Sleep, Dearie, Sleep: Episode One
You’re reading Sleep, Dearie, Sleep, a historical epistolary horror in which progress, modernity and reason are confounded by ancient, forgotten realities. This is Episode 1.
The Honorable Mrs. Archibald Craig
Selkirk, Scotland
16 September, 1792
My Dearest Bridget,
I hope this letter finds you well, along with our dear little Fiona. My heart is fit to burst with missing the both of you, and fear that she’ll have grown so much I’ll hardly know her, when next I lay eyes on her.
I know it has not been easy for you in my absence. My confidence in your strength and capabilities has never wavered, and your last letter assured me that it was indeed well placed. Your report of how you dealt with the ire of Cole Branagh, along with the debt collector, served only to increase my confidence and my admiration. Well done, my love.
I am pleased to bring you the happy news that our long separation is nearly at an end. As you know, my work as a builder here in South Carolina gained me an apprenticeship with the renowned architect James Hoban. Over the course of the last year and a half I’ve had opportunity to make suggestions (tacitly, of course, so as not to risk offense of so proud a visionary as himself) to the effect of improving certain designs to strengthen structural integrity without sacrificing artistry, which has placed me in good stead.
Master Hoban has recently had the supreme honor of being selected by Washington himself to build the President’s house in this nation’s new capital. Alas, I will not be joining him on this undoubtedly historical endeavor, but my disappointment at not being selected for the design and construction crew was quickly put to rest. Mr. Hoban has instead offered to make me a junior partner in his architectural enterprise, and has placed me in charge of contracts to expand the Southwest Territory. Of singular importance is the design and construction of a bridge that will complete a newly constructed highway connecting North Carolina to the Territory.
I won’t bore you with details of the project, my darling. And now I come to the part concerning you and our wee babe. As part of my promotion, and in recognition of my service, as well as to ensure that I have no worries bearing on me that will distract me from the task at hand, Mr. Hoban has graciously provided a salary that is more than sufficient to lease a modest but amply comfortable house in Asheville, as well as to maintain its upkeep and cover the costs of any servants you may deem fit to keep on hand. Not only that, but his generosity has extended to paying for first class accommodations for you, Fiona and your maid on the next voyage of the Ulysses to the Carolina coast.
I’ve enclosed bank notes sufficient to cover your passage, as well as to purchase necessities in preparation for the voyage. You’ll also find a letter from Mr. Hoban to the ship’s captain, a good friend of Mr. Hoban’s by the name of Forsythe, with instructions as to your treatment and safekeeping aboard ship. As well, I’ve included a letter to the solicitor, along with funds to secure his retainer, to see to the sale of our estate and the settlement of our debts.
By my calculations, if all goes well, we should be together again as early as the spring. I can’t tell you how it lightens my heart to know you’ll soon be making your way to me, and to our new life here in America. I can hardly wait to lift our wee child in my arms again, although I suspect she’s not so wee as she was when last I saw her. I only hope and pray that she’ll still know me for her father.
And of course, I’ll be counting the days until I see you again, my beloved. Just to lay eyes on you once more will be a balm to my sorry soul. To take you in my arms, to lie next to you once again—it does not bear thinking about, lest I wander around with my head in the clouds, not fit for anything except to pine for your presence, as it was in the days when I was first smitten by you, which wasn’t so very long ago.
Write to me as soon as you can, so that I’ll have something to hold until I can hold you yourself to my bosom, my lady wife. And know that I am and will forever be,
Yours,
Archie
Diary of Archibald Stewart Craig, 19 October, 1792
Due to injurious misadventures in relation to the impending construction of the Yadkin river bridge, I thought it prudent to keep a diary of the project to record its progress, as well as to have a written record of the workers and their behavior, both that which is commendable and that which may require disciplinary actions to be taken.
While a certain number of injuries, and even loss of life or limb, is to be expected on any such endeavor, I must say I did not expect such an event to occur before even a single stone has been laid. This will no doubt further delay the start of the project, the undertaking of which is already much delayed due to the several layers of bureaucracy required to receive final approval of the bridge design and plans.
I had only just arrived at the campsite to inspect and approve the foreman’s selection of the workmen when a fight broke out among the men. A contingent of Highlanders from the Old Country took exception to two Cherokee speaking to one another in their native tongue. Their leader, a surly brute named Fraser, became convinced that the Indians were making derogatory comments about him and his fellow Scots. A provocative exchange of words led to fisticuffs, after which the larger of the two Cherokee, whom the men call Big Fish, but whose actual name I’m given to understand is Atsadi, produced a blade with which he sliced Fraser along the ribs.
The sight of blood pouring forth from their leader incited the other Scots to a brawl which my foreman, a native-born American named Davies, along with several more level-headed members of the work crew, received a number of blows and bruises in their attempt to subdue. In the end it took Davies firing his musket into the air and threatening to be more precise with his pistol if the blaggards did not cease and restore order to the camp.
Thank Providence, one of the saner men had served as a field surgeon in the Revolution and was able to see to the various wounds and injuries incurred in the skirmish. He pronounced that not only would Fraser live, but none of the men were physically rendered unfit to work. Seeing as letting the perpetrators go would rob me of nearly half my workers, I’ve placed Fraser and his men on notice, as well as the two Cherokee, and docked each of them a day’s wages. I’ve also forbidden whisky and other spirits within the camp for the foreseeable future, although with winter coming that restriction is not likely to stand. My hope is that the men will form a bond of trust after several weeks of living and working side by side, such that hot heads may cool and drunken stramashes may be less of a likelihood.
As I have noted, the start of construction has been delayed, but all is not lost. There is still time yet to lay the foundations and build the stone columns before winter sets in. Carolina winters tend to be mild, so we may yet be able to work through winter and have the bridge completed by spring. Mr. Hoban promised the governor that it would be ready for use no later than June. As long as Davies can keep a rein on his workmen and we have no more incidents endangering their ability to work, I am optimistic that we’ll finish well ahead of schedule.
Diary, 1 November, 1792
We’ve cut and gathered enough stone to begin laying the foundation. I believe I may have underestimated how long it would take to cut stone out of the mountain and transport it to the construction site. With the nearest quarry being four days’ journey for a carriage not laden down with tons of rock, it seemed more expedient to source the stone as close to the site as possible. There is certainly no shortage of rock embedded in these hills, and we have a highly skilled team of stonecutters, along with plenty of strong-backed men and oxen to pull the carts.
Nevertheless, it takes time to quarry stone, which couldn’t be helped. A wooden bridge would have been much faster to build, and wood is as plentiful as stone — if not moreso. Initial wooden bridge designs submitted by local builders were soundly rejected, however, on the grounds that too many wooden bridges were burned during the Revolution. The Governor insisted on stone due to its more indestructible nature.
Stone will indeed last a good deal longer than wood. Many a stone bridge still stands in the Old Country that were built by the Romans. Like those bridges, this one will outlast my children and great grandchildren as a monument to both Old World craftsmanship and New World ingenuity and progress.
As I had hoped, the men seem to have at least reached an understanding. There have been no more fights or other incidents worthy of recording. In fact, last night I lifted the ban on whisky in order to enliven a celebratory bonfire insisted upon by the Highland Scots. I was informed that this was in acknowledgement of All Hallow’s Eve, a papist celebration in which I heretofore had taken no part. Being a devout Presbyterian, I marked the day in remembrance of the good Martin Luther’s valiant protest. But for the sake of facilitating camaraderie, I left my tent and joined the men in their celebration.
I must admit, in the beginning I rather enjoyed the festivities. It began as a night of music and the enjoyment of our bounty, the centerpiece of which was the barbecue of a large hog that a local farmer had donated as thanks for two of the men helping him pull his cart out of a ditch. But as the night wore on, the feast became somewhat less wholesome.
I don’t know much about the papist religion and its customs, but as a Scot myself, I know something about the old ways, and I recognize a touch of Samhain when I see it. The Indians, who I would have thought would join in a pagan revelry all too gladly, were the first to retreat to their tents when the goat was brought out. It turns out that they’re both Christian, converted by Moravian missionaries when they were wee lads.
I learned this when Atsadi visited me in my tent this morning. I was quite surprised when he showed me the silver cross worn round his neck, but as he explained that he and his brother are of the faith, I expected him next to lodge a complaint about last night’s activities. But while it was clear he disapproved, he next surprised me again. Christian or no, he’s still an Indian, and while he may no longer be heathen himself, still he’s familiar enough with heathen ways. As I grew up with tales of faeries and ancient gods who walked the earth long before our Lord rested his sweet babe head in a manger, so had Atsadi and his brother grown up with tales of wee folk and all manner of spirits and heathen gods.
“They awakened the spirits,” he said to me, his look solemn and grave. “They will want their payment for allowing this bridge, and they will not be pleased with a mere goat.”
Of course, my inclination was to dismiss this as pagan superstition, but even as I said as much, my blood ran cold as I thought back to the night before. To the beating of the bodhran, the ululations of the Highlanders as they danced around the fire, unable to drown out the panicked bleating of the poor creature in its fright and confusion. The sick sensation in my wame as the poor thing screamed and fell silent. The flames glinting off of blood-slick hands, raised high in offering.
I suppose I should have said something, should have roused Davies to come along with me and stepped in to stop this thing from going so far, should have sent the men to bed. But I was half in a stupor myself from whisky and a good deal of pork sitting heavily in my belly. I confess I sat and watched as though under some faerie enchantment myself, unable to move, nor to redirect my gaze, yet aware that if I did try to stop it I would have another riot on my hands with over half the men joining in.
The drums and the chanting carried on, and I could still hear the bleating in my ears as I staggered over to vomit up the meal I had so relished not an hour before. I hied myself to bed where, thankfully, I had indulged in enough whisky and beer to find myself quickly sinking into the arms of oblivion.
By morning, most of the events of last night had become a hazy blur, and what snatches I could recall, I dismissed as a drunken fever dream. But then Atsadi brought it all back to me and confirmed the worst of my suspicions.
I am not certain what my purpose is in writing all of this down. It certainly does not bear well on my men, nor on my own reputation. Nor am I certain what, if anything, I should do about it. The first stones will be laid today for the foundation, and I cannot afford to fall any further behind schedule. And for all that the events of the night go against my Christian sensibilities, it seems to have brought most of the men together in — I cannot say what, for I do not know, but the sense of camaraderie I hoped to foster among them appears to have taken hold, and they have been working today with a new sense of vigor, and with cooperation that has heretofore been lacking.
Let us hope that this bodes well for completing the bridge on time.
Click here for the navigation page.
Thanks for reading! If you’re enjoying this story, let me know with a like, comment, or restack.
This story is free, but if you’d like to vote for more fiction with your dollars, you could buy me a coffee, and also check out my published books.
And be sure to subscribe so you don’t miss the next episode!
This is a good beginning! Looking forward to next week's episode.
Really well written and engaging, Jean Marie. I like how you include just enough details to make it atmospheric and raise some tension without letting the story stall. I'm really enjoying this series and looking forward to the next installment.