The Old River Town
Book One: Annabelle
Prologue
There are seasons known only by the senses. They exist as mere whispers. Nameless and elusive as phantoms passing by on the breeze. Some last for but a moment while others endure— blurring the boundaries between our four seasons, our twelve months charted out neatly on a grid.
So much is lost in the dust as we race to build borders. Centuries of sounds are covered by the collective ticking of clocks. Still somehow, in silence and in shadow, the forgotten world lives on. It crosses over into our own sometimes. Just as sunlight travels through stained glass- so, too does the undefined venture into our land of endless names and classifications.
It is there, at the crossroads where dreams and the waking world collide, that these seasons come to be.
It just so happened that many years ago, two strangers crossed paths in such a place. Their differences were evident. The walls between them, insurmountable. But there was something wondrous about that cold September morning in 1780— something powerful enough to bring one and one together, never to part.
Of the two, Annabelle Casey was first to take notice of its arrival. She could not name it. But knew without question that the world around her was on the brink of great change:
The rows of grain she passed on her way into town that morning swayed softer than before, weary on their stocks. There was light on the horizon but the sun was overdue. All summer long, it had been so bold. So eager to paint the blue velvet sky with streaks of glowing amber. On this day, it seemed gentler. Hesitant, somehow.
Annabelle wondered why. For she wanted nothing more than to see all things and to comprehend them with the intimacy of a trusted friend. I suppose it is for this reason that the fixations she held and that held her were so deeply intense.
Recently, when the sky was clear and the ground was dry, it was shadows that captivated her the most. They danced alongside her as she walked each morning, softly adorning the landscape with figures of blue and gray. There were some shadows she would describe as acquaintances. Their appearances were instantaneous. Ephemeral as lightning. Others she knew and if you were to ask her, she would say that they knew her, too. Why else would they hide in the woodlands and come bounding playfully to greet her as she passed?
She felt their absence now and anticipated their arrival with the break of day. But her journey was not made in complete solitude. The remaining fireflies of summer accompanied her. In clusters of softly flashing light, they waltzed. Their movements were slow and graceful as they congregated in the darkest nooks of the surrounding forest and onward towards Annabelle's destination: namely, a tiny schoolhouse nestled within the fledgeling town of Waterford, South Carolina.
At the time, Waterford was nothing more than a sprawling ensemble of homes and businesses. They sprung out of the earth, eclectic. As though a farmer's child had tossed a handful of leftover seeds in the dirt. With regard for neither grids nor rows, it grew. It was a young town, much like Annabelle, herself and she cherished all of it beyond measure. Every pane and gable, every fence and stepping stone.
For all of the love that she had for the place, she received very little in return. The townsfolk took no interest in entertaining her outlandish whims. Annabelle spoke too loudly, too boldly about things she simply did not understand. The estrangement did not break her spirit. No. Everyone and everything remained a potential friend, a lesson, a story.
Even him…
Chapter One
September 1780
Waterford, South Carolina
At the edge of town, there stood a lonely old apple tree. This was the first feature Colonel William Tavington took notice of as he surveyed the area. It seemed harmless enough. Planted between two small buildings on the crest of a grassy knoll. Yet, something about it bothered him.
Perhaps it was the woeful lack of fences in its vicinity. Or how it seemed to mark the implied spot where the schoolyard ended and the cemetery began. In truth, it was the tree's advanced age in comparison to its surroundings that was the most troubling of all. That and the simple fact that the little township had evaded all censuses and did not appear on any maps.
He had seen his share of backcountry communities. They snapped under pressure like twigs. With the right amount of leverage, this one would, too. Wouldn't it?
The hours of darkness were crawling to an end. Soon, the apple tree and its neighboring headstones would cast long shadows across the yard. William decided to use them to his advantage. If he timed it right, he could cross unnoticed to his target: the little white church that the cemetery belonged to.
There was a man inside by the name of Edwin Whitley. A traitor not only to The Crown, but to William himself. He and his Dragoons had been tracking him for days. It would surely be to Whitley's great misfortune that the Colonel found him first.
William was about to move in when the shuffling of feet diverted his focus. It was followed by the shutting of doors. Then the shuttering of windows. Had he been spotted?
Another sound followed. Not at all unpleasant, but odd. Like the plucking of a string. The bending of a bow on some foreign instrument. The melody itself was indiscernible; made up on a whim and broken in places by momentary laughter and elaborate speech.
The source of this sound did not remain a mystery for long. Soon, someone appeared on the same stretch of highway that he had ridden in on. It was none other than young Annabelle Casey, singing and reciting poems to herself.
At first, he watched the incoming stranger from out of the corner of his eye, hoping that she would soon pass by and vanish. When she did not, he felt his frustration grow— until suddenly, it stopped. In its place, a pleasant thought:
She reminded him, not of any living soul he'd ever encountered, but of a memory that had been locked away for so long, it might as well have never existed at all.
The movements she made were the exact likeness of a willow tree in the wind. Each of her appendages were delicate and long. Her hair, the color of cornsilk, was uncovered. Tamed only by a sloppy braid and tied off with an ivory ribbon. They had met before. Not in the flesh, but in between the lines of poetry and prose. Countless years had passed since he sat, book in hand, in that place beside the river, beneath the sheltering canopy of his own beloved willow. But he was there again now. If only for a moment.
"I see I have even more friends waiting for me! Good day to you all, good day!" Annabelle called into the branches above her head, startling William and severing him from his contemplation. Her voice was bold, full of expression and music. She climbed to the apple tree's lowest limb, still moving even as she perched. Then held out a jar, adjacent to the rising sun. A blast of blinding light flashed across the glass as she ushered several fireflies into the vessel. Then a few more. "Splendid! Seven fireflies. Seven eager participants to help me come up with a poem before my students arrive!" She twisted the lid shut, looked skyward and spoke again. Softer, this time.
"Come, listen to my story
Of how seven tiny stars
Abandoned heaven's glory
To live inside a jar…"
As if by command, a group of small children emerged from the neighboring homes. Annabelle started down to greet them and lost her footing momentarily. The jar slipped from her hand and rolled into the thicket where it was intercepted by the toe of William's boot.
There was no escaping. She spotted him immediately. He pocketed his weapon and looked on as she froze in place. Justice, it seemed, would have to wait.
"Go inside, children! I will join you all shortly!" Annabelle shouted, then turned her attention to the soldier. "Hello." There was no response, just a tense and watchful silence. The shallow indentions across his face were that of a man who scowled often. But he was not scowling now, at least not too much. Instead, he was simply observing her, just as she observed him. "What brings you here?" Now he scowled. That was a question William did not intend to answer. Instead, he plucked an apple from a nearby branch and started to polish it on the corner of his handsome red coat. "I see. You may take as many apples as you can carry."
"I should ask the same of you," was his thankless reply. "Why ever are you running around at this hour looking so disheveled?"
"My papa teaches here. At least he did for a brief while. I am filling his post while he…" She could see his eyes travel to the sign hanging above the schoolhouse's door. A visible shiver ran down her spine as he read her father's name, Solomon Casey, aloud. "I should not be talking to you."
"Continentals, I assume? Or perhaps something worse." His tone might have been gentle, but it was laced with venom. "Fear not. This is the first I have heard of your family name. And of your charming little town. A rebel stronghold, no doubt?" He looked on, intently and saw her rub her lips together in thought. Her face was sweet and inviting, even when fearful. "Miss?"
"That is where you are wrong, I'm afraid. We are just as divided here as everywhere else. The only difference is we can live peacefully in the company of one another— thanks to the values our community was founded upon."
"And what values are those?"
"To forget our differences and begin life anew. Away from the conflict."
William straightened out his back, standing taller than before. "But you cannot. I think you know this. Were you shaken at all by your father's enlistment?"
"Yes," she said, simply. "What a strange world this is. Where we all must be one or the other. Friend or foe. Loyalist or Patriot. You are not the first redcoat that I have encountered. Let alone spoken with so cordially. Why, there is a young officer in Charles Town who I met at the theatre not too long ago. We had the most enlightening conversation about Shakespeare! I consider him a friend, even now. I wonder how much we all miss each day, blinded by hatred. Have you ever wondered this, too?"
"Stupid girl. That which you call 'hatred' can be justified. Ignorance, on the other hand, cannot. What do you teach in this school of yours, anyway?"
"A bit of everything. Although, admittedly, I tend to favor the humanities above all other subjects. The arts have the power to unite us all, you see. Especially poetry…"
"Poetry…" William's eyes lowered to the jar against his boot. He gave it a tiny kick and it rolled back to its owner. "Pick it up." He bore his teeth when she did not move. "I said pick it up, you coward!" This time, she followed the order, watching him steadily as she bent. "Finish your poem."
"My poem?"
"Yes, I would like to hear how it ends." He blinked. Then glared. "Start over. From the beginning, if you will."
With a timid nod, she obliged.
"Come listen to my story
Of how seven tiny stars
Abandoned heaven's glory
To live inside a jar…"
She looked to the item in her hands. Seeing, not only the fireflies, but the light of morning and William's reflection against its smooth surface.
"Which to them was a palace
Made entirely of glass.
Free from a world of malice
Until it came to pass,
That the ceiling 'bove the seven
Made way for their ascent,
To drift back up to heaven,
So, homeward the stars went."
Grinning now, Annabelle loosened the lid and removed it. They watched the little glowing creatures climb higher and higher into the sky before fading away completely.
"What are they?" William inquired after gathering his thoughts.
Something lifted inside of her. What fear she felt had faded away with the seven fireflies. Her fascination with the him grew, as did her comfort in his presence. "There are no fireflies in your country? Oh! You must be terribly curious about them! If only I could recall the first time I saw one!"
The pop of an opening window echoed from across the lawn. Whether it was from the church or not, he couldn't tell. Nothing came of it, ultimately, but it put him on edge and reminded him of where he stood. "Lower your voice."
"It is an awful shame, though. They will be gone soon. When the air turns cold, they burrow underground." She tried to whisper. But it was no use and her voice quickly climbed back to its original volume. "I always wonder what they do there! If they build little chambers and tunnels to illuminate all through the winter months. Could you imagine? An underground city of light?!"
"Do you speak this freely to anyone?"
"Anyone who will listen," she chuckled to herself, "and everyone else who happens to be within earshot!"
"You must be horrid at keeping secrets." He felt a smile slip and quickly soured it with a forced grimace. "This conversation shall be ours, do you understand me? I was never here. Swear it."
"Well-" Annabelle watched his eyes, if only to be captured one more time in their radiant gaze. She had seen blue eyes before. Bluer ones, in fact. But his were peculiar. They seemed to be composed of both ocean and sky. Calm in one moment, frigid and stormy in the next. As enchanting as they were, there was no knowing what lurked within their depths. "If this secret is ours, you must swear it, too. No harm will befall my father or my home."
"We are at war. Unless your family and neighbors undergo a profound change of heart, I cannot make such a promise." With a shake of his head, William climbed onto the back of the chestnut warhorse who had been grazing silently beside him. "The best I can do is forget your name, Miss Casey. Your name and the path which led me to your door."
"And what is your name, Soldier? So I might forget it, too…"
He looked at Annabelle solemnly and with no intention of replying. If the choice was his to make, her face and name truly would be forgotten. Along with the town she called home. But all of it had been burned into his memory, against his will.
He would continue to hunt Edwin Whitley— follow him into the swampland, perhaps, and spill his blood miles away from this hallowed ground. For all he knew, the traitor had chosen this place at random and he was more of a stranger to Annabelle than William, himself. He wanted to ask, but held his tongue.
Before riding away, she heard him mutter, "Fireflies, you say?"
Author's Note:
Hello and welcome to all!
I've been meaning to rework this story for quite some time now. It is the first in my ongoing series of Patriot fanfics, as many of you know, and since all the others build on top of this one, I wanted to go in and strengthen the foundation before proceeding with the series.
This fic was first written nearly seven years ago. I was brand new to the fandom and honestly had no idea what I was doing— I thought Tavington was dreamy, needed an excuse to gush about this fact, and that's about it. I did not expect this project to become such a labor of love. But that is what is so amazing about fan fiction, I guess!
There is a good story here. I really, truly believe this. But it needs to be fleshed out more. So does Waterford. And the characters. And their relationships with one another.
I hope this new version of Only Through Victory will be as well-received as the first.
I am holding onto the first draft. It can still be viewed on my Wattpad for the time being and I will be putting it on my Writeblr permanently so it can continue to be read and enjoyed.
While I take a lot of liberties with all of my stories, my aim is to be more historically accurate this time around. There will also be more original poetry. Like a lot more!
As always, reviews are welcome and encouraged- they make me so happy and really do seem to help fuel my inspiration.
Thank you for reading!
Your friend,
Lisa