Katherine James

“Katherine James,” my mother calls from the other side of the hallway. When I hear her call my name I say,”Coming mother, just one second.” Thats me, Katherine James, I am 14 years old. I live with my mother, Aurinda and father, Connor James, who are from England, and my younger sister Eliza. Eliza and I were born in an upperclass family. Our parents put me and eventually Eliza in the Dame School, because that was the only school that upper class girls were allowed to go to. My role in the family is to wake up before the sun comes up to attend school. When I am home I see my mother and Eliza, but I don’t see my dad because his job takes up most of his time. When school is over I have to rush back home and take care of my sister so my mother can go weave and overlook the cooking and cleaning.

My day begins when I hear church bells at 6:30 a.m. That’s when I get out of bed and put on the clothes that my servant Martha has laid out for me. After Martha helps me get dressed, she leads me downstairs to the kitchen where my breakfast is waiting for me. As I enter the room I can smell the familiar scent of cinnamon. I don’t know exactly what it smells like, but it has a unique smell compared to the other spices I’ve had. Every morning Martha pours me a fresh glass of milk, some type of oats and a bowl of fruit. I can see the white glass of milk sitting right above the knife, the bowl of fruit above my fork and my oats in the center of the tan placemat. As I get ready to put my fork into the bowl of fruit I can see green, orange and red fruits mixed up making the colors stand out from one another.  When I am at the table Martha asks me either what I dreamt or what my homework was.

When I am finally done, Martha and I go to the bathroom so I can wash my face with cold fresh water. After I am done in the bathroom I go to the front door where Martha comes and says good-bye. I put on my jacket, shoes and backpack. As I get ready for school I always say, “Martha, make sure that mother knows that I will see her after school to take care of Eliza.” Then Martha says, “Yes Katherine, I will make sure that your mother knows.” As we talk to each other I am half way down the stairs when we both finally say, “Good-bye.” Then I am off to school. Along the way I meet my friends, Jason, Abigail, Mary and Jonathan. As I walk with them to school I see the beautiful sunny fall morning. The leaves are yellow, red and orange and are falling one by one. As I get closer to school I can see more of my friends. As I walk down each street it feels like brisk cool air with a touch of warmth from the sun touching my face. When I am one block from the school I can see the chocolate colored old bricks start to chip off. I can hear children talking among themselves.

My role in being apart of my family is really important to my family because my mother always wanted a girl of her own to keep her company and to take care of while father worked all day being a lawyer. Another reason that I am important to my family is because recently my mother had another child named Eliza who was a big whiner. Mother would stay up really late trying to put her to sleep so finally when I was 12 years old I asked, “Mother, could I take care of Eliza after I get back from school? And then she said, “That would be really helpful sweetie, because I have been in a lot of stress lately.” Since then I have been taking care of baby Eliza, mother has been less stressed out and has been more relaxed.

Needlework Class

“Sarah! Where have you been?” my friend Catherine calls.  I glance into the classroom and in the direction of her voice, and spot her sitting with our other good friend Susan.  I walk into the classroom, past girls doing each other’s hair and whispering.  I take a deep breath and I can still smell the fluffy warm biscuits and eggs that we had for breakfast.  My name is Sarah.  I am 14 years old and I lived in a big wooden house in Jamestown with my mother, father, brother, and sister.  I just started finishing school, a boarding school for upper class English girls like me, in Williamsburg, Virginia.  We learn many skills such as French, Latin, dance, music, and needlework.  It is supposed to “finish” off my education and prepare me to marry  and run an upper class home.  

The school building is impressive, with a separate area for our dormitory.  All of the girls get their own rooms with a bed, dresser, and desk, and we all share the washroom at the end of the hall.  All of the classrooms are on the other side of the building.  There is a music room, dance room, French room, writing room, and many more rooms in the school.  I am still adjusting to this new life, and occasionally I feel homesick.  My sister Jane, who is tutored at home, misses our hours together exploring the woods and watching the many types of birds there.  My brother is at boarding school so that he can be prepared to go to the College of William and Mary here in Williamsburg in a couple of years.  He gets to learn navigation and astronomy, which I love.  I visit my family a few times a year, but I get to see all of my friends, including my best friend Catherine, every day.     

In the classroom, I run my hand over the cold hard surface of the stone walls as I continue to walk over to Catherine.  I pass the wooden desks and chairs.  In the front there’s the fireplace, where a fire has already been started and the smell of burning oak fills the room. The bright orange, yellow, and red flames are dancing, and I can feel the radiating warmth on my body.  There are two windows in the classroom, one facing the front and one the back.  Outside you can see the luscious green grass and colorful black-eyed susans. The floor beneath is hard and uneven.  The room smells clean and fresh.  I reach Catherine and take a seat next to her, ready to show her my design.  The chair sinks with a crinkle, and I can hear faint mumbling from the other students.  The first class of the day is needlework, where we learn how to sew and embroider.  Everyone in the room hears the crack of the door, and we quickly settle down.  

“Good morning class,” Mrs. Smith says.  “Good morning Mrs. Smith,” we reply.  “Everyone get out your needlework square and start practicing the stitches and some designs.  Once you are ready you can start your real project.” There’s a rush of people as everyone pushes their way to the front and gets their needlework square.  I take my seat again and start to thread by needle.  “Your needlework looks so good!” I compliment Catherine.  She smiles, “Thanks, yours is really good too.  I love your pink roses.” “Thank you.  What class do we have next? Fre–” I start to say.  “Excuse me, Miss Sarah, but we do not talk while we work.”  I quickly quiet down and sink lower in my chair, embarrassed at being chastised in front of everyone.  After practicing a few stitches, I decide to start my real project which I am making for my mother.  I embroider beautiful flowers and birds on the fabric because I know these are her favorite things.  I can’t wait to see my mother again in a few weeks because I miss her so much.  I miss my dad, brother, and sister too, and how cozy our house is.  I think about how much finishing school has changed my life, because it has helped me to be more independent.  However, there are many things here that remind me of home: the warm, cackling fireplaces everywhere, the wonderful smells of delicious food, and my friends that have become as close as family.

My role is important to the community because I am always willing to be helpful and kind.  My family has many hopes and dreams for me.  They hope that I will succeed in finishing school and marry a wealthy gentleman.  I try to be a good friend to all of the girls at finishing school.  I have decided that after  finishing school I want to help make education better for girls.  I want to make girls’ learning experience be just as strong as boys and for girls to learn the same skills as boys.  I want to change this for girls because to make the colonies better, it’s good to have women who are highly educated.  I would also like a better learning experience so that I can get as many opportunities as my brother will.  Girls should be able to go to college and become ministers or lawyers if they want.  I hope that one day in the future I will be able to make a real difference in girls’ education.

Violet and the Blueberry Glaze

I had just woken up; the window was cracked and the air was brisk. The sun had not yet risen, as it was just the beginning of dawn. I crawled out of bed, still exhausted, but I had to meet Mother in the kitchen. I walked over to the rough dresser, to the mirror that was old and tinted a frail black. I dumped my hands into the washing bowl, dousing my face in a layer of cool water. I saw the gardeners in the distance through my shaded window, gently picking the vegetables, and starting their long day of work. I grabbed the towel next to the washing bowl and patted it against my face. I lifted my chin and headed towards the kitchen. I worked as the cook’s apprentice in the governor’s house. The governor is prepared the best food, and had many maids and butlers. The stairs were aged and noisy. Every step that I took made a raucous noise, and I finally stepped into the kitchen. There was my mother, already hard at work, grinding the corn for the late breakfast. “Morning mum!” I called out to her. With her thin hands she approached me with a hug and kiss on the cheek. “Morning.” She replied with a smile. The kitchen was dark this early in the morning. A couple of candles were lit around the perimeter of the kitchen. Quite eerie, I thought. All of the pots and pans were cleaned the night before and stacked neatly on a pair of shelves. Beside them was the fire oven; it would be on all day, used to bake goods. It smelt of vinegar, for we had just started pickling yesterday for the long winter. By the time I had started the daily fire in the center of the kitchen, the sun had already started to peek out through the window, and was glistening against the blue of the sky, I knew it would be a beautiful day.

. . .

The governor and his family had just finished breakfast. According to where the sun was placed in the sky, I calculated that it was approximately noon, and it was time to start dinner. My mum and I had just dealt with the vast menu for the governor’s dinner. A wide variety of meats, all cooked to perfection for him and his guests. Mum had just taught me how to bake pastries, cakes, pies and sweets.

I started a blueberry tart for dinner. I had made dough the day before that my mother had made me memorize until I could recite it with no flaw. Rolling the dough out, I realized how soft and flakey it was to the touch, it was perfect. I place it with caution into the ceramic pan, pressing delicately until it had fully reached all sides of the ceramic. I placed it aside and began a blueberry compote. In an iron pot I threw together blueberries, lemon juice and lemon zest. I lit the stovetop till the flame grew into a fiery red. I stirred it until it was a thin purple sauce. I measured two cups of sugar and dumped it into the pot and began to mix again. I mixed until it was rich and thick, and its color was a deep violet. I took a spoonful of it and delicately placed it onto my tongue, making sure that no one was watching. It was brilliant really; it was sweet but had a tang at the end of its taste.

I poured it into the dough, smoothing it out until the compote was even against the bare pan. I put oven cloths over my hands and lay the tart inside the brick oven. The heat coming from the oven was radiant against the cool breeze. The aroma of fresh blueberries soon filled the air to the brim of my nose. I could smell fresh baking crust and tart lemon zest, and I could hear the blueberries simmering and the crust cracking. It was quite inviting to just open the oven and eat the tart myself; alas I could not, for it was for the governor and his guests.

The grass was cold and wet as I ran as fast as I could across the field to the gathering. I was racing my sister, Safi. We are always trying to see who can do things better. Like who can plant or work the fastest. My name is Aisha. I am fifteen years old and I live with all the other slaves and my sister on a cotton plantation. Everyday I see all the other slaves, my sister, the master and his family. My sister and I were sold away from our family, a mother, father and younger brother, to this plantation. The only good part of our condition is that all the other Africans took us in like family, and the Saturday night gatherings.

Everyday I work in the fields with the other slaves harvesting the cotton. After work I go right to sleep because it is late at night and I have to get up early at 5:30 in the morning each day. In the morning I listen to the morning birds chirping to each other. The birds all always there in the morning. I always loved the smell in the morning. It is a combination of morning dew and the sweet cold frigid air against my neck. Then at night it is cold and dark, almost mysterious in a way. The freezing air and grass tickles my toes as I run with Safi or walk by myself. Everyday is the same, get up, sometimes eat, work, sometimes eat, and then sleep. All days except for Saturday. On Saturday nights is when the slaves are allowed to come together and eat, sing, dance, play and socialize. I love the Saturday night gatherings, the elderly Africans tell about stories from Africa and tell us the way life used to be for us blacks. The younger children will play and the older children will dance and sing. I am usually dancing away to the beats of the African drums. Sometimes, though, when I am taking a break and eating I love to watch us all, dancing, singing and telling stories as if we were back at our home.

          Since everyday I work in the fields, I am a somewhat important person in the community. At least all the other Africans and I think so, I would imagine that master has no idea who I am. We are all a family around here and everyone knows every one else. Life without me would me hardest on Safi. Since we were sold together, me not being here would make Safi by herself. I feel that she is so young, even though she is very healthy and energetic. Without me there would be one less person in the fields, one less person to do the back breaking work to help the man who owns the place make lots of money. I like to think about it like that so as to make me feel better, I tell Safi to do the same. Living here is hard and there have been many times where I wanted to stop altogether, wishing I could just get up and move somewhere else. Far, far away from here, somewhere where I could be with my family once again.

The Day the Handle Turned

I rush into the print shop and Jim, the pressman who trains me, laughs,”Late? Again? Come on Peter!” I smile, and watch as he inks up the form in the press. The ink is sticking, and making suction noises. “I’m sorry.” I say, downcast that for some reason, I am always late. The slaves working in the shop look at me with disgust at the fact that I can get away with being late, when they can be severely punished if they come in late to work. I pity them, because they have to live such a hard life, but the master printer told me that in the Bible, it says that Africans are supposed to be slaves, and live their lives working, so I guess it was just meant to be. I go back to watching Jim, and become mesmerized with the way he works the press, so elegantly, with such ease, such beauty. I hope someday I will be able to print like Jim does.

My name is Peter, Peter Gray. I am thirteen, and have been working as an apprentice in the print shop for a while now. I hope I will be able to become a real pressman soon, since I am almost finished with my training. I used to live with my mother, father, two brothers, one older, one younger, and a younger sister. My older brother, John took on the job of learning how to run the farm, so when papa died, he would be able to keep on farming. My sister, Clara was taught by mother, and hopes she will be married off to a decent husband. I wonder if she has gotten married yet. My younger brother James wants to be a king, but of course that is impossible because of our class. When I still lived on the farm, I used to play nobles with him, seeing as he was only four, and we had a grand time. I wonder if he still has his dream of becoming a king now.

Lastly, there was me. My parents loved reading the paper, and hoped one of their kids would go into the business of printing. They were so encouraged that they taught all of their kids how to read and write, and so I learned at a young age. My parents’ dream came true when I was accepted as an apprentice of a pressman, and I left home at the age of nine. I now train as an apprentice, and live in a room and board house with seven other boys. We all share one room, so it can get very stuffy, crowded, and smelly. We are all apprentices in the upper lower class, and are all Christian. I also tend to see the printer’s kids a lot (the printer is the owner of the print shop), since they are always sticking their noses into the shop whenever we are working, and I have become good friends with all of them. My best friend though is Paul, who lives in a room and board a little while away from mine, and is a bookbinder’s apprentice.

The bookbinding shop is right across from the print shop so Paul and I have naturally become great friends. We tell each other everything, and one time, when we were taking a walk during our lunch break, I told him that I had feelings for Samantha. Samantha is a girl my age who is one of the printers daughters. Paul teased me about it for a little while, and then let it go. I sadly think about the reality though, Samantha is of a higher class than me, so we can never be together. Also, she will be probably be married by the time I finish my apprenticeship anyway, so it’s a lost dream.

Going back to work, I am in the small, quite stuffy room of the print shop which seems to be particularly hot in the midst of this summer day. Jim, as you might remember, he’s my trainer-starts to fill the ink ball up with fresh ink, and he smiles, saying, “Today is a big day for you, my boy.” I love his smile, the way it fills up his whole face, radiating enough love to fill the whole world. He has become so close to me that he is almost like my new father. I wouldn’t dare say he is better than papa, but they are equals, seeing as I feel like I have known Jim all my life. I smell the sweat of all the people hard at work in the tiny shop, and know I should start helping, even though it is a big day. I delicately take hold of a sheet of a freshly printed paper, and feel the faint dampness of it as I slip it off the pile that has been started on the old oak table. I gasp, and practically drop the golden paper when Jim touches my wrist, and stops me from taking the newspaper over to the drying lines, hanging crisscrossed across the old faded wood ceiling.

Jim gently places my hand down on the table, and lets the paper I was dealing with slip back on top of the pile, saying, “Peter, it’s time.” I nod my head, understanding that this was my big moment, my only chance to get it right, and Jim understood that this had to be something that only the two of us experienced together. Jim told the slaves working in the print shop to take a break outside for a few minuets, and we waited as they shuffled out of the building leaving Jim and I standing in silence, hand in hand. “Look around my boy, what do you see?” Jim said full heartedly. “Take into account everything, and cherish it greatly, because you will be looking back at this moment for the rest of your life.”

I looked around the small room, and saw the type case where the compositors had been busy doing their work, the case now strewn carelessly with papers and writing that had been sent in to be printed. I then let my gaze drift to the old ceiling, the rope strung across twisting and fraying off at the ends. I looked at the printing press with its wood carved with such skill, and elegance, the metal fitting it perfectly. It really was a work of art. I felt the slightest cool breeze drift in through the open door and Jim said,”Ready?” “Ready,” I replied. I walked over to the printing press, and picked up the rough wood, leather, nail, and sheep wool ink ball, dabbing it in the deep black ink, and listening as it made sticking noises as I inked up the form. I then walked over to the handle of the press in a trance like walk, and placed my hands on the cool metal handle. I heard the familiar clacking, and creaking noises of the press in my head, and knew I was ready. I pulled back, and the press was in full swing…

I had printed a perfect paper. Perfect, I gasped to myself. Jim was so proud, and I was too. By printing that first paper of mine, I realized how important my job really was in the community, and wondered what printing would become. Without pressmen, people wouldn’t be informed about the world around them, about the homeland, England. Without pressmen, the colonies might not have existed, and with that, I wonder, what would life be like without the magnificent, wonderful, beautiful, and elegant printing press.

A Slave’s Life

Working in the fields is tough. The smell of tobacco fills the air as I farmed the tobacco. My name is Jackson Peters and I am 16.  I am an African slave and lives with my mother, my father, and my sister. Everyday I work in the plantation fields, from dusk to dawn. I see the same people everyday, and work with the same people everyday but its fine. I would rather see the same people everyday than to be missing a person. I work side by side by best friend, Will. He lives next door from our little cabin. Our cabin was made of wood, and that’s about it. Wood wood wood. Everything wood. Where the windows would be are shutters that close with a block of wood. The silverware, plates, cups everything was made of wood. I take a path to the plantation fields that leads through the forest. The spiraling trees border the path. Not many people take the path since it is so creepy. I probably could try to run away but those dogs would find me in a flash. The walk to the plantation was nice, I got to be alone. The cool breeze runs against skin and ruffles my clothes. I turn the corner and see the master. I duck behind a tree and wait for a minute until he leaves. I don’t want to have any business with him.

As I approach the field, I see my friend Will hard at work hoeing at tobacco.

“Hello,” I say. “Are you feeling any better?”

“No,” he says. “My side still hurts from yesterday.”

Yesterday, after our work time, Will saw an apple on the ground. He picked it up and smelled it to see if it was fresh. The sweet smell of the apple filled his nose. We only have a limited amount of food, so when someone sees free food, they have to take it. When someone sees a good apple on the floor you take it, right? So that’s what Will did except he has the worst luck ever. As he took his first bite of the apple, the slave master saw him eating the apple. He took him by the arm and beat him to near death. Me and Will laugh about it now saying how stupid he was. It really isn’t a funny topic but laughing does help shake it off. As I hoe the tobacco,  I feel a pain in my back. I am used to this pain since I feel it everyday. It is a pain that comes from bending down for fourteen hours, hoeing the tobacco. From the look on Will’s face, I can see he is feeling the same pain. Either that or his side still hurts. Maybe both.  The smell of the tobacco leaf soothes the pain. Many people thinks that tobacco stinks but in fact, it only stinks when it is brewing dried. The smell of the tobacco leaf is quite sweet which helps lighten the mood a bit. Everyone in the fields start singing a song to control the tempo of the hoeing. The faster the singing the faster we hoe, the slower the singing the slower we hoe. If the master comes we sing faster so he thinks we’re working really fast but when he leaves we go back singing slower back to our normal pace.

As I am hoeing the tobacco, I realized that Africans in the colonies leads the economy. We have to hoe tobacco which is their main profit. Even though we weren’t originally from here we still do most of the work for the Americans. I wish I was back home with my family, enjoying ourselves. Maybe if the Americans didn’t enslave us, and we found ourselves here, it wouldn’t be half bad.

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.