The
hampen halter was put dutifully around my neck, the man calloused to
my position in life. I wondered how many he had hung before this day.
I supposed many. I shut my eyes tightly, forcing back frightened
tears and endeavouring to ignore my grave situation. This was my end.
I could very well change it. The truth is, however, I deserved such
an ending.
My
beginning was marked by smiles that lit the dark, cold and wet day in
the beginning of the month of May 1792. Joy filled the room as I was
brought into this cruel world and my cries were oh so innocent as I
took my first few breathes.
"It
is a girl!" my mother's caregiver had shouted above the screams
of the war raging outside. My mother smiled, her brown eyes
disappearing behind her eyelids, relief filled her whole being.
"Madam
needs to be let alone, sir," the caregiver probed my father to
take his leave from the room. This would be the first and last time
that my parents would experience the joy of bringing a child into the
world.
Mother
simply was unable to carry another child in her womb. She had far
too many complications when giving birth to me. Fortunately, her
life did not end, just yet. She had the best health care given her.
It was all too common that women having complications while giving
birth to their child would come to a fatal end, especially for the
poor.
The
chance of my survival was also minimal. We were one of the few small
families. Around us families went through the dreadful pain of
loosing their beloved children. Class did not matter. People soon
became so accustomed to this, that they continued having children in
order to replace those lost. It is a sad reality still prevalent
today. Infant mortality is high. People have to be indifferent to
it, or they would no doubt go mad – and this I have seen happen all
too many times. This makes my family one of the few fortunate ones;
the only reason being, my father's great deal of wealth.
During
the days of the early years of my life, I spent most of my time with
my dear mother. She dedicated her life to me, doing whatever she
could for me. She would go so far as performing puppet shows for my
entertainment, and I am almost certain, for her own enjoyment too.
She was what I would describe as the best mother. Although of high
class, she would never hand her duties as mother over to the
servants. Unfortunately, that is all I know of her. It hurts at heart
that I only got to know her as a mother and not a person.
I
remember when she suddenly stopped being herself; when she became
terribly ill. Our previously happy home became morbid. Even my brave
father, I would find weeping, in much sorrow. I was frightened. I was
not to see my mother, as she was not in a good way at all. I caught
sight of her once, as a nurse was entering her room with a tray; she
could not close the door immediately, so I stared at my mother
through the doorway and before the nurse had seen me I had run away.
I could not believe the sight of my mother. She had become so thin
and lifeless and it was as if her beauty had been sucked out of her.
I remember crying myself to sleep and when I slept I still saw her.
It was that night that her life ended.
It
was immensely difficult after my mother died. I matured hastily. We
shared a close bond, that my father was not part of. His life was
mostly spent at sea or away in another part of Britain. He tried
forming a bond with me after my mother died when he had realized how
lonesome I was. Happily, his attempt proved successful, for he and I
formed an incredibly close bond. Often, he would take me to the ships
on which he travelled. He would tell me many tales of his adventures
at sea. I longed to abandon my education to share with him in his
exciting adventures. But my father felt it too dangerous for me. So
instead of going on what I imagined as exciting missions, I would
await my father’s return home. Sometimes I would wait for months
for his arrival. At such times, I would endeavour to keep myself
engaged in my studies. Often this would not drown my sorrows, for
when he was gone I could only think of mother. How she would play
with me, read to me and sing to me with her incredibly beautiful
voice.
My
name is one that will not be easily forgotten; Miss Joselyn Rose
James. I have a story that no other girl could ever imagine of, let
alone narrate. It is a story of tribulation and warfare.
1810
is the year that begins my story.
The
sounds of a port encircled me and the sun blinded my eyes. I wished
that was all my ears could find to hear. In the distance I heard the
wrathful sounds of a battle. I put my knees to my chest and hid my
head from the evils that had been with me for all my existence. All
I ever knew of was war, this war raging between my country, Britain,
against France. It was a reality that I could never get accustomed
to. All through my life these sounds have frightened me. Screams.
Terribly loud explosions. Men shouting out commands. They were
sounds that I could not get away from. And coming to the docks only
made them clearer. I forced myself to this place. Endeavouring to
release my fear from its grip on me. Never did it work. It would
only make my hatred more immense. Many a time, I pondered upon the
thought of whether they still knew what they were fighting about
after so many years.
When
I think of this warring, my heart cries for the poor. So much money
is put into the warfare. And the situation the poor are in is
dreadful. The problem, I feel strongly, is the attitude of many
people of my class. They care nothing for the poor. It is their
opinion that it is their own fault that they are poor. Workhouses are
these peoples' constant fear. If you have no income at all, you had
no choice but to enter this inhumane environment. Father has told me
that this is to discourage the poor from approaching the state for
help. I detest such cruelty; however, as sad it is to for me to say, my feelings wouldn't
change what is, in fact, life.
It
angers me that we live in such comfort, whilst our servants live in
the cramped attic. Our home is a through house, that is, it is not
joined to the backs of other houses; such are the back-to-backs that
the poor live in. Our home has two rooms upstairs, two rooms
downstairs and the washing-up room. Most time is spent in the back
room downstairs, that serves as a kitchen and a living room, as the
fire for cooking meals keeps it warm. Our house is one of the few
houses that has a room in which we can clean ourselves, the
washing-up room, even amongst people of our own class. Most of the
poor don't even have their own outhouse, they have to share with
other families.
My
father, Henry Leopold James, brought me up as a lady. A lady
respecting her elderly. My moral condition was to be as clean as a
polished diamond. I was taught by a young governess, Miss Dowling.
She taught me all that had to do with being a woman of high class;
such things as reading, writing, arithmetic; and also music, sewing,
cooking, and many other activities. My father sent for her soon after
my mother’s death, for he could not teach me the things she would
have. I enjoyed my lessons from the beginning, as during such times I
could forget about the troubles that seized my life. She helped me
along in becoming an elegant dame.
