My parents don’t have the money, and they think further schooling for a girl is foolish. I’m not sure how I can go. She stared at the floor.

Your goals are admirable, said Mr. Elliott, but I can understand your family’s reluctance to send you for more schooling. It’s a big commitment of resources, and most young women find fulfillment with a husband and family.

I’m not like most people, Rachel wailed. I’m confident I can do the college work, but no one will give me a chance to prove myself.

He patted her on the shoulder. You must trust everything will turn out for you.

Rachel, close to tears, sniffed and gathered her papers together. Are we finished today?

Yes, we’re done, not only for today but with your schooling from me. Here is a certificate of achievement for both of you. Congratulations.

Susanna eagerly looked at the parchment written in beautiful calligraphy and lightly hopped to her feet. Thank you, Mr. Elliott. I’ll run and show this to my mother.

Yes, yes, go show her.

Susanna paused. I’m sorry if I caused you aggravation over the years. You know how stubborn I can be.

You are a delightful young lady, Susanna, and I enjoyed teaching you. She smiled and floated out of the room, calling for her mother.

Aren’t you excited about your certificate, Rachel?

I am, but I’m also sad because it signifies the end of my schooling with you.

Your education always goes on. You can read books and newspapers, debate with your parents about events in the world, and continue to write. You have an excellent foundation of skills.

It won’t be the same, Rachel grumbled. But I’ll try to accept it and do the things you suggested. I find your teaching inspiring, sir.

And you are one of my favorite students. You’ve made our time very enjoyable.

Rachel smiled weakly and went out the door onto the porch of the house. Holding her skirts aloft with one hand while holding her certificate in the other, she went down the steps and walked toward her house. I’ll find some way to achieve my goals, no matter what it takes, she vowed.

~ Chapter 3 ~

As Tom McCauley’s sweating, heaving body ebbed and flowed toward her, Rachel plastered a smile on her face. He locked his right arm with hers and swung her around, then hooked left arms and whirled in the other direction. Dizzy and nauseous from his exuberant twirling, she hardly kept her feet. Her bruised toes slammed back and forth in the oversized shoes she had borrowed from her older sister.

Having a good time, Rachel? shouted Tom over the din of the music. Twenty years older than her, his plump body and red face revealed his lack of physical prowess. As the store clerk, the most taxing job he performed daily was lifting his quill pen to scratch in his ledgers. The buttons on his casual shirt that fit him better twenty pounds ago strained and threatened to pop at any moment.

Yes, Mr. McCauley, I’m enjoying the melodies.

How old are you now, Rachel?

I turned fifteen last month.

Please, call me Tom. Now that you’re grown up, we can use first names.

All right... Tom.

The caller’s strong, clear voice belted out the steps to the dance. After what seemed like an eternity of swinging and foot-tapping and promenading, the music stopped.

May I have the next dance? Tom’s flushed red cheeks and panting breaths made her wonder if he could survive another dance without collapsing.

I think I’ll sit awhile and get some cider. You’re wearing me out.

Why don’t you sit there? He motioned to a bale of straw off to one side. I’ll get us some drink.

Don’t you want to ask someone else to dance awhile?

No, I welcome a brief rest too. Would you like something to eat? A cookie perhaps, to go with some cider?

A pumpkin cookie would be fine if they have them. She knew they did because her sister had made them earlier.

Tom strode to the refreshment table, and Rachel glanced around. She fidgeted, wiggling her aching toes. The pins holding her dark shoulder-length hair on top of her head were digging into her scalp, and her ears were ringing from the loudness of the band in the confines of the hay-filled barn. The band played at all Hopewell’s gatherings and alternated the tempo between rollicking tunes and slower-paced melodies. Through the dust motes flying, she craned her neck, hoping Nate Kirst, a suitor of her sister’s with whom Rachel was slightly infatuated, would rescue her. She spied other boys and girls her age from the village, but there was no sign of Nate.

The dancers began to form groups for the next dance, and the band started playing again. Nimbly performing the steps to the frolicking quick step, the dancers tapped and floated around effortlessly. Rachel didn’t have experience with this dance step, so she gladly sat this one out. She watched Tom weave his way back through the crowded sidelines. As he balanced the drinks and cookies, he kept well away from the twirling men and women.

Thanks, Mr. McCauley... er, Tom. Rachel reached for the cookie and cider.

She nibbled on the morsel, and her stomach stopped churning so much. Tom stood sentry by her chair, silently proclaiming her as his territory.

The cookies are tasty. I wonder who made them? he asked.

I must confess, my sister, Phebe, baked them. We weren’t allowed to eat any at home, and my mouth watered all afternoon.

Tom laughed. Your sister’s a fine cook, he said, wiping crumbs from his mouth. Did you have a good crop of pumpkins from your garden this year?

Yes, plenty for the root cellar. We set them out in the sun for two weeks to harden before storing them.

I don’t see your mother and father or your sister here tonight. I hope they are well.

Father had night duty at the furnace, and Mother didn’t want to leave Phebe alone at home with my brother, Nick. My sister isn’t able to dance because of her heart, and she tired herself baking this afternoon. Sometimes Nick’s seizures are more than Phebe can handle by herself.

Tom munched his cookie while Rachel sipped her drink. They had little besides pleasantries to discuss. She only socialized with him when visiting the company store to buy sugar or flour or calico for the family. The store was the only source of goods for the village, and anything not stocked was ordered from Philadelphia and arrived on the return trip from shipping Hopewell’s iron products to the city. Being so much younger than Mr. McCauley, Rachel never thought of him romantically and was repulsed by his constant attention tonight.

The band announced a short break, and a crowd gathered at the refreshment table.

Good thing we got our food before the rush, Tom said. People stood around the barn, relaxing on bales of straw and chatting, while Rachel and Tom sat in awkward silence.

Eventually, the musicians took up their instruments. The band is getting ready to start again. Shall we dance? asked Tom.

She glanced at the open barn door, and her hopes leaped when she saw Nate’s face, scanning the crowd. At last, a rescuer! But to her dismay, he caught her eye, then turned and disappeared outside. Why didn’t he come in?

After a moment, she looked at Tom’s eager face and said, Yes, I can dance another. She rose and shook out her skirts.

They took their positions, and the music began. The dancers had just started moving when the toe of Rachel’s shoe caught on a nail. She lurched headlong toward Tom, who attempted to catch her, but she hit the floor hard. The music halted, and everyone gathered around.

Are you hurt? asked Tom, as he extended his hand.

No, she replied, ignoring his hand. She heard tittering and girlish laughter at her misfortune. She got up by herself, her dress torn where she had stepped on it. After brushing off the loose dirt and straw covering her hands and clothing, Rachel reassured everyone she was not hurt and headed for the door.

Are you sure you’re all right? Tom hurried after her, trying to hold her elbow.

She jerked her elbow from his grasp. Yes, I’ll be fine, but I need some air. Her hair now spilled across her face, and the edge of the torn frock trailed the ground. I’ll come back shortly, she lied as she picked up the dragging fabric.

I’ll be waiting for you, he said as he turned and rejoined the dancers reorganizing themselves.

Tears stung her eyes, and one trickled down her face as she hurried out the door. Why had she come? I don’t belong here, she thought and ran outside into the crisp night air.

Outlines of farm wagons and carriages loomed along the lane, parked outside for the night instead of in the barn. As she walked down the sloped road between the ironmaster’s big house and the barn, she skirted couples standing around. Occasional bursts of laughter punctuated their whispering. Other couples lingered in deeper shadows of the building, engaged in more passionate romance.

She hurried past them all, averting her eyes to avoid noticing who was with whom. After removing the remaining pins from her hair, she shook her head, and her locks cascaded to her shoulders. The muted roar of the furnace at the cast house hung over the village, the bright sparks from its chimney lighting up the night sky.

When she neared the end of the barn, the lane forked. The right path veered up the hill to the charcoal shed and the roads to Reading or Philadelphia. The left trail descended toward the cast house and tenant houses beyond. But before she reached either fork, Rachel turned onto the footpath leading to the barn’s lower level’s stable door. Upon entering, she paused a minute for her eyes to adjust to the dim interior lit by a single lantern in the middle of the walkway. Long shadows played on the walls. A row of tie-up stalls lined the left side, where each stall held a horse or cow, secured at its head and separated from its neighbor by a rough board wall. Box stalls were on the right side. Occasionally an animal stomped a foot or shook its head, but muffled music and footfalls from above interrupted the peaceful silence. The rumps of the massive draft horses towered over Rachel’s head as she walked down the aisle. Aromas of sweet hay and pungent manure mingled together in a mish-mash of scents.

Each box stall had a door outside to the fenced pasture. She passed a sleek chestnut gelding lying in a bed of straw, and in the last stall, a palomino mare with delicate features poked her nose over the top rail and nickered.

Hello, Missy, Rachel