The Road to Deer Run –
In 1777, a wounded Redcoat is rescued by a Patriot woman. Can love overcome the bitterness of war?
Honorable Mention in Romance, 2011 Los Angeles Book Festival; Finalist, religious Fiction, Next Generation Indie Book Awards
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Rocks of Remembrance
Excitement coursed through me as I buttoned my thick sweater and wrapped my crocheted scarf around my neck. I practically raced for our rental car sitting in the dirt parking lot at the bed and breakfast where we were staying. My husband was amused at my school-girl anticipation, but he understood.
It was the day to visit the site where my great, great, great, great-grandfather had built a family cabin—a long-awaited treasure in a series of precious discoveries as I learned more about my ancestor, Daniel Prince, who had come to America in 1776. His intent upon joining the 21st regiment of the British Army was to conquer the Colonials; instead his heart was conquered by a young American farmwoman. He stayed in this country after escaping from a line of prisoners of war and the rest, as they say, is history.
But it was my family history—and I was chomping at the bit to meet up with the historian at the Williamsburg, Massachusetts historical building.
Ralmon Black is a sturdy, bearded fellow who had provided me with several interesting tidbits about Daniel (my Redcoat ancestor). The most amazing photo Ralmon had sent me in my research showed the Prince Monument. A three-foot-tall piece of granite, this perfectly shaped rock was painstakingly chiseled by a now-deceased Prince ancestor. The small edifice proclaims the following: “Site of log cabin built by Daniel Prince, a Burgoyne vet, 1782.” At the very top, an image of the British Union Jack is carved into the stone.
No one in my immediate family had ever heard of this monument! I was determined to visit it, so my husband and I made arrangements that Fall of 2009 to climb the wooded hill to the site of my grandfather and grandmother’s cabin. They raised eight children there, including my 3rd great grandfather, Daniel Prince Jr. Another rock nearby was chiseled with the words: “Birthplace of Prince twins 1784.” Daniel, Jr was a twin of James Prince and the two became famous as the oldest living twins in the 1800’s. Both reached their 90’s.
Our small party of seven began our journey up the hill. Now the site of a maple business, foliage covered the land that had once been cleared for homesteading. Our group included four Prince descendants—my nephew who lived in the area, two descendants of the twin James, and myself—the historian, Ralmon Black, his elderly aunt who put us all to shame with her stamina, and my husband, Steve. We began our pilgrimage on a chilly, sunny morning.
The closer we got to the site of the old homestead, the more excited I grew.
This was where my ancestors worked, played, lived and loved. I could feel my blood stirring.
We nearly walked by it. Trees camouflaged the remnants of the past. But there it was, standing tall amidst the ferns, looking like both monument and tombstone.
I tenderly touched the chiseled words that declared its place of remembrance for lives now long gone. Lives that shared the same blood with me. Lives that have lived through myself and all the many hundreds of descendants that have birthed since 1780 when Daniel and Mary’s first child was born.
It was a reverent moment.
My nephew and I, following the historian’s instructions, filled in the words on the stone with chalk. It made the etching more legible in the photo shown here. We caressed the stone with our fingers as photos were taken, grins wide enough to span the generations.
After what seemed too short a visit, we began the descent back down the hill. Unexpectedly, tears brimmed. I sniffed them back and then felt a gentle, persuasive urge to turn back—to fill my being with the mysterious connection of family that overwhelmed me. It was almost a physical presence of belonging. It wooed my senses to revel in my ancestors. They were so much a part of me, I could almost feel their love.
As I turned back again to descend the hill—turning back to the present—I carried their love with me.
Unexpected Journey
It was the 4th Anniversary of my daughter’s death and I would have preferred to stay in bed. Keep the curtains closed. Pretend I wasn’t alive.
Instead, God spoke to my heart in a tender, inaudible voice that was both persistent and undeniable: I was to write a book.
Although I’d been a freelance writer off and on for years, writing a book had not been on my itinerary. In fact, since Bethany died from a brain tumor, I had pretty much retired my “pen,” submersing myself in my fulltime job as an RN working with special needs children. Tending their needs was a balm to my soul as I was able to bring comfort and joy to their handicapped lives. I wanted to make them live as fulfilling a life as possible—something I hadn’t been able to accomplish with my own child. She was gone and nothing could bring her back.
There was irony in me writing a book. It had always been my daughter’s dream to be a writer. Why should I be the one left behind to create words? It didn’t seem fair. But life is definitely not about fairness.
And though I was too busy to write, I began my research. The idea implanted in my heart on that dreaded anniversary was to write a historical novel based on my great, great, great, great-grandparents. I had always been fascinated with my family history dating back to the American Revolution: A British prisoner of war, falling out of the line of prisoners, wandering to the hometown of a young colonial farm woman. They met, married, the Redcoat became an American citizen, the woman birthed eight children—it was the stuff of fairytales—but it was my family’s heritage.
The amazing thing is my editor/husband never questioned my “assignment.” He went with me to the used bookstore to find books about the Revolution. He picked up library books for me. He helped me edit my first draft (it was horrible!). He coached me in ways to improve my story. He watched me act like a woman on a mission, and he never said, “You can’t do this.” I am blessed.
When my book was submission ready, reality struck. It was 2009 and the publishing industry was sinking fast. One friend in the industry told me that this was the worst time for new writers to try to submit. Unless you were a proven moneymaker, you were wasting your time.
Instead of discouraging me, I became more determined than ever. I had not spent countless hours researching, writing and editing to see my project flushed down the drain of defeat. Although it was still considered unprofessional in the literary world, I opted for self-publishing.
That decision took courage and I took some flack from those with their traditional-publishing-noses in the air. Fortunately, I was ignorant enough of the elite culture at the time to crawl into the closet of embarrassment. I plodded on. I entered contests and my book won a few awards, including Finalist in Romance at the Los Angeles Book Festival. Accolades encouraged my heart. I wrote a sequel and then another—all award winners. My third book was contracted with Sword of the Spirit Publishing and the first two will be added to that same publishing house in 2013.
My journey has not been easy. But as I anticipate my 4th book releasing with Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas in Fall, 2013, I shake my head in amazement. I’m not in awe of my capabilities for I know that anything I write is through the blessing of God’s gifts. But I am in awe of the One Who placed a call on my grieving heart and transported me on an unexpected path—a journey to fulfill my daughter’s dream. I hope to honor her memory with my work.
(Photo of hearth courtesy of Thomas Deitner)
Warm yourself by the fire…
Come warm yourself by the fire. Bring a cup of warm tea, put your feet up and enjoy my writing journey. You are welcome to my writing home.
“The Lord bless you and keep you; the Lord make his face shine upon you and be gracious to you; the Lord turn His face toward you and give you peace.” Numbers 6:24-26 NIV
