All Out: The No-Longer-Secret Stories Of Queer Teens Throughout The Ages. Saundra Mitchell

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      The sun was just passing into the west as she raised the main sail and jib. The air was sharp with the last chill of winter, the trees eager to send green shoots into the Virginia sky. A thin sweat coated Clara’s brow as she worked to unknot the ropes that kept her little boat tethered to the dock. If anyone saw, she would surely be stopped and dragged back to the side of an irritable Mr. Earwood.

      The skirts of her black silk gown were twisted around her ankles in the narrow spaces. She’d have preferred to wear her new green mantua gown for the occasion; its open cut would’ve made maneuvering around the ship much easier. But both her maid and her father had been horrified at the idea of a bride wearing such an unlucky color, so she’d relented rather than give herself away. Now she moved slower than she desired on account of not wanting to trip and fall headfirst into the water.

      Finally, with a ferocious shove, her little sloop drifted away from the dock and into the steady current of the river. Though the sloop was a modest size for traveling the James, twelve feet from prow to stern and four feet across, it would be noticeable due to the brilliant yellow of its sails. Mr. du Pont’s generosity was both a boon and a curse, and since she could not obscure the color of the sails, Clara needed to disguise herself to avoid discovery.

      Stowed on the boat was a set of boy’s clothing, stolen a piece at a time from her own father’s laundry, which she would don as soon as it was safe to do so. For now, she slapped one of her father’s old cocked hats on her head and kept her body hidden in the belly of the hull, emerging only to adjust the boom when the wind shifted.

      She sailed thus, lying flat on her back with her eyes trained on the gentle billowing of her yellow-dyed sails, until the sunlight sliced orange and pink across the sky. The air began to get cooler, the sky above darker and all of a sudden Clara felt a chill of fear. She was alone as she had never been. Alone with precious few possessions and no notion of where to take them except away from Mr. Earwood and the promise of a landlocked life.

      It was then that she heard it: sudden splashing in the river and shouts in the distance. Her pulse quickened and the chill she’d felt only seconds before was replaced by a fresh sheen of sweat. She lay on the bottom of her boat with ears pricked and eyes open wide, hoping the sounds would pass her by. But instead of moving off, the splashing grew nearer, the shouting louder.

      When her boat rocked sharply to one side, it was all Clara could do to keep from crying out in surprise. She bit the inside of her cheek and waited for the rocking to subside.

      Nothing followed. Her boat resumed its course, floating smoothly downstream. Had she bumped a stone? Had some large catfish mistaken her for food?

      “You there! Boatman!” The shout carried across the river to Clara’s ears.

      The shock of it caused her to bite too hard on her cheek. She tasted blood.

      “Good sir! Pause and speak with us!”

      If she lay in the bottom of her boat, they might assume it was adrift and come out to retrieve it for themselves. If she answered, they might know her for a girl and still come out.

      Though her hands shook, she knew she must move. Lifting only her head, she spied two figures pacing her on shore. They were smartly dressed and bore expressions of determination and mild panic. The one in front was tall; his stride was commanding and bold. The one behind had a flower pinned to his brocade waistcoat and ran twice as fast to keep apace with his friend. Here the banks of the river were peppered with long stretches of tall, marshy grasses several feet deep. The two men had to run farther up the hillside in order to see the river where she sailed.

      Clara pitched her voice low. “Good day to you, sirs!”

      With a pinch of panic, Clara noticed how the man behind seemed to pause midstride, as though aware that something was amiss. The other plowed on, shouting, “Have you seen a girl? She came this way! Did she cross the river? A girl!”

      For just a second Clara’s mind reeled. These men would know her for the runaway she was and force her to return to the dreadful life she’d only just escaped. She would be married and her sloop dismantled by sundown. But her sense returned nearly as quickly as it had fled. They sought a girl from their side of the river. She was not the delinquent they pursued.

      Clara thought of the splashing and suspected it had been no catfish that had nudged her hull. She placed a steadying hand on the boom as the wind shifted. The sloop rocked in response. Lowering her chin and keeping her voice deep, she responded, “I’m afraid I haven’t seen her. There’s been nothing but sunlight on the water with me this day.”

      The taller man nodded his thanks and bolted back up the gentle hill to the pine woods above. The shorter man didn’t follow immediately, but studied her for a long moment. It was too far for her to see clearly, but Clara was sure she could see some hint of malice in the slope of his shoulders.

      Finally, both men were gone from sight. Clara adjusted the boom and carefully climbed to the starboard side of her little boat. Keeping her hat firmly atop her head, she peered over the lip of the hull and directly into the wide brown eyes of a girl.

      She clung to the side of the ship like a barnacle, her face barely above the water as the boat swept her along. Her hair streamed behind her, and her lips were drawn tight across chattering teeth. Clara could see that she wore a gown as yellow as the sails above, which was probably trying mightily to drag her down.

      Without a word, Clara removed her hat, then reached down with both hands to pull the girl aboard. The boat heaved and cold water sloshed over the side, but soon the girl was huddled beneath the jib, safely onboard.

      Clara tightened the sail at once. The wind was in their favor and moved them swiftly downstream, away from any who might still be searching for a runaway girl or two.

      “I’m Pearl,” said the girl. She’d found the last glimmer of sunset and sat inside it. The light made her brown hair burn and her eyes glassy and deep. “Thank you.”

      “I’m Clara. You’re welcome.”

      “I suppose you’d like to know who those men were?” Pearl asked, and without waiting for an answer, she plowed on. “The one who shouted was my brother, William, and I do feel badly for deceiving him. He’s never been cruel to me, at least, not intentionally. The other was Mr. Michael Pitts, my husband-to-be, and I don’t feel badly for him in the slightest. Mealy, indecisive and selfish. Took me to wife out of ‘the kindness of his heart.’ Pah! Well, I left him out of the meanness of mine.”

      Clara had not intended to inquire, but she was glad Pearl spoke so freely. “You ran away from your wedding day?”

      Pearl raised her chin, defiance shining in her eyes. “I did.”

      It occurred to Clara that Pearl’s dress was yellow. Not blue to signify years of faithful love, not pink to announce her purity, but yellow, the color of pagans and the wildest of flowers. This was a girl she knew already, even as she knew her not at all.

      “Me, too,” Clara answered, fluffing the skirts of her own black dress. “And I am sorry for the disappointment my father will feel, but I am full of too much life for Mr. Earwood. I’d have driven him to an early grave.”

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