Free From Sea to Shining Sea by JAMES ALEXANDER Thom Page B

Spotsylvania and then Dunmore counties in search of opportunities. This was the ambition of mind that Jonathan Clark carried upon his tall, square, brawny farmer’s body, and it had taken him away from this place he loved with a love that he realized only when, as now, he was coming home.
    Jonathan saw now that he was overtaking a couple of riders—a man astride and a woman on sidesaddle—who were moving down the road at a walking pace. Both wore dark riding clothes that were very dusty. They obviously had come a considerable distance. Jonathan presumed that they were on their way to the wedding. The man carried a long rifle across his saddle and Jonathan could also discern a sword hanging at his left side. The woman wore a cloak and a wide dark hat, but was so small she might have been a very young girl. Jonathan was twenty yards behind them when first the woman and then the man turned their heads and saw him coming.
    “Hallo,” he cried as he overtook them, squinting to see if he recognized them. He did not, though the man looked familiar.
    They reined in and sat their horses across his path. The man was of sharp features and had large, jutting ears, and he was studying Jonathan keenly, as if trying to recognize him too. “Good day, sir,” said he, and then he smiled, and his severe cold eyes warmed and sparkled. “You’re one o’ John Clark’s, I’ll wager.”
    There was little hazard in that wager; Jonathan was a replica of his father, strongly built, rugged-faced like Squire John Clark, strikingly handsome with his dark brows and fair, freckled complexion,but a head taller. Like his father he dressed in somber and serviceable wool, almost like a minister. He wore a plain white stock at his throat, and a black riding cape. The ribbed stockings that encased his powerful and well-shaped calves were gray wool.
    “I am, sir. Jonathan Clark is my name, and yours is?”
    “William Lewis is who I am,” said the man, extending a hand as thick and hard as Jonathan’s own, “Bill Lewis, an old neighbor o’ yours when you were a lad in Albemarle. Here is my wife, Lucy, whom you might remember as Lucy Meriwether.” Jonathan tipped his hat to her and she smiled and nodded. She was, though childishly short and petite, a very comely woman, with high cheekbones, big, luminous blue eyes so heavy-lashed they looked almost sleepy, a squarish jaw that suggested strength, and a most delicately shaped mouth.
    “I know the names Lewis and Meriwether,” Jonathan replied with a nod to her, “from my parents’ talk. But forgive me not recalling if we’ve met. I was a young’un then, and can scarce remember Albemarle folk, save for a few like the Jeffersons whom we saw more frequent. Shall we ride on, Mister Lewis? We’re almost there. D’ye know Tom Jefferson much?” he asked as they resumed their way along the road at a walk.
    “Oh yes, quite well,” chuckled Lewis. “I’m in his employ, in fact. I do the financials of his estate.”
    “Ah! Is he coming to the wedding, d’ye know?”
    “I bear his regrets to your parents and the bride. He’s busier than a dozen men, what with public office now, besides the estate and his science. Say, now, Jonathan, as for this bride. Ann is the sister who was born in Albemarle, I presume?”
    “Aye. Eighteen she is now.”
    “I remember well the day she was born. It was the day we brought the news of Braddock’s disaster. Your mother was birthing ’er just whilst we rode in. Might y’ remember that?”
    “By heaven, I’m not sure,” Jonathan chuckled. “I remember many a birthing, that’s certain. The fact is, the very first thing I can recollect from my memory is my brother George being born. Rather, I should say, waking up one morning and seeing him there in the bed in my mother’s arm.” He smiled and shook his head, glancing at some cattle in a field that had used to be in barley.
    Mrs. Lewis’s voice rang out suddenly, in a mellifluous laugh. “Do you