Almost Home

by Wendy Lawton

  Master Jones stood on the quarterdeck and called down with a commanding tone, “Elder Brewster, Deacon Carver, Master Bradford, Captain Standish. Please join me in my cabin.” He turned around to face the angry young travelers and his own seaman. “If any man of you so much as says another word before I give you leave, you shall return to England in chains. That is—if I don’t decide to feed your carcass to the fish in the meantime.”

  A temporary silence descended on the ship, and Constance poked the girls with a signal that they should go below deck.

  All the women below seemed worried as they went about their chores. But no matter how tense things might become, babies still cried; people got hungry; and the sick needed tending.

  Constance took Damaris, and the girls rounded up the other little ones and led them into a corner to play while trouble brewed all around them. Mary gathered buckets and scraps of linen so the little ones could pretend to put their poppets to bed. They had great fun putting a poppet in the bucket and covering it with a blanket and pulling it out again. Then two poppets might go into the same bucket. Sometimes the bucket was turned over to make a house. The children played at this game until the noon hour and time for dinner.

  Though the families cooked and ate separately, the chatter of mealtimes could normally be heard throughout the cabin. Not this time. Everyone ate in silence. The men closeted with Captain Jones did not return for dinner.

  “Do you think the men will mutiny against the leaders?” Elizabeth asked after the little ones finally napped on a mattress.

  “I don’t know,” Constance said. “But those men spent many hours speaking with my father about the mutiny aboard the Sea Venture.”

  “’Tis serious enough by the looks on the faces of those who went into the Captain’s quarters.” Mary wished she were back in Holland basting interfacing to bodices and—

  She stopped herself mid-thought. Shame on you! Think of Fear, all alone in Leyden. At least you have your mother and father with you. Didn’t you decide that home is where your parents are? So, Mary Chilton, your home is right here on the Mayflower. Though she talked sternly to herself, her stomach still churned like the treacherous sea they had just crossed.

  John Alden, summon all the men to assemble in the Great Cabin,” Elder Brewster said. “Include everyone from Master Martin to the servants, Saints to Strangers.”

  Mary and her mother watched as the men who had been below deck solemnly lined up to climb to the upper deck and make their way to the quarterdeck. Father’s weakness kept him from joining the men.

  “Mother, what do you suppose will happen?”

  “I do not know, Mary. What I do know is that we can trust William Brewster. He seeks God in everything.” Her mother leaned against the bunk.

  “You look tired.”

  “Aye. The voyage takes its toll on us all.” Mother seemed beyond weary.

  “But land is nearly within reach; we are almost home.” Mary very nearly repeated those last two words. Almost home. Had she ever thought of America as home before? Could it be that the thin strip of land off the starboard bow was to be her forever home—a place where they could worship as they pleased and till the soil and—

  “Mary, you do know that the storm blew us far north, do you not? And that Captain Jones sails south even now to try to reach Virginia?” Mother took a cloth and dipped it in the bucket of brackish water to wipe Father’s face.

  Aye, Mary did know.

  “Indeed, even when we anchor, Captain Jones offered to allow us to live aboard the Mayflower till we build shelter. He decided not to attempt the ocean crossing back to England until spring.”

  “Stay on the Mayflower? Oh, Mother, no!” Mary could not bear to think of staying on the Mayflower for months more. “’Tis cruel to be so close to the end of our journey and yet have to stay aboard.”

  “Nothing changes.” Her mother laughed. “From the time you were a babe, we no sooner set out on a journey but you would be asking, ‘Are we there yet?’ Nay, Mary, nothing changes.”

  Mary felt impatient from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. How she longed to dig her toes in dirt again, to feel tree branches scrape against her arms, to smell the scent of lilies, to hear the buzz of insects, to taste wild berries …

  “Mary?”

  “Sorry, Mother. You are right. I am impatient.”

  Father turned and moaned, and mother tried to wipe some of the heat off his face. His thrashing uncovered his leg and Mary gasped to see the swelling of his joints and the sores opening on his flesh.

  She longed to run away, but instead she took the bucket to dump the lukewarm water and get fresh. On her way downstairs, she saw Constance with wee Oceanus. How can one vessel hold birth and death all at the same time? Death? … Why did I say death?

  “How goes it, Mary?” Constance sounded happy as always.

  “Truth be told, Constance, I am fair sick of this tiresome ship.”

  “Oh, fiddle! This shall be the adventure of our lives. When we have nothing but grizzled gray hair, we shall still be talking about the Mayflower. Do you not remember how excited we were to finally set sail from England?”

  “Aye.” Mary paused, hating to deflate her friend’s joy. “Father does not improve, and I fear for his life. Perchance he was too old for this journey.”

  “I am sorry, Mary.” Constance shifted the baby to one arm so she could put her other arm around her friend. “What manner of friend am I that I did not see that?”

  “A good friend—that’s what manner of friend. Everyone on the ship has felt poorly, ’tis just that now they’ve all recovered, and Father has not.” Mary shook off her worry. “I need to think of something else.”

  “Would you care to hold the ocean in your hands?”

  “The ocean?”

  “Well, not exactly the whole ocean—” Constance laughed again “—but a wee bundle called Oceanus.”

  Mary giggled and took Constance’s little brother. As the baby nuzzled into Mary’s neck, she felt comforted.

  “So what can the men do all this time in the Great Cabin?” Mary asked.

  “Father said they were crafting a document. Elder Brewster wanted to bind all together for the common good before they ever set foot on land.”

  Constance was right. Several hours later the men filed out of the captain’s quarters, and Elder Brewster assembled all who were well enough and read the document that they prepared. Mary was glad that her father had been able to sign the document as well.

  “In the name of God, amen.” The elder paused and looked around at all those gathered in the twilight. “We, whose names are underwritten, the loyal subjects of our dread sovereign Lord, King James, by the grace of God, of Great Britain, France, and Ireland, king, defender of the faith, et cetera.”

  Mary looked over at Constance and caught her eye. Never would they forget this solemn gathering—surely Constance would gather this moment into her collection of gray-haired memories.

  Elder Brewster continued to read in his deep resonant voice. “Having undertaken for the glory of God, and advancement of the Christian faith and honor of our king and country, a voyage to plant the first colony in the Northern parts of Virginia, do by these presents, solemnly and mutually in the presence of God and one of another, covenant and combine ourselves together into a civil body politick …” He took a breath and continued. “… for our better ordering and preservation, and furtherance of the ends aforesaid: and by virtue hereof, to enact, constitute, and frame such just and equal laws, ordinances, acts, constitutions, and offices, from time to time, as shall be thought most meet and convenient for the general good of the colony unto which we promise all due submission and obedience. In witness whereof we have here-under subscribed our names at Cape Cod the eleventh of November, in the reign of our sovereign Lord, King James of England, France, and Ireland, the eighteenth, and of Scotland the fifty-fourth. Anno Domini 1620.”

  The elder finished reading the document he ca
lled the Mayflower Compact just as Captain Jones came up to speak with him. Some of the Pilgrims went below deck, but Mary stayed.

  “There be no way to navigate Tucker’s Terror.” The captain spoke to Elder Brewster and the Pilgrims’ newly elected governor, Deacon Carver.

  “Tucker’s Terror?”

  “Aye, a treacherous riptide that will likely cast us up against the shoals. Champlain mapped it in 1605 and pronounced it impassable. Until now I questioned his statement, but look over the starboard bow.” He pointed to a rocky stretch of water. “’Twould be folly to attempt the passage to Hudson and Virginia as you directed. I shall head back to Cape Cod tonight and anchor there.”

  Governor Carver nodded his head. “We need to take on fresh water and repair the shallop.” The shallop was a small sailing boat that could be either sailed or rowed. It was perfect for coastal exploration. The Pilgrims brought it along, dismantled and stored between the decks. They needed to haul it out, reassemble it, and repair the damage done by the storm and by weary travelers sleeping in the hull.

  Mary watched the swirling water as the ship turned to head back to that bleak sandy shore on the very finger of Cape Cod.

  Mary lifted Remember Allerton up to the rail to wave farewell to her father in the longboat as it pushed toward the tip of Cape Cod. This Saturday morning had dawned clear and cold—too cold to be on deck without being wrapped in woolen blankets. The chill in the air was the reason sixteen armed men now sailed toward shore. They needed firewood. Not a single stick remained on the ship, and the main cabin remained damp and icy cold. The cries of babies, the creak of the ship’s timber, and the staccato sound of coughing filled the air.

  Remember’s little sister played alongside. To be safe, Mary tied her leading strings onto a belaying pin so she could enjoy the fresh air, yet stay safe from climbing.

  “How does Mistress Allerton fare?” asked Elizabeth.

  “She feels poorly much of the time. Mother thinks her time draws near,” Mary said.

  The longboat made a quick trip of it. Mary and her friends left the little ones with their mothers after dinner. Elizabeth stood at the rail with Mary as the boat approached the ship. Some of the men rowed, while the rest sat silent and watchful, holding their matchlock muskets upright beside them. The longboat held plenty of firewood, and Mary could see that while some gathered firewood, others must have been hunting. They unloaded a brace of wild duck and a bucket of clams. Coming aboard, Captain Standish reported to Captain Jones that they had not yet found fresh water.

  Mary thought that, compared to what they did bring, the fresh water could wait.

  Elizabeth twirled around. “Tonight we shall be warm and fall asleep with full bellies for once.”

  “Aye. I shall go below and fire up the brazier. I, for one, shall be happy to help with the cooking.”

  That night the smell of the juniper wood fires wafted though the cabin, sweetening and warming the air.

  The following day was the Sabbath and, though many of the Strangers were anxious to set about exploring, the Saints insisted that day be spent in worship, meditation, and thanksgiving. The first thing Monday morning, however, Mary heard the shallop being unloaded. Excitement seemed to vibrate throughout the ship.

  “Mary! We get to go. Get up and ready yourself.”

  “Elizabeth, what are you talking about?” Mary could tell from her friend’s face an adventure loomed on the horizon. “Prepare for what?”

  “Young Mistress Tilley is beside herself—you shall have to excuse her lack of particulars.” Constance laughed her brightest laugh. “We three are among the very first chosen to set foot on American soil.”

  “All three of us?” Mary could hardly believe it.

  “Aye. And what think you the goal of our merry party?” Constance enjoyed teasing above all else.

  “Are we to help with the exploring?” Mary knew that could not be as soon as the words came out of her mouth.

  “Nay.”

  “Will we be cooking for the explorers?”

  “Nay!” This time Elizabeth and Constance said it together, both laughing and poking each other.

  “Enough! Tell me. I need to make ready.”

  “One of us sounds a wee bit impatient,” Constance teased. “The men are taking the shallop ashore to mend all the gaps that opened up during the storm. They agreed to take some of the women to do the wash.”

  “The wash? Our first day in America and we will do the wash?” Mary said. It figured. She laughed. Now this would be something to tell those someday grandchildren—the very first thing they did in the New World was scrub grubby shifts and drawers. Indeed, the washing had not been done since leaving England. This was no small job.

  It took several trips of the longboat to ferry the laundry crew ashore along with the huge iron kettles and bundles of soiled linens. The last trip brought a boatload of children who had begged to be allowed to run and play.

  Some of the men stood watch with their matchlock muskets loaded and ready. The big boys gathered firewood and built fires to heat the water in the kettles, while the women shaved lye soap into the water. When the water was hot enough, the actual washing, scrubbing, rinsing, and wringing began. ’Twas hard work, but Mary could see that the familiarity of doing wash pleased the women.

  Mary, Elizabeth, and Constance played with the children, watching them run along the sand and roll down the sand dunes. Because John Goodman helped the men repair the shallop, his two dogs came along as well. The dogs ran along the shore, barking at crabs and birds and children. The children, in turn, threw sticks for the dogs to retrieve.

  In between their play, the children all helped to wring out the wash and lay the pieces across bushes to dry.

  When time came for dinner, the longboat rowed over to the Mayflower and picked up Desire Minter and Priscilla Mullins, who brought the noon meal—a delicious clam stew. Trenchers had to be shared, and the clean clamshells worked as scoops, but it all added to the festive feel of the day.

  After lunch some of the wee children crawled up next to John Goodman’s mastiff and fell asleep.

  Mary looked over the assembled Pilgrims—many of whom she had known for her whole life. Perhaps doing everyday chores is the true sign that we are home.

  She looked around this land. The men had climbed a hill and could see water on the other side of the land. They reported that this Cape Cod was a thin arm jutting out to sea. It did not matter to Mary. She knew that as it curled around, it was attached to America.

  Yes, she could picture Mother, Father, and herself living in a cozy house here in this New World. Father had been right all along. Perhaps they needed to cross the vast Atlantic Ocean to find a land big enough to allow them to build a life and a church in which they could worship the Lord without fear of punishment.

  All my life I yearned to belong. Heavenly Father, is this the place I hungered for? Did You plant a longing for this America in my heart? Mary turned to go help her friends, but she wished she had remembered to bring her oilcloth-wrapped bundle to open here in America.

  Someday, as we Pilgrims tell the story of our adventures to our children and grandchildren, the men will tell their tales of expeditions and explorations—of Indians and wolves—of near shipwrecks and finding buried treasure.” Constance took the trencher out of the basin of water. “And what shall we tell?”

  Elizabeth laughed. She loved seeing Constance in a temper.

  “Indeed! We shall tell of washing nappies, of cooking meals on a tiny tin box, of minding babies and scrubbing stubborn puke stains off the deck.”

  Even Mary laughed. “I know why they named you Constance.”

  “Do tell, Mary,” Elizabeth said, grinning at Constance.

  “Because you constantly complain about your lot as a girl.”

  The three friends enjoyed their time together but, truth be told, they grew ever more restless to be out doing anything except tending and caring and cleaning.

  Not that ever
ything exciting happened off ship. The day Mary and her friends went ashore to do the wash, Francis Billington nearly blew the ship up. It didn’t surprise Mary. Francis was a little older than she was, but trouble followed that boy everywhere. The Billington family hailed from London and joined the Pilgrims at the dock in Southampton. The Mayflower passengers had never seen such a fussing and fighting family. But it was the boy’s fascination with guns and fire that caused the true uproar.

  Francis had not been in the group that went ashore to do the wash. He stayed behind. As Mary and the girls returned to the ship—tired and satisfied after a long day of work mixed with play—they heard an enormous explosion followed by many smaller explosions. Water sloshed against the ship as the concussion rocked it violently. Smoke billowed out of the room where they stored the muskets and gunpowder, and a soot-streaked, burned Francis came screaming out the door, almost knocking Mary down.

  Sailors and Pilgrims alike grabbed buckets of water to douse the flames, and an angry Governor Carver sat Francis down on a crate.

  “Whatever did you do, Francis Billington?” the governor asked.

  “Nothing,” Francis lied as he blew on his hands to keep the burns from hurting as much.

  “Ask Goodman Billington to come topside,” Governor Carver said to John Alden. When the boy’s father joined them the question was repeated.

  “I only tried to make some squibs—them firecrackers you make out of feathers.” Looking at the puzzled faces, Francis explained. “I gathered the quills from them wild ducks we ate last night and filled ’em with gunpowder.” He didn’t seem to notice the gasps of the men listening. “I got the flints and lit the first one, but it only popped a little.”

  “You lit the gunpowder on my ship?” Captain Jones clipped the last consonant on every word.

  “Aye. But when it fizzled, I tried to stuff more gunpowder into each squib. I got a bunch on the floor, but I figured I would sweep it up later.”

  No one said a word.