October 2024
This month, our writers will take you to a moment in time to tell a story,
filled with historically accurate details, that will make you feel what it
is like to have lived in the past in various locations.
Introducing our freshman writer
Cameron Madden
MSMU Class of 2028
Greetings to all readers of the Emmitsburg News-Journal! My name is Cameron Madden, and I am so gracious for the opportunity to be writing for all of you readers out there. Today will be a day in which we will discuss (I promise in the least narcissistic way possible) me, and who the person behind the ink and paper wishes to be. My hope is that you come out of this with perhaps a better understanding that the words you are reading now come from another soul, just as yourself, that’s trying to figure out where he will fit in the world. Or maybe a chuckle, I feel like the chuckle would be apt enough for a life story.
To begin, let us establish a crucial detail about myself that I need you to remember for the rest of this introduction; yes you will be tested and if you remember it by the end you will get the reward of knowing that your memory is working just fine, and that your medical provider is treating you just fine. The fact is that I was born in New Jersey and have lived there my whole life up till now. I was born the middle child of eventually four children (an older brother, and two younger sisters,) and in my youth I can say confidently that my childhood is something as you can expect from a kid born in 2005.
My youth primarily featured growing up alongside my family and technology. On one hand, I would live in a divorced household and live in a reality of two separate places to call home, and on the other, a new laptop or Playstation 3 that would take up all my attention. During my childhood, I look back and realize that I took an affinity to things past my own environment. I liked the stars of the night when I was supposed to be in bed, the stories of heroes and villains that a child simply could not have embodied, and the worlds described in stories from books, movies and games. In other less inspirational words, I was a nerd. My days were spent with games, movies, shows, chores with parents, and always hanging around with my best friend who lived next door.
As time moved on, and I breezed through elementary school, middle school defined much more about myself than I would like to admit. It cemented the friends that I carry with me to this day, established that I was, in fact, good in school, and mostly pushed the love of stories further upon me. It turns out when your English teacher makes you read any book from the library as a semester-long project, you find yourself picking the books that interest you. I would pick up books describing wars and battles of the past, and of historical figures that lived alongside them. Trust me, you do not expect a 7th grader to tell you about Louis Zamperini, the 1936 US Olympic Runner and WW2 Pilot. I think from this moment on, and with the encouragement and enabling from my older brother, that history took precedence in my life. I was surely interested in storytelling, and while Star Wars and the Hunger Games were interesting stories, they ultimately have
less substance than in the stories that are written everyday and by every person.
It is obvious that you can confidently call me a nerd by this point now; I would counter this assumption by saying I played many years of tee ball/baseball and one of soccer during my childhood, but I would also admit that I never was the best, nor had the greatest of interests in them. By high school I was set on the historical path, but when going to pick a career class I had to establish an actual career path. I thought arguing with my siblings was enough of an inspiration to be a lawyer, and thus I would spend my high school years sitting mostly in a class where I would type up legal papers. It was more boring than you realize for a high schooler to go through; I honestly am surprised I do not have carpal tunnel by this point. At least by the end of that I found a best friend only through that class, so I am going to say I prevailed from that.
Regardless, high school let my love of history expand into that of literature, simply because you can not talk about history or its beauty without writing accordingly for it. This is clearly where my interest in writing comes from, and if you can not tell, it is why I may seem more personable in retelling this, because I like when writers long gone or distant can connect through the ink they preside over.
In fact, I think in all things about myself I can identify that every hobby or action I wish to take part in is some reflection of a connection or extension of who I am. I enjoy older music and play the bass and piano accordingly for this music I love; writing is a fulfillment of how I wish to express any thoughts or inspiration; service to my friends and strangers is how I want everyone to act; and I make dry, cynical jokes because it connects to the stories and past to which I grew up in. In truth, I myself am a history major because some part of me wishes to be connected to the stories I grew up with. This drive to express myself has landed me here, to be read by you, a wonderful reader.
Think kindly to yourself and how you became the person who picked up this paper. I am sure that you and I will go to great places with that mindset. But just to make sure, I hope you can remember where I was born! If you can not, I have some real concern for you.
Read other articles by Cameron Madden
The innocent casualty
Gracie Smith
MSMU Class of 2027
It was the hottest summer I’d seen in all my days. Not only were the crops feeling it, but so were the livestock and the people who occupied the small town. It had been some time since our town was what it used to be, all from the war that didn’t seem to have an end in sight. The Confederates claimed victory at Chancellorsville in May, while the Union seemed to continue their back peddling. I pushed away the thoughts of war and wrapped my hair up in my mother’s old bonnet. The soft, now off-white lace complimented my pale, soft skin.
It was my turn to run into town and gather food for the women in my house, that is, my mother and my sister Georgia who had just given birth a number of days ago. Rumor had it that the Confederates were coming here. I wondered what would make our town such a desirable location for them. We were known for hardly nothin’; why wouldn’t they head for the capital? I found myself lost in the thought of war again. I sighed, as this usually happened. I mustn’t focus on things I do not understand, that's preposterous.
As I walked to the center of town, I could sense the town had an eerie, uneasy feel to it. Where were the children running in the street? Where were the carriages hauling people around the town? Even the train station seemed bare with only two people occupying the inside. The thought did cross my mind that the rumors of the Confederates' intentions were, in fact, true. I exercised my self-discipline and refused to think anything of it. That’s when I saw the Union Cavalry.
The sound of the horses marching in the streets was enough to intimidate anyone. I turned my head and without thinking, found my legs hurrying back to the edge of the pathways, making room for the cavalry.
Why were they here? What could they want? What are they looking for? Can I trust them?
I unintentionally found my eyes glazing over all of the men in uniform. It would be unreasonable to deny their attraction. Surely, every woman felt some sort of desire for a man in a fresh uniform. By their appearance alone, I wouldn’t have taken them to be any copperheads.
I notice a particular set of eyes on me. Unfazed by it, I look up to meet his gaze. He looks rough… like he’d seen the effects of this war. But this was also admirable, it meant he was wise. Looking at his uniform, it was evident that he was of a higher rank. What rank, well I wasn’t so sure. My eyes looked back at his for a moment before I realized that he and his men had slowed their pace to all look at me. At this point… I began to feel slightly anxious.
When had they last seen a woman? Are these men married?
I decided to play coy, it’d been a long time since I’d seen a Union officer, or even a soldier for that matter.
"Is there going to be a disturbance in our town?" I say, pulling out my fan to cool myself down from the heat. My eyes glossed over the soldiers and their uniforms, only one name looked familiar, Buford. I’d seen it somewhere…
I could feel the perspiration forming on the back of my neck. The sun’s heat was not very accommodating as of late.
"Nothin’ the calvary can’t handle," A soldier, what looked to be an aid to the officer, lowered his cap to me. I nodded in return, giving a soft smile.
I watched as they rode on, pondering on the name Buford. Suddenly it clicked, I’d seen it in a letter from my fiancé who too was off fighting in this great war. Then, my thoughts were quickly interrupted by the sound of church bells from the seminary.
On my walk back to my sister’s home, I saw the cavalry once more talking to the bank teller. Though I couldn’t read their lips, I could read their expressions… and something told me that the war was close to home.
The next 2 days were almost unbearable.
Trapped in a home, sheltering my mother, my ill sister, and her newborn child from the war that raged just outside our door. Every few minutes the floorboards would rattle mercilessly from a nearby canon, leaving us all shaken at what could be next. Every second hearing gunshots, some louder than others indicating how close the action, the violence, was to us. Though my composure remained sturdy for the sake of my family, my insides were torn up with fear. Just because there was a battle occurring just yards outside our home, didn’t mean that our daily operations had to come to a halt. My mother and I did our part and fed the local Union soldiers what we could, mainly leftover food from our table and freshly baked bread.
Though a small contribution, my mother and I could see in the soldiers' eyes how much it meant to them. They were just as frightened by what was happening, if not more so than I. They most likely weren’t from these parts, and a part of my heart ached for them, as they reminded me of my own beloved; In unknown territory… unsure of whether or not he will ever make it home…
Thoughts such as this made it possible to keep going… for the sake of innocent, meek soldiers such as my fiancé.
On the morning of the third day, it was evident that the morale of both armies was thinning. The air was quiet, hardly a bird chirping. I took solace in this peace, for the fighting hadn’t begun yet for the day. I stood in the kitchen, enjoying normalcy for a few brief moments before the soldiers fired up their weapons again in the distance.
"Jennie," I heard my mother call from the other room, "it’s s-"
Read other articles by Gracie Smith
The Highlands in 1746
Devin Owen
MSMU Class of 2026
The winds howled as they swept across the hills, carrying the scent of peat smoke and a whisper of rebellion. The Highlands stood as the always had—unyielding, wild, wrapped in ancient mist that held the history of the Highlander culture. However, the men who walked the rugged path here were restless, anticipating the change they could feel whipping through the air in their midst.
Amongst these men stood Brodie Mackenzie, a young man of only twenty-three summers, ready to swear his life to the Bonnie Prince Charlie and the Jacobite cause. Brodie was no stranger to battle, being a Scot entitled him to that, but the air felt different this time around leaving a pit that gnawed at the man’s stomach in anticipation and dread for what was to come in the next few hours.
It was the late hours of April 15th, 1746, and the Mackenzie boy did not find himself graced with sleep. Instead, he spent those hours thinking: of his wife Caroline and daughter Ailee, of his brothers and sisters and nephews back home, and of what was to become of him once he went through with this battle. As ready as he was to give his life for the Young Pretender’s cause, he never considered what else he would be giving up within that.
It had been two years since the Bonnie Prince had returned to Scotland, raising the banner of rebellion against King George. For Brodie, the decision to join the Jacobite cause wasn’t a simple one. He did not care much for the politics of distant kings. But the Mackenzie’s had sworn fealty to the Stuart line for generations, and when his clan chief called them to arms, he could not stand idle, regardless of the family he was leaving behind.
Brodie’s wife Caroline was a bonnie lass, but a sassenach. Their marriage wasn’t something that originally sat well with other members of the Mackenzie clan, but Brodie was entranced when he first laid eyes on her. He knew she was the one for him and has’na let her go since. He thought back to the last conversation they had, where she begged him not to leave, her eyes filled with sorrow and loss. "You don’t have to fight for Kings Brodie. This land and your family, that’s what’s important," she cried. He tried to believe her but, loyalty to clan and country weighed to heavy on his shoulders. Leaving Caroline and Ailee behind to fight this fight was the hardest choice he’s ever had to make, but a choice he made nonetheless.
The hours passed on and Brodie Mackenzie found himself standing shoulder to shoulder with his fellow Highlanders, each man bristling with anticipation for the coming battle. The rising sun barely broke through the thick clouds, casting the day in a cold, grim light, as if even the heavens have turned their backs on the Jacobite cause.
Brodie glanced over at his older brother, Callum, whose face was etched with determination. The Mackenzie plaid was wrapped tightly around Callum’s broad shoulders, and his claymore hung at his side, its blade kissed by a history of blood and honor.
Brodie gripped his dirk tightly, the cold metal biting into his palm. His mind wandered, for a brief moment, to the days of peace in the glens of Kintail. He remembered the bright streams that trickled down from the mountains, where he and Callum fished as boys, their only worry being whether their mother would scold them for staying out too late. Those were simpler times—before the call to war, before the cause of Prince Charles Edward Stuart.
Beside him, the men muttered prayers in Gaelic, the ancient words rising like mist from their lips. Brodie's heartbeat quickened as he gazed across the moor, where the red-coated British soldiers were assembling in rigid lines. They looked as though they belonged to another world entirely—a world of cold steel and gunpowder. The Highlanders, by contrast, were an untamed force, their swords and shields imbued with the fierce independence of the north.
The Jacobite’s had no choice but to charge. It was all or nothing now.
Brodie caught Callum’s eye. They exchanged a nod—no words were needed. Blood of the same blood, they had fought side by side through the skirmishes in Falkirk and Prestonpans. If today was to be their last battle, they would face death as they had faced life: together.
The signal was given. Brodie’s heart leaped into his throat as the men surged forward, their war cries rising above the howling wind. He ran with them, his feet pounding against the sodden earth, his dirk raised high. Around him, Highlanders shouted, screamed, their faces twisted with the savage determination of a people fighting for their very existence.
The first crack of cannon fire split the air, followed by a barrage of musket shots. Men fell—some silently, others with cries that curdled your blood. The smell of gunpowder grew thick, mingling with the iron tang of blood. Brodie ducked, narrowly avoiding a volley, and kept moving. His muscles burned with the effort, his mind a blur of instinct and adrenaline.
He turned, searching for Callum. The battlefield was a nightmare of mud, blood, and smoke—it was nearly impossible to see more than a few feet ahead. "Callum!" he shouted, his voice hoarse, but there was no answer. Panic gripped him. He pushed through the throng of men, desperately seeking his brother.
And then he saw him.
Callum was on the ground, dark-red spreading across his chest. Brodie rushed to his side, dropping to his knees. "Callum!" he cried, his voice breaking. Callum’s eyes fluttered open, his face pale. "Brodie…" he whispered, his voice barely audible over the din of battle.
"No, ye cannae leave me," Brodie said, his hands trembling as he tried to stem the flow of blood. "We’ll get ye home. Ye’ll be fine. We’ll get ye home to yer family brother." But Callum shook his head, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "It’s over, Brodie," he said, his voice weak. "The clans… we’re finished." And then he took his last breath.
The Battle of Culloden was lost.
But Brodie Mackenzie would live to tell the tale. He would be the only of the Mackenzie boys to leave Culloden Moor still breathing. He would go home to his wife and children, carrying the weight of two losses and his own survival.
Read other articles by Devin Owen
It takes a village
Dolores Hans
MSMU class of 2025
Beyond the aroma of Florentine pappa al pomodoro and the feel of the warmth radiating from the cobblestone streets, and magnificent flow of colorful buildings throughout the hills of Campobasso, there’s a maze-like old town containing the chill of the seaside breeze and the subtle strength of the Alberobello. This town was once a home for a young orphaned boy who had only his village and God to depend on. They called him LeProtto, Antonio LeProtto, meaning "wild rabbit". No one knew his family, no one knew him, just that he was courageous. He would do small jobs for the people of Bari, in exchange for hospitality. They became his family. There was this one woman, he called her Nonni but she was of no blood relation to him, who would look after him when he was most in need. She had little to give him, as she had no one to provide for her either. But what she had she shared with him, and what he provided in return was someone to run her
errands and listen to her stories.
He wasn’t the most talkative boy, and as he got older he spoke even less. However, his humor and courage always remained strong.
"Manga mio figlio, eat you supper", Nonni pleaded gently with Antonio.
"Ghimmone- I’m so full" he said, sliding down into his chair and onto the floor. "It been long day. Let me be".
He rose from the floor quite slowly, aching and moaning the whole way until he was on his feet, jokingly trying to get sympathy from the woman after rejecting more food. He stood, smirked, kissed her on the cheek and went out the door. "A presto", he said as he threw on his hat.
The next morning, as Nonni was hanging the kitchen towels to dry on the clothesline, she heard the rustling of papers somewhere behind her. She turned, saw nothing, and went back to her chores. A moment later, Antonio jumped out from behind a sheet and yelled in an attempt to frighten her. She jumped back, placed her hand on her chest, and nearly fell backwards. "LeProtto! Gocciadavé! Don’t you ever.." she began to lightly hit his arm repeatedly as she went into a verbally profane frenzie. Antonio just laughed, gave her a big hug, kissed her hand, and helped hang up more linens. She scoffed.
"You know something," she began to say in a soft spoken tone, "you are kind, and you are wild, and you work hard. But you are never going to get anywhere if you stay around here. You’ll be doing chores for the rest of your life. That’s no life." He stood there quietly, thinking about what life she could’ve been picturing for him. What she meant when she said "if you stay around here". Did she want him to go to another town?
"A younger like you should be thinking about you future. You need to make something of yourself, mio figlio." She held his face in her hands, examined him lovingly, then shoved his head downwards and scoffed once more.
A few months later, LeProtto was sitting just outside a market in town, hoping someone would offer him a job or a snack. Almost everyone there looked so thin, and even the produce looked like it hadn’t been properly nourished by the earth. People spoke to each other in grunts or gestures, or spoke just a few words. Even more people couldn’t read what the signs said. Poverty was never an experience left unlived by LeProtto, or much of Italy for that matter. As people walked by, he would think of their stories. He saw a man in a hat using a cane, and he wondered if he had a good job. He saw a woman and a child and it reminded him of the family he used to dream of. He closed his eyes and tried to picture a future for himself, but it was too difficult, all he could think of was his past. Here he was, a nineteen year old boy, consumed by his past, and stuck in a time where it feels impossible to escape the effects of natural disasters and
poverty.
As he wandered back to the village, he waved hello to the people who took care of him the best, and thought about how he loved it there. Sure, it was tough and by anyone else’s standards it might have been a sad excuse for family and career, but for Antonio, it was all he knew, and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to know better. Even if he somehow came out on top of the world one day, he knew that it would mean nothing if he wasn’t giving it back to Nonni and the village who raised him. They sacrificed so much to keep him going, and that seemed like a pretty good place to be.
"Antonio," he heard a soft voice from behind him, and felt a hand rest on his shoulder. "It’s a time to listen," said one of the men from the village, "we make a you an opportunity. You no been anywhere but Bari, you whole life". A woman approached him as well saying, "there’s more out in the world for you. Bring your skills and wits along. They will service you a good somewhere else". Antonio listened to what they were saying, but he didn’t understand. Nonni came through what was now a crowd of people, and put her hand in his. "It’s a time," she said with tears in her eyes, "America. Go." Antonio was even more confused now. He looked at her bewildered. "Whatta you mean, go? America, it a too much. I no money, no people over there, whatta you mean?"
"We sponsor you, whole village, we raise money, we get everything in place. You go, live well, use skill to make living. You better over there than here now," explained another man from the village, "don’t you see, best opportunity over there."
Antonio didn’t know what to think. He did hear about some people who went to America to live the same way but make more money and over time they would get more and more, and eventually come back to Italy to live better. Antonio wondered if the reason he couldn’t see a future for himself is because that future didn’t exist based off his current circumstances. He looked around at the village who had done so much for him. He thought that he could go to America, make a lot of money, then come back one day soon, and give the money away to the people. He got close to Nonni, put his arm around her, picked up a potato sack from the ground, and said "when I getta on thata boat, imma cry".
Read other articles by Dolores Hans
Read Past Editions of Four Years at the Mount
