A/N: This is a story I wrote as a free choice piece for my Junior English class. It was inspired by my A.P. U.S. History class. I had earlier in History written an essay on who (Britain or America) was responsible for the tensions that led to independence. Being a debater and (I hope) a thinker, I wrote an essay defending the British actions. I ended up liking it a lot, and it lead me to ask the question: with so many different points of view in a situation, is there ever a "right" side? Exempting certain situations cough hack wheeze - Hitler! of course. So this is meant to show what different people can make of the same situation.

One thing: I wrote all the entries in the same style originally. Then I realized that I had to differentiate between voices. Any suggestions to help make the characterization clearer would be much appreciated. Especially the last one. I wrote it in a formal style, and then thought, "Oh, he's a farm boy. He wouldn't talk like the educated merchant's daughter." So if anyone out there is good at writing country-style slang, I'd love to hear your ideas.

I thrive on new ideas, suggestions, and challenges. All reviews will be accepted, even flames. So PLEASE R&R. Hope you like it!

From the Diary of Elisabeth Anne Taylor, November 10th, 1767

I will not pretend innocence at the neglect of my writings. I admit that I once regarded this exercise as both pointless and tedious and felt no need to obey the order of my father. It has been months, perhaps more than six, since I last wrote. But now that I return to chronicle my existence, Father having found this notebook and its blank pages, I find myself regretting my deviation, for I have too much to say. It will take long hours of hard work to set down all I must, and I much dislike the idea.

Although, I admit that I had forgotten the pleasant feel of pen on paper, setting down indelibly those thoughts I dare not speak out loud. And the education shall remain an asset to me. Father cares very much for education. He himself was naught but a farmer’s son until he learned to work figures and drive a hard bargain. Now he is a merchant; if not exactly prosperous, then still able to afford his family’s comforts.

Though current events would threaten that which he has gained. It makes me angry beyond words, that the British would mistreat us so! It is my thought that we should not bear such abuses anymore. Here, do not fault me for rash disobedience and reactionism. I am not some irrational, separatist American, acting merely at the incitement of the young, who have been said to balk any authority. True, I am but fourteen years of age myself, but I have considered these events and seen their effects. These Townshend Acts, so called for the new British Lord of Exchequer, are not in the best interests of any party concerned. I would have thought that Parliament would heed the failures of earlier taxes, but they will not listen to reason. My own family, who remained loyal through The Quartering Act, which allowed the British soldiers to enter our homes without leave; The Currency Act, which rendered invalid all our paper money and caused Father to sell a ship; The Sugar Act, which levied taxes on sugar, textiles, iron, and coffee; and The Stamp Act, which began the dreadful nuisance of a required stamp on every bit of paper from wills to playing cards; shall not bear this quietly.

At least, some of us won’t. Father is angry in his own quiet way; I daresay England will lose a bit of his trade. Mother and Margaret consider it only Britain’s right to tax us so. They have always stood in support of the King and his laws. Why, Margaret has wed a magistrate who hails from London. She scolds me constantly, if mildly, for my thoughts, presuming to know the extent of them. The truth of my mind might very well set her screaming, did she but guess at it. I am of the new thought, the whispers of resistance. And with me is my brother Samuel. He is a lawyer, and a fine one at that. Long, longer than me, has he sympathized with the boycotts that have so injured Britain’s trade. Now he joins the Sons of Liberty, those who would do more than passive protest. Thank the Lord Mother knows naught of it, or I might be denied his company. I believe Father, in all his shrewd calculation, has guessed, but he does not mention it. It is a testament to Mother’s love of Samuel that she does not suspect, what with all his secretive meetings and assignations. Then, I also help his case, often making excuses for his absence or subsequent bruises. I remember the first of his meetings, that which they now call the Stamp Act Congress, during which I fully convinced Mother that he lay in bed, sick with ague!

So goes life. The taxes have again damaged Father’s business, but the boycotts have already begun. If I can no longer drink an afternoon tea, it is not much bother to me. Not so with young Edward Birchall, who seeks to court me. Would that a boycott of him were effective!

Letter from Mary Reynolds to Her Cousin, Emilie Dudsington, June 11, 1772

Dearest Emilie,

I hope this letter finds you and your family in good health. I regret that, upon hearing the news of the Gaspee, I cannot say so of myself. I confess that I am shocked and aggrieved beyond a lady’s composure at the American actions and their blatant disregard of British property, lives, and law. While I am sure you will have heard all by the time this missive reaches you, I must, in my anger, relate the events in full.

This past March, as you well know, your honorable father was sent (by the King himself!) to help enforce our law and prevent smuggling. A worthy mission, to be sure, and no man worthier than the Lt.! And yet, the Americans did not seem to grasp the importance of his task, and responded with unalloyed fury. Surely, this alone demonstrates British superiority of intellect, but I shall continue so as to further prove my point and dull the sharp edge my tongue has acquired in righteous silence. Not only did they fly into an awful rage, but they resorted to a rough, most uncouth display of violence.

Yes, you have read the above words correctly. They might have lodged a civil complaint (completely unjustified, of course), and yet they chose instead to descend in screaming hordes upon your father’s ship and set it afire. Indeed, ‘chose’ is hardly the word for it. I credit them with too little aforethought to consider diverse options.

As a resident of the colony of America, though hardly a sympathizer, allow me to extend my deepest regrets and apologies. I apparently dwell in a land of savages (and I do not speak of the red Indians)! I very much wish that I could say the culprits shall be brought to justice, but I fear ‘twould be a lie. Why, in the city of Boston, where I reside, young, out-of-work, drunk American men patrol the streets, taking it upon themselves to tar and feather the loyal British officials! And yet, when apprehended and brought before the court, the juries acquit them with barely a glance at the victims. Why, just last week, I myself attended one of these farcical trials. Dear Gloria Rutherford’s husband was most viciously attacked by a party of young men calling themselves the Sons of Liberty. They were apprehended in due course, as should happen in a civilized society. As shouldn’t happen, the leader (one Samuel Taylor, of twenty-one years of age), spoke such inflammatory words that the jury rose up and cheered! I left before the verdict, too thoroughly disgusted to remain in the vicinity.

In my mind, this outrage stems from a simple problem; the Americans have quite forgotten that they are British, and much indebted to the mother country. They react with outrage to taxes levied simply to pay wars fought by their men on their soil, because the relations between Britain and France were what caused it! The idea is so absurd that I find myself at a loss for words.

Please relay to your father that there are those here who value his service and thank him for it. I shall write to you again anon. Pray that I shall soon follow my letters, for there are whispers of war, and I doubt I can abide another month in this wretched place.

Much love,

Mary

Selection from the Private Notes of Benjamin Chase, July 3rd, 1774

I am ruined. None may tell me otherwise, for these are not the words simply of a — a despairing man — one drowning in self-pity. No, these are instead the words of a calculating man, one who has perused the numbers countless times and found that they do not lie. They tell me that I am ruined; indeed, lucky not to be living on the streets. Even Becca, my beautiful, optimistic, supportive Becca, concedes that we may have overstepped our financial capabilities. It breaks my heart to see her willingly accept our position for my sake.

Now then comes the question, born of guilt: Is it my fault? That, I do not believe. Perhaps — just maybe — I relied too heavily on the creditors to support my inchoate venture, but even if I had not, I fail to see how I could have avoided this fall from grace. No, the blame lies elsewhere. Where? I cannot exactly say. In my heart, I believe the problem to be the rebels, the ‘Sons of Liberty’ and their type. In their violent actions and radical calls for war, they have caused all to suffer. As much as I hold this, however, every one of my neighbors and friends in business blames Parliament. No, not even that. They blame Britain. But a moment ago, I took tea with one of the most prominent merchants in all of New England, Richard Taylor, and he spoke with pride of his son and daughter’s exploits in their fight against the British. Is it not an amazing thing that the colonists — British citizens all — can view our country with such hatred as to portray it as a separate entity? I know that I should (and mostly do) find this idea preposterous. And yet, I cannot help but think that my country asks too much. What are we to do, we loyal British, who rely on trade for a living? We have endured amicably many hardships and taxes to serve the greater purpose of quelling the American rebellion. But now . . . I do not know. Perhaps writing it will make the ends clearer. Surely, they must be great, to justify the means.

Parliament has writ into law The Coercive Acts (or, as they are already called, The Intolerable Acts). They found it needful to do so to sufficiently respond to American actions, which, I must say, have been bloody atrocious. The rebels have, in the last four years alone, provoked our troops into violent actions and subsequently prosecuted them, burned the HMS Gaspee, and rioted over the withdrawal of a long-begrudged tax. They have also taken it upon themselves to terrorize loyal British citizens, to the point where we may not walk the streets unaccompanied for fear of our safety. Of course a punitive response, and a goddamn harsh one at that, is justified.

And yet, I cannot see — will not see? — why we all must bear the burden. You see, these Intolerable Acts decree that Boston may no longer have its own government, ceding control to British martial law, and furthermore that the port is closed until every ounce of tea (destroyed in aforementioned rioting) is paid for. What are the merchants to do? When first announced, I laughed at the fine joke thinking to see the Americans wilt like so many forsaken flowers once their business disappeared from under them. When they remained resilient, I was driven to disbelief; could my country truly enforce such a brutal measure over all to punish a few? But now — apparently, the answer is yes. And it has ruined me.

Whatever security I once held has evaporated. Each day living in fear of my loans, each sodding bloody question of “When?” and “How much?” resounding in my head, pushes me a little closer to madness. Why — just the other day — I broke near to pieces to see my baby Susanna, of only five years on this earth, ask why she could not eat her usual dinner. A fine thing, to explain to your child that you may soon — might — probably shall — have nothing left at all, and what you now retain must be treasured and hoarded. I could see that she did not understand, but she wept tears of confusion in response to mine. Even as I write this, my hand clutches at my chest over my heart, feeling still the terrible ache within.

My country requires great things of me — perchance too great — for my mortal means and soul. I do not know where to turn. I feel the chill of fear, as surely as though Death himself were looming over my shoulder. Perhaps he is. But I shall endure — as best I can — for my nation asks it of me. Pray that I shall live out this time of hardship.

From the Journal of Peter Brooker, April 30, 1775

It’s always been hard to be the oldest, with all the responsibility my father left t’me when he died. In the last few months, the pressure has been comin’ up on unbearable. But now, havin’ seen what I wished so well to see and found it impossible t’stomach, the weight rests a little easier on my shoulders. I’m glad that, as a provider, I can support life, even if I need t’do it in all the dirt-stained ingloriousness of country-boy farmer. Wasn’t always that I felt this way, though. No, just one single month ago, I was eager t’grab any glory I could get. And more than that, I was eager to fight the redcoats.

It sounds horrid now, lookin’ back. I can’t justify my urge to fight and t’kill, though I can reason it. Whatever I did, ‘twas for my country. The British have too long oppressed us, layin’ heavy taxes and enforcin’ them by military might. ‘Twas and is our duty to stand up for our own, to declare our rights so that the whole world may hear. Don’t misunderstand my words - I still support the war. I’m just findin’ that I can’t accept the method. Why we must resolve our disputes through death, I think I’ll always wonder. ‘Tis the way it is done, though.

For me, it started when I first read John Dickinson’s Letters of a Pennsylvania Farmer. He spoke of law, and right, and, tentatively, armed resistance. I felt then the terrible need t’prove my courage, to steep my manhood in the blood that is so admired among the revolutionaries. Bein’ a good son, I went to my mother, t’ask her for permission to join the militia, hopin’ t’make the elite ranks of the minutemen. Bein’ a good mother, she told me t’shut my mouth and forget about it. She reminded me of my five younger siblings and my obligation t’them. She spoke of her inability t’tend the farm by herself. She argued that I was just a boy, unfit for war. And she said that she couldn’t bear another death, even if ‘twere to be an honorable one.

I heeded her then, but the urge crept up on me, stronger and stronger. I was restless and impatient, once even strikin’ Matthew across the face, though the accident ‘twasn’t his fault. My sense of honor pricked me even harder when my best boyhood friend, William, told me about his enlistment. I can still see the pride in his warm brown eyes as he told me, and the disappointed look of his broad, honest features as I replied that I couldn’t do the same. Yes, I could barely hold back, for all that I loved my mother and family.

As time passed, I kept right on listenin’ t’the gossip of town. Tore at my heart, it did, t’hear of poor Becca McVeigh, now called Becca Chase. She was the daughter of our neighbor Mr. McVeigh, and one of my young playmates. Game for a girl, she was, and I liked her for it. ‘Bout six years ago, she married a Mr. Ben Chase. Nice enough man, it seemed, and totally besotted with her. Now, they’ve been forced back inta Mr. McVeigh’s house ‘cause his business was destroyed by th’ Intolerable Acts. T’hear them speak, it ain’t Britain’s fault, but I know better.

The day I gave up any last trace of control sticks out clear in my mind. April 19th, only eleven days ago. So much longer than that it seems, more like a lifetime. We live perhaps two hours’ walk outside Lexin’ton. I was milkin’ Flora when a rider came a-tearing through our fields, headin’ for Boston. Resentful at his lack of courtesy, I stepped in front of his horse and demanded his business. ‘Twas then that he told me. The British were comin’. American militia had stockpiled gunpowder in a Lexington church, and the redcoats knew. A call was goin’ out t’the minutemen to assemble for battle. I let him pass, stunned into silence. Armed resistance. My heart jumped hard in my chest, callin’ for action. Without second thought, I ran to the house and grabbed my father’s gun, rusty from disuse. Ignoring Mother’s wails, I left.

I didn’t run the path to Lexin’ton, knowing the futility of it. My walk was purposeful, my sight limited t’the road under my feet. When I finally reached the outskirts of the town, I slowed, eventually stopping perhaps a hundred feet from the edge of Lexin’ton green. There, the minutemen were assembled. Knowin’ they would turn me away if I approached, I waited, my heart in my throat. I didn’t have to wait long. Not two shakes of a lamb’s tail later, the redcoats had arrived. I could hear their commander, whom I later learned was one Major Thomas Pitcairn, ask our forces t’step down, promisin’ their safety if they surrendered. What I heard next, I’ll remember forever. Our Captain John Parker did not deign to answer, turnin’ instead t’his troops. “Stand your ground,” he said. “Do not fire unless fired upon. But if they mean to have a war, let it begin here.”

For long moments, the men faced each other. Finally, I couldn’t bear it anymore. I broke into a run, meanin’ t’join the minutemen in their stand. I didn’t get there. Around halfway, I tripped and fell heavily to the ground. The butt of my gun slammed t’the hard-packed earth, jerking my finger against the trigger. A shot rang out. When I looked up, the British had opened fire, the minutemen fleeing before them. I couldn’t move for fear. Two hours I laid on the ground, shiverin’, watchin’ as buildings were set aflame and shots fired, few hittin’ their targets. Only when the British heard that the gunpowder had been moved and began t’march down the road could I rise to my feet and run to the battlefield.

I know now that the casualties were small, in the numbers of war, but they seemed then impossible. I could see at least sixteen fallen, though some weren’t dead. I wandered among them, shell-shocked, until I saw something that brought me to a shuddering halt. A gun fallen from a well-callused hand, a rough workin’ shirt . . . a pair of familiar brown eyes, warm even in death. Then, I cried, kneeling beside William’s body.

I later heard that the redcoats had marched on to Concord and been summarily defeated, but I don’t care. All I remember is Lexington. I don’t know what would have happened had my gun not fired, but I can’t help but think that I killed my best friend, as surely as though I had leveled my muzzle at his heart.

For all that would or would not have happened, I can say for sure that the deaths had a great effect on us all. We are at war, now, for our independence. For good or for bad, it has begun, sure enough.

I have begun it.

A/N: Thanks for reading! Again, please R&R.

Oh, just a sidenote: all historical facts are accurate. Even the single shot that started the war. No one knows who fired it - this is my interpretation. It's known as "the shot heard 'round the world."