The Journal Of Anne Johnson

March 17, 1639

I hadn’t a moment of rest today. The guests are now streaming out the large doors into the moonlit night. If I stand right by the door I can see their long gowns that stretch all the way to the ground and their many layers of petticoats swaying. If only I could be like them. I wish that I could put on one of those angelic dresses and dance upon the smooth ground of the ballroom deep within the elegant palace belonging to the governor. Their grand carriages sat just beyond the brick gate just waiting for them to meticulously climb in. The beat of the horses hoofs fades as the carriage disappears into the night. The governor daintily shakes the hands of all the guests just before they reach the door. If I was even invited to such a ball, I would never want to leave. As people leave the palace, the noise from within slowly fades the same way as syllabub does when you pour the alcohol in with the whipped cream. They slowly fade together until it is all the same. Jane is cleaning out the pot we made the stew in earlier today and the water slashes as it hits the sides of the pot. The water is slowly losing its clear color as remaining stew sitting on the inside of the metal pot mix in with the water. I must go help her with the cleaning now or we will never be able to get any rest.

Sincerely,

Anne Johnson

March 18, 1639

I have worked all day and I won’t be able to write for that long. Since the governor had so many people over yesterday, there were many less people to cook for today. I must confess that today I tried a small bite of macaroni and cheese. The creamy cheese was just so tempting sitting on the table in front of me all day. The delicious smell of the wonderful dish made my mouth water. I couldn’t help but take a bite. If my dear sister Jane figured out, she would be so dreadfully angry with me. But I must say, just a small bite of that wonderful macaroni and cheese is worth any consequence in the world. The dish is so flavorful and if fills your whole body with joy. I can’t believe that so many people have never felt the joy that macaroni and cheese brings. If I were one of the people invited to dine with the governor, I would simply eat macaroni and cheese all night. Just having one small bite makes you attached to the dish. When you delicately place the small piece of macaroni in your mouth, it’s like a volcano of flavors erupts leaving you in awe at the magnificent, hunger quenching, dish. Though I know Jane will be so very angry with me when she finds out, I must say it was worth it for the sensational flavor of each singular piece of macaroni in unforgettable. I must now go hide this journal in a place not to be found by anyone else but me for I fear the consequences of my wrong doings terribly.

Sincerely,

Anne Johnson

March 19, 1639

This day could not possibly get any worse but you never know. I thought this day couldn’t get any worse when I got the letter from Mother this morning but I was clearly wrong. When Jane and I read the letter this morning we began balling but very soon we saw the governor coming over to give us strict instruction on what we must cook so we quickly hid our tears before he saw how upset we were. If he saw us crying instead of working he might fire us and then Jane and I would have nothing. I never realized how much I truly missed Father until I received the letter saying that we had died. I can’t believe that I will never see him again. I wish Mother and Father had traveled to the new world with Jane and I. When the governor came to talk to Jane and I, he told us that we must prepare a queen’s cake to eat after dinner. After I made that batter for the queens cake, I placed it in the oven and went over to comfort Jane who was crying near the window. We sat there for a while and just cried but we soon went on to admiring the clouds in the sky and think how lucky we were to live in America. Just then the whole kitchen started to smell like smoke and we then realized that we hadn’t taken the queens cake out of the oven. We raced across the kitchen and pulled the burnt cake out of the oven. We could never feed the governor such a dreadful looking cake. We rapidly began to mix new batter. I glanced out the door and across the yard to see the governor walking our way. Jane and I should have known that he was bound to check on the condition of the cake. After all, it was such a delicacy. We threw the necessary ingredients into the bowl and Jane quickly mixed it while I grabbed the burnt cake off the table and hid it under my stained apron. Jane threw the cake into the oven and stood by my side to greet the governor. I stood behind the table so the governor didn’t notice the large cake hidden beneath my apron. The governor nodded in approval when he saw the cake baking in the oven. When Jane and I were positive that he was out of earshot, we couldn’t help but laughing. I suppose we were laughing out of happiness that we were safe and that he hadn’t realized our mistake. We were also happy that we had a large queens cake and nothing to do with it. It’s not everyday that a cook is able to feast upon a queen’s cake.

Sincerely,

Anne Johnson

Bridget Bishop

6/9/1692

I am outside of the courtroom, the prospect of death looming in front of me. I hear cries and shouts of my neighbors. I think about my dear Edward, how he must be at my inn, cleaning the counter. Waiting for customers that will never come. Everyone is here today, at the court, waiting for people to be brought in, waiting for people to be sentenced, waiting for people to be hung. As I look back at my 50 somewhat years, I wonder, what I did to make these people hate me. Maybe it was the clothes I wore with the bright colors, the ones nicer than Samuel Parris’s wife’s clothes and everyone else’s in this accursed town. Or maybe it was that I owned a busy inn, and didn’t listen to what men or anyone said about me.

I look up, at the guards, watching them flinch as I look at them, one at a time. Not for the first time I think about trying to escape, then turn away the idea, knowing that it would make me look guilty. Not that it would make a difference. I know what will happen to me. The guards start to whisper.

“Did you hear what’s going to happen to Sarah Good?”

“No? What?”

“She’s being accused of being a witch and is going to be hung.” The guards glance at me, waiting to see how I will react. I raise an eyebrow as if to say, “What are you looking at?” and they turn away quickly. The court doors fly open and the guards escort me past Sarah and I see tears running down her cheeks. I look at myself and smooth my red skirt and accept that this is as presentable I will look.

The townspeople look at me eagerly, excited for more yelling, more excitement and I am disgusted. As I stand in front of them, I see their faces that cry out, “I want to see you hung!” their mouths saying, “She’s guilty! Hang her!” The two disgusting little girls, Abigail and Betty pull something out of their pockets that glint in the light: pins. They take turns poking themselves with them then Abigail takes out her doll, today dressed as me. She takes her pin and sticks it in the doll. I wince and try to hide my fear of these two tiny girls as Abigail grins maliciously at me. The smell of the poop of the pigs that I “bewitched” is overwhelming along with the sweat from all of the townspeople, you can feel the excitement pouring out of them. I smell the slightest hint of bread from the bakery and I realize that if I don’t prove my innocence, these may be the last things I see, the last things I smell.

As reality greets me, I think about my inn and my poor Edward. What will happen to it? What will Edward do? The villagers will probably burn it down or give it to the worst inn owner they can find. I shudder just thinking about it. My hands clench in my skirt, gripping the smooth fabric. I wish I was a witch so I could curse all of these people, especially those two little girls. Of course, I won’t say this out loud, it’ll just make me seem even more like a witch. But I know no matter what I do, to them, I’ll be a witch. But no matter what the judge, Abigail, Betty, or the townspeople say, I will not plead guilty to being a witch.

I wake up it’s another day, I’m ready to teach the young ones. I jump out of the warm soft bed since I know the children will arrive soon and will make my day happier. Since I lost my husband I count on the children to bring me happiness. I then get dressed, I put on a long black dress with a grey cloak and a white apron. Both my cousin and I teach at a dame school which is the equivalent to a kindergarten. It is in our house at the edge of Williamsburg. My name is Emma Baker, I’m a 22 year old widowed woman and my cousin Amity Cartwell is a 19 year old widowed woman. My cousin Amity and I both love the children who come and participate in the school, we love each and every one of them even though some of them are more trouble than others.

In our household we have very little paper since it is expensive. We also have ink but rarely use it, since the ink and the paper are for the privileged. When we teach, we mostly use chalkboards and shells to write with. We also teach from the Hornbooks and the English Primer. The children come into our front part of the house and bring firewood so we can supply them with a warm environment. The families of the children pay us in grain and corn, and this helps us to live. We sit them down all on benches and start teaching. While we teach them, they practice their letters and numbers. While they are doing this, we do our housework. There is always laundry and cleaning to do. The children are always asking us questions, so we teach while we do our chores. This takes up most of the day. On Mondays we discuss the Sermon to make sure that the children were listening.

“We will now learn about numbers,” I say, taking out the English Primer. I swiftly flip the page and read out “A number is a word or a symbol that represents a specific amount or quantity. You can add, subtract, multiply, divide and do so much more. Numbers go on forever, there is never an end. Today, we’re going to learn the basics, adding.”

I continue my lesson while Amity helps the children with their questions. While she is helping I do some chores and prepare the snacks. After about 4-8 hours the children will leave and Amity and I will continue our work until bedtime. We are so happy to see all the children getting along and helping each other. We try to teach the boys as much as we can so they can continue their schooling and have a good job one day. The girls will work as housekeepers or become a schoolmaster just like us. The slave children are better off because they can read and do basic math. Some of the Native Children may go on to Hampton College, so they will need to pay more attention and learn more complex things. The European girls won’t move up to college, but many of the wealthier boys will go to College of William and Mary.

No one ever questioned my husband when he was the apothecary, but because I’m a widowed woman, the townsfolk don’t trust me and they avoid my Apothecary shop.

“Ms.North isn’t trustworthy. She’s a widowed apothecary.” This is all I hear every day.  The townsfolk gossip and spread rumors about me and my suffering business. They believe that I should remarry because they think that it is shameful to be a single 32 year old, but I have no intention in doing so. Some people think that I poison medicines and trick people into buying toxic remedies. None of these rumors are true, of course, but they bring my soul down. My whole life is surrounded by stress and worry. This stress weaves its way around my shop and turns my hair silver. My daughter Lily, is my only joy. She is a lit candle, that never goes out. She does her best to stay optimistic, no matter how difficult the circumstances are. I am desperately trying to train her to be the next apothecary, but it is hard and everyday, people have been dying from malaria, the same disease that my husband and son both died from. People have been blaming me for all the deaths that have occurred this past few weeks. They blame me because they are afraid to face the truth. Malaria is deadly.

“Lily! Come downstairs! There is an emergency,” I urgently call from downstairs. I hear her boots clomping down the creaky, old, wooden stairs. She arrives just seconds after I had called her. Outside, the sky is dark, for it is only 6 o’clock in the morning. We arrive just in time to see a young woman dragging a girl into our shop. The girl’s skin is papery and yellow and her eyes are hollow.

“Can’t you do anything for my daughter?” she asks, wiping a delicate tear from her face.

“It depends.” I respond stiffly.  The mother helps me gently carry the girl over to a worn cot at the back of the store. I can tell just by the look of the girl, that she has malaria, but I’m nervous to tell her mother.

“Lily, examine her immediately,” I urgently say, trying to ignore the nervousness of my voice.

“Yes mother,” she responds quietly. As Lily carefully kneels down next to the girl, I ran to the front counter. My eyes scan over the familiar medicine bottles until I find the little, jar, labeled, “peruvian cortex,” I pop the cork and take a small amount of the rough, dry, plant bark. The girl has malaria. The girl has malaria. I mutter under my breath. I start mashing up the bark in the mortar and pestle, but all I can think about is my dead son, Abraham. He too, had suffered from a bad case of malaria, several years ago. The memory of my son consumes me.

His eyes are a sickly red color and he burns with fever. I don’t even have to feel his forehead to know that he is death bound. I kneel down next to him and gently caress his face. His eyes flicker open briefly.

“Stay strong,” he says quietly. Then, his head flops back onto his worn pillow and his pale eyes glass over. He was dead.

Then my tears come, long and hard. They fall into the mortar and pestle.

“Mother, she isn’t going to last long. Can’t you hurry up?” Lily asks. “Mother?” She hurriedly walks over to me. “What is the matter?” I shake my head and say nothing. Wiping the tears from my face with a handkerchief, I quickly bring the peruvian bark over to the girl, but I know that I’m too late. Lily is horrified and turns her head towards me. I start spooning the bark into her parted lips, but it is too late. I know what death looks like, for I have seen it too many times. Her eyes are still and unblinking. I feel for her pulse, but a clammy, dead, stillness is all that I can feel. Her mother collapses on the ground, crying hysterically. It is now, when the word failure rings loud and sharp in my head. I am a failure. I couldn’t even save one little girl from dying. The girl reminds me too strongly of Abraham. I feel more tears coming, but I quickly blink them away. I mustn’t cry. Not now. Lily is in shock. Her face is a white sheet and I suddenly realize what a hard blow this death must be for her. Afterall, she watched her father and brother die. And now a young girl? I try to comfort her with a hug, but she just shrugs it off. I look out the store window to see the sun rising. The day had just begun.