I humbly apologize to thee for the long lapse in our correspondence. My days here in Plymouth Colony are filled to the lip with the usual womanly duties: cooking, washing, sewing, surviving cholera. If I get a moment to myself, I collapse on the dirt floor of our cabin. There I number the vermin on my body, all the while giving thanks to God for guiding John and myself safely to this strange land, so that I may virtuously die a horrible death here, rather than live in sinful England like a sane person.
Our little remnant of the righteous, a.k.a. We Who Decided That Cannibalism Was God’s Will, is thriving now. This is due in much part to the assistance of the native inhabitants of this land. They have generously provided us with fish and game, and have instructed us in the proper ways to grow crops, for which we shall remain eternally in their debt. Except for the difference in skin and culture, the natives seem much like unto us, and it is almost regrettable that we must one day exterminate them.
This Thursday past we invited a delegation of the locals to our first annual feast of thanksgiving, which was a day of lively penitence and suppressed merriment. It began with the stoning of the depraved William Hapgood, who had suggested that we all bathe regularly — surely a sign that he was Satan’s minion. After the execution, we all had a nice lunch. Then our men and the Indian males went off to watch a lacrosse game, while the women were stuck with the clean up, natch. Unfortunately, the joy of the day was somewhat tempered by an epidemic of copious vomiting; apparently, one doth need to roast a turkey for many hours before it can be safely consumed. Lucky me, I went with the filet of possum and some bean salad.
It will gladden you to know that John and I study our Bible each evening. Of course, this usually concludes with John displaying to me “his rod and his staff,” which mayhaps was funny the first hundred times he said it, but now makes me want to kick him in the Low Countries, haha. Be assured, John is my lord and master, and I shall love, honor and obey him forever, or until the smallpox doth do me a huge favor.
Alas, dearest Mother, the light is quickly fading, and I am about to be eaten by a bear, so I must bring this letter to a close. Please give my love to Father. Ofttimes I wish I could be there with you, sharing our old, simple pleasures, like carding wool, or burning Anabaptists. But Our Lord has called me to this new land filled with beauty and prime oceanfront property, that I may be blessed with the scourge of dysentery in His Holy Name. In other words, Mummy, I am royally intercoursed. If I succumb not to disease, childbirth, or John’s drollery, I will endeavor to write again in the spring. In the meantime, couldst thou send me a loaded firearm? I am certain I could find a use for it. I remain, your loyal and loving daughter, Abigail
P.S. With regard to that firearm, I am jesting again, haha.
P.P.S. Seriously, send one. Go buy it now.