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MORGAN
BROTHERHOOD PROTECTORS WORLD BOSWELL GROUP
BOOK #1
DEANNA L. ROWLEY
 CONTENTS

Brotherhood Protectors

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Epilogue

The End
Also by Deanna L. Rowley
Coming in 2021 and available for Pre-Order
About the Author
Brotherhood Protectors
About Elle James
Copyright © 2021, Deanna L. Rowley

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are
products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual
events, locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

© 2021 Twisted Page Press, LLC ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

No part of this book may be used, stored, reproduced or transmitted without

written permission from the publisher except for brief quotations for review
purposes as permitted by law.
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-
sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with
another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re
reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use
only, please purchase your own copy.
I’d like to thank my editor, Ann Attwood, for the wonderful job she
does on my books.
BROTHERHOOD PROTECTORS
 ORIGINAL SERIES BY ELLE JAMES

Brotherhood Protectors Series

Montana SEAL (#1)
Bride Protector SEAL (#2)
Montana D-Force (#3)
Cowboy D-Force (#4)
Montana Ranger (#5)
Montana Dog Soldier (#6)
Montana SEAL Daddy (#7)
Montana Ranger’s Wedding Vow (#8)
Montana SEAL Undercover Daddy (#9)
Cape Cod SEAL Rescue (#10)
Montana SEAL Friendly Fire (#11)
Montana SEAL’s Mail-Order Bride (#12)
SEAL Justice (#13)
Ranger Creed (#14)
Delta Force Rescue (#15)
Dog Days of Christmas (#16)
Montana Rescue (Sleeper SEAL)
Hot SEAL Salty Dog (SEALs in Paradise)
Hot SEAL Hawaiian Nights (SEALs in Paradise)
Hot SEAL Bachelor Party (SEALs in Paradise)
 CHAPTER 1

M organ S tuart stood in her home office looking at her vacation

plans mapped out on her office wall. She felt she’d dotted all her I’s,
crossed all her T’s, and wanted to leave today. However, she had a
little over two months before she left. Everything was in order
except for one thing, so she picked up her phone and dialed a
number by heart.
“Jeb’s Cycles.”
“Jeb, this is Morgan Stuart. How’s everything going?” She didn’t
want to say what was on the tip of her tongue, demanding if her
new motorcycle had arrived yet. She’d ordered it over six weeks ago.
“Good, you?” She heard the snicker in his voice, and groaned.
Why did she always have to deal with men who couldn’t answer a
simple question?
“Could be better, especially if you tell me my bike arrived.”
“Actually, it did. We unloaded it about an hour ago, I wanted to
go over everything before I called you. Before you get all excited,
we’re already closed for the day, and closed tomorrow. How about
you stop by after work on Monday?”
“Sounds good.” Morgan couldn’t keep the grin off her face as she
did her happy dance. “I work until five, so I can be there by six, is
that okay?”
“Perfect, since we’re open until seven. I’ll see you then.”
“Thanks, Jeb.” Morgan hung up, then did another happy dance,
and burst out laughing. When the phone rang again, she actually
screamed and dropped it. Laughing, she picked up the phone and
without seeing who was calling answered.
“Hello?”
“Um, yes, is this Morgan Stuart?” a woman asked. Morgan pulled
the phone away from her ear and frowned at it. She didn’t recognize
the voice.
“Yes. Who is this?”
“I don’t know if you remember me, but my name is Angel
Carson.”
“Angel of Death. I remember you. How the hell are you? Wait,
how did you get this number?” Morgan pictured the woman dressed
in her Army Ranger gear. That was the last time they had seen each
other, when Angel had to ship out on a mission. “Hey, weren’t you
processed out for medical, or something? That’s what I’d heard.”
The woman on the other end of the phone laughed. “Yes, it was
on the mission I shipped out for when I last saw you. TBI, was in a
coma for a week, and memory pretty fuzzy for a long time after
that.”
“And now?”
“Now, it’s good. There may be a couple of times I’m forgetful,
but nothing to worry about.”
“What have you been up to since you’ve been out?”
“Besides the medical stuff, I went home to LA, and got a job in
an auto-repair shop of all places.” Angel laughed. “You’ll never guess
what happened there.”
“No clue,” Morgan said, as she settled back in her chair and put
her feet up on the desk. She’d only met Angel that one time, and
they, along with Angel’s teammates had hung out for only a few
hours, but Morgan had instantly liked her.
“Well, some talent scout saw me and said I was the spitting
image for a famous actress. I laughed in his face, but he kept
badgering me. He even brought the actresses publicist by to meet
me. After some discussions I was hired to not only be this actress’s
stunt double, but also her body double.”
“Wow, the stunts I can understand, you being a badass Ranger
and all, but the acting part?”
 “Oh, I didn’t act,” Angel laughed over the phone. “They only used
my body from behind, or across the room. I had it written into my
contract that I wouldn’t talk on film.”
“Cool. So are you still doing that?”
“No, there was a time when the actress was threatened by a
stalker, and while her people got her out of the way, I acted as bait
to lure him out. That’s where I met the man I fell deeply in love
with.”
Morgan felt a pang in the region of her heart. She rubbed the
center of her chest and sighed. “Please tell me he wasn’t the
stalker.”
“No.” Again Angel laughed, but this time a small snort escaped,
causing Morgan to grin. “Actually, he was the bodyguard the
actress’s publicist hired. He works for the Brotherhood Protectors
Agency. It’s a bunch of former military guys that help out the uber
rich rancher in the Crazy Mountains area in Montana. That’s why I
called you.”
“What, you want me to come work for them?”
“No.” There was silence on the other end of the line for several
heartbeats. “Although, when I’m done packing up my shit here in LA,
I’ll be moving to Montana where Duke and I bought a small ranch. I
was thinking of talking to Hank Patterson, the owner, about maybe
working for him. With my experience from being an Army Ranger,
I’m sure I could help out. And you being a Marine, maybe it’s
something to look into.”
Morgan frowned, then chuckled. “Sorry, but I have a job I like
now. Maybe I’ll keep your suggestion on the back burner.”
“Where do you work?”
“All I can say is, it’s with the private sector.”
“And if you tell me, you’ll have to kill me. I understand. Anyway,
I’m here in LA packing up my stuff for the move to Montana. I came
across your number and decided to give you a call. I won’t take up
any more of your time. If you’re ever out this way, give me a shout.”
“Hey, wait,” Morgan yelled as she sat forward. “Do you still ride?”
“I do, why?”
 “I’m leaving for vacation the beginning of July. My plan is to take
July, August, and September off. I’m riding my bike. The only
definite thing I have to do is to attend the Sturgis Bike Rally in the
beginning of August. The rest of the time, I’m going to play it by ear.
There are some places I’d like to visit while I’m out there. We could
always hook up at Sturgis.”
“Oh my god, that sounds like so much fun. It’ll give me plenty of
time to move, get settled in, and get a bike for Duke. Then find a
campsite.”
“Write this down.” Morgan didn’t hesitate to walk to her wall of
plans and tell Angel the address of her own campsite. “That’s where
I’ll be staying. Does your Duke know you’re a Ranger?”
“He does. He himself is Delta Force. He was processed out,
because of a severe knee injury. But it doesn’t hinder his work with
the Brotherhood Protectors Agency. Unfortunately, I have to hang up
now, but let’s double-check our contact information.” They made
sure they had not only phone numbers, but e-mails, and social
media pages.
“I can’t wait to see you again.” Angel laughed. “Until August.”
“Until August,” Morgan repeated. She hung up with a grin on her
face. “What a wonderful surprise,” she said to the empty room, then
added the new information on her phone. She also went over to her
travel plans and added Angel’s name to the list. She had a fleeting
thought of calling Angel back, and asking what Duke’s last name
was, and if it was even his real name, but her landline phone rang.
This time, she saw that it was her mother calling.
With a grin, she walked out to the kitchen, poured herself a cup
of coffee, then answered, “Hi, Mom, what’s up?”
Never one to beat around the bush, Dottie Stuart got right to the
point. “What are you doing next weekend?”
Morgan frowned and went back to her office, and over to her
desk. She looked at her calendar on her desk, then picked up her
cell phone, and looked. “Nothing, why?”
“It’s the Annual Blessing. Dad asked me to call to see if you’re
going to come down for it.”
 “I can, what time and where? Do you want me to meet you guys
there, or come to the house?” She didn’t always make it home every
weekend, usually for special events and holidays. Since leaving
home at the age of eighteen to join the Marines, then after eight
years in, and working in a top security private-sector job, it was hard
to get home. That, plus the fact that she lived three hours away had
to factor in somewhere. The event her mother called her about was
an event that some politicians bullshitted their way through
speeches on safety, then a local man of the church said several
prayers before he walked up and down the street. He’d do his thing
where he tossed holy water or something on the bikes individually,
and say a prayer for the rider to be safe. That was also the day the
members of her father’s motorcycle club had to have their bikes up
and running. It was the first official day of riding for the club. Being
in Western New York, the riding season was relatively short, only a
few months, and it all hinged in the weather. The more she thought
about it, the more excited Morgan became. Plus, with her new bike,
this would be perfect.
“God, I don’t know. Hold on.” Morgan smiled as she heard her
mother’s muffled voice call for her father, then suddenly he was on
the phone.
“Hey, baby girl. You coming to the Blessing?”
“I can, do you want me to meet you there, or come to the house
first?”
“Why don’t you meet us there? Several of us have some things to
do that morning. The Blessing’s at noon at the Court House. We’re
going out riding afterward, and going back to the clubhouse for a
cookout. Why don’t you plan on spending the weekend here at
home?”
“I can do that,” Morgan said, as she typed her plans in her
phone. “I get out of work at five. By the time I get home, and
change, it’ll put me at home by eight.”
“If that’s the case, why don’t you meet us at the clubhouse?
We’re all meeting that night to discuss the blessing and the run.” He
chuckled. “And working on the last minute details of getting a couple
of bikes up and running. Meet us there, then you can always come
here.”
“Sounds like a plan, Dad.” Morgan grinned. She did a shimmy in
her seat. It would be the first long run with her new motorcycle. The
one she had kept secret from everyone. She talked with her parents
for the next hour, before she hung up and went to her bedroom, and
actually packed a small duffel to take with her to work on Friday.
The longer she talked with her parents, the stronger the idea formed
of her riding into work on Friday, and leaving from there. It would
save her from coming home, and adding time to her trip. If she left
from work, then she could be home in two and a half hours, instead
of three.
*****

All week, Morgan felt like she was walking on air. For being mid-April
in Western New York, the weather was perfect. It had been in the
upper sixties all week with no rain, and the weather report said it
was supposed to be in the upper seventies all weekend. After work
on Friday, she changed out of her office attire of a blouse and skirt
with four inch heels. In the bathroom on her floor, she changed into
a pair of jeans, t-shirt, and her riding boots which only had three
inch heels. Dressed for riding, she headed to the parking lot, and
after putting her office clothes in the saddlebags, she pulled on her
leather jacket. She decided she’d wait to pull her chaps out later.
Right now, she was in the city, and it would take her more than
two hours to get to her parents’ house. The clubhouse her father
and brothers were members of was another half-hour drive further
than her parents’ home. She knew she’d have to stop for gas at
some point and decided to put her chaps on then. After pulling on
her helmet, she straddled the bike, put on her riding gloves, started
up her Harley, and grinned when several people walking to their cars
stopped, and turned around to stare at her. She grinned and waved
back, then dropped the bike in gear, and roared away.
 CHAPTER 2

A lmost three hours later , Morgan turned onto the road where the
clubhouse stood, and knowing she would be heard, she got on the
throttle and roared down the two-mile stretch of highway, grinning
all the way. Who cared if she had bugs in her teeth? The open road
called to her. There had been a couple of harrowing locations with
tight traffic on the way here. Then, she got behind someone that
went fifteen miles below the posted speed. Morgan had been unable
to pass, because of the oncoming traffic. So, knowing she’d have
time, and with no one in front of her, she opened the bike up. God,
she loved the freedom of the open road. She slowed down before
she pulled into the front lot, and rode around the building, spotting
at least three dozen bikes already parked on the right. To the left,
she recognized her father’s bike, along with her brothers’, and she
backed her own motorcycle up next to her father’s and parked. As
soon as she shut the bike off, she was surrounded by several big
bikers dressed in black shirts, jeans, and leather vests. Morgan
grinned when she recognized her three older brothers. They might
be triplets, and looked alike, but they weren’t identical.
“Hey, you can’t park there.” Her oldest brother, Justin, yelled, as
he came hurrying over.
“Bite me,” she said, and he stopped in his tracks.
“What did you say?” he demanded, but continued before Morgan
could say anything else. “Parking on this side is for officers of the
club. You have to park that over there.”
 “Nope.” She grinned and saw her other two older brothers
approaching. John had a beer in his hand. She dismounted her bike,
and even before she took her helmet off, she took his beer right out
of his hand, and drained it. Handing the empty back to him, she
laughed as she said, “Thanks, Johnny, I needed that. I was
parched.”
“Who the fuck do you think you are?” John demanded, and
actually raised his fist toward her. Morgan could tell that he wasn’t
about to put up with any shit from anyone—not even a woman. He
would have made a good Marine, she thought, but he’d opted to go
to college. No clue what he did for a living now. She was too busy
with her own life to worry about others. She knew it made her look
like a selfish bitch, but she’d had issues with her siblings ever since
she’d left home at the age of eighteen to join the Marines. It was
like they resented her for getting her own life. Morgan had to
remember not to let her issues with them dampen her good mood.
Little did she know that in less than five minutes, she would be back
to wishing she was anywhere but near her siblings.
She looked her brother dead in the eye, as she said, “Go ahead.
I’m sure Dad will kick your ass if you hit his favorite child.” She
grinned as she removed her helmet and dark sunglasses, before she
ran her fingers through her short hair, making it stand on end. “So,
how are you guys? Got anything to eat?” Morgan laughed at their
expressions, and put a hand over her stomach when it growled. She
had been so excited about getting here, she hadn’t stopped to eat
anything, and breakfast had been a long time ago.
“Morgan?” Her third brother looked at her in shock. “Is that your
bike?”
“No, Josh it’s not. I only rode it for the last three hours, but it’s
not mine.”
“Brat,” Josh said, and grabbed his sister in a hug, and hugged
her tightly. “What are you doing here? And, when did you get that
bike? She’s pretty.”
“She is, isn’t she? I got her Monday, but I special ordered her
over six weeks ago. Mom called and told me about The Blessing. I’m
here for the weekend.”
 “It’s good to see you,” Justin said, and then studied her bike.
“Yeah, I guess your ride’s good enough to park with us.” He grinned
at her, then before she could slug him, he hugged her tightly. Her
brothers passed her around for hugs, then picked her up and twirled
her around. By the time they finished, Morgan was laughing at her
dizziness.
“What the hell?” came a female voice from behind them, and
they all turned to see two women standing there with their hands on
their hips, glaring at the four of them.
“Yours?” Morgan smirked at Justin.
“Yes.” He sighed and held his hand out to one of the woman.
“Come here, baby. Let me introduce you to…” Before he could finish,
the woman started screaming at the top of her lungs toward him.
“I turn my back for two minutes, and you have your arms
wrapped around a skank. I thought you said you loved me, then you
leave me for that?”
“Hey!” Morgan shook off her brother’s arms, and even though
she was only five foot four with the three inch heels on, she didn’t
let that bother her. Never, in all her life had she ever taken any shit
from anyone, let alone a skank her brother was banging. The
woman had to be at least five inches taller than Morgan, but that
didn’t stop her. She could hold her own in any fight. No sense
backing down now, regardless of who this woman was dating. “I
don’t know who the fuck you are, and frankly, I don’t give a fuck.
But, I am not a skank, never have been, and never will be. If you
call me that again, you’ll be picking your jealous ass up off the
ground. You hear me bitch? And if I ever hear you talk to Justin like
that again, I’ll do it anyway.”
“Oh yeah? Who the hell do you think you are to talk to me like
that? I’ve known him longer than you, bitch. I’ve been dating him for
three months.”
“Oh, I’m scared.” Morgan actually grinned as she put her hands
out to her side, and waved them. “But, I’ve personally known all
three of these boys for the last twenty-eight years, and if you accuse
me of sleeping with them, the gloves come off. I am not, I repeat,
not, into incest.” She saw her parents standing five feet away, and
saw varying degrees of smirks and grins on their faces. “Hey, Mom,
Dad. I made it. Got anything to eat?” She walked by the woman,
and made sure her shoulder hit hers hard, so she had to move to let
her pass, or fall on her ass. Morgan was immediately engulfed in
hugs from both of the older people.
“Who the hell is she?” the other woman, who hadn’t said a single
word, asked John, as he put his arm around her shoulders.
“That’s Morg.”
“Morg?”
“Morgan. Our sister.”
“But, I thought Morgan was your brother. You said he was in the
Marines, or was and worked for a private security company, that he
was always out on private missions, or something.”
“Yeah, but he isn’t a he, he’s a she,” John said, as he pointed to
his sister, and saw almost all of the club members stood there to
greet her with a hug, which she returned. Until their friend Chuck
went to give her a hug. She held up her hands, shook her head, and
backed several steps away. John looked at his brothers, and they
grinned at her reaction to Chuck. It had been like that their entire
lives. Well, that wasn’t true, the Js met Chuck in kindergarten, and
sort of adopted him. They’d been friends ever since. They didn’t see
a problem with the guy, but Morgan had never liked him for some
reason. They saw that nothing’d changed in that department.
“So, what’s she doing here? Where’s her old man?” the woman
that Morgan had lit into asked.
“Doesn’t have one that I know of, and that’s her bike.” Justin
turned and pointed to the bike Morgan had rode in on. “It’s a sweet
ride. I was looking to buy one like this a few years back.” He
dropped his arm from around her and went over to check out the
bike again.
“I don’t know why she’s here. This is a motorcycle club, and I
know she rides a motorcycle, but don’t you think she should have a
man with her. It’s not right. Most of the other members have
woman.”
“Christ, Mom, who the hell is that chick?” Morgan asked her
parents, as they heard her complain about Morgan being there.
 “Don’t ask,” her father, Chad, said, as he rolled his eyes at his
daughter. “Personally, I think Justin’s only hanging around her for
the quick ride she gives him. I can’t stand her. She’s a club bunny.”
“Come on in, we were getting food on the table,” Dottie, her
mother, said, as she turned Morgan away from her older brothers,
and headed into the clubhouse. The closer Morgan went to the
clubhouse, the more her stomach growled. She had been so excited
about coming that she’d worked through lunch, and breakfast had
been more than twelve hours ago. She was starving. On her way,
several club members stopped her to say hi, and give her a hug, or
shake her hand. When she finally made it into the kitchen, she was
surrounded by the other women. She immediately began helping
them. Morgan smirked at her mother, when she noticed the skank
Justin was hanging with wasn’t helping. In less than half an hour,
she was in line loading up her plate.
Morgan sat down at the end of a picnic table with her full plate of
salad, beans, and a hamburger. She picked it up, and took a big bite
when Chuck sat down beside her. She withheld her groan, tried to
ignore him, and continued eating.
“So, how you been?” Chuck asked, as he bit into his burger.
“Good. Busy at work.”
“What do you do?”
“I’d tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.” She shrugged her
answer, and wasn’t surprised when he burst out laughing, but she
had been dead serious. There was only one family member that
knew what she did for a living. Her job was too dangerous for others
to know, not only for her, but also for them. So, when people tried to
get it out of her, she told them at an office downtown, which wasn’t
really a lie. She did work at an office downtown, but she was also
sent on secret missions to either retrieve kidnap victims, shoot to kill
terrorists, infiltrate ISIS organizations to gather Intel—dangerous
work. Being a woman, sometimes worked in her favor, especially in
some of the Intel-gathering missions. Not all of them were ISIS-
related, but then again, in the war-torn Islamic nations, being a
woman sucked, especially when she had to have her head and face
covered at all times. She gave a secret smile, but boy did those
robes hide a lot of weapons. She continued to eat and try to ignore
Chuck, who was her older brothers’ friend since kindergarten. Before
Chuck answered, they all looked up when three bikes pulled in and
parked beside hers. She grinned when she saw her three younger
brothers remove their helmets and dismount. They immediately
made a beeline to the food line, only stopping long enough to shake
their father’s hand and hug their mother.
There were seven kids in the Stuart family. What was surprising
was the three oldest were triplets, who were five years older than
Morgan, so that made them all thirty-three. Then, there was
Morgan, the only girl. Five years younger, at age twenty-three, were
her younger brothers, Alfred, Alan and Alex—again triplets. She
snorted when she thought something she hadn’t in a long time. She
had to quickly cover her mouth to keep her food in. She looked up
when her parents sat down across from her.
“What was that sound for?” her father asked, as he picked up his
own burger. “Sounds like you were choking.”
“Nothing, just a stray thought I’ve had over the years came
back.” She grinned and filled her mouth with food, to prevent from
needing to explain. However, her father knew better, and waited her
out.
“Share it,” Chad barked out. For once, she wasn’t offended by his
gruff tone.
Morgan giggled. “It’s not a very good thought. When I lived it
home, I thought it all the time—almost daily.” She couldn’t stop the
giggles that erupted.
“When do you ever have good thoughts?” Justin asked
sarcastically, as he joined the table.
Gritting her teeth, Morgan knew her siblings would snip at her
sooner rather than later. So, she looked her father dead in the eye,
and said, “I always wondered why I wasn’t a triplet like the boys,
until I finally figured it out.”
“And that is?” John asked, as he sat beside their mother.
“I figured out Mom and Dad had to have triplets with you boys,
because only one got the brains, one the brawn, and one the
beauty. Whereas I, on the other hand, got all three at once, so I
didn’t need to be a triplet.” She grinned at their stunned expressions,
and was surprised when it was Dottie who burst out laughing.
Suddenly, six grown men groaned, “MOM!”
Alfred gripped Morgan by the shoulders, and actually picked her
up off the picnic bench, and hugged her, then passed her to the
other two As. She hugged them back and quickly sat back down.
“Hey guys, we’ll catch up, but right now I’m starving.” She
grinned and to prove it took another big bite of her burger. Everyone
was quiet for the next few minutes as they finished their meals.
What surprised Morgan was when her father took everyone’s plates
away. When her mother went to stand, he placed his hand on her
shoulder, and told her to relax.
Morgan actually felt a pang of jealousy. She didn’t have anyone
in her life at this time. It seemed like whenever she liked a guy, it’d
only last for a couple of dates before she wanted to get out her gun
and shoot him. She didn’t know if it was her, or them. She figured it
was her, but wouldn’t admit it to anyone. If she had to put a pin on
what was wrong, the only thing she could come up with at this time
was that the guy wasn’t manly enough for her. He could never
understand her former Military life, or her dedication to her current
job. What really threw the men for a loop was that she was close-
lipped about her job. When she said she couldn’t tell them, they
laughed it off. After still not opening up, they’d turn on her and call
her not normal, and compare her to other women who gossiped all
the time. Fastest time to get on Morgan’s bad side was to compare
her to someone like Justin’s skank who was currently openly rubbing
her tits all over her brother’s arm. No, at this point in her life, she
was better off alone. If she wanted satisfaction, she had her own
toys. If they didn’t work, then a one-night stand would work, too.
They sat around talking, and once her father rejoined them,
Alfred asked, “So, Morg, haven’t seen you in a long time. You didn’t
even come home for the holidays, so what are you doing here now?”
Morgan stared at him. She had never heard that tone come from her
favorite brother.
“I can leave if you want me to.” She meant it as a joke, but it fell
flat, and dropped like a lead balloon between them.
 “Whatever, I just don’t understand why you’re here. I mean, we
didn’t see you for over eight years, only a week here and there, and
the last time we saw you was over a year and a half ago. Why
now?”
“Mom called and told me about the Blessing, but there are
reasons why you didn’t see me during the holidays, and for those
eight years.”
“Excuses, that’s all they’d be.” Alex snorted. “We don’t want
excuses, we want answers.”
“And you won’t be getting any with that attitude,” Morgan said,
between clenched teeth, as she stood. “Mom, Dad, I’ll see you at
home.” She hated that her brothers always made her feel like she
was never good enough. She knew coming to the clubhouse had
been a mistake. At the last minute, she reached in her back pocket
and threw a twenty-dollar bill on the table. “Thanks for the meal.”
Morgan looked at each of her brothers before she spoke again.
“Don’t want to be accused of mooching off the club, unlike other
people around here.” She knew she was being a bitch, but she
looked directly at the two women snuggled up to her two oldest
brothers. Without another word, she turned on her heel and walked
away. What surprised her was that no one tried to stop her. No one
said a word. She mounted her bike, and Alfred was suddenly in front
of her.
“What are you doing on that bike? Are you stealing it? Don’t you
think you should tell your old man you’re leaving?”
“Because, it’s mine, and I don’t have an old man.”
“Who’d you kill to get it? Or, did you rip off your old man?”
Unable to stand it anymore, Morgan grabbed her helmet and
swung it at him as hard as she could. She might only be a little
thing, only five two in her stockinged feet, but she couldn’t stand
this hostility coming from her younger brother. She nodded in
satisfaction when her helmet connected with his shoulder with a
loud thump, causing Alfred to stumble back a few steps.
“What the hell, Alfred. Why are you attacking me? What did I
ever do to make you treat me like this?”
 “Like what? I don’t treat you any different than I do any other
girl. You’re not anything special.” He glared at her as he rubbed his
shoulder. “Pull that stunt again, and we’ll see who’s superior around
here.” He actually growled at her, while shooting daggers with his
eyes.
“Christ,” Morgan said, then donned her helmet, settled into her
bike’s seat, and roared away.
“What the hell is her problem?” Alfred asked his five brothers, as
they only shrugged in confusion.
“No clue,” they all said. “Seemed touchy to me. Could never
understand her anyway,” Justin said, and put his arm around Sally,
and walked away.
“What the hell?” Chad looked at Dottie in confusion.
“Hey, I told you for years that you had to take control of your
sons. The older they get, the more out of hand they are. I have no
idea where this treatment of women comes from. You sure as hell
don’t treat me that way, and if you did, you’d end up on your ass.”
Dottie glared at her husband. At his nod, she continued, “I did my
part, the respect toward women should come from you. I know you
show me all the respect in the world, but somehow the boys are
blind towards it. I don’t know what to tell you. I know I raised one
hell of a daughter that I’m proud of. She has always been the
perfect daughter. Don’t know where the boys went wrong.” Dottie
giggled, and said, “Maybe Morgan was right, only one of each of the
triplets got the brains.”
“Bite your tongue, woman,” Chad said, and hugged her to him.
“I’ll take them aside and talk to them. Now, I know why Morg
doesn’t come home that often, and why she lives almost three hours
away. Hell, I’m surprised she didn’t coldcock Alfie.” He studied his
sons as they walked across the open area from the bikes to the
firepit. “I know if they treated me like they treat their sister, I would
have coldcocked them a long time ago.”
“Me too. I see she’s showing restraint.” Dottie giggled, and
watched as Chad went over to talk to his sons.
 CHAPTER 3

T he next day , Morgan arrived at the court house well before her
family. It was after midnight when her parents and younger brothers
had arrived home, and she’d already been in bed in her childhood
home. She hadn’t bothered getting up. And this morning, when she
woke early, her normal 5 a.m., she’d gone on her normal morning
run. By the time she’d returned, her parents were up, and had the
coffee on. She’d eaten a huge breakfast, and when her brothers
joined them, she waited until they spoke to her first. But, since that
hadn’t happened, she’d sat in her normal seat at the kitchen table,
and observed her younger brothers. For the life of her, she couldn’t
understand why they had been so hostile toward her the night
before. She’d play it by ear today, to see if she confronted them or
not. She loved her brothers, she really did, but she would never
tolerate the shit they handed her. Never had in the past, and
wouldn’t now.
Her family had gone to the clubhouse to meet up with her older
brothers and the members of the club to ride to the court house
together. Since she was only associated with the club, but not a
member, she’d opted not to go. Besides, after last night, she didn’t
know what her reception would be. Better to stay away, and not be
where she wasn’t wanted. She was still undecided about going on
the run afterward, even though her father, the president of the club,
said she was more than welcome. At this point, she had two options,
she could leave after the blessing of the motorcycles and go home,
or she could go on the run, bite the bullet, and stay to tell her family
she would be going to Sturgis this year. It would all depend on how
her brothers treated her today at this blessing. Shaking her head,
she knew one thing as a fact. If they tried any shit with her today,
she wasn’t in the mood to take it. She’d let them know they couldn’t
push her around.
Morgan sat on her bike, and watched as the men and women,
several who rode their own bikes, or on the back of one, began
arriving. It surprised her when no one parked on her side of the
street. She watched them and frowned.
“Am I parked on the wrong side?” she asked the man directly
across from her.
“No, the Crow park there. We save that space for them. Maybe
you should move. Some of the strikers are hell on wheels when it
comes to their turf.”
Morgan actually rolled her eyes and shrugged. “I can handle
them. I’ll stay right here.”
“Your funeral.” The man shrugged, and tilted his head to the side
when there was a loud rumble in the distance. While still sitting on
her bike, Morgan watched as a police officer at the end of the street
she was parked on stopped traffic one way, and began motioning for
someone to come down the street. Based on the sound, Morgan
assumed it was motorcycles. She couldn’t see them, because of the
surrounding buildings, but she sure could hear them. The sound
gave her a tingle of excitement down her spine. The first two bikes
to turn onto the street, were none other than Justin and John, two
of her older brothers. Behind them rode Josh and Albert, then her
father. No one rode beside him. Following him were Alan and Alex,
then behind them the rest of the bikes arrived. Morgan counted at
least thirty, before everyone began backing up and parking.
Alfred walked up to her and demanded. “This is our turf, you
need to move.” He never even bothered looking at her when he
made his demand, and immediately began directing the bikes to
park.
“Bite me, Alfie,” Morgan said, and he whipped his head around,
and saw his sister. He didn’t say a word, just scowled at her, and
moved along, but she noticed he only moved about fifteen feet
away, and kept looking back at her. Morgan shook her head at his
reaction. She was still clueless as to what she’d ever done to him to
have him treat her like this. His words, facial expressions, and non-
verbal language, told her he hated her, or resented the hell out of
her, but she wasn’t about to cause a scene and confront him. No,
she’d wait, and do it only if it was absolutely necessary to get her
point across that she didn’t answer to anyone but herself.
Morgan continued to sit on her bike, to observe her
surroundings. It was twenty minutes later when some bigwig
politicians took the steps to the court house, and she finally
dismounted her bike to slowly make her way forward with the rest of
the crowd. She stood beside her parents during the ceremony, and
then a local clergyman said a prayer, walked up the street, and
blessed each and every bike.
As the ceremony broke up, Chad and Dottie turned to Morgan as
one. “You riding with us?” Chad asked her daughter.
“Where you going?”
“We’re driving out to Olcott Beach.”
“Okay, I haven’t been there in years. If it’s all right with you, then
by all means, I’ll go with you.” She looked over her father’s shoulder
and nodded toward her brothers. “They going to be okay with it?”
“Since I’m the President, they don’t have anything to say about
it, so that trumps what they have to say, and on top of that, I’m
their father. That even trumps the Presidency of the club when it
comes to them. If they give you a hard time, then they can go back
to the clubhouse and wait for us. It’s a little after noon now, should
take us ninety minutes to two hours to get there. We’ll probably get
a late lunch there, and then go back to the clubhouse for a few,
maybe a bonfire. I know some of the members that weren’t able to
ride with us today will be there later to fire up the grill.”
“Why couldn’t they make it? The run sounds like fun. I’d be glad
to join you, but I’m just putting this out there, if the boys start any
shit with me, I’m leaving.”
“Fair enough. Some couldn’t make it, because they had to work.
Others, though their bikes will be ridden this year, they’re waiting on
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
Commencement in 1769, in fabrics of American homespun
manufacture. The senior class of the previous year at Harvard had
been similarly dressed.
These little bands of patriotic women gathered far and wide
throughout New England. At one meeting seventy linen wheels were
employed. In Newbury, Beverly, Rowley, Ipswich, spinning matches
were held. Let me show how the day was spent. I quote from the
Boston News-Letter:—
Rowley. A number of thirty-three respectable ladies of the
town met at sunrise [this was in July] with their wheels to
spend the day at the house of the Rev’d Jedidiah Jewell in the
laudable design of a spinning match. At an hour before
sunset, the ladies then appearing neatly dressed, principally
in homespun, a polite and generous repast of American
production was set for their entertainment, after which being
present many spectators of both sexes, Mr. Jewell delivered a
profitable discourse from Romans xii. 2: Not slothful in
business, fervent in spirit, serving the Lord.
You will never find matters of church and patriotism very far apart
in New England; so I learn that when they met in Ipswich the
Daughters of Liberty were also entertained with a sermon. The
Newbury patriots drank Liberty Tea, and listened to a sermon on the
text Proverbs xxxi. 19. Another text used at one of these gatherings
was from Exodus xxxv. 25: “And all the women that were wise-
hearted did spin with their hands.”
The women of Virginia were early in the patriotic impulses, yet few
proofs of their action or determination remain. In a Northern paper,
the Boston Evening Post of January 31, 1770, we read this Toast to
the Southerners:—
NEW TOASTS.
The patriotic ladies of Virginia, who have nobly
distinguished themselves by appearing in the Manufactures of
America, and may those of the Massachusetts be laudably
ambitious of not being outdone by Virginians.
 The wise and virtuous part of the Fair Sex in Boston and
other Towns, who being at length sensible that by the
consumption of Teas they are supporting the Commissioners
& other Tools of Power, have voluntarily agreed not to give or
receive any further Entertainments of that Kind, until those
Creatures, together with the Boston Standing Army, are
removed, and the Revenue Acts repealed.
May the disgrace which a late venal & corrupt Assembly
has brought upon a Sister Colony, be wiped away by a
Dissolution.
This is pretty plain language, but it could not be strange to the
public ear, for ere this Boston women had been appealed to in the
press upon this same subject.
In the Massachusetts Gazette, as early as November 9, 1767,
these lines show the indignant and revolutionary spirit of the time:

Young ladies in town and those that live round

Let a friend at this season advise you.
Since money’s so scarce and times growing worse,
Strange things may soon hap and surprise you.
First then throw aside your high top knots of pride
Wear none but your own country linen.
Of economy boast. Let your pride be the most
To show cloaths of your own make and spinning.
What if homespun they say is not quite so gay
As brocades, yet be not in a passion,
For when once it is known this is much wore in town,
One and all will cry out ’Tis the fashion.
And as one and all agree that you’ll not married be
To such as will wear London factory
But at first sight refuse, till e’en such you do choose
As encourage our own manufactory.
 Soon these frequent appeals, and the influence of the public and
earnest revolt of the Sons of Liberty, resulted in a public compact of
Boston women. It is thus recorded in the Boston press:—
The Boston Evening Post:—
Monday, February 12, 1770.
The following agreement has lately been come into by
upwards of 300 Mistresses of Families in this Town; in which
Number the Ladies of the highest rank and Influence, that
could be waited upon in so short a Time, are included.
Boston, January 31, 1770.
At a time when our invaluable Rights and Privileges are
attacked in an unconstitutional and most alarming Manner,
and as we find we are reproached for not being so ready as
could be desired, to lend our Assistance, we think it our Duty
perfectly to concur with the true Friends of Liberty in all
Measures they have taken to save this abused Country from
Ruin and Slavery. And particularly, we join with the very
respectable Body of Merchants and other Inhabitants of this
Town, who met in Faneuil Hall the 23d of this Instant, in their
Resolutions, totally to abstain from the Use of Tea; And as the
greatest Part of the Revenue arising by Virtue of the late Acts,
is produced from the Duty paid upon Tea, which Revenue is
wholly expended to support the American Board of
Commissioners; We, the Subscribers, do strictly engage, that
we will totally abstain from the Use of that Article, (Sickness
excepted) not only in our respective Families, but that we will
absolutely refuse it, if it should be offered to us upon any
Occasion whatsoever. This Agreement we cheerfully come
into, as we believe the very distressed Situation of our
Country requires it, and we do hereby oblige ourselves
religiously to observe it, till the late Revenue Acts are
repealed.
Massachusetts Gazette, and the Boston Weekly News-Letter:—
February 15, 1770.
 We hear that a large Number of the Mistresses of Families,
some of whom are Ladies of the highest Rank, in this Town,
have signed an Agreement against drinking Tea (Bohea it is
supposed, tho’ not specified); they engage not only to abstain
from it in their Families (Sickness excepted) but will absolutely
refuse it, if it should be offered to them upon any Occasion;
This Agreement to be religiously observed till the Revenue
Acts are repealed.
It was natural that, in that hotbed of rebellion, young girls should
not be behind their brothers, fathers, and their mothers in open
avowal of their revolt. Soon the young ladies published this
declaration:—
We, the daughters of those patriots who have and do now
appear for the public interest, and in that principally regard
their posterity—as such, do with pleasure engage with them
in denying ourselves the drinking of foreign tea in hopes to
frustrate a plan which tends to deprive the whole community
of all that is valuable as life.
One dame thus declared her principles and motives in blank
verse:—

Farewell the teaboard with its gaudy equipage

Of cups and saucers, creambucket, sugar tongs,
The pretty tea-chest, also lately stored
With Hyson, Congo and best double-fine.
Full many a joyous moment have I sat by ye
Hearing the girls tattle, the old maids talk scandal,
And the spruce coxcomb laugh at—maybe—nothing.
Though now detestable
Because I am taught (and I believe it true)
Its use will fasten slavish chains upon my country
To reign triumphant in America.
 When little Anna Green Winslow bought a hat in February, 1771,
she bought one of “white holland with the feathers sewed on in a
most curious manner, white and unsulleyed as the falling snow. As I
am as we say a daughter of Liberty I chuse to wear as much of our
own manufactory as posible.”
Mercy Warren wrote to John Winthrop, in fine satire upon this
determination of American women to give up all imports from Great
Britain except the necessaries of life, a list of the articles a woman
would deem it imperative to retain:—

An inventory clear
Of all she needs Lamira offers here.
Nor does she fear a rigid Catos frown
When she lays by the rich embroidered gown
And modestly compounds for just enough—
Perhaps some dozen of more slighty stuff.
With lawns and lutestrings, blond and mecklin laces,
Fringes and jewels, fans and tweezer cases,
Gay cloaks and hats of every shape and size,
Scrafs, cardinals and ribbons of all dyes.
With ruffles stamped, and aprons of tambour,
Tippets and handkerchiefs at least three score;
With finest muslins that far India boasts,
And the choice herbage from Chinesan coast.
(But while the fragrant hyson leaf regales
Who’ll wear the home-spun produce of the vales?
For if ’twould save the nation from the curse
Of standing troops—or name a plague still worse,
Few can this choice delicious draught give up,
Though all Medea’s poison fill the cup.)
Add feathers, furs, rich satins and ducapes
And head dresses in pyramidal shapes,
Sideboards of plate and porcelain profuse,
With fifty dittos that the ladies use.
So weak Lamira and her wants are few,
Who can refuse, they’re but the sex’s due.
 In youth indeed an antiquated page
Taught us the threatening of a Hebrew page
Gainst wimples, mantles, curls and crisping pins,
But rank not these among our modern sins,
For when our manners are well understood
What in the scale is stomacher or hood?
Tis true we love the courtly mien and air
The pride of dress and all the debonair,
Yet Clara quits the more dressed negligé
And substitutes the careless polanê
Until some fair one from Britannia’s court
Some jaunty dress or newer taste import,
This sweet temptation could not be withstood,
Though for her purchase paid her father’s blood.

After the war had really begun, Mrs. John Adams, writing July 31,
1777, tells of an astonishing action of Boston women, plainly the
result of all these revolutionary tea-notions:—
There is a great scarcity of sugar and coffee, articles which
the female part of the State is very loath to give up, especially
whilst they consider the scarcity occasioned by the merchants
having secreted a large quantity. There had been much rout
and noise in the town for several weeks. Some stores had
been opened by a number of people, and the coffee and
sugar carried into the market and dealt out by pounds. It was
rumored that an eminent stingy wealthy merchant (who is a
bachelor) had a hogshead of coffee in his store which he
refused to sell the committee under six shillings per pound. A
number of females, some say a hundred, some say more,
assembled with a cart and trunks, marched down to the
warehouse and demanded the keys which he refused to
deliver. Upon which one of them seized him by his neck and
tossed him into the cart. Upon his finding no quarter, he
delivered the keys when they tipped up the cart and
discharged him; then opened the warehouse, hoisted out the
coffee themselves, put into the trunks, and drove off. It was
 reported that he had personal chastisements among them,
but this I believe was not true. A large concourse of men
stood amazed, silent spectators of the whole transaction.
I suppose these Boston dames thought they might have coffee
since they could not have tea; and, indeed, the relative use of these
two articles in America was much changed by the Revolution. To this
day much more coffee is drunk in America, proportionately, than in
England. We are not a tea-drinking nation.
I don’t know that there were Daughters of Liberty in Philadelphia,
but Philadelphia women were just as patriotic as those of other
towns. One wrote to a British officer as follows:—
I have retrenched every superfluous expense in my table
and family. Tea I have not drunk since last Christmas, nor
have I bought a cap or gown since your defeat at Lexington. I
have learned to knit and am now making stockings of wool for
my servants. In this way do I now throw in my mite for public
good. I know this, that as free I can die but once, but as a
slave I shall not be worthy of life. I have the pleasure to
assure you that these are the sentiments of my sister
Americans.
The women of the South were fired with patriotism; in
Mecklenburgh and Rowan counties, North Carolina, Daughters of
Liberty found another method of spurring patriotism. Young ladies of
the most respectable families banded together, and pledged
themselves not to receive addresses from any recreant suitors who
had not obeyed the country’s call for military service.
There was an historic tea-party also in that town of so much
importance in those days—Edenton, N. C. On October 25, 1774,
fifty-one spirited dames assembled at the residence of Mrs.
Elizabeth King, and passed resolutions commending the action of
the Provincial Congress, and declared also that they would not
conform to “that Pernicious Custom of Drinking Tea or that the
aforesaid Ladys would not promote ye wear of any manufacture from
England,” until the tax was repealed.
 The notice of the association is contained in the American
Archives, and runs thus:—
Association Signed by Ladies of Edenton, North Carolina,
Oct. 25, 1774. As we cannot be indifferent on any occasion
that appears to affect the peace and happiness of our country,
and as it has been thought necessary for the publick good to
enter into several particular resolves, by meeting of Members
of Deputies from the whole Province, it is a duty that we owe
not only to our near and dear relations and connections, but
to ourselves who are essentially interested in their welfare, to
do everything as far as lies in our power to testify our sincere
adherence to the same, and we do therefore accordingly
subscribe this paper as a witness of our fixed intentions and
solemn determination to do so. Signed by fifty one ladies.
It is a good example of the strange notions which some historians
have of the slight value of circumstantial evidence in history, that the
names of these fifty-one ladies have not been preserved. A few,
however, are known. The president was Mrs. Penelope Barker, who
was thrice a widow, of husbands Hodgson, Crumm, and Barker. She
was high-spirited, and from her varied matrimonial experiences knew
that it was needless to be afraid of any man; so when British soldiers
invaded her stables to seize her carriage horses, she snatched the
sword of one of her husbands from the wall, with a single blow
severed the reins in the British officer’s hands, and drove her horses
back into the stables, and kept them too.
The fame of this Southern tea-party reached England, for Arthur
Iredell wrote (with the usual masculine jocularity upon feminine
enterprises) thus, on January 31, 1775, from London to his patriot
brother, James Iredell:—
I see by the newspapers the Edenton ladies have
signalized themselves by their protest against tea-drinking.
The name of Johnston I see among others; are any of my
sister’s relations patriotic heroines? Is there a female
Congress at Edenton too? I hope not, for we Englishmen are
afraid of the male Congress, but if the ladies who have ever,
 since the Amazonian era, been esteemed the most
formidable enemies, if they, I say, should attack us, the most
fatal consequence is to be dreaded. So dextrous in the
handling of a dart, each wound they give is mortal; whilst we,
so unhappily formed by Nature, the more we strive to conquer
them the more are conquered! The Edenton ladies, conscious
I suppose of this superiority on their side, by former
experience, are willing, I imagine, to crush us into atoms by
their omnipotency; the only security on our side to prevent the
impending ruin that I can perceive is the probability that there
are few places in America which possess so much female
artillery as in Edenton.
Another indication of the fame of the Edenton tea-party is adduced
by Dr. Richard Dillard in his interesting magazine paper thereon. It
was rendered more public by a caricature, printed in London, a
mezzotint, entitled “A Society of Patriotic Ladies at Edenton in North
Carolina.” One lady with a gavel is evidently a man in woman’s
clothing, and is probably intended for the hated Lord North; other
figures are pouring the tea out of caddies, others are writing. This
caricature may have been brought forth in derision of an interesting
tea-party picture which still exists, and is in North Carolina, after
some strange vicissitudes in a foreign land. It is painted on glass,
and the various figures are doubtless portraits of the Edenton ladies.
It is difficult to-day to be wholly sensible of all that these Liberty
Bands meant to the women of the day. There were not, at that time,
the associations of women for concerted charitable and philanthropic
work which are so universal now. There were few established and
organized assemblies of women for church work (there had been
some praying-meetings in Whitefield’s day), and the very thought of
a woman’s society for any other than religious purposes must have
been in itself revolutionary. And we scarcely appreciate all it meant
for them to abandon the use of tea; for tea-drinking in that day meant
far more to women than it does now. Substitutes for the taxed and
abandoned exotic herb were eagerly sought and speedily offered.
Liberty Tea, Labrador Tea, and Yeopon were the most universally
accepted, though seventeen different herbs and beans were named
by one author; and patriotic prophecies were made that their use
would wholly outlive that of the Oriental drink, even could the latter
be freely obtained. A century has proved the value of these
prophecies.
Liberty Tea was the most popular of these Revolutionary
substitutes. It sold for sixpence a pound. It was made from the four-
leaved loose-strife, a common-growing herb. It was pulled up whole
like flax, its stalks were stripped of the leaves and then boiled. The
leaves were put in a kettle with the liquor from the stalks and again
boiled. Then the leaves were dried in an oven. Sage and rib-wort,
strawberry leaves and currant leaves, made a shift to serve as tea.
Hyperion or Labrador Tea, much vaunted, was only raspberry
leaves, but was not such a wholly odious beverage. It was loudly
praised in the patriotic public press:—
The use of Hyperion or Labrador tea is every day coming
into vogue among people of all ranks. The virtues of the plant
or shrub from which this delicate Tea is gathered were first
discovered by the Aborigines, and from them the Canadians
learned them. Before the cession of Canada to Great Britain
we knew little or nothing of this most excellent herb, but since
we have been taught to find it growing all over hill and dale
between the Lat. 40 and 60. It is found all over New England
in great plenty and that of best quality, particularly on the
banks of the Penobscot, Kennebec, Nichewannock and
Merrimac.
 CHAPTER XI.
A REVOLUTIONARY HOUSEWIFE.

We do not need to make a composite picture of the housewife of

Revolutionary days, for a very distinct account has been preserved
of one in the quaint pages of the Remembrancer or diary of
Christopher Marshall, a well-to-do Quaker of Philadelphia, who was
one of the Committee of Observation of that city during the
Revolutionary War. After many entries through the year 1778, which
incidentally show the many cares of his faithful wife, and her
fulfilment of these cares, the fortunate husband thus bursts forth in
her praise:—
As I have in this memorandum taken scarcely any notice of
my wife’s employments, it might appear as if her
engagements were very trifling; the which is not the case but
the reverse. And to do her justice which her services
deserved, by entering them minutely, would take up most of
my time, for this genuine reason, how that from early in the
morning till late at night she is constantly employed in the
affairs of the family, which for four months has been very
large; for besides the addition to our family in the house, it is a
constant resort of comers and goers which seldom go away
with dry lips and hungry bellies. This calls for her constant
attendance, not only to provide, but also to attend at getting
prepared in the kitchen, baking our bread and pies, meat &c.
and also the table. Her cleanliness about the house, her
attendance in the orchard, cutting and drying apples of which
several bushels have been procured; add to which her
making of cider without tools, for the constant drink of the
family, her seeing all our washing done, and her fine clothes
and my shirts, the which are all smoothed by her; add to this,
her making of twenty large cheeses, and that from one cow,
 and daily using with milk and cream, besides her sewing,
knitting &c. Thus she looketh well to the ways of her
household, and eateth not the bread of idleness; yea she also
stretcheth out her hand, and she reacheth forth her hand to
her needy friends and neighbors. I think she has not been
above four times since her residence here to visit her
neighbors; nor through mercy has she been sick for any time,
but has at all times been ready in any affliction to me or my
family as a faithful nurse and attendant both day and night.
Such laudatory references to the goodwife as these abound
through the Remembrancer.
My tender wife keeps busily engaged and looks upon every
Philadelphian who comes to us as a person suffering in a
righteous cause; and entitled to partake of her hospitality
which she administers with her labor and attendance with
great freedom and alacrity....
My dear wife meets little respite all the day, the proverb
being verified, that Woman’s Work is never done.
I owe my health to the vigilance, industry and care of my
wife who really has been and is a blessing unto me. For the
constant assiduity and press of her daily and painful labor in
the kitchen, the Great Lord of the Household will reward her in
due time.
It seems that so generous and noble a woman should have had a
reward in this world, as well as the next, for, besides her kitchen
duties, she was a “nonsuch gardner, working bravely in her garden,”
and a first class butter-maker, who constantly supplied her poor
neighbors with milk, and yet always had cream to spare for her dairy.
Far be it from me to cast even the slightest reflection, to express
the vaguest doubt, as to the industry, energy, and application of so
pious, so estimable an old gentleman as Mr. Marshall, but he was,
as he says, “easily tired”—“the little I do tires and fatigues me”—“the
grasshopper seems a burden.” So, even to our prosaic and
somewhat emancipated nineteenth century notions as to women’s
rights and their assumption of men’s duties, it does appear that so
patient, industrious, and overworked a consort might have been
spared some of the burdensome duties which devolved upon her,
and which are popularly supposed not to belong to the distaff side of
the house. An elderly milk-man might have occasionally milked the
cow for that elderly weary milkmaid. And it does seem just a little
strange that a hearty old fellow, who could eat gammons and drink
punch at every occasion of sober enjoyment and innocent revelry to
which he was invited, should let his aged spouse rise at daybreak
and go to the wharves to buy loads of wood from the bargemen; and
also complacently record that the horse would have died had not the
ever-energetic wife gone out and by dint of hard work and good
management succeeded in buying in the barren city a load of hay for
provender. However, he never fails to do her justice in
commendatory words in the pages of his Remembrancer, thus
proving himself more thoughtful than that Yankee husband who said
to a neighbor that his wife was such a good worker and a good cook,
and so pleasant and kept everything so neat and nice around the
house, that sometimes it seemed as if he couldn’t help telling her so.
One of the important housewifely cares of Philadelphia women
was their marketing, and Madam Marshall was faithful in this duty
also. We find her attending market as early as four o’clock upon a
winter’s morning. In 1690, there were two market days weekly in
Philadelphia, and nearly all the early writers note the attendance
thereat of the ladies residing in the town. In 1744, these markets
were held on Tuesday and Friday. William Black, a travelling
Virginian, wrote that year with admiration of this custom:—
I got to the market by 7, and had no small Satisfaction in
seeing the pretty Creatures, the Young Ladies, traversing the
place from Stall to Stall where they could make the best
Market, some with their maid behind them with a Basket to
carry home the Purchase, others that were design’d to buy
but trifles, as a little fresh Butter, a Dish of Green Peas or the
like, had Good Nature & Humility enough to be their own
Porters. I have so much regard for the fair Sex that I imagin’d
like the Woman of the Holy Writ some charm in touching even
 the Hem of their Garments. After I made my Market, which
was one pennyworth of Whey and a Nosegay, I disengag’d
myself.
It would appear also that a simple and appropriate garment was
donned for this homely occupation. We find Sarah Eve and others
writing of wearing a “market cloke.”
It is with a keen thrill of sympathy that we read of all the torment
that Mistress Marshall, that household saint, had to endure in the
domestic service rendered to her—or perhaps I should say through
the lack of service in her home. A special thorn in the flesh was one
Poll, a bound girl. On September 13, 1775, Mr. Marshall wrote:—
After my wife came from market (she went past 5) she
ordered her girl Poll to carry the basket with some
necessaries to the place, as she was coming after her, they
intending to iron the clothes. Poll accordingly went, set down
the basket, came back, went and dressed herself all clean,
short calico gown, and said she was going to school; but
presently after the negro woman Dinah came to look for her,
her mistress having mistrusted she had a mind to play truant.
This was about nine, but madam took her walk, but where—
she is not come back to tell.
Sept. 16. I arose before six as I was much concern’d to see
my wife so afflicted as before on the bad conduct of her girl
Poll who is not yet returned, but is skulking and running about
town. This I understand was the practice of her mother who
for many years before her death was a constant plague to my
wife, and who left her this girl as a legacy, and who by report
as well as by own knowledge, for almost three years has
always been so down to this time. About eight, word was
brought that Poll was just taken by Sister Lynn near the
market, and brought to their house. A messenger was
immediately dispatched for her, as she could not be found
before, though a number of times they had been hunting her.
As the years went on, Poll kept taking what he called “cruises,”
“driving strokes of impudence,” visiting friends, strolling around the
streets, faring up and down the country, and he patiently writes:—
This night our girl was brought home. I suppose she was
hunted out, as it is called, and found by Ruth on the Passyunk
Road. Her mistress was delighted upon her return, but I know
of nobody else in house or out. I have nothing to say in the
affair, as I know of nothing that would distress my wife so
much as for me to refuse or forbid her being taken into the
house.
(A short time after) I arose by four as my wife had been up
sometime at work cleaning house, and as she could not rest
on account of Polls not being yet return’d. The girls frolics
always afflict her mistress, so that to me its plain if she does
not mend, or her mistress grieve less for her, that it will
shorten Mrs Marshalls days considerably; besides our house
wears quite a different face when Miss Poll is in it (although
all the good she does is not worth half the salt she eats.) As
her presence gives pleasure to her mistress, this gives joy to
all the house, so that in fact she is the cause of peace or
uneasiness in the home.
It is with a feeling of malicious satisfaction that we read at last of
the jaded, harassed, and conscientious wife going away for a visit,
and know that the man of the house will have to encounter and
adjust domestic problems as best he may. No sooner had the
mistress gone than Poll promptly departed also on a vacation. As
scores of times before, Mr. Marshall searched for her, and retrieved
her (when she was ready to come), and she behaved exceeding well
for a day, only, when rested, to again make a flitting. He writes on the
23d:—
I roused Charles up at daylight. Found Miss Poll in the
straw house. She came into the kitchen and talked away that
she could not go out at night but she must be locked out. If
that’s the case she told them she would pack up her clothes
and go quite away; that she would not be so served as her
Mistress did not hinder her staying out when she pleased, and
the kitchen door to be opened for her when she came home
 and knocked. The negro woman told me as well as she could
what she said. I then went and picked up her clothes that I
could find. I asked her how she could behave so to me when I
had conducted myself so easy towards her even so as to
suffer her to sit at table and eat with me. This had no effect
upon her. She rather inclined to think that she had not
offended and had done nothing but what her mistress
indulged her in. I told her before Betty that it was not worth my
while to lick her though she really deserved it for her present
impudence; but to remember I had taken all her clothes I
could find except what she had on, which I intended to keep;
that if she went away Charles with the horse should follow her
and bring her back and that I would send a bellman around
the borough of Lancaster to cry her as a runaway servant,
wicked girl, with a reward for apprehending her.
The fatuous simplicity of Quaker Marshall’s reproofs, the futility of
his threats, the absurd failure of his masculine methods, received
immediate illustration—as might be expected, by Miss Poll promptly
running away that very night. Again he writes:—
Charles arose near daybreak and I soon after, in order to
try to find my nightly and daily plague, as she took a walk
again last night. Charles found her. We turned her upstairs to
refresh herself with sleep....
(Two days later) After breakfast let our Poll downstairs
where she has been kept since her last frolic. Fastened her
up again at night. I think my old enemy Satan is much
concerned in the conduct and behavior of that unfortunate
girl. He knows her actions give me much anxiety and indeed
at times raise my anger so I have said what should have been
avoided, but I hope for the future to be more upon my guard
and thus frustrate him in his attempts.
With what joy did the masculine housekeeper and steward greet
the return of his capable wife, and resign his position as turnkey!
Poll, upon liberation from restraint, flew swiftly away like any other
bird from its cage.
 Notwithstanding such heavy weather overhead and
exceeding dirty under foot our Poll after breakfast went to see
the soldiers that came as prisoners belonging to Burgoynes
army. Our trull returned this morning. Her mistress gave her a
good sound whipping. This latter was a variety.
And so the unequal fight went on; Poll calmly breaking down a
portion of the fence that she might decamp more promptly, and
return unheralded. She does not seem to have been vicious, but
simply triumphantly lawless and fond of gadding. I cannot always
blame her. I am sure I should have wanted to go to see the soldier-
prisoners of Burgoyne’s army brought into town. The last glimpse of
her we have is with “her head dressed in tiptop fashion,” rolling off in
a coach to Yorktown with Sam Morris’s son, and not even saying
good-by to her vanquished master.
Mr. Marshall was not the only Philadelphian to be thus afflicted; we
find one of his neighbors, Jacob Hiltzheimer, dealing a more
summary way with a refractory maid-servant. Shortly after noting in
the pages of his diary that “our maid Rosina was impertinent to her
mistress,” we find this good citizen taking the saucy young
redemptioner before the squire, who summarily ordered her to the
workhouse. After remaining a month in that confinement, Rosina
boldly answered no, when asked if she would go back to her master
and behave as she ought, and she was promptly remanded. But she
soon repented, and was released. Her master paid for her board and
lodging while under detention, and quickly sold her for £20 for her
remaining term of service.
With the flight of the Marshalls’ sorry Poll, the sorrows and trials of
this good Quaker household with regard to what Raleigh calls
“domesticals” were not at an end. As the “creatures” and the orchard
and garden needed such constant attention, a man-servant was
engaged—one Antony—a character worthy of Shakespeare’s
comedies. Soon we find the master writing:—
I arose past seven and had our gentleman to call down
stairs. I spoke to him about his not serving the cows. He at
once began about his way being all right, &c. I set about
 serving our family and let him, as in common, do as he
pleases. I think I have hired a plague to my spirit. Yet he is still
the same Antony—he says—complaisant, careful, cheerful,
industrious.
Then Antony grew noisy and talkative, so abusive at last that he
had to be put out in the yard, where he railed and talked till midnight,
to the annoyance of the neighbors and the mortification of his
mistress; for he protested incessantly and noisily that all he wished
was to leave in peace and quiet, which he was not permitted to do.
Then, and repeatedly, his master told him to leave, but the servant
had no other home, and might starve in the war-desolated town; so
after half-promises he was allowed by these tender folk to stay on.
Soon he had another “tantrum,” and the astounded Quaker writes:—
He rages terribly uttering the most out of the way wicked
expressions yet not down-right swearing. Mamma says it is
cursing in the Popish way....
What this Popish swearing could have been arouses my curiosity;
I suspect it was a kind of “dog-latin.” Antony constantly indulged in it,
to the horror and sorrow of the pious Marshalls. And the amusing,
the fairly comic side of all this is that Antony was a preacher, a
prophet in the land, and constantly held forth in meeting to sinners
around him. We read of him:—
Antony went to Quakers meeting today where he preached;
although he was requested to desist, so that by consent they
broke up the meeting sooner than they would have done....
Mamma went to meeting where Antony spoke and was
forbid. He appeared to be most consummately bold and
ignorant in his speaking there. And about the house I am
obliged in a stern manner at times to order him not to say one
word more....
This afternoon Antony preached at the English Presbyterian
meeting. It is said that the hearers laughed at him but he was
highly pleased with himself.
 Antony preached at meeting. I kept engaged helping to
cook the pot against master came home. He comes and goes
as he pleases.
I don’t know when to pity poor Dame Marshall the most, with
Antony railing in the yard and disturbing the peace of the neighbors;
or Antony cursing in a Popish manner through the house; or Antony
shamming sick and moaning by the fireside; or Antony violently
preaching when she had gone to the quiet Quaker meeting for an
hour of peace and rest.
This “runnagate rascal” was as elusive, as tricky, as malicious as a
gnome; whenever he was reproved, he always contrived to invent a
new method of annoyance in revenge. When chidden for not feeding
the horse, he at once stripped the leaves off the growing cabbages,
cut off the carrot heads, and pulled up the potatoes, and pretended
and protested he did it all solely to benefit them, and thus do good to
his master. When asked to milk the cow, he promptly left the
Marshall domicile for a whole day.
Sent Antony in the orchard to watch the boys. As I was
doubtful sometime whether if any came for apples Antony
would prevent, I took a walk to the back fence, made a noise
by pounding as if I would break the fence, with other noise.
This convinced me Antony sat in his chair. He took no notice
till my wife and old Rachel came to him, roused him, and
scolded him for his neglect. His answer was that he thought it
his duty to be still and not disturb them, as by so doing he
should have peace in heaven and a blessing would ever
attend him.
This was certainly the most sanctimonious excuse for laziness that
was ever invented; and on the following day Antony supplemented
his tergiversation by giving away all Mr. Marshall’s ripe apples
through the fence to passers-by—neighbors, boys, soldiers, and
prisoners. There may have been method in this orchard madness,
for Antony loathed apple-pie, a frequent comestible in the Marshall
domicile, and often refused to drink cider, and grumbling made toast-
tea instead. In a triumph of euphuistic indignation, Mr. Marshall thus
records the dietetic vagaries of the “most lazy impertinent talking
lying fellow any family was ever troubled with:”
When we have no fresh broth he wants some; when we
have it he cant sup it. When we have lean of bacon he wants
the fat; when the fat he cant eat it without spreading salt over
it as without it its too heavy for his stomach. If new milk he
cant eat it till its sour, it curdles on his stomach; when sour or
bonnyclabber it gives him the stomach-ache. Give him tea he
doesn’t like such slop, its not fit for working men; if he hasn’t it
when he asks for it he’s not well used. Give him apple pie
above once for some days, its not suitable for him it makes
him sick. If the negro woman makes his bed, she dont make it
right; if she dont make it she’s a lazy black jade, &c.
In revenge upon the negro woman Dinah for not making his bed to
suit his notion, he pretended to have had a dream about her, which
he interpreted to such telling effect that she thought Satan was on
his swift way to secure her, and fled the house in superstitious fright,
in petticoat and shift, and was captured three miles out of town. On
her return, Antony outdid himself with “all the vile ribaldry, papist
swearing, incoherent scurrilous language, that imperious pride,
vanity, and folly could invent or express”—and then went off to
meeting to preach and pray. Well might the Quaker say with Juvenal,
“The tongue is the worst part of a bad servant.” At last, exasperated
beyond measure, his patient master vowed, “Antony, I will give thee
a good whipping,” and he could do it, for he had “pacified himself
with sundry stripes of the cowskin” on Dinah, the negro, when she, in
emulation of Antony, was impertinent to her mistress.
The threat of a whipping brought on Antony a “fit of stillness” which
descended like a blessing on the exhausted house. But “the devil is
sooner raised than laid;” anon Antony was in his old lunes again, and
the peace was broken by a fresh outburst of laziness, indifference,
and abuse, in which we must leave this afflicted household, for at
that date the Remembrancer abruptly closes.
The only truly good service rendered to those much tried souls
was by a negro woman, Dinah, who, too good for this earth, died;