Daughter of Satan

by Jean Plaidy

  But Thomas Morton cared nothing for the Elders. He had come to the New World to make a fortune, trapping animals for their skins and trading with the old country; and doubtless he had found the Indians’ desire for what they called ‘the fire-water’, and their keen delight in European firearms, very profitable. And now he had committed as great a sin in the eyes of the Elders of New Plymouth as any, so far, in setting up a maypole.

  Excitement was high in New Plymouth. All the men from the ship had decided to pay their homage to the ‘Calf of Horeb’. It would be like a bit of home, they said, to dance round a maypole.

  All through the days before the first of May there were sounds of revelry on Merry Mount. There were shots from cannon to herald the frivolity, and the sound of drums came over the clear air. The maypole was a pine tree to which had been nailed a pair of buckshorns. It could be seen for miles.

  In the morning Bartle took Tamar out to the Liberty to show her how far preparations for the return journey had gone.

  ‘In a few weeks we shall sail for England I’ he said, and excitement gleamed in his eyes.

  But when she thought of England she must think also of terrible things; of her mother in the cottage, of the women she had seen at the town hall being searched by the prickers, of the seamen begging in the streets. She looked back at the land and thought how fair it was in the morning sunshine, with the faint mist rising from the meadows and the sparkling river losing itself in the sea, and the nearby forest and the distant mountains. The settlement itself was not exactly beautiful, but there was about it something which moved her more deeply than the beauties of nature. Those little houses represented bravery, courage, sacrifice. She wished her gaze would not stray to that spot where the platform would be with its whipping post and its gallows. She wished she could shut out of her mind the memory of Polly Eagel’s scream as the hot iron touched her forehead. She wished she need not think of Polly, walking through the village street, her head downcast, all the saucy gaiety gone from her, branded for life.

  But Polly had sinned, she reminded herself.

  So have we all! came back the answer.

  And then: But this is not cruelty such as I have seen at home.

  Nevertheless, it is cruelty.

  She told Bartle of her thoughts, and he laughed and caught her to him.

  ‘You want a land of your own,’ he said. ‘There will be no winter in such a land. It shall always be springtime, and there we shall be eternally young. Food grows on the trees and you and I stretch ourselves out on the grass and love and love and love . . .’

  Then she laughed with him that she, the most imperfect of beings, should demand a perfect world.

  Bartle said: ‘We will call at Merry Mount and dance round the maypole. It will bring memories of home; and when you see the merrymaking you will be as eager to slip away from these shores as I am.’

  She could not help being excited at the prospect of hearing merry laughter, of dancing at Bartle’s side. She had missed these things; she had missed them too long.

  She wanted to ask Annis to go with them, for Annis loved gaiety; she was on the point of suggesting it, but she refrained. It would not be good to tempt Annis; Annis was so happy in the new life; she was saved, and she would not have the same inclination towards frivolity that she had once had. Had she forgotten, wondered Tamar, those occasions when she had met John in the barn on her father’s land? She made no reference to them when she had heard that the young people were to make public confession and suffer a whipping for doing what she and John had once done.

  Bartle and Tamar took one of the boats and went along the coast to Merry Mount. It was late afternoon and all the settlers on Merry Mount had turned out to help in the preparations for the fun. Indians, naked but for their belts of wampum, stood about watching: some with solemn faces, some smiling at the antics of the white men.

  Thomas Morton welcomed Bartle and Tamar.

  ‘Come, my friends, laugh and be merry with us. Life was meant to be enjoyed.’

  He knew Bartle as the Captain of the ship which was shortly to sail away, and he knew Tamar was his wife. So this was not such a victory as it would have been had he, with his maypole, been able to lure some of the Puritan young people over to his Mount. Still, all were welcome.

  A pageant had been planned by Morton; there was a special song compiled for the occasion in which every man took part: there were old dances which had been danced in England as long as any could remember.

  Dusk came, and with it the festivity was at its height. Flares were lighted. Indians crept in with their women and danced their native dances. In the light from the flares, the painted faces of the Indians glowed, their bodies gleamed – some naked, some adorned with deerskins; their heads and faces oiled; their straight black hair cut in the style of their tribe; the paint on their faces, red and vermilion, to show all who looked their way that they came in peace and not in war. About their necks were beads of wampompeag to match the belts about their loins.

  It was a strange, fantastic sight, with the lights from the flares shining alike on the faces of white men and red men.

  Morton had provided a good deal of drink, and the Indians cried out in joy at the prospect of indulging in some of the white man’s ‘fire-water’. To them this magic water, which burned the throat and intoxicated the mind so that those who took it seemed filled with great joy, was the most wonderful thing the white men had brought with them.

  The Indians sprawled on the ground near the maypole, clapping their hands in time with the songs, ecstatic smiles on their faces, delighted to be present at this feast of the white men. The maypole they imagined to be a god of the white men as were Kitan the good god and Hobbamocco the evil god of their own. They were ready to pay homage to this strange god while never swerving in their devotion to their own, for gods were gods and must be treated with respect, to whatever men they belonged.

  The song of the day was sung again and again:

  ‘Nectar is the thing assigned,

  By the Deity’s own mind,

  To cure the heart opprest with grief,

  And of good liquors is the chief.’

  Voices were raised in the chorus:

  ‘Then drink and be merry, merry, merry, boys . . .’

  Both Bartle and Tamar were caught up in the excitement all about them. They danced with the rest, round and round the maypole. In the light from the flares Tamar saw some of the young people from New Plymouth, furtive yet determined. They had risked a terrible punishment in order to dance round a maypole.

  And then, among the milling crowd of sweating men and women and painted Indians, Tamar caught sight of James Milroy. His eyes glared at her as he watched her and Bartle, dancing with their arms about each other.

  She laughed with a wonderful sense of freedom. It had occurred to her that James Milroy desired her even as had Humility Brown; and the knowledge had come to her that she would be able to forget the death of her first husband for long periods at a time during the years to come. These men who had seemed so saintly were hardly different from their fellow men whom they despised. Such thoughts brought relief with them and she asked herself slyly: Does Brother Milroy come to watch the merrymaking or to spy? And in any case, whatever he comes for, he comes for his own pleasure, as do the rest. Where is the difference then between one and another of us?

  She was sick of the hot smell of bodies, and the fumes of gammedes and Jupiter were in her head. That liquor had been potent.

  ‘Come,’ she said to Bartle. ‘Let us seek the cool of the forest. I am hot and tired, and weary of the noise and singing. I have had enough and would rest.’

  He was nothing loth, and they went together into the forest, where he laid his cloak on the grass that they might lie down together.

  It was peaceful in the forest, lying there among the trees; there was no sound but the call of a bird, the murmur of insects, a rustle in the undergrowth that might have been made by musk-rat or beaver. Now and
then they heard the sound of human voices whispering, and they knew that they were not the only lovers to steal away from the merrymaking for the sake of the peace of the forest.

  Through the darkness came the sound of fresh outbursts of revelry.

  ‘Give to the melancholy man

  A cup or two of it now and then;

  This physic will soon revive his blood

  And make him of a merrier mood.

  Then drink and be merry, merry, merry, boys . . .’

  Tamar thought that the Elders had spoken aptly when they had compared the revellers of Merry Mount with the Children of Israel dancing round the golden calf. But people must sometimes laugh and be merry. Life should not be all drabness surely; and if the Lord of Merry Mount worshipped drink and riches as the Puritans said he did, had not the Puritans set up their own golden calf of pride, bigotry and intolerance?

  Where had these thoughts come from so suddenly? She did not know; and Bartle was close to her, and they were alone – or almost alone – in the forest.

  May Day brought a climax. Life became furtive and sly after that. There were more punishments in the weeks following that May Day than there had been since the Liberty had arrived. Confessions were made in the meeting place and it was clear to Tamar – who felt that everything about her was becoming gradually clearer – that these stern-faced Puritans and their hard-mouthed wives were going to the meeting place with more alacrity than they had before. Some of those who had sinned gave details of their sins; they received their whippings and were married.

  Tamar had been seen at the revelries, but she had been there with her husband, and Sir Bartle was not of the community, although Tamar was considered to be. Her marriage was deplored, and she was looked upon with suspicion, but she was in the charge of her husband and no punishment was suggested for her to endure.

  It was discovered that two people among them were Quakers, and these two were tied to a cart’s tail and whipped out of New Plymouth. They were warned that if they came back they would be hanged.

  There were great crowds to witness the whipping of the Quakers.

  And then Mistress Alton began to recall the iniquities of Annis’ past life, and she spoke of these – as she felt it her duty to do – to Brother Milroy, with the result that John and Annis Tyler were summoned before the Elders.

  Tamar was in the meeting place, and Richard was with her when Annis and John made their confession.

  Richard had tried to persuade Tamar not to go, for he saw in her eyes something which alarmed him. He knew that since the death of Humility she had been trying to become a good Puritan, and he knew also that this was because of some twisted notion that by doing so she would expiate her sin. She had, by long and arduous practice, suppressed something which was essentially herself; but that which had taken months to cover up, could leap out without a moment’s warning.

  Richard kept close to her. He knew that she was very concerned, because her affection for Annis went deep.

  Annis had changed since the accusation had been made against her. She had become like an old woman; the flaming colour in her cheeks was tinged with purple and her eyes showed her bewilderment. She had tried so hard to win respect; she had been so ready to love the new land and the new way of life; and now to hear that her old sin was remembered against her, brought her such shame that she could not hold up her head. She had neither slept nor eaten since the terrible accusation had been made.

  Young Dick was with Tamar and Richard as they made their way to the meeting house; but as they were about to enter, Richard said to Tamar: ‘Go on, Tamar. I’ll be with you in a moment. And Dick . . . here a moment, please.’

  Tamar, who could think of nothing but Annis at this time, hardly noticed what was said and went on into the meeting house.

  When she had gone, Richard said to Dick: ‘Your father is on the Liberty. Go out to him and tell him that he must come at once. It’s very important, I feel, that he should be here. Tell him I have sent you to fetch him and that he must come at once. If we should be in the meeting house he should go to the whipping post and wait for us there. Tell him he must be here for your mother’s sake. He must be at hand when Annis is punished, in case he is needed. Tell him I am afraid . . . afraid for Tamar.’

  Dick ran off, thrilled by what seemed an important mission.

  Richard went into the meeting house.

  ‘Where is Dick?’ asked Tamar.

  ‘I sent him away. It is not good for him to witness such spectacles.’

  She nodded. She had caught sight of the bowed back of Annis, and tears had started to her eyes.

  She listened to the droning voice of the Elder. Sin, sin, sin! . . . she thought. They think of nothing but sin! They are obsessed with sin, so that they see it all around them.

  ‘This is a long7ago sin, but sin does not grow less with the years. It lies across the soul like an ugly mark on a clean garment. It is necessary to dip that garment in the blood of the Lamb if it should be whiter than the snow. Repentance is not enough. Repentance there must be, but expiation also . . . Brothers and sisters, among us of late, sin has been rampant. Since our wicked neighbour of the Mount of Woe set up a golden calf and worshipped it, there has been evil even here among us!’

  Tamar was clenching and unclenching her hands. Richard took the hand nearest his and pressed it.

  ‘Calm,’ he whispered. ‘Be calm, my darling.’

  ‘Richard . . . not Annis. I love Annis. She is like a sister to me. She is my friend . . .’

  ‘We live in an imperfect world,’ he said.

  Angry glances were directed towards them. Whispering in the meeting house was a sin as deserving of punishment as any other sin. But now they were forgotten, for Annis and John Tyler had stood up and were about to confess their sin.

  Tamar heard Annis’ voice as though it were coming to her over the years.

  ‘We was young . . . and we was sinful . . . and we did meet in the barn . . . and because we did know no better, there was great sin between us . . .’

  Tamar seemed to be reliving the past, seeing herself in Pennicomquick, mixing a potion, muttering a charm, listening to Annis’ confidences as they lay on their straw pallets together.

  Not Annis! This could not happen to Annis. She wanted to shout: ‘Do not be ashamed, Annis. It is they who should be ashamed. You are a good woman, however you sinned in your youth. You and John were happy. You loved this land. You asked for nothing but to work here and be happy and good . . .’ But her lips were dry, her mouth parched and her voice lost to her.

  Annis was going on: ‘’Twas no fault of John’s. He had no say in it. The sin was mine, so I hope you’ll not punish him. It was a charm I got from a witch. So John had no say in it. There was a child . . . my first, my Christian. I named him Christian so’s he could be better than his mother were, and so he is. ’Twere no fault of John’s that our boy were born out of wedlock. He were took off to prison for going to the meeting house, and so we couldn’t be married . . . and our child were born . . .’

  The Elder spoke. It was true, as in so many cases, that the woman was at fault. He did not doubt that. She had, on her own admission, consorted with witches in the hope of leading a man to damnation. For that she should have her strokes increased. But the man could not go without punishment. The godly are free from any spells that might be made from witchcraft, since the Devil sows his seed in fertile ground.

  As they left the meeting house for the platform, Tamar tried to call out to Annis, but no words would come. She saw Annis walking into the bright, hard light of day and she felt that her heart was breaking, for she had not known until now how she had loved this friend of her childhood, girlhood and maturity. Words crowded into her mind: ‘Take me! Whip me! I gave her the charm.’ And then: ‘Whip me if you dare! Judge me . . . judge us both . . . if you dare!’

  Annis’ back was bare for the lash. A garment had been discreetly laid across her breast with a string to tie it about her neck and
keep it secure. She was tied to the whipping post, and she did not look like Annis. Her plump face sagged and there was a hideous purple colour in her cheeks and on her lips – a dark and ugly colour.

  Tamar would have run forward, but Richard was holding her firmly by the hand.

  ‘Let us go,’ he said. ‘You do not want to see this.’

  He was looking anxiously about him to see if Bartle had come.

  ‘I will stay!’ she said. ‘I will stay. I must be near her. I cannot run away because I dare not look.’

  She turned to him with blazing hatred in her eyes.

  ‘Do you know what I would do if I had the strength of ten men?’ she demanded. She did not wait for him to answer: ‘I would leap up there. I would tie the Elders and Brother Milroy to that post. I would use the whip on them!’ Her voice broke and tears ran down her cheeks. ‘Annis!’ she whispered. ‘But what has Annis done? What did she ever do . . . but want to live and be happy?’

  The whip whistled in the air. It seemed to be poised above Annis’ bare back for a long time before it fell.

  A weal leaped up on the tender flesh. There was a heart-rending cry as Annis slumped at the post.

  The whip came down again, but this time there was no cry.

  Tamar wreched herself free.

  ‘I must go to her! I must go to her. What am I doing standing by . . . while they do that to her?’

  She had pushed her way through the crowds before Richard could stop her; she was mounting the platform. The man with the whip was standing back a little, staring at Annis’ body, for he had noticed something strange about her inert figure, her purple face, her lips which hung open and her staring eyes. Annis was curiously still.

  Tamar knelt beside her.

  ‘Annis,’ she murmured. ‘Dearest Annis, speak to me. It is your own Tamar. What have these murderous brutes done to you? Annis . . . look at me . . . speak . . . speak. I command you, Annis! Don’t dare disobey me. It is I . . . Tamar.’ She was sobbing because she knew what those about her had yet to learn: She did not need to put her hand on Annis’ heart to know that it had stopped. They had killed Annis; they had piled such shame and ignominy upon her that they had broken her heart.