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
what a wonderful Christmas tale! I really enjoyed it. Thanks so much for sharing!
ReplyDeleteThanks, Tena.
ReplyDeleteGrat post! AND LOVE the pic!
ReplyDeleteThanks, CJ.
ReplyDeleteThanks for the post. I really enjoyed reading about Christmas traditions in the past. Merry Christmas.
ReplyDeleteI so enjoyed your post, Diane! And I love your picture. Thanks for sharing! Happy Holidays!
ReplyDeleteThank you for the story. It went wonderfully with a couple of cookies and a cup of tea! Best wishes for a great holiday.
ReplyDelete