Traitor, by Jean Fritz, is a book about Benedict Arnold, who is known for committing treason against America and joining the British during the American Revolution. For this assignment I had to write a diary as if I were Peggy Shippen Arnold, Benedict’s second wife. To challenge myself, I decided to try and write in 18th century language as best as I could. (A book that helped me achieve this is A Gathering of Days, by Joan W. Blos. A Gathering of Days is a diary of an 1830’s New Hampshire girl written in the style of that time.)

September 4^th, 1780:

I can not stand this. The children and I are packaged into these little apartments with even fewer furnishings. There is scarcely enough space to sufficiently room my chests of gowns. So tight are my accommodations that I have stacked my chests one upon another in order to keep a clear path from my bed to the door. Oh! And the state of the foyer carpet is quite atrocious. This fatigues me a great deal since it is the very first thing upon which people look. And not only is the house diminutive, but the food that we feed on daily is scarce. Sugar only twice a week! No fruit cakes, no preserves, not even a lump in tea can we afford! Why my American army general husband is paid so little is indeed beyond me!

But soon is the time when he shall not be an American general but at British one. If I have deciphered his text in his latest letter, the plans are going smoothly. It will be wonderful to be a British wife! The extent of the finery and splendor is quite more bountiful on the Loyalist side. I dare say if only this war were fought on class and nobility, rather than skilled men at arms, the glorious red coats would be clearly the champions. It was very fortunate for Benedict that I had previous encounters with a certain British officer and that I have kept up connections with this so named Brit.

September 6^th, 1780:

Alas! Today we had to auction off one of our dear slaves, Jayne. Most of her chores have been added to our other two slaves’ work, but the following, our slaves having no more time to do any additional work, has been assigned to the children, and to myself: opening our door to invite guests out of the cold, starting the fire in the morning, and washing and scrubbing the dishes and floors. What a disgrace it will be to go on one’s hands and knees to clean the area where people’s feet have been! This such task I shale bestow upon the children. What we shall do without such help as Jayne provided, I know not, but our funds have come in so scarcely that the £40 from her sale are worth more than poor Jayne’s work. Conjointly, I was in need of a new muff to protect my hands from bitter winds, winter coming and all. And all the children are in desperate need of winter attire.

September 11^th, 1780:

I have been so busy with Jayne gone and all! The children skater when work is to be done, and I have little time to do such things as daily necessities. I feel great remorse as the loss of Jayne, the £40 gone this Tuesday past. Her work would have served us more than the petty sum of £40.

I have heard nothing concerning my husband in his transfer, but soon news shall come.

September 18^th, 1780:

Today I have been much disgraced! This is how it all happened:

I ran into my neighbor, Mrs. Benneth, who lives three miles up the road and who is a lady quite lower in rank and stature than I. Only on rare occasions do I take the liberty of speaking with her since it would be unseemly for a general’s , even a American general’s, wife to interact with a miller’s. However, she did stop me and showed a desire to speak to me. I, putting on as happy a countenance as I could manage, spoke to her most cordially. Whereupon, so quickly I barely knew what had happened, she invited me over to her house for supper that very day! So shocked was I that I did not protest, and found myself inclined to supper at the Benneth’s.

I hurried home to tell the children so that we might get ready and arrive at the Benneth’s on time and appear the high society we are. I went to the stables that held our horse and buggy to make sure that they would be ready. Here I heard most unhappy news from Mark, our male slave. Apparently our buggy’s wheel is broken and has been for three weeks past. Why I was not informed of this I can not say. I was much saddened by the loss of the wheel, but I saw my way out of an invitation to the Benneth’s supper. I told Mark to take our horse and hurry up the road to the Benneth’s to tell them that our buggy had been damaged and that we would be unable to accept their invitation on this present day.

When I saw that Mark was well on his way I made my way to my chamber to see what bonnet I would wear to Sunday’s service. Just after I had selected the perfect one to go along with my ivory silk dress, what did I hear at the door, but a knock. I hurried down to the door and who would be there, but Mr. Benneth with his own carriage. Mark, hereby, stepped forward and said, “I told ’em what you said Miss, but they here just reply, ‘We’ll just drive our carriage here down to ’em’s house and pick ’em up.’” I was not prepared for such a tragic turn of events. Not only would I have to endure a meal with the Benneths, but I would also have to ride in their wooden carriage, with no cushions. Wanting to seem grateful for their pains, I thanked Mr. Benneth warmly, and briskly gathered up the children. We climbed into their carriage, and made our way up to their house. Not used to the hard wood of the carriage seats, I became sore quite quickly.

On arrival, I realized that their dwellings were far more substantial than I had first thought. They were nothing to mine, of course. When we went inside the house, we were greeted by a presentation of the whole family, their five servants, and their two hunting dogs. When we sat at their table we were presented with appetizers and entrees. We were given a choice of our drink, and when I chose mine, I was asked “One or two lumps”. After the supper, and the ride home, I laid myself upon my bed to reflect the night and write all this down.

And now my conclusion is thus: the Benneths wanted to find favor with a high society person like myself, and thereby invited us over so that we would return the favor and invite them over to our home to show them the proper way to do things, such as eating. Not wanting to embarrass themselves, they spent half of their little hard earned money on a presentable meal. This thought pleases me, and I will not invite the Benneths over, just so they will not feel awkward in the presence of such a delicate and dainty dinner service which they would receive.

It has been almost a month, and still there is no news from Benedict. Oh, how I hope he is well and that his plans are going well. I don’t know how much longer I can survive on his present income.

September 19^th, 1780:

Today is little Edward Shippen Arnold’s half birthday. He was brought into this world six month ago. I long to hear from his father, but no news was sent today.

September 30^th, 1780:

News from Benedict at last came on the 20th, but it was not good:

I was greeted by several American persons this afternoon at my house. Slowly they broke the news to me. Benedict had betrayed the country and was working for the British. The words wrung in my ear, not because they themselves were a surprise but because I was not expecting to hear them from these persons. Then they went on to tell me he had been captured! Benedict? Captured? Impossible! He was braver and smarter than all of the Americans together! They said that they had found letters in Benedict’s hand encrypted, deciphered and sealed as well as replies to those letters. That was when I knew the full purpose of their visit. It was not to inform me of my husband’s betrayal but to seek out and find his accomplice. I knew whose hand the replies were written in. My own. I knew I had to act fast if I was going to avoid being hanged for treason. So I went mad. I screamed. I thrashed about. I laughed. I cried. I did anything a crazy person would do in order to save myself. For one brief moment I was ashamed of myself. Me, a graceful aristocrat, acting no better than a wild dog chasing its tail. I was denying my husband. After that short moment I was ashamed no more. I had two of four quarters of my life to live, and I would not let those years pass me by. Benedict was three fourths done with his years. I had a right to live my full days.

Ladies from the town and surrounding area stayed with me for many days to counsel me and comfort me; no one saw through my charade. I would refuse to eat, wander the house at night, and burst into uncontrollable fits to ensure my innocence. Mrs. Benneth took all the children in to shield them from my outbursts.

It has been nine days since I received the news. My children have returned home, and I am no longer tended to.

My dreams of being a rich British officer’s wife are over. I must live even more simply now. I mostly sit and watch the movement of passersby while sipping on a cup of tea with no lumps.

After I read the book Indian Captive by Lois Lenski, I had to write a paper on Mary’s (the main character of the book) evolving relationship with the Indians. This year in writing I am learning how to write more of an academic style of writing, so this essay will be very different from the previous ones on my blog.

Mary Jemison, in Indian Captive, is a 12-year-old girl of 1758 Pennsylvania, but her life is turned upside down when her farm is attacked by a band of Indians and Mary and her family are taken captive. Soon Mary is separated from her family and adopted into the Seneca tribe and given the new name of Corn Tassel because of her golden hair. At first, Mary is full of fear and hatred for the Indians, but as she learns and understands more things the Indian way, Mary starts to love the Indians.

When Mary first arrives in the Seneca village, she is understandably afraid. All the frightening stories she has heard about Indians come back to her. “ Indians – She trembled to think she was alone and helpless in their hands” (61). She is certain that she will never be happy, or even content with the Indians. “She could never live with the Indians. Everything there was so hateful” (81). All she can think about is home and how foreign everything is around her. The clothes, food, and even the longhouses of the Seneca village make her feel more alone and discouraged. “The whole scene [of the Seneca village] had a bleak and cheerless aspect and Molly’s [Mary’s] heart grew faint” (62). The difference in her language and theirs is also a hard barrier for Mary to break. “How could she talk when she knew not a word of their language? How could she live in a place where everything was strange?” (72)

As time goes on, Mary becomes accustomed to the Indian ways and painfully learns their language. “…Her ears had been growing accustomed to the strange sounds and now, suddenly, she could understand. How strange it was – a new world opening” (102). She gets used to the tasteless food and rough deerskin clothes: “When I first came to live with the Indians, I hated the sight of deerskin – even the touch of it. But I’m used to it now. It’s more practical than cloth, specially in the woods” (215). She even takes pride in making her first cooking pot and first pair of moccasins. The more she understands, the more she enjoys the calm peaceful Indian way of life.

Before she knows it, Mary starts to think of the Indians as friends and trusts them unconditionally. “I believe every word they say…[Mary said] I never knew what kindness was until I came here”(206). “Was there ever a time when she had distrusted these her dear friends? If there had ever been such a time, from this day on, it was wiped out and forever gone” (276). She even starts to see things differently, and little by little she begins “…to think like an Indian, to see white people from the Indian point of view. Molly [Mary] Jemison was turning into an Indian” (124).

To conclude, the slow progression of Mary’s relationship with the Indians throughout the book is obvious, and the love that she has for them is reciprocated. At the very end of the book, Mary is given the chance to return to the English. Mary chooses to stay saying, “The Senecas are my people. I will live and die with the Senecas” (296).

For school I had to write a descriptive paper of my favorite spot.

In my favorite spot I can go anywhere. Sometimes I go walking in Central Park and look at all the vendors and musicians. One of the vendors has a great big popcorn maker. I love watching each little corn seed as it heats up, breaks open its sides and flies out of the bowl onto the bottom of the machine to be scooped up and put into a bag and then sold and eaten. One other vend0r sells burgers, but not just any burgers. His burgers look almost like him. They are the fattest, juiciest, tastiest burgers that can be found on planet earth. The musicians there play wonderful songs: the big bands play ‘Sing, Sing, Sing’, and Frank Sinatra. The Rap singers and their drummers make up beats on the spot. The soloists sing and play their guitars hoping to strike it rich one day. The orchestras plays. The opera singers sing along. And the whole place is full of magic.

Sometimes I take canoe rides down the Amazon. The river is turning now. Along each side of the river there are bananas and other fruit that hang so far over the river it looks as if the fruit is swallowing the river. I hold on the rough edge of the canoe for dear life as I come to a rapid. I miss a rock, I paddle fast, and I miss another. Then I hear the horrible sound of the canoe snapping in half as I am flung out of my comfort zone and into the white, churning waves. The water roars with laughter as I claw at a rock. The current is fast, and the rock is slippery. I grasp the rock tightly. My nails slide down it leaving a trail of grime and blood. I scream – at least I think I scream. Then I go under. I am swirling in the water, helpless. I lash about trying to find the surface. My entire left side hits a rock. My head is jerked backwards. I can’t move my arm. It is stuck; I can’t feel it! Then I can’t feel anything.

Other times I ride on the beach. My horse is white with a long mane and tail. She is spotless. We gallop on the soft sand with the waves splashing against us. The sun is setting. It casts golden light on us both. Then when my horse gets tired, I slide off her and collect shells. Some of them have wings on the back, some are brown with ridges, and some are twisted into a point. After I have filled my leather saddle bag with shells, my horse and I walk to a willow tree. Its leaves almost touch the ground. I part the leaves of the tree as my horse and I walk though. Under the tree is a patch of grass and flowers. I pick flowers and weave them into my horse’s mane and tail. After her hair is a flowered canopy, I lay my head on her belly and fall asleep just as the sun falls over the horizon.

In my favorite spot I can be whoever I want to be. Sometimes I am a photographer climbing hundreds of miles of rock just to get the perfect photo of the Alps. As I climb, I lose my footing and fall. But the rope that I had tied to a ledge three feet down saves me. I can’t catch my breath yet, though. I am still hanging by a half inch thick red and blue rope. I put both my hands back on the rope intending to pull my self back up, but then I stop and let go. I look back down. There is the perfect shot. Right there. I carefully pull my 5D SLR camera out of my backpack. I put its strap around my head. I focus on the closest peak. I try to take the picture. My hands are shaking; anything I take now will be blurry. I force myself to take a deep breath. I take a picture. Then another. I fill my camera’s memory card before I take the strap off of my head and put it away into my backpack. Then I climb down.

I can be a billionaire at the mall. I walk in Anthropologie in my six inch gray skinny heels. At the click of my heels everyone in the store stops to stare at me. Nervously a sales lady walks up to me and says, “Is there anything I can help you with?”

“No, thank you. I am just browsing today,” I reply.

The sales lady cowers and mumbles something to the effect of, “Take your time. Don’t let us bother you.”

I have no intention of letting anyone bother me. I straighten the long light pink pearl necklace I am wearing with my cream flowing knee length dress and knee high gray heels. I go straight past the clearance section. I start at dresses and work my way through pants, shirts, shoes, and accessories. Then I go to the dressing room. I try on a yellow party shirt. “No,” I say to myself, “not the right cut.”

I try on a dark green and light blue flowered pants. “Ah. Yes. That is good,” I say. I try on more and more until I am ready to check out with five carts full of color and texture. I feel good, so I pay for it all with cash. Then, feeling guilty, I donate three times that amount to charity.

Other times I am merely me, happy as can be in my favorite spot: sitting in an old creaky chair in the basement at the computer, writing away. I love this spot where I can draw my readers in and make them feel any emotion that I want them to feel. I can make them happy or angry. I can make them love someone and hate another. I can make them scared and nervous. Truly “the pen is mightier than the sword.” – Edward Bulwer-Lytton.

For this school assignment I had to write a 2 page paper telling the story of a French Huguenot Christian during their persecution in the late 1600s.

February 2, 1698

Yesterday they came. The yellow coats. With their horses and rifles. Streaming through our town like the spring rain. I knew this day would come. I have known it would for some time, but somehow I didn’t think it would come. Not today, not any day. I feel as if I am in a dream – a nightmare – never to wake up, never to go to sleep. It has been nothing but running. Running, climbing, wading, hiding, running. I am not tired. Nor am I hungry. It is like the devil himself is chasing me for eternity, never to rest. And where can I go? Who will help me? Is there nothing left?

February 3, 1698

We have found shelter in the woods, for a time at least. I have enough time to write the sorrows of yesterday.

*****

In my small town, tucked away in the corner of France, I sat stitching away at my soon-to-be new dress. I was humming a song with the birds. And, oh! What a merry little song it was! I was tempted to put down my sewing, fly downstairs,out the front door, and whirl around under the oak tree until I fell  in exhaustion. But, no. I had to finish the dress. No, no, I wanted to finish the dress. I would look wonderful in it at church. That is when it happened. The noise. The shaking. I looked up amazed at what I saw. The king’s men, the yellow coats, in our town. In my town. They went straight to the priest’s house, stopped and came out again in a few moments shoving the  priest out with them. I held my breath as I opened my window a crack. By this time many men and boys had gathered out on the streets. The priest  was pushed to the town square.  And then the captain shouted, “ Will you take the vow to become a Catholic and leave behind your Huguenot ways?”

The answer from the minister was loud and proud, “NO.” There was an unbearable silence. It seemed as if all held their breath for what was to come. The captain straightened his rifle on his shoulder, and then turned to the crowd which had grown quite big by now.

“Does this minister speak for all of you? Is there any reason within you?” I could tell that no man would be the first to speak. No man would lose his honor giving in to such. “Very well then. You have chosen your fate!” Every thing after that happened so fast. All I know is that I ran. Fast. I ran down the stairs, into the kitchen, grabbed some food and the spare money. Then I was joined by maman carrying my baby brother. I heard gun fire. I smelled smoke. Was that screaming? Where was my father? I was out the back door. I saw maman trying to say something to me, but her words were lost in the noise. She handed me a basket as we ran, ran, ran. I saw my neighbors running with us.

*****

Well, I am here now, with maman, my brother, and many others. But I will never forget that image: the minister falling, falling, never to stand up again.

February 5, 1698

Maman, my brother, and I have made it to a harbor where we persuaded a captain to take us to America. It took almost everything we had to get the fare, and still we have to work for our keep on the ship. We set sail this morning. I wish I was able to look at France once more, but Captain Louis said we would have to hide in storage barrels until we were in open water. “ Believe me,” he said, “ you’ll be much safer down there.” Then he laughed. An evil laugh. I pray to God that he will keep his word and not betray us.

It felt like hours when finally the first mate came down and helped us out of our hiding spot. Captain Louis said that the king’s men had boarded and he had to bribe them not to search the cargo hold. He said, “ I am sorry for the inconvenience, but further payment must be made. Perhaps the young lady’s diary? Yes! Isn’t that gold binding? That would be perfect!” He smiled a fake smile. So here I am writing my last entry in my new diary.

Maman is calling. I must return to my chores. And let go of my old life.