by Nancy Rue

If I do not take off this silly dress this instant, I will simply die!

Caroline Taylor gathered up her blue linen skirt and miles of petticoats and ran down the steps just as the bells pealed at the end of the Easter service at Bruton Parish Church. She sprinted through the cemetery, taking her shortcut.

Although Caroline was bent on pulling off the clothes that were supposed to make her a proper young lady of Williamsburg and putting on the britches and cap she kept stashed in the back of her wardrobe, she did give the graveyard a second glance as she zigzagged among the tombstones.

One good thing about Easter, she thought, the Rev. Pendleton preaches about something other than death!

Today he had told them that Jesus had been “victorious over death” by rising again to new life—just as the American Patriots were going to gain victory over the British and bring Americans a new life as an independent country.

Caroline’s papa had stiffened at the reverend’s words. Mr. Taylor was a Loyalist, which meant he didn’t believe the colonists should be fighting the mother country. That didn’t make him— or his family—very popular.

The only reason they weren’t run out of town was that Papa was the miller. A town couldn’t survive without someone to mill their grain into flour. Plus, John Hutchinson, the Patriot leader of Williamsburg, prohibited bad treatment of Loyalists.

I have no wish to be popular, Caroline thought, bolting for the Taylor house. I just want one friend!

Hidden Identity

Caroline marched up the stairs to her room and tore through the wardrobe for her “boy clothes.” It was hard to stay proud of who she was when almost everyone in Williamsburg crossed to the other side of the street when she passed. Caroline was the only Loyalist child left in Williamsburg, and she had only found one way to ensure an afternoon of play.

Buttoning the britches into place over her white stockings, she tied up her sand-colored hair under a cap and slipped a scarf around her mouth and nose. So far none of the Patriot boys had questioned this mysterious “boy,” and she wanted to keep it that way.< P> As Caroline ran across mud-mucky North England Street, a gang of boys rounded the corner ahead of her.

“Yer lousy rebels. We’ll see you hanged for sure!” one boy shouted from the back of the pack.

“You’ll have to catch us first!” cried a boy in front. As if to prove it, he tore down the road with his pursuers pounding the mud behind.

As Caroline took her place on the “battlefield,” she noticed Thomas Hutchinson coming from the other direction. He was John Hutchinson’s son, but he had just come to Williamsburg from the Hutchinson plantation. The town gossips said it was so his father could keep an eye on him.

Caroline sniffed. From what she had seen of this Hutchinson boy, with his big-for-a-10-year-old shoulders and superior smirk, he obviously thought himself better than just about anyone in town. But that wasn’t the only reason the boys avoided him. Caroline had heard them say they wouldn’t be caught dead hanging around with a boy whose father protected Loyalists.

Muddy Greeting

The crowd of boys rushed by Thomas. He was clutching the handle of a barrel he was carrying, and he dove for the side of the road, barely missing being trampled. As he tumbled on the wooden walkway, Caroline ducked behind a shadblow tree, scooped up two handfuls of mud and hurled one at him.

It hit Thomas in the side of the face with a splat. When he sat up, she splattered the other handful squarely in the middle of his back. By now the gang of boys had formed two lines and begun pelting one another with the biggest balls of goop they could scoop up from the muddy road.

“Hey, you there!” Thomas cried out angrily. “How dare you?”

The boys ignored him and kept volleying mud balls. Caroline, however, came out from behind the tree and stood over Thomas with her arms crossed.

“Traitor or Loyalist?” she demanded in her gruffest boy voice.

“What?” Thomas said. His usually sharp blue eyes were clouded, and his brow furrowed beneath a shock of curly dark hair. If Caroline wasn’t mistaken, he was confused—and it was obvious Thomas Hutchinson did not like being confused. Caroline smothered a smile.

“Are you a traitor to King George of England who by rights rules this land?” she questioned. “Or are you loyal to him?”

Thomas shoved back his shirt sleeves.

“I’m a Patriot!” he declared.

“Oh,” Caroline said. She jerked her thumb toward one side of the battle going on behind them. “Then you’re with them. But you have to be a Loyalist next time.”

Thomas bore his eyes into her. “I don’t ever want to be a Loyalist!”

“But we have to take turns.” Caroline grinned. This boy took himself much too seriously, and he needed to be put in his place.

“Well?” she demanded.

Thomas doubled his fists.

“Have you got your dander up because I’m laughing at you?” she asked.

Thomas took a step forward, and Caroline knew she had him fooled. She could barely contain herself as she edged backward. Thomas started toward her.

Suddenly his eyes caught on something behind her, and in a flash he took off in the direction of the Duke of Gloucester Street.

True or False

“What are you about here?” A familiar voice sent the boys scattering. Caroline turned to look up into the stern face of her father. With his serious mouth and intelligent eyes, he was the kind of man who should have been respected in any town. She certainly respected him—especially at this moment.

At least the boys had vanished before he said, “Caroline! What in the name of heaven. . . .” He touched her cap.

“I need someone to play with, Papa!” she said. “And this is the only way.”

“If being false is the only way to have friends, Caroline, then perhaps it is better to be alone.”

Caroline wiped away tears with muddy fingers as Papa unwrapped her scarf.

“I know the loneliness,” he said. His brown eyes were soft. “But not being true to oneself is like being dead. Did you not hear what the Rev. Pendleton said on this Easter day?”

“Yes,” Caroline said. “He said Jesus wants the Patriots to win!”

Papa blinked. “No, Caroline. He said Jesus died and rose again so that we, too, can have new life. If we trust in Him, we no longer have to live dead lives—no matter who wins this fight.”

Caroline pushed the mud with her toe. She did feel dead, having no friends.

“If Jesus would play with me,” she muttered, “I suppose I would have a friend, wouldn’t I?”

To her surprise, Papa didn’t lower his voice into his “you-will-not-be-disrespectful-to-me-Caroline” tone. Instead, he lifted her chin.

“Jesus is your friend,” he said. “It is Easter. He lives on—in your heart.”

Caroline squinted up at him. “You are saying I must pray, aren’t you?”

“Yes. Pray to your true Friend, and He will not let you be lonely.”

Ready for Change

Mr. Taylor started to walk away and then turned. Caroline could see the smile teasing in his eyes. “Be precisely who you are,” he said. “But you must wear a dress while doing it.”

Caroline nodded. She took off for the house, arriving far ahead of him and peeling off her muddy britches before she heard the front door. All the while she prayed: “Jesus, I don’t want to feel dead anymore. Please give me a friend—one who will play with the real Mistress Taylor.”

Her brow puckered as she poured water into the washbowl. I don’t want to play with tea things and dolls and sit about making samplers, she thought. I want to play games, like the boys.

She wondered if Jesus would give her that kind of friend.

Caroline had barely scrubbed her face and yanked a sunny yellow dress over a fresh petticoat when she heard a rattling noise from the street below.

She reached the window in time to see Thomas Hutchinson trudging down the wooden walkway, kicking his barrel ahead of him. His big shoulders drooped, and his face was sad. Caroline recognized that look. It was loneliness, and she knew it well.

But Thomas Hutchinson? she thought. Mr. High-and-mighty?

Caroline felt a smile spread across her face.

This boy may think he’s better than anyone, she thought. But I think we might have something in common.

Gathering up her skirt, she hurried down the stairs. He would never guess who she was—and maybe, just maybe, they could make a new start.