Here's the opening scene, written at the beginning of my NaNoWriMo exercise this month. Comments, please?
Susan frequently
urged him to have Hector bring the surrey around
and drive him to school, but Jonathan preferred to walk. Even though the sight of a white man being
driven by a slave was the norm in Charleston, Jonathan found it disturbing. He
understood the need for slave labor on the plantations and around the large
households of the city, but he refused to ask another man to do those things he
could do for himself. Besides, he felt energized after a brisk morning stroll,
and that energy kept him alert and enthusiastic in his classroom. His
steps quickened as he approached the new Charleston Apprentice's Library
Building. He took great pride in the theory behind the school's founding: that
even common laborers would benefit from a broad education, not only from
learning their mechanical skills but through the heightened awareness that came
from the study of literature and history. The Apprentice School drew its
support from civic-minded businessmen in the city. The students attended for
free, needing only a recommendation and released time from their family or
employer. Jonathan loved teaching the young adolescents who came into his
classroom still fresh-faced and eager. They challenged him to offer the kinds
of knowledge that would help them become better citizens as well as better
workers. This
morning, however, Jonathan's usually springy steps slowed as he caught sight of
a small figure crouched on the steps of the school. "Declan?" he
asked. "Declan McDermitt? Whatever is wrong? Have you been crying?" The
boy scrubbed his fists furiously into his eyes, refusing to look up at his
favorite teacher.Jonathan
dropped his book satchel and sat down on the step next to the boy. Gently, he
caught the boy's chin with two fingers and turned his head to face him.
Declan's red hair usually complemented his creamy complexion, but on this
morning, his cheeks were flushed with an angry red, and a deeper blue and
purple bruise surrounded one eye. "What
happened to you?" "Just
had a fight. Doesn't matter." The words were soft and betrayed by their
own trembling. "Declan,
you are definitely not the fighting sort!" Jonathan said. "Who hit
you?" The
boy jerked his head away, his lips pressed tight in an effort to control their
trembling. Jonathan waited, understanding the boy's distress. "Mr.
Grenville, why are you a damyankee?" The words came out in a rush,
although the boy still kept his head turned away. Jonathan
caught his breath at those words coming from a fourteen-year-old child. For a
few moments he could not find his own voice.
His heart hammered as he realized the implications behind the simple
question. "What
makes you ask that?" he said once he could trust his own composure.
"Where did you hear it?" "My
Da says that's what you are. You're a damyankee for telling us things in class
that aren't true." Declan was angry now and ready to confront this man he
had idolized for so long. "What
did I ever tell you that was untrue?" "You
said that congressman from South Carolina was wrong to attack Senator Sumner.
You said states do not have the right to defy the federal government. You said
slavery is wrong and needs to be abolished. You said . . ." As his anger
sputtered to an end, so too did his words. "I
did say all those things, Declan." Jonathan admitted. "I said them
because I believe them. But . . ." "And
I guess that's why you're a damyankee . . . .whatever that is. You said them,
and I believed you, and I went home and told my Da that I believed them, too,
because you said they were true, and he hit me. That's the whole story. And now
my Da's inside there talking to the headmaster and telling him that I can't go
to school here anymore because you're a damyankee." Declan's lower lip
trembled and tears welled in his eyes. |