Christmas at Weedon’s Tavern by Diane Scott Lewis

Fredericksburg, Colony of Virginia 1773

Laughter from the taproom made Margaret Gordon smile. Business was good, even though the country was in turmoil. She poked her head out the shutters and watched several horsemen trot down Caroline Street. Her muscles tensed. Rebels, out to ride to the north, to add to the resistance?

The December wind swept up from the Rappahannock, ruffling her white cap, and she finally shut the window. The kitchen smelled like salted meat and acrid smoke—a smell that clung to her skin and hair.

She turned to the kitchen maid. “Clean high up in the chimney, make it good, and keep it that way. I have hankering to smoke a ham in there this Christmas.” A holiday that might be the last peaceful event in the coming storm.

Margaret tucked her neat gray hair under her cap and stared up at the blackened beams over her head. A widow, now, she still owned this tavern although her son-in-law managed the place.

Entering the taproom, where patrons sat on benches at the tables, their voices ebbing and flowing, she stopped the pot boy. “Put the Yule Log in the hearth.”

The lad did as requested amongst the chatter of “rebellion” and “tyranny”. It was December the twelfth, and the log would burn until January sixth, with enough left over to kindle next year’s Yule log. If they were still here next year.

“Mother Gordon, you look distressed. What say you?” George Weedon approached and slipped his large arm around her shoulders.

“Ah, ’tis a season for celebration; however, with much dangerous rumblings.” She smiled for her son-in-law, but wished the customers would keep their seditious words quieter.

“I know you back our cause, our disgust at England’s practices.” Mr. Weedon, a strapping man with bold features, had a nose that jutted like a ship’s prow over his determined mouth.

“I do. But I’d also like to preserve this establishment. The King’s men could enter at any time.” Margaret glanced around the narrow taproom, a place where her husband once prevailed: a bustling tavern on the corner of William and Caroline Streets in Fredericksburg, a tobacco town on the shores of the Rappahannock River.

Soon, the brick and wooden structure with chimneys on each end, small rooms and dormer windows, would be owned by Mr. Weedon and her daughter Catherine. With his marriage to Catherine, he intended to buy out his mother-in-law and become sole proprietor. He had already renamed the place Weedon’s Tavern from the previous Gordon’s.

Margaret fought a sigh and knew she couldn’t stop the changes swirling around her.

* * *

The spicy aroma of mince pies fresh from the brick oven built to the left of the kitchen hearth calmed Margaret. It was Christmas eve and she threw herself into the holiday preparations.

She instructed the new cook in the making of her specialty called a “stack” cake. They rolled sweetened, spiced dough into thin layers and cut slices with a dinner plate to make a perfect circle. After baking, the cake rose but little. They cooked dried apples and peaches separately, spiced and mashed them and spread this paste between the cake layers. “Now this will sit a few days to soak up the fruit into the cake and will be ready to enjoy Christmas day.” She breathed in the rich smell of cinnamon, nutmeg, mixed with the cooked fruit.

“Mama, when you prepare the other cake, be certain that George receives the bean this time,” her daughter Catherine said at coming into the kitchen, her pretty dress brushing across the worn planks. “You remember how he sulked when Mr. Mercer had the honor last Christmas.”

Margaret chuckled. “I cannot guarantee Mr. Weedon will receive that very portion, though he enjoys the mischief.” Every year she prepared a cake with a bean baked into one slice. The person who got that particular slice became the King of Misrule. He would rule from Christmas day to Twelfth Night, performing various trifling acts to ensure good weather for the next year. Margaret only wished for the colonies and England to come to a peaceful agreement. “Now, Catherine, help me fashion our Christmas Bush.”

The women bound two wooden rings side by side; they added fresh cuttings of evergreen, boxwood and sweet William. Bright red apples, some rare lemons and pine cones were included for color. At dark tomorrow, Margaret would hang it in the taproom window.

Early Christmas morning, she made certain the ham was smoking in the chimney shaft. Ham was expensive, so a rare treat. She set the centerpiece, apples speared onto a wooden cone adorned with headless nails, on the long table in the taproom. She stuffed boxwood around the apples.

In her best gown, a crimson robe over a petticoat, she adjusted the tight-fitting sleeves trimmed with ruffles. Her laced-up leather stays almost gave her a girlish waist above the full skirt. She joined her family in the walk to attend church at St. George’s on Princess Anne, the next street over.

After service, Margaret returned quickly to the tavern to prepare for their company of family members and friends. She placed her punchbowl filled with tea, sugar, pineapple juice and rum next to the centerpiece.

Mr. Weedon bounded through the front door clasping two sprigs of holly. “These will ensure that I am master of my house for the coming year.” He waved about the holly before placing them on a hall table.

Dr. Hugh Mercer walked into the dining room then with Margaret’s other daughter, Isabella, whom he had married. Mercer owned an apothecary shop close by, where the servants purchased draughts for the tavern. His frock coat smelled of the cold wind outdoors.

In the late afternoon, the family sat. Everyone one said ahhhh when Margaret carried out the ham surrounded by sweet yams. A maid followed and set the cornbread on the table with a hunk of butter. Two roasted fowl competed with the meal’s delicious fragrances.

“An impressive feast, Mother Gordon.” Weedon raised his glass of punch. “To the brave men of Boston.”

“I must caution you, Mr. Weedon, I’ll have none of your political talk this day.” Margaret gave the younger man a pointed glare. “Let us enjoy our food.”

 “Keeping George from his opinions will be an impossible task, Mother Gordon,” Mercer said with a sly wink.

“Ah, it is true. We will not be able to avoid it, with what is stirring up these colonies, will we, Hugh?” Weedon gave Margaret a sheepish look.

Margaret shook her head and served cornbread to the men, hoping they’d stuff their mouths full.

“Too bad Washington couldn’t be here tonight, but he has returned to Mt. Vernon. I hope he does not enjoy his farming too much,” Weedon said archly. He slathered butter on his slice of cornbread. “He should take a leading role in our current ‘difficulties’.”

“That he will, I’m sure of it.” Mercer smiled with his small mouth in a broad face. “I may have to take a command myself.”

“Hugh,” Isabella protested.

Margaret clacked her fork. “Can we not talk of—”

Weedon went on, “When I served as Washington’s lieutenant in the French and Indian War, his leadership skills were unsurpassed.”

“George, please.” Catherine grimaced. “Don’t upset Mother.”

 “With what just happened in Boston, we will see tempers flaring. Dumping that infernal tea right into the harbor.” Weedon took a bite of ham. “Made me wish I had been with them.”

“England will retaliate against us for that, I have little doubt.” Mercer’s face beamed with admiration. “It was a fine show of courage. Taxing us to the hilt, they are. England should not get away with any more of these acts.”

“We won’t endure it much longer. The winds are howling for change. We’re ready for the fight.” Weedon poured two glasses of bumbo, a popular drink made with rum and sweetened water. “Let us toast a new beginning, if a bit early, for the next year. To a stronger resistance in 1774. No more taxation without representation. No more tyranny from the mother country.” The two men raised their glasses, clicked them together, and drank.

“And what should we women do to prepare for this uproar?” Margaret had lost her appetite. The men would not be deterred. She sipped the tart punch, which burned in her stomach. “Will you teach me to fire a musket?”

Weedon laughed. “I’m afraid you might use it to shoot at me.”

***

At nightfall Margaret placed the Christmas bush in the front window with a glowing candle at its center. The candle lit up the lattice panes, giving the room a festive appearance, the smell of evergreen sharp.

More people entered the tavern to eat, drink and toast the brave souls in Boston and their destruction of the tea. Other ports of call had started to do the same dumping of English goods. The men’s voices rose, carrying good cheer and vows to resist King George’s despotic treatment of the colonies. Many of the women joined in.                     As folk wandered in, shutting the heavy door against the cold wind outside, George Weedon would raise his glass. “Enter, my friends, everyone is welcome on this night.” He spread his arms wide as if he would embrace them all.

Margaret served coffee and cake. She kept glancing at the door, praying no redcoats walked in. She wanted her family safe.

“Rotten luck, George, I have found the bean!” Mercer held up his fork with cake remnants and the elusive little bean. “I am King of Misrule again.”

Weedon shrugged with a wink. “We are all under misrule, I daresay. A king who cares little for his subjects.”

Catherine patted her husband’s shoulder. Isabelle rolled her eyes.

The Rev. James Marye, Jr. approached the men. He’d dropped in to bless them on his way home. “I warn you to be careful with your words tonight, gentlemen. Ears and eyes are everywhere who might not feel the same.”

“As I’ve told them, good sir.” Margaret understood the issues, the anger, and now she might not be able to avoid the shift in her countrymen. Had England pushed too hard? She smiled wearily at the reverend who purchased his communion wine from the tavern for St. George’s. He nodded, donned his cocked hat and departed.

Outside, gun shots cracked, and she and Isabella rushed to peer through the window.

“Just a bit of celebration, I hope.” Margaret squeezed her daughter close. Catherine joined them, and they all held hands.

“Every able-bodied man may be called to arms, if matters progress,” Weedon said from the center of his chattering group. “The government in Williamsburg seethes with unrest against the unfairness of Parliament.”

“Any more treasonous talk and we’ll spend the New Year in the lock-up.” Margaret tried to make it sound light, but the impending threat shoved against her.

“Mother, we must be prepared,” Catherine said. “George speaks the truth.”

“Our lives are about to change forever.” Isabella nudged her mother’s shoulder.

“I’m proud my daughters are both brave.” Margaret took a deep breath. She gathered her strength. “We will be prepared for whatever might happen.” She kissed each daughter on the cheek. “This will be a Christmas we won’t soon forget. Shall we have musket practice tomorrow?”

Diane Scott Lewis

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