by Wendy Lawton
Mary tucked the handkerchief carrying her handful of Delft dirt into her pouch. When the smells became overpowering, she held the hankie to her nose and inhaled the earthy smell of Dutch soil.
The storm continued lashing the ship. After days of being confined to quarters with no chance to even empty buckets or chamber pots, some of the passengers were half frantic for a breath of fresh air.
Mary noticed John Howland. He began pacing the deck in the dark. At first he bumped from crate to chest to bunk, but eventually he learned his path in the dark. As the days dragged on, he took to sitting on the ladder near the hatch, despite the water that seeped in.
One day, they heard a rush of wind and water and momentary light, and then it darkened down again. John Alden said he thought the tarp covering the hatch must have blown loose. No one missed John Howland.
Many hours later, the same light and water rushed in, but this time the bosun entered with a bundle slung over his shoulder. As soon as the men below deck could make out that ’twas a body, they rushed to help.
“By all rights this man ought to be sleeping in the deep, but here he be.” The bosun lowered the shivering, retching, body to the deck.
“’Tis John Howland. What happened?” Elder Brewster asked.
“I see the hatch cover flap back, and out comes this bloke.” The bosun pointed to John. “I tell him to get back. ’Tis not safe. Even the helmsman must lash himself to the wheel—the seas are sweeping across the decks, and some of the swells cover the tops of the masts. When ’tis this bad, there’s nothing to do but drift in the hands of God.”
“But what about Howland?” Elder Brewster asked.
“He says, ‘I must breathe air.’ And before I can send him back, a wave comes crashing across the bow and sweeps the man into the churning sea.”
“God have mercy.” The elder was clearly shaken.
“Indeed He did. I have never seen such a thing in all my years at sea. When a man goes overboard in a storm, ’tis a natural burial at sea.” The bosun shook his head. “But your man here … we look back and there he is hanging on to the line from the topsail. The waves battered him something fierce, but he hung on tight to that topsail halyard, and we used the boathook and managed to haul him in.”
Those gathered around John Howland were speechless. God had spared John’s life. It reminded Mary that the Lord still watched over them all.
“The man’s still half dead, but he may pull out of it—he has pluck.” The bosun turned to the coughing, sputtering Howland, “Fare thee well, young man.”
The bosun turned to go topside when a scream ripped through the cabin.
“Mother?” Mary heard the fear in Constance’s voice.
“What now?” asked the bosun.
“It appears that our wee babe chooses to be born in the middle of the ocean during the fiercest of storms.” Master Hopkins moved over to his wife with a crease between his eyebrows that belied his easy words.
“Good Lord! I shall leave you to it. Carry on.” The bosun nearly ran up the ladder and through the hatch. The tarp was battened down once more.
Mary’s mother and Priscilla readied the bed for John Howland while some of the men helped remove his sopping clothes. The roar of the wind still deafened them; children still cried; those stricken with seasickness, including Mary’s father, still moaned on their bunks, but somehow, everyone knew that they had witnessed a miracle.
Master Hopkins pulled the canvas around the Hopkins’s bunk space, and Dr. Fuller asked Mary to bring a bucket of seawater and to clean the area. Damaris whimpered as Constance took her across the cabin, near Elizabeth and the Tilleys. Mary did the best she could and withdrew to wait with her friends.
Mistress Hopkins labored through the night. In the morning, Mary wakened to the sound of a lusty cry.
“’Tis a boy, Mary.” Constance hugged her friend. She looked so relieved.
“A boy with excellent lungs.” Mary saw this as another sign that God continued to care for them. “What did you name him?”
Constance laughed her deep, rich laugh. “You’ll not believe it—they named him Oceanus.”
Mary laughed as well. As the ocean came crashing over the deck again she said, “I wonder how they ever found that name?”
The winds and the waves continued to lash the ship. Many times she heeled so far over that Mary could sense the one breath that would send the ship toppling into the deep. So far, each time they touched that angle of no return, Mary felt a hesitation—a pause—followed by the backward slip as the ship righted herself.
The creaking and groaning of the ship became as familiar as breathing to the passengers, so one day when they heard an ominous splitting sound, every head turned toward the timber above them. Like the shot of a cannon the timber cracked and buckled. A wild torrent of salt water crashed in on the Pilgrims from the break. The hatch flew open immediately, battens flying and ropes swinging. Captain Jones and the ship’s officers clambered below deck to survey the damage.
The noise of the massive timber snapping terrified the passengers, but ’twas not until they saw the face of the captain that they fully understood the dire outlook.
“Perchance the Mayflower has sailed her last voyage, men,” Captain Jones said. “Get a strong timber to brace under this broken beam and another to wedge as a prop, though I cannot see how we can make this ship seaworthy. That timber is the one that supports the main mast.”
The little band of Pilgrims knew well what that meant. So did Mary. Pushing aside some of the bundles of Chilton belongings, she cleared a place to sit among them. She reached into the chest and took out the tightly packed bundle containing the gift from Isabella. Her plan had been to open it when they reached their new home on America’s shore. She turned the package over, fingering the stiff texture of the oilcloth covering. Perchance the package will never be opened, she realized.
The men ran to get the timbers, but the weight of the mast above the timber was too great to allow them to push the timber back into place. Hopelessness filled the room.
“Wait! What about the great screw?” asked Deacon Carver with sudden excitement.
“Aye,” Elder Brewster said, pointing out men. “John Alden, Myles Standish, Stephen Hopkins, Richard Warren—move the crates and bring the screw.”
Captain Jones merely shook his head, but Mary had seen them use the massive jack that they called an iron screw in Holland to raise the timber on a barn. She put her package back in the chest and jumped up to watch. Dear God, please let it work. We’ve come through so much already.
The wooden case holding the huge screw was placed on the floor directly under the broken beam, and the men began turning the wheel that moved the screw upward. The screw was bigger around than a man’s upper arm. With each twist of the wheel, it extended higher above the platform. When it hit the bracing beam, the men kept turning, and it kept pushing tighter and tighter—far beyond what they had been able to accomplish with the wedge. Mary could see the groaning ship beam begin to knit back together. The torrent of water slowed to a trickle and finally stopped altogether. No one uttered a word until Elder Brewster raised his arms and voices raised in a psalm of thanksgiving.
“Well, I shall be jiggered,” Captain Jones said as he shook his head in wonder and walked all around the repair. He waited until the singing and prayers were offered, then he formally offered his gratitude to each man who helped save his ship.
The storm finally blew itself out. The Pilgrims first noticed the quiet. ’Twas almost like the hush of a Sabbath service. The pitch and roll of the ship lessened until the motion became little more than a gentle rocking. They knew the worst was over when sailors removed the batten from the hatch and light streamed in below.
Many passengers were too weak to leave their beds, including Mary’s father, but those who could undertook the task of cleaning the main quarters. The girls worked until their arms ached, scrubbing, emptying, airing, and tidying. As they made trip after trip
above deck emptying buckets over the side, their eyes ached from the light. Mary wondered how long they had drifted during the storm. Because they had lived in utter darkness, they lost track of time. It could have been a week, or it could have been three weeks. They had been at sea for sixty-six days, not accounting for all the false starts, according to Captain Jones.
The startling thing to Mary was that she had learned a lesson in what Mother called “casting all your cares on the Lord.” At first she feared they should all die, but day after day, she learned to take those fears and cry out to God. Like her mother, she found comfort. She longed to tell her mother about it, but first the work must be done.
Mary’s mother spent her time with Father. His weakness kept him in bed below deck.
Dr. Fuller’s young helper, William Butten, remained the weakest. The doctor stayed with him much of the time, but one morning Dr. Fuller awakened to find William dead. All the passengers mourned the hopeful young man. As the Elder Brewster and the passengers committed his body to the ocean, they looked up to see gulls circling ahead. Could that mean the Mayflower neared land?
Four days later, the Pilgrims awoke to a cry from the lookout, “Land ahoy!”
Pulling breeches over nightshirts and slipping into waistcoats as fast as they could fasten, button, and tie, the rumpled band of travelers scrambled up the ladder onto the deck. The women and girls tucked their cotton shifts into petticoats and waistcoats and were not far behind. Far in the distance, off the starboard bow, they spied a ribbon of land bathed in the early glow of sunrise. Mary, Constance, and Elizabeth huddled close together—feeling all shivery.
It took a long time for the passengers to believe it was land they saw, but when the dark strip came into focus many of them fell to their knees to give thanks. Some of Mary’s fellow shipmates wept openly. The hardship of the voyage was etched on their gaunt faces.
“It does not seem real somehow,” said Mary. “So difficult has been the task of getting here, it hardly seems possible that we draw close to the New World.”
“Aye,” Elizabeth said. “I expected to perish in the storm.”
“And I,” Constance agreed. “Now that landfall draws near—after all we’ve lived through, ’twould seem as if there would be more fanfare, more excitement!”
“Truth be told, I can do without any more excitement for a while.” Elizabeth laughed.
“Do you know what I want?” Constance asked, without waiting for an answer. “I want a deep, long drink of fresh, cold water.” What little water left had been stale and brackish for weeks now. Lately, they drank only ale. “So much water that it will run down my chin.”
“Oh, aye! And fresh water to wash clothes and bathe and wash hair and …”
Elizabeth interrupted Mary. “Surely you don’t plan to bathe. ’Tis almost winter!”
“I do indeed plan to bathe,” Mary said. “I long to wash away all the ship smell. I want to scrub my linens and let them dry in the sunshine.” Even though it was a cold November day, the early morning sun still shone on the water, and she could dream of warm sunshine.
Mary stayed at the rail for the longest time. She viewed the sliver of America with a hushed feeling of awe—almost as if she should not speak for a time. She remembered back to the service of Solemn Humiliation Pastor Robinson had held in Holland all those months ago. That day connected to this day.
“I shall leave you two on deck to watch the land grow ever closer,” Mary teased. “I need to go tell my mother and father.”
Mary climbed below deck. She found her mother sitting on a crate beside Father. Since his weakness increased, Mother spent more and more time by his side. As the days passed, his gums became red and blistered, and his teeth loosened. Mary overheard one sailor whisper something like “scurvy” to another.
“Mother, why don’t you go on deck for a while. The shore grows ever closer. You look fair pale. I shall sit with Father for a time.”
“Thank you, Mary. I shall do that. I long to walk and breathe some fresh air.” Her mother kissed her and teasingly touched a new freckle on Mary’s nose. It was an old game they had played since England days.
When Mary’s mother left, Mary sat on the crate beside her father. She pushed aside her apron and dug in her pouch to remove the hankie with the Dutch soil. So much had happened in the four months since she said good-bye to her sisters and to Fear. England and Holland lay so far behind.
She remembered back to the time the Leyden boys split Father’s head open with a rock. That day she found out they planned to travel to the New World. Mary closed her eyes. God of heaven, we draw so near to America—the New World that called my father away from home and family. Now look at him. He can barely raise his head. Lord, can this be?
Mary opened her eyes to see her father looking at her. “Father, do you need something to drink?”
“No, Mary.” He lifted a hand to her face and put it against her cheek, but he was so weak, she had to put her hand over his to keep it there.
“You wonder whether we should have ever started out, don’t you?” He coughed and winced with the pain it caused.
“With you so sick, Father, and my sisters left behind, doubt creeps in sometimes,” she said truthfully. “Leyden seems so far away.” She wondered how Father always seemed to know what she was thinking.
He dropped his hand back onto the bed, but Mary still covered it with her own. Each day the weakness increased.
“God called us to make this journey, Mary.” A momentary flash in his eyes lit up his face. “of that I am certain. I would lief die in this wild land of freedom than live in a land where worshiping God be a crime. And Holland …” He started coughing.
“Father, don’t talk if it makes you cough.”
He finished coughing and started back where he left off. “In Holland, ’twas not just the lack of financial promise that convinced me. ’Twas that the people seemed so content with a half-hearted commitment.”
Mary took the cloth and wiped the fever off his face.
“Our people hungered to know God. We longed to dig deeply into the Scriptures and let them change us.” He sighed and paused.
At first Mary thought he dozed, but she could feel a tension in his hand.
“Daughter, I understood how you always longed to belong. I recognized it because I also felt that deep longing, but … ’tis not a longing for place or even for family.”
“But, Father—”
“Let me finish while I have breath, little one.”
“Aye.”
“Some call that feeling the inconsolable longing, but no matter what you call it, someday you will find your true home. The wonder will be that it has nothing to do with England or Holland or America or even with our family.” He paused to slow his labored breathing.
“But I don’t understand.” She didn’t like this conversation.
“I know, Mary, but you will.” He touched her cheek lightly with the curve of his knuckles. “I pray you will.”
Mary sat on the crate, waiting for her mother to return—feeling even more confused and frightened. Her throat felt as if someone’s hands tightened around it. I want to go home. I want things to be like they were before with Mother, Father, Isabella, Ingle, and Christian. Homesickness swept over her. If we were still in Holland we’d be strapping on our skates and gliding down the canals. The storks would be gone until the thaw, the bulbs would be tucked under the frozen soil, and the hodgepodge would be simmering on the fire, and—
“Mary, did your father wake at all?” Her mother’s question brought her back to the Mayflower.
“Aye. He talked to me for a time.” Mary stood up to let her mother sit down.
“’Tis good,” her mother said. “He wanted to talk with you.”
Mary climbed up the ladder, but before she even got on deck she heard loud voices raised in argument.
“Mary, come.” Constance motioned her over. She and Elizabeth sat on crates pushed up against the rail.
“It started earlier when Captain Jones told the men that the storm blew us off course. We are nowhere near Virginia or the Hudson River. We are far north of that in the area they call New England,” Elizabeth explained. “I think he said they called that piece of land Cape Cod. Is that right, Constance?”
“Aye. The elder and the others want us to stay aboard the Mayflower while Captain Jones runs along the coast to the south toward the Virginia lands,” Constance said.
“Stay aboard?” Mary longed to get off the ship, and she couldn’t hide the disappointment in her voice.
“Some of the young Strangers and the servants feel the same way,” said Constance.
“They began to complain, and one declared that because they were not in Virginia, they were in free territory. He tries to convince the others that the rules no longer apply to them,” Elizabeth said, her voice filled with dismay.
One young Stranger raised his voice so all could hear. “The patents we carry are for Virginia. The king has no jurisdiction over us here.” He punctuated his words with a fist raised in the air. “I say we go ashore and we take our liberty and that we be servants no longer. Neither shall we be bound like the others to work for the company what sent us.”
In the middle of the shouting, one of the sailors yelled up to Captain Jones, “Master, we be finished with this mewling bunch of whiners!”
Another chimed in. “Aye. Set the whole lot of them ashore and let us return to England while we still have sufficient food supplies.”
Mary knew that she and her friends ought to go below deck, but it seemed better to stay put than to get into the middle of the trouble. Discontent and anger simmered. Mary did not relish seeing it reach the boiling stage.