Young Writers Society

Memento Mori
Jessica Bruce

Introduction:


Originally, the title was Affectus Navigatio; Latin for Emotional Voyage, and no doubt it rang true if I had kept the name but due to the colonial motto, most especially observed in Puritan cemeteries, Memento Mori cements Seventeenth Century life. It literally translates to, “Remember you are mortal. Remember you will die.”
There is little disagreement that life upon the Mayflower was arduous. Articles, novels, and documentaries have long attempted to offer its viewer or reader insight with the hardships reflecting the voyage to the New World but not a soul could ever hope to express the precise events and how each shaped a life forever, except the passengers who were aboard.
Colonial lifestyle has been a desirable interest for a stretch of approximately four years. I had studied it briefly as an older adolescent, and thoroughly when I turned twenty-four, albeit, the Eighteenth Century. So, to get my hands wet, and gain a greater understanding of this era, I do hope that the reader will find their own path by acknowledging the Mayflower passengers.





This piece is dedicated to the Eatons’ for the inspiration. Without learning about my own ancestor, George Soule, I may never have embarked into a journey of another past. Two families whom were passengers upon the ship three hundred years ago, eventually signed the Mayflower Compact and reunited approximately two years ago in 2006 after several centuries.

I'm not sure what to say on it as is -- it is incredebly short. I'm also not sure whether I am meant to edit the "introduction" but I will, in any case...

There is little doubt in one’s mind eye

This is set up a bit odd. Isn't it "Mind's Eye" so then it would be one's mind's eye, which is terribly annoying... I'm not sure of how that should go.

to offer its viewer or reader insight with the hardships

"with the" just doesn't seem like the right phrase you want to say. Perhaps "into the" or "of the"

except the passengers who were aboard, survived the first winter, and unfortunately, they are deceased.

I would rewrite this entirely, just because it's a bit.. daunting? "...except the passengers who were aboard, and survived the first winter. Unfortunately, they are deceased." It also snaps the last line at you, and changes up the sentences, gives you a short sentence.

Colonial dialect=good=more realistic. Do it. ^^ Hah, like, Bradford dialogue? Because Bradford is awesome.

Will I get more of this? Like I said, there isn't much I could say...

Yes, I was looking for someone to edit the intro, XD. I know there's not much there but there will be plenty more. It will be a novel but a short one, per say. Only five pages, and no Snoink, they won't be ungodly lengths. LOL!

I'm currently in the process of finalizing the five chapters, and doing some quickie researching to make sure I'm educated still before beginning.

Thank you for taking the time to edit the intro. XD. I agree with all your suggestions, and thanks for answering my question. Heh, good to know, and I too think it will be fun speaking as a colonial would have.

Anyway, more to come soon-ish.

Billington – Mayflower, November, 1620

A burly man stands at the bow, watching. A breeze comes, and he smiles broadly, closing his eyes, greedily inhaling the aroma of seawater. The passenger welcomes such simple pleasures for delightful events were becoming scarce upon the ship.

“Waves are friendly this day, are they not, Mister Eaton?” came a deep voice. The person clasps their hand on the man’s shoulder.

Opening his eyes slowly, then squinting, he looks into the direction of the voice that spoke and glowers instantly. It was the elder John Billington formally the knave who stood next to him.

Through gritted teeth, “Leave me,” Eaton says.

“Oh? Have I –“ Billington stops short and puts a hand over his lips, attempting to suppress a grin.

Eaton, wishing to not be caught with the offence of slandering if his tongue slips, his arms drop and his hands clench into fists as he walks briskly away in the direction of port or perhaps starboard. More of the passengers hopefully will have congregated in those two positions of the ship, and if God favored him, he could lose Billington in the sea of faces – family too.

*

There is a thud, as Eaton’s face hits the deck. A boy scurries past him but looks over his shoulder briefly and grins at his misfortune, then shuffles away. There is a blunderbuss is tucked under the arm of the boy.

Instinctively, he covers the minor cut upon his right eyebrow and winces. Captain Jones changes course without warning, and Eaton barrels into the side of the ship, complimented too by the sea bathing him from head to toe. Blood may be trickling in response to the slice in his eyebrow but no greater force could have prepared him for this type of pain. It starts at the shoulder, a hot, grinding feeling, which decides to descend to greener pastures by traveling south and attacks the elbow. Stabs of small pinholes travel up, then down his arm. He clutches it, groans but slowly pulls his aching body to his feet. Captain Jones without warning once more changes course abruptly, and now the ship turns swiftly to the right. Eaton’s feet slip from underneath him. His knees collide into the deck but there was no time for grunting or wallowing in misery. His wet body slides with the motion of the ship.

“Help me!” Eaton howls.

In desperation, he releases the pressure upon his injured shoulder, shouts angrily at the pain, and with his right hand, Eaton claws into the deck in an effort to keep stationary. Nails are too short. Faces are a whirl. He closes his eyes, readying himself for the next collision.

His body slides. Pain swells. “Al-might-y!” he gurgles.

Eaton meets the target he fears so much. He hits a solid object, but if such a miracle was bestowed upon his good graces, the second impaction against the Mayflower’s rib was negated. He looks up, bleary eyed, and spots the boots of another man. This man is dressed in elaborate garb, with arms crossed against his chest, he has a moderate build but frowns.

“Stan-dish…” Eaton’s eyes shut. Myles Standish is the last face he sees.

*

Below deck with others. Teeth are chattering, albeit, dry, cotton clothing is bearing the wearer. “My… arm…,” wheezes Eaton, then the teeth chattering resumes.

“Tis not broken, Francis. It is …” Myles Standish is below deck with Francis Eaton, standing, overlooking the fallen person, who is lying on a cot, huddled under a wool blanket, shivering. “It is rather … unpleasant down here.” Standish peers around, observing. There were two women, sitting on a cot also but opposite of each other. Despite that their voices were easily heard, they carried on, knitting as if there were not two other souls present in the same room with them. There is however a boy nearly a foot from the women, and in his arms, there is a blunderbuss. He brushes blond locks backwards, and then stares in the direction of Francis Eaton and Myles Standish, seemingly not the least taken aback by the circumstances.

“The Lord mus’ not favor me this day…,” Eaton replies. Stroking the sling that bears his bruised arm, he inhales a slow breath, and then continues. “You, why is it that you do not feel the chill?”

Standish does not answer right away. Instead, he strokes his temple, thinking. He knew the wrong choice of words could deem rather unsatisfactory consequences. Several seconds pass. Standish, feeling slight defeat, sighs deeply. “You must know that the likes of me, do not sleep in the same quarters with the likes of you.” He points up. “Do you know it?”

Eaton nods and turns his head with a sullen expression forming on his lips, choosing to not face Standish any longer. He, like a portion of the other passengers, slept in the bowls of the ship. The higher class are awarded their own living quarters. Only two though: Myles Standish and the commander of the Mayflower, the Captain.

“Shall I fetch another blanket from my quarters?” Standish asks. “Perhaps heavier wool will suffice?”

“No,” answers a muffled response.

“You should consider the offer. Plainly seen, your body is in need of warmth.”

“Beer. I need beer.”

Standish smiles and bows, regardless that Francis Eaton is still not facing his direction. “It shall be done. And I dare say, with agreement, it should warm thee.”

“And numb the pain,” Eaton replies bitterly, and then bites his lower lip in attempt to suppress another wave of shivers.

With a click of the heels, Standish turns around but stops without setting a foot in front of one another. He had forgotten an important detail and it – he, a Billington, is fiddling with the trigger of his father’s Blunderbuss.

“Francis…” calls Standish politely.

“Yes?” Two tones ask in unison, but they were very much different. Francis Eaton’s voice resembled that of irritability despite Standish’s offers, and supplying him with a wool blanket. The other – a young adolescent, barely fourteen; the voice of Francis Billington might as well have satisfied a mule temporarily by the high-pitched tone to his voice.

Standish winces, and tilts his head slightly, rubbing the inside of his right eardrum with a finger. Francis Eaton moans in response.

“Eaton. Do you recall your injury?” Standish asks, watching the boy carefully.

“Yes. That much I do recall. That son of a knave pushed me!”

“Good to see that your spirits have not completely dismissed themselves,” Standish says.

“You were in my way!” the boy shouts, raising the blunderbuss high above his head.

Within seconds, Standish unsheathes his sword, and points it in an accusingly fashion, straight towards the boy’s heart. “Put it down,” he says sharply. “Not a person shall raise a weapon unless they wish a quick lesson in manners. Does the youngest Billington need a lesson?”

The boy opens his mouth, forming an ‘O,’ shaking his head, and drops the firearm. It falls, and hits the deck with minimal force. Francis Billington raises both palms, as if showing that he was now unarmed made a significance with today’s mishap.

“Come here. There is a person you will meet.”

“No. I refuse,” replies the boy. He drops his hands, and stares back definitely.

Standish, keeping his sword in place, smiles in response.

“My Father will hear of this!”

“What of it?” Standish challenges.

“Why have you called me ‘intween the deck?” the boy retorts.

Ignoring the question, Standish asks, “Eaton, do you know who is here?”

“A Billington,” he sneers. “Beer. Fetch… The – Damn this arm! Cut it off and do me a mercy!”

“Easy, Easy,” Standish replies to the shouting. Calm. In control. “And I will. Forgive the delay, and it shall be done shortly but I have here with us the culprit.” The boy stiffens upon hearing the word, culprit. “I thought it would be to your liking if you met the source of your troubles – Eaton.”

The boy remained silent do to his credit. Francis Eaton, not letting misery succumb curiosity; he slowly turns, stops only slightly to wince from a stab of pain, then carefully, slowly, he meets the back of Standish, sword unsheathed, two women still conversing, and …

“You!” Eaton hollers, which promotes a brief coughing fit. He recovers in seconds. “What unholy being sent a Francis Billington, and his whole family? Worthless life spent, and what good of it?”

“My Father will hear of this!” Francis Billington protests. “Punishment. The lot of you will be punished, I will see to it!”

“What say we go above deck, Mary? Too much of a huff down here. One is lucky enough to hear a syllable now.”

The other women nods, and both make there way past Francis Billington. They are careful by sidestepping the blunderbuss.

“No,” Standish says, smiling slyly. “I will see Captain Jones on my own accord. Rest assured there will be a punishment, Mister Billington.”

“Good.”

“No, I am afraid. It is not good, as you say. The punishment is yours to receive.”

“But, you, he-“ young Billington begins by shooting an accusing finger outwards. “Eaton is slandering!”

“Is there a point? Did you stop and help him in his time of hourly need? Surely you must have at least seen the man struggling?”

“No, Mister Standish, sir.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Is this statement truthful?” Standish calls to Eaton, and octave higher than usual.

“That child ran into me. I lost my balance and the ship did its bidding. Yes. It is your fault.”

“You were in my way!” Francis Billington protests once more.

“Then I suggest in finding a new pair of eyes. A barrel-chest man, such as Eaton, is not simple to overlook. Did you run into him on purpose?”

The young Billington shifts his gaze, looking about as if he suddenly lost something of great importance.

“Did you?” Standish presses.

“Cannot you put that thing down? I will not leave. You have my word.”

“Perhaps your word is as precious as the scum on the bottom of my boot, Francis Billington.”

The boy scowls, and then spits. “Perhaps I think of you as this,” he remarks, pointing to the wad of saliva.

“Beer…,” a voice croaks. “Please.”

“It shall be done,” Standish replies for the third time. “Now, to be precise.”

“Thank… you.”

“Billington, fetch your weapon, and so help me, by His blessed eye, I shall spank your bottom with the hilt of my sword if you step one inch out of line. Now, move forward.”

“But –“ the boy starts.

“Now!” Standish bellows sharply.

“Yes, sir,” he mumbles, then reaches, and picks up the blunderbuss.

“March.”

“Yes, sir.” The boy tucks the firearm under an arm, and then sighs. Defeated.

There was a stir aboard the Mayflower. All one hundred and two passengers – hundred and four with the slobbery mastiff and spaniel – looked with anticipation. After sixty-five days at sea, they saw land.

William Bradford, a silk weaver, beams, as if he has a great secret bursting inside. His wife, Dorothy, stands by her husband’s side, solemn but ever eager as the rest of them. Bradford squeezes her shoulder affectionately, and simultaneously bellows, “Not a little joyful!” Murmurs of voices echo in agreement.

Today, not just two days after Eaton’s unforeseen injury, it is a late-fall morning – clear skies, and light winds out of the northeast. Up ahead to the

west was a forearm, and the Captain briefly studied it with interest.

“I believe this barrier of land is Cape Cod,” Captain Jones reports. “The stretches of beach, and these cliffs…” He points to the edged, hundred-foot high cliffs, now casting in the morning sunshine and presenting its onlookers with a purple hue upon its rocky formation - a most magnificent sight for never being graced with God’s treasures.

The clarity of a crisp autumn day accentuates the colors along the sea, casting deep oranges, reds and blues in the ripples of waves. The sun, still not completely risen, and off into the distance a glimpse of the moon barely shows.

“We are much comforted… by seeing so goodly a land, and wooded to the brink of the sea,” says a manly voice but not a person attempts to find the source of the comment. Instead, most of the passengers nod in agreement.

“Stay. All of you,” Captain Jones commands sternly.

Captain Jones tacks his ship, and stands in for shore. An hour or two passes, and an agreement reaches – this is Cape Cod. But, where to go?

The Captain knew he had his own trifles to sort through. Given the poor health of his crew and the passengers, his first priority was to get these people ashore, despite the Pilgrim’s patent – their agreement with the King of a settlement – depicts. The wind was not favorable though. It was coming from the north. If a decent southerly breeze greets the crew, Captain Jones predicted with good faith that he could reach Cape Cod Harbor* in a few hours, with the tide’s assistance. As the Master of the Mayflower, he and his crew pull in the rope that was anchoring the ship. The decision: Run with it to the Hudson River, and if the wind held true, the Mayflower would reach the Harbor in a few days. So, Captain Jones heads south.

Sailing south on easy reach, with the sandy shore of Cape Cod in sight. Throughout the morning, the tide was in their favor but fate has an uncanny way of changing favors.

1 p.m. The tide flows against them now. The depth of water drops alarmingly low – the wind too. The placid sea transforms into a churning maelstrom as the overflowing tide cascades over shoals ahead. With what wind that had remained, it was very weak, and from the north, pinning the ship against the rip.

“The Pollack Rip!” shouts Captain Jones.

He turns the wheel, then again but more sharply.

“It is the Pollack Rip, men! She is out to do her bidding. On guard! Be on guard!” Captain Jones hollers to his crew.

The notion of Captain Jones lowering the anchor, and ordering his sailors to retrieve the hemp cable from below and beginning to carefully coil the rope on the forecastle head is ludicrous. Had the wind deserted them completely, the crew may find themselves spending the night at the edge of the breakers. But, anchoring near Pollack’s Rip is a fool’s decision, and a deadly one.

A tall wave crashes against the port side of the ship, washing nearby sailors who unfortunately were already drenched to the bone.

These men, seemingly having been in similar predicaments before, walked up and then down the upper deck, never loosing their balance. They had sea legs for sure. No one cussed or complained. The crew went about their business but always leaving one ear open for new orders.

When the Captain might never escape the shoals, the glorious wind begins to change gradually to the south. Combined with a decent tide, by sunset – 4:35 p.m. – the Mayflower is well to the northwest of the Pollack Rip.
Shortly within a few hours, the wind began building from the south, and Captain Jones shouts, “We are not going to the Hudson. We are going back ‘round the Cape!”
____

It was now 5 p.m., and nearly completely dark. The Captain, wishing in not running into any more shoals, heaves to. With the main topsail aback, the Mayflower drifts with the tide, four miles off Chatham, waiting for dawn.

“That ignorant fool!” growls the elder John Billington

This time, no one objects, despite Billington’s popularity.

“What a great source of a waist of time,” George Soule says sourly, then moves to a dank corner. There, he finds pieces of wood and debris.

Soule came aboard the ship as a manservant to the Edward Winslow family. Burly himself, his build was not comparable to Francis Eaton’s, but just. Without hair showing along his chin and scruffs of unkempt bushels down the sides and over his top lip, he was a funny sort to lay eyes upon. As far as the others new, his unshaven face is considered a lack of appreciation in one’s appearance. Soule’s clothes were disarray too, but he managed to at least keep the hair on top of his head presentable – a request mostly likely asked of Soule’s master. With the less acceptable party, despite they also slept ‘intween the decks, Soule fit in well with the paupers. And with his youth, he being in his early twenties, his strong back was an asset for those passengers who were incapable of lifting possessions and goods.

“Ah. This shall do,” Soule smiles sly.

He comes around the corner, passes Standish, Eaton, and Dorothy Bradford. He works his way through the bodies so eventually Soule is the center attraction. In his right hand is an old broomstick, the latter that had long rotted.

Soule holds the object tightly with both hands, looks up, and without warning, thrust the broomstick upwards. There is a crack, and everyone covers their ears, but watch curiously nonetheless. He repeats the action, but with more force than before. Laughing, he continues producing the sound.

“Change course, shall we?” Then Soule hits the ceiling of the upper deck once more. “Here! Here our whole angry tones!”

Francis Eaton takes action quickly, once his ears grow used to the clattering. Being that he was the largest, Eaton might be able to suppress the younger oxen. The very least, irritating the master of the ship could render sharp mishaps. Walking briskly into the circle, Soule turns immediately as Eaton closes in on him. Soule just stands stationary in response, looking on with a frown.

“Give,” Eaton commands politely displaying his palm.

Soule glances at the broomstick, shrugs, and places the object in Eaton’s hand.

“Thank you. But, the actions were correct.” Eaton, still holding it, walks slowly away from the people; head hung low and slumps down in the shadows. With his head lowering, he pokes the deck with the object in no particular direction.

“Outrageous!” hollers John Alden. Then he stamps his foot, raising an accusing fist high above his head. “Our patent does not apply settlement north of the bloody Hudson!”

Howdy Fish!

A rather slender man stands at the bow, watching. A breeze comes, and the man smiles broadly, closing his eyes, and greedily inhaling the aroma of seawater. The passenger welcomed such simple pleasures for delightful events were becoming scarce upon the ship.

You seem not to be able to make your mind up about tense. You start out in the present (stands, comes, smiles) then you get into past tense (the passenger welcomed...). This also happens later:

came a deep tone, who also clasps their hand on the man’s shoulder.

Not only is this weird because you call "tone", "who", but the tense is just odd. Though, then again, the whole phrasing of it is odd. This might the old voice leaking out, but even if you write in the dialect (and I suggest you do) to a certain point, you also have to be understood by your reader, which means lightening the dialect to a point they can understand.

Mind, this rant is only on the second section posted.

The biggest issue was tense. Your tense is constantly all over the place. Which makes it hard to read.

I can't really tell what you are trying to focus on. I'm assuming you want to write this as a fiction story, for people to enjoy. Right now it looks as if you're strangling us with strange paragraphs about ships and people hitting things and... yes. Like any story, what are you going to hook us with? Can we know more about your main character? Who is your main character? What are his desires, interests? I really think it would help you to present the character in a strong fashion, give us an idea of who and why this person is, then give us the conflict, and lead us into the story. It's as if you're focusing so hard on getting the dialect and inner working of the time period right, you've forgotten there is a story to be told all together. I really want to know who your characters are, and what story you're going to tell but.. I haven't gotten to it yet!! It's depressing.


I already gave you some suggestions for reading material that might help you out, I'm not sure I could think of anything else but I could try.

I really just think you were trying so hard to get how you were writing it right [the struggling] that you just wrote it perfect but...forgot everything else. :-p

I'll try to get to the rest soon! Hope this rant helped!

Fart!

This isn't really that bad. There were some spelling/grammar issues I spotted. I can come back and check that if you'd like, but because of limited time, I'll skip that part for now.

My major problem with this was the characters. I got lost in who's who. I guess it could be my lack of sleep, but even re-reading certain parts, I get lost. There were two Francis' I guess, and after thinking, I think I figured out which one is which, lol. I like Standish. I dunno, the whipping-out-the-sword thing made me smile. Then later on, you introduce so many more characters, I wanted to hold my head from spinning! Lol.

I also don't know where you're going with this, but you already know that, I guess, lol. It's just kind of there. I got lost in the whole Francis-Eaton-gets-hurt part. I don't know what really happened there, and a couple parts [such as Captain Jones' part] that could just use a better introduction as well. It needs some smoothing out from one part to the next.

With your story having multiple MCs, each character needs a strong but un-annoying introduction, lol. You said yourself that this wasn't quite your way of writing, so just rereading/editing will probably help you greatly. Think through your story, characters, etc. I know you write well, lol. I've read your work, this just doesn't show your best. The characters and plot were my biggest issues, and description can help ya out.

Gotta eat! Brb if I think of anythign! Keep writing!

Jabber, the One and Only!

There is a tug to the sleeve of Eaton. He shouts angrily in response, but he was more surprised then actually perturbed. Wincing, he rubs the top of his still recovering shoulder and groans irritability. Eaton looks up, solemn, but also curious as to why this person wished to cause him further harm. Surely, everyone aboard has reached news of his fatal clash with the harsh sea – and ship.

The figure steps out of the shadows slowly, and slumps down too towards the right of him. He studies the boy, but the only response he receives is a cough, followed by another. With a thumb, Eaton tilts the neck up, and gapes at the sight of the boy. Pale. Too pale for even one that is succumbed to the chills, and having run low on the supply of firewood, coughing and shivering were now common reactions aboard the Mayflower but this youth… Thin, so dreadfully thin. And the boy’s skin is a sickly yellowish color. It was true that half the food rationed below the third deck had or was beginning to spoil such as the salted pork but no passenger depicted a “living skeleton.”

There was a cough again, and another shortly after the first. Eaton removes his thumb and realizes water is dripping from the boy’s forehead, corners of his eyebrows, and nose. Surely, this youth could not be that warm! There is always a slight breeze ‘intween the decks.

Jasper More presses his tiny head against Eaton’s shoulder, which further causes discomfort but instead, he bites his tongue, and lets the seven year old under the Carver Family’s care, snuggle harder against him. Releasing a deep sigh, Eaton mumbles a silent prayer, asking for the good Lord’s forgiveness if poor Jasper More had committed a sin. He lifts his right shoulder, grits his teeth, than wraps his arm around Jasper, pulling him tighter against his ribs.

“Rest easy, child,” whispers Eaton soothingly.

“I… I… m-iss,” Jasper wheezes. “I la… love you, Father.”

Deliria.

Eaton, in response, chooses to ignore the comment, and whispers, “Memento Mori. God save us. Save us all.”

Then, he stops observing Jasper, and quickly turns to the left, sniffing. No point of hiding it. Tears came regardless. One after the other. Eventually a flood emerged from under Eaton’s eyelids. Sniffing, and wiping away tears, he began thinking of the future and what it beholds.