Sarah's Doll: Volume I

By D. Evans Dittman

Sarah's Doll tells the captivating story of seven-year-old Sarah Meriwether and her family living on a 1600-acre land grant in antebellum Maine during the late 1850s. This historical novel vividly portrays their extended family life through a series of memorable e

• Language: English
• Publisher: D. Evans Dittman
• Release date: May 20, 2024
• ISBN: 9798869388131

Book preview

Sarah’s Doll

VOLUME I

D. Evans Dittman

Copyright 2024 by

D. Evans Dittman

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. NO part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, except as may be expressly permitted in writing from the author.

ISBN: 978-1-962905-67-1

Printed in the United States of America

Published by WritersClique.com

This book is dedicated to my wife because she has been essential to my life.

Acknowledgments

I need to acknowledge the encouragement, support, and participation of Diane Elizabeth Dittman without whom this book would not exist. The support and patience of my entire family must be recognized as well, particularly the inspiration of my son, David and his lifelong interest in this countries’ history.

Table Of Contents

Chapter One The Barnyard Incident

Chapter Two The Black Bear Incident

Chapter Three Sarah’s First Trip To Town

Chapter Four A Filly In Early Spring

Chapter Five The Abenaki Outreach Incident Part I

Chapter Five The Abenaki Outreach Incident Part II

Chapter Six The Frost And The Fog

Chapter Seven A Filly Run Amok and a Prayer

Chapter Eight The End Of Summer

Chapter Nine The Miracle And Redemption

Chapter Ten A Light In The Forest

Chapter Eleven Sarah’s First Riding Lesson

Chapter Twelve Bread Pudding

Chapter Thirteen Sarah’s Doll Civil War Talk

Chapter Fourteen The Algonquin Raid

Chapter Fifteen A Meeting of the Minds

Chapter Sixteen Slavery On The ‘Plantation’ Threshing Oats  The Meriwether Farm

Chapter One

The Barnyard Incident

Chaos Amidst the Calm

Sarah was, as usual, the first to emerge from the house at daybreak. The sun was just beginning to filter through the cedars along the eastern skyline, casting long shadows across the pastures and the barnyard. The early April sun was glistening off the creek that meandered just beyond the big barn at the edge of the fence line. A hint of wind rustled through the birch leaves, gusting on occasion, as the livestock came to life when Sarah quickly and quietly eased through the kitchen door, clutching her straw hat with one hand and gently closing the door with the other. She hesitated on the porch, looking out across the pasture to the barnyard, watching the livestock beginning to mill about, waking to the new day.

Birds were singing. Sarah listened for the familiar sounds of the Peregrine Falcon, the chirping of the Kestrel, the cooing of Doves, and the hooting of the Great Horned Owl as he marked the end of his nightly hunt.

Figit, her grandfather’s sheepdog, sprang to life, leaping off the porch, tail wagging, all the time circling Sarah. He was jumping up beside her with great enthusiasm, waiting for her to wave him on, signaling him to clear a path through the livestock scatted across the barnyard.

Sarah stopped in the midst of the sheep pens to scratch Figit’s ears, allowing him to jump up on her while she picked up the egg basket from the chicken coop and turned the hens loose, a practice frowned upon by all other members of the Meriwether clan; in particular, her older brother, Thomas, who frequently ended up having to bring order to the chaos Sarah inspired in the barnyard.

Figit continued on toward the corral as he danced around Sarah’s heels, lunging at the sheep as necessary to keep them moving ahead toward the barn. Once they reached the barn, Figit raced ahead, stopping, looking back to make sure Sarah was still following him, then racing ahead again until he arrived at the grey mare’s stall where he barked for the first time, wagging his tail and jumping up against the stall gate. When Sarah arrived moments later, she pulled an apple from her pocket and gave it to the grey horse, who took it eagerly, devouring it before turning her attention to Sarah’s straw hat, which was already suffering from signs of prior nibbling by the mare. Sarah clamped both hands down on her hat before it could be wrenched from her head completely, but not before the mare took another nibble from the brim of her hat.

Ol’Samuel, as Sarah called the grey horse, who was neither old nor a gelding, nickered and pushed her back, nuzzling against her, searching for a second apple, which Sarah always kept hidden away in the pocket of the baggy, hand-me-down trousers that she got from her brother Thomas. She much preferred her brother’s clothes to the skirts and dresses her mother, Ruth, tried to get her to wear.

There was a daily standoff to determine whether Sarah would dress herself in her brother’s clothes, make it downstairs, through the kitchen, and out the door into the barnyard before her mother could bring her to a halt and send her back to her room to dress like a little lady.

Even catching Sarah before she reached the porch was no guarantee she would end up dressed like a ‘little lady.’ What had become a ritual debate between mother and daughter, ignored by the rest of the family, had taken on an almost ceremonial and predictable dialogue:

Wait one minute, young lady. We need to do your braids and get you into a dress so you look presentable when your Aunt Naomi and Uncle Joseph arrive, her mother would say.

Yeah, but I’m just going to do chores and fetch eggs for breakfast. Can’t we do it after? Sarah would continue toward the door dressed in her favorite hand-me-downs, glancing back at her mother to discover whether she was catching up or simply trailing along behind her.

No, Ruth insisted We have plenty of time to get you looking, lady-like, presentable before you begin your chores and sit for breakfast.

This morning was no different. Sarah walked Ol’Samuel out of the barn, crossing the barnyard to the coral. Ruth appeared on the porch, apron in hand,

What are you about, young lady? She braced her hands on her hips, Time you got yourself back inside so I can get you looking presentable.

Yeah, but I can do all my chores and look in on the horses before breakfast. Sarah slowed down crossing the barnyard and cast a glance back at her mother on her way out to the barn, anticipating her mother’s attempt to halt her in her tracks, or she would, depending on her mood, allow her to race back to the barn to greet her horse. And so it went, almost daily.

This early spring morning was no different. Ruth heaved a sigh.

Very well, Ruth replied. But you are going to be looking like a little lady when your Aunt Naomi and Uncle Joseph arrive. Fredrick and Martha Allen will be coming as well to help with the wheat harvest.

Yeah, but won’t everyone be working in the fields, Mothuh?

I expect so. It isn’t a social visit, Ruth assured her. They are coming to help with sheep shearing while your father finishes plowing the fields and I get started on planting the early crops. Solomon Archer will also be coming bye.

So, won't they all be dressed for working in the fields?

I see where you’re headed with your questions, Sarah, Ruth adjusted her apron, tying it around her waist.

But everyone else will be in their working clothes like I am now, Mothuh.

You know how Naomi and Joseph feel about young ladies dressing properly.

But they are always dressed like they were going to church or a funeral.

Ruth shook her head, tisk-tisking as she finished tying her apron before turning to go back inside. She ignored Sarah’s comment and, instead, responded in a cheery voice, And don’t forget the eggs.

No ‘um, Sarah hollered back, regaining her stride. She stopped abruptly at the Chicken coup. Sarah tilted her head back, Cock-a-do-dal-doo, she sang out to the rooster, startling him from his sleep.

The bellowing screech of the rooster that followed started a raucous commotion in the barnyard which Sarah thoroughly enjoyed. She clapped her hands, cheering with enthusiasm. The crowing of the rooster, announcing her presence, set off a cacophony of sounds throughout the barnyard. Sarah joined in with the animals’ chorus as she made her way past the sheep pens, the pig sty, and the corral, dodging free-ranging cattle, horses, mules, and goats. She made her way through the barnyard, mimicking the sounds of the animals, clapping her hands again in appreciation of the maelstrom, doing her very best to rile up all of the livestock. Even the geese joined in, their wings flapping, as they raced, honking, across the barnyard chasing sheep, nipping at their heels. She dashed back to the corral, shuffling her way through the oxen, dancing her way past more sheep and cattle.

Ol’Samuel took the second apple offered by Sarah and ate it with gusto. Sarah flung open the corral gate for the grey mare. Well? she said, bracing her hands against her hips, mimicking her mother’s posture. When Ol’Samuel finished the apple, she ambled slowly into the corral. She was noticeably heavy with a foal.

The grey mare scattered the livestock as she ambled out of the corral, re-entering the barnyard. Sarah knew all the animals by name. She was, after all, the one who named them. It was a bone of contention between Sarah and the rest of the family, who considered them to be draft animals or as sustenance through the long winter months. Naming them only made it a more difficult task to slaughter them when the time came. Or, made it harder to work them in the fields, plowing old ground and clearing stumps from new acreage in preparation for planting in the spring.

The Meriwether family, all except Sarah, understood that working the livestock as hard as was necessary to keep the farm productive meant that establishing bonds with the animals made working them hard more difficult. Naming animals made it near impossible to slaughter them when the time came. As Peter was fond of reminding her from time to time,

I cannot imagine having a supper when we would ask each other to Please pass a slice of Sally or Frank."

Sarah had named the grey mare Ol’Samuel, over all objections, based on the simple fact that the two Books of Ol’Samuel were the chapters of the Old Testament, covering the history of the Israelites her mother was reading to her at the time she was naming the mare; but before she knew horses were either stallions or mares and she declined to rename the horse when she was made aware of her error.

I think Ol’Samuel is a good name, Sarah had said, And besides, he- she would get mixed up with another name, observing that no one ate horses anyway, so naming the grey mare did not matter, in Sarah’s opinion.

After a very brief family meeting, her grandfather, Peter, who did not have a concern, one way or the other, declared in a rather ceremonious speech that the horse would …henceforth, and forever more, be called ‘Ol’Samuel.’ Sarah was well pleased with the decision. The rest of the Meriwether family was, at best, indifferent, even dismissive, of the proclamation.

Sheep wandered free in the barnyard, joined by several pigs that Sarah turned loose from the pigsty. Several oxen remained in their stalls in the barn next to the milk cows and the loose cattle milled around inside the barn. Sarah opened the chicken coops to gather eggs for breakfast, releasing the remaining hens into the general population of the barnyard so she could gather the eggs without being constantly pestered by their pecking and clucking. The scene became chaotic.

All semblance of order was gone as sheep mingled with cattle, chickens jumped out of the path of cows, and pigs harried the oxen in the barn. Sarah dodged in and out of them all, making her way back to the porch with her basket full of eggs.

As Sarah barged through the door, clutching her basket of eggs, she ran headlong into her mother, Ruth, who was heading out the door with milk buckets in her hands. The clatter was hollow when the empty milk buckets clanged against the egg basket, but the egg loss was held to one, thanks to Jacob’s quick hands catching one of the two eggs that bounced out of the basket.

Sorry mothuh, Sarah said. She looked down at her shoes, twirling her braids, trying to hide her giggle. After taking in a big gulp of air, she exhaled, repeating her apology, Sorry mothuh.

Sarah was scarcely four feet tall by her father’s generous measurement. She was of slender build. Her red hair and freckled face were framed by pigtails if she tied her own hair or braids if Ruth did the styling. It caused her mother great consternation that her braids were always in some stage of disarray. It seemed, to her mother’s chagrin, that there was little chance that both hair ribbons would stay tied in bows for more than a few minutes at a time. It did not help that Sarah had a habit of twirling her braids whenever she paused to answer a question about her behavior or felt unsettled by a particular situation. And those queries were not infrequent. But that was Sarah.

She wore her broad-brimmed straw hat during summer months when reminded to do so as a means of protecting her fair skin from the sunlight. She had her father’s green eyes and ready smile. Most people who knew her were reluctant to adopt a stern attitude toward her, although her brother, Thomas, did, on occasion, make the attempt to calm her down and ‘behave more like a girl.’

Try, do try, to be more careful, Ruth constantly pleaded.

Yesum mothuh but… Sarah always began.

And slow down. Young ladies don’t run around acting like ruffians. You’re almost seven. Time you started acting like a lady.

Yesum. Sarah replied. She put the basket of eggs on the table next to the cast iron stove.

Umm, Ruth said through pursed lips, betraying just a hint of a smile as she went out to milk the cows. Once again, she found herself unable to correct Sarah’s precocious behavior. She never had found it within herself to discipline Sarah for what, in anyone else, would be looked upon as misbehavior. She was, as Ruth always reminded her husband, Jacob, a naturally rambunctious, naturally precocious child.

Sarah was invariably sidetracked from the routine of daily chores, particularly those related to the kitchen. Sarah’s reply to her mother’s frequent requests for help was her familiar ‘Yeah, but’ retort, which was always spoken in a genial tone and was often successful in getting her out of the requested task, at least for the moment, although Sarah frequently would return to the task and perform it diligently on her own initiative. Ruth was accustomed to the routine and often allowed Sarah to escape the immediate performance of a chore, knowing it would be done shortly afterwards. With the notable exception of the clothes she chose to wear when she dressed herself in the morning, Ruth remained firm but flexible in dealing with Sarah’s upbringing.

Everything she selected to wear was handed down from her older brother, Thomas. As a result, her pants were almost always too long or too short, too baggy, or too tight; shirts too baggy or too tight with sleeves that needed rolling up. The only thing that even suggested she was a girl was the red ribbon on her straw hat and even that left some doubt about her gender. It was only when she went without her hat that her thick red braids revealed her to be a girl. Her demeanor was no help whatsoever. Sarah was growing up in the shadow of Thomas where she learned more about being a little brother than acquiring the behaviors and manners of a little girl that Ruth so diligently tried to teach her.

It was a rare occasion when her mother could manage to dress her like a young lady, never when Sarah was up and dressed before Ruth.

Ruth’s sense of duty to her family; her steadfast, unwavering beliefs, acquired from her father, would not allow her to fault Sarah’s gregarious nature- at least not for more than a moment in time. The best she could manage was a shake of her head as she turned away from Sarah to hide the beginnings of a smile. She did, on occasion, look up at the sky and shake her head, seeming to ask for some divine intervention in Sarah’s upbringing.

Unlike Sarah, Ruth managed somehow to look as if she were ready to head for town at any moment. She always wore a calico dress and a clean apron, even if she was working in the garden or in the fields. Her auburn hair was always tied back and rolled into a bun or, alternatively, left to fall to her shoulders, neatly wrapped in a scarf. Soft blue eyes and a wry smile made her always appear ready to say something instructive, but pleasant. Even when her mood was dark, she appeared to be ready to express a kind sentiment. She loved to sing, and everyone enjoyed it when she did.

No sooner were the eggs delivered than Sarah rounded on her heels and dashed toward the door. Her father, Jacob, stepped in front of her, blocking the way.

You may want this, he said, holding up an egg. Sarah took the egg and returned it to the basket, then headed directly out the door. Ruth followed her through the door on her way out to milk the cows. Jacob gathered wood for a fire in the wood stove, and her brother, Thomas, who was trying to pour a cup of coffee for himself, was quick to step aside.

Woah down there Sarah; before you knock someone over, he admonished her. And give your father a hand with the firewood.

With that, Thomas turned and walked outside with his cup of steaming coffee. He was aghast at what he saw yet did not display any sense of urgency about resettling the animals, at least not until he was finished with his first cup of coffee. He simply sat down on the porch steps and gazed at the chaos of the barnyard. Shaking his head.

Thomas was several years older than Sarah and at times found himself perturbed by her mischievous behavior, particularly around the barnyard, although he, like his mother, found it hard to remain annoyed for very long. He did, however, find it amusing to tease her by feigning his displeasure with her actions.

Standing easily as tall as his grandfather, he towered over Sarah. He, like Peter never wore a hat except in the rain or heavy snow. His curly hair was unruly, framing his stout frame and blue eyes in a picturesque manner, which was the source of his father’s barbs if Thomas ever behaved in a ‘dainty’ or childish way around Sarah in his father’s presence, a reaction that Thomas abhorred. In the course of the day, Thomas was more of a role model for Sarah, with her hand-me-down wardrobe than was her mother. His voice was strong and clear which inclined him toward singing with Ruth.

Sarah shrugged and walked to the bin of firewood. Her mind was always working on ways she could be of help to Jacob, her father, who she much preferred to help rather than helping her mother prepare meals or tend to the sewing or any other domestic chores. In her mind, slopping the hogs was far better than helping clean the house with her mother or for that matter, any other activity customarily performed by women, except cooking.

Sarah pitched in as best she could, happy to oblige Thomas’ instructions. Carrying one log at a time from the woodbin to the stove, she managed to bring three logs in before she was distracted by the sounds outside and stopped to look out at the barnyard.

The sound of Figit’s frantic barking carried through the door, followed immediately by a discordant chorus of animals clucking, mooing, and bleating in the barnyard. A moment later, Sarah heard her name called in a loud, urgent, almost angry voice.

That your brothuh I hear calling you, Sarah? Jacob asked, grinning.

I believe it is, Fathuh.

Jacob was a tall man of a stocky build and an uneven temper, not given to a wide range of emotion except when confronted with a vexing dilemma or a new, previously unknown situation where he had no experience to draw from. He was then, in his father’s view, in Peter’s view, a man who does not endure pain and hardship without showing his feelings, without complaint, or visible agitation and demonstrable frustration, except when it came to his daughter.

One need only look into his brown eyes and hear him speak of Sarah or to her to understand his devotion to her. There was a soothing, almost melodic quality to his tone, unlike the gruff, rasping sound his usual voice carried, even with his wife Ruth. His piercing brown eyes and brown hair projected an image of a no-nonsense demeaner.

Thomas was rarely the object of this expression of tenderness, although he knew his father cared deeply for him. A lot was, after all, expected of him and it was, he knew, Peter’s duty to prepare him to be a strong husband, father, and farmer. And there was little time left for affection after the work of running the farm was finished.

Thomas called out to Sarah again…

"Best get a move on Sarah ‘fore your brother has a conniption fit.

I guess so, yeah, Fathuh, for sure, Sarah replied in answer to Jacob’s suggestion.

Ah- go on outside, he told her. Maybe you can get started on some chores.

You’re sure Fathuh?

Better go see what he wants before your dog- before ‘Figit’ comes unhinged.

Sarah shrugged and headed out the door. The smile on her face broadened as she ran across the porch where Thomas was waiting with the birch staff he carried to prod the animals. He tapped the staff against the palm of his hand in a menacing gesture.

I see you managed to stir the animals up into a ruckus, girl. He looked at her with his best expression of annoyance. Again, he added for emphasis after a pause. You need to keep the livestock in their own areas.

Yeah but…the animals like to say hello to each other in the morning, Sarah suggested.

Uh Huh, Thomas shook his head. Yeah-but he said, in his best imitation of Sarah. We are not keeping the livestock for your amusement, Sarah. Now get Figit and help me get these critters sorted out. He turned and headed into the menagerie to begin the process of dividing sheep from cows, pigs from chickens, and Figit from the oxen who, more than any of the other animals in the barnyard, disliked having Figit nipping at their heels.