The Revolution

5|Continental Congress

September 5, 1774

The letter arrived on a brisk September morning, and I sat at the bottom of our steps to gather my jumbled thoughts. It read-

My Dearest Sister,

How deeply I miss you. Oliver has informed me you are doing well, and I cannot fathom going through what you have gone through. It truly is a miracle you are recovering so well, and I pray for you every night.

I have heard of what is happening in Boston and I can't even imagine the pressure you must be living under. Father was enraged when news of the Intolerable Acts arrived in Valley Forge and no one dares mention politics or Boston in the house. How crude are the soldiers? Little Charlie won't stop speaking of them, though he has learned to avoid speaking of them when Father is present.

The crops are going well, and I await news as soon as you are well enough to write.

                                                                                With the deepest love,

                                                                                           Elizabeth Williams

I shake my head, pulling myself from the stairs. Chewing on my thumbnail in thought I stand before the front window, watching the blanket of grey clouds that hovered over the city. The pass few days had flown by rather quickly, probably due to the fact that I was no longer bed ridden. I had spent my time doing menial house work, sitting down whenever I felt myself getting to dizzy.

I had finally convinced Oliver into seeking an apprenticeship with Dr. Warren, and he finally quit his work at the docks. He was now working with Dr. Warren, learning all that could get him a high paying job as a physician, or even a surgeon, which he told me he had studied a great deal of in England.

I turned to stoke the fire, welcoming the heat that came as I turned over the hot coals. I placed another log atop the mediocre fire, rubbing my cold hands together, watching as the log caught the flame.

It was certainly the coldest day since winter thawed, and though I deeply despised the biting New England autumns and winters, it was a nice change from the smothering heat

Shouts from outside catch my attention and I furrow my brows, reluctantly pulling myself from the fire. Cautiously I peek through the windows, seeing nothing but an empty street. I do my best to peer around the corner of the window, looking down the street.

I catch a glimpse of what looked like a crowd and I pull myself from the window and make my way to the door. Unlatching it I step out into the street, pulling my shawl tighter around me. A force bumps into me and I stumble backward, catching myself on the front of the house.

"Excuse me?" I turn to the figure who bumped into me. They turned, and I came face to face with a young man. He had blonde hair tied back into a queue and deep brown eyes.

"Sorry Miss," He nodded, then turned back around, writing on a piece of paper with a charcoal pencil. I looked up and saw the approaching crowd, appearing to be a group of protestors.

"What's your name, Sir?" I asked the young man.

"Caleb Shulterman," He mumbled, writing furiously on the paper.

"Journalist?"

"Uh, yes, Miss," He nodded, not looking up.

"Do you work for the Boston Gazette?"

"How- how'd you know?" He looked up quizzically.

"Yesterday's paper is poking out of your bag."