hetweridnoe

[hetweridnoe]

The Resurrectionist

It was a late twilight hour, the sun hung just below the horizon. The specific time I was unsure of. I had no working watch. The thick smoggy Edinburgh air, chilled and sharp, pierced my skin like the claws of a cat.

The printing press factories worked overtime, releasing clouds as black as the ink into the lungs of the Scottish people.

To get here I walked through The Vennel, which surely earned me a cholera diagnosis and a death sentence. I thought of my own upbringing, one of comfort in a house far from the cities.

The few young trees stood only a little higher than the graves themselves served as canopies for the birds as they sang their evening song.

The grass beneath me was unkept, the bushes and wild flowers had free reign to grow wherever they pleased.

The rusty metal gate of the graveyard I stood before was freezing the palms of my hands, it was chained and locked. Desperate and keyless, I surveyed the crumbling wall before hoisting myself over the iron spiked layer of fence.

Feet sunk into mud, rain water seeped into boots I was assured would be waterproof, instead ruining a pair of pristine white socks.

I trudged past the rows and rows of old graves, some were tarnished by the decades of weathering, some I recognised as people I knew in times long passed..

Now 22 years old and I’m back. I stand in a graveyard, dressed in all black… shovel in hand. The defacing of graves in pursuit of knowledge of the human body post mortem is one thing… but what I am doing now will surely earn me a place in hell. It's human nature to justify each action we make, but this is the work of someone so far gone she lacks any humanity. I hardly feel human anymore, more just a soulless dead husk only capable of caring about my own preservation.

I could say “I’m doing this for my son. The possession my dear brother is buried with is a part of his heritage, who am I to deny my son of his heritage?” But that would be a lie, I don’t even like my son very much. I could blame arsenic in the wallpaper, or my lack of an upbringing, again just excuses. They don’t mean anything. Meaning is a crux of itself, to give something meaning is meaningless. We lie to ourselves and say it all means something that one day all your actions will lead to something wonderful but truth be told its all a lie, death comes for us all and meaning won’t stop that. When you die, thats you. So you could spend your few decades on this planet worrying about whether everything means something… or you could kill, plunder and then die.

In these last few years of my life I’ve learned a lot about human nature, if given the chance between living and dying- people will do anything to survive… including compromising all morals. . Am I really about to desecrate the final resting place of my most beloved brother? Cain Bennett, son of Andrew and Jane Bennett, 1828-1853. All for what.

My stomach turned with dread, I could lay down in the mud and let it consume me, I could let the worms feast upon my flesh and my bones sink into the grounds of this graveyard. I could finally be gone, my death would feed generations of worms, and those worms would fertilise the flowers and through my sacrifice I’d finally be contributing to the world again- leaving behind the endless cycle of self fulfilment I find myself in and will continue to find myself in for however long I live. I refuse to accept the end of things. An addict to the life thrust upon me by fate and pressure to be remembered by history. Who is testing me so harshly? What could I have done to warrant such a sick twist of fate? I find myself longing to see what the other path for Thomasin Bennett was, I must've strayed so deviantly from the plan that fate (God or whatever controls us) had for me. I am but a girl, I had a life ahead of me, full of happiness and joy- now here I stand, ready to commit... a horrible act.

This is awful, I say to myself as I pick up the rusty shovel from the side of the graveyard keeper’s shed.

I am truly an awful woman, I insult as I scan the graveyard.

Where is it that I buried him? I scour, ignoring all previous thoughts.

To dig up my own brother's grave and sell the heirlooms buried alongside him... sell or relish in their elegance. About to stare down into a coffin upon the boy who acted as a father figure for my whole life after my own father so selfishly died for this country long before I was conscious, fighting for opium or victory against the Chinese- something ridiculous like that.

“Anyone else in my situation would do this” is how I have justified this crime of which I had mastered. I’m not new to this. I’m not innocent of any crime. As if I’m doing it for any sort of survival purpose and not just for my own greed. I live lavishly, I live well beyond my means- I am sick with greed, riddled with longing for anything that I don't have. My own brother marks the 40th grave I’ve unearthed in 3 years. I have a prize to prove every one, ranging from emerald rings to a Russian sable fur coat. All for the small price of knowing where to find the freshest bodies. Charlie was imprisoned, yet I stay free as a songbird. Lonely like one too. It's not like it affected the way I live, the money from Charlie’s medical practice paid for 4 maids, the butler, a footman, a cook, and a nursemaid for our son. Without Charlie I am a lost soul, it's as if whoever was writing my life gave up. Day in and day out I’d sit upon the windowsill awaiting him coming home. Charlie had been my sole reason for existing for 5 years, we met at 17, married at 18, His father a big time factory owner- mine dead from a bullet wound 15 years prior, we married a year later. My devotion to him was cult-like, periodically I’d wake up, get dressed and wait in anticipation for him to awake as well, then we would walk to his medical practice, and I would watch him as he performed magic.

And on off days where I couldn’t follow him to work, I’d sit at home like a dog, waiting… watching out the window… listening for the sound of footsteps on the path. He was my God, I worshipped his every action. He could do no wrong.

My longing for the life I had 6 months ago did not distract me as well as I wished it would.

a row of graves away, stood a shrouded figure, a large black sun hat draped around them like a dark halo, their coat flowed in the wind either side of them like drooped wings. Angelic, is one word I’d describe them, if there wasn’t something so sinister about their presence, their hands in their pockets, their hunched over shoulders, their dark clothing. No. This beast was not godly or angelic.

I could not see its face, yet it was obvious that this figure was mourning whatever lay beneath the surface of the tombstone they leaned over, the inscription of which I could not read from where I stood. This creature must be a devil sent to drag me, from my ‘life’ of evading execution, to hell. This graveyard wasn’t still in use. The youngest grave dated in the late 50s… I knew this to be fact. No creature alive cares truly for the dust beneath these ancient layers of dirt. Now people were buried in the new graveyard a little while down this same street. For most people in this town, this graveyard held only a few great-great grandparents, its uneven paths, unmarked graves, rusting gates and fences and forgotten names of generations passed were long forgotten by any natural being- So what is this peculiar creature and why is it in a graveyard on such a frigid December night. Despite every natural human instinct telling me to turn and run, I dragged my feet forward toward this unsettling creature.

“Hello?” I called out. The creature turned… slowly… I caught the first glimpse of its eyes, completely white, empty, no pupils. I couldn’t move as it stared at me from across the graveyard.I could feel every hair on my body stand as a shiver crawled up my spine like thousands of tiny spiders. I could hardly breathe, as though something was holding me by the neck. My stomach turned “Thomasin Bennett?” The creature eked out “Thou hath been here in times passed…”

“I have, yes. Why are you here?” I spin the question, I glared at the creature, feet planted firmly in the weedy gravel path, shoulders back. Desperately trying to seem like I had the control of this situation.

“Thou shalt be buried here.” It croaked like the floorboards of a nearly dilapidated house, its awful voice hardly coherent.

“Will I?” I couldn’t help but laugh “I highly doubt it. You’re nothing but some delusion.” My fear had begun to melt away. Clearly this was some paranoid delusion, the anxiety of being caught grave robbing was making my brain scramble to create something rational to fear… it was not the first time.

“If thou shan’t listen to my promise, at least heed my warning- thou doth becometh more reckless with thou mastered craft, Thomasin. Thou came here forth this night, to desecrate a grave.” The thing gestured to the grave of my brother as though he was still present and accounted for “You shan’t succeed, the unsettled soil will call forth the attention of the townsfolk… you shall hang for your crimes, Thomasin Bennett.”

“Thomasin Bauer! It’s Bauer! This is a family matter, hardly any of your concern.” I snarked, walking closer towards the beast, shovel in hand. “You will stop talking as though you know who I am and back away from the grave.” I demanded as though I had any authority in this situation. This thing has done nothing wrong but

“You couldn’t possibly comprehend what I am. I am the force of nature that mankind will never have control over.”

I hate riddles. What could that possibly mean “Well you don’t have control over me.”

“Not yet.” It disappeared into a puff of smoke after its closing remarks.

I stepped towards the grave… and prayed for forgiveness as I began to dig. I kept telling myself that anyone in my situation would do the same.

I thought of the last time I saw Cain with the watch.

It was 1851, around February time. When I finished school, I worked a handful of weekdays in a law firm as a receptionist. I was lucky. I had a good life, a nice fiancé- Charlie Bauer. I was happy. We went out almost every evening. We ate fine food, discussed art, literature and our plans for our future. He respected me and I thought he was alright. I knew he could provide a good life for me and I was planning our wedding, our future children’s christenings then my own funeral. My life was set up. I was in the process of packing away my bedroom. I was thinking of names for our children- and our future dog which he promised me for Christmas that year. The watch was found in a box labelled "Andrew Bennett’s."

"I can hardly believe it." A scratchy, pained voice laughed from the doorframe. "18 years, all this packed away in an afternoon."

I turned "Cain, You're home awfully early, are you ill?" small memories of Cain often come to me, along with streams of tears. Another wave of guilt washes over me… beneath the grave I’m about to ransack for riches buried with him that may solve my problems, even if I’m uncertain. The watch I know he’s buried with is worth about two thousand pounds nowadays… but in order to acquire it, I must first desecrate the grave of Cain Bennett. Tears burn my cheeks but I cannot move nor speak, over powered by grief for not only my brother but my entire past. I’d give the world to dig up this grave and see his face intact once more. For him to arise and comfort me by affirming that I did what was necessary to survive.

He nodded "Gravely." He showed me his arm and neck, covered in red splotches.

"I fear my skin may melt off." He dramatically sighed. Cain was quite dramatic, he wanted to be an actor but flunked out of acting school somehow. Something about a criminal record, I don't entirely remember.

“Have you taken the morphine they gave you?”

“They don't know what they're doing. Quack doctors.” Charlie, my husband, is a doctor. A very good one, decades ahead of his time… he’s the reason I got into this work “No one would er suspect you, Thomasin, mein lieber. You’re but a little mouse, incapable of wrongdoing.” He’d claim. The only crime he committed was being too intelligent for the current state of medicine. 1856 had been a tragic year for myself and my son. But that Swiss cheddar golden ticking wonder of technology was Charlie’s ticket out of jail.

"You really ought to get that checked, Maybe Charlie could. Perhaps it’s an allergic reaction- Charlie says you should stop smoking so much, he believes it's very unhealthy-” Charlie was a very intelligent doctor. He is decades ahead of his time, the only reason he was arrested for his pursuit of science. That and the 3 murders but it was for the future of humanity. I would’ve died for him, but I was busy that afternoon (I had a dinner party.)

His kills; The footman Clarence Doiley, A young chap with a curled moustache and a sense of humour which never failed to make me crack a smile at such inappropriate times. Came to the basement after he heard someone sawing…

The butler, Albert Wren… we hired him when we moved into this house, he kept our many secrets but I suppose Charlie was right to kill him after what he witnessed that evening… Charlie gutted him and put his heart in a jar.

And his first proper murder… our neighbour’s daughter Stephanie Blacklaw… who may or may not have been suffering from the same affliction as my brother. The one I didn’t have the chance to ask questions about. My dear Charlie, mad with obsession and desperate for his medical advancements to be noticed by the public… tore the girl’s throat open with a scalpel to examine her throat for signs of inflammation.

“Darling Thomasin,” Cain smiled patronisingly.

“Do you not think I’d try literally anything to stop being incapacitated with pain every day of my life!" He hissed at me. “Those quacks haven’t the slightest clue what’s wrong with me. Scarlet Fever, allergic reactions- It's all just words. Truth be told I am ill in more ways than one- All these things are just gods sick punishment.”. In that case is there any point in living a life where you cannot be who you truly are out of fear of the judgement of not only this omnibenevolent God everyone speaks of and his flawless jury, mankind.

I bowed my head at Cain. I learned a long time ago that it’s better to just shut up in these instances. Cain was odd anyway, he knew maths and physics, but the absolute drivel that came out his mouth every other sentence made me question his sanity. Despite my need to tell him how stupid he sounded, I knew not to speak back to Cain. I changed the topic, “I found a box of fathers old things."

"What is in it?” Cain asked hesitantly, as if scared for what he may find, he seemed startled by the box or perhaps by the mention of our father.

“Nothing much, namely this old watch." I held up the watch, Swiss, bought by my great great grandfather before he immigrated from Switzerland in the mid 1700s. I held it out for Cain to take.

“I don’t want it. Take it to the jewellers and keep the money. It’ll be worth £100, call it a wedding gift.”

“Cain, this watch is nearly 80 years old. You can give it to your son just as grandad passed it to dad. Just take it.”

“I don’t want the godawful thing! Get rid of it.” Cain snarled like a rabid dog, He was really scared of the watch, holding his hands up and backing away from me. “That watch has nothing to do with me!” Hissing and shouting he turned to leave. He'd likely go to bed and either listen to the radio, in the pitch black of his room, or sleep. It's said that Cain and Father didn't get along well, I was 2 when he died, I have no memory of him nor do any of my other siblings. Cain was the only one who remembers him, the oldest and yet he was only 6 when father died. Cain spoke of the dead man spitting the venom of a cobra.

I finally heard the clink of steel shovel against the mahogany wood we’d buried him in, less than half a decade ago. Hands trembling more than usual, I opened the lid…

Lain with his hands crossed over his chest like it would protect him from his awful fate, the half skeletal frame half rotted skin of my dear brother Cain. His pearlescent white bones, or rather they looked that way in the gleam of the moonlight, were slightly exposed through crevices left by flesh that had already eroded. Worms… maggots feasted upon a buffet of semi rotted, rotted and cold waxy moulding flesh.

I took a second to compose myself before eyeing his left wrist… where my prize rested. The weighty piece of gold that should never have left my possession in the first place.

I was the only one left to bury the man, the cause of death was anaphylaxis, they believed he had an allergic reaction to arsenic prescribed to him for his nerves. My sisters had split off to France, India and New Zealand, my younger brother George now an American financier, Mother long dead, Cain had no wife nor children. I had to make every decision for his funeral… I regret letting him drag that watch down with him.

I regret many of my decisions. I should’ve left it to someone else, George didn’t even respond to my letter informing him of Cain's death. Cain was buried how he lived… lonely. No one but myself, Charlie and two of my three sisters.

I gently undid the clasp of my watch, as if waking him from eternal slumber was possible.

I held the watch up in the light of the moon. Solid gold ornately carved, roman numerals. I shook it and it made a ticking sound, after nearly 3 years in the ground. A miracle of engineering, sparkling like the day I said goodbye to it… and my brother of course.

I was so mesmerised by the piece that I forgot I was standing in a grave. I stuffed it into my breast pocket and put my hands on the surface of the ground to hoist myself up…

Mid jump something grabbed me by the ankle and pulled me backwards.

A hand. Holding me by the ankle.

Cain sat upright, his jaw hanging by a thread and eye sockets barren, his head turned to me.

“You’re.. not.. you're not real.” I heard myself say. Was I convincing him or me?

“Thomasin?” He asked confusedly, it sounded more to me like a peculiar groan yet something about it took me back to a time when life was not so hopeless.

I hurriedly hoisted myself out and threw the lid of the grave back down upon Cain, not bothering to redig the grave. I ran as fast as my boots would allow me and pulled myself over the metal fence, losing a large chunk of trouser leg to it.

The walk to my home was a long one. Hailstones like bullets pelted down upon my head, each one inducing a headache, I had to confine myself in a close about a mile from the graveyard. I sat down on the cold concrete steps, the hail showed no sign of stopping. I stared down at the watch.

I thought of God

God the almighty…

No- My Charlie. He’d know what to do.

I thought of times gone by when I’d appear home, skirt tattered, cold and muddy. “Oh Thomasin,” he has such a way of speaking, like a German angel. I’d question his actions, I’d ask why he needed me to do such things, all while hoisting through our foyer the body of a recently deceased person.

The smell of rot began to overwhelm the house- we had to buy a new rug. It was after that Charlie’s work moved to his office, where he was caught.

“Mein Lieber, you mustn’t give up! Is medicine not important?? My work could save all of humanity! The Angel did not turn on God when he began the creation of the Earth, did they now?”

“Charlie, you're not making much sense anymore. I really think this is wrong for us. What if I get caught? They’ll hang me.”

“You won’t get caught, my darling-”

“Yes of course, ‘Who could suspect a little mouse like you.’ I am your wife and I am saying this is good for neither of us. You know I adore you, Charlie but-”

“But but but!” He snarled “Always but! There’s always a condition to your adoration for me- You do not care one bit about anyone, Thomasin! You’re just as sick in the head as I! Do you not think I see you stealing the things these people are buried with- I am doing this for our son, I am doing this for the future of humanity for our great great grandchildren. You are doing this for pretty sparkly jewellery!”

At that very moment there was a knock at the door. The footman ran to answer it, Charlie escaped into the cellar where his home office was with tonight’s experiment.

“Kelvin, Who was at the door?”

“Two officers, Ma’am, I told them you were putting the young master to bed.”

Kelvin led me into the parlour, where two officers sat with cups of tea.

“I apologise, gentlemen.” I say, as politely as one can to intruders.

“We’ve gotten some reports of strange behaviour from some members of the community.”

“Strange behaviour? Of what nature? My son is a bit of an eclectic boy but I wouldn’t call him strange.” My child is 5 and yet doesn’t speak a word of English or German to me or Charlie. I don’t find myself enjoying his company as much as I should. I never have.

“Of your husband, and yourself.”

I pondered murder. I wondered if Kelvin would help me dispose of the bodies. Then my mind flashed to the gallows in the centre of town… they’d hang my husband, possibly me too.

“No… no that cannot be true. You see I am… a widow.” I pretended to swallow tears. Only for my eyes to well up. “My husband… was killed in an accident in the factory his father owns.” I allow myself to sob. “I come from a very poor family- the people on this street do not like me very much because of this…” this is a terrible lie, but what else do I do? Allow them to search the house?

The officers looked at Kelvin.

Kelvin looked at me, terrified. Shame really, he was only a young chap. “I… actually-” I turned round to him- why on earth would he speak out! I’ve just lulled these imbeciles into a false sense of security and he opens his stupid mouth!

“I am so sorry Ma’am. We will be sure to issue a statement to the people of this street to leave you be.”

“Thank you, bless you both.” I patted my cheeks with a handkerchief, I saw the officers out of the front door myself.

Kelvin dared unhinge his jaw to speak after the door closed, I clenched my fist and struck his nose. He held his nose in disbelief, blood dripping on the cream parlour rug.

I shook my fist of blood from his broken nose, a bit of it hurled itself at my scheele’s green wallpaper. I watched it splatter and soak. I turned back to kelvin who was backing away cowering in fear. As if I am anything to be feared.

I grabbed Kelvin by the arm, “You have put everyone in this house in grave, grave danger. You will not do that again, or there will be a special place for you in that cellar. I will gut you, still breathing, on that table and I will not be as merciful or precise as dear Charlie would be.” Kelvin never opened his mouth in my presence again.

The hail subsided as I came to my senses. Intense flashbacks is something Charlie said would come with the stress of this job. If only he had told me how intense these flashbacks would be. I dizzily stood up only to notice a big pair of eyes staring me down like jaundiced golf balls, a yellowy green like murky pond water from across the road.

I stared back. Waiting for whatever this set of eyes belonged to to make its first move.

A stand off between man and beast.

I find my eyes becoming dry, unblinkingly staring waiting for the worst.

If it’s a badger I’ll die here, mauled to death by one of the ravenous blind beasts, if it’s a fox it will die here, and I’ll likely bring it home for supper. If it’s anything else I’m not sure what will happen.

It stepped forward, coming into the light of the street lamp… a tall skinny rotten figure, jaw unhinged like a snake trying to swallow its next meal. Desperate for sustenance, it yelped- some sort of half man half cadaver.

Cain Bennett stood before me.

Colossus.

I stared back. Neither of us moved,, a low, rattly, raspy growl escaped the creature.

“Give- that- back.”

“It’s my birth right! You didn’t even want it!”

“Give… back… my… watch…”

“You died! I will give it to-”

“Its… mine…”

“You didn’t even like our father. Plus you are dead!”

He looked down at his hands, as if unconvinced that the process of decay had begun to happen.

“It’s… my.. watch.”

“It’s my son's watch! You gave it up when you chose not to carry on the family line! It belongs to the Bauer’s now! You’re not even really here, you're just some paranoid delusion! It’s happened before, I'm not silly!”

He lunged toward me for the watch, his hands cold to the touch. Before I could think otherwise my fist connected with his face, sending him stumbling backwards, his body like clay I’d indented his cheek. I dropped the thing, it splintered and shattered against the cobble streets.

I looked up at the beast… and saw nothing.

The splintered fragments of a two thousand pound watch lay at my feet, I scrambled to pick up the remains. My chest began to feel heavy, I stifled sobs as I pieced together the fragments. I didn’t cry at my own brother’s funeral, I didn’t mourn my parents- yet I mourned this piece of gold that had died at my feet.

I can’t be human anymore. I am no better than beast, I lust for excess, I live beyond my means yet I devote none of my time to anything other than myself, I care none for my fellow beings, not even my own kin. I am the epitome of blind greed.

[hetweridnoe]

Waiter waiter! More old sad man yaoi please!

[hetweridnoe]

The most infamous and interesting “Harry Jones”

by Elodie Carlton

Godfrey Giuseppe Fernsby, more commonly known as Harry Jones, was born in Copenhagen in Denmark in 1837. Grace Holm, my closest friend who is currently visiting her grandparents in Copenhagen managed to find birth records and a marriage certificate for his parents. Birla and Giuseppe Fernsby had nine children in total, only four survived to adulthood, Godfrey, Tilda, Malena and Hildegard. Godfrey was their youngest and only surviving son. They emigrated along with 6 children in 1843 to The USA. Birla died in childbirth on the journey to America along with an unnamed baby girl.

The letters between the siblings were a fantastic starting point for my overall timeline of the gang. The oldest was dated 1856 making Godfrey nineteen; these letters were graciously translated by Grace Holm.

"Happy Birthday, Tilda my dear.

I was pleasently surprised by your last letter, many congratulations to you and Arthur. I pray every day for your health given our family’s past circumstances surrounding child bearing. I mentioned my worry for you to Hildegard who replied "Ma had nine children in total, it was only the location that killed her on the nineth." Which I do not agree with.

I commend you for your strength, it takes great courage to be a parent. I suppose you're much younger than Ma was which should work in your favour.

Hildegard is getting married. I know she is too stubborn to write to you since your spat but I thought it important you found out. Malena is courting as well, Riley Addams seems sweet enough on her but as a brother should, I am keeping the closest of eyes on them.

Malena sends her regards and expresses desire to visit, she is looking at moving from New York to settle on a ranch and I suggested New Jersey

As usual my life remains largely unchanged. I have begun work as a carriage driver but I doubt it will last much like all other jobs I take up.

I cannot help but miss you, Tilda dear.

Your favourite brother

Godfrey Giuseppe Fernsby Jr.”

“October 3rd, 1856

Gio, brother dearest.

I await your letters with excitement every month.

I am doing very well, I do confess I also felt fear going into this pregnancy given what happened to my ma. I have a doctor who lives only a few yards down the road who is surely sick of me asking questions. Everything is normal thus far, I believe I am 3 months along which means you will be meeting your first Niece/Nephew in early spring.

New Jersey is beautiful and quiet, the perfect place for Arthur and I to raise our family but there’s nothing quite like the hustle and bustle of New York City.

I am very happy for Hilde and her Fiance, whomever he may be. I do hope an invite is extended to Arthur and I. I miss you all dearly and would love an excuse to visit. I wouldn’t worry much about Malena, she is just as stubborn as you and twice as intelligent. She will see corruption before Riley Addams even acts on it. As for you, I hardly doubt a handsome young man like you has experienced no change in your love life. I see in your future a happy work life, three beautiful American children and a gorgeous wife. But you’re too young for all that yet.

Signed with Love

Tilda Birdie Dankworthe”

The second letter is dated march 1857

“March 18th 1857

Dearest brother

I write to you with the most spectacular news, I have given birth to a baby girl. Her name is Deborah Birla Fernsby Dankworthe in honour of her grandmother. She has jet black curls that remind me of yours and our dearly departed baby brothers. She has a birthmark just like Hilde’s and mine that matched mother’s. She is a reminder of my past and a beacon for my future and I have never been more enamoured with a living thing in my entire 20 years.

Arthur is overjoyed, many of his family have been to visit and stayed in the guest bedrooms for over a week upon me writing this. I must have you all over now so he can know how it feels.

I jest. Arthur's mother has been a great help. And his sisters love their niece just as I know you all will.

I’m so glad I chose to attend Hilde’s wedding, since we have made up, she is also writing to me. She is pregnant too, due sometime in fall. Our family is ever growing after so many tragedies. It just shows how fast moving time can be. Please come visit, Hilde and Malena have both agreed to come in April and I’d love for you to be there too to meet your baby niece.

Lots and lots of love

Tilda Birdie Dankworthe”

I do believe that Godfrey did visit and stay for a while or at least lived in the vicinity as his first recorded “act of indecency” happened in Delaware just at a town on the border.

“1863, June 11th

Godfrey.

I read the most distressing newspaper article in the New York Times. I know its you who it was written about. I understand you are a troubled youth but this is just horrific to read.

I cannot believe you could do such a vile act. It detailed 3 other crimes. I am so distraught I hardly know what to say. I knew you were troubled but I never thought you to be a sodomist.

I do hope you get the help you need for your mind to be normal. For a boy with God in his name you are racking up some amount of sins. I am so sorry you feel this is the way you must live.

Arthur doesn’t yet know, his aversion to reading The Times is in your favour. He would surely welcome you to the farm with open arms if you leave out the details of what happened.

Please consider God’s opinion. You have read the bible, I know you have, so why would you blatantly ignore its teachings.

Your concerned sister

Tilda Birdie Dankworthe”

Godfrey did not reply to this letter, the two never exchanged letters again to my knowledge

Tilda died in childbirth to her 9th child, a son who survived. He was named Godwin. All of Tilda’s children survived to adulthood.

Godfrey started the gang the following year (1864). He was 26 years old. I managed to gain access to crime tecords of Godfrey’s and found a list of known crimes of Godfrey/“Harry Jones”: Sodomy (twenty four separate accounts); Racketeering; Tax evasion; manslaughter (At least ten accounts); Prostitution (male and female? at least thirty three accounts); sexual assault; Child endangerment; Perjury (fifty five accounts!); kidnapping; extortion; forgery; burglary; criminal damage; trafficking; attempted murder; murder; drunk; public indecency; indecency with a man (two accounts); trespassing (one hundred and ninety three accounts.)

From this list of crimes I’ve deduced many things. Namely that Mr Jones and Mr Afram had a sexual relationship at one point in time, and they were caught in “indecent acts” on July 7th 1868 and again in 1879.

Godfrey/Harry was a deeply intriguing man. It’s clear that some sort of shift happened to make him want to pursue a life of crime. Perhaps the conflict between his homosexuality and his faith had something to do with it.

hiiiieyyyy professór. Soz this is in sooo late my computer has been updating for 3 weeks and I had all my research onit. thaaynksss xxx -3-

written like a report from a girl who does not care about her grade she just likes researching.

[hetweridnoe]

the most fun a girl can have is finding parallels, noticing patterns, making connections, contemplating

[hetweridnoe]

HIS TOP HAT HAS BEEN DENTED

WE REPEAT HIS TOP HAT HAS BEEN DENTED

[hetweridnoe]

hi, just a silly little anonymous survey on google forms about the muppet movies if anyone would be interested in giving me free statistics ;-; at the end u get to see the other responses so that's fun if you're a nerd like me.

[hetweridnoe]

'Las Tragedias' Albertine Garcia-Cabral

The west was a vast and prosperous place but also a place of great hardship. Many of the outlaws we've come to hear stories of were orphaned in the confederate war. In this tale you'll meet two touched by the hardships of new America, a tejano and a second generation scot.

Albertine Garcia-Cabral, a dark skinned tejano-creole girl. Her mother's mother a slave and her father's mother a mexican. Albertine timed her birth perfectly. Born a free woman in the american state of texas. Her mother an advocate for the continued emancipation of Black people in America (executed for 'running her mouth.') Her father a gambler and a sinner, a sorry soul. Albertine was left with her sick Grandmother at the age of 10 as her father's behaviour got more and more erratic... when she died Albertine was alone. She took care of her grandparents ranch as best she could. It was an evening in July- she was 16- when she awoke to voices in the house, one her estranged fathers, the other a stranger.

Albertine walked in, she had jeans under her nightdress and a gun in its holster, she rested her hand upon it and scowled as she talked

"Grimaldo? who is that?" She asked her father, whom she'd not seen in 6 years.

"Alberta, so nice to finally meet ya. Your father was right yanno, you are beautiful." The stranger lent in and kissed Albertine, holding her around the hip.

"Alberta, this is Erick Dothman. He's gonna take care of you."

"That's sure right, Mr Garcia. See Alberta, I'm a soldier. I got a nice settlement out in the country."

"I'm... not sure what you mean..."

Erick laughed "Well why would ya. Your father said you was only young. Don't you worry sweetheart. I'll show you all the ropes." Erick kissed Albertine's cheek.

"We already got all the papers signed for you, Alberta dear."

"I'm confused. What papers?"

"The Marriage certificate. As your legal guardian, I signed you to good Mr Dothman. You're Alberta Dothman."

Albertine chose to ignore her father calling her by the wrong name, she looked up at this 20 something man she now had to call her husband.

"We'll set out tomorra. Got a long days journey ahead, lovely." Erick said heading into one of the spare bedrooms- clearly not intending to spend the night with Albertine.

"What are you doing with the ranch?" Albertine asked her father, who shrugged and scoffed "who would want this old piece of shit. Its older than the states themselves. Ain't worth anything"

"May we keep it?"

Grimaldo looked around, rummaging through drawers for valuables to pawn "Sure. Give it to your kids or something."

"Will you come visit?"

"Don't think I'll have time. Sorry Berts."

"So you do remember my name?"

"Albertine sounds too mexican. You're an American."

"I'm a Tejano Creole. Abuelita always told me to be proud of that."

"You're American. Be proud of that. Some of us ain't so priviliged."

Albertine watched as her father took valuables from the drawers before setting off, leaving her alone with some stranger.