‘And I am guessing your free spirit rebels against that.’
‘I have turned Baptist – an advocate for true freedom of conscience. My “free spirit,” as you put it, has gotten me in some trouble. I was invited to leave Boston by the Puritan authorities in charge. The governor was preparing to deport me when I had to flee, in the middle of the night, leaving my family behind under the protection of a pastor friend.’
Intrigued enough to forget for a moment the occasional scuffle coming from behind the classroom doors, John gestured for his guest to sit. ‘Where did you go? Mostly wilderness, isn’t it, outside the colony?’
‘All wilderness. And it was the dead of winter. I survived in a cave for weeks, praying I would not perish for my family’s sake, until some friendly natives sheltered me. Come spring, I built a cabin and sent for my family,’ he said, as matter-of-factly as if it were an everyday kind of feat.
Milton had always admired the man’s brilliant, questioning mind, had admired his boldness, but this? This was a tale worthy of the playhouse. ‘Is your new home comfortable? Is it safe?’
Williams nodded and gave a little half-laugh. ‘Comfortable enough; tight against the winter winds. I was so proud of that house, cut every log and planed every board myself. We have lived there for a couple of years. I was cutting trees for a new barn when I discovered our new home was still in Plymouth jurisdiction.’
‘Ah. That means your Boston enemies still hold authority over you.’
‘Not for long. My Narragansett neighbors sold me a large strip of land. Large enough for a community of freedom-seeking people. I have returned to London to procure a charter from Parliament for “Providence Plantations” in the Narragansett Bay. God is good, John. We already have a few families and some single men. Lord willing, we will settle it as a free province, founded on the principle of religious liberty and with an elected president. No English governor controlled by Parliament or the Crown.’
‘Have you considered that Parliament might prove as unfriendly to such a notion as your New World Puritan detractors? Have you made any progress?’
‘I have indeed made progress. Just before he died, may God rest his soul, John Pym introduced me to the head of Commissions for Royal Plantations. The Earl of Warwick and I have already had one meeting. He said he would do what he could, and Sir Henry Vane I knew from when he was royal governor for Massachusetts. He has a powerful voice.’
‘Bad timing about John Pym,’ Milton said. ‘He was a steady man, a reasonable man, though firm in his cause. He was the soul of that Parliament, the glue that kept the disparate factions centered. I already see signs of fracturing. They agree on nothing except being disagreeable. But Vane is a good man too, and he will assist the Earl of Warwick in getting your charter granted. Though I fear there are few such principled men left. Do you anticipate being here long?’
‘Only as long as it takes.’
‘If you should weary of your wilderness adventure and wish to bring your ministry home, you might find a Presbyterian bishopric less arbitrary than an Anglican one. London could use your voice.’
Williams shook his head. ‘I cannot foresee such a circumstance. Speaking of the Anglican bishops, I hear Archbishop Laud is in the tower. Do you think he will be brought to trial?’
‘Rumor says his trial is imminent. His enemies are more than ever determined. It will please the Scots Covenanters to see him tried and convicted. One could argue that it was Laud’s imposition of his prayer book on the Scottish Kirk that started the war.’
‘Do you think the Presbyterians will be any less tyrannical in their religious enforcement? I have heard about the Covenant. There will never be a place for Roger Williams to preach in a state-controlled religion. There must be a wall between God’s garden and the wilderness outside; an impenetrable wall between Church and state that cannot be breached. Open one little gap in that wall and the wilderness rushes in. Soul freedom, John. It is a God-given right. In making Christianity the state religion of Rome, Constantine did more harm to Christianity than Nero ever did.’ He sighed heavily and tossed his head, as though shaking off a burden, ‘But now I’ve gone to preaching. Let’s talk about you. You are teaching now, I hear, and married. May I be allowed to meet your wife? What about your writing?’
‘My poetry is put aside for now. Most of my writing is political. As to my marriage …’ He hesitated for the briefest moment, wondering if his old friend had heard about The Doctrine and Discipline of Divorce. ‘When the fighting began in earnest, my wife was away visiting her parents in Oxford. It is not safe for her to travel now.’ All of it true, strictly speaking. ‘What about you? You mentioned your family. Do you have a wife?’
‘When we left Cambridge and you went off to travel in Italy, I went to be the chaplain of a large house in Essex. I married a daughter of that house. We have been blessed with five, healthy, God-loving children and, by the time I return in the spring, I expect the sixth one. I miss them dearly, as do you Mistress Milton, I am sure. Do you have children?’
‘No. No children. She is with her parents in Oxfordshire. We had not been married long when she was trapped outside the lines. She is very young.’
There was a pause in the conversation, as if Roger could feel his friend’s discomfort. He was always an intuitive man. It was as if once again the subject of John’s marriage had cast a pall on something he was enjoying.
‘Well, John,’ Roger said, standing up. ‘I will not detain you longer, old friend. I know you are busy with your students. Perhaps we can meet again before I return home.’
‘I would very much like that. Please come again. We can celebrate your progress concerning the Providence venture. If there is any way I can be of help, it would be my privilege. If you have the time, perhaps we might share a meal.’
‘I shall look forward to it,’ Roger said, then pausing added, ‘Come to think on it, there is something you can do for me, if it is not an imposition. I need a recommendation for a publisher. I have two publications I would like to have printed and disseminated. The first is an alphabet of the Indian languages. I am often asked about the native populations of North America. People here are extremely curious, though they have some strange, misinformed ideas. I have found the indigenous peoples of the New World to be a wonderfully interesting and – from my experience – an honest, kind people, not the savages that some here seem to believe. Language provides understanding into cultures that anecdotes alone cannot. To that end I have developed an alphabet book which I think will provide some cultural insights. I need a publisher. Might you recommend one?’
Pleased to be asked, John considered for a moment. ‘I have had several. Most recently I have used a young printer, name of Matthew Simmons. He is just down this street, next to the Golden Lion. Tell him I sent you. He will print your alphabet book cheaply and display it in the Stationers’ network. As to your other, if it is political in nature or representative of the religious views you have just expressed, I would recommend a free printer, one who is not a member of the guild. Parliament has quite replaced the Star Chamber in its censorship, but uses the guild for much the same purpose.’
‘The godly folk in London, then, have only embraced one tyranny for another.’
‘That remains to be seen. Reasonable men will prevail, I believe, when the fighting is over. For now, there is a printer by the name of James Whittier who might be your safest choice. He prints news books and sometimes writings that will not pass the religious or political censors. He sells both on the street, distributes some with the booksellers in St Paul’s Churchyard, some in coaching inns, and other places where people gather, but he will print for you privately to do with as you please. Tell him you are a friend of John Milton.’
‘Good advice. I do not wish to join the archbishop in his current residence, nor do I wish to be expelled before I am ready to leave. Where will I find this James Whittier?’
‘He has a small print shop in Fleet Street. Not too far from St
Dunstan’s, on the north side, just past Ye Olde Cock Tavern. There is a small printed sign in the window with the words “Print Shop” beneath two crossed swords. Not very fancy, but he does clean work.’ Then John paused and added, ‘When you are free we can meet at the tavern for lobster and beer and I will introduce you to him. When you are ready, of course.’
‘I am ready now. I finished my language dictionary on the ship over. And I have brought with me also a manuscript entitled Bloody Persecution for Cause of Conscience, which I daresay Parliament will not appreciate. The dictionary I will give to Mr Simmons. The other, I will distribute here, but I also wish to take a hundred copies home with me. There are a couple of print shops in Boston, but since I am persona non grata there …’
‘Tomorrow at three then?’ There was the sound of a crash and then a scuffle from the schoolroom. ‘That’s my devil’s summons,’ John said.
Williams held out his hand and gave his easy smile, ‘Ye Olde Cock in Fleet Street. Three of the clock. I shall look forward to it, John. And thank you.’
Mary Milton née Powell paid no attention to the sound of boots clopping on the hen-house planks until one of the girls tugged at her apron. Her youngest sister, Bess, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, was clinging to her so hard she almost lost her balance. It was only then she looked up, expecting to see her brother James. The Royalist soldiers never came into the outbuildings in the daytime – though two of their best egg-layers had gone missing in the last fortnight.
It took a moment for her to recognize the tall youth with the stitched-up sleeve. ‘Arthur? Is that really you?’ Her heart felt lighter just at the sight of her childhood playmate. He had been at Forest Hill so often, he was almost like another brother, but better, more fun than her real brothers.
He just stood there, grinning at her, as if he had only been gone a few days. But he was thinner and taller than she remembered and there was the empty sleeve where his left arm should have been. Underneath that shadow of a grin, his countenance wore a sadness that marked him as very different from the carefree lad she had known.
She handed a basket half-filled with eggs to the two little girls still clinging to her. ‘Take these to the kitchen. Carry the basket between you. This is all there is.’
Still staring at Arthur, the older of the girls by only a year said, ‘I remember you. You used to play hide-and-seek with us in the orchard. What happened to your arm?’
‘Bess and Betsy. We had fun, didn’t we?’ Arthur said with forced cheer.
‘Go on with you now and stop pestering Arthur with questions,’ Mary scolded. ‘Cook will be waiting for those eggs. If you don’t break any she may give you a bun to share. Though you are not to ask. She may not have any buns today.’
‘We know,’ Betsy said, tossing her curls. ‘Cook will be sad if we ask and she doesn’t have any buns,’ she mocked. ‘You have told us that bunches of times.’
Mary ignored the impertinence and the two girls left, gripping the handle of the basket between them. ‘They will probably trip and break the lot,’ she said.
‘They have grown in these last two years.’
‘Yes, much has changed in the two years you’ve been gone,’ she said. ‘Sister Sarah has run off and married a Royalist soldier, and James is the only brother left at home now, and he’s threatening to sign up with the Royalists. And,’ she paused, looked away, not wanting to meet his gaze, ‘I don’t know if you have heard, Arthur, but I am married now.’
‘Squire told me.’ And then he added, his mouth twitching away a forced smile. ‘He told me too that I am now an orphan. And it appears from the destruction I have seen at the farm, a penniless orphan.’ He shook his head like someone trying to shake off a bad dream. ‘As if that part really matters.’
‘Oh, Arthur. I am so sorry.’ She hugged him then, feeling the empty space where his arm should be. ‘We didn’t know how to reach you. We grieved – are still grieving – for your father. When he went missing, Caroline was so brave. She scoured the surrounding garrisons for weeks looking for him, hoping; finally, his loss was officially confirmed. He was ambushed on a mission to deliver supplies. We sent a letter to your last posting, but we never heard back. I wish Caroline was here to see you. She has gone to London. I think she just could not bear to be here without him.’
There was a silence of about half a minute while he stood there, chewing on his bottom lip. Finally, he asked, ‘Did they find his body?’
‘No. He was on a missing list while the garrison made inquiries. We all remained hopeful, especially Caroline, until they declared him dead.’
‘So. No grave to visit. No real surprise there. I’ve seen what happens to the bodies of the fallen.’ His feet shuffled on the straw-strewn floor, releasing the smell of dust and dried chicken shit into the space around them. When he looked up again, tears were welling in his eyes. ‘So much left unfinished, Mary.’
And she knew he was not just talking about his father’s grave, for she remembered what had passed between William and his son, how upset Caroline had been by the breach. Another silence. She waited until he stopped chewing on his lip, then asked softly, ‘Can you stay with us awhile?’
‘Squire offered me a job cutting wood – a one-armed woodcutter. Huh.’ His mouth twitched again with that forced smile. ‘He told me that Forest Hill is surviving on the sale of wood, said it is selling by the pound like cheese instead of by the cartload.’
‘That’s the one bright spot in our failing fortunes. Of course, even if we had anything besides the King’s worthless script, there is nothing left to buy.’ Prattle on. Try to divert him from his pain. ‘But we do have room for an able-bodied man. You will be warm and fed. And loved … I mean you are part of us. You and Caroline, and your father too, will always be part of us.’
‘Thank you for that. The “able-bodied,” I mean. And the rest too.’
The girls had left the chicken coop door open and a stiff wind swirled. She shivered in her thin cloak.
‘Let’s go to the kitchen, give me time to persuade you to stay. We can get out of the cold. That’s something to be thankful for. At least we have a warm hearth and enough wood to finish out the winter even after we sell most of it. Cook usually has a kettle simmering for the soldiers who come and go all during the day. It will not be hearty, but it will be warm.’
Still holding his hand, she led him inside the kitchen, which was thankfully deserted, sat him down at a table in front of the promised hearth and dished up the savory broth.
‘We’ve sneaked many a sweet out of this kitchen,’ he said, ‘you and Caroline and I – before she married my father.’
She merely nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
He lifted the bowl with his one hand and drank its contents hungrily, while she cut a slice of cheese from a cheddar round and a hunk of bread from yesterday’s loaf.
‘Ann Powell still makes the best ale in Oxfordshire,’ she said, putting a mug in front of him. ‘The quality hasn’t changed, just the quantity.’
He took a long drink. ‘Something else hasn’t changed. You are still the prettiest girl in the shire. Your husband is a lucky man, Mary Powell. Is he here? I would like to congratulate him.’
‘No. He is in London.’
‘You live in London then?’ he asked.
‘Not for a while. I came home when my father was sick and have been unable to go back.’ She added, looking away, ‘Because of the war.’
‘I can escort you safely back to London. I have a pass.’ When she hesitated, he offered. ‘If you tell me where he lives, I’ll take you right to his door.’
Pretending to rewrap the cheese, she turned her back to him. ‘Thank you, but no. John does not miss me overmuch. He is very busy. And we’ve had to let most of the servants go so I am needed here.’
‘What does your husband do there? Is he a member of Parliament?’
‘No. He is a schoolmaster. And I think he writes some poetry and political stuff for Parliament.’
‘You are not talking about John Milton? In Aldersgate Street?’ He sucked in his breath. ‘You are married to John Milton?’
‘Do you know him?’
‘I have only met him once. I am not exactly numbered as one of his close acquaintances. I know him mainly through his housekeeper, Patience Trapford.’
She could not suppress the sigh that escaped her rapidly constricting throat. ‘Ah, the redoubtable Patience Trapford.’
He smiled knowingly. ‘The same. Determined and very disciplined, and certain of what she believes; but there is a gentleness there when you get to know her.’
‘I guess I wasn’t there long enough to see that gentle side. How did you come to know her?’
He broke off a bit of bread and swallowed it. ‘I wound up in hospital at Bart’s. After they turned me loose I was fortunate to find employment with a printer. Patience brings copy to be printed from … your husband. Sometimes, I give her reading lessons.’
‘What did you print for Mr Milton?’ she asked, not really caring, just to ease the conversation away from her reluctance to return to London.
When he didn’t answer right away, she turned around to face him.
He shrugged, paused as if he couldn’t remember then looking down at his empty bowl as if to find the answer there, said, ‘Political tracts, I think.’ His face was red from being too close to the kitchen fire. ‘I really didn’t pay much attention to them.’ And then to her relief he changed the subject abruptly. ‘Your father said Caroline left a few months back. I feel guilty that I waited so long to write her. London is not really a good place now for a woman alone. Do you know if she is at the same house they kept in London?’
‘Last we heard,’ she nodded. ‘She would be so relieved to see you. She worried to distraction when your letters stopped.’
‘When I was wounded, more than my letters stopped. I felt broken away from myself, if that makes any since. I didn’t want to be me anymore. I wanted to start over. Fresh. But you can’t deny the truth forever. A man must acknowledge his responsibilities or he’s not a man. And he must acknowledge too when he’s done wrong. I am sorry that I abandoned everybody I ever loved. Sorriest of all that I …’ his voice grew husky … ‘can’t tell my father that I am sorry.’
A Far Horizon Page 6