Soon after that I heard Daddy and Granny whispering in the house and then Daddy spent the next month digging a root cellar out back, not near the house but between the hay stack and the barn, he fixed the door to lock tight from the inside, you could not see it from the house or the barn.
When he finished he took me out to it and said, "Sarah, I want you to learn how to hide in this root cellar, should anyone come you must get in here and stay." At first I was full of questions, "Won't you and Granny be in it too?"
"Yes, if we have time, if not you must do it alone. I am depending on you to do it, promise?"
"I promise, Daddy, but…"
"No buts, you must just do it!"
He kept saying, "It's just in case. I am sure we will never need it but you grab a bit of food and a jug of water and high tail it in here if ever me or Granny tell you to and no arguments, you hear?"
"Yes Sir."
We practiced shutting the door just enough to get an arm out to spread the hay over it to conceal it.
The rest of the year went along with nothing happening. It was 1862 and I was turning nine soon. Daddy had promised this year I could have a party.
The weather had started turning cooler and Granny was feeling poorly. She was resting in her room. I busied myself in the kitchen. I had made her a tray and started up the stairs with it when I saw the soldiers coming through the field. There must have been about a hundred of them, maybe more, all wearing blue and carrying rifles with knifes sticking out of them.
I ran up the stairs yelling for Granny at the top of my lungs, my heart was pumping so hard I could hear it in my ears. Granny was up looking out the window when I burst into the room spilling her tray.
She grabbed me and told me "Go hide in the root cellar, locking the door the way you had been taught and not opening it no matter what you hear? Sarah, you must promise me you won't come out till it's safe."
Hugging me close she said, "Sarah child, you remember, when it has been quiet for a long time, peek out and see if it's safe to come out. If you can't find your dad, or me I want you to head for your uncles. Stay near the road south, keeping away from strangers until you arrive there."
"No, Granny, come with me." I was crying and yelling.
"Shh, Child I would never be fast enough, you must go now, Hurry."
"I love you, Granny" I hugged her tight.
"I love you to child, now go, but you must be quiet and hurry child. Don't forget your food and water. Please hurry!"
I took another look towards the field as I ran down the stairs. They were closer. I grabbed a loaf of bread and a jug of water as I passed the kitchen and ran for the cellar. As I closed the door and pulled the straw over it I heard a shot. It was all I could do to keep from screaming.
The darkness was unbearable as the door closed completely. I fumbled at the lock. I knew the candle was in the back of the small room, but for a long while I just sat on the steps holding my hands over my mouth…my dry mouth. It seemed as if all the moisture in my entire system had turned off. No amount of licking seemed to produce any moisture. Instead, each time I licked at my lips, it seemed I was licking chalk. I uncorked the jug and took a sip of the water. At long last I could swallow.
I heard noises above me. Shouting and running. I heard the chickens squawking and the cow's bell ring. I could only guess what they were doing up there. All the stories came back, "killing the chickens, stealing the horses, no telling what all they do to the women folk."
I thought of Granny, all alone. Surely no one could hurt Granny; she was so sweet and would not hurt a fly. What reason could anyone have to hurt her? She was harmless.
I thought of Daddy, he was in the fields working, He probably did not see them approach; I told myself, "Yes, that's it, Daddy is still working in the field, he will come soon and I can come out and every thing will be fine. Daddy will take care of every thing."
I whispered, "Please God, please let Daddy come for me"
The noises seemed to fade a bit and I crawled toward the candle. Daddy had tested to make sure no light shone from the outside, so I knew I could light the candle safely. Yet, I was shaking so badly I could not get the match to light. After a few more attempts the match flared. Finally as the small candle lit, its small flame illuminated a bit of the cellar. I took another drink from the water jug and at last I could swallow better.
I crawled over to the potato sacks on the floor and lay down. I was so tired and it seemed that I had been there for hours. I could not stop crying, I held my hand over my mouth trying not to sob.
I must have dozed because when I woke there were no noises over me. I decided to wait a bit longer to open the door and peep out.
I blew out the candle thinking I should save it, there's no telling how long I would have to stay down here. "Daddy will call me soon and I will open the door," I whispered into the darkness. "I will just wait on Daddy." I said my prayers and went back to sleep,
When I woke again, I lay and listened for any kind of noise, there was none. I was so very afraid as I opened the latch. When it made the click sound of unlocking, I did not remember it sounding so loud. I stop breathing, I was sure I would be heard.
Slowly I lifted the door only a crack, I was quietly talking to myself, "Slowly now, careful, easy does it."
I felt safer in the dark. I could not see the house, only the side of the barn and no one was there. Slowly I inched forward to where I could peep around the haystack. There were small fires everywhere. Men lay sleeping around them. They were still here.
I slowly inched my way back into the cellar, reaching out and pulling the hay back on top then locking the door, holding my breath as the lock made its click. I went back to my sacks and once again I softly cried myself to sleep.
Thus Sarah's Journey Begins:
"You Hear Me?: Miss Sarah's Civil War Journals"
Order on line at Publishamerica.com or Amazon.com.
Ask Book store to Order.
ISBN: 1-4137-8463-1,.
297 pages, 6 x 9
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Book 1- "Can you Hear Me?" Reason for writing.
'Can You Hear Me? ' has a subtitle, "Miss Sarah's civil War Journal"
Years ago I as most people do got that I want to know where I came from itch. My fathers name was Kenmar, as far as I knew, but research and information proved he was really a Kenmare.
Oh, the marvelous tales I heard from different relatives. Some believed we came from Ireland. That was true, partially. In Truth we came from England. A few, including my family had went to Ireland.
I was told we had a town and a castle named after us, Kenmare Ireland. This proved completely untrue. There was the Duke of Kenmare but alas his real name was not Kenmare.
I made a trip, a unforgettable trip, to Ireland and located in the town of Kilkeel, the last of our family and walked the ground of the old Kenmare farm. It was there I would discover the story of England.
More determined, I started tracing the Kenmares as they arrived in America, finding my g-great grandfather had served in the American Revolution. They had worked at farming and timber cutters. Working on crews that supplied the lumber for many town from Wilmington,North Carolina, York, SC and towns in surrounding areas.
John Albert Kenmare, was the traveler. So when he and brother James at the ages of sixteen and seventeen, heard the adventitious tales of the west, they decided to travel west. It was told after they crossed a raging river, they somehow got separated. John told of searching for weeks. Afterward John went southward as James made his way on into Arkansas.
John married three times, his third wife , my great grand mother had him eleven children. She proved to be a hearty soul and she out lived him by many years. One of these children had inherited a small Journal that she had kept of her growing up amid the civil war. In her child like hand writing. I read of her fears, and the terror the children had faced. I knew I had to record as much of it as I could, so I started the Saga of Sarah. I researched each leg of her journey as she too had traveled from the Carolina's. Did she and John Know each other as children? I do not know. Her father had worked in some of the same crews as John's father. It is possible.
I began to write, seeing my grand mother in every page. A tiny wisp of a girl, only eight years old, forced to grow up to fast in a war her family did not support. So armed with the journal and years of research, I began to write a true fictional novel. All the facts and dates are true. I took liberties with the story. Thus I had a true fiction Book.
Tomorrow:
My first Baby, "Can You Hear Me," started out to be two books, but the publisher suggested I combine both books and make a longer book.
Years ago I as most people do got that I want to know where I came from itch. My fathers name was Kenmar, as far as I knew, but research and information proved he was really a Kenmare.
Oh, the marvelous tales I heard from different relatives. Some believed we came from Ireland. That was true, partially. In Truth we came from England. A few, including my family had went to Ireland.
I was told we had a town and a castle named after us, Kenmare Ireland. This proved completely untrue. There was the Duke of Kenmare but alas his real name was not Kenmare.
I made a trip, a unforgettable trip, to Ireland and located in the town of Kilkeel, the last of our family and walked the ground of the old Kenmare farm. It was there I would discover the story of England.
More determined, I started tracing the Kenmares as they arrived in America, finding my g-great grandfather had served in the American Revolution. They had worked at farming and timber cutters. Working on crews that supplied the lumber for many town from Wilmington,North Carolina, York, SC and towns in surrounding areas.
John Albert Kenmare, was the traveler. So when he and brother James at the ages of sixteen and seventeen, heard the adventitious tales of the west, they decided to travel west. It was told after they crossed a raging river, they somehow got separated. John told of searching for weeks. Afterward John went southward as James made his way on into Arkansas.
John married three times, his third wife , my great grand mother had him eleven children. She proved to be a hearty soul and she out lived him by many years. One of these children had inherited a small Journal that she had kept of her growing up amid the civil war. In her child like hand writing. I read of her fears, and the terror the children had faced. I knew I had to record as much of it as I could, so I started the Saga of Sarah. I researched each leg of her journey as she too had traveled from the Carolina's. Did she and John Know each other as children? I do not know. Her father had worked in some of the same crews as John's father. It is possible.
I began to write, seeing my grand mother in every page. A tiny wisp of a girl, only eight years old, forced to grow up to fast in a war her family did not support. So armed with the journal and years of research, I began to write a true fictional novel. All the facts and dates are true. I took liberties with the story. Thus I had a true fiction Book.
Tomorrow:
My first Baby, "Can You Hear Me," started out to be two books, but the publisher suggested I combine both books and make a longer book.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Why I write.
I have been asked many times the question. Why do I write? I started out wanting to see my family and friends burst with pride as they read my first book. Honestly some did, most didn't. I thought this is it, why write if I am not good enough for them? How can I expect to ever please strangers. But the stories were there inside of me, wanting so badly to be out I decided one more, just one more and if they still was not impressed, that would be it. So I wrote. Once again I impress a few, but not the ones I longed to impress.
So why do I write? I guess the simple answer is I enjoy seeing the words in print. It's like a birth, the morning sickness as you work getting it believable, and lastly there is the labor pains as you send it off to the publishers. Each time I see one of my new books I hold it to my chest with the same feelings I had with the births of my children. Yes, I feel the same pride as my characters come to life. There is the same joy as when people complimented me on my children's charms. Only now they use words like interesting, fascinating, spell-binding. No, not all but a few.
So why do I write? I literally become the characters as I write. I transform into the lovely school teacher, looking lovingly into the dark blue eyes of the handsome farmer. Or I am the country doctor as he cares for his settlement. Yes, I even become the boisterous drunkard or the cynical evil doer.
Why do I write? For a while my life is exciting, I am loved, yes, even desired by the handsome hero. I can be bold, smart, and find I become bolder with each new book, my characters become more adventurous. I don't care anymore if all my family and friends are impressed. I write because I love it.
Next time I will tell you about my books.
So why do I write? I guess the simple answer is I enjoy seeing the words in print. It's like a birth, the morning sickness as you work getting it believable, and lastly there is the labor pains as you send it off to the publishers. Each time I see one of my new books I hold it to my chest with the same feelings I had with the births of my children. Yes, I feel the same pride as my characters come to life. There is the same joy as when people complimented me on my children's charms. Only now they use words like interesting, fascinating, spell-binding. No, not all but a few.
So why do I write? I literally become the characters as I write. I transform into the lovely school teacher, looking lovingly into the dark blue eyes of the handsome farmer. Or I am the country doctor as he cares for his settlement. Yes, I even become the boisterous drunkard or the cynical evil doer.
Why do I write? For a while my life is exciting, I am loved, yes, even desired by the handsome hero. I can be bold, smart, and find I become bolder with each new book, my characters become more adventurous. I don't care anymore if all my family and friends are impressed. I write because I love it.
Next time I will tell you about my books.
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