Almost Home

by Wendy Lawton

Mary no longer knew what to say. Back in Holland, she yearned to find a place—somewhere to belong. Along the way, she realized that the place didn’t matter as much as the people. She finally understood that as long as she had her family and friends, she had her home. Yet, one by one, she seemed to be losing family and friends. She longed for Isabella, Christian, Ingle, and Fear—all lost to her. And Mistress Bradford … slipping away … all alone.

  Mary looked long at Father and accepted the truth she could not face till now. He lay closer to heaven than he did to earth. Did Mother know? Mary looked over to see tears spilling out of Mother’s eyes onto the sleeve of Father’s nightshirt. How would they let him go?

  Mary remembered the words Father spoke to her when he first fell ill. “God called us to make this journey … 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 …”

  “Mary?”

  “Sorry, Mother. I was woolgathering again.”

  “’Tis time for you to say farewell to your father.” Mother’s words choked in her throat, but Mary understood.

  She stood up and leaned over, laying her face next to her father’s. “Oh, Father … you brought us to this land of freedom, but—like Moses—you cannot cross over with us.” She waited for the longest time, listening to his labored breathing. “No matter, Father, you are almost home.” Somehow, when she said those last two words, she knew it for truth. “Aye, almost home.”

  Three days later, Mary Allerton went into labor. Priscilla tended her at first, but when nothing progressed, Dr. Fuller took over. More than a day later she delivered, but her tiny boy was stillborn. Mary and Elizabeth kept Remember and her little sister, Mary, throughout the ordeal. Mistress Allerton asked to hold the wee babe until her husband returned. She sat rocking the tiny bundle, singing under her breath. “Hush a bye/ Do not cry/ Go to sleep-y, little baby/ When you wake/ You shall have/ All the pretty little horses.”

  Because they could not say how long the expedition would be gone, Elder Brewster gently took the little bundle for burial. Mary brought Remember and Little Mary to their mother and let them sleep close to help comfort her.

  The explorers came home to a subdued company. When Elder Brewster took William Bradford aside to tell him of his wife’s accident, the younger Bradford did not utter a word. From all the way across the darkened room, Mary saw the color drain from his face. He took his own blankets and went topside to sit at the place where his Dorothy most often waited for him. During the service that Elder Brewster gave in her memory, Master Bradford spoke not a word. As Mary brought him his soup, she could see the page marked “deaths” in his pocket notebook left open on the table. The page was blank except for the date and the words “Dorothy, Wife to Mr. William Bradford.”

  Father’s death affected many. Being the oldest of the company, he was looked on as a father by several younger men. His committal service took place before the party returned.

  Despite the losses, the Pilgrims needed to make a decision, so another meeting took place. The men intended to only recount the highlights but once they started the account, the passengers pressed for details.

  “We sailed south, inside the bay,” Governor Carver began. “The weather turned cold, and, at places along the shoreline, we broke ice to wade ashore.” Several of the men made shivery gestures in agreement. “The sea spray whipped by the wind froze on our clothing till it felt like we were wearing coats of iron. Our teeth chattered so loudly, if Indians lurked nearby, they had ample warning of our approach.

  “We stopped often to scout out possible sites along the route in case Plymouth would not be suitable. Captain Standish, please give account of our action at the place they call Nauset.”

  At the word “action” most of the younger boys looked up and scooted closer.

  Captain Standish moved to the center, and, standing with military precision, he cleared his throat. “We sailed around a sandy point and put in at a bay. As we made for shore, we saw a group of Indians gathered around something massive, shiny, and black on the beach.”

  Some of the boys wriggled in anticipation.

  “The Indians spotted us and became excited—hopping up and down and running in circles before they bolted for the woods.” Captain Standish expanded on the story for the boys. “We built a barricade right there on the beach, using logs and stakes and pine branches. Built a blazing fire to give us warmth against the sleety, freezing wind.”

  “Did the Indians come?” Bartholomew knew better than to interrupt a meeting, but the story was so potent, he forgot the meeting for the storytelling.

  Captain Standish, who loved to spin a good story, forgave the interruption. “Nay, they stayed away that night.” He put the emphasis on “that.” The suggestion made the boys poke each other with anticipation.

  “The next morning we walked to the place where the Indians had been. The black thing was an immense fish—nearly fifteen feet long—like no whale or fish we had ever seen. ’Twas a funny thing …” He stopped as if to consider it all over again. “It had a layer of fat under the skin near two inches thick, like a hog.”

  He then told how they came upon a graveyard that looked much like a church graveyard with saplings set fencelike all the way around it.

  Captain Standish explained that they moved the shallop a little further south and put up another barricade. “That night,” he continued, “we were startled awake with a hideous cry. I yelled the call to arms, and we discharged our muskets into the pitch-black night, yet we heard nothing more. One of the sailors said the screams sounded like the wolves he once heard in Newfoundland, so all slept again except for the sentries.

  “The next morning, we no sooner said prayers and sat down to a small meal, when we heard an unearthly scream much like the sound of the night before.” Several of the men nodded their heads in agreement. “Some foolishly ran toward the shallop to retrieve their weapons.” The captain’s voice revealed his displeasure. “They came running into the barricade followed by a hail of arrows.”

  Governor Carver took out a bundle of arrows to show them. Some had eagle’s claws as points, others had bits of sharpened deer horn. “The arrows flew all around us,” he said. “They came so close we could hear the sound of the feathers whizzing past us in the air.” He took his coat and put his fingers through a rip. “Arrows pierced many of the coats hanging in the barricade and yet not a one of us was wounded.

  “My flintlock splintered a tree near one of the Indians and may have injured him, but we were fortunate in that no Indians were seriously injured before they ran away,” Captain Standish said.

  “This be good news,” Elder Brewster said. “We continue to pray that we will be able to make a fair and long lasting treaty with the Indians when we settle.”

  The men took turns telling the rest—how they continued to sail around Cape Cod Bay until they hit a fearsome storm near the Plymouth Bay. It broke a rudder and split the mast as they furiously rowed away from thunderous breakers. The battered boat eventually landed at an island in the bay, which they promptly named Clark’s Island for the ship’s well-liked first mate. They spent the Sabbath there before rowing over to Plymouth on Monday.

  The story up till now had been the groundwork. The young boys relished the Indian tales, but most of those gathered waited for the verdict. Had they found a home?

  How Mary wished Father sat beside her. He had yearned for a land of freedom for as long as Mary could remember, and then he died when they were so close. ’Twas not fair. She saw Constance sitting near her father and Elizabeth standing beside hers. She knew they loved their families, but between them, they had brothers and sisters and aunts and uncles and cousins aboard. She looked at Mother, sitting with hands folded—Mother was all she had left.

  Mary could little bear to hear the rest. If they settled in Plymouth, then so be it. She went to the dower chest and sat down. There among the bundles lay her gift from Isabella. I should have opened it
in Delft, she thought. Now, I no longer care. She tossed it to the side—near the bundles, still packed, of her father’s things. Oh, Father … how shall I go on?

  “Mary?” Mother put her arm around Mary’s shoulders.

  “Mother, what shall we do?”

  Mother sat down beside her on the chest without speaking. She seemed to know that the question required no answer.

  “They still debate, Mary, but ’twould seem that Plymouth shall be our settlement at last.” Mother gently ran the back of her fingers down the side of Mary’s face. “We are almost home, little one.”

  Home.

  Mary no longer even remembered what that meant. Perchance that word would forever remain a mystery to her.

  So, if we are finally home,” Constance said, “why are we still living on this ship?”

  “What we have here is … Constance complaining,” Elizabeth said, laughing.

  “I fear I may join her,” said Mary. “I am hungry, I am sick of this ship, and I may never be warm again.”

  The Mayflower now lay anchored in the Plymouth harbor with the shallop bobbing alongside, waiting to take the first party to see their new home.

  “I wonder who shall be chosen to go ashore at Plymouth first?” Elizabeth said.

  “The ‘who shall be first’ debate may rage on until we are gray-haired grandmothers,” Constance said with her ready laugh. “John Alden claims to have been the first Pilgrim to step foot on New England soil when he stepped out onto the shore at Cape Cod.”

  “One of the members of the third exploration party would be first to step foot on Pilgrim soil. They came to Plymouth from Clark’s Island.”

  “That shall not count,” Elizabeth announced. “They were only exploring. We had not yet decided to settle in Plymouth.” She continued her reasoning, “We only agreed to Plymouth after they returned to the Mayflower when she was still anchored at Cape Cod. So ’tis whomever steps first out of the shallop that earns the distinction.” Elizabeth’s serious face made both girls laugh.

  The laugh surprised Mary. How good it felt to laugh. She would miss Father forever, but she knew—yes, she knew for certain that laughter rang throughout heaven. Maybe her happiness connected her more closely to her father, now, than sadness ever did.

  It reminded her of something Mother said before they left Cape Cod. “’Tis far easier to embrace sadness than to reach for joy.” Her mother spoke truth. From now on, I shall work to take joy over sadness, Mary decided, as God is my strength.

  “Mary, your mother calls.”

  “And here I am woolgathering again. Thank you, Elizabeth.” Mary went down to the cabin to find Mother.

  “Mary, Governor Carver and Elder Brewster just spoke to me. They invited you to accompany the first party to see the new settlement.”

  “Me? Why?”

  “In honor of your father. They knew how he longed for a land of freedom, so you shall see it in his place.” Her mother squeezed her hand. “Put on your warmest things, Mary. Make haste so you don’t miss the launch.”

  Mary ran to tell her friends, who squealed with happiness for her. They both stood at the rail, waving and watching as the longboat pulled away from the ship.

  The Mayflower anchored about a mile and a half from the shore, so ’twould not be an overly long trip. Mary’s fellow passengers were mostly men, but some of the women went as well. The frigid wind whipped across the boat, and Mary’s face and ears felt as if they might freeze. Her lips began to chap as well, so she wrapped her hood tighter. The water lapped against the boat in waves of choppy peaks, but it only added to the sense of adventure.

  As the crew rowed into the harbor they headed for the huge granite rock that would allow passengers to step from the shallop without having to wade through water. As the men threw out the rope, Mary stood up and lightly stepped over the side onto the rock. There. Too bad Elizabeth and Constance were not along. They would have laughed till their sides hurt. Mary looked around. All the other passengers in the shallop busily gathered their things or tied the ropes or talked to each other—no one even noticed ’twas naught but a girl who stepped foot first.

  The party made its way from the shore up a hill. Mary noticed fields already cleared and wondered who farmed here before. And where had they gone?

  The men pointed out the fresh running water. As they came to the top of the hill, Mary wandered off by herself. When she looked back she saw a view that fair took her breath away. The beauty of the landscape—even this first day of winter—made her bend her knee and give thanks. Looking down the hill she caught the edge of the shore with the lapping water that stretched from Plymouth all the way to England and Holland.

  She breathed deeply of the cold air until it filled her lungs. This is what home smells like. She reached down and scraped away the frozen ground until she could scratch a handful of Plymouth soil. Opening her pouch she took out her handkerchief with the Dutch soil and added this new handful.

  She heard the shout that meant they were to go back to the shallop. Taking one last look around, she tucked the bulging hankie back into her pouch and ran down the hill until she caught up with the party.

  Mary heard the reports each day along with the rest of the women. The bone-chilling work had begun on building shelter at Plymouth. No sooner would the men set up a plan than a storm would move in and gale winds would keep the shallop from carrying workers from their home on the Mayflower to the settlement at Plymouth.

  The builders laid out the foundation for the Common House on the north bank of the brook. Small huts were constructed for the builders so that they could save the time of having to go back and forth from the ship to the settlement. Slowly, despite the foul weather, Plymouth began to take shape. Captain Standish built a platform for the cannon on the highest point where the fort would be built.

  Life on the Mayflower became even more difficult. The unheated ship was damp and drafty, and the food stores dwindled. Everyone was hungry. Coughing fits could be heard all across the cabin, and many passengers sickened and kept to their beds.

  “Mary, we will be moving over to Plymouth tomorrow. Our house is near finished.” Constance spoke quietly. “I worry about leaving you and Elizabeth alone here—the work grows heavier each day with so many falling ill.”

  “We will be following soon enough. Since ’tis now just Mother and me, we will stay with the White family until a house can be built for us,” Mary said. “But I will miss you, Constance.”

  Mary could not find words to say more. With Constance near, the girls always seemed able to summon up a laugh or find some way to lighten the load.

  “Soon, we will all be together again.”

  Mary heard from some of the sailors that Constance and her family settled into their makeshift home in Plymouth. With the large Hopkins family gone as well as several other families, the days on the Mayflower moved even more slowly. Winter dragged on, one day looking much like the next. At least nighttime passed quickly, when Mary could burrow into her mattress and shut out the day’s worries. The pitch black of the cabin, the gentle rocking of the boat, and the exhaustion of caring for so many sick ones helped ensure a sound sleep. Mary often dreamt of spring flowers and Holland.

  “Mary?”

  Mary nuzzled deeper into her covers. She dreamed that someone called her and shook her shoulder. She turned over, trying to find a warm place on her feather tick. The movement of the boat bunched it up, and she was partially scrunched under her mother’s bunk. The thin blanket did little to keep the cold damp air off. Ever since they anchored in Plymouth Bay she had taken to wearing layers of clothes to bed—anything to try to keep warm.

  “Mary?” Elizabeth whispered near her ear. “Are you awake?”

  “Elizabeth? Is something wrong?” Mary untangled her legs and sat up, pulling her blanket around her.

  Elizabeth sat down beside Mary, her blanket wrapped around her shoulders. “Can we talk without waking your mother?”

  “I think so.�
�� Mother had never recovered energy since Father died. At first Mary thought ’twas exhaustion, but then the cough set in. Except for fits of coughing, Mary’s mother slept deeply. Waking her had become difficult even when she thrashed about and slept fitfully.

  “My mother has taken to her bunk.” Elizabeth pronounced those words in a whisper. “My aunt and uncle as well.”

  Mary understood the fear that brought her friend here. “Oh, Elizabeth …” What could she say? That she understood that hollow feeling? That she, too, felt like a little lost girl much of the time? None of those things needed to be put into words. Her friend just needed to sit next to someone who listened and understood.

  “Father works to finish our house. He says the air on this ship is unhealthy.” Elizabeth paused, pulling the blanket tighter against the chill. “In a fortnight, we shall all be installed in homes within the settlement, but … ’tis not just the ship. ’Tis more than that, Mary, I know it is.”

  Mary knew it as well. This winter had caught the small group unprepared. Because of all the delays, the New England winter had settled hard on them. Since just a few weeks out from England, they had braved ferocious winds, bone-chilling dampness, and bitter cold. Because of the political wrangling and manipulations by the colony’s financial backers, food and supplies were in perilously short supply.

  “How could God have brought us all this way only to let us die of cold and starvation?” Elizabeth asked the question that many pondered during sleepless nights.

  “I wish I knew the answer to that question.” Mary thought for a long time. “To know the answer would be to know the outcome of this pilgrimage. If it turns out to be successful, we will all look back—in those grandmother memories Constance is so fond of imagining—we will all look back and see God’s hand in this despite the pain and the losses.”

  “’Tis true …”

  “And if we all perish, what does that signify?” Mary sighed. “Remember the verse in the Scriptures that says ‘to live is Christ, and to die is gain’?” I think that is how my father viewed death, but when you find yourself the one left behind, the dying part is a wrenching loss.”