From Sophia of Savannah

Author’s Note

For more than thirty years, I felt compelled to tell Sophia Hopkey Williamson’s story. I knew the history, knew her name, and even knew the title of the book I wanted to write. Yet for reasons I could never quite explain, I could not begin.

Then I did, and Sophia would not let me stop.

Sophia of Savannah is a novel grounded in historical people, dates, letters, journals, publications, legal records, and decades of research. Where history gives us facts but leaves silence between them, I have used the novelist’s creative license to connect those events, to imagine conversations, emotions, and private moments that might explain how the history we know became possible.

There is much more that could have been written about John Wesley. His extraordinary life after Georgia changed Christian history and has filled countless books.

But this is not Wesley’s story.

This is Sophia’s...

Writing it broke my heart. It made me cheer. At one point, I became so angry at what was happening to her that I wanted to throw my laptop across the room.

And somewhere along the way, for the record, I fell in love with her.

I found myself praying for Sophia as I wrote, sometimes through tears, knowing that she had lived nearly three hundred years ago, yet believing that the God to whom I prayed is not bound by time. If He heard my prayers today, then somehow, in a mystery I cannot explain, I believe He heard them when Sophia needed them too.

I am honored that God allowed me to tell her story.

History remembers Sophia largely because she crossed paths with John Wesley. I hope these pages allow us to remember something more:

Her life did not end when Wesley sailed away.

She lived. She loved. She endured.

And I pray that, in telling the rest of her story, I have honored her.

— John McKissack

Sophia of Savannah

The dock at Gravesend was a living, breathing insult.

The stench of rotting fish and human waste hung so thick in the air that Sophia could taste it on her tongue. She tried to hold the hem of her dress up with one hand, but the thick mud still clung to the fabric, dragging it down with every step. All around her, rough men shouted and leered, their eyes crawling over her body without shame.

She wanted to disappear inside her own skin.

“Eyes down, Sophia,” her mother murmured, her voice low but urgent as she drew her daughter closer. “A young lady does not invite such attention. I warned you about that dress.”

Sophia’s throat tightened. She had only wanted to look pretty for the long journey ahead. Instead, she felt cheapened by every lingering stare.

They had taken only a few steps when her mother suddenly drew in a sharp breath.

“Sophia,” she whispered, awe threading through her voice. “That is him. Reverend John Wesley.”

Sophia lifted her gaze.

He stood apart from the chaos as though it could not touch him. The filth, the noise, the coarse men, none of it seemed to reach him. When his eyes found hers, there was no vulgar hunger, no crude appraisal. Only a calm, steady regard that made the breath catch in her throat.

Her mother gently urged her forward.

“Reverend Wesley,” she said with warm respect, “I am Mrs. Hopkey. My brother-in-law, Magistrate Thomas Causton, wrote to me that you would be sailing with us to Georgia. This is my daughter, Sophia Hopkey.”

Wesley offered a small, graceful bow, his eyes returning to Sophia.

“Miss Hopkey,” he said, his voice quiet and refined, “it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

In that single moment, the shame that had been crushing her chest began to ease. The crude laughter, the hungry stares, they no longer mattered.

For the first time since stepping onto that wretched dock, Sophia felt clean.

Her mother’s voice shimmered with pride. “Reverend Wesley sails with us to Georgia, Sophia. My brother Thomas Causton arranged it himself.”

Sophia barely heard her.

Up close, Reverend Wesley unsettled her in a way she had not expected. His gaze did not undress her body like the others had, but somehow it felt far more intimate, as though he could see straight into her very soul.

Wesley inclined his head slightly, his voice low and perfectly calm. “I pray the voyage will not prove too difficult for you, Miss Hopkey. The Atlantic has little mercy for the faint of heart.”

Sophia opened her mouth, but the bold reply she normally would have offered died in her throat. What came out instead was barely more than a whisper.

“Then I shall have to pray for courage, sir.”

Before the silence could stretch any further, a tall man in a naval coat stepped forward.

“Miss Hopkey? Mr. Thompson, ma’am. The captain requests your instruction regarding your trunks and baggage. If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you to your quarters.”

Sophia’s mother gave a crisp nod. “It is Mrs. Hopkey,” she corrected gently.

As her mother turned to follow the first mate, Sophia remained rooted for half a heartbeat. Wesley’s eyes had not left her.

“It was a true pleasure to meet you, Miss Hopkey,” he said quietly. “I hope we may speak again soon.”

Sophia’s heart stumbled. “I would like that… very much.”

Her mother’s hand closed around her arm, gently but firmly guiding her away. The crowd of sailors and dockworkers quickly closed in behind them, swallowing Wesley from view. Yet even as Sophia was led toward the ship, she could still feel the weight of his gaze on her back, as though one man had, in mere moments, quietly undone everything she thought she knew about herself.

The moment Reverend Wesley disappeared behind the crowd, the dock seemed to reclaim her.

The air grew heavier, thicker with salt and sin. The stares returned, bolder now, more possessive. Sophia kept her eyes fixed on the first mate’s back, but she could feel the weight of their gazes dragging over her like dirty hands. One sailor loading barrels paused in his work, his eyes moving slowly down the length of her body. Another leaned against a piling, smirking as he said something that made his companion laugh crudely.

Sophia’s shoulders drew inward. She suddenly felt painfully aware of every inch of fabric against her skin.

Her mother’s fingers tightened on her arm, not cruelly, but with clear urgency. “Chin up, but eyes down, my dear,” she said quietly, her voice low and intent. “I warned you that dress would draw the wrong kind of notice. A woman must be careful not to invite temptation in a place such as this.”

Sophia’s cheeks burned. She had chosen her most modest dress for the voyage, yet she felt exposed all the same.

Just ahead, she noticed a small group of plainly dressed women standing near a stack of crates. Moravians, she realized. Their clothing was simple and severe; their posture quiet and composed. Not a single man was staring at them. They moved through the chaos with a kind of peaceful dignity that made Sophia’s fine dress suddenly feel gaudy and foolish.

Before she could dwell on it, a coarse voice rang out from above.

“Lord have mercy! Now that’s a fine sight!”

A sharp whistle split the air.

Sophia flinched. Her mother’s grip tightened protectively.

First Mate Thompson spun around, his face thunderous. “You there!” he bellowed up at the sailor clinging to the rigging. “One more word out of your foul mouth and you’ll be scrubbing decks from here to Georgia with your own shirt! That young lady is under the protection of Magistrate Thomas Causton. Mind your tongue or I’ll mind it for you!”

The sailor’s grin vanished. He quickly scrambled higher into the ropes without another word.

Thompson turned back to them, his expression immediately softening into genuine regret. “My deepest apologies, Mrs. Hopkey, Miss Hopkey. Some of these men forget themselves after months at sea. Please, allow me to escort you both properly to your cabin where you’ll be safe from this rabble.”

He offered his arm with careful gallantry. Sophia hesitated only a moment before slipping her fingers onto his sleeve, still trembling slightly. As they stepped onto the gangplank, the noise and filth of Gravesend began to fall away behind her.

But the memory of those hungry eyes, and the quiet, steady gaze of Reverend Wesley, lingered on her skin like a brand.

The next morning, Sophia woke well before dawn, her heart beating with a restless urgency she refused to examine too closely. I only wish to see the sunrise, she told herself as she fastened her cloak high beneath her chin. In her haste, she had not stopped to braid her hair or put on her shoes.

The moment her bare feet touched the deck, the cold planks sent a jolt through her. She froze. Her hair hung loose and wild down her back, tangled from sleep. One hand flew up to it in dismay as mortification washed over her. She must look a fright.

Before she could retreat, Reverend Wesley turned from his place at the bow.

Their eyes met.

Sophia’s stomach plummeted. Heat flooded her face as he began walking toward her. She wanted nothing more than to flee back down the companionway, but her feet remained rooted to the freezing deck. To run now would be unforgivably rude.

He stopped before her, close enough that she caught the faint scent of salt and wool.

“Good morning, Miss Hopkey,” he said, his voice low and steady in the quiet morning air.

Before she could find her voice, the sharp click of heels sounded behind her.

Her mother stepped onto the deck and stopped short at the sight of Sophia’s bare feet. “Sophia! Where are your shoes?”

Mrs. Hopkey turned to Wesley, her cheeks coloring with embarrassment. “Forgive my daughter, Reverend. She sometimes forgets herself.”

Wesley’s gaze never wavered from Sophia.

“There is nothing to forgive, Mrs. Hopkey,” he said gently. “A pure heart needs no adornment.”

The words slipped beneath Sophia’s skin like warm sunlight. Even now, barefoot, with her hair in wild disarray, he looked at her with the same quiet respect he had shown her on the filthy dock.

Her mother recovered herself quickly and lifted her chin with quiet determination.

“Reverend Wesley,” she said, her voice taking on new purpose, “since we will be many weeks at sea, I wonder if I might ask a kindness of you. My daughter has long desired to improve her French. Would you be willing to tutor her during the crossing?”

Sophia’s heart gave one hard, unsteady beat.

Wesley inclined his head, the faintest warmth touching his expression.

“I would be honored, Mrs. Hopkey. It would be my pleasure to be of service to Miss Hopkey.”

As her mother took her arm to lead her back below, Sophia carried the moment with her, the steady weight of his gaze, the gentle timbre of his voice, and the startling truth that even at her most undone, Reverend Wesley had looked at her and seen someone worthy. ...READ MORE