Casket Girls

Antonella Lisanti

            I woke up this morning in deep thought as I often do.  I had yet another dream about my beloved mistress Catherine who I had not seen for twelve years since the birth of my first child, William Franklin, who was born illegitimately to her.  Despite the fact that I have not seen her since young William’s birth, her personality and character remain inscribed in my memory forever.  I don’t think I have ever felt the same sense of awe as I did the first time that I set my eyes on this mistress, Catherine Bluefield, a woman who I learned to love more passionately than any other in my lifetime. 

~

I vividly remember the day that I first met Catherine: it was one of the warmest days of the year 1729.  I woke up feeling extremely uncomfortable due to my sweat soaked bed sheets and leaped out of my bed so that I would not feel the moisture of the air settle on my skin.  After dressing, I decided to go into town to pick up a novel from “Bartholomew’s Book Store,” that would hopefully keep me occupied with each passing hour on this scalding day that I had off from work at the paper.  While walking through the streets, I became distracted by a woman wearing an extremely comical hat, the likes of which I had never seen before: it was extremely large and had a papier-mâché cat curled around the top.  As I am sure you have heard, I tend to have a playful and flirtatious side, so I decided to strike up a conversation with this woman.  I approached her, and the first thing that came out of my mouth was: “Where did you ever get such a hat?”  The woman turned around and gave me the most piercing glare.  I was extremely surprised to see such a beautiful face underneath the hideous hat; so naturally, I apologized for my rude frankness and continued to walk in front of her, but surprisingly, she called back for me.

“Excuse me, sir, but are you Benjamin Franklin?  I submitted an editorial to your paper, the Pennsylvania Gazette, almost two months ago and it still has not appeared in your newspaper.”

“Why, madam, I am so sorry to have disappointed you, but we receive hundreds of editorials each day that wish to appear in my paper.  It is difficult to pick and choose which will be published, but we are forced to exclude some from publication.”

“Are you insinuating that my piece of writing is not one of the “best” that you have seen?  First, you insult my hat, which is imported from France, and now I am affronted about my writing?  You are extremely uncouth, Mr. Franklin.  I have most definitely received an excellent first impression of your true character.”

“Do you mind refreshing my memory?  Maybe we did include your editorial in the paper and you just failed to see it.”

“Well, if your memory is that fragile, I will indulge you.  The editorial discussed my beliefs on the Casket girls who were brought down to French settlers in Louisiana last year.  These women received dresses in their small trunks as an incentive to immigrate and marry.  I found this event to be extremely degrading towards women and I therefore decided to express my point of view on it through an editorial.”

            I had never heard a woman speak so fervently about anything, and moreover, I had never heard of a woman writing down her radical thoughts for a newspaper.  I immediately asked her for her name and without hesitation, she responded with, “I am Catherine Bluefield, but you should have remembered that if you had published my editorial in your paper.”

            It was at this very moment that I knew that she was the woman I was destined to be with for the rest of my life.

~

            I have recently been summoned by the General Advertiser in London to write an article for them for tomorrow’s edition of the paper.  It is difficult to write on such short notice and I am thoroughly stumped on what to write about.  When in situations where I am forced to write under a limited amount of time, I find that sometimes the most powerful pieces of writing are based on one’s personal experience.  Out of all of the events in my lifetime, I would have to say that my relationship with Catherine has affected me most deeply.  Maybe I should write about the actual event itself…no, no…that won’t do.  As my father always told me, the key to excellent writing is to find a creative way around the obvious.  How I will write this article still remains a mystery to me.  Hopefully some more ideas will come.

~

            Catherine continued rambling on about the editorial that she had written, so finally I suggested that we go into my office to find it.  She readily agreed and the two of us walked on in awkward silence toward my office.  When we arrived and settled ourselves down in the rather uncomfortable oak chairs I had purchased only two weeks before, I found a pile of papers that contained unpublished editorials.  Catherine grabbed the pile of papers away from me, and began to search for her own piece of writing.  She finally found it and angrily pointed to it saying, “See!  You never published it!”  Then she read it aloud, without me asking her to do so, and I must confess, it was excellent.  I could not remember why I had decided not to include it in the gazette.  I explained to Catherine how it was truly a great piece of writing and that it must have been one of my other editors who decided not to publish the editorial, especially because it was written by a woman, which I dared not explain to her for fear that she would become even more offended.  I assured her that I would be sure to include it in next week’s issue of the Pennsylvania Gazette.  Catherine’s eyes widened with joy, but then the joy seemed to fade into a look of concern.

“Mr. Franklin…”

“Please, call me Ben.”

“Benjamin…”

“No, please, call me BEN.”

“Mr. Franklin, why is it that you would even consider publishing an article by a woman?  I have tried to submit this editorial to many papers, and it has always been rejected.”

“I look for good writing to include in my paper and any choices I make are based on the writing itself, not on the author’s gender.  And besides, I believe that you raise many interesting points regarding women’s rights which ought to be brought to the attention of the public.”

“A man who appreciates women’s rights?  This is something I have never heard of before.”

“Well, I have never seen a woman submit such a passionate article concerning her beliefs to a newspaper before.”

“Thank you so much, Ben, for your generosity.  I really appreciate it.”

            She finally referred to me as Ben, not Benjamin, not Mr. Franklin, but BEN.  I was thrilled and it must have appeared to her that I was indeed extremely happy, and she said with a playful smile, “Yes, Mr. Franklin, I did just refer to you as Ben.”  The two of us were then immediately engaged in a very interesting dialogue about the “Casket girls” that Catherine had written about in her editorial and we went on to talk for hours on women’s rights; then our conversation shifted to politics, and before we knew it, the sun was setting outside and stars slowly began to flash into the night sky. 

“Mrs. Bluefield, would you like me to walk you to your home before it gets too dark outside?”

“I would love that, Ben.  But, I think you should know that it is not Mrs. Bluefield, but Miss Bluefield.  And please, feel free to call me Catherine.”

            I left the editorial on the top of my desk where I would find it the next morning and I locked up the office.  The constellations outside had arranged themselves into their beautiful shapes and as we continued to talk on our walk to Catherine’s house, she gracefully slipped her arm through mine; my happiness was clearly radiating all over my face.  We finally arrived to an extremely small cottage at the edge of town, and we stood outside a little while longer looking up at the stars.

“Catherine, do you see that?  It’s the constellation Orion.  I would have to say that it is the most beautiful arrangement of stars.  Do you know what a constellation is?

But before I could explain it for her, she began speaking again:

“Ben, do you see that?  It’s the constellation Cassiopeia.  I would have to say that it is the most beautiful arrangement of stars.”

            The next moment was more beautiful than any of the stars up above.  The humid day had finally cooled and there was a light breeze.  Catherine had removed her creative hat from her head and allowed her curls to freely drop over shoulders and frame her face; the breeze played flirtatiously with her entangled hair and before I could stop her, Catherine stood on her tiptoes and kissed me.  I quickly pulled away and said, “Catherine!  Won’t your father or mother see us?”  She replied playfully with, “Mr. Franklin, do you honestly think an educated woman like myself with such radical ideas would live under the constrictions of an overbearing father or mother?  I think not.  You are welcome to come in.”  I hesitatingly entered her home, and I never regretted this decision as long as I lived.

~

            Writing a story loosely based on the relationship between Catherine and me would most certainly be an entertaining read.  But I don’t want to expose my story to the world without it having a deeper meaning to it.  After all, my story with Catherine gets extremely complicated, if not to mention very personal.  I don’t want my only expression of our short and beautiful life together to be one of superficiality and mere ostentation; there needs to be more behind it.

~

            After that humid yet magical summer day, Catherine and I had grown to love one another dearly after continued secret meetings with each other.  I always went to visit her at her small cottage and she would help me edit various articles and editorials for my paper.  And yes, I did publish her editorial the week after I had first met her.  The two of us were inseparable, but we managed to keep a distance between us in public so that our affair would not gain any attention.  However, our secret meetings with each other were forced to come to an end, a year after our first meeting.

            Catherine ran into my office one day while I was editing some article for the paper and whispered, “Benjamin, I need to talk to you.”  This was not a good omen, as she had not called me Benjamin since that humid August day of our first meeting.  I motioned for her to sit down next to me.  She sat, and immediately began to cry.

            “Ben, I’m with child,” she said under her breath. 

I could do nothing but stare at her.

“Are you sure, Catherine?”

“Yes I’m sure!” she whispered angrily.

I automatically knew the problems that this would cause.  If a woman had a child out of wedlock, she was required by law to testify in front of a court and if found guilty, which all women were, she would be forced to pay a high fine or experience public humiliation.  Not only that, but women who had illegitimate children were required to reveal the name of the father of the child to the public and the court, or else they would not receive birthing assistance when it came time to deliver the child.  Catherine, crying in her chair, attempted to talk, but was unable to because of her uncontrollable tears.  I was speechless.  All I could think of doing was to hold Catherine until she had stopped.  The two of us talked for hours that day concerning how we would deal with this situation. 

Catherine and I saw each other less and less, and this continued for months.  Once the pregnancy finally became noticeable, the two of us decided not to reveal any information about it to the public and we also decided that Catherine should try to leave the house as little as possible.  My heart was crushed; why did Catherine have to suffer so when it was also my fault that she would be bearing a child out of wedlock?  I still loved Catherine more than any other woman I had met, and I decided to admit that I had fathered a child out of wedlock to a panel of judges.  It was not fair for Catherine to suffer the consequences of illegitimacy when I was also to blame.  When I had riled up enough courage to appear in front of the judges and admitted to my so called “crime,” they agreed to not reveal that Catherine had illegitimately given birth and they also said that they would allow her the assistance of a midwife when it was time for her to give birth.  I left the courthouse satisfied with the decision and then proceeded to Catherine’s house.

~

The one event that remains the clearest in my mind is when I went to the judges to beg for Catherine’s name to be kept a secret.  Not only do I remember this, but I also recall an incredible feeling of anger when forced to deal with the laws regarding the birth of illegitimate children.  Women are required to face public humiliation or enormous fines as a result of an illegitimate birth while the father of the child receives no punishment for his equal participation in the “crime.”  Even now, I still find this idea extremely unjust towards women.  Why should females live such a constricted life?  If they were to…that’s it!!!  This is perfect!  I should write an article about the cruelties and injustices that women face when giving birth illegitimately.  I need to go about this creatively, however.  A prestigious paper in London would not publish an article concerning women’s rights.  This will be more like a story, with fictional characters, but living a realistic life and dealing with a true circumstance.

~

I had not seen Catherine in weeks, and when she opened the door to her home after I anxiously pounded on the door, I could see that she was heavy with child and that it would not be long before she would have to deliver.  She generously invited me into her house, and when I told her exactly what I had done, she got up from her chair with much difficulty and embraced me.

“All I can say, Ben, is thank you.”

She embraced me again, and I stayed at her house that cold day, the two of us sitting in front of her fireplace.  When it began to get dark, I figured that I should leave.  As Catherine got up to walk me to the door, she let out a yelp.  I knew it right there and then: it was time for her to deliver the baby.

I ran through town and found the midwife whom the judges had allowed for Catherine to see.  Catherine, who I was forced to leave alone, was lying on her bed in clear pain when I returned.  It was a long night, a night when Catherine was in labor for seven hours.  Finally, I heard a small cry from the other end of the house, and I ran over to see the most beautiful child.  Catherine lay on the bed exhausted and covered in deep perspiration while her curls lay disheveled on her pillow. I leaned over and kissed her wet forehead.  She smiled at me and the first words she said were, “I am going to name the new baby boy William.  You should take custody of him once he is old enough to leave me.”  The child continued to cry, and the midwife interjected with, “You two have a beautiful child.  Take good care of him.”  And that is exactly what I intended to do.  From that cold winter night in 1730 on, I decided that I would be the best father possible to this special child whose mother, my beloved Catherine, I have not seen since that day in order to protect her identity.

~

Here we are.  I have finally finished.  I have written a speech by a woman who I have named Polly Baker; she has had five children illegitimately and has also faced immense fines as well as public humiliation while the fathers of her children have not been punished for their own actions.  I think I have been able to relate the general injustices of this situation to the public.  Not too forceful.  Not too passive.  Those in this world whom no idea as to what women deal with in such situations will hopefully learn from this article and clearly notice the injustices of the situation just as I do.  I wrote this in memory of Catherine, and thus have dedicated it to her.  I hope that Catherine will see my article and know that I am still thinking of her.

“May it please the honourable bench to indulge me in a few words: i am a poor, unhappy woman, who have no money to fee lawyers to plead for me. . . . This is the fifth time, gentlemen, that I have been dragg'd before your court on the same account; twice I have paid heavy fines, and twice have been brought to publick punishment, for want of money to pay those fines. This may have been agreeable to the laws, and I don't dispute it; but since laws are sometimes unreasonable in themselves, and therefore repealed; and others bear too hard on the subject in particular circumstances . . . I take the liberty to say, that I think this law, by which I am punished, both unreasonable in itself, and particularly severe with regard to me. . . . Abstracted from the law, I cannot conceive…. what the nature of my offense is. I have brought five fine children into the world at the risque of my life; I have maintained them well by my own industry, without burthening the township, and would have done it better, if it had not been for the heavy charges and fines I have paid. . . . nor has anyone the least cause of complaint against me, unless, perhaps, the ministers of justice, because I have had children without being married, by which they missed a wedding fee. But can this be a fault of mine? . . .

“What must poor young women do, whom customs and nature forbid to solicit the men, and who cannot force themselves upon husbands, when the laws take no care to provide them any, and yet severely punish them if they do their duty without them; the duty of the first and great command of nature and nature's God, encrease and multiply; a duty from the steady performance of which nothing has been able to deter me, but for its sake I have hazarded the loss of the publick esteem, and have frequently endured publick disgrace and punishment; and therefore ought, in my humble opinion., instead of a whipping, to have a statue erected to my memory.” 

List of Sources

http://www.wsu.edu/~campbelld/amlit/1701.htm

http://sln.fi.edu/franklin/timeline/timeline.html

http://sln.fi.edu/franklin/family/willie.html