1776
I own nobody except Ben & Abi's granddaughter, Debra, Sigh, and Riley doesn't get any girl ever because he's mine, sighs again, OK, I only own Deborah Sampson Gates and the idea for this story.
My name is Hephzibah Deborah Sampson Gates, but my friends, and my parents, call me Heppy, or Debra for my middle name. I am of above average height, with sparkling steel blue eyes inherited from my grandfather, Ben Gates, and waves of curly black hair. Now that I've introduced myself, let me tell you my story, concerning a magic history book, eccentric professors the study of time in the passage of man, of which is common in my family, we're well-known for being history freaks - and treasure protectors, as well, a journey intersecting England and America during the zenith of the Revolution, and, best of all, getting to meet -and know important historical figures such as King George the III, the mad king of England, the honorable General George Washington, Sam Adams with his Sons of Liberty, and Thomas Jefferson with his pen of iron that drafted the stirring Declaration of Independence.
The day that changed my entire world began the same as most days: I woke up, dressed, ate breakfast with my parents, Joseph Plumb Martin Gates and Katharine Luther Gates (She is descended from Martin Luther, the great Reformer), then, while we had some time before Mutti went to work at the National Archives like Grandma Abigail, we cleared the table so they could examine a letter Dad had discovered on one of his journeys. Dad had found a document of importance to us- the family Gates: a letter supposedly written by Charles Carroll, signer of the Declaration, and founder of Carrollton, in Pennsylvania. My great-great-great grandfather, Charles Carroll Gates, had this great "last of the Signers" as his namesake.
Dad looked up, then handed me a book, which I took from him, perusing the cover eagerly. Dad knew how much I loved books and history, so he often found me a book that combined the two. (Often they were historical novels by authors such as Ann Rinaldi et al.) The cover proclaimed in glossy, gold embossed letters, The Nation Founded by Providence: The Inspired Story of America's Birth.
I trailed my finger over the words. My eye caught my dad's, and I nodded as Mutti entered the room, dressed for work at the National Archives. She was blond and tall, my Mutti, similar to my Grandma Abigail, for she was German, too, like her. Gates men have always had a weakness for intelligent women, especially if they're German. On the other hand, for great "uncle" Riley never got any girl's attention, and he told my grandfather Ben that if he had a baby girl, he would give her my name, Hephzibah, (the name is Jewish in origin) which is how I got my name.
I went over to give her a hug. She got in the car, and then drove off to work, as I set down on the steps to wait for the school bus. I pulled out the new book Dad had found me. Cracking it open, I began to read. Just then, there was a blinding flash, reports of guns, a horse neighing, a quill pen scratching across parchment, and then a fierce wind sucked me into its vortex, knocking me out.
When I came to, my school uniform was gone, and a petticoat, garters, and a lovely deep blue Colonial gown replaced it. As I, bewildered, and still somewhat woozy, rose to my feet, a portly, round-bellied man strode past, knocking me down again. He stopped short, concerned, then crossed over to help me to my feet.
Somehow, I recognized him. He turned away, beginning to leave, but I gathered the dress, running after him. A name burst from my lips.
"Sam Adams!"
He turned to face me, with a wide, kind smile on his round face.
"None other," he replied.
My head spun. I was actually meeting one of my nation's heroes. I felt woozy. Unsteadily, I stepped forward, tripped on a loose stone, and nearly stumbled.
Sam Adams caught me as I fell. "Poor lassie," I heard him murmur to himself. I shook my dark curly head, trying to get control of my emotions. This couldn't be happening. I couldn't be in pre-Revolutionary War America. Mr. Adams took my hand. Oddly enough, his hand, within my grasp, felt warm tucked in my small hand. Gesturing with his free hand, he proclaimed, "Welcome to Boston, my lovely lassie….." he paused, lifting a thick brown eyebrow in my direction. In the midst of my bewilderment, I realized he was inquiring about my name.
"Hephzibah," I breathed. "But people call me Heppy."
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the great man turn aside, muttering to himself, "Heppy? What an unusual appellation." I touched his shoulder. He turned back to look at me.
"It's only a nickname, sir," I explained. He smiled at me. Taking my arm, he placed it in his.
"Hephzibah…. What a gorgeous name, lassie. Don't you know that it is a favored name in our Colonies? As we are a devout, God-fearing people, your name is has special meaning for us. Hephzibah, in Hebrew, means "My Delight is in her," which our Lord bestowed upon his nation Israel."
"Oh," I exclaimed dumbly, astonished. I'd always HATED my name, no matter how much I loved Uncle Riley and Grandma and Grandpa Gates; but for some reason, the name had always been special to Uncle Riley; who was as much of a historian as Grandpa Ben was.
In fact, he'd written several books: The Templar Treasure; and Other Myths that are True; a book concerning the finding of Cibola, then an investigation of the social, political, theological and socio-political climate in the Thirteen Colonies before, during, and after the Revolutionary War. These books are treasures within my family. When I was growing up, I would stroll into the library, and select one of Uncle Riley's books; then sitting down, become so engrossed that I wouldn't hear my parents calling for me. I credit Uncle Riley; and my Grandparents Gates, the most, for fostering in my love of history.
I also learned from them as well the value of being one of the Gates "Treasure-Protectors," as our family became known as, since Grandpa Ben had restored our family name to greatness.
I glanced back at Sam Adams. He must have noticed the change in my eyes. They were brimming over with unspent tears. I was wishing I'd never hated my name; and required of everyone to call me Heppy instead of Hephzibah.
"You must come with me to my house," he spoke again. Adjusting his tricorn hat, he glanced at the clear blue sky. "A storm is brewing in the streets of gentle Boston."
My head still had not clarified the fact that I'd left the 21st century.
"Huh?" I asked. "What storm?"
Sam Adams's highly intelligent eyes focused on me. He took my hand again, leading me through the bustling people-filled cobblestone avenues. Then he stopped short, holding me by my shoulders. We were overlooking Boston Harbor, down to the blockade of ships below. Then he whispered one word. "Revolution."