find less and less desire to continue my writing. I once did so at Ernest’s request, in hope that he would be able to read of my adventures and be proud of how I stayed strong until he found me. But my hope of his coming for me dwindles with each passing day and instead of writing, I have taken to walking the streets, offering a coin to the women I see huddled in the streets with their children. Some who have no children I refer to Madam Spencer. At least it is better than living on the streets. It is hard not to think of my mother and Everett; likely he is dead now.
One woman I found, clutching a small child to her breast. The lack of movement in her arms caused me to think the worst and I again thought of my mother watching her own children die. The woman climbed over the wooden bridge trellis and teetered on its edge. Her hand grasping hold of the edge was all that kept her from plunging into the dark, icy water below.
“Please don’t.” Fear for the woman and her child’s fate choked out the volume in my voice as I ran toward her. As I drew near, I spotted her raising her face to the sky. She closed her eyes. The last rays of the sunlight of day illuminated her bright auburn hair.
With my next breath, she was gone.
“No!” I cried, rushing to the edge of the bridge. Below I could see the ripples where her body had disappeared. I searched frantically the bank below, hoping to find help. There was a group of men, huddled around a small fire, warming their hands. I waved and shouted. “Over here, there is a woman. She’s jumped off the bridge, please I need your help.”
Perhaps my voice was lost in the distance, or they simply did not care. The ripples in the murky water below soon dissipated and I knew the woman was gone, both she and her child. I lay my head down in my arms and cried. I do not know how long I stayed there, staring blindly at the water. Moreover, there passed through my mind the fleeting thought to follow her. Instead, I found my way back to my room and pulled my journal from beneath the mattress where I keep it hidden. I will not let her life go unnoticed, if only in its last moments. I will write what I’ve seen and how I am surviving in a world predisposed to the whims of men, and where seemingly women are regarded as an expendable quantity.
Regardless of what it may take, I vow never to allow my lot in life to prompt me to give in to despair. Life is far too precious. My mother set me on that journey and so too did Ernest, who once said to me, “With enough determination and hard work, you can become anything you wish to become.” To that I will add, that I will do whatever I must as a woman to survive, if nothing more than to live to tell others my tales of survival.
~A.C.B.
May 19, 1873
I awoke to the sound of weeping in the next room and feared a client had brought harm to one of Madam Spencer’s ladies.
I peeked through a crack in my door to find the poor young thing quite alone, seated at the edge of the bed. She clutched a flimsy sheer gown to her frail body. I could see the sharp angle of her shoulder blades stretched across her pale skin.
Her head popped up and her gaze jerked to mine with a horrified expression. Pitiful is too kind to describe what I saw and my heart immediately rushed to compassion.
In my haste, I bypassed that I wore a collarless man’s shirt as my nightdress, and though much thinner, I still possessed the curve of my hips. I realized too late that I had already removed the cloth that bound my breasts in order to appear as if I was a young boy.
She sniffed once or twice, her dark eyes appearing sunken in their sockets as her gaze held mine.
“Are you a crow for Madam?”
My furrowed brow gave away that I had no knowledge of the term, but I was certain that sweeping and pitching garbage had little to do with being a crow. My puzzled look tipped her to my ignorance.
“A spy, are you a spy for Madam to be sure I give the client what he’s paid
One woman I found, clutching a small child to her breast. The lack of movement in her arms caused me to think the worst and I again thought of my mother watching her own children die. The woman climbed over the wooden bridge trellis and teetered on its edge. Her hand grasping hold of the edge was all that kept her from plunging into the dark, icy water below.
“Please don’t.” Fear for the woman and her child’s fate choked out the volume in my voice as I ran toward her. As I drew near, I spotted her raising her face to the sky. She closed her eyes. The last rays of the sunlight of day illuminated her bright auburn hair.
With my next breath, she was gone.
“No!” I cried, rushing to the edge of the bridge. Below I could see the ripples where her body had disappeared. I searched frantically the bank below, hoping to find help. There was a group of men, huddled around a small fire, warming their hands. I waved and shouted. “Over here, there is a woman. She’s jumped off the bridge, please I need your help.”
Perhaps my voice was lost in the distance, or they simply did not care. The ripples in the murky water below soon dissipated and I knew the woman was gone, both she and her child. I lay my head down in my arms and cried. I do not know how long I stayed there, staring blindly at the water. Moreover, there passed through my mind the fleeting thought to follow her. Instead, I found my way back to my room and pulled my journal from beneath the mattress where I keep it hidden. I will not let her life go unnoticed, if only in its last moments. I will write what I’ve seen and how I am surviving in a world predisposed to the whims of men, and where seemingly women are regarded as an expendable quantity.
Regardless of what it may take, I vow never to allow my lot in life to prompt me to give in to despair. Life is far too precious. My mother set me on that journey and so too did Ernest, who once said to me, “With enough determination and hard work, you can become anything you wish to become.” To that I will add, that I will do whatever I must as a woman to survive, if nothing more than to live to tell others my tales of survival.
~A.C.B.
May 19, 1873
I awoke to the sound of weeping in the next room and feared a client had brought harm to one of Madam Spencer’s ladies.
I peeked through a crack in my door to find the poor young thing quite alone, seated at the edge of the bed. She clutched a flimsy sheer gown to her frail body. I could see the sharp angle of her shoulder blades stretched across her pale skin.
Her head popped up and her gaze jerked to mine with a horrified expression. Pitiful is too kind to describe what I saw and my heart immediately rushed to compassion.
In my haste, I bypassed that I wore a collarless man’s shirt as my nightdress, and though much thinner, I still possessed the curve of my hips. I realized too late that I had already removed the cloth that bound my breasts in order to appear as if I was a young boy.
She sniffed once or twice, her dark eyes appearing sunken in their sockets as her gaze held mine.
“Are you a crow for Madam?”
My furrowed brow gave away that I had no knowledge of the term, but I was certain that sweeping and pitching garbage had little to do with being a crow. My puzzled look tipped her to my ignorance.
“A spy, are you a spy for Madam to be sure I give the client what he’s paid
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