A Day in the Life of a Colonial Gunsmith

My name is John Greene. I am a 20-year old gunsmith of the midling class, living in the English colony of Jamestown. I was born here after my father’s arrival from England. I live in a small 2 level house with my father. Unfortunately, weeks before my apprenticeship began, my mother passed away with a case of malaria. Soon after, my brother Walter Greene, was drafted into the army. I miss my brother and fear for his life. There has been much sickness within the military. Almost ninety percent of deaths in the military are due to illness. All I can do is pray he comes back healthy, in one piece.

With his absence, I was forced to begin my training and provide for my family. After 6 long years, I finally was able to follow the craft of my father. My father and I own a workshop in town. At this time of war, the repair of our frontline firearms, are in high demand. Every day I am busied with damaged muskets from the military and the militias. We work everyday, all day. Our hammers can be heard banging out metal late into the night. Our only breaks are for sleep and church. We attend church despite the amount of work, we cant afford to be fined. My workshop is littered with gunpowder and broken parts of guns. Every few months we receive new shipments of standardized firearm parts, from England. These are applied to the miltary muskets.

           When there is peace and times are slow, men of the gentry class often bring in their personal fire arms for specialized engraving and designing. When I have free time I craft beautiful, and carefully engraved muskets. These are not for military use of course, but I put them in my shop to create a delightful display. Also in peacetime, I apply my crafting skills elsewhere. Just the other day I built a chair to furnish my father’s home. But as of lately, peace is very rare. This is why I must keep providing for the military and the militias. I owe it to my friends, family, and fellow citizens to provide the tools it takes to keep our homes protected.

           Today is an average day in my gunsmith shop. I look out my window and see the sun rising. The local militia is running drills for the new soldiers. Ever since those barbaric natives massacred our people, there has been an increase in protection forces. I push that dreaded memory to the back of my mind. We all lost friends that day. I exhale deeply and sit down by the fire. I can hear the taps of a light rain on my ceiling. It is in the early hours of the day and business is slow. I sit by the large fireplace and browse my collection of persimmon woods. The calm, rhythmic crackle of the fire helps me focus on the tasks at hand. I hear the door swing open and I instinctively turn around. My father comes in cradling five damaged military muskets.

My uneventful morning has suddenly become very busy. “Straight from the war front,” my father says, looking at the muskets. I examine the damaged muskets and search for their problems. “Three damaged flintlocks, and two bent barrels,” I say to my father who has already started working. I quickly unscrew the damaged flintlocks and replace them with new ones. This is a quick process because the parts of military firearms were standardized. I hand the three muskets back to my father. I glance at the remaining broken muskets and grab my hammer. There is a large dent in the barrel of both muskets. I hammer out each dent in both muskets by sundown. I take all five repaired muskets and step outside my shop. I walk down the street to the magazine. I greet the soldiers at the entrance and they let me in, as they know my face from the many repairs I have completed for their firearms. I walk up the spiral staircase and I step onto the second floor. Muskets, swords, armor, and pistols all line the walls. I find an empty spot on the wall and place the repaired muskets. I take a second to think about the service I am doing for our safety, and how I am indirectly helping my brother. I then go home and crawl into my bed, leaving my father to complete the rest of the work. I have had a long enough day.