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February, 1775 – Scotchtown Plantation, Beaverdam, Virginia

by Fishr


February, 1775 – Scotchtown Plantation, Beaverdam, Virginia.

Spirits of all elevated to some higher divine, into the black heavens, upon this clear night, comes the grace of a white-gold moon. In her dappled beauty spun, ever in perfect synchrony with the Heavenly Father, she comes to the sky as a mother comes to sing a soft lullaby to ease her children into a star-filled night, stoic, yes, the moon casts rays along a kneeling person.

“Sit beside me.”

Removing my coat, I search for fingernails that would otherwise embed themselves into the cloth's fibers. It was such a hassle plucking each one of Patrick’s jagged nails out of one of my outermost layers. The weave is taut and was the grandest worsted available, a gift from Father. The floor shows mainly thumbnails, which suffered the worst damage to the nervous week-long gnawing and chewing, especially at their corners. Using a shoe, I bury them under the dirt, unbutton my coat, and lay it next to him.

“Your apprenticeship ends next week.”

I cringe hearing those words.

“Hold my hand.”

I gave his left a comforting squeeze.

My mentor raises them to his lips and kisses the top of my knuckles.

“I love you, Nehemiah.”

“As do I.”

I look at him. As if the soul could bleed an ocean through the eyes, that was the enormity of Patrick’s grieving.

I reach over and dab Patrick’s lingering tears with a thumb.

“Hold me, dear boy.”

I wrap his arms around me and hold his breast against mine. Despite Patrick’s loose shirt clinging in sweaty spots, his breath rises and eddies in cold, wintry drafts. The brim of his bony nose causes me to grind my teeth so much that I twist his head to the side so it may lay flat instead. Such grief is perfectly understandable following the loss of a precious person. I recline enough to see a face. I gently grip his jaw in my thumb and forefinger, bringing it towards my lips, but before I can offer a small peck above his brows, he clasps my wrists firmly and yanks them down.

“Whatever was about to be done cannot precede. I would sob.”

“Sobbing is healing,” I retort.

“It hurts.“

“I can fetch the children for support.”

“They’re long, fast asleep. I have only you right now.”

“When Mother died, I ate not a morsel. Father said I looked obsolete, pale, skinny. Brother was killed months later.

“Please, Nehemiah, no more talk of death. I cannot handle morose storytelling.”

“But, I have experience with it.”

“Unless you want to witness screeching a violent outpouring of whining and wailing like earlier, that subject is null and void.”

“Patrick,” I say.

“Hm?”

“I love you.”

“You just want me to have a good sob, do you not? You are very well determined.”

“I think a good conversation about Miss Sarah would be wise. Nighttime will not last, and soon as we know, the slaves will stir at first light. No one should see her body. Surely,—“

“Point made. Allow time to think.”

“No. Speak spontaneously. In your bereavement—“

“All right! You talk too much.”

“You love me anyway,” I say.

“Again, there is much to ponder.”

I said no more. Often thoughtful, frequently lengthy, and always considered, I beg my dear mentor to examine options for a speedy reply. Two weeks earlier, Patrick developed peculiar quirks, such as sleeping with a secret plaything. One day, I wanted to do a kind favor for my adopted family. I thought fluffing everyone’s pillows was decent enough. Big, comfortable objects awaited them. When I lifted Patrick’s, a little lamb of many years that passed must have been a great source of comfort, tumbled backward. If it once looked white, the poor thing’s wooly coat is more of a sepia hue now. It was easy to see the toy was doted on. In between my fingers, there were coarse bumps. I looked, and in all capital blue cross-stitched letters, I discovered the toy had had a name. Below the lower part of the inside of the toy’s right leg, I read its name: LAMMY. For some, it was a ‘blanky,’ for others, an imaginary friend, and for Patrick, a stuffed lamby. At the time, whether to laugh or cringe at the absurd notion of a grown man cuddling a toy, I never could deduce an opinion. I swore he went daft.

“You must not go indeed you must not; the very thought of living without you so totally sinks my spirits that I am sure the reality would be more than I could bear . . .”

“The floor thanks its master for the kind words to it.”

Patrick snorts. “Dear Nehemiah, always the fool.”

“Best to be the fool than the, oh, never mind.”

“As you wish it. I cannot bear to look at my wife.”

“Then, do not.”

“Hold me as tight as possible.”

I tenderly push a few strands of matted hair out of Patrick’s eyes.

“You are not embracing me enough.”

To remedy his protest, I tug the shirt’s collar and guide him to my lap.

“Does this suffice?”

“Be generous.”

I consoled my mentor in a soft, cracked voice and suddenly felt grief and regret take me.

“I have examined myself and know I can better abandon friends, country, and everything than live without Sally. To be parted, I can not accept.”

I rub the nape of his neck, giving it a proper massage. Despite a good chill in the cellar tonight, I cringe, touching clammy, moist skin.

“My love, John and William wrote letters. They said I could not read them. I set them on your pillow. Martha said it would have made her too sad to compose a page for a most loving and excellent mother; I did not force our daughter. Nehemiah, I love you.”

“As do I,” I sniff.

I feel his forehead nestle deeper, nearer to my lap. Patrick’s body rises and then falls, taking in deeper breaths.

“For my part, I have told my passion; my eyes have spoken it, and my pen declared it; I have signed it, swore it, and subscribed it; my heart is full of you.”

There were minor movements. I halfheartedly glance down, watching my mentor curl up, bringing his knees tucked high underneath his arms.

In the evening of last week, after every hour, it seemed, Patrick combed debris and lint out of every scrap of clothing he found using a coarse handheld broom. And yet the garments before him could have scarcely been unpleasing to the most fastidious eye. The ritual was a testimony to his obsessive nature. Now, there he is, lying in filth.

“About how long since Miss Sarah died?”

Patrick sniffs. “A while, Nehemiah.”

“When I go home, how will you cope?”

There is a pause, and then, “I remember a thousand things that give me leave to tell you that my passion is so violent that it will give me cause to curse the existence of living in this very world without you.”

And so, Patrick infuses warmth, a kind of warmth privy to all members of the Henry family, and between parent and child, Father is disconnected. We share no closeness. Although, in truth, I am dead, and if I am dead, there is no logical reason for Father to demonstrate love to his last remaining son because, to him, I am air, invisible. Patrick’s tender-heartedness, oh, how I wish to remain at the Scotchtown Plantation indefinitely! I crave attention and sup it with gusto whenever there are opportunities to receive it.

“If you will be so just to my passion as to believe it sincere, tell me so, and make me happy, visit often. Indeed, my dearest angel, the whole happiness of my life depended on you. Adieu.”

“Damn you, Patrick.”

“Damn me, what?”

“I am beginning to cry now.”

“It happens.”

“Ya . . . Yes.”

“Nehemiah, I love you, truly, I do.”

“Stop it,” I say.

“Talk to me.“

I glance at the pallet with the corpse of Miss Sarah concealed under blankets.

“We must tend to your wife’s body.”

Sounds of cursing and sniveling enter my ears.

“It is all right. Shh. Shh,” I say, patting him.

My eyes grow hot, the tears welling so fast it is little use blinking them back. I wipe mucus dripping from my nostrils. Searching for where to wipe my dirty fingers, suffice it to say, since nothing was available, I smeared them on Patrick’s shirt sleeve. He made no complaints.

And another creature broke a specter of Patrick’s former self. He was no longer a disciplinarian or a strong, steady, reliant figure of strength I depended on. Now, there are writhing contortions of twisting and squirming movements. We are too fragile; we humans are like porcelain. Throw a stone, and our once beautiful, picturesque physique is shattered and shall never be the same.

I am fractured, too. Three people I loved are dead. And the last I could turn to for guidance and reassurance that everything will be fine is discarding me.

I hate to cry. I return to those rabbit holes of guilt and rip myself to pieces. Guilt is worse than grief. It is a terrible weight to carry. Loneliness is a burden, too. Both are an emptiness, a fitting marital union, because guilt starts as a wound and then loneliness punctures it, creating systemic organ failure. No balm or elixirs is potent enough to cure wounds. There is always the guilt reinforcing that at Mother’s deathbed, I should have said I loved her. I should have tried lifting the carriage’s wheel to free Brother. I watched every single last drop of blood exit. I could have done something.

Life is born. Life dies. What does it mean to live? To die?

“La . . . lad, why sa . . . sa . . . so silent?”

“Because.”

Patrick pulls himself up into a seated position, leans in, and licks a thumb; all the while, I am silently crying. He gingerly wipes each tear along my cheeks and eyes away. With a hand at the nape of my neck, he inclines his, pulling mine down until our foreheads touch.

“Worry not about my wife. Her body will be buried in secret before it begins decomposing. Tomorrow night.”

“There will be no ceremony?”

Patrick shook his head. “I will place her in an unmarked grave. It is the best solution possible for her protection. I must preserve honor. I cannot allow denigration.”

“You meant to say denigration of your honor, not hers,” I sniff.

Patrick pushes me off.

“Watch yourself.”

“No, I will not.”

“Nehemiah,” Patrick sighs, exasperated. “There have been whispers, murmurs, gossip about my wife. They think some Godforsaken evilness attacked, no, wormed itself under her flesh. They think the Evil One drank every ounce—“ A choked sob rises in Patrick’s throat. “My reputation would be a farce! Ruined! What if they force me to relinquish from the courtroom?”

“You are scheduled at the House of Burgesses soon,” I remind him. “Fear not.”

“I must go. Nothing less than a question of freedom or slavery, the subject ought to be the freedom of the debate.”

I blink. “What?”

“That snippet is memorized. I composed papers I plan to bring when I leave in March. I wrote them a fore-night ago. We ought, in correlation, that war is upon us sooner than we know. I must convince the assembly we are no longer to sit idle and let the storm pass.

“So, you are not tired of me?”

“No, my foolish son. There is no grudge against you. I hear the early birds chirping. Help my wife’s beloved dispose of the body until I can secretly bury her. No, you will not know the location, so do not bother asking. No one will know it, not my children, no one. The risk is too great if my bride is located.”

Something occurred to me.

“Patrick.”

“What is it?”

“Not once have you said Miss Sarah’s name.”

“Because.”

“Because,” I nod.

“I love you.”

“As do I.”

“For Heaven’s sake, say it.”

“I love you, Mister Henry,” I smirk.

“Idiot,” he snorts and then wipes his cheeks dry.

I lean in and kiss Patrick on his lips. After a few seconds, I wink at a very baffled man looking surprised. Astonished would be a better, more suitable description of Patrick’s expression.

Few words describe how intense platonic love is. The connection is an eternal love, one where the presence of one another is central to each person's well-being.

“We should all love each other more than ever.”

Patrick clears his throat. “Indeed.”

“Do you sleep with a toy lamb still?”

“Yes. I shan’t be surprised. You snoop. It is a most unfavorable trait.”

Ignoring the rude comment, I ask, “You are not embarrassed?”

“Why should I be? Lammy belonged to Martha. She insisted I have it.”

“But, the lamb was hidden.”

“To prevent nosy persons from knowing my personal business.”

“You are angry.”

“Annoyed.”

“Because I know the truth?”

“Look, my naive member of the Henry household, I know your nature by default is inquisitiveness. Sneaking about it will get you in serious trouble eventually. Have you discovered private letters while snooping about?”

“There’s more?”

“No.”

“They’re yours?”

“He who is reticent of his own business dislikes prying into letters for a purpose which may be led into falseness of poor assumptions and may also be privy into privacy. And no, you may not read them.”

“Oh.”

“Come, help me.”

I offer a hand and then yank Patrick’s wrist up. He staggers and trips, falling into my embrace as I catch the weight of his heavy body before Patrick collapses.

“Dang,” I squint, trying in vain to steady him.

“I could ever deserve— but Lord knows how much I cherish— it is a natural longing of the human heart to care for your children. As a father, there is a part to not wanting to leave, and the other half is knowing Virginia must represent. I must do so at the House of Burgess. I am torn in two.”

“Go ahead. Weep.” I let him rest his head upon my breast.

When Patrick pulls me into a more vigorous embrace, he bursts into a fit of mumbling indecipherably. Again came the sobs, more softly, ending in a sort of whispering speech. From the ordeal, out of breath, very cold, and wet right through, Patrick pushes gently back.

“Help move my wife to a place where I can store her remains and bur—.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too, Nehemiah.”

Patrick began sleeping on Sarah’s side in his bedchamber. When he retired late, he always slept well. One night, however, Patrick moved back to the cellar. He imagined his childhood sweetheart’s ever-thinning body taking up less space beneath the blankets.

The chair is nearby. It was a shift of maybe two feet from the chair to the old pallet whence Patrick attempted to lay in it. When he looked across at the space where he used to sit, his sense of loss was so acutely overwhelming he closed his eyes, but the imaginary spikes dug deeper. He remembered whether this would be the day the pain would worsen or the latter, saw her for dead.

Like the drunk whose world spun when they shut their eyes, his despair broke further through the wall that kept grief at bay, which allowed him to maintain the facade of, Patrick, you are coping so well.

What happened next?

Patrick moved upstairs again and slept at Sarah’s side of the bed: grief gone, solid walls of coping back in place.

With trial and error, he spent longer minutes laying in the cellar bed, like someone training for a beautiful, marvelous endeavor. Each time the darkness threatened to engulf him, Patrick returned to safety, moving back upstairs to familiar territory.


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Sun Apr 28, 2024 10:31 pm
Kaia wrote a review...



Greetings!! I have come to deliver a review. Before I get started keep in mind that I am using my phone to text out this review so things may be a little jumbled and disorganized. That said...
[Spirits of all elevated to some higher divine, into the black heavens, upon this clear night, comes the grace of a white-gold moon. In her dappled beauty spun, ever in perfect synchrony with the Heavenly Father, she comes to the sky as a mother comes to sing a soft lullaby to ease her children into a star-filled night, stoic, yes, the moon casts rays along a kneeling person.[/quote]
Hmm...this opening paragraph definitely sounds like something pilgrims would compose. The date at the top suggests to me that this is an entry in a diary which increases my interest to find out who's diary this is.

Now what follows turns into a narrative. The main character I suspect is an older teenager (though perhaps youth would be a more appropriate term given the setting). Now this about his apprenticeship. I wonder if the apprenticeship ends with Patrick's death. Is the man predicting his own death? Hmmm...I will have to keep reading to find out.

I want to appraise you for the use of the toy lamb. It was quite touching and sad. Clearly Patrick is losing his mind I suspect due to his illness and the lamb is an excellent symbol of that with it's yellowing fur and what I picture to be scrawny neck (I have a stuffed lamb that really has lost its new appearance so I find this detail of particular interest) but that aside, the detail tells quite a lot about the situation and adds intensity showing just how out of his mind the man is and how attached Nehemiah is to the man that he'd care so much about the man that he wouldn't laugh at him.

Again, I see how much Nehemiah cares about this man when the man asks for an embrace and Nehemiah is definitely repulsed but does his best to hide it. He even touches the man's

clammy, moist skin.
which I suggest eliminating on of those two words since they both mean the same thing and the two together seems to minimize impact. I suggest reading with one adjective, then the other, and then them together to decide how you want that phrased. (I apologize for being really detailed.)

I halfheartedly glance down, watching my mentor curl up, bringing his knees tucked high underneath his arms.

Another imagery to contrast the man as a child. He is trying to return to a happier time in his life. And little editing note. I feel that "half-heartedly" doesn't exactly fit the mood. From what I was reading earlier, Nehemiah seems to really care about this man. Yes, he is also repulsed by the filthyness of the man, but he cares. Halfheartedly doesn't seem to fit Nehemiah's caring attitude. Could just be me though. I may not fully understand Nehemiah's character yet.

Now perhaps I'm finding symbols where there aren't supposed to be, but I find that Patrick trying to keep his clothes clean is another symbol of his futility. He is trying to maintain his dignity as his mind grows weaker, but he cannot. Bring a true sadness to this piece.

But now I question. Is the man really sick? Or is it his wife's dying that has brought about this state of gloom?

I now understand that Nehemiah is having to leave. And he doesn't want to. He has an unusual connection to Patrick.

The whole thing with the wife is an interesting attachment to the already serious tone. He must have died suddenly...and the man makes suggestions that she may have been perhaps taken over by evil spirits. If that is true, will they also take over others?

Dang,” I squint, trying in vain to steady him.
hmmm....I feel like that word is a little too modern for the setting. Maybe choose another word?

And earlier..
When Mother died, I ate not a morsel. Father said I looked obsolete, pale, skinny. Brother was killed months later
you never closed the apostrophes there in that snippet of dialogue. Aside from that, I didn't notice any grammatical errors.

I do have a few more suggestions.
I feel like you used a lot of dialogue with very little description which sometimes has me lost as to who was speaking. I suggest adding some more description so that I can better picture the scene. As it stands, I dont know much about Patrick's appearance. I am guessing that he is an old man, but I can't be sure. Some setting details may also be appreciated. Like maybe add that the place has a musty, decaying or unpleasant smell? (How I picture it im only giving suggestions) dim lighting, wooden surroundings etc.

While I'm generally not a fan of ongoing dialogue with little else for about a paragraph or so, I do feel like in this case it helped present a feeling of emptiness which I did like. It really focused in on what was being said, but I do feel like it happened just a bit often.

Also, I read the section about the fingernails multiple times but I could not understand it. Maybe I'm missing the context. Is Patrick's fingernails embedded in the blanket and it's hard to detangle them? And why are there nails on the floor? Has he been biting off the ends and spitting them on the floor? Maybe you were talking about metal nails? I suggest reading through that and seeking to add a little clarification.

Also, I was a little confused about how the opening line relates to the rest of the narrative. (Quote likely this is an out of context issue and needs no mention but since I'm sharing my thoughts...)

Overall, the scene was well constructed. I felt a lot of the emotion that you were describing. The conflict regarding the desire to cry and the desire to stay strong was very well developed and felt very real. Nehemiah's love for the man and his repulsion towards his filth was also very well portrayed so excellent job there!

Lastly, I feel like you may want to put a rating on this. There are intense emotions, and use of d*** which admittedly isnt a super strong word, but just something to consider.

Overall, nice pair of traveling boots here! (I'm referring to my review method ;))

And that wraps it up. Hope this helped you out some!! -Kaia




Fishr says...


Oh! You made some excellent points I overlooked. I will definitely remove %u2018halfheartedly. Honestly this their part has gone through so many edits I forget about what was the original tone.

You%u2019re right about the usage of %u2018dang.%u2019 I haven%u2019t decided in a more period term. XD

Basically, Patrick Henry was reverting to child-like mannerisms a little here and there in this 3rd part. His wife and he knew each other very young and even married when Henry was just 18. [that is true]. We%u2019ll never know his true feelings or r action because as soon as his %u2018Sally%u2019 died, he went off to the Virginia Convention where he gave hus most famous speech, %u201C Give me liberty or give me death!%u201D Henry was a very private man apparently because none of any personal letters he might have composed to his family, nothing exists.

Thank you for the review! Very helpful.



Kaia says...


Glad to have helped out a fellow author



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Sat Apr 27, 2024 6:45 am
22Midnight wrote a review...



Hi names 22Midnight
hope your doing well, let's get into it!

First Impressions: first off I hope that I got your message right for the request that basically you just want my reactions to the event's happening in the story, judging from the title this must have been back where internet wasn't that big of a deal yet and things where difficult.

February, 1775 – Scotchtown Plantation, Virginia.

Spirits of all elevated to some higher divine, into the black heavens, upon this clear night, comes the grace of a white-gold moon. In her dappled beauty spun, ever in perfect synchrony with the Heavenly Father, she comes to the sky as a mother comes to sing a soft lullaby to ease her children into a star-filled night, stoic, yes, the moon casts rays along a kneeling person.


oh mysteries, the darkness hold all sorts of things bad and good, love the description here.
not sure if you meant for the word Scotchtown to be one word maybe put a space there possible so it looks like this Scotch town unless you meant for it to be one word of course.

“Sit beside me.”

Removing my coat, I search for fingernails that would otherwise imbed themselves into the cloth's fibers. It was such a hassle plucking each one of Patrick’s jagged nails out of one of my outermost layer. The weave is taut and was the grandest worsted available, a gift from Father. The floor shows mainly thumbnails, which suffered the worst damage to the nervous week-long gnawing and chewing, especially at their corners. Using a shoe, I bury them under the dirt, unbutton my coat, and lay it next to him.


his this person going to tell your main character a story I'm so used to that when someone say's sit beside me. XD i got the worst thought now about the persons nails just kind of falling off randomly that kind of creeped me out.

just a small thing here imbed should be spelt with an e in the beginning instead of an i like this embed small error that commonly happens.

“Your apprenticeship ends next week.”

I cringe hearing those words.

“Hold my hand.”

I gave his left a comforting squeeze.

My mentor raises them to his lips and kisses the top of my knuckles.

“I love you, Nehemiah.”

“As do I.”

I look at him. As if the soul could bleed an ocean through the eyes, that was the enormity of Patrick’s grieving.


hmm what did this person learn as an apprentice to Patrick I'm curious, aww sounds like this person really likes there mentor and doesn't want it to be over, this was such a touching moment between them both that got be wondering how much stuff they've been through with each other. also i love the name Nehemiah!

The night of the procession, through a narrow little lane in the skirts of the city, I was stopped by a grand procession of a hearse and one mourning carriage drawn by two horses, accompanied by a significant number of flambeau and attendants. Naturally, concluded that all this parade was to pay the last honors to an eminent person whose consequence in life required that his ashes should receive all the respect which his friends and relations could pay to.


oh no now we've gone from a really touching scene to a funeral, XD okay the way I pictured that might have been wrong but like when I read consequences it was like oh your main character doesn't like this eminent person do they. also the person who died sounds like his of some importance, and the family has to much money.

Whatever outward signs of mourning I should have given, none was shown. The corpse (on whom all this expense had been lavished) was none other than my brother or what was left of his crushed body. He was to be deposited at Aspen where our family’s deceased are buried.


:shock: forget what I just said now I'm thinking that they work in the army and Nehemiah's brother ended up getting crushed and smashed by someone. shivers okay if your main character isn't feeling emotional right now I'm thinking his sunk into denial which is a horrible feeling.

Clad in black, and my hair clubbed and freshly powdered, the recalling about a hearse, a mourning carriage, and I watched from the sidelines, all in actuality, is a lucid dream.

I reach over and dab Patrick’s lingering tears with a thumb.

“Hold me, dear boy.”


I am confused here about what the meaning of mentioning Clad's name is since I don't know who they are at all so that means nothing to me when I'm reading it. aww shame poor Patrick I wanna go over and give him a hug already.

I wrap Patrick’s arms around me and hold his breast against mine. Despite Patrick’s loose shirt clinging in sweaty spots, his breath rises and eddies in cold, wintry drafts. The brim of his bony nose causes me to grind my teeth so much that I twisted his head to the side so it may lay flat instead. Such grief is perfectly understandable following the loss of a precious person. I recline enough to see a face. I gently grip Patrick’s jaw in my thumb and forefinger, bringing it towards my lips, but before I can offer a small peck above his brows, he clasps my wrists firmly, shoving them down.


I got to say this part was really confusing, might want to clarify what you meant this to be more, I found it very hard to follow with what you meant. Also is this possibly like Patrick's girl friend wife or son or something because I'm not sure otherwise why they would have wanted to give them a small peck like kiss? also very confusing that they have this sort of relationship when this is Nehemiah's mentor.

“Whatever was about to be done cannot precede. I would sob,” Patrick says.

“Sobbing is healing,” I retort.

“It hurts.“

“I can fetch the children for added support.”

“They’re long, fast asleep. I have only you right now.”

“When Mother died, I ate not a morsel. Father said I looked obsolete, pale, skinny. That was well before Brother was killed.”

“Please, Nehemiah, no more talk of death. I cannot handle morose storytelling.”


I starting to wonder if Nehemiah is maybe a maid of some sort that they've hired, or maybe a sister, I'm not sure sort of confused though about Patrick and hers refashions. but I am so feeling sorry for Patrick it sounds like his lost a lot over a short period of time and it's really taking it's toll on his emotions.

“But, I have experience with it.”

“Unless you want to witness screeching a violent outpouring of whining and wailing like earlier, that subject is null and void.”

“Patrick,” I say.

“Hm?”

“I love you.”

“You just want me to have a good sob, do you not? You are very well determined.”


this is no time for story telling there at a funeral that for some reason has been hosted very late at night. Nehemiah just sounds like they are trying to get Patrick to let his emotions out and not bury them anymore. that is another thing though still I am unsure if Nehemiah is a women or a man I'm thinking a women but not sure might want to think of a way to clarify it a bit more.

“I think a good conversation about Miss Sarah would be wise. Nighttime will not last, and soon as we know, the slaves will stir at first light. No one should see her body. Surely,—“

“Point made. Allow time to think.”

“No. Speak spontaneously. In your bereavement—“

“All right! You talk too much.”

“You love me anyway,” I say.

“Again, there is much to ponder.”


I can tell that Patrick wants them to just be quite and him to be left alone, to be honest I am finding your main character a bit annoying that the moment, in a rather funny way but maybe don't push the nagging out to much, because it can create a bad connection with the reader towards the main character because at the moment I do favor Patrick's character more.

I said no more. Often thoughtful, frequently lengthy, and always considered, I beg my dear mentor to examine options for a speedy reply. Two weeks earlier, Patrick developed peculiar quirks, such as sleeping with a secret plaything. One day, I wanted to do a kind favor for my adopted family. I thought fluffing everyone’s pillows was decent enough. Big, comfortable objects awaited them. When I lifted Patrick’s, a little lamb of many years that passed must have been a great source of comfort, tumbled backward. If it once looked white, the poor thing’s wooly coat is more of a sepia hue now. It was easy to see the toy was a very cherished lamb. When I rolled it around in between my fingers, I felt rough stitching. In all capital letters, blue cross-stitched spelt LAMMY on the inside, lower part of its right leg. For some, it was a ‘blanky,’ for others, an imaginary friend, and for Patrick, he had a stuffed lamb. At the time, I did not know whether to laugh or cringe at the absurd notion of a grown man cuddling a toy. I swore he went daft.


Oh so Nehemiah is adopted okay that makes some sense I guess, does that mean that Patrick is kind of like a father figure to them then? also hey anyone can have comfort from a Teddy maybe it belonged to someone who he'd lost and it meant a lot to him.

My apprenticeship concluded because Patrick had to travel to the House of Burgesses in March and could not be an instructor anymore.

“You must not go indeed you must not; the very thought of living without you so totally sinks my spirits that I am sure the reality would be more than I could bear . . .,” Patrick says.

“The floor thanks its master for the kind words to it.”

Patrick snorts. “Dear Nehemiah, always the fool.”

“Best to be the fool than the, oh, never mind.”

“As you wish it. I cannot bear to look at my wife.”


if Nehemiah is adopted then why is it that Patrick is a Mentor surely it would rather be a father type ish relationship, I am so saddened about how much they've lost over time thought that his so sad. I can tell that bravery is the only thing keeping him going.

I will carry on reading the rest but will no longer quote the paragraphs.

Overall: I did enjoy reading it for sure it was certainly sad and a lot of things about war going on, and how Patrick is having a lot of trouble moving on from his wife's death it sounds like. I also love the back and forth arguments that are mixed in with love that Nehemiah and Patrick have. I must say the last part of the chapter was slightly more enjoyable then the first, and I have grown attached to Patrick's character a lot but I feel as though I'm lacking any connections to your main character which I think at this point since it seems to be from Nehemiah's point of view is them. I was very touched by the overall story though it was very sad and heart warming to see how much Nehemiah cares for Patrick.

anyway that's it from me

hope you have a great dawn/dusk/midnight

See Ya




Fishr says...


Hey, thank you so much for your insight. I probably should have mentioned this part is the final part of this story. That%u2019s why there is confusion. Ha ha.



Fishr says...


January 30th, 1775 - Scotchtown Plantation, Virginia. [2] [Part 1]. No need to comment. Just fills in the gaps.



Fishr says...


Sorry, this Part 1. The beginning. No need to comment. Just fills in the gaps. 1772 – Scotchtown Plantation, Virginia. [1]



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Sat Apr 27, 2024 1:03 am
Inferno wrote a review...



Hello, my friend!
Wow, wow, wow. How you manage to write a beautiful story and keep it consistently entrancing the whole way, I will never know. This story is so incredibly sad, heartfelt, warm, and fuzzy at the same time! You have a very large vocabulary, a feat I am trying to work on. This part has a mixture of emotions that I really enjoyed reading:

“Damn you, Patrick.”

“Damn me, what?”

“I am beginning to cry now.”

“It happens.”

*sniff* Now I'M beginning to cry now! This part really hit home for me, since it literally describes my everyday emotions:
“Whatever was about to be done cannot precede. I would sob,” Patrick says.

“Sobbing is healing,” I retort.

“It hurts.“

Yes. For me, I cry a WHOLE lot... and I hate it. That line hit it on the spot.

Gosh. You are SO talented with your descriptions, personalities, and conveying of emotions. You have a way of pulling on my heartstrings with every line!

Usually, I have quite a bit of corrections for people, but for you, this work is near perfect! I only have one suggestion, and it is really minor:
Clad in black, and my hair clubbed and freshly powdered, the recalling about a hearse, a mourning carriage, and I watched from the sidelines, all in actuality, is a lucid dream.

A beautifully written line, but it is a bit of a mouthful. Try cutting it up, so it's less of a congested sentence.

Overall, this was a marvelous work of art. Very well done in every aspect! Happy writing!
Inferno.




Fishr says...


Aww, you are so sweet.

I looked over your suggestion and you are right. It needed help. lol. Also, I did some more revising. If all the characters I have worked with, Patrick Henry is the most challenging but the most fun too. This man did not broadcast his personal sufferings. If any letters or journals existed, they%u2019re totally gone now. I bet he burned them%u2026 lol.

Thank you so much. I hope it was not boring at all.




"The trouble with Borrowing another mind was, you always felt out of place when you got back to your own body, and Granny was the first person ever to read the mind of a building. Now she was feeling big and gritty and full of passages. 'Are you all right?' Granny nodded, and opened her windows. She extended her east and west wings and tried to concentrate on the tiny cup held in her pillars."
— Terry Pratchett, Discworld: Equal Rites