Almost Home

by Wendy Lawton

  “I know. And we see such selflessness—like all the mothers who short their own rations to see that the children are fed.” Elizabeth tucked her toes under the corner of Mary’s blanket. “Now ’tis the mothers who seem to be the weakest.”

  Mary nodded her head. She knew. She watched her own mother grow weaker. “Are you well?”

  “Hunger makes my head ache and my belly gnaw, but I remain strong. And you?”

  “I, too, am well,” Mary said. So far she remained strong, though she longed to be off the ship.

  “Sometimes I feel as if everything I love—Father, my sisters, Fear and our other Green Gate friends, my home in England, my home in Leyden—everything slips away.” Mary should have been comforting Elizabeth, but her own worries simmered close to the top.

  “Except for leaving Holland, I have yet to suffer loss in my life,” Elizabeth said. “I have no practice with hardship, Mary. What shall we do?”

  “My mother always talks about ‘casting cares on the Lord,’” Mary said. “’Tis easier talked about than put into practice, but I think practice is the key.” Mary still struggled with this, but she tried to learn from her mother. More than once, when her mother ended a session of prayer, Mary watched a renewed look of peace settle on her face, and saw her mother wipe clean the wrinkled forehead and relax the clenched teeth of worry. Mother deliberately practiced handing over her troubles to God.

  “Shall we help each other practice this, then?”

  “We can surely try.” Mary put her arm around her friend. “In the face of the hardship we ought to try to look for God’s hand in bringing us to Plymouth. And keep reminding each other.”

  “Aye,” Elizabeth said. “Perchance the reason we are still healthy is to help the others—that could be God’s provision, could it not?”

  “Indeed!” Mary knew Elizabeth was right and there was much to do. “We need to begin preparations for our move ashore, helping pack those who are too sick.”

  “And we need to continue to gather the little ones together and care for them.” The spark was back in Elizabeth’s voice. “We talk about how deeply we feel the losses—think of these wee ones with mothers unable to care for them!”

  “If we are to again become the Mayflower nannies, my friend, we had best get some sleep.”

  Winter finally ended. Rough dwellings lined the dirt path from the top of the hill down toward the bay. The wave of sickness continued even after some of the Pilgrims moved into their unfinished homes in the Plymouth village.

  At one point, only seven colonists were well enough to care for the others. Captain Standish and Elder Brewster were among them, tirelessly going from house to house bringing soup, airing bedding, and encouraging friends. The reports going back and forth between those on the Mayflower and those in the settlement were equally grave. By spring, more than half the Pilgrims and sailors had perished. Even the governor, Deacon Carver, died, so the colony appointed William Bradford to be their governor.

  During the long trip from Leyden to America, Mary had used much of the idle time on the ship daydreaming about their eventual home. Her dream changed as the journey progressed, but the scene always played out on a sunny day with Mother and Father and good friends nearby, a fire in the fireplace, and something bubbling on the hearth—maybe hodgepodge. Sometimes she pictured herself holding her long-ago gift from Isabella as she walked up the path to her new house. At the threshold of the house, she slowly unwrapped the package, remembering Holland and family and bringing them into her new life in America.

  She had never pictured the months spent living aboard the Mayflower after landing or the heartbreaking sickness and death. She had never imagined the hunger always gnawing somewhere deep inside. She had never imagined that her father would not live to see their colony. A certain numbness had settled on Mary by the time her mother died. Toward the end, Mother had tried to prepare Mary.

  Mother remained quiet as Mary fed her, aired the mattress on her bed, cleansed the sores on her legs, and helped her into a clean shift, but she seemed unusually alert. Mary wondered if she was recovering.

  “Do you remember that weaving we talked about all those months ago?” Mother asked.

  Mary did.

  “And we talked about the cloth of our family being parceled out and even torn asunder.” From the wistful look on Mother’s face as she said this, Mary knew that she was thinking of Father’s death—the worst rip of all.

  “If you only remember one thing, Mary, remember that even when we cannot see the pattern in the fabric, or understand the purpose for which it is made, the Weaver still directs the whole undertaking.”

  “The weaver?”

  “Aye. God is the one what weaves the cloth of our families.” And no matter how sick Mother became, Mary could see that she believed it with her whole heart.

  She died one night shortly afterward. That night, with the ship gently rocking, Mary had settled on the crate next to the bunk, holding Mother’s hand. Mother had developed a deep rattle in her chest that seemed to get worse with each labored breath. It frightened Mary. Dr. Fuller sat with them for a time, but others needed him as well.

  Mary meant to keep vigil all night long, but in the wee hours before dawn, she must have fallen asleep. When she awoke, her head rested on her arms at the edge of the bed. Her mother’s arm lay across Mary’s shoulders, but Mother had slipped away during the night.

  Mary was alone.

  All her life she had wanted nothing more than to belong, and now she found herself completely alone in a strange land. To the very end, her father held that God brought them on this journey. Her mother never wavered in her belief that God was still in control. Mary was mostly tired and didn’t know what she thought.

  When it came time to move into Plymouth, Mary’s dreams no longer made sense. She was temporarily housed with Mistress White, who had lost her husband. Some of the sailors helped her move her things into the tiny house. Mary had them put the chest near the corner. She simply wedged the bundles between the chest and the corner. What sense was there in unpacking? The very last thing she threw on the pile was that stained oilcloth-covered bundle. Sitting there atop the other bundles it almost seemed to mock her. One day she picked up the gift and shoved it into the middle of the pile.

  Spring finally arrived. With tree branches budding and the grasses on the hillside pushing through the soil, the small band of Pilgrims prayed that they had finally turned a corner. Only four women survived the winter—Constance’s mother was one of those four. Elizabeth’s mother was not.

  The older girls—Priscilla and Desire along with the Carvers’ maid, Dorothy—worked with the women to wash and cook and help get the crops planted. Mary, Elizabeth, and Constance continued to care for the five young children who lost their mothers. They helped with the other children as well.

  Bartholomew Allerton was eight years old, so he spent much of his time with his father, but when he started missing his mother, Mary noticed he would come around and sit close when it came time to hear the stories. His sisters, Little Mary, who was four, and Remember, who was six, seemed as lost as Mary did most of the time. Their mother had never recovered from losing her stillborn son. She’d begun slowly slipping away that day.

  Samuel Eaton had not yet reached his first birthday. His father survived, but not his mother. Constance spent most of her time caring for Samuel and her own infant brother, Oceanus, along with three-year-old Damaris.

  Elizabeth’s one-year-old cousin, Humility, was already an orphan when she had joined Elizabeth’s family’s voyage to America. Now she lost her aunt, who had become her new mother. She became Elizabeth’s shadow. She cried if Elizabeth even left the room. At night Humility slept with her tiny hand curled around Elizabeth’s finger. Sometimes Elizabeth also helped care for the youngest Pilgrim, Peregrine, since Mistress White and the other women had so much work to do.

  One day the three girls gathered all their charges together in Elizabeth’s house. The infant
s were napping. Humility slept without loosening her grip on Elizabeth’s finger. Damaris napped as well.

  “Do you think we’ll ever see an Indian?” Bartholomew asked. He could barely sit still today, but Mary knew he needed to be “mothered” in their cozy circle, so she didn’t insist that he go outdoors.

  The colonists had observed Indians near the settlement in mid-February. Though the Indians still made no move toward contact, the colonists feared to let the Indians know of their weakened state. Even when the men were sick, they managed to prop themselves up against a tree with their muskets at the ready. They buried the dead under cover of night at the top of the hill in unmarked graves so any watching Indians would not observe the dwindling number of colonists.

  “I do not know,” Mary said honestly. “We hoped to make friends with them long before now.”

  “I want to make friends with an Indian,” Remember said.

  “Me, too,” Little Mary agreed.

  Six-year-old Resolved White had joined them this day as well. Because Mary lived in the White household, he claimed family rights to her. “Can we go out and find them, Mary? Can we?” He jumped up and down.

  Constance gave an exasperated eyebrow signal to Mary, pointedly looking at the four tiny nappers.

  “All right, Resolved. We shall go out and seek an Indian. Little Mary, Remember, and Bartholomew will help us.” Mary clapped a hand over Resolved’s mouth before he let out one of his war whoops.

  She bundled up her troop against the cool spring day and walked them up the hill toward the fort. The children reminded her of the goats she used to watch in Holland. They ambled along in a group until, all of a sudden, one would give a little leap for joy, and the happiness would ripple through the whole flock.

  Mary saw the men outside the partially built palisade that would eventually encircle the entire village. They tilled the soil of the fields that were already cleared. They wanted to be ready to plant the baskets of seeds found at Corn Hill. She knew that they debated long and hard about how to plant these seeds—Indian corn was a new crop for them.

  Mary remembered her promise to Elizabeth that they would remind each other about the provident acts of God on their behalf. In all the sorrow of winter, she had forgotten that promise. On this spring day, however, she thought about those seeds. I shall remember to tell Elizabeth. She looked down the hill and out to the water, thinking about how far they had come.

  “Mary,” yelled Bartholomew. “I see our Indian.” The boy jumped up and down until his excitement had the other three hopping.

  “Over there, Mary,” Resolved said, pointing toward the field. Mary thought this was another one of their pretend games, until she turned in the direction Resolved pointed. There stood a tall Indian, talking to Captain Standish and the men. Mary watched as Governor Bradford gestured to the Indian to come inside the village. Captain Standish hung back and set up several men as sentries before joining the governor and the Indian.

  “Mary,” Elder Brewster called to her from across the field. “Will you ask Mistress Brewster to prepare a meal for our friend?”

  “Aye, Elder Brewster,” Mary said with a curtsey as she gathered the children and hurried over to the Brewster house.

  She found Mistress Brewster already preparing dinner and relayed the message. Mistress Brewster gathered some biscuits and butter, some cheese and a pudding, along with a piece of roast duck. Tucking it into a basket, she handed it to Mary to take to the Hopkins house, where the men gathered. Mistress Brewster suggested she leave the children to play with Love and Wrestling.

  When Mary walked into the house she didn’t want to interrupt, so she walked to the lean-to portion and sat down with Constance.

  “I’ve come to welcome you, Englishmen.”

  Mary and Constance exchanged surprised glances. This tall copper-colored man spoke the king’s English. He also proudly wore a bright red wool horseman’s coat. Mary knew he did not have it on when he walked into Plymouth—truth to tell, he wore very little clothing. The elder must have loaned him the coat out of modesty.

  He told them his name was Samoset and he, too, was a foreigner from the land of “the people of the dawn”—the Wabenaki, from far away near Pemaquid. He learned to speak English from a fisherman who crossed the North Atlantic each year to fish for cod.

  “Do you know who cleared the fields around here?” asked Governor Bradford, motioning outside toward the fields. “And why they are not here?”

  “Patuxet,” Samoset said. “Name of people who live here.” The man sat silent for a long time. “Four snows past—people all die. Great plague.”

  So that was why the fields were abandoned, and they had seen so few Indians. Mary’s throat got tight. That story came too close to her own sadness. Some might say ’twas providence that caused the sickness so the Pilgrims could begin their colony on tilled soil without threat. Mary could never think that. She knew God loved those mothers and fathers and tiny babes just as surely as He loved her family. Perhaps God’s providence merely led them to this abandoned site. She needed to remember to ask Elizabeth.

  Samoset ate the meal prepared by Mistress Brewster and decided to spend the night in the village. Constance’s father invited him to stay in their home. As Mary left to go back to her house, Constance fingered a lock of her hair and gave Mary a broad grin before she waved farewell.

  Mary knew what she meant as well as if she spoke the words, “When I am a grizzled gray-haired grandmother, just think of the stories …” Mary laughed aloud as she made her way home. How she loved her friends.

  “Father says that Samoset shall be our friend.” Bartholomew stopped his play to make the statement.

  Bartholomew, Resolved, Wrestling, and Love played Indian all morning long. Mary could see that they believed Samoset to be of mythic proportion. ’Twas true, he stood almost three heads higher than Captain Standish, but their beloved captain was teasingly called Captain Shrimp by many of the sailors.

  “My father says that God sent Samoset to us,” Love said.

  Mary relished listening to the boys talk. After seeing Samoset over several days, she was inclined to agree. He brought five of his braves with him on the second visit, and the ladies fed them all.

  “Here comes Samoset. He brings another friend,” Resolved announced.

  The Indian he brought was named Squanto. According to Samoset, Squanto was truly fluent in English, and the Pilgrims found this to be true.

  That night at supper they all ate together, and Squanto told them his story. Mary’s little band of children crowded in around him to hear.

  “Ten summers ago, English traders came to these shores. When my people came to trade, several of us were captured and taken aboard ship to be sold into slavery in Spain.”

  Bartholomew interrupted. “How old were you?”

  “Please excuse my son for interrupting,” said Master Allerton with a pointed look at his son.

  “Beg pardon,” said Bartholomew as he hung his head.

  “No. ’Tis a fair question, young brave,” Squanto said. “I was older than you—perhaps nine summers.”

  “Once the ship landed, my people scattered, having been sold to all manner of folk. God was with me. I was sold to a gentle monk who taught me to love your God. I later traveled to England and went to work in the stables of a good man named John Slaney.”

  The story fascinated Mary as much as it did the children. She looked over at her friends, and each was riveted by the telling. Mary knew that Constance collected the story for her gray-haired enjoyment. Elizabeth kept giving Mary meaningful glances. Aye, my friend, I too see the hand of God’s providence in this story.

  “John Slaney promised to buy my passage home—back to my people.” Squanto paused. “When I finally returned to these shores, I had no people. All I found were bones bleaching in the sun. The sickness—I think similar to the smallpox I saw in England—wiped out the Patuxet.”

  Mary understood the emptiness in those words
.

  “All this time, I wondered why God brought me back to nothing.” Squanto looked around the room. “Now I see.”

  Mary’s heart thudded in her chest. Squanto asked the very question that haunted Mary. Why did God bring me all this way for nothing? Could Squanto have just shown her the answer? Remember and Little Mary came over and snuggled into Mary’s lap. As Little Mary stuck her thumb in her mouth and fell asleep, Mary stroked her hair and drew the two little girls closer.

  Squanto stayed. He believed God sent him to the Pilgrims. And, as Governor Bradford said of him on one Sabbath, “He became a special instrument sent of God for our good.”

  Squanto introduced them to Ousa Mequin, the Great Massasoit, chief of the powerful Wampanoag, who lived to the southwest on the Narragansett Bay. He helped them offer appropriate gifts, build a friendship, and negotiate a fair treaty.

  Squanto also showed the Pilgrims how to fish and how to plant Indian corn. Mary knew that without his knowledge they likely would have starved.

  “This cornfield is old ground,” he told the planters. “You will have to fertilize each hillock with three herring.”

  “However will we catch that many fish?” asked Governor Bradford. They had little luck fishing.

  “’Tis not been the proper time,” Squanto said. “When the fish begin their run up the brook, ’twill be simple to set traps to catch them.” He showed them how to make and set the traps, and the catch was more than sufficient to fertilize the field.

  Once the field was planted, he instructed the men to guard the field all night long to keep the wolves from digging it up.

  “What think you, Mary?” Elizabeth said one day. “It does not take much reminding to see the hand of the Lord on this endeavor anymore, does it?”

  “Nay,” Mary said with conviction. “My heart burned, and anger began to kindle against God, but watching His care of us—whether it is through a miracle like Squanto or the simple everyday provisions—there be no denying His hand, Elizabeth.” Mary knew her father was right when he insisted that this was God’s will for them, even though her father cou ld not cross over with them into Plymouth. “Thank you, Elizabeth, for helping me learn to look for God’s hand in our journey.”