Martha had fallen into a deep, healing sleep, the willow-bark tea finally doing its work. Gabrielle sat by the hearth, the firelight dancing in her blue eyes. She wasn't thinking about the tragedy of her situation; she was calculating survival.
She looked at her reflection in a bucket of standing water. Her long, wavy dark blonde hair was beautiful, but in this century, it was a neon sign that read Vulnerable. She knew enough history to know that a woman alone on the frontier had three choices: marriage, domestic servitude, or worse.
"Efficiency over aesthetics," she whispered.
She found a pair of heavy tailoring shears in Martha’s sewing basket. They were iron, slightly rusted, and dull. Gabrielle didn't hesitate. She grabbed a thick hunk of hair and snipped.
Crunch.
The hair fell into the hearth, curling and hissing as the flames took it. She kept going until her head felt strangely light. The result was a choppy, short style that made her youthful face look even more like a teenage boy’s. She looked sixteen, maybe younger. Perfect.
Next, she raided the trunk at the foot of the spare cot. It belonged to Martha’s son, who—based on the woman’s earlier mutterings—had "gone to the wars" and never returned.
●The Breeches: Rough, tan buckskin. They were stiff and smelled of tallow, but they were durable.
●The Shirt: Coarse linen, dyed a faded indigo. It was massive on her, which was good for hiding her silhouette.
●The Vest: A heavy wool waistcoat that she buttoned tight.
She looked at her modern sneakers. They were a dead giveaway. Digging deeper into the trunk, she found a pair of worn leather boots. She stuffed the toes with dried moss to make them fit her smaller feet.
When she finished, she stood before the water bucket again. The "tomboy" from 2026 was gone. In her place stood a scrawny, serious-looking lad with a sharp gaze.
The Road to the Coast-
Two days later, Martha was upright and color had returned to her face. She looked at Gabrielle—now "Gabe"—with a mix of confusion and deep gratitude.
"You saved my life, lad," Martha said, her voice still a bit gravelly. She didn't question the hair or the clothes; in the wilderness, people did strange things to survive. "But you won't find much work here. The traders are heading East, toward the ports in North Carolina and Virginia. They're always looking for someone who knows the 'physic'—the healing arts."
Gabrielle nodded. She knew the history: the late 1790s meant the Napoleonic Wars were brewing in Europe, and the Quasi-War between the U.S. and France was heating up at sea. If she wanted to find a place where she could use her "average" business and science skills to actually build a life, she needed to get to the water.
"I'll head East," Gabrielle said, hoisting her backpack (now hidden inside a burlap sack). "I need to see how the rest of the world is holding up."
She didn't know about the HMS Indefatigable. She didn't know about a midshipman named Horatio Hornblower who was currently battling seasickness and his own insecurities thousands of miles away. She just knew that in 1800, the sea was the center of the world.
The Details of the Journey-
As she began her trek toward the coast, Gabrielle noticed things that would drive a modern person crazy:
●The Lack of Noise: No hum of electricity. Just the wind.
●The Smell: Everything was organic. Mud, sweat, woodsmoke, and livestock.
●The Pacing: Life moved at 3 miles per hour—the speed of a walking horse.
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