Based on the film ‘The Partriot’, of the American Revolutionary War. My re-write is a diary form of Margaret Martin’s perspective, a young girl whose father is a Colonel and in charge of a militia unit.
3rd March 1776
Dear Diary,
I am so glad father has bought me this for my birthday, now I can write down memories just like mother did before she died. Although mother’s diary was very intricate and elegant, with a smooth charcoal leather, binding every single leaf of paper together. Whereas my diary seems like a lifeless item, which may or may not live inside my top drawer where dust will drown it.
I can never get use to the idea of diary writing and the purpose it may hold, although writing down what has happened during my day, or even writing down my deepest thoughts and dreams of what I wish to be when I grow older, seems like an obvious purpose to me. Father says a woman’s place in this world is entirely up to her, but my brothers think different. Thomas says women belong in the kitchen, cooking, cleaning and attending to her husband and children’s needs. He also says that were only in this world because were breeding machines. I swear this is not true and I wish to prove him wrong, maybe at dinner tonight when father comes back from Charleston town, voting for the levy to support the Continental Army. Gabriel has also been trying to prove to father that he is old enough to join the army and that he is ready for battle and die our country, but I know that father does not want to join as he does not want to lose another member of our family. Father does not talk much about his time he served during the French and Indian Wars, but from stories I have heard, father was a great and heroic veteran. I feel that he hides this character which is known by all, as he buries it with the memories in a war trunk upstairs. Sometimes when father is out running errands Trevor, Bryan and I go upstairs and play with some of father’s things. He has a tomahawk that is beautifully detailed with engravings on the blade and I think it is made of pure steel as it is very heavy, knowing that lives have been killed with fathers tomahawk endures the weapon with burdens of its own. Sometimes I wish mother were still alive for Susan’s sake, as she does not remember anything about her. But I do, and I love sharing my stories of mother with Susan, even though some memories may have been dreams of mine or parts of memories that I can remember, either or, my stories of mother never hinder my love for her. I envy Maria Robertson’s family very much, her mother Sara reminds me of mother so much. Her singing and mouth watering aroma of freshly made bread stir up memories of mother singing in the house and her music echoing into the fields where the black workers would sing a long while mother would play on the piano. Some mornings I wake up to hear the workers outside singing, I can hear the crackle of fresh bread, I run downstairs with my heart pounding thinking mother has already set breakfast, only to find Abigale and Susan in the kitchen kneading dough. My tears run down as I write about mother.... I know she would not want me to cry, but I cannot help how I feel....I miss her...
Love
Margaret.
10th March 1776
Dear Diary,
It has been almost a week since I have written in my diary, for I have been through so much in such a small time of one week. I saw my brother die, I saw my house burn into ashes...I saw my father turn into a man who I have never met....and now...we are staying with mother’s sister, Aunt Charlotte. Why is this happening to my family? What have we done to deserve this? I feel that father is to blame for being involved with the Continental Army as he was a coward not to vote. But father did not want to leave us and join the army, as he may never return from battle.
How has the Deceleration of Independence freed colonies, when there is still war and innocent people dying because of this? We had British troops tear through our farm, where we helped wounded soldiers of the opposing side and in return of our small act of kindness Colonel Tavington orders his soldiers to set a light on our home. A man of God, how does he not feel any remorse for his actions, and he calls Gabriel a spy and he takes him prisoner to be executed....I feel like screaming....we helped Colonel Tavington’s men. Limbs hanging, gushes of blood spatter everywhere and the pain and agony the British men where in, we were able to give comfort. Then the bastard shoots Thomas who runs to free Gabriel. How dare he turn around and spit at my family when we offered hospitality to his injured men. Thomas meant no harm. Now father has gone to join up with Gabriel at the Continental Army base and fight for the new America, and to bring justice for the death of Thomas and those who have lost loved ones of this war. Abigale and the rest of the black workers were taken by the British Troops that day, and I pray to God that they are still alive and that no harm has come upon them. Though Abigale was a black woman, she was like a mother to us children, she feed us, bathed us and clothed us...Susan on the other hand had a great bond with her and sometimes during the night she would wake up crying for Abigale and I would always have to make up a story of where Abigale is and why she is gone. Aunt Charlotte has tried her best to make our stay most comfortable and she has gone out of her way to make us feel safe and more over to ignore the war which father has gone to be a part of. Bryan has been most quite throughout this whole journey, though I think it has to do more of the fact that he and Trevor accompanied father in freeing Gabriel, and by doing that my two younger brothers helped father kill twenty British soldiers. Trevor has now been appointed by father as the man of the house and is cocky that he helped father execute those British men. I am feeling quite tired now but Aunt Charlotte is calling me.
I promise to write again...mother would have never missed a day of writing.
Sincerely,
Margaret Martin.
11th March 1776
Dear Diary,
I am writing today’s entry at the breakfast table, now if father were here he would tell me to put it away, but I am feeling somewhat rebellious. Aunt Charlotte has sat down and smiled me at, so I feel that she is letting me continue writing at the table. Jerry has made the best porridge I have ever tasted, though I will never tell Abigale this....even though I may never see her again. The porridge is so thick and creamy like velvet and sweet as if a whole jar of honey had been poured into my bowl. I think I am going to have another serving, and the boys seem to enjoy it too. However Susan is still picking her bowl, but I can see she is tempted to have a taste as she sees us enjoying our breakfast. I see a cloud of smoke behind the hills and I hope it is only a farmer burning wood....but the smoke is almost pitch black....now I can see fire brushing over the tree tops. I pray to God that the people there are ok, and now I have lost my appetite.
I have been excused from the table as Aunt Charlotte notices what I can see over the hills as she abruptly goes outside to the workers. I can hear a horse neighing, but Aunt Charlotte has no horses whatsoever....
It was the post rider and Aunt Charlotte just finished reading us a letter from father. He is in good health and so is Gabriel and they will be visiting soon. Father says the French is helping the Americans with this war as he has been at close work with Major Jean Villeneuve, a French infantry officer, who is assigned to father’s South Carolina militia unit. I remember Abigale talking about a militia unit, where ordinary citizens who are not soldiers form together an army. But how can you have a successful militia where ordinary citizens like farmers have no basic means of what it is to be in an army unit. I laugh at times that I am a girl but I want the adventures only are permitted to a boy, but father tells me that I can create adventures of my own no matter what race you are, colour or gender. I wish to travel the world and become and author writing about my voyage and travel to other countries. I would be a great author and Susan can be my right hand man or woman I should say, in our exciting ventures.
I need to remember to thank Aunt Charlotte for taking us in, as she is our family we know.
Sincerely,
Margaret Martin.
13th March 1776
Dear Diary,
Sorry I did not write and entry for yesterday, but as soon as I finished signing my entry Aunt Charlotte came running upstairs to get us. The same British Troops lead by Colonel Tavington found us. There were fifty men on horses surrounding the house, we ran into the dining room and Aunt Charlotte lead us downstairs to the workers kitchen where we hid from Colonel Tavington who already made his way inside the house. Trevor was not quick enough to get down where we were hiding so he hid under the dining table where he was only inches away from Colonel Tavington. All our hearts where pounding so loud that I thought the Colonel could hear us, and it was so quiet that the even smallest squeak of the floorboard would break the silence. Eventually we made it out with the help of father and his militia unit and it was so good seeing Gabriel who came to rescue us. But watching Aunt Charlotte’s house burn down, reminded me of Thomas’ death and the cruel war which we are all in. Although there may be and upside of this brutal crusade....Gabriel and some of father’s men took us along the coast where the black workers have settled and amongst them was Abigale. Yes she is still alive and I know God has answered my prayers bringing us here to her, to live with her people. We have settled in rather well as we are far away from all the rivalry and combat and I wish nothing will ruin our stay here with Abigale. Gabriel has left again with father’s men and he promises to return with father, and I pray they come back safely. Susan’s spirits are back to normal, and I overheard her telling Abigale my outrageous stories of where Abigale has been all this time. The boys love it here, helping the men fish, playing with boys their own age and planting of crops. Aunt Charlotte loves the peacefulness living along the coast and I have seen her writing in a diary too. She does remind me of mother, both blonde, both beautiful. Though Aunt Charlotte has soft curly hair and sea blue eyes, mother had silky straight hair and eyes of the colour emerald with a hint of amber. I wish I could stay here forever, it is a safe haven where the war cannot touch us. God does work miracles and this place is one of his many miracles. The say the black are slaves and have no freedom, but with the Declaration of Independence this should give every man a right to speak and this war is being fought by an integrated army, they should see both races are working together for the same purpose and is the image we want for the new America.
Abigale is calling, and I can smell the great aroma of dinner.
Sincerely,
Margaret Martin.
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