I

Today, was the same as yesterday. I got up, felt a mouse at my feet quickly killed it and ate it as a small breakfast. I was the first one in my tent up, the other 6 still sleeping with the snakes and mice, my brother . I quickly reported to the officer (my brother) and asked what time it was. He pulled out a pocket watch and said it was 7:00 o’clock. I then asked if it would be ok to go and chop some firewood, and the captain (like always) said sure. I went to the surgeon, got some more bug cream, which by now I have gotten used to the stench of pig fat and oil. In the woods it’s quite peaceful, and you can sometimes think a little. We are out in yorktown, it’s late September, so I am a little cold in my work shirt. I cut down a small tree and decide that I should get back to camp. In camp I drop off the wood and went back to my tent to see everyone gone, not surprising. I went to my friends tent, he’s a late sleeper. When I got there I saw him sleeping, I chuckled a little and went over to wake him up. I got to him and shook him, nothing happened, I shook harder, nothing and I could feel my smile melt away. I kept on shaking him harder and harder wait hoping that there would be a response, and finally when I had the courage to put holding in my tears, looking at his closed eyes. After what felt like forever I got up and told the captain. He said he would do his best to get him a proper burial, but I knew he wouldn’t get one.

II

“The continental army” my dad said “*cough, cough*, your really should join you brother in the *cough* continental army”. I looked up at my dad, sick poor dying and decided that maybe I should. “If I do join the army” I said “no one can look after you”. My dad looked me in the eye and said, “I will be fine”. That was three weeks ago, I have joined a militia and after weeks of drills, commands and ranks we’re finally being put into the battlefield. The journey to war was awful. We were traveling to New York to defend it. The trip was endless, we marched rested marched set up camp tried to sleep, got up and marched more. The Higher officers were riding horses at the front not tiring, just looking ahead and I thought how could they do that. After weeks of marching we reached New York, and I quickly got assigned a post on Staten Island. This was the worst assignment possible. There were very few people here, everyone was sad, the militias didn’t like us that much and of course the condition was awful. I was sleeping with no straw a luxury I missed dearly and rock, no blankets or pillows just rocks. One day in summer the british began arriving and that is when things got alarming. Everyone rushed to posts panicking grabbing guns, and nothing happened. In less than a week the british were reinforced and we knew that we were desperately outnumbered. The british were beginning to board small ships, what was happening! We were running into our ranks to get ready and then BAM! The local militias were firing at us! We were panicking rushing dying all just trying to get back to the rest of the army. I was the only person in my tent of 6 that survived, the rest were shot and either died or were taken prisoner. On the small ships I knew we weren’t safe, there were still bullets flying past our ears, but also we were running to manhattan where their was bound to be an invasion. Next to me sat my only friend, Thomas. Thomas was a normal soldier nothing special, just like me. It was only 1 minute on the ships before he was shot. He got shot in the back of the shoulder and had to endure the agony for what felt like ages before we made it to Manhattan, and by then he wasn’t going to make it.

A Day In The Life Of Comfort Wright

Oh dear, I’m late! I must get those orders done or else the customers would be extremely angry at me. I should introduce myself. I am Comfort Wright and I am a middling class milliner. I am twenty three and I work with my close friend Phoebe Williams who is twenty four.

I walk inside our shop, which is in Williamsburg and I see Phoebe sewing a woman’s gown. I instantly join her and I start to finish up a man’s waistcoat. Our store doesn’t open until eight o’ clock. That means we have two hours to finish these orders. We usually spend most of our morning and nights sewing people’s clothing. Sewing takes time, but I really do enjoy it because it is a big hobby of mine. I happen to love everything about it. I adore the way clothing looks and the way it’s made, it’s just a wonderful process! It is now eight o’clock and we just finished our last outfit.

“Splendid!” I announce.

“Indeed,” Phoebe replied.

Our first customer has walked into our shop. I hear the footsteps of a women. The sound of her heels indicate that she is probably in the gentry class. Her dress is grand, blue, and embroidered with small flowers. She was absolutely stunning and her posture, oh her posture was marvelous! Oh how I wish I could be like her. I must get this lady’s order. “Welcome,” I say politely.

“Good morning. I would like a new petticoat.” She mentioned while showing me what fabric she would like it to be. “ I will be back in a couple of days.” She exclaims.

“Of course, let me measure your body.” I say while nodding my head. I walk her over to the side of the shop and I grab measuring tape. I look back at the elegant lady, her posture was still straight as a pencil. I measure her body and try to be as gentle as I possibly can. Then I write down her measurements and she exits the shop with a touch of class. I look over and see Phoebe with a middling class customer and I let her be. I simply walk behind the wooden counter and I start to plan out the lady’s petticoat. I take out the special fabric that the lady asked her petticoat to be made out of, silk. I bring the silk over to a table in the back. It’s soft, and it feels incredible when I brush my hand against it. I’m amazed by silk. The way it feels is spectacular, but I couldn’t possibly wear it because I can’t afford it. More and more customers walk in and out of the millinery shop.

The day is coming towards and end. I make sure everything it is ready to be sewn. When I have the chance I start to sew everything together. By the end of the day, Phoebe and I are exhausted. We are usually tired after every sewing day because there is a lot of work to be done. Hand sewing is very tiresome. Every day Phoebe and I do the same routine. We take a quick break and then get back to working. We do have an apprentice, but she wasn’t working today. Our milliner shop is well known by many people in the gentry class, middling class and lower class. As the day comes to an end, Phoebe and I wrap up our thread and make sure all of our fabric is organized. We gradually walk out of the door and go home. Then we get ready for the next day at the milliner shop.

I just got off the boat from Europe, what a ride I must say. It was terrible, I could get no work done and the food was gross.

When I get to Williamsburg I will get down to work and solve the scientific problems of this new land. When I really think about what problems would people want me to solve, most people look at me with disgust and think of me as something evil because I have turned my back on religion. I am just one of many people in this revolution of science against superstition. So when I look back on the decisions I have made I think that changing from religion to science could only benefit me. The less educated of the people are sticking to their religious beliefs even when they are proved wrong or seem impossible. While I respect religion it really has no meaning to my life any more and I feel better than ever.

Onto a new topic. One day while I was minding my own business on the boat I saw somebody go overboard and die. The person that died, had no importance to my life, but I still wondered what he would be remembered for. Then that got me thinking about my own life and what I would be remembered for, nothing. Nobody in the world that knows me will remember me for something great. They would never say, “oh that sir James Irving, what a genius,” because I have not done anything to be remembered for. That is why I have made my life’s purpose to be about being remembered for something great, like the telescope or having made new and important observations. But really when I think about what I want to be remembered for nothing comes to me, maybe my life’s purpose was just to help start a scientific revolution. That isn’t something I will be remembered for because as I said I am just one of many educated Europeans making the transition from superstition to scientific reasoning.

After a week in Williamsburg I have became depressed. The reason for this feeling is because I can’t come up with anything to do which upsets me so. But I still believe in myself to do something great and be remembered like Galileo one of my idols. I like the lifestyle of this new world with all the meat and food but as life becomes less purposeful my mind sways back and forth between enjoyment and suicide.

After a year of living in Williamsburg I think I’ve finally got an idea. What if there were a measurement tool about 3 feet long and was marked with inches. Then people could easily measure things that took hours to measure before. I know my idea can make it I just need to find out a way to build because I have barely enough money to buy food. I think that I will have to steal wood to make this tool and then sell it to carpenters and blacksmiths and anybody willing to buy it, but most of all I will be remembered as the man who made the 3 foot long stick.

I am on my way to steal wood from a carpenter’s house for my invention I hope he doesn’t catch me. I have only seen theater productions of such actions, but never in my life have I tried to steal that would have been un holy. Now that I am out of god’s wrath and not one of his people he has no control over what I do so I am going to steal wood from the carpenter’s house. At the moment I can feel the wet grass against my skin. The smell of the carpenter’s supper is invading my nose, but I must go on. I finally see it, there are about 250 pieces of wood. For now I will only take 5. Then I hear a door swing open and I hide in the shed. 

Chapter 2

I have now sold over 200 of the sticks, and I now live out on a farm where I own 30 slaves, not many but they will do. I am one of the few farmers that doesn’t grow tobacco because I know the bad effects so instead I grow good food and live well. I now know and taste the sweet taste of venison. I now am rich and don’t need to see those hallucinations that hunger gives you. I still don’t like religion, it is false and no use to survival. I am now moving on to different sciences such as astronomy and botany.

On my farm there is a section for experimenting, and using a telescope to look into the sky. I am now one of the leaders of the enlightenment which is now a serious competition. I will never go back to religion, because if I hadn’t chose science I would not be rich and enjoying life, just the poor aspiring scientist.

Tonight in the year 1686 I saw Halley’s comet. I thought to myself, My life is now what I always hoped for, I saw a comet, and I will be remembered as the man who made the meter stick.

My profit has grown from those sticks I have now sold over ten thousand of them. I now live on a 200 acre farm and own 300 slaves. I feel as though they hate me, when I walk by them give me dirty stares and hold up their knives, that they use to cut the weeds. I have never beaten a slave, because scientist listen to other ideas, but they must feel differently.

I am now the most known scientist in America, when people see me they  stop and say, “Look it’s James Irving the  naturalist.” In a way I feel as though I have completed my life’s goal of being remembered as a scientist. I have created this new thing called hybridization, the act of discovering new plants. I put different plants seeds and leaves together and discover a new plant. People call me a naturalist, because I have given up my measurement studies and moved on to botany a natural study.

The enlightenment has grown and gotten stronger while I have aged and gotten weaker. People look to me for answers that I have no knowledge of anymore because I have become useless and practically stupid. People always come to me asking, “What is hybridization? I want to know how to do it so I can join the enlightenment.” The only thing I can say to them is I don’t remember, it has been 40 years since I have done an experiment, but I am still a strong believer in the scientific revolution.

Religion is trying to fight back, the way I know this, is some protestants attacked my house with rocks yesterday and then ran off yelling “die you old useless, vulgar, un holy man.” But that doesn’t worry me because I know that when my last breath is gone people will remember for empowering a revolution and being a important and great scientist.

A DAY IN THE LIFE OF A COLONIAL GUNSMITH 

Today I woke up with the sun creeping around the edges of the curtains, I dress in my shirt, slacks and a leather vest. I walk down the stairs to see my wife Abby making food that will be my breakfast. Then I walk out the door and walk down the street until I reach the Gunsmith where I work.

When I get there my brother John Bentley calls out “James, ready to work?”

Yes my name is James, James Bently and I am 31, I have seven children but they have already moved away. I set to work on a gun that I have been working on for a few days, it was damaged by a soldier in combat fighting with his bayonet, I have replaced many of the missing parts and straightened the bent barrel. Soon I will finish on the matchlock and I will be done, I polish off the last remaining pieces of metal and the gun looks like it is new. I run my hand over the smooth edge of the barrel and feel the trigger. I slip gun powder and a one-ounce 75 caliber led musket ball into the top of the barrel, then jam it down, I cock, and fire. A puff of smoke comes up and I can smell the acrid smell of the gunpowder in my face and as the smoke clears I see that I have hit my mark and the musket works perfectly. The man who owns the gun is a lieutenant and if I remember correctly he will get very angry if his gun is not in perfect shape.

John is out back sharpening some tools to smooth the wood on a rifle that is getting worn out. I take a look at the rifle he is working on, staring down the barrel to see the spiraling grooves that make the bullet shoot much more accurately than the muskets. But the muskets have different uses, the rifles have better aim but they are very expensive and the muskets are cheap but lacking in aim.

I think about our dad, he was almost never around always away doing work for the continental army and one day he was dropped off in front of the door with a bullet through his head, the dried blood smeared over his body. Mother cried for many days and a few months later she died of an unknown sickness, that is very common around here in these times.

I stare at my brother and it makes me angry. Maybe eight years ago when he was only 15 there was an Indian massacre, many people died but my brother was out hunting and as he ran back to the village the Indians captured him and all of the deer that he was carrying over his shoulders. I didn’t see him for another three months until he finally escaped their grounds and made it into the village. He was a different man, in the Indian camps he learned how to shoot bows and arrows and even some farming techniques. But the next morning John woke up ready for his first day at the gunsmiths in three months.

I walk up to the front counter and there is lieutenant Adams telling me to get his Musket out and over the counter, I reach down and put it out in front of him. Just as I did he runs his fingers over the smooth wooden frame and then asks for some gunpowder and a musket ball. He loads the gun and I lead him out to the back where he shoots at the small wooden board that we use as a target, the lead ball misses by inches but when using a musket that is not surprising. He gives me a wink and we walk up to the front where I told him “three gold pieces.”

Lieutenant Adams pays and walks away, then he looks back and tosses me a small silver piece.

Hunting

By Yannik F.

Chapter one

Today I woke up and saw a herd of deer passing by. I picked up my musket and fired twice before they passed. My old musket was falling apart every trip. I could never get close enough to shoot because they could smell my rope from a mile away. If you have not guessed, I am a hunter. I am a middle class hunter who lives on my father’s farm. My father passed away a couple years ago, he was a hunter too, so I decided to take over his shop when he passed. I have been saving up for many years to buy a rifle at the Gunsmith, and now I have enough to buy one. This gun was expensive, even too expensive for soldiers to own, but now I have one. I’m taking it out for its first firing tomorrow because I don’t want to waste the lead today. This gun is the best hunting weapon, it shoot much more accurate than a musket but it is much heavier.

I wake up and head to my small hiding place in the woods and wait, I wait and wait for any animal to arrive, then it appears. A large deer about 30 yards away is eating some berries, I slowly and quietly pull back the trigger and fire. I hit the deer and run over, I pull out my knife expecting to have to finish it off, but I don’t. It is already dead. I hit it right in the back of the head, my first headshot of the season. I skin and clean the deer there and bring it back to my shop. I keep the fur to make a strap and sell the meat to the butcher. My shop smells like raw flesh but it was worth the money. I have been making my father’s shop larger than ever, I’ve been trading beaver fur and selling meat and other fur. I am thinking about how proud he would have been of me. I have never met my mother, she fled when I was a baby. She might be still alive, but I will never know.

Chapter two

I’ve been captured… I’ve been captured by the indians. I was hunting on their land and they took me in. They have me tied up and they want me to talk to their leader. Their leader asks me why I was on their land. I told him I was only hunting and I lost track of where I was. I had a couple rabbits and beaver fur with me so I traded that for my release. I saw how many animals they caught and asked “Is that just from today?” The Leader replied “Yes,” I asked how they got so many animals and they said they used very accurate bows and a trap called a snare. I have never heard of a snare before, but it looked like it was very successful. I asked them If they could teach me how to make these things, they said yes. I came back to the village the next day and saw the large yet light longbow. Before they taught me how to make it they taught me how to shoot. They told me I would need lots of practice because children start at very young ages and are still not very good. I took many shots and they did not go far or where I wanted them to go. Days and weeks went by and I soon became very good a shooting. They taught me how to make it, you would find a 6 to 7 foot branch and whittle out the ends. You would do this until the wood it very flexible. The string was just tied to the ends.

I have been wondering about the snare for many weeks, I kept seeing it but never knew what it did. They finally started teaching me about the snare. I did really need to do anything besides make it and check it. It was easy but complicated to make but it was very effective. I started to make bows of my own and set a couple snares out near my house. Soon I had double the amount of meat and fur than I did before. My shop was filled with meat and fur, I never had this much. One morning I was checking the snares and found a bear. I had never caught a bear in a snare before and I did not know what to do. I had my knife but it was too ferocious to get close. I went back to my house to get a gun and when I went back with my rifle it was gone. This was very bad because bear was very expensive and this was a big one. I looked around and saw it. It was trapped in one of my other snares. I shot it twice brought it back to my shop. 

In Our Field

My arm wrapped around my husband, his warm winter coat scratches my arm but I don’t mind I am too nervous to care. We are sitting in the back of the capital right in the middle of Williamsburg. The bottom of my worn dress brushes against the hard wooden seats in the back of the courtroom. The large circular windows let little bits of warm light into the cold candle lit space. The wooden gate that would separate us from the witch wasn’t thick enough. Through the doors in the back of the rich room you could hear all the fussing around, it made me even more nervous. Two big men come out of the large fancy doors with huge muskets in their arms.

“All rise for the judge,” the larger man said banging his gun on to the ground making the whole room shake. I force my wobbly legs to stand for the judge as he comes in, still clinging on to me husband for extra support. He enters the room as if he was so used to all the attention that it was like breathing for him. His shoes clunk on the creaky wood and eco all the way down the room. Each clunk silences one more person that was whispering to the next. His dry, cracked hands, hit the wooden gate and open it carefully.  He turns to the left of the semi circle that the officials sit at. The stiff white men get even stiffer as he walks by them. The judge sits down and raises one hand swiftly. Everyone then takes their seats and all at once the benches and wooden chairs creak and squeak.  An even quieter hush falls over the crowd, this time the quietness is more severe. Through the gate you could see a small wooden table that the attorney had set up. The attorney was a thinner man, not as thin as me or my husband though. His face is as proud as if he had already won the trial, he hadn’t yet but we all knew he would. The fussing behind the door grew even louder, I could feel the witch approaching us. the doors burst open with two more men holding a woman back. She looked frightened, scared, and stressed. She knew as well as attorney did that she wasn’t going to win this trial, unlike times before. She looks around the room making eye contact with every person she can, she knows she must make some people feel guilty for her to have even the slightest chance to win. My head stays down she can’t distract me, she can’t make me change my mind, she is a witch a horrible terrible witch. as I look down at my feet, I close my eyes and remember when I saw her dancing in the field.

It was a cool spring day, about a week ago, and I was outside taking a little stroll through the little property we have. My husband at work, my sons at work too. Me, being as clumsy as I am trip over my long dress. You would think I would be pretty good at walking in the stiff clothes after 25 years of practice, but I’m not. The tip of my shoe catches the end of the dress and I fall onto the cobblestone steps. I put one hand down onto the cool stone helping myself up. Picking the dress up slowly so that I could stand up easier I noticed something out of the corner of my eye. A man, no a woman on my field wearing men’s clothing. A gize of light in front of her, she dances around a fire as if no one was watching her. But I was, I saw. My husband had said that he had experienced and seen this same thing before, of course at the time I thought he was going mad, as if I was going to believe that a woman was in men’s clothing dancing on our field. We have always thought that this woman was a little bit strange, a widow, strange marks on her arms and face, but now we had confirmed this she was most definitely a witch.  

I’m interrupted from my train of thought. It’s my husband tapping me on the shoulder he leans over and whispers into my ear,“It’s time,” he says. I know what this means, we must go explain these terrible sightings to the judge and all his people. He guides me with the same scratchy coat up to the same wooden gate. I take a deep breath in, and let it out. The attorney motions for me to begin my conviction and I do, “It was a cool spring, about a week ago…

Chapter 1- Lydia 

I woke up this morning in my bed, the sun shining through my windows. I put on one of my dresses and braided my hair. I walked down to the second floor and saw my mother and father getting ready too. I kept skipping down the stairs into the parlor room where breakfast was waiting for me. Beside my breakfast was Mary. She is one of our slaves. I enjoy Mary very much. She is one of my favorites. Sometimes Mary will sneak me a little cookie or treat. It pains me when I see Father punish the slaves. They have been so nice to me and I don’t like to see them hurt. Sometimes if Mary is around she will try to cover my eyes from the gruesome scene. She always says to me, “Lydia, I don’t like to see your face so sour and pained. Do not look when someone is getting hurt if it tortures you so much.” She must be right. I don’t know why I look, but when I do, It’s horrid.

I have two sisters and two brothers. One of my brothers’ name is Patrick. He is eight years old. One year older than me. The other one is named Abraham and he is only six months old. My sisters are both four. They are twins. They’re names are Henrietta and Phoebe. I just adore the name Phoebe. Sometimes I wish Mother and Father named me Phoebe. But I guess Lydia will do. I love playing with dolls with my sisters. We each have our own dolls. Sometimes we will pretend that we are princesses and Patrick is the handsome prince that will come save us. Patrick doesn’t really like that game.

During the day my tutor comes. I learn about religion, reading, writing and more. I am even starting to learn how to speak French. After my tutor leaves I play with Phoebe and Henrietta and sometimes jump rope. When I am not doing any of that, Mother teaches me how to cook a little bit. Only as much as she knows. The slaves do most of the cooking. Mother also teaches me herbal remedies for when I am sick, or one day, when my husband or children are sick. Sometimes Father will even take me to town or the docks with him to sell tobacco. That’s what we grow on our plantation. Father normally brings Patrick because Father says that Patrick needs to learn how to get the best deal for when he is working.

When you first come through the gates to our house, there is the game shed where we put games and store other things that we don’t need. If you keep walking you will reach our house. To the right and left of our house there are two guest houses. That’s where our guests stay if they are visiting. And then of course there is our house. There are three levels to the house. On the first level there is the parlor room, the dining room, the kitchen and any other rooms for dining and recreation. The second level is my parents level. There is their bedroom, Father’s study, and the powder room. The third level is where my bedroom is. Patrick also has a bedroom of his own, and Phoebe and Henrietta share a bedroom. There is also the other room where we have our lessons. That is where the tutor teaches us. We spend most of our time on the third level, outside, or in the parlor room. Sometimes Mother and Father will have guests over for dinner, but we are never invited. We never go into the dining room. Mother says we are too clumsy and we will break something. I don’t understand why we are allowed in every other room if we’re “too clumsy.” Behind the house are the fields. That is where the slaves go and work. Mary doesn’t normally work in the fields though. She helps take care of the slaves’ babies and cooks our food. I normally don’t see Mary a lot when we have guests over for dinner because she is so busy cooking the feast. If I try to talk to her or amuse her she will normally send me off to play where I won’t distract her.

During the day Father is normally in his study or out. Sometimes he is gone for several days at a time selling our tobacco. Mother is always busy with Abraham. She has to feed and take care of him. When Father is gone, she gets stressed out because she has to care for all of us at once. Mary is always cooking and caring for other babies. Sometimes if she isn’t busy and I’m not busy we will both sit down and talk. We talk about everything. My studies, my siblings, my dolls. If Mother ever catches us talking, she will say, “Lydia! Enough! You must study and you have to leave Mary to do her work. I bet she is plenty busy.” Mother always gives a glance at Mary after that. I know that Mother and Father think less of her, but who am I to argue? I just walk back up the stairs. I only skip when I’m happy, so I walk.

Chapter 2- Mary

I got up and went back into the kitchen. I don’t understand why Mrs. Wattson always gets to boss me around and give me that look. That look that travels deep into my soul making me feel helpless. Useless. Just because I am a black woman doesn’t mean that I should be treated any different. Sometimes I feel that Lydia is the only one that understands that. She is so young and innocent. Not knowing why things happen, and mostly, don’t even know the things that do happen. I am so fed up with it. Tonight I will talk to the other workers. Tonight I will plan my escape.

After another long day of working, I go back to the slave quarters. I stay up all night talking and planning how I will get out of here. I hate to leave poor Lydia behind, but sooner or later she will find her true hatred for blacks, just like everyone else. Mr. Wattson won’t be home until next week. I have plenty of time to leave. But just how will I do it? Will I say I’m going to get some food from the pantry and run? Or will I secretly sneak out at night? I think the night time will do. Less people to see me. I’ll do it tomorrow night, long before Mr. Wattson gets home. If he finds me he can’t beat me.

In the morning I get up at the crack of dawn and go into the kitchen. I prepare some bread and honey with porridge, Lydia’s favorite. I want to be extra nice to her so she will remember me this way when I am gone. As usual, Lydia comes down the stairs, her hair in some sort of braid, wearing one of her floral dresses. She hops into the parlor looking at her breakfast wide eyed. “Thank you so much Mary! My favorite!” I smile as I watch her greedily eat her delicious meal. I wish that I had meals like that. I have to eat the dinner scraps from the night before and spread it out between each meal. I am always hungry. I look at Lydia’s face. Her creamy skin and golden hair falling into her freckled face. Her blue eyes looked up at me and she smiled. “Mary why are you looking at me that way!” I smile again. “I was just admiring your beauty dear.” I respond. I wish I didn’t have to leave, but I had to. I was going to.

Finally it was night time. It was pitch dark and the only noise I could hear were the crickets chirping in the distance. I silently opened the door and snuck outside. The warm air hit me. The aroma of grass dew overfilled me. I kept walking, I looked in Lydia’s bedroom, the lights were out. I could of sworn I saw her lips move to a grin as I walked by. I couldn’t look at her anymore. It made me too sad, too guilty. I must go on. I kept walking until the house was out of sight. Soon enough I was in the town. In a short few miles I would be free. I saw a torch light quiver in the distance. I froze and tried to run. I heard a man scream at me. “Come back! Why are you out so late!” I just kept running. There was a blur of houses and trees. By breath was getting heavier but I couldn’t stop. I knew that I would be beaten soon. I knew that I could be killed. So I stopped. I waited. The men kept running after me, but I didn’t move. What was the point? If they didn’t hurt me than Mr. Wattson would. So I froze and waited until they finally caught up.

“What is this slave doing out here?” The first man said.

“I don’t know, but it must be from some plantation miles from here.” Said the second man. It. I am nothing but an object to them. Why am I surprised?

“Well what are we going to do with it?” The word burned inside of me. I stood up and waited. Listening to their words of hate being exchanged. I thought of Lydia. She always called me by my first name. ‘Hello there Mary.’ ‘Thank you Mary,’ ‘How was your day, Mary?’ They finally took me back to the plantation. Outside of the house was Mrs. Wattson looking at me in awe. Lydia started to cry. I couldn’t look at her, she was so upset. What have I done?

“Is this slave yours Ma’am?” One of the men asked.

“Ye-ye-yes.” Mrs. Wattson mustered. “I’ll ta-take her back. Th-thank you.” I felt so horrible. I had done something wrong. I had hurt Lydia, and of all people, I would never hurt her. Mrs. Wattson grabbed me by the arm and dragged me back into the house. She threw me into the parlor and started screaming. “What have you done?! You have brought so much shame on this family! How could you do this?! I can’t even look at you! This isn’t the end Mary. You are not allowed back in this house. You will work in the fields. You are not allowed to talk to my children or even look at them the wrong way. My husband will deal with you when he’s home. You disgust me.” A tear streaked my face. I sat there helpless. My body felt hollow and empty, it shook as I cried. And I cried and cried. “Get out!” She yelled. I stood up and ran. I ran to the fields and cried. I am going to die. I know that I am going to die.

Tonight I will plan my suicide. I don’t want it to be painful. I don’t want to kill myself, but I know that if I don’t do it, Mr. Wattson will, and that would hurt a lot more. I think I will drown myself. I can’t swim and it wouldn’t hurt. That seems like the obvious answer. I start to walk out to the field. It’s dark now and everyone is asleep. I walk past the fields and to the river. I take a deep breath and then jump. The water surrounds my body. My breaths getting smaller and smaller, until… Everything. Goes. Black.

Chapter 3- Lydia

I woke up this morning in my same bed. As usual, I braid my hair, put on one of my dresses, and skip down the stairs. I go into the parlor. I look up, but Mary isn’t there. I look at the table and see no breakfast waiting for me. I get nervous. I run up the stairs to Mother and Father’s room. “Where is Mary?” I ask impatiently.

“What do you mean ‘where is Mary?’” Mother asks.

“She’s not here.” I say panicked. My lip is starting to quiver.

“Don’t worry.” Mother says sympathetically. “We will find her.” I nod and run back upstairs. I go outside and look around. No Mary. I go into the pantry. She’s not there. I go into the guest houses, she’s not there either. I go into the game house, she’s not there. I go into the fields. “Mary! Mary!” I yell. “Has anyone seen Mary?” The other slaves shake their heads.

“She’s been gone since last night.” One of the slaves said.

“I checked her bed, she wasn’t there.” Another one said. I started to run towards the river. “Mary! Mary! Please answer me Mary!” I scream. I look down at the river. I see a body lying there motionless. I struggle to take it out of the water. I drag and drag screaming for help, but no one answers. I finally got the body out and I plop it onto the grassy ground. I wipe the soaking black hair away. I recognized the face. “Mary,” I whisper. I sit there, on top of her, sobbing.

Miles Trumbull

December 6th, 2015

                Benjamin Banneker’s Clock

I wake up in my old wooden house, with my door open, and my waistcoat on the floor. I remember I have to get right to work on the fields today. I run onto the dark wood floor and grab my black waistcoat, white button down and cravat. The cravat hasn’t been washed in sometime and is becoming more beige than white. I grab some stale bread and walk out the door.

The tobacco wasn’t going to farm itself. Spending time of the farm lets me think about a lot of things. I open the creaky, unhinged wooden door to see a splinter in my hand. The blazing sun instantly hits my hazel eyes and causes me to use my hand like a tricorn hat as if I was some sort of pirate. My feet sink into the damp grass and I can tell it rained yesterevening. I slowly walk to the farm that seems a mile away, and I think about my idea. There is something I have been trying to make for some time now. Today is the day that I finish my clock. I have already made the gears, it is now time to put it all together.

I rush into the room and almost hurt myself going to the door. “There you are honey! Just in time for dinner! Please, sit down, it will be ready in a few minutes,” My wife says in her soft voice.

“First let me show you my newest invention!” I reply.

“Not another of these, come on honey, show me after dinner,” My wife insists. “It’s a clock,” I say.

“Oh come on honey, you’re being frivolous!” She says with both anger and laughter.

I unveil it to her and she quickly says, “Oh honey, it’s marvelous!” At this point, our dinner has been forgotten and turned cold.

“I have been working on it for some time now,” I say with gratification. “This is huge for us, the first clock in America, created by an African!”

“Your father must be very proud of you,” Florence says.

We then sit down in our wobbly, and uneven chairs and have an amazing dinner talking about how this will change our African lives.

This is so important to both my culture, and my family. Growing up with a father that once experienced slavery was very hard. He had no human life. I knew that I had to make him proud. This shows that a skin color doesn’t limit the success you can obtain. The first clock in America is made by a black man. That will always be in the back of the minds of the English. When I accomplished this, it made me feel warm inside. Like I represented my people well. I cannot wait to tell my father of this. I hope he is proud of me.

I live my life under the radar. I am a widow whose husband died two years ago. My life is jail cells, pillories, moldy burnt bread, dirty ditches, running for my life, and death. I watched my husband, the most acclaimed judge in Williamsburg, die at the hands of a madman. I’ve watched my only daughter die at birth, almost taking me with her. I have barely any soul left, and I walk around like a hollow shell of a person. My name is Jane Harris.

Today is a warm, sunny day on the bustling streets of WIlliamsburg. I see dignified women walking with their parasols, I hear men shouting at their horses, beseeching them to move. I sit quietly on the sidewalk, waiting for someone to notice me. Sometimes people will throw me a coin or a piece of bread. There is a nice family down the block with two kids. One of the kids, their teenage daughter, will sometimes bring me some leftover bread, or rotten fruit. Well, to them, it’s rotten; to me, it’s marvelous. I see a couple walking serenely down the sidewalk, arm in arm. My heart fills with sorrow, thinking back to when my husband and I used to go on long walks through the town, sometimes stopping at the bakery for some Queens cake. I miss those times, when my husband was alive and we were prosperous. Neither of those things are true anymore, all thanks to that man who killed my husband. Not only did he kill him, he also robbed us of everything we owned; and the county sheriff was unable to track him down.

Unfortunately, the family that brings me food went away on a vacation, and I haven’t eaten anything in 2 days. My legs feel faint, and I can’t bring myself to move. The baker comes out, carrying a fresh tray of bread. Just as he places the bread down to cool, there is a crash in the bakery. He hurries inside, leaving the tray unwatched. The bread sits there, completely unwatched. I feel myself moving towards the tray. I look around, no one is watching me. Against my will, my arm reaches out and grabs a piece of warm, fresh bread. Riddled with guilt and excitement, I run with all my might towards the edges of the town, where I live.

I sleep in a gutter, that is usually dry, but there is the occasional rat. It is not as comfortable as my down bed, but it is acceptable. I sleep well that night, my stomach full with the warm bread. Suddenly, I feel hands grabbing me and pulling me out of my sleep. I look up to see the angry face of the sheriff! I immediately start to struggle, but the sheriff is strong and I am weak. No matter how much I protest, the man maintains a strong grip on my arms. “Stop fighting!” he demands. I keep struggling. He takes out a stick and everything goes black.

Chapter 3

I wake up in a jail cell. I immediately go to the window and start banging on the bars. A man comes into my cell. I look up at him pleadingly. “All I did was take one piece of bread. I’ll pay back the baker, I promise.” He gives me a stern look. “Since you have admitted to stealing bread, you will be released. But you owe the baker the money for the bread, and you must spend one hour in the local stock.” As he says stock, I don’t know whether to feel happy or sad. Since this is my punishment, I will have to spend one hour with my feet trapped. That part isn’t that bad, but I will also be mocked by all the townspeople. At least it’s not the pillory, where I would have my ears cut off. I might as well make the best of the situation, and I allow the man to lead me to the horse and wagon waiting at the entrance of the jail.

The jail is at the outskirts of town, and the ride takes several minutes. I sit timidly in the back. The jailer turns to me. “What is your name?” he asks. I know that I should not answer, but all hope and will has left me, and I oblige. “Jane Harris.” I say with a sigh. His eyes widen. “Wife of the late Judge John Harris?” I nod. “Hmmm.” he said. “How did you go from the wife of the most prosperous judge Williamsburg to a thief?” he inquires. “After the murderer killed my husband, he then took every valuable item from our house, and our money.” I look down as I say this, as it does still pain me.

We arrive at the local square. The jailer stops the horse, and I step off the wagon, looking at the stock in dread. The jailer looks at me with pity in his eyes. He hands me a coin. “For the bread.” he says. “I can’t do anything about your punishment. I will surely be replaced if the sheriff finds that I am pitying criminals.” I look at him with gratefulness, and take the coin. “I am forever in debt to you.” I say; my eyes shining. He looks down. “It was nothing. Now I suppose I must put you in the stock.” He leads me over to the stock, and lowers the wooden board over my legs. I struggle slightly, but my feet are stuck in the two holes. An hour later, the sheriff comes and releases me. I am covered in bruises and rotten tomato juice. More than five people have hit me or thrown something at me. I am miserable. The sheriff leads me back to my gutter, and asks for the money to pay back the baker. I hand him the coin that the jailer gave me. He looks at me with contempt. “If I catch you stealing anything again, it will be the pillory for you.” I nod, and he walks away. I look around. Is this where my husband’s death has brought me? I have allowed myself to be turned into a thief, and I will never let that happen again.

Gwen R.

2015

A Day In The Life of the Bookbinder

My daily routine is almost always the same. I awaken with the sunlight beaming in through my window, continue my work as a bookbinder, and check in with the printer to see if there are any small prints that I need to bind. Being a bookbinder is hard work. Books take a long time to bind. Sewing signature, after signature. Putting the cover together, putting the pages in the cover. It doesn’t seem very hard, but it is. It took many years of apprenticeship. I wake up early every day to finish my work. I put my apron on so I do not get glue from the books onto my skirt. My shop is small will only one window to let in light. I leave the door open for fresh air. The window I have is stuck shut, and I should really get it fixed. But the door is good enough for me. Today, I don’t have my door open. It is colder out today. Ding! The door swings open and the printer walks in.

“Theodosia! I have some prints for you! About 10 more copies of Every Man His Own Doctor. They are in very high demand as of now.”

“Not those. I swear that I have memorized every page in that pamphlet!” I responded.

“Well, we make money the way we make money,” he said back cleverly. I have bound so many copies of Every Man His Own Doctor. At least it is a simple bind. Just thread back and forth. No fancy cover, just the prints.

“Thank you Gideon.” I get straight to work, stopping the bigger book I was binding. These are simple and I know I can finish them faster than the big one. First, the most tedious part. Folding every single page. I cannot fold them all in a pile, or else the folds will be uneven. Once I finish folding, I move on to punching holes. I use my short, dull pencil to mark where the holes will be, and use my ice pick to punch the holes. Sewing is my favorite part. I love sewing. If I wasn’t a bookbinder, I would be working in the millinery. While I sew, I hum a tune my mother used to sing to me when I was young. Before she passed away when I was 10. She was the one who told me that I could do anything I wanted. Without her, I don’t know where I would be.

When I was growing up, I would be with the girls learning how to sew. But now and then, I tinkered with my father’s trinkets. He was in inventor and always had stray items thrown around our house. My mother always told my father to clean them up, but he never listened. I like that they were in every room. I always had something different to play with in every room. I built furniture for my dollies. My mother encouraged tinkering. But if anyone else ever found out that I tinkered, they would think bad of my family.

I am the only female book binder in all of Williamsburg. In the history of Williamsburg. The bookbinder is a roll that gets passed down not to family, but to who wants to be a bookbinder. There is only ever one bookbinder at a time. Only ever one printer at a time. It makes my job even harder because there is only one of me, and many books to be bound.

My father still lives in the house I grew up in. He loves when I come home from the shop because he is always alone at home. It was getting late, so I finished binding the last copies of Every Man His Own Doctor, and organized my materials for the next day.

When I got home, I hugged my father, like I do every day. It was my job to cook supper. I got to the kitchen and made the pork. I had baked the bread yesterday because I had less work, and I got home earlier.

“The sweet smell of pork,” my father said.

“Just wonder what food we would have if we were in the gentry class!” I say starting to fantasize.

“Maybe you could get us there one day.”

“Not as I bookbinder I can.”

We ate the delicious food. I went to my bedroom after supper and cleaning the kitchen. I laid down to slowly fall asleep, wake up, and do the same thing the next day.