A Daughter of The Patriot
Based on the film ‘The Patriot’, 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 smooth charcoal leather, binding every 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 for our country, but I know that father does not want him 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 that 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...
Sincerely Margaret Martin...
Does it look ok? I am not sure how to end my entry. Mother would write different regards for every entry, but I think I should just stick to one...
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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 only 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, 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 exposing bone and flesh, an the outburst of blood spattered 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. The British Troops took Abigale and the rest of the black workers that day, and I pray to God that they are still alive and that no harm has come upon them. Although Abigale is 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 and Aunt Charlotte is calling me.
I promise to write again...mother would have never missed a day of writing.
Sincerely,
Margaret Martin.
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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 at her bowl, but I can see she is tempted to have a taste as she sees us enjoying our breakfast. I can 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 treetops. I pray to God that the people there are ok.... 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 runs outside to the workers. I can hear horses neighing, but Aunt Charlotte has no horses whatsoever....
It is 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 permitted only 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 would be my right hand man or woman I should say. Our Ventures would be exciting.
I need to remember to thank Aunt Charlotte for taking us in.... oh no! Aunt Charlotte....
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13th March 1776
Dear Diary,
I did not finish my entry the day before because 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 to where we were hiding so he hid under the dining table where he was inches away from Colonel Tavington. 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. 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 she 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 reminds me of mother, her porcelain beauty, blond hair and graceful stature. 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, a safe haven where the war cannot touch us. God does work miracles. They say that black people are slaves and have no freedom, but with the Declaration of Independence this should give every man and race 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 this is the image we want for the new America.
Thank you God for this blessing.
Sincerely,
Margaret Martin.
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14th March 1776
Dear Diary,
The glorious sun is out the deep blue sea is calm, clear skies above as if my own reflection can be seen. The coast is truly beautiful, a hidden oasis where the war cannot come near us. Last night was one of the first nights where I slept like a baby, not a sound or peep just the wind blowing and the sea polishing the shore. If this is a dream, I wish not to be pinched...
Lucy and I made breakfast today, and I think Aunt Charlotte was shocked that I can cook. Abigale did teach me well. Although I loved how Aunt Charlotte said compliments to the chef, it got Lucy and I smiling as wide as the ocean. Susan calls my pancakes heaven puffs, because it is soft and fluffy yet sweet and satisfying like a little party in your mouth. Abigale’s secret ingredients, buttermilk for texture and cinnamon for flavour. The boys missed out on my heaven puffs for breakfast, they went fishing but I put some away, hopefully they do not come begging for more.
Lucy has been teaching me how to braid and I have been practicing on Susan, it is quite easy once you get the hang of it, almost like sewing with a needle and thread continuously going under and over. My baby sister has hair like mother, never a strand of hair in a knot or tangle. I have been learning how to four plait or as Lucy calls it French plait but Susan does not want to be my model so I have had to resort to her dolly Lulu, however there is not much to braid with. I should try Aunt Charlotte or Abigale...ohh but I am afraid that I might create a mess and ruin their hair.
News that father and Gabriel will be arriving tomorrow has lifted the spirits of everyone on the coast as we are all preparing a great feast. Trevor is calling this the last supper, which is not funny at all, he does not have a good sense of humour not in a time like this. However it is a celebration for the efforts of father and the militia unit, even though their triumphs’ and achievements will not be recognised in this war due to political affairs, but father’s men will stay true and loyal to him and for that they should deserve public acknowledgement.
Ok enough writing I must go and help the others.
Sincerely,
Margaret Martin.
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15th March 1776
Dear Diary,
Tonight we have a pearly white full moon. I am scared to stare at it too long incase I wake up from this reality that seems like a beautiful dream. The reflection of moon stains the ocean with its rippling effect, hypnotizing our somewhat intoxicated community to a stand still in awe of this magical event. Father and Gabriel will be here any minute now, I am crying with excitement as my quail is shaking and taking control of itself, so do not mind my the state of my writing. Father does not like surprises but this feast will surely change his mind, and I know for a fact Gabriel will be thrilled and devour every bit of food his stomach will let him consume. I cannot wait to see the look on their faces.... I hear horses in the distance father and Gabriel are here. Thank you God, for bringing them safely, and for blessing my family as we are still together as one, even though mother and Thomas are together in heaven, I know in spirit they will be here watching over this celebration. My father whom a lot say I look like with eyes of dark copper brown, the pillar and rock of our family has been through been so much, and has yet had the time to unwind or relax, I am so happy for this occasion.... I must run.... my father and brother is here......
Sincerely,
Margaret Martin.
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4th July 1776
Dear Diary,
A soldier will fight long and hard for a bit of coloured ribbon....
A solider will fight long and hard for a shiny piece of metal....
A solider will fight long and hard to protect their family and fight for a nation...
A solider will fight long and hard and will loose a friend, a brother, a father, and a family....
A solider will fight long and hard... and will die.
I have heard some say if we don’t end the war, the war will end us....
Freedom of speech, freedom of diversity, freedom to live. An integrated army fought the Declaration of Independence, black men and white men in partnership fighting for freedom.
I remember that day, never had I been so nervous in my life. I was so happy and ecstatic about the occasion as the wonderful aroma of a feast stretched out a mile away.... yet I didn’t wish for innocent blood to paint the sand and sky. Distraught women wailing and screaming in the distance as tears run from their eyes, children crying helplessly shock of bodies that lie. I couldn’t move nor did I flinch, had a bullet been shot I would have lied with them. I remember hearing a deafening shriek of a young girl, it was Lucy being dragged by a British solider kicking and screaming reaching out to her dead mother with a bullet in her head. Abigale was dead. How could this have happened? What was supposed to be a festive occasion, turned into a massacre. But not until a young girl runs past with blond hair covering her face, showing passion and determination to set Lucy free. She turned to me, her eyes lit up with joy and the sparkle of love written on face.... persistent to fight for freedom... for another person’s life. Gone within a second.... my baby girl.... my flower.... my Margaret... shot by a cold-blooded bastard.
Oh my Margaret, my sweet little angel, reading your diary has given me the closure I need. I am proud of you sweet heart, your words have a life of it’s own, my intelligent little poppet wise beyond her years pure words of a Martin. Now that you’re with your mother and brother, it breaks my heart that you have not out lived your dreams. But you have saved a life. You are my hero.
I love you with all my heart my little girl.... The tears never stop as I write your last entry.
Sincerely for my daughter,
Benjamin Martin
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