Vignette #3
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A Thesis of American Literature under the Destitute Era
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Author
Perhaps the most prolific writer of the American Destitute Era would be Edgar Allan Poe. He was an American short story writer, poet and critic. As the son of a poor New English Unionist Immigrant, he was spat down upon, and his chances for work were always poor. In 1826 amidst the American Civil War he joined the American Army and became a colonel in the army before being discharged in 1829 after a small slave rebellion in Alabama left him unable to shoot a rifle properly with his right hand. He failed to earn a living by writing and much of his works were further exacerbated by the fact that the government censored them. In 1849, he lost his life by siding with the Democratic Union of American Youths when the Secret Police of the Destitute Era barged into his home and put the poor writer to the sword. His wife managed to escape with their children all the way to New England, taking up refuge there in what became a precursor to the 1st American People’s Movement.
His fiction and poetry are gothic in nature, his style characterized by his fascination with the grotesque and macabre. He uses this style with cunning and good use to describe the Destitute Era with his multiple books and poems.
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Case Study Story – The Heart that Tattled.
Note: The Heart of the Bloodied was written by Edgar Allan Poe in 1844 during his tenure as a special lieutenant engineer in the American Army during the invasion of Florida. In it, he describes the horrible realities of war, slavery and the Destitute Era.
Story:-
True! – Nervous, very nervous I had been and am. But would you say I am mad? For I am not I can assure you on that. My arm was weakened, but I was gifted in other ways after the strength of my arm was taken from me. God had sharpened my senses. My smell and my acute hearing. I heard all things above in heaven, here in earth and down along the ridges of hell. How, then am I mad? Hearken! Ad observe how healthily and calmly I can tell you this story.
It is impossible to say when the idea first entered my mind but once it was conceived it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old Colonel of our regiment. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold, I had no desire. For his luxurious and beautiful daughter, I had no love or lust! I think it was his eye! Yes, it was this! He had the eye of a vulture, reckon that’s how he climbed the ranks in the army during the war, a pair of pale blue eyes, whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and so by degrees-very gradually-I made up my mind to take the life of the Colonel and thus get rid of the eye once and for all forever!
On the first day we encountered Spanish troopers defending a ridge with all they had. The colonel told our regiment to hunker down and start a small siege of the defensive positions that the Spaniards and their Seminole allies had taken up, in a nearby old fort as well. The Colonel asked me take command of the explosion corps and to destroy the fortifications with my prowess in explosions. Now this is the point!
You fancy me mad! Madmen know nothing! But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely made up my cunning plan with which I would kill the Colonel and defeat the Spaniards simultaneously! Every night for the two week long siege, the Colonel went out on the siegelines of the battle, and inspected our artillery and explosives. And every night, I followed him. Oh you would have laughed to see how cunningly I followed the Colonel, not making a noise at all, and remaining ahead of him at every step! I would remain quiet and observe his inspections for hours on the end, and moved very very slowly, so as to not disturb the man’s inspection. Ha! Would a madman be as wise as this? No they would not!
After the small inspections, the Colonel would retreat back to his tent, and sleep. Every night for the rest of the week, I followed him into his tent, and remained there, until the old man finally fell asleep in his makeshift bed. Then, I would undo the lantern I held in my arms so cautiously – oh so cautiously – so that a single ray of light fell upon his vulture eye. And I did this for eight long nights – every night it was at around midnight - but I always found the vulture eye to be closed, and so it was impossible to kill him. For it was not the Colonel that had wronged or vexed me, but it was his vulture eye. And every morning, when dawn broke out, I would shove past his unwitting guards, and greet the Colonel boisterously, calling him by name and speaking in a hearty tone, and inquiring how he had passed the night.
Finally on the ninth night, I struck gold. A letter had arrived from the War ministry. Something about reinforcements from Cuba for the Spaniards. The old colonel was unsettled by the news. He hid himself inside his tent and settled down onto the bed unsteadily. I shrugged past the sleeping guards quietly, and applied Tricholoromethane [1] onto my handkerchief and knocked the sleeping guards unconscious and pushed them towards the wayside. I then entered the tent quietly. However the old colonel may had noticed something and he spreang out of his bed and cried out – “Who’s there?”
I kept still in my hiding space and said nothing and did nothing. For an entire hour I hid in my hiding place, sitting still, and breathing slowly so as to make the noise of my breath simmer down! Would madmen be as wise as this? No I think not!
Presently, I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan of grief or even pain – oh no! – it was the groan of fear and terror, it was the low stifled sound that arises from when the soul knows that it is being hunted upon. The Colonel had been trying to comfort himself with these suppositions: It’s the night guards making the noise, its those bloody Spaniards and Seminoles making these dastardly noises, etc etc…….but found them all to be in vain! All in vain! Death was approaching the colonel and stalked his black shadow and enveloped the victim. And it was the mournful influence of the unperceived shadow that caused him to feel – although he neither saw nor heard – to feel the presence of body in the tent.
After the old man fell asleep –finally! – I slowly lit my lantern again. And finally! Finally! The ray of light fell upon his eye, which was wide open, his mouth hanging agape as he looked at me – I was still recognizable in the dark due to the lantern after all – With a silent yell I threw open the lantern and leaped onto his bed. He shrieked once for nary a second before I dragged him to the floor and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled gaily, to find the deed so far done. But for many minutes, the heart beat went on with a muffled sound. This did not vex me. Not at all. I slowly dragged the body to the small cabin next to the now deceased Colonel’s tent, which was being used as the Engineer’s camp, my camp and buried the body by dismembering it and hiding it beneath the planks.
It was the perfect crime! I cleaned the tent and my cabin for hours before I settled down for a nap at around 4 in the morning. The camp woke up like it did everyday when the artillery corps began to shell the Spanish positions. The disappearance of the Colonel was of course known and felt and that afternoon the Ordnance sent the High Commissioner of Discipline, an extension of Jackson’s secret service in the army to investigate the disappearance. By the evening it was my turn. I invited the Commissioners into my temporary cabin and laughed heartily with them, debating the disappearance.
I bade them to search and search well. In my enthusiasm, I brought chairs into the room and desired for them to rest in my Head Engineer cabin, while I myself sat down and chatted with them amiably. The Commissioners were sure of my innocence, I was singularly at ease, and my manners had convinced them. They decided to take me on my offer, and sat down drinking cold water and discussing how to divide the old Colonel’s slaves back in Atlanta. I am proud to say I managed to bid myself 8 slaves! And one of them according to a picture, was as beautiful as a European princess, her black texture aside. I was proud of the fact and the Commissioners bemoaned at me in slight jest that I was too lucky with the slave draw.
But ere long, I felt myself getting more and paler, and wished the commissioners gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears: But the commissioners still sat and smiled and chatted. The ringing became more distinct as time went on! No doubt I had become very pale. I tried to deflect it by speaking in higher tones, but the voice and its rhythm simply became larger. What could I do? It was a sound as low, dull and quick – much such a sound as a watch makes when it is enveloped in cotton! It grew louder! Louder! LOUDER! And still the commissioners smiled and laughed with me. Was it possible that they had heard? Almighty God! – No! NO! – they had heard! They knew! The Commissioners had weeded the loyalists and federalists in the army by using twisted psychological methods, and saw around 10,000 former servicemen killed or imprisoned! And now they were doing the same with me! They knew! They were making a mockery of my suffering and my inordinate guilt. This I thought and this I think. But anything was better than this silent agony. Anything, even Commissioner Imprisonment was tolerable than this derision! I could not bear those hypocritical, mocking and twisted smiles any longer! I felt that I must scream and die And now – again! – hark! Louder! Louder! LOUDER! LOUDER!
“Villains! Hypocrites! Spies of Jackson!” I shrieked. “Dissemble no more! I admit the deed! – tear up the planks! Here here! – it is the beating of his hideous heart!”
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[1] –Chloroform
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A/N: This is a parody of the Tell-Tale Heart written by Edgar Allan Poe in otl adapted for this timeline. I have no rights to it. All claims and copyrights belong to Edgar Allan Poe
I find literature an underappreciated part of Alternate History and this is my take on it!
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