Lizzie
****Part One****
I couldn’t bear to look into the ocean any longer. We were surrounded by the cool, dark, abyss. I found myself watching, just searching the waters for something, anything. Any sign of life, love, or hope. There was nothing. The water seemed like a pool of tears, shadowy and hollow. Where else would the tears of lonely souls go once they’d been shed? That was only when the waters were asleep. When the waters were aroused by our ships side, the waves terrifyingly crashed against the darkened wood. The ship was tossed about like an angry child throwing a toy. Crewmen, not being able to get a hold of something stable, were flung around like rag dolls.
“Not yet have their sea legs,” the captain said to me on a stormy night.
I traveled from my home and my life, to a new home far across bodies of lands and oceans. Something so forsaken could never suffice as an acceptable home for my father and me. The thing I would miss the most, out of everything so wonderful about England, is the gardens. They were so true, so beautiful. Like watching the ocean, I would stare into the grand bouquet of daisies and lilies for house, daydreaming about fairy tale things. Such things are frowned upon for a lady, so I keep it close to my heart where it is my little secret.
“We’re taking on water!” a crewman exclaimed, bringing me back to the violent thrashings of the sea.
“Land ho!” another man called out from the crow’s nest. That man’s job is to sit and look about; seemed like child’s play compared to the other chores.
The few passengers that were on the vessel moved with haste towards the front of the ship; each wanting to see the first spot of land that they’d seen in months. Being a proper lady, I waited until all of the men had their turn before I too peered out on the horizon. There were doubts in my mind about this trip. How was I to know that the ship was to bring us to its true destination? How was I to know I wasn’t on a vessel destined for slavery? There was no way to be sure, for I could not speak to my father about such foolish worries. Childish, he would call it.
The beach was not like the harbor in England. There was no harbor in this waste land. My father, the passengers and I were put on a smaller boat, a paddle boat, to be shipped to shore. They weren’t going to beach the ship, I overheard. It was due back to England for a journey to Africa to pick up a shipment of blacks. Slaves, they meant, black men, women, and children who will be sold for a petty profit.
“Miss,” a young woman cooed. “We are due a bit down the beach.” It was Olivia Kincadd, my close servant. She had light blond hair that framed her olive face. Her light blue eyes sparkled in the sun. Olivia had a modest smile on her face, lie she always had whenever around me. I nodded to her and we followed the men’s footprints up the beach.
The venture into town was a ghastly one. We were met on the beach’s edge with two horse drawn carriages with mud plastered on the sides and on the wheels. The driver of the carriage seemed drunk, and there were no footmen to help us with our bags. The driver stumbled off his seat and fell to the ground. One of the men we traveled with courteously helped him to his feet.
“I’m alright,” the driver said with a clumsy accent; its strange twang seemed foreign to me. He was dirty and he hadn’t shaved in weeks. He brushed himself off a bit before opening the door and gesturing out entrance to his carriage with his arm. My father made the same gesture to me, but on my father, the action seemed clean and proper.
My father and I were nothing close to royalty, but I did consider myself a princess. I was my father’s little princess who got anything and everything I’ve ever needed. It is unmistakable that I would feel superior to this vile man. My father, being the decent man that he was, helped me into the carriage when he saw my disgust towards the driver.
The driver headed off on a dirt path that led into deep woods. The trees created a canvas over the road. If it weren’t a vulgar, uncultured place, the road would have some artistry within it.
The cramped carriage consisted of my, my father, Olivia and a newlywed couple. During the voyage to our new home, I had a change to speak with the wife. Her name was Prudence Knox and her husband’s name was Anthony. They had been married less than a year before they were thrown from their home due to high debts with the landlord. According to Prudence, Anthony had found work with my father as an instructor in the mill. Anthony was to teach my father’s new employees how to work some of my father’s machines.
Prudence and Anthony showed all of the signs of a happy newlywed couple. She was proper as I when it came to silly things as staying silent in the presence of others or the modesty of covering all of her womanly qualities. She had dark brown hair that was up in natural curls. She looked effortlessly beautiful, and I was jealous of her allurement.
Anthony, however, didn’t share such attracting qualities. He stood awkwardly as if he didn’t feel like he belonged in his current company. He had stringy blond hair that he consistently pushed behind his ears. Anthony walked as if he had two left feet, as the expression goes. He tripped over things, including his own two feet! The uncoordinated man seemed as if he was still just a boy instead of a married adult.
Together, Prudence acted as if he was just like everyone else; looking past the stumbling cumbersome situations the boy tends to put himself in. She accepts him for who he is and appears to love him anyway. Something I knew I could never do.
Outside the carriage, the trees grew thicker and greener. It’s too green, I thought. The roads were uneven and it jerked us within the carriage as if no one had traveled on the road in ages. Glancing out the teeny round window, I could see the trees dissolve as we arrived into town. In place of the trees where slight buildings and an elderly woman leading a flock of children down the road. One could tell the children were of different parents because of the mixture of ages and hair colors. A young lady, near my age, was walking behind the children carrying a basket with bread and butter. She kept her eyes on the ground as she marched behind the flock. Other men and women lined the roads with stands, selling fruits and other goods.
“The market,” my father said, as if correcting my thoughts.
Anthony spoke for the first time then. “We should be arriving at the mill then?” he asked my father.
Without looking at Anthony, my father replied, “I was told the mill was just outside of town. Just past a bit of farm land.” Anthony didn’t reply to my father’s comment. He looked at his wife, then back out the window, undoubtedly searching the outside world for something of interest, just as I was doing.
What seemed like an eternity was just only a half hour before we reached the mill’s driveway. As I stepped out of the carriage, I noticed a river just down the hill. There was a bridge over the river with a large wooden wheel streaming around and around again. The mill was on both sides of the river, connected by the bridge. Much different from the mills in England where there were cities built around the mills.
A deep feeling in the pit of my belly made me realize that this domicile was my new home, my new prison.
Imagery - The first paragraph was simply ah-mazing! You seemed to get imagery, metaphors, and I could really feel where we were. After that, you stopped. For instance, in the carriage, you tell us that it is horse-drawn...and that's about it. Is it covered in filth, just like the driver? Is there an aroma of alcohol wafting from it? Do the wheels screech as they are driving along the dirt path? Or, is it thoroughly clean? Is it the opposite of the carriage's driver? You get the idea right?
Thanks again for using my thread and feel free to PM me if you have any questions!
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