The Patriot’s Price

Sarah Baker was in her parents’ attic; a place she hadn’t been since sometime between

childhood and adolescence. Her mother had always been focused on the past: history and lineage

and tradition. Sarah looked one direction: ahead. She knew it disappointed her mother. She cared

– but not enough. Here, in the attic, her mother’s funeral to plan and her father’s a too recent

memory, Sarah looked back.

She had started with her own past: school pictures, essays, diplomas, and crafts. As the

sun moved across the sky, she’d found her mother’s past and now what appeared to be her great-

great-great-who knew how many-grandmother’s past. What Sarah initially assumed was her

mother’s hope chest in the corner was filled with the obsession of Baker women for more than a

century. Relics from the Revolution and what those same Baker women called The Great

Injustice.

Family legend held that the first Baker to settle in this New England hamlet, Elijah, was a

great patriot, instrumental in the defeat of General Burgoyne at the battle of Saratoga and a

generally brave and noble soul. History tells a different tale. Everyone agrees that Elijah was

born in England and came to America an orphan at twelve. The discrepancy arrives when history

maintains that he was at 12 and remained until his death a true and loyal servant of that great

tyrant, King George III.

For over a century, Baker women had tried to gain entry to that pinnacle of Vermont

society, the First American Ladies. FAL was dedicated to the descendants of Patriots, only, and

made it clear all ‘newcomers’ and traitors weren’t welcome, even in the 21st century. And for

over a century, Baker women had been denied because Elijah Baker was (gasp!) a Loyalist.
 Sarah looked in the chest filled with newspaper clippings, birth and death records and

other assorted history, remembering all the family dinners through the years that each had been

discussed as part of a long-standing Baker tradition to rehash their version of history against all

the evidence to the contrary. Fabric peeked through one of the faded papers and Sarah realized

she was looking at one thing she’d never heard tell of at a family gathering, a full Revolutionary

era women’s ensemble, modified slightly with pockets. Even money from the 18th Century was

in the pockets. She knew this because, in a flight of fancy and nostalgia, she shook off the

(surprisingly little) dust and put the outfit on. She thought briefly how different the world might

be if the pockets had been standard at the time.

Ensemble complete, her back to the mirror, a shadow passed over the attic. Sarah

shuddered and turned toward the mirror as the sun crept back, a glint catching her eye. She

smiled as she walked over to her father’s pocket sitting near the top of a more recent box with his

more personal effects. She remembered her eighteenth birthday when he had taken her for a walk

before all the celebrations with family and friends. He had told her that the watch had been

passed down in his family from first born son to first born son for over two centuries. But he had

no sons; he had only Sarah. And he loved her. Family legend held that the watch was cursed, or

magic, or good luck, or a key to an ancient and massive treasure. She remembered how her father

laughed when he told her that part. Then he said, “The watch is history and part of this family.

And now it is part of you, as my first born.”

She looked at the watch, at the faded etching of the all-seeing eye and some illegible

script on the back. She couldn’t remember if the first owner was a Freemason, or if they were

initials someone had added later. Then, she opened the watch.
 Sarah was no longer in her parents’ attic. It was no longer late in the afternoon. Blinking

against what appeared to be mid-morning sun, she registered the sound of wheels, the smell of

horses and the sound of someone shouting. She realized as a wagon swerved and almost toppled

that the shouting was directed at her. She was in what could be described as a street but without

pavement, or painted lines, or cars. Instead, it was rutted between broken stones and piles of

manure. She moved out of the thoroughfare toward a brick building.

Most of the women she saw were dressed like her (except for the pockets). As if pulled

by an unseen force, she walked along the brick towards a door, and some boarded up windows.

There was no plywood or duct tape; thick boards crossed over the window. Sarah smelled

something so sweet and familiar she stood in the door for a moment, remembering fondly her

mother’s apple loaf. She knew that scent was what had pulled her in this direction. The apple

loaf was a family secret served at all the major holidays and momentous occasions she’d just

been thinking about, it was like apple pie and biscuits and cake all rolled up in one slice of

heaven.

She opened her eyes and a man about 50 years old entered the doorway after loading

something onto what was clearly an already full wagon. Chairs and chests filled the back of the

wagon. A woman sat in the front, turning her gaze back and forth between two horses and the

collection of goods in the back.

Sarah realized the man was standing at the counter looking at her with his head cocked to

the side. She cleared her throat.

“Good Afternoon, that smells amazing.”

“Thank you,” he replied, holding a loaf out to her. “It’s yours if you like.”

She took a few steps inside. “That would be wonderful,” she said.
 He turned to wrap the loaf and Sarah looked around. There were several raised tables but

no stools or chairs. She noticed that the word ‘traitor’ was carved into the counter. The man

followed her eyes and sighed.

“You don’t have to stay, Miss. I appreciate the compliment that you wanted my bread.

No one really stays anymore.”

“I don’t understand,” Sarah said. “Good bread is good bread.”

The man smiled and said, “Not here. Not anymore. That’s why I’ll be heading north

soon. My friend was killed, and his wife will sell me the land in Vermont if I let them stay,

which, of course I will. Where are my manners? My name is Elijah Baker.”

Sarah stopped chewing and stared at the outstretched hand of her ancestor.

“Sarah Newbury,” she said, using her mother’s maiden name, “Why don’t they buy your

bread? Why are you leaving?” She knew but she had to ask.

“They don’t understand. I gave bread to the king’s men. I had to. They would have

hanged me and taken it anyway. The way things went, they got bread, but I got something better.

This town just doesn’t understand.”

Sarah looked at Elijah Baker, remembering what his future held in Vermont from the

stories of her past, his future. Her mind filled with questions and conclusions she could not find

words to speak. Her trance was broken by boots and laughter, and Elijah Baker tensing. She saw

red, literally, out of the corner of her eye. Three Redcoats had entered the bakery. She looked

back to Elijah Baker and saw that he wasn’t looking at the soldiers or her. He was looking at

something just next to her foot that appeared to be worn parchment. Sarah bent down to hand

him the paper when she saw, written there, the words that would change her family’s story.
 Baker-

Your information regarding the numbers, location and intentions of Burgoyne’s

troops is worth more than all the bread in New York. Thank you for your loyalty

and sacrifice.

Sincerely,

Howe

She folded the paper as she stood, blocking the words with her skirt. She looked at Elijah

Baker as she put the paper in her pocket. He looked back at her, cocking his head just like her

father used to, and then he turned to the soldier, still with one eye on her face. Sarah nodded,

turned, and walked past the soldiers and out the door.

Barely breathing, she continued to the end of the building and turned right. She thought if

she waited a little while, she could return the letter. As she stepped away from the building and

into the sunlight, she suddenly felt dizzy, as if on a roller coaster. She threw her hands out to

steady herself, or catch herself, and landed on the hard wood of her parents’ attic floor, nearly

squashing the fresh loaf of apple bread.

Now unable to slow her breaths, Sarah reached into her pocket and found the parchment.

The parchment that proved Elijah Baker was a Patriot. The parchment that proved her family had

been right all these years. She realized she didn’t feel vindicated, or indifferent. She felt sad. She

was sad that the truth could be so easily lost. She was sad that so many lives had been affected in

so many ways by the loss of truth.

Sarah realized it didn’t matter all that much if her ancestor was a Loyalist or a Patriot. It

matters that his truth is known. It matters that all truth is known. She committed herself that day
not to Vermont society or the dreams of past generations. She committed herself to finding,

witnessing, and stating the truth.