Pritchard Daviess: A Blissful Existence

By Adam D. Rice

America's forgotten Founding Fool recounts his life story in this faux memoir. With his miniature mule, Zippy, by his side, Pritchard nearly bungles a host of historical events and frustrates many wig-wearing men. It's the tell-all tale of our time... well, sometime.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pitmix Press
• Release date: Jan 19, 2019
• ISBN: 9781535299640

Book preview

PREFACE

You may have already noticed that the cover of this book, Pritchard Daviess – A Blissful Existence, includes another name—mine. Years ago, I was attending an auction at a local antique dealer’s. While diving in the dumpster behind the shop, I found a crate of manuscripts and other baubles that appeared to have gone unsold. Each of the writings tied into a large and poorly-documented family with a penchant for writing intimate—and arguably, embellished—accounts of their lives. After considerable research on my part, I have determined that no heirs exist to lay claim to the documents, so I’m going to make a few bucks off of them while I can.

Deciding which manuscript to publish first proved to be a difficult task, but in the end, I chose the subject of this memoir because of his historical relevance to the American Revolution. And I believe everyone can relate to at least one of Pritchard’s blunders. Other manuscripts will be published as time and editorial interest permit.

- Adam D. Rice, 2016

INTRODUCTION

Good day, friend. Under John Hancock’s jauntily-written name on the Declaration of Independence is another one—fancy that. The name belongs to a Samuel Chase. He was important and all, but he isn’t the main actor in this literary drama. Chase does get us a bit closer, though. His wife, Ann, had a step-second cousin by the name of Pritchard Daviess. (More about the Chases later.) Yes, Daviess is our man. To be specific, that’s me.

Whether or not you’ve heard of me, I feel it necessary to thank you for picking up my memoir of the War for Independence—that great conflict which snipped the old apron strings between us and the Empire. It’s an interesting read. I can say that because I wrote it. But don’t blindly trust my opinion or the statements of many upstanding critics who may have recently been treated to fancy dinners. Try it out. See what you think.

Every word in this book was written to the best of my recollection. The quotes may vary slightly from the actual conversations, but that never stopped anyone else from writing their memoir. Read on and experience for yourself the unparalleled mirth and joy which lie within.

- P.O.J. Daviess, January 1816

1 GROWING UP

History is funnier than you think. – P.D.

My full name is Pritchard Olin Jambalaya Daviess. Pritchard was my aunt’s idea. Olin was a mistake. Jambalaya was my mother’s pregnancy craving. And Daviess—I’ve got no idea where that came from. I was told as a child that my ancestors were once involved in a sordid cult, so perhaps that had something to do with it.

I was born, as were all of my seventeen siblings and cats, in the town of Rinky-Dink. As its name suggests, Rinky-Dink was so named because, during the coldest weeks of winter, the small pond in the center of town becomes a tiny ice rink. Rinky-Dink is in that weird unconnected part of Massachusetts next to New Hampshire. Whaling is the town’s sole industry—and minting counterfeit currency, but that’s a little hush hush. The entire colonial economy would have collapsed if not for my father’s dedication to our family’s business. You may know that sperm whale oil is collected in the holds of whaling ships until returning to port, but the real key—the true hero of the operation—is the Daviess Cork hammered into place by a burly seaman, sealing the barrel. There isn’t a whaling ship in the North Atlantic that doesn’t use my family’s corks. You might think such notoriety and our near monopoly would’ve made my family rich. Sadly, corks are inexpensive to mass produce, and my family has teetered on the edge of poverty my entire life.

My childhood was full of the usual adventures, friendships, and emotional insecurities. When very young, my brains were hopelessly addled in an unfortunate mishap. I have no memory of the event, but one day Paps and Mum noticed something different about me and sent for the finest—and only—doctor our geographic locale had to offer. The doctor did all he could, leeching at least one gallon of blood over the course of my early years, but I’m proud to relate that I beat the odds and completed one year of primary school. No one has ever been able to quash or dull my happy-go-lucky spirit. Trust me. People have tried over the years to no effect.

When I wasn’t working alongside my siblings and cats in the cork factory, I spent every free moment fishing, swimming, and trying in vain to create my very own musical instrument. But, in those early years, there was never much time for leisure. For hours each day, I worked in the cork factory—a windowless and roofless abandoned shack our family’s business had squatted in for decades. Time flew by as I stood alongside my siblings and cats day after day putting breadcrumbs on our family’s wobbly table.

Several branches of the Daviess clan lived in the Rinky-Dink metropolitan district. My childhood buddies included dozens of cousins, step-cousins, and neighbor’s cousins. We were all fast friends, but I’ll admit that in a footrace, I was usually the slowest of the bunch. Two friendships made during those formative years lasted well into adulthood. My step-second cousin, Ann Baldwin, was a kind girl who had a funny way of talking. For as long as I can remember, she talked with her head cocked to the side, speaking through a small crack in her pursed lips. Mum told me she’d been kicked by a horse, but I just thought of her as an eccentric. She was pretty, and her popularity allowed me to break the class ceiling that would have otherwise hindered my social advancement as a child.

One of Ann’s best friends was a grumpy, troubled boy named Samuel Chase. He was a real downer and prone to fits of ill temper, but Sammy soon became one of my closest friends and confidantes. He was always so happy to see me that, when he saw me coming, he’d run and run as I pursued him to help me get some exercise. Most friends aren’t as considerate and wellness-focused as Sammy was. With that said, Sammy was always a rather boring, ordinary sort. He and I weren’t cut from the same cloth if you catch my drift. He was shorn from some stained burlap, while I, Po J. Daviess, was snipped from fine lace.

When I was ten or eleven—I forget which—Sammy and his family moved to Maryland. Ann’s family followed not long after. Those months were some of the most difficult in my life, and not merely because I’d foolishly attempted to return to school to finish second grade. At the time, a tiny, wispy cloud had formed in the corner of the otherwise sunny and clear horizon which was my psyche. It didn’t stay long. The addling gave me an indescribable mechanism of coping with the ups and downs of life. You may be wondering how I learned to read and write after receiving practically no schooling. I have Ann to thank for that. She hooked me up with a fantastic tutor.

Sammy and Ann’s families both had substantial wealth when compared to my own, allowing them sufficient mobility to relocate across the colonies to Annapolis, Maryland. When they were both still young and beautiful, Ann and Sammy got hitched. Due to the great distance, my family wasn’t able to make the trek to attend the wedding and subsequent raucous partying. We sent along enough corks to supply a large winery as a present.

I had several romantic attachments myself in my younger years. Most of those relationships had difficulty getting off the ground. All of the girls in Rinky-Dink expected their dates to lead them through grueling choreographed dance numbers. The hit dance move of the day involved picking up your date and lifting them above your head. My limited upper body strength left me unable to oblige. It’s hard to court someone who won’t return your calling cards, especially when your failed dance move sent them tumbling into a cistern. At the age of twelve, after several failed courtships, the bachelor life chose me.

In the intervening years, I grew taller, and my voice got substantially higher. My hair hung unshorn in shaggy locks about my head. If I didn’t want to look especially fabulous, I had no need to wear a hat. While I was still employed by Paps, I’d moved at the age of fourteen to a little house of my own. In those days, homeowners named their estates to give them an air of familiar pomposity. I settled on Midge Meadow for mine.

After Sammy and Ann moved away, I wrote them almost every day, barring holidays and when I didn’t feel like it. Sammy’s lawyer and I became faithful pen pals over the years. Goodness, his daughters probably have lawyers of their own by now. Late in 1773, Sammy was so humbled by a series of personal successes that he tried to restrain me from visiting him, but I wouldn’t hear of it. You’re my cousin, I’d written him, And I can’t stand us being apart.

In the summer of 1774, I began to form a plan to visit my relatives. I’d say I saved for the trip, but I hadn’t. I find that it’s always safer and less expensive to travel with as little cash weighing you down as possible. My trip, at first glance, might sound like a simple family visit with no lasting, historical impact. However, my life and the fate of the colonies were forever changed—all because I woke up one morning with a pressing desire to delay my trip no longer.

2 THE DAY I LEFT

One man’s death is an undertaker’s good fortune. – P.D.

The gulls were singing when I threw open my bedroom shutters on that glorious day. I stuck my head out of the window and spied the body of the neighborhood constable sprawled on the cobbled street outside my home. Constable, pray tell why you’re lying about in the street? You sure don’t like it when those poor souls at the docks do.

The constable stirred, groaning as he always did in these situations. Pritchard, it was your shutters. I wish you’d be more careful.

Sorry, sir, you know I can’t help it. I’m oblivious! It was true. I was what some would later term beyond help or a hopeless cause. And those were just snippets from greeting cards.

The constable sat up and began brushing the dust from his jacket. If you’re still planning to leave town and visit your kin, say the word, and I’ll help you pack.

That’s very kind of you, constable. I’ve decided that today’s the day I head to Maryland. I’m going for real this time. I’ll miss you, but never fear. I plan to maintain a lengthy correspondence with you, ole chap, to keep up with the town gossip.

Don’t hurry back, son. It’s been a long time since you’ve seen your relatives. The constable picked himself up and continued his stroll down the street, making a wider birth around other neighborhood windows. To be clear, I’m not his son.

I pulled open the doors of my chifforobe and took stock of my possessions. I knew I’d be gone for several months—perhaps even years. The thought struck me that my cousin Sammy was roughly the same height and build as I was. Why even bother packing? Goodness knows my rich distant relatives could spare a few pairs of clothes for their childhood buddy, Pritchard. I packed up a few belongings—a comb, a mouth harp, and my daydreams—in an old handkerchief, stuffing it in the breast pocket of my coat. I’ll admit I had to leave a few of my daydreams at home to make sure I wasn’t overburdened. Ready or not, Annapolis, here comes Pritchard! I called from the open window.

As I shut the door to my cottage, the reality of my absence began to sink in. My relatives didn’t know it yet, but I wanted a piece of the action in the brewing conflict. At the time, I figured the colonies must have been preparing to fight with France or Spain. Regardless, I was ready to do my part. Since I had no reason to keep it, I threw the key to my house over my shoulder and proceeded down the street to the livery stable.

From past experience, I knew that livery stables were a racket. It’s best to go into a bargaining situation in a position of strength, or so the town’s motivational crier once told me. When I entered the stable, I clapped several times before shouting, Your finest stallion, groom! I tossed several hay pennies in the direction of the stable attendant. Nothing conveys strength better than throwing your money at people.

I’m sorry, sir, but we’re fresh out of horses. All we’ve got left is a mule. She’s young but sturdy enough to ride. The attendant opened the door to the nearest stall. By the height of the door—seven feet at least—I figured this mule would be more than suitable. I craned my head into the stall and was soundly kicked by the animal.

I staggered out of the stall with what felt like a horseshoe-shaped bruise forming on my skull. I say, boy! Is this mule broken? If her warranty isn’t up, I’d send her back as malfunctioning!

If you mean, ‘has she ever worn a saddle?’ No. Is that a problem, sir?

No problem at all. I rolled up my sleeves and pushed my way back into the stall. The experience that followed forever bonded me to that dear animal who I named Zippy. After a half-hour of brawling about her stall, we embraced, Zippy and I, and ceased our quarrel. I rubbed salve into the bite marks I had conferred upon her, and she massaged my numerous hoof-shaped bruises with her snout. Did I mention that Zippy is a miniature mule? In that moment, I felt that I had found the animal that could fill the miniature-livestock-shaped hole which had been present in my heart since birth.

I’d like to buy this fine animal. How much? I turned to where the boy had been sitting, watching the scene unfold.

How much’ve you got? The boy held out a hand which I shook without delay. Haggling might as well be my maiden name.

Well, let me see. Patting my pockets, I realized my wallet—the stocking in which I kept my money—was still sitting at home. Could you put the mule on layaway for me while I trot home and get my billfold?

What about that locket? The locket the groom had noticed hanging from my neck was a family heirloom brought to the Roanoke colony by one of my ancestors.

You wouldn’t want this. It’s a pewter trifle I found in a trash barrel by the town green after an antique appraisal troupe passed through.

No, I do want it. The amulet for the mule. Deal? The boy again held out his hand which I shook—more firmly this time. You’d think by now he’d have perceived my willingness to make a deal. I glanced over at Zippy. Her little eyes were welling with even tinier tears as she pondered not joining me in my travels. Her doleful expression was the only encouragement I needed. What can I say? I’m a sucker for impulse purchases. I snatched the locket from my neck and handed it to the groom. If the kid only knew, he got the worse end of the bargain. He pawned that solid gold amulet thinking it’s pewter—the poor fool.

I realized too late that my purchase hadn’t included a saddle. Ignoring my mistake, I mounted Zippy and held on the best I could. Zippy’s ears never stood quite as erect from that day forward. With a lurch and not a little swearing, we were off, Zippy and I, on the adventure of a fortnight, galloping down the highway through hedge and thistle. I can’t say Zippy has ever lived up to her name when speed was considered, but her stubby yet powerful legs pressed on toward Annapolis to my cousin Sammy’s home. For the first several hours, I had to take frequent breaks to rest my legs. It’s not easy to ride a miniature mule with your legs held out in the splits to keep them from dragging in the mud. In the past, I’d always ridden sidesaddle for any number of reasons, but try as I might, without a saddle, it was just too difficult.

While we—and by we, I mean Zippy—waded through a swamp, I chose a different riding method that I grew to enjoy even more than riding sidesaddle. To keep my clothes from being soiled by the murky swamp water, I stood on Zippy’s back. I’d seen some woodcut engravings in a traveling show depicting Russian aristocrats riding their serfs in a similar fashion. I decided to call it surfing. (I wouldn’t be a true American if I didn’t harbor a deep-seated disrespect for British spelling convention.) After considerable practice, I took to this method of riding my steed. I found that squatting down while throwing my arms to the side brought increased stability.

Other travelers on the road were captivated by my unique method of mule riding. They pointed and laughed with delight at my innovative spirit. One man was so shocked he spat at me—I was flattered. No rut, highway robber, or beggar could stop our incremental progress to Maryland. When we camped that night, I used the stars to measure how far we’d come with my pocket astrolabe. Oh, yes, Zippy, we’ve come.... I spun knobs, made some subdued whirring noises, and clicked my tongue in feigned understanding. Yes, we’re several degrees from somewhere. You know, I should’ve taken some coordinates before we left. Oh well, I’m sure we’ll find Annapolis if we ask around.

I curled up on a mossy boulder and fell into a deep sleep while Zippy grazed and kept watch. I dreamed that a cute fawn and his woodland animal friends took turns licking me and tickling me all over. I awoke to find Zippy in the fight of her miniature life. A fawn was doing its best to beat her senseless, but my mini mule got in a couple of good blows. When I tried to separate them, I came away from the scuffle with a limp and an elbow that made a creaking sound. Before I managed to borrow a musket from a passing traveler, a mother deer charged up and clobbered her fuzzy spawn. That put an end to it.

After tending our wounds and preparing a sizable helping of deer jerky, I jumped onto Zippy’s back and assumed my surfing position, digging my spurs into her sides. I cried, Zippy, where are we headed today?

Rearing back her head, Zippy let out a piercing, Hee-haw!

That’s right, mini mule, onward to Annapolis! In all honesty, Zippy could have been crying out because of the spurs, but that’s beside the point. Regardless, Zippy lurched into motion, and we began our travels anew. I’d lived my whole life in Rinky-Dink. I knew I’d miss it, but I had bigger fish to flambé, so to speak.

3 ANNAPOLIS OR BUST

A biscuit is a biscuit, no matter the mold. – P.D.

On the forty-second day of Zippy and