“A Look At the Colonial World Through the Eyes of….”

I am a soldier in Colonial America, and my job requires intense dedication and sacrifice. I am now 21, and enlisted in the Continental Army when I was only 17, when the War began. Four years have passed, and yet Great Britain is still determined to maintain it’s control over the colonies. Thus, I continue to fight loyally for the Patriots, in the hopes that one day, we will be freed from the King’s rule.

As a soldier, I live in very poor conditions, especially when I am on the battlefield. We sleep on the cold hard floor inside tents, and there are six of us in a tent.  If we get food, we eat poorly; nothing close to being enough to feed soldiers who spend days at  time not sleeping, firing a gun and people opposite a very large field.

I am consumed by the fear of being shot to the death; the fear of handing myself over to the British in defeat; the fear of losing my family to the invading English troops, ordered to burn towns down, and to let there be no survivors. But most of all, I am consumed by the horror of the war, all of the hatred and bloodshed and the gore, the sadness and despair and the agony and the fear.

And there are some times when I feel sorry for myself, for what I am going through, the suffering and the pain of the cuts that bullets have left me, as they barely miss my torso, but still graze my arms and legs. And some times, I am sorry for the people that I have killed. There was a moment that I will never forget. Years ago, a British troop charged the Patriots. He could have been no more than seventeen, and yet I saw all of the hate in his eyes. That boy was had is musket aimed point blank at a soldier to my right. He took a couple of more steps, then fired. The soldier collapsed on his knees, and was hauled towards the battlefield surgeon by to other Patriots, trying to shield the body from taking any more damage.

I then shrieked in all of the anger and despair and hate that was inside me. And despite my hatred for the boy, I am ashamed to admit what I did next. I rushed at the boy with my bayonet while he foolishly attempted to reload his musket in front of his enemy’s line. When I was a few feet away, he looked up, at first with anger and hate, but then fear and agony as I drove my bayonet into his stomach. I ripped it out and  felt his blood ooze down my hands. I then rushed back to my position, leaving him to die alone on the trampled grass of the battlefield, as was expected of me.

I am Private Robert Gordon of the Continental Army, and I am afraid of what I’ve become.

CLEMENTINA RIND

I am Clementina Rind, and I am a printer and bookbinder in Colonial America. My husband William and I came to Williamsburg from Maryland. We came in order to have a free press, where we could print our Patriotic views.

Unfortunately, William passed away here in Williamsburg last year, followed by most sorrowful mourning on the part of myself and our family. After he passed, I found myself needing to run his printing shop in order to support our family. This was unheard of, as no woman in all of Virginia had ever run a printing shop before myself, but it was required of me to support my family by whatever means necessary. Although I know that I need to run this printing shop in order to support my dear family, I cannot help but be reminded of my husband through the shop. Every chair, brick, and bucket in this printing shop holds the shadow of my deceased husband, and memories of the days when he was here. His ghost stands in every dark corner, or in the light of each candle burning. I try to push through my deep sorrow and remorse in order to run a successful business, but I find myself constantly reminded of dear William through the printing shop where he once worked.

Although I only belong to the middling class, I do try my best to influence the thoughts of Colonial America through what I publish. At present, I am working for Thomas Jefferson in publishing A Summary View of the Rights of British America. I am quite busy, because I must also publish our weekly newspaper, The Virginia Gazette, and I was hoping to print an Almanack as well before this month is passed. This week, several people from the Government have ordered me to write an article for them in the newspaper. They’ve told me exactly what to write, and I am closely supervised as I print it. The government officials that were patrolling in my workshop all day yesterday made me really quite nervous. My printing shop is quite dark, as it is mostly lit by candlelight, making it most difficult to set the type. It is quite warm in the shop as well, as it has to be in order for the ink to sit well on the paper. One difficulty of being a printer is that one must use quite a large amount of paper, which is most expensive, as it is imported from Europe. Several tools that I often use in the shop are moveable type, ink pads, a composing stick and, of course, a printing press.

I stand and walk over to the table where a case of moveable type is stored. I still need to compose a notice, which was given to me this morning, to publish in The Virginia Gazette. The subscriber is Joshua Jones, who is advertising a reward for the return of a runaway slave. Mr. Jones farms tobacco for a living, and has countless slaves working on his plantation. I pick up the small scrap of paper where he has written what he would like to be printed. I skim the text, then prop up the paper against the case of type so it will be easier to see as I compose. I pick up a composing stick, then begin the process of placing tiny type letters in rows to form the words and sentences of Mr. Jones’ notice. As I transcribe the written words into blocks of letters, I make a few edits. Mr. Jones is a most horrendous speller! As my hands fly over the type letters, my eyes begin to ache. This aching is not an uncommon occurrence as I compose; it is due to the poor light in the shop. As I work, I hear the crackling of the fire as it pops and flickers, and the idle talk of colonists as they pass by my shop on their way to the market.

I hear quick footsteps approaching the door to my shop, and I look up. William? For a second, my heart stops beating, and I realize that I have forgotten how to breathe. Time has stopped.

“Mrs. Rind! I’ve got a surprise for you!” calls the voice of my apprentice from just outside the door.

I exhale slowly, turning back to the composing stick I am still holding. Tiny tears prick at the corners of my eyes, but I quickly blink them away. William won’t come back, so stop thinking that he will. Just work hard so you can support your family.

I hear the loud squeaking of the door to my shop opening, and light footsteps on the wooden floor. I look up to see my apprentice, holding a large wooden crate. His name is Isaac Collins, and he is quite helpful around the shop. His term of service has barely started, but he learns quickly and I believe that someday he will become a great printer.

“What have you got there?” I ask, motioning to the crate.

“Its a new font of type. I bought it from the ship that just came in from London,” He smiled, “It’s called Caslon.”

Caslon. What a lovely name for a font! I had been waiting for a new style of type to print with ever since I moved to Williamsburg. Don’t get me wrong, the font that my fellow Thomas Jefferson gave to me is simply wonderful, but I have used it so much that it soon becomes a bore. It will be nice to print in another style of letters.  

“A Look At the Colonial World Through the Eyes of….”

             I am a tavern owner. My name is James Smith and today was the day. General George Washington was coming to town. I wake up hearing my wife Primrose screaming at our slaves and ordering them to do chores. I ask my wife “Is all this really necessary?” She replied “We might be serving the General if he were to have a good time in our own tavern, we could end up being the best tavern in town”. “General George!” I burst out. She nods. Approximately one minute later I started screaming orders as loud as I could. In the garden “Make sure everything is ripe and ready!” I start going to their kitchen and yell, “Carefully prepare a meal that the general will die for!”.

                       I hear a knock at the down. My stomach knots up into a pretzel, I thought the General wasn’t coming till  tonight. I open the door with the biggest fake smile and…. oh. Its just the Cooper’s apprentice Stephen with  two barrels of cider and one little basket of the finest tobacco in town. I have the waiters collect them and I give Stephen a generous tip. I take a break of being the meanest boss alive as I spot my children playing cards in the  living room. I walk over and see them playing Go Fish, that’s my favorite card game. I have two children a boy and a girl. The Boy’s name is James  jr. and my daughters name is August. I am blessed that they are very close with each other and they don’t argue to much. We play at least 25 games of cards. I do the classic dad move and let each of my children will every game.

        I hear horses. I run out the door and see a carriage from far. George and his wife Martha on on there way. I go to our private dining room and prepare a delightful table from the couple. The table lies the first course meal, one candle wick and drinking menu’s on the side. My wife is welcoming the other customers in the main dining room. I call out Primrose and my two children and we stand at the door waving to the man that could change our taverns image. He walks up our orange stairs and shakes my hand saying “how do you do”? In those few words I was stunned his wooden rotten teeth were disgusting.

A man with much money as George Washington should be able to buy class. I smile and tell him what an honor it is. As they  walks through the door I have all my waiters stand in a line guiding the Washington’s to their table. Hopefully they will enjoy the meal. I do my daily routine and go around to the main dining room saying hi to all the family’s. It’s a full house tonight. I go to the private dining room and see Jonathan one of my waiters. He seemed shocked. I ask “what’s wrong?” he replies. “Nothing it’s that both the Washington’s want Hot Cider out of all drinking choices”. I smile because I had a feeling  I would need extra cider barrels.

“A Look At the Colonial World Through the Eyes of….”

I live on a pirate ship and I work at sea. My name is Captain John Quelch and I have been the captain of the Charles for less than a week. My life is very easy on land, but much harder at sea. I roam the ocean searching for rich ships to plunder. I did not start out captain at the beginning of this voyage, but right when we left port we threw the captain overboard. I have a privateer license, so I can plunder ships legally, but I have to give a share to the government. I’m only allowed to attack French and Spanish ships.

The English and the Portuguese have an alliance, but I plundered nine of their ships, getting almost 10000 euros, as you can see, the Portuguese ships have better loot. I am always armed with a pistol and cutlass.The ships is always cramped and always reeks of unwashed bodies. I have the best cabin because I am captain, but it still is terrible compared to the land. I have gotten all of the loot and I am heading back to Marblehead where I will most likely be put to death for plundering Portuguese ships. Little does the governor know that I have hid some of the loot on Star Island.

I have just seen a very big Spanish merchant ship. It does not seem to have many men or cannons. Me and my crew have just raised a friendly flag. The Spanish ship does not know that we are zeroing in on it to attack them. “Fire!” The gunner screams as we approach the Spanish ship. We raise the black flag and the Spanish ship now realizes what we are doing. They try to escape but we cut them off easily. We start to board their ship. We take as many hostages as we can so I can ransom them off. My crew searches the ship for any valuable cargo. The ship has plenty of food and water and the whole ship yells in excitement as they see the food and drink. The whole crew comes back aboard our ship and we all celebrate with much ale and the fresh water.

“A Look At the Colonial World Through the Eyes of….”

I am woman in the gentry class named Lucy Harrison. I am 16 years of age and I still live with my family. I am soon going to get married to an extremely wealthy man named Robert Baker and will soon move in his house. I will then work as a housewife tending the daily needs of the home. I have lived in Colonial Williamsburg for my whole life with my European parents. We are one of the richest families in our town so my parents are making me marry this stuck up, white man who I haven’t met yet. I hear only bad things from the other women my age but my parents seem to love him. I don’t really get how I am going to have to spend the rest of my life with a man that I have never met, in two weeks! Right now, my mother ( a housewife) is training me to do the daily chores of the house that I will soon move into. I have finished schooling so therefore, I have a lot of time on my hands to train for my new “job” and get ready for the wedding.

I am meeting my fiancé in about a week. Our engagement story isn’t as interesting as I would have liked. We have written back and fourth for a while set up by our parents and he asked me to marry him through one of our letters. He will give me a ring symbolizing his affection when I meet him in person but to be honest, I am a little but nervous. I don’t think I am ready for a commitment like this yet. I mean I am at the right age to marry, but to him? I don’t know if this will be right. I will surely disappoint my parents if I tell them my feelings about the wedding but probably nothing will change. I can’t change their decision for my marriage. No matter what I do.

Right now I am sitting in the front room with my mother, silently embroidering pillows. We do this everyday for hours. This is my time to think. She is a strong yet stubborn woman with a lot of thoughts as well. We can almost hear ourselves thinking. Im just going crazy about my upcoming wedding and I would die to know what she is thinking about right now. She is completely on board for this commitment and hardly cares about what I think.

I barley see my father since he is always working. This makes my mother the person in charge the majority of the time. She just wants me to marry the man because he is rich and she will gain a lot of money and land from him and his family. What could be better? A good future when her only daughter is off and married. It’s very smart of her. I can see the delicate stitches of her needle going in, out, in, out, in, out. I’m afraid that this is going to be my day everyday for the rest of my life. I will be lonely just embroidering and cleaning after my slob of a husband. And the sad part, is when he comes home from work, I will be even more lonely than I was, alone in a room with the man that I am supposed to love practically slaving over his every need. I don’t love him and I’m afraid that I never will.

“A Look At the Colonial World Through the Eyes of….”

I am the Cooper. I make barrels for people all around the community. Some of my barrels go as far as Europe. I am 30 years old and a male. I have a wife and one child, who is a boy. When I was a young kid I lived at home learning all of the difficult tasks that my father had mastered. When I was around 20 I became an apprentice to my father and worked very hard to learn how to master my trade. I am not rich but I am not poor. I work on a side part of my house which makes it easy to go to work and come home. At the moment I don’t have an apprentice, but I have only been the master for 3 years so I don’t plan to stop working. After all I do want my son to continue the family way and become a Cooper just like me. I produce the finest barrels in the whole colonie. People wait and wait just to get their hands on my barrels. Most of the people who own my barrels have 7-10 to contain a large amount of their food and tobacco.

Most of my tools were handed down throughout the family, but a couple like my sawinghorse are new because they can brake very easily. Most days I head over to the woodworker because we share many similarities. Both he and I work with wood and use most of the same tools. My workspace is like my home, maybe it feels like that because it is right next to my house. Where I live is connected to my house on a small side wing that could hold 2-3 people working at one time. As I live my life I only have one fear and that is the fear of my son not learning the trade because I couldn’t teach him. And that I failed my family and the trade that was kept within are household. My workshop is mostly quite because of all the hard work that is going into each barrel. The tools can be very expensive and I feel as if the ones my father gave to me are starting to decrease in their ability to do the small jobs that I ask of them to do. I wish my father could see all the great work I am doing, I always knew that I was his favorite out of the 7 children he had.

The other day I had a big conflict with the woodworker. He was saying that cabinets were more important than barrels. Cabinets can not hold food, drink, and tobacco. But they can hold place setting, small amounts of food, that food goes stale easily, and some toys and games. I tried to show him the more important things like food, drink, and tobacco could go in barrels. And after all these are the most important items for a colonial American. I guess that when a man is so engaged in his trade he has a different outlook on what’s more important. Even though he probably knows how magnificent barrels are. I wonder if he will ever think differently. The wood worker and I have many similarities, the tools we use and the objects that we make. But he just thinks differently.

“A Look At the Colonial World Through the Eyes of….”

I am a criminal. The offender of a treacherous crime. I swear I’ll never do it again though. Just one little mistake, that’s all I made. I was hungry and I didn’t know what to do! My husband spends his nights away at the tavern while me and the children sit at home and starve! We just wait in our tiny house and hope that someone will notice our flat stomachs and help. We’re in the middling class but that doesn’t mean that we don’t struggle sometimes. I miss my children and I miss my small home. I sit in the jail cell and I wonder if the jury will have any mercy.

I’m Allesandra Caller, I come from a wealthy family back in England and they sent me across the sea in hopes of me starting a new life and finding love. I did! I found it and I started one, but then it was all just ruined because of my urge to grab that food off the table. This jail cell, it’s awful! I can hear the cries of other inmates next to me, and the small droplets of water hitting the stone cold floor as they leak from the ceiling. The smell is just horrid. The mix of mold and rust from that leak and the smell of 3 or 4 people in here who haven’t bathed in who knows how long. This place is lonely. I long for my life back as I sit on this cold floor and watch as my dress slowly collects dust. I wonder and worry what my life will become. That is up to the judge and jury of course. I wonder what they think of me. If I am to be executed, will my husband even care? Or will he just find a new wife to ignore? Will he make of effort for our children? Or just get a nanny while he’s at the tavern? I worry not only for what my life holds but for my children’s too. What will happen when I’m gone? What will happen when I’m no longer here to raise them and advise them as they become young adults? Who will help them when it’s time for them to marry and to work and bear children? Who will be there? Not me I’m sure. I’m ashamed of myself and I can’t stand to look in the mirror. To see what I turned into sickens me. To see that a good young girl like myself has turned into a rotten criminal! What was I thinking? There was no way I possibly could have gotten away with it, and a part of me knew that but yet, I still did it.

I look around at the other criminals in here. One old slave woman who was accused of poisoning her masters food after they found him lying dead on the floor. The other, a petty thief who has gone around scamming people to give him money. The last is a peculiar old witch. She was accused after her neighbor was found muttering weird words and having sudden contortions. She’s sure to be hanged. I look at her in her ratted up dress and all the grime under her fingernails and the knots in her hair and I wonder how long she’s been in here. How long has she been kept in this horrid cell. Maybe I should ask her. I know there’s a strict rule of no speaking but I don’t see any guards around. “How long have you been here?” I say just loud enough so she can hear. She turns in her cell and looks me right in the eye.

“Why does it matter to you?” She snaps with a glint of cruelty in her eyes.

“Sorry. Just trying to make conversation,” I reply. I pick up that she’s not in the mood to talk so I shift around a face my back to the bars.

“I didn’t do it,” I hear. I turn back towards the old witch and notice that the glint of cruelty in her eyes has been replaced. Replaced with something that looks like fright. Maybe sorrow. Possibly guilt. “I can’t control what my neighbor says and does. The juries insane if they think I can.”

“You’ve already had your trial?” I ask quietly.

“Isn’t it obvious?” She says as that cruelty creeps back into her expression.

“Then why are you still here?” I ask but I’m not sure I really want to know.

“I’ve been waiting for my execution. It should take place any minute.” She says as tears come into her eyes.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I respond with sorrow. From the corner of my eye I see the jailer walking towards us, keys in hand. He must be here to take her. Quickly I make a shushing movement with my hand and hope that the old witch catches on.

“Silence inmates.” The guard yells making me nearly jump out of my dress. He goes through his keys and sticks one in her cell slot. He grabs her by the arm and leads her out the cell. He mutters something evil to her but I can’t quite make out what he said. The old witch looks at me with tears in her eyes and I decide to give her a smile and blow a kiss with my hand just so she can have a little happiness in the last bit of her life. She returns my smile but is then yanked around the corner and that is that last I see of her. The last I’ll ever see.

I move to wall so I can just rest my head on it. I don’t notice I’m crying until a tear falls onto my hand making me shiver. I think of my trial date and wonder when it will be. To my surprise I see the same jailer walking down the hall but instead of walking to the witched old cell, he stops at mine. “Miss Caller come with me.”

“Ms. Caller,” I correct him.

“No talking,” he snaps. He leads me out the hall and I’m with the cool breeze of autumn. He leads me to the courthouse and I realize that we were on our way to my trial.

We enter the courthouse and I immediately spot my children. Front row. I don’t see my husband though. Oh there he is. Flirting with some young girl. My eyes burn a hole through him with jealousy and he suddenly turns around and flashes me a look of sorrow. It wasn’t sincere sorrow though. It never is. I go and take my seat and doze off as the trial takes place. “I sentence you to a 20 dollar fine. Can you accept and pay this punishment?” I think to myself and cry a little. I can afford that but it means no food for my children for at least 4 or five days. I shake and shudder and finally lift my head to answer.

“No” I whisper quietly.

“Very well then 20 lashes on the back.” The judge announces which shakes the room. I freeze in my chair and suddenly can’t breathe. Then it all goes black.