by Jean Plaidy
‘How you hark back! I prefer to look forward.’
‘And so do I now. When, Tamar? When?’
‘I do not understand you.’
‘You hold him off. You want me. But what is the use of wanting if we do nothing to ease our desire?’
‘As I told you years ago, you have a great conceit of yourself.’
‘It is justified.’
‘Are you sure of that?’
‘I am. You cannot bear to have him near you, so you lie to him. You tell him you are with child. And you lied for me. Oh, Tamar, I have gone without you too long.’
‘You might try Polly Eagel for a substitute.’
‘Who?’
‘You feign ignorance, but I know of your adventures. I said Polly Eagel.’
‘I know her not.’
‘It is idle to pretend to me that you have not been her lover. I suppose you would have me believe that you have forgotten.’
‘It matters not whether or no you believe it. It is so. There have been so many, Tamar.’
‘And you think I should be happy to join such a crowd!’
‘Whether you are happy joining it or not, you have already done so.’
‘There! You see, I can but hate you. You taunt me. You mock me. How could I love such as you?’
‘And yet you do.’
‘Leave me, I beg of you.’
‘Not till you have heard my plan.’
‘What plan is this?’
‘A plan for us two.’
‘Such a plan could not interest me.’
‘You repeat yourself. You have said that to me before.’
‘Then you invite repetition. You tire me. I pray you, leave me.’
‘And I pray you, Tamar, for your own sake, not to anger me. When I am truly in a rage, I am incapable of controlling my anger. You will listen to me. This is my plan. We shall reach our destination; our passengers will disembark; and you and I, with your children – and Richard if he wishes it – will sail for home. We will leave your husband here with his pilgrims. He shall have them and, as a reward for bringing him safely to port, I shall have you.’
‘An interesting plan,’ she said coldly. ‘But, as I told you, you would be foolish to include me in any plans you might make.’
He came closer to her. ‘I would have you know that I am tired of waiting. We cannot go on like this. One of us . . . will . . . quite soon . . . do something to end this intolerable state of affairs.’
She had begun to tremble. She could not meet his eyes, so she stared beyond him, across the translucent water.
It was night and there was tension throughout the ship. Even the sailors were subdued and spoke in whispers.
There were no lights on deck, nor on masts, nor at portholes. The Captain had ordered it so.
‘Anyone showing a light,’ he had bellowed, ‘be it man, woman or child, will be clapped in irons.’
At dusk a ship had been sighted on the horizon, and every seafaring man aboard had known her for a Spaniard.
Below, the passengers muttered together. The old ship was limping along, for she had suffered some damage in the storm. She was not equipped to fight; she carried men and women in search of a home, not a battle and plunder; stores and furniture instead of ordnance. And Catholic Spaniards could strike as deep a note of terror in any heart as could the barbarous Turk.
Annis came to Tamar’s cabin, breathless in her agitation. Tamar could hear her panting in the darkness. Poor Annis! She was getting old; she had borne too many children, and of late there had been a bluish tinge about her lips when she was out of breath. Tamar remembered her suddenly as a little yellow-haired girl who had looked in at the Lackwell cottage door and put out her tongue. When death was near, she supposed, you thought back over the past.
Annis said, ‘Mistress, Mr Brown is preaching to some on the lower deck. He be a very brave man, for if the Spaniards take him, it’ll be burning alive after months of torture that’ll be his lot. Sir Bartle – he’s on the upper deck. He did ask me to bring you to him, there, as he has something to say that is important. He says not to fail . . .’
Tamar put her cloak about her and went on deck. It was a cloudy night with a light fresh breeze which hustled the clouds every now and then bringing a group of stars into view. Bartle had seen her and came swiftly to her side.
‘Tamar?’
‘Yes, Bartle?’
‘Thank God for the dark of night.’
‘Yes, thank God.’
He put an arm about her and she did not resist; she thought of the mighty galleon that might at this moment be sailing towards them.
He said: ‘With the dawn we shall know. But there is some hope. She may not have seen us. I have changed our course. Tamar, you must not be taken by the Spaniards. Better that you should die by my hand than that.’
‘Yes,’ she answered firmly.
‘Keep close to me, my love. When the dawn breaks, I wish you to be at my side. We never lived together, and it may be that now we never shall. But we can die together; and that we will do.’ He had moved his hand up her arm, caressing it. He drew her to him and kissed her with such tenderness as she had never known in him before. ‘What,’ he went on, ‘an unholy mess we have made of our lives! But it is too late for regrets now.’ He kept his arm about her. ‘You do not move away from me. I wish I could see your eyes. They are soft and tender, I’ll warrant. They do not now flash with pride and anger.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I do not move away from you now.’
‘And never will again?’
She did not answer, and he went on: ‘Tell me that marriage of yours was no true marriage.’
‘There are children to prove it,’ she said.
‘There may be only a few hours left to us. Let them be truthful hours. What did you feel when you heard that I was lost?’
‘Desolation. Yes; I know now that it was desolation. I sought for peace, and I thought that I should find it with Humility Brown.’
‘As we are given life here on Earth we are surely meant to live it. Why should we be born into this world with its trials and problems if we are to spend our time thinking only of another?’
‘Oh,’ she said, ‘you are a pagan.’
‘I should never have thought of that if you had let me live my life. We should have married, done our duty to our line and home. We should have brought our children up to obey the Church and State. You are the pagan, and you have made a pagan of me.’
They were silent and she felt his lips on her hair. Then he went on: ‘Where are we going, you and I? To death when the dawn comes? That will be easy. That will be quick. But if it is not death, what then, Tamar? Where are we going then?’
‘We cannot think beyond the morning.’
‘Why can you be only gentle and truthful with me when we may have to die?’
‘Why are you different now?’
‘Oh, Tamar, let us think of what might have been! Seventeen years ago we had a chance to live. I went to slavery and torture; you to slavery of another kind; but both of our own choosing. We might have been together in our home. We might be there . . . now. Think you that any grass is as green as Devonshire grass, any air as temperate? Nowhere in the world is the sea quite the same colour as that which breaks about our shores. Nowhere else does the mist rise up – so soft and warm – and disappear so suddenly to let the sunshine through, the warm and kindly sun that never burns too fiercely. Yet you threw that life away. You banished me to slavery and yourself to life with a Puritan. I could hate you, Tamar, if I did not love you.’
‘I could hate you too,’ she said, ‘if I did not love you.’
They kissed with passion now; and she saw herself regaining all that she had carelessly thrown away; she knew that their kisses were a pledge for the future . . . if they lived through the next day.
She heard Bartle laugh suddenly, and it was a laugh she remembered well.
‘Tamar,’ he said, ‘we cannot die. We must defy the Spaniard. We have p
owder and shot, arms and fireworks. We’ll give an account of ourselves. You will go to your cabin, take your children with you. You will stay there until I come. For come I will. I promise you I’ll fight as I never fought before. I’ll not die when I am just about to begin my life with you.’
She clung to him. ‘We must not die. Of course we must not die!’
When dawn broke the whole ship’s company was on deck.
Eager eyes scanned the horizon.
The Spaniard had disappeared.
The ship was moving forward.
‘How long before we sight land?’ Each member of the crew was asked this question every day.
‘A week mayhap. Perhaps more . . . perhaps less.’
A week! When they had been nearly three months afloat. Excitement ran high. All around them was the heaving water, but any day now land might be sighted.
The map which Captain Smith had made over ten years ago was studied with eagerness. The very names delighted them: Plymouth, Oxford, London; the river Charles and Southampton; and farther along the coast there were Dartmouth, Sandwich, Shooters Hill and Cape Elizabeth. Such names truly had a homely ring.
‘See this point, Cape James. That was first called Cape Cod; it was named after the fish that abound there. We shall have fresh cod instead of salted herrings. There will be meat too. No more danger from pirates. No more fear of being captured by the Spaniards or the Turks . . . or the Dutch . . . or the French.’
‘What of the savages that were first here?’
‘Oh . . . a friendly people. Did you not see the little Princess when she came to Plymouth?’
Tamar’s uneasiness had grown since that night of fear. Bartle filled her thoughts – not this new country. She had avoided him since that night of mutual understanding, but she could not continue to do so. She could not banish Humility from her thoughts. What had she done on that night? She had exposed her secrets to Bartle; she could no longer deny her feelings for him.
Yet she had her children. She was married to Humility Brown. How could she return to England with Bartle?
Humility was aware of the change in her. Her temper with him was shorter than ever; she seemed again and again to be endeavouring to make their life more difficult by picking quarrels.
If he were not such a good man, Tamar told herself, I should not feel I wronged him so deeply and I should not hate him so fiercely.
But hate him she did; she wished he were dead. What an easy way out his death would give them. She watched him speculatively. He looked very ill; the journey had tired him, strained him beyond his strength, for he was not a robust man. He fasted a good deal and she believed he did this as a penance; she believed he had been thinking what he would call ‘evil thoughts’, and these thoughts would be concerned with herself.
Perhaps, thought Tamar, he is not such a good man as he thinks himself to be. If I could prove that to him I should not feel I wronged him so deeply in doing what I long to do.
The more she thought of him, the more irresistible was the desire to show him and herself that he was no better than other men. As the ship drew nearer to the New World, she thought continually of this.
One evening, when they were in their cabin, he looked at her intently and said: ‘Tamar, what has come over you? You have been slowly changing as we have made this journey. You have become more and more like the wild girl you were before your conversion. I feel you have need of guidance. I beg of you to let me give it to you.’
‘I . . . in need of guidance!’ she cried. ‘Look at me! I am well. I never felt better. You look like a death’s head. It may be you who need guidance from me!’
‘I was speaking of spiritual guidance. The health of your body is good. But what of the health of your soul?’
Then came the climax to which she afterwards believed the whole of her life with Humility had been leading.
It was a calm night and she was lying in her cabin when Humility came in, as was his custom, to kneel and say a prayer before scrambling into the bunk above hers.
As she watched him, she was sure the Devil was with her, for she decided that now was the time to show him that, for all his fine words and great ideals, he was a man as other men were. She would make him see that he was a man, as Bartle was; the difference being that Bartle strode about the ship not caring who saw him for what he was; whereas Humility hid his inclinations with a cloak of piety. She had vowed she would tear that cloak from him; she would expose him, not only before her eyes, but his own. Then perhaps he would cease to mutter his prayers over her, to offer her guidance, to say in his heart, ‘Thank God I am not as other men!’
‘Humility,’ she said; and she stretched out a hand to him.
The gentleness of her voice surprised him. The rushlight showed enough of her beauty to excite him. Her long wild hair fell about her shoulders and her breasts were bare.
‘Wife,’ he said hoarsely, ‘does aught ail you?’
She took his hand. ‘I know not. Except it may be that I am not a wife. I am treated as a woman to have children, not as one to be loved. You pray before you embrace me. “Make this woman fertile!” This woman! Fertile! Those are not lovers’ words. I am not loved as other women.’
‘I have loved you,’ he said. ‘I do love you . . . as is meet for a man to love his wife.’
She leaned forward and, smiling alluringly, put an arm about him.
‘You have loved me with passion,’ she said.
He closed his eyes and she laughed inwardly at his cowardice. ‘I was dedicated to the Lord,’ he said. ‘Marriage was not for me. I had eschewed the lusts of the flesh. God blessed our union. Have we not had three children, and is not another on the way?’
She put her lips against his ear and whispered: ‘I wish to be loved for myself . . . not for the children I may bear.’
‘You are in great need of prayer, wife.’
‘Not I!’ she said and her voice held a note of excited laughter. ‘But you are, Humility. Pray now. Stay close to me and pray.’
‘You are a temptress,’ he said.
‘You must not be a coward, Humility. You must look at me. My nights are lonely because I have a husband who thinks of children and not of his wife.’
‘Why do you tempt me thus?’ he asked wonderingly.
‘Why indeed! Why do men tempt women or women men? Come nearer, Humility, and I will tell you. I have been left alone too long.’
A madness seemed to possess her. Bartle and I are no worse than he is! she thought. None of us is very good . . . no one very bad. I’ll not have him thanking God that he is better than others. He shall see here and now that he is not.
She did not love him; she hated him. She did not desire him; he was repulsive to her. But what at this moment she needed beyond love or desire was to show him the truth about himself.
‘Come closer, Humility,’ she murmured.
She had not known how desperately he had fought against what he considered to be sin. He was no hypocrite, for firmly he believed all that he professed to believe.
She watched him staring blankly before him – his face pale in the wan light.
The desire to mock him was uncontrollable. ‘So, a man is a man even though he be a Puritan. He knows the same lusts as other men, and when tempted, he can fall just as others.’
He covered his face with his hands.
‘Would I had died before this happened. All the years of purity . . . wiped out . . . by a single act!’
She cried heatedly: ‘Do not deceive yourself. The temptation never arose before. If it had, you would have fallen into it. When you went to your attic, I was glad that you should go. I made no effort to detain you. If I had wished you to remain . . . if I had wished you to be my lover, have no doubts that you would have been. I beg of you, say no more, “I am a better man than this one and that one.” For you are not! And it is better for a sinner to say, “I am a sinner,” than for him to say, “I am a righteous man!”’
His lips moved
in prayer, but she could not stop her tongue.
‘You ask the Lord to forgive you. For what? I am your wife. Why should it be righteous to shun me? Stop it! See yourself as you are. A man . . . no more, no less. You are a brave man, but others are brave. You are a Puritan, but others are Puritans. You are lustful, and so are other men. There is as much joy for you in your plain garments as there is for me in my colours and silks and velvets. You are not different from others. Know this: If at any time I had tempted you as I did tonight, you would have fallen. Do not judge others lest you be judged yourself.’
He did not seem to be aware of her. He murmured: ‘I am unworthy. I have shown myself to be unworthy. I have fallen from God’s grace and there is no health in me.’
He went out and she lay thinking of him. Now he would know himself. When she told him of her future plans he would not be able to talk of her sin, for if he did she would remind him of his. Some would say he had not sinned, but he believed he had; and surely sin was in the motive rather than the deed.
But later she softened towards him. He was a good man; he was even a noble man. Perhaps when she saw him again she would try to persuade him that there could be no sin in normal acts. She would say to him: ‘If God did not wish us to act so, why should He have given us desires?’ She feared she would not be able to comfort him, but the next time she saw him she would try.
She never saw Humility again.
John Tyler was the last to see him alive.
‘It were early morning,’ said John. ‘I couldn’t sleep, so I came on deck to see what I could see. I thought mayhap I should be the first to sight land. And there he was . . . Mr Brown . . . leaning over the side, looking at the water. I said: “Good morning to ’ee, Mr Brown. A fine good morning.” But he answered me not, and it did seem to me that he were in deep communion with the Lord. I wouldn’t be the one to interrupt him at that, so I passed on. I took a look at the pigs and the poultry penned up there. I looked round. He were still there . . . but a minute later when I did glance over my shoulder, he’d gone. I stared like. There was no sign of him. He couldn’t have gone below in the time. Then I was struck all of a tremble . . . for something did tell me that he had gone overboard.