Made By History: An Anthology of Historical Fiction

By Copperfield Press

Welcome to the second anthology from The Copperfield Review, the award-winning literary journal for readers and writers of historical fiction.

The Copperfield Review was named one of the top sites for new writers by Writer’s Digest and it received the Books and Authors Award for Literary Excellence. Since its beginning in 2000, The Copperfield Review has developed a worldwide reputation as a leading market for short historical fiction and historical poetry. Join us online at www.copperfieldreview.com.

Pull up a chair, make yourself a cuppa, and enjoy the wonderful short historical fiction and historical poetry we have in store for you.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Copperfield Press
• Release date: Feb 26, 2022
• ISBN: 0578382563

Book preview

The Tower Green by Cassandra Armstrong

Windows like eyes,

like the eyes of my dear brother,

long dead now but still lingering

ever on the periphery of my mind.

---

The windows like my brother's gaze

show neither judgement nor sympathy;

they remain objective as I descend

to the hastily-laid block.

---

The Tower's eyes have seen much.

Peasants and kings and

God

have watered the grass with their blood.

---

What is the worth of mine

amongst these great predecessors?

I am simply an old woman

who inherited the death sentence of a madman.

---

Soon I will join the others

and we will watch from the parapet

the endless death march of the Tower's victims,

and afterwards,

we will welcome them with open arms.

Cassandra Armstrong is a mother of three living in rural Minnesota. She has been writing poetry and fiction for over 20 years. Her work has appeared in the online literary magazines Mothers Always Write and Writers Resist. Cassandra considers herself an amateur historian, with an especial interest in Plantagenet and Tudor history. This is her second poem to appear in The Copperfield Review. Her first poem, A Day in the Life of Henry VIII, was a Shakespearean sonnet featured in Copperfield’s Summer 2021 edition. This second poem, The Tower Green, is about Margaret Pole, Countess of Salisbury.

Seer by Daniel Bay

Though he told me his name on the morning we left, it wouldn’t be until later that we’d actually speak. Our ship, the Orgulho de Cabral, had been struggling to cut through the waves since we hit open water, but after three weeks of toil, our sails finally harnessed the wind. I was glad to rest. One evening, I heard Bonifácio and Cezário singing songs from the quarter deck, and I went up to join them. He was already out. I found him standing like a grey heron, watching the sun melt.

Joaquim, I called. Come sit with us.

He sang well. Our songs over the women we left in Lisbon carried us into the night, until Gaspar came out from the navigation room and stopped us. It was a miracle, he declared. If conditions stayed like this, we’d cross the ocean in sixteen days. If not, we’d struggle for another three weeks.

Then pray conditions stay, Cezário replied. Spare us, oh Lord, from crossing winds up above—

And dysentery down below, finished Bono.

I agreed. The two of them left, but I stayed outside to watch the darkness run over the ship. Joaquim stayed out too, but not to watch the sky fade to black. Instead, he went to perform his nightly ritual again, where he’d walk the length of the main deck with his eyes (and sometimes an ear) on the floor. Every night Joaquim did this, and every night, Gaspar reacted the same: with giggling, drinking, and more giggling.

Idiota. Joaquim’s behavior wasn’t funny. Keeping some two-hundred and fifty African captives over a six-week voyage wasn’t Gaspar’s responsibility, but was in his interest. Precious metals change things. The Bandeirantes—our courageous flag bearers—had found gold in Brazil. Glittering riverbeds of it, they said, flowing downstream from mountains loaded with so many deposits, that if we didn’t mine them all out, entire peaks could collapse. Behind us, the kingdoms were warring over Spanish succession, so our grip on Brazil was left to tighten and tighten. There had been some fighting, I was told, between the Bandeirantes, the jungle tribes they enslaved, and the new colonists—but these were only disputes. Trade carried on, and the more ships it took to carry Brazil back to Lisbon, the richer the bond between the two worlds became.

Learn from us, Cezário told me the day we left Lower Guinea. Learn from us despite the sullen posture that men like Gaspar get from sailing between worlds too many times. Choppy weather would roll on, but sickness is the true enemy to any vessel—the true threat to our trade—because the longer we struggle against it, the less chance we survive to see the Port of São Sebastião do Rio de Janeiro at the end.

The less chance we survive. I was inexperienced, then. Young and zealous for the trade. It wasn’t until three weeks into our voyage, after four of our crew and twenty-six Africans had died, that I started to learn. It began the night we sang together. I was alone, in my berth, crossing my chest over a swift passage to Brazil without any more deaths. I would’ve kept praying all night if the ship didn’t groan over my words or trap my pleas in its sails, but instead—and despite the good weather we found—the Cabral, that same night, was touched by the plague.

---

You could taste it, hours later, in the morning mist. I jumped outside before the alarm bell and made for the cargo hatch with the facecloth ready for Bonifácio, who met me there with an apron tied around his waist. I soaked his facecloth with a mixture of Madeira wine, saltwater, and citrus juice, which was the best protection I could offer him before Bono would return for bleedings and cuppings later.

Very cute, he said. Bono didn’t believe in protection. I covered his nose and mouth with the cloth anyway, but just as he prepared to go into the hold, the cargo hatch swung open and Joaquim climbed out. He’d gone under with only a cotton shirt on.

You heard, he said. Good. Number forty-three—a bull-type with small ears—is lying on his side in a puddle. Treat him, please, and check the others.

Bono struck a flame to his lantern and went under.

You need protection when entering the hold, I tried telling Joaquim. You can’t go without it, I said, but he had already walked off.

Sometime later, Bono resurfaced with the facecloth missing and with shoulders darkened by sweat. This time, Joaquim brought Cezário and Captain Jacó to greet him. Our captain was given wind of the situation, now.

He’s right, Bono told us. Forty-three, the largest one we have, is sick beyond bowel control, along with forty-two, forty-five, and forty-one. The whole row of ten is infected by bloody flux. It may pass, but it may spread—it might jump the barricade between male and female or pass from parent to child—

Child, I thought. We have twenty-nine children onboard.

And infect us, in turn, when they surface to bathe, finished Cezário. "The Cabral will float into Brazil with everyone dead."

Our captain spat. The smell from below was putrid. Yet I suppose throwing ten overboard is going too far?

It was. We couldn’t be superfluous on these crossings—it was expected that we’d salvage our cargo as best we could before resorting to such things. Jacó only said this draw threatening lines. Well? he asked Bono.

Bono looked up. My lantern is out, he said, and we all knew what that meant. No oxygen in the hold. No sunlight, either. The bloody flux festered in dark, suffocating places; it wouldn’t be long before it crawled in our beds and rot through our flesh.

I glanced at Joaquim. His mind was somewhere deep.

Then we work, I said. We work the main deck to allow better sunlight and air. My voice came out strong. I liked it. The attention it commanded.

You’d have me carve up my deck? asked Cezário.

"And clean the hold. Work will be hard, but it will make the Cabral safe."

Captain Jacó looked ready to forbid this, but then Joaquim spoke.

Let him, he said, and this seemed enough. As boatswain, this would be a large operation for me to supervise. It needed to happen without any cost to our regular duties, but seeing that this was a challenge I wanted, Jacó he left us to make plans. Cezário marked the planks on the main deck that would be replaced with gridded hatches to allow for better sunlight and airflow, and I briefed our crew mates on the work they would do. Promising them higher stipends once we landed in Brazil helped convince them to enter the hold, but after the first day of labor, I was told they’d cleaned out more of their own vomit, than anything else.

Things got better on day two. A cycle began where empty buckets were lowered into the hold and lifted up full of excrement, and my job was dumping them into the sea. Joaquim monitored all that I did. He began teaching me also, and even saved me from my own men, once. On the morning of day four, the crew had me cornered. They argued that with more men getting sick, the likelihood of actually seeing Brazil to collect their reward was getting slim, and this made them change their demands to things they wanted right now. In death, they wanted assurance of their salvation given the sacrifice they were making for the Africans below, and in life, they wanted clemency from all crimes they might’ve had pinned to their names. Joaquim intervened and promised them all. Salvation and clemency were theirs from now on, and on this promise, the men slunk back to work.

On day five, I could see them: the somber faces of the African captives gazing up through the gridded hatches we installed. It was a strange feeling, being tracked by their eyes. Their gaze exposed us, caused trepidation among us, and kept our conversations hushed. Captain Jacó began arming the crew with machetes every time they entered the hold to clean. Our musketeers were ordered to pace across the main deck with their rifles cocked and eyes down as well, and if they spotted an Atlantic albatross, they were encouraged to shoot. Nobody (save Joaquim,) entered the hold after dark. The African voices—their nightly lamenting—was part of the reason. I wish you might hear such voices. The slaves in Lisbon often sang this way, from mansion balconies, if the child born to their master’s home died in birth. I didn’t ask the others if their dreams were haunted by these voices, but mine were. In my sleep, I could hear the voices rising up to engulf the ship and pull everyone down.

It rained, the next day. The Africans were doused with water, but this attested to the work we had done. The hold’s air quality had improved, sunlight could now filter inside, and the captives were even getting more to eat. Cezário and I were on the quarter deck the evening after it rained, waiting for Joaquim and Bonifácio to affirm these improvements after their final inspection, but when they met us, neither of them sat. Something was wrong.

Tell them.

Bono rubbed his temples. Cezário folded his arms.

Seven have died, said Bono, of the crew. Thirty-two Africans have died—fourteen females, sixteen males, and two children. Fifteen others are ill.

Joaquim was silent. Bono’s words were directed at me, I realized.

It takes time, I managed, for changes to—

Cezário left. Joaquim let him go.

Who among us is dead? I asked.

Joaquim can give you their names, said Bono. Tell him. He also left.

Our surgeon and carpenter were done. The crew, as well. Besides occasional cleaning, the only task left to do was corpse removal, and starting that night, Joaquim lifted up every dead African