Drill Sergeant

“BANG!” went the fifty muskets of the third company of the twelfth regiment in George Washington’s Continental Army.  “Prime your piece, charge your piece, load, present your piece, give, FIRE!”  “BANG!” went the fifty muskets for a second time. The commands were issued, and again the shots rang out across the field.  Again the commands, and once more the sound of firing muskets was heard throughout the encampment.  “Half a minute too short lads,” called the drill sergeant, a man who had been in the army for years. “We need to hit four shots a minute,” he called out again, though he knew that he could not manage what he was scolding the men for not doing.  This man, the drill sergeant was I, John Lawford, a poor farm boy of a family long since passed on, and a soldier in the rebellion against mother England.

I do exactly what I just described on a daily basis and it is all I have done for the army in the past two months, camped here away from the action.  This is too much waiting for a man in the army.  I enlisted to fight the redcoats on the front lines, not fight boredom and fatigue while I rot away in a fort.  This mist soaked plain is not where I want to spend the war.  However, no matter what I do or do not want to do, I have to stay here, and in the meantime, I train.  Other than training, I am faced with the near impossible task of surviving a day in a military camp.  Even now I am nearly insane with hunger and homicidal with fatigue, but I know I must persevere, for my men, for my country, and for my family.  To speak more of my family, my mother died when I was very little, my father, the owner of a small farm, was left to do all of the work as well as care for me and my brother.  When my brother was of the age to work, he began to assist my father  with the farm chores and was able to learn some of the tricks that my father used, which was good because my father died that winter of pneumonia.  My brother kept the farm and took care of me for as long as he could until he died of the pox, at that point I was crushed and driven to join the army, where I have remained these three long years.

I often feel that I have contributed nothing, but when I see my men expertly loading and firing their flintlocks, I see that my years of work have paid off well.  If I were not here to pass on my knowledge of firearms, these young fools would shoot themselves or those around them in seconds.  However, with my help these boys will make a fine army someday. “Lads, good work today!” I shout to the men, “See you tomorrow, same time, if you all live that long!” this is met with mild laughter, but I am too busy to care because by then I am rushing towards the sounds of screaming and killing, through the chaos I think I can hear the words, “British… Inside… Save yourselves,” but I hope I am wrong.  When I arrive at the wall, I see a large bright red mass,and all I can think is, “I’m sorry Joshua, I’ve failed you again.”  Directly in response, the red coated company turn in my direction and I hear the unmistakeable, “Prime your piece, charge your piece, load, present your piece, give, FIRE!” and the  “BANG!” from the forty-three muskets of the second company of the 94th regiment of General Cornwallis’s army, and then, silence.

“Fire!” That was the last sound we heard before our fort was blown down by their powerful cannon. Little bits of soil flew into the air as fellow warriors landed on their backs from the aftermath of their cannon. Each and everyone of us were covered in dirt and blood. There were trees all around us and Mother Nature surrounding the battlefield. The grass was comfortable and the trees swung with the power of the wind.The smell of blood stung my nose as I began to raise my bow. I am only 22 yet I have fought in battles like these numerous times since the white man settled. I am both my village’s warrior, and one of their hunters. I provide food and clothing with the animals I hunt and kill. Additionally I have to fight, to protect my people from the devilish white man.We quickly recover full of anger and frustration. Knowing it was our turn to attack we shot a dozen arrows at the white man from their front, right, and left. We only hit six of their 20 men with our wooden arrows. Taking advantage of the damage, we all ran with daggers and spears in hands. Boom! Dozens of these noises were made by the thunder sticks in the hands of the white men. As more booms sounded more of my fellow fighters were killed. Those weapons are too strong compared to our sticks and stones, but we must fight for our land.  

I had just stabbed a white man directly in his chest when I heard a loud “ARGGGHH!” From a voice that was all too familiar. I turned around and saw my best friend Ishu on the dirty ground with blood flood flowing out of his stomach. I ran to him not caring if I was shot or not.

“What happened?” I asked with tears running down my face.

“What does it look like I was shot,” His voice is fainter than a whisper, he’s a goner. WHY, WHY, WHY?!?! Does it have to happen. All the violence and death. There should be no conflict because this land belongs to us. We were all born and raised here, and now our home is being destroyed. I threw my spear at one of the white men and missed. Noticing me he turned and fired his exploding stick. The bullet pierced through my left arm and I felt white hot flames of pain run through the entirety of my body. I fell to the floor and time seemed to slow down. Cannons seemed to move like turtles, running looked like walking, and blood seemed to stay in mid-air. I fell and felt the dirty brown soil on my naked back. My time in pain felt like hours but were probably mere seconds, before I slowly got back. It took all my strength just to get up, but I had to in order to fight for my people. The white men were retreating, and so were we. The 14 that remained of our earlier 40 walked back slowly, each of us aching with pain. This battle that seemed so big was actually so small because many more of these fights will take place, growing in violence, and amount of casualties.

A Captain’s Troubles                                                                  

The muggy tight feel of my cabin awoke me uneasily.  The  loud gentle noise of waves washed up along the outside of the ship weighing down the old soggy wood.  As I step out of my cabin I am blinded by the harsh sun that seems to be following our ship.  I meet my first man out front of the boat, for what seemed to be the only second he wasn’t bellowing orders and over flattering to me to secure his job.  “Show me the maps,” I replied as I let out a yawn.  I quickly shuffled over to the cabinet, made as a gift from the milliner to secure us as customers.  The first mate pulled out the long rolled up map and layer it out over the unevenly carved wooden table.  The map sprawled out on the table, as I grazed my finger over the West African sea coast.  Here I say pointing to a peninsula 20 miles or so east of our location.  “Eastward,” he yells, returning back to his normal self. “it’s settled,” he says rolling up the map and scurrying off.  

I watch him yell out orders from the bow, leaning on the railings, but the sound of water washing up against the boat blocked out his words.  I peered out over the back of the boat searching for land, but find only a small sliver where we were headed in the distance.  “Sometimes I feel like a castaway out here.  The wind controlling our movement never really knowing where we are.”  The man startles me.  I whip around to find a younker.  This is an odd event, the Younker, so low in class, that he almost never approached the captain in fear of losing his job.  “Yes,” I reply trying to act as if this interaction was normal, “A few days out at the sea with nothing but wood under your feet and the sea to look can do that to you,” I say smiling.  A few moments pass on without anyone talking, “Is that all then?” I ask confused.  “I just,” he hesitates, “I just left my bag under that chair.”  “Oh, sorry,” I say as I hand him his bag.  

We were just about to land at a beaten up dock, here we would start to sell items and purchase slaves.  We didn’t have all that much room left in the stock so we couldn’t buy many slaves even if we wanted.  The stock in England was very nice and affordable I couldn’t resist even though we were only half way done.  Coming from England, we had loaded the ship with manufactured goods.  I had invested more space and money than expected.  We had only finished two legs of our journey across the atlantic trade triangle.  Once we had landed and docked I took ten men, each carrying a good load and headed to the town for a day full of moneymaking.

With the exotic trade items and wide variety I have a large responsibility in the community to find items people back home would like to buy, not just what sells best.  I provide items that can’t be bought at most markets.  Although I was looking for money I knew the loves of all these men were in my hands.  A couple of wrong moves and we all could be dead.

Today is the day I have been waiting for.  I’ve been stuck in a jail cell, which smells of urine and dying animals, for two months waiting for the one day that will determine whether I live or die.  A guard opens my door and pulls me to my feet, then he pushes me out the door and into a wagon.  As I look out the window of the wagon I think to myself, the town is more beautiful than I remember it, the cobblestones streets are shining from the rain the day before.  The houses stand strong, and everything looks perfect, until you see the insides of every home.  After ten minutes, I am soon in a building which is beautifully furnished, with marble walls.  I stand in front of the court.  They tell me that if I don’t deny that I have practiced witchcraft and I named another “witch” in the town, they would let me live, but if I did otherwise I would be hung.  Then they let me think for a few minutes. Without hesitation I exclaimed, “I made my decision.”  

When I begin to speak the whole room leans forward, as if I was whispering my answer.   I look around at all the faces, some familiar and some not, then I stand up and raise my voice as if I was getting ready to yell.  “I will not let another person go through the same hardship I had to go through, it wouldn’t be fair.  Why would I want to put other peoples’ lives in danger so I could just save my own?  When I was younger, I was taught to care for others, and this is what I shall do,” I said.  When I told them my decision, the Judge looked disgusted.  He asked me once more if I wanted to change my answer, but my mind was made up.  The Judge looked at me, then at the guard, and I was taken from the court.  When I was in my cell, I sat quietly, preparing myself for my death, that would come the next day.  

A night later they took me to a frame that had two ropes hanging off of it.  They took one of the ropes and looped it around my neck.    As they put it on my neck I could feel its rough exterior scartching the skin on my neck.  Then they tightened the rope and I felt my insides jump.  I saw my parents in the background, they looked at me with such disrespect.  All I could think was, it wasn’t my fault… I wasnt a witch.  The last thing I remeber was them pulling me upwards.  Then I felt nothing.

My name is Katherine and I was a victim of the witch trials.  Before I died, I had a father and a mother, whose names were John and Amy.  I have four siblings: William, James, Lily and Charlotte.  I came from England when I was two and arrived in Salem at five years old. I began to work at the age of eight for my master James, his wife Rebecca and their four children Abigail, Thomas, Alice and Andrew.  I had lived in their house since I began to work for them, and I only saw my parents a few times a year.  

The day I was accused of witchcraft started off like every other day.  I woke up at three in the morning, cleaned the dining room and then I went go into the kitchen and cleaned all the dishes from yesterday’s lunch.  After, I would pickup all the toys and clothes that were dropped on the floor, from the night before.  Then I went into the kitchen and made porridge with berries.  After that I set the table with cloth napkins and silver silverware.  At about six o’clock the family woke up, and I put the food on the table. After they ate, I bathed the children, while their parents were getting ready to go to the square.  When their parents went into town, I sat with the children while they did their studies, and I sewed myself a new bonet.  

At twelve, the day took an awful twist; the girls began to twitch.  Abigail began to roll on the floor screaming and barking like a dog.  Alice began jumping up and down, yelling that her head had been cut off, even though you could obviously see that her head was right on top of her little neck.  The doctor came and saw their behavior, and all he said was that they were bewitched.  He bent down to the ground where both of the girls were laying down, and asked them who put this curse over them.  I heard a name that I recognized, they pointed at me and screamed Katherine did it. I couldn’t believe my ears; I raised these children from when they were newborns, I knew them so well and they call me a witch!

 That story repeated in my head until the day I was executed.  When the girls called me a witch, their dad came to me and took his wipe and hit me fifty times.  Through my tears, I could only see the faces of the girls.  Those girls just stood there watching and crying.  Why where they crying?  They didn’t know what it felt like to be repeatedly whipped.  Did they know that when it hit you it felt like you were being burned, and as the number of lashes from the whip disappeared, your skin disappeared with it, leaving your flesh exposed.  Then I was taken away and I never saw those two girls again.  When I sat in the corner of my cell, I kept on asking myself: do those young girls even understand what the meaning of witchcraft is, and do any of us understand the meaning of this.

Horse Glue

I think I will teach my apprentice how to make a window frame today, I think as I walk to my children’s room.  I have to wake my apprentice.  My name is James Smith and I am an 18 year old master carpenter.  I am English and have two wonderful children.  A seven year old daughter named Nina and a nine year old son named James Jr.,  and a wife named Victoria. We are not rich, but we have more money than most here.  I get to the door and hear the soft snoring of my two children.  I hope that I don’t wake them.  I walk swiftly but softly into the room and to my apprentices bed.  My apprentice’s name is John. He is sleeping face down in the blankets, snoring louder than my children.  It sounds like a pig has gone crazy and is fighting with two other piglets. The pig is my apprentice and the piglets are my children. I rudely shake him back and forth.  He wakes up looking around startled.  I tell him to get ready.  Today I will teach him something new.  At this he jumps up excited and races to put on his clothing.

We walk downstairs and out the front door and take the short walk across the street to the shop.  It is a cold winter morning and snow has just started to fall. My apprentice looks sleepy. Normally he doesn’t have to wake up this early.  I see a new wagon sitting in the front of the Wheelwright’s shop and I think of what my next project will be.  I turn to my apprentice again and find that he is starting to slow down, “What’s wrong?” I ask him.  He doesn’t respond.  When we reach the shop, I tell him what I will teach him today.  He cheers up when I tell him. He appreciates woodworking much more than my old apprentice who ran away, and was never found.  I never got my pay from him and for that I am angry still.  I tell him to start plaining some more wood for we will need a lot today and I start making the glue.  I walk over to the glue pot and put some burning wood underneath.  I carefully make sure the amount of horse hairs that I put in is correct.  The hairs are very expensive so I can not afford to waste any.  This glue is only good hot and can not be left on the fire for too long.  I hear the scraping of my apprentice plaining the wood, “Not too thin!” I shout.  For these windows the wood must be thick enough to fit a mortis and doug.  The mortis and doug fit, also known as an eye fit, is a fit that consists of a circular whole through both pieces of wood being joined, and a peg through that to hold it.  I have never shown my apprentice how to do that.  The room smells like an odd mixture of burning horse hair and pine wood.  I had just bought a new load of timber from the merchant  yesterday and it wasn’t dried yet.  I stir the glue mess with a wooden stick, left over from a plank that snapped yesterday and wait for it to start to stick.  Some Journeymen show up while I am doing this and get to work on cutting the planks for the new house being built on the other side of town. “Come on,” I shout, “Lets get to making those window frames.”

The work that I do at my shop is used all over this town.  I make everything from house frames to luxury furniture.  If I didn’t help all of the house owners build their houses they would not have the beautiful buildings they have today. My craftsmanship can be seen even in the capital building, decorating the tables and chairs.  I am a role model to all of the apprentices and journeymen that choose to be woodworkers.  I improve on old designs and show others how to do them.

                    “GUILTY! Your punishment is to be hung for your crimes against Peter Stockingson! This is your second offense,” I say as I give the thief his punishment. He begins to cry and is taken away. I see the pain and tears in his family’s faces. I pat my wig to make sure it is in place.  I don’t look as bad as the person who committed the felony. The court room is tense and fresh. The air is tight and the vibe seems down, but it is like that for a reason. This is where people we’re punished on trial. I am John Mayer. My job is to make sure that the criminals and law breakers get their punishment and abide by the laws made for us.  I am 31 years old. I rank in the higher class. My role in society is being the judge and putting the criminals away for their felonies. I live with my wife, a wigmaker. She owns her own wig shop. I usually get my wigs done from her shop.

                On a daily basis I would usually visit the wig shop or go to the bakery. The mood in the bakery is nice and calm and the aroma is very sweet. To my left there is a muffin. No one is at the bakery but me and the bakers. The air is fresh. I hear the humming of the oven as a batch of muffins come out. It is almost always quiet in the bakery because not a lot of folks visit it. I noticed that only upper class go to the bakery. The high class people could afford almost anything at Williamsburg. Some were rude and ratty but some were nice. “My muffin?” I say. I can’t taste the muffins physically, but taste the moist sweet bread mentally. Oh muffins how I love yummy muffins. I think to myself. When I leave the bakery I say goodbye to the baker and then get back on my horse.

My role is important in the community because it is my decision if a criminal goes to jail or is punished. Its my job to decide if I should let the person go off with a warning or give them the death punishment. Without me life would be hectic and chaotic, because the criminals would think they could commit any crime and they would know they wouldn’t get punished for it, giving them a bigger incentive to commit the felony. I matter in this community because I will give a consequence that the felony makers deserve. I believe I am fair, but some others believe I am not. I enter my house, then go to my bed. I lay down and slowly fall asleep thinking, “who else shall I punish…”

Tied Tobacco

“…And remember, precisely twenty, no more and no less!” my Master, James Smith says before he returns to his wife Victoria and his two kids.  I wish to scream and throw a fit at the way he orders us around like the property he thinks we are.  Although, I have no right to complain, when I saw my sisters, they told me that Matilda was whipped at the time when her stomach was round with Timothy.  I stand with my fellow slaves at the brink of the tobacco field ridden with the green plants that we are sentenced to free from the ground every minute of each day.  I pull the tobacco plants that my father, brother, and the two other slaves living on the plantation with us are yanking from the ground.  The rugged scent of the green leaves which will find themselves browned with the change of this month.  I match the ends of the stalks together and tie them with the twine I was given to use sparingly this morning.  “Ngo- eh, Emma, remember to return with the barrel,” says my brother, he stutters as his mouth yearns to speak my name, my true, Angolan name.  The one that tells others to be wary, reveals our class, not that class matters now, I’m as low as one can be-a slave.  Instead of our regal names, we are pinned with meaningless names that are repeated again and again among the ships that the gentlemen so cruelly order.  They ruin our lives, in Africa I would have a family, be rightfully married, here, my family is divided.  I would be respected in Angola, a wealthy woman of seventeen years, here I am spat on and regarded as the dirt that James plows through each year, tossed about to supply him with crops and wealth.

Out here in the hot sun, the sweltering heat of the afternoon makes our environment feel hostile and very unpleasant.  In front of me lay the fields upon fields of tobacco.  All around are the green plants whose value James and Victoria count on to live off of.  I lean over to touch the rough plants that we spend our sixteen hour days pulling from the ground.  I hear the crackle of the leaves as I place the stalk that Benjamin, the broader of the two slaves who work with us at the plantation, has released in my direction.  The four of them work rhythmically as I bind the plants that I will soon take to the smoke house.  “He’s coming, he’s coming,” my father yells in the voice of our country.  The sound is pleasant and worth the risk of being heard.  He orders us to be silent and work fast to show our master the quick speed we work at.  “Speed up everyone, fast, fast,” I cry out, now we speak in English for fear that our master would catch us uttering words in our Native tongue.  Though the sun is in my eyes, I stare with desire at the home of out master’s family, the brick facade is adorned with three rows of windows, one for each floor.  I glance at the door in its grandeur of wood, the one that welcomes many and shuns the others.  The living space is so large, it is at least 100 times as big as the dwelling that I call my own.  It does not seem fair that a family with only four members has so much more land than a group of five, out of whom only three were previously acquainted.  Across the many acres of land that James and Victoria Smith own I can almost hear the bell calling their two children home from their play.  Each day it reminds them of when it is time for them to eat lunch.  As slaves we suffer, wishing for the cool indoor meal that those children get, instead we look forward to this evening when the sun has left the fields and we are finally able to relax.  We will talk about the meaning of life, whisper insults about our master and not get caught.  However, our day is not yet over when we have finished in the fields.  We have to do the work for our family as well, cook for the five of us, clean our tiny cottage, and care for our little garden in back.

Without the work of the five of us, James and Victoria would be like the middle class farmers, wallowing in their own fields, farming their own tobacco.  They would know what it was like to work nonstop from sunup to sunset, six days a week, from the day I was able to walk.  Being born into slavery from my mother who was brutally forced to make me and my four siblings while working for James’s father, we are indebted to John’s (James’s father) kinship until the day we die.  Every day my siblings and I slave away in the fields, break our backs from the twisted shape we are angled into daily, and yet our master wants us healthy; he pays for the doctor when we are ill.  All slaveowners know that they must keep their servants in perfect condition so they can continue working, day after day until the time we pass to a better existence. They keep us because we all know that we are far more valuable than money.  

The Cure

It was finally over. My eight-year apprenticeship of training to be an apothecary was over! For once people could take me seriously when I diagnosed them, or recommended medicine. Even though it was wonderful when my apprenticeship was over, I didn’t realize what great responsibility I would have take on.

Working at the apothecary was the same, but people actually took me seriously. But I still did all the same things, like, selling herbs, making remedies, performing minor procedures, teaching apprentices and diagnosing people. The usuals came in just about every week, asking for and about best sellers, herbs to prevent against colds, and much more. People were always walking around the shop, exploring all the shelves filled with countless unique smells, textures and looks of herbs and remedies.

“Excuse me Emma, but my wife Catherine has been unfailingly coughing, purging, and has the highest high fever. Please, I need your help!”

“Oh no what a shame, that sounds absolutely dreadful. Well…” John cut me off, in a hurry. There was a sorrow look in his eyes that described his great worry and pain for his wife.

“What herb, medicine, remedy or elixir can you give me, I’ll buy anything that can make her better.” It hurt my soul to see how much anxiety he had.

“I do have a few things I can give you; I have feverfew for her high fever, spearmint for her stomachache and hoar hound candy for her excessive coughing.”

“I’ll take it all! Thank you Emma for your patience and your listening.” John was always complimented me on being patient and calm. I went up the ladder, lifting up my delicate sapphire blue dress, and I looked through the shelves that were as tall as the ceiling. Finally I found all the herbs; I weighed them and gave him a price.

“Thank you very much!” John ran out of the door, in a hurry to cure his wife.

Day 2:

I was in the apothecary shop creating a new remedy, until John came in with a large smile on his face. He said:

“Katherine is already getting better! Her fever is going down, she stopped purging and she is coughing less and less!” John laughed with joy and excitement. “I was so worried about her, I thought she had gotten a disease of some sort.”

“I’m so glad she is feeling better. I wish her the best!”

My day begins at 6:00 am and I begin by helping my teacher smooth out wood with the jack plain and make patterns on a long piece of wood using the cornered plain. As I work I can see old Thomas. He is a journey man in my workshop. A journey man is someone that is of age and has much experience, so he in turn is very respected within the workshop. My teacher, John, hands me the jack plain so I can smooth wood. The Jack Plain’s blade is jutting out so I hit the front which makes it contract into the opening. I continue working this way until it is 6:30 p.m. and then I leave without any pay in my pocket.

“William! Where do you think you’re going?” said John, to which I did not respond knowing that if I did he would scowl me and call me a thief. Although the only thing I received from him was time and scowls. I walked and walked and walked. Later I realized my mistake. I had run away from my future I had to learn  how to survive. So I looked for someone else to work with and fortunately Steward the carpenter took me in, but always kept an eye on me, as if he did not trust me. The work was not too different except for Steward’s kindness and he gave me free meals. It was not too long until I meet with John and he was so angry at me he began screaming ” you rascal! I had taken treated you so well and you repay me with this!” I did not have the courage to look him in the eyes I turned away and found myself between two enemies. Steward and John were old time enemies and had generally not the best attitude towards each other since the day that Steward married Belle, John’s previous love.

“You cankerblossom, she should have married me” said John, to what Steward responded

“All you wanted was her family’s wealth. ” Angrily John shoot back with rage,

“A man like you should not be in society, may I see your hand” Steward knew that he had been unfairly branded, with a T as a thief because he had to steal a loaf of bread to maintain his family alive during the winter five years ago. With this, the dispute ended with that cruel remark and each man turned and mumbled. I was left with confusion but did not feel I was alone anymore.

When I was walking home I found that my family’s home was empty. I had a strange feeling so I went outside and asked the woman next door where my family went and she answered.

“That witch? She is on trial for making my son sick. I had to brew him some herbs to rid him of her evil spells. Even my husband the blacksmith has to go to the trial.” I was shocked and grieved, as I knew that there had been many cases like these before and the results were usually death. The next day after a day at work I came home and found my father sitting on the bench alone with a troubled face. So I took a deck of cards from the table and offered my dad to play as there was nothing else we could do but let time pass. I was used to playing cards because they were used to teach me numbers and other arithmetic at a very young age.

The day of the trial I was walking towards the Capitol building and I saw a few Africans working on making shillings. I saw that, unlike me, they did not have the option of running away simply because they had nowhere to run and they did not have a future apart from slave work. When we reached the court I noticed my mother was famished, but I still had hope that her case would be different. The next day at home my mother was oddly quiet but still cooked and took care of my brothers. The time in jail had changed her, she was chained to a wall and and had no privacy with the other women.  A few years later Steward died, he was cried over by many but time goes on and I am in charge of the workshop now. Now I have my own apprentice named James. He will make a fine carpenter when I’m gone.

Chapter I

My name is Penelope Hudson, I am an apprentice to the weaver here in Jamestown. I get up with the sun every morning, and head straight to my teachers home, she normally has something warm for us to eat before we walk through the already busy and aroma-filled  village. When we finally get to her shop, I am relieved. I have never been anywhere that makes me feel so at home. It’s a small shop, tools and yarn lining the walls, and the loom pushed into a small corner. I have not been coming here for very long, but already I have so many memories, it’s a part of me. I am three years into my apprenticeship, but I have learned a lot. Because I spend so much time in the weavers shop, my master teaches me manners and trade as well as running the shuttle. I am sometimes sent to the market to trade some of our products for supplies and tools that we might need.

Today as a celebration of my birthday, she allowed me to go to the bakery to get some cake. I  usually work at the loom, I can work faster than my teacher, and it speeds up business. The usual amount of time that you would be an apprentice for is seven years, but I wish it was longer. I don’t like being at home so much, my father is a drunk, and my mother tries to stop him, but he won’t listen. I am very lucky to have a good teacher, she is kind to me, and let’s me eat with her, she understands my situation. At first I was nervous about my apprenticeship ending, where will I go? After all, you can’t have two weavers in one town. So I decided that I will go to Henrico. I long for something different, and I have heard that the landscape there is beautiful. I will leave as soon as I am finished with my training.

Chapter II

What will it be like? Out in the world, all on my own? I suppose I’ll need a husband. Do things look different in the eyes of an adult, will I have to follow my husbands orders like my mother? At least I will be able to produce clothing and blankets for my family….. “Pene?” Miss Lenburg says, “are you alright?”

Miss Lenburg is my teacher, “Yes Miss Lenburg. Oh I’m so sorry, I messed up the color pattern,” I respond.

“Easily fixed- Day dreaming again? We’ve had a long day, I can clean up the shop. Go home and get some rest,” she says.

“Alright. Thank you Miss Lenburg, see you tomorrow!” I say as I leave the shop. I step out of the shop and the cold rushes towards me. It is dark outside, the same dark blue as one of the blankets I wove today. As I rush down the street I see the statesman, and nearly trip on the cobblestone street. “Uh-uh-uh, hello mister statesman,” I stutter.

“Hello, is the fabric for my jacket almost finished?” he asks.

“Um, what? Oh right, yes, it should be ready in the morning,” I answer. I continue to walk down the street, looking back to see him jump into a carriage and ride away. When I get home, I can smell the alcohol and disappointment wafting around my father- he has been gambling. I plop down onto a seat at our scratched-up old table, and my mother places a bowl of grits in front of me. We are not wealthy, my mother is a teacher, and my father- he no longer works. I have two younger siblings, they have both gone to bed I assume, but I wish they did not have to be raised into this life. I am sure that things will get better, but most say that I am optimistic.