They called me M.J., that stood for Michael Jones. It was the early part of April in 1760 when I departed an English port and headed across the waters for the North American colonies where I planned to settle, start a family, and begin what I hoped to be a very prosperous life. It was the summer if 1760 when I planted my feet and my heart in Boston along with several black slaves that I purchased when I arrived here. I brought a hefty 10,000 British pounds in my purse, which was my entire life savings. I was twenty-two years old, turning twenty-three in the fall. …
