Pillars of Avalon

by Catherine Pym

  Colonel Hopkins sat beside Frances as Abigail’s anchor rattled out of the water and began to drift away, the barge in the harbour getting smaller with each frothy wave. Soon, the barge made its way into the mouth of the river, a dark speck against the backdrop of the green shore.

  Sara could no longer see her sister. She burst into tears.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Newfoundland, July 1634

  Sara and David stood on the edge of Ferryland Pool. A stone building stretched along the shore where several thousand quintals of dry fish were being loaded onto merchantmen which had come with them from London and Dartmouth.

  Further down the rocky shore lay a carpet of flakes, made of posts and fir boughs, covered from gills to tail fins with drying salt cod. More flakes climbed the grassy hills as far as the eye could see.

  Men and lads diligently worked at tables wedged between the flakes. Barrows filled with fish bounced over the stony ground to the tables, where men gutted, then decapitated the cod in quick movements. Livers were thrown into barrels to render oil in the summer’s warmth. Once the fish were gutted, the splitter opened the body and removed the spine.

  Seabirds screamed overhead; they dived and fought over the oozing piles of guts near the tables. The cleaned fish were layered in salt or doused in brine; then set on the flakes to dry. Lads stood near them and whisked fir branches over the fish to keep flies, birds and other beasties away.

  Sara watched with amazement this swift productivity. Within days, thousands of fish were processed for shipment. Their five fishing boats, each with a five man crew, were each expected to catch and process a hundred-thousand fish during the eight weeks they plied these waters.

  Fishermen used primitive tools; a flat wooden card with hemp string wound about it, a weight and a wrought iron hook, yet they worked swiftly, their catch amounting to three-hundred fish per day. Cod could be excessively large, weighing up to one hundred-twenty pounds. Sara could not think how the string did not slice through men’s gloves and cut their hands to the bone.

  She strained to tally the many boats that bobbed between land and the dark waters of the grand banks. With so many masts and sagging sails, the movement of ships as they rode the deep swells, she quickly lost count. The whole area smelled of brine and dead fish.

  “There are hundreds of them out there,” David said as he, too, watched the busy horizon.

  “Five are ours,” Sara said. “Can you see them?”

  David clicked his tongue. “Silly question. The Nathaniel should arrive any day, now, transporting furniture and building materials.”

  David’s manservant, Hawkins, a constant grimace on his face, tripped over the rocky ground toward them. Mister William Hill, Ferryland’s caretaker, followed at a distance.

  Sara rattled the papers she carried. “Aren’t you being a mite premature in making improvements and filling the Baltimore mansion with our things?”

  She could not believe her husband’s presumption. He might have a vision of living here, and she did too, but the grant to the Province of Avalon still belonged to Cecil Calvert, second Lord Baltimore.

  He shrugged. “In truth, this place is abandoned. We will build a working plantation on this land, Twig, and we’ll be self-sufficient. Relying on foodstuffs and raw materials from across the sea is foolhardy at best.”

  Hawkins reached them, his eyes a’ goggle. “Methinks I saw an Aboriginal behind the kitchen. He wore the most filthy and primitive of clothing. What is he about? Is he stalking us to create mayhem? Will these savages attack us in our sleep?”

  William Hill began his descent from the stone path to the beach. He raised his hand in greeting.

  David’s glance went from Hill to Hawkins. He shook his head. “The Beothuk do not trust us and keep themselves hidden nor have I heard of any violence against an Englishman. Once the season is done, I understand they raid the old flakes and fishermen’s huts for implements. They use them for their spears and whatnots.” He shrugged as if the conversation held no merit.

  “I can’t imagine who you saw,” Sara added. “Mayhap, Mister Hill knows.”

  “You saw old Joseba,” Hill answered as he danced over smooth, wet rocks that blanketed the shore. He slipped but righted himself. “He’s never been the same since he fell and hit his head. He’s under the care of his son, a Basque fisherman.”

  Hawkins tightened his cloak collar with shaking fingers. His face was slick with a sheen of sweat. “This country is far too untamed.” He turned pleading eyes to David. “I should like to return to London, now.”

  Sara noted David’s good humour began to decay. She rested a hand on Hawkins’ arm. “All will be well. Have no fear.”

  David scowled. “What’s a damned Basque doing here, in these English waters? The bloody Frenchies have their own waters to fish; most of the damned Gulf of St. Lawrence and the river down to Québec. I’ve a good mind to seek the foreign fellows out and give them a stern word or two.” He patted his coat and breeches. “Where’s me Wheelock pistol?”

  Ever since David met with Laud, his anger knew no bounds when it came to the French and King Charles’ capitulation. Even as the Archbishop of Canterbury tried to soothe the way, and promise he’d put in good words to the king, David could not be reconciled for the wrongs done to him. “The king’s treachery killed me father,” he had cried more than once. “I shall not forgive him.”

  “Joseba is harmless,” Hill said and held onto his hat. The wind began to blow, the deep grey seas more tumulus. With a frown, he regarded the darkening skies. “It might storm.”

  “A three mast ship comes toward us.” Hawkins shielded his eyes with a hand. “Methinks it is the Nathaniel. Where will it go once it leaves here?”

  “You will not throw it up, Hawkins,” David hollered. “You are my man, and my man you will remain. Here, in Newfoundland.”

  Sara turned to the deep, grey ocean. A three mast ship, its canvas furling in the wind, sliced through the choppy waters toward shore.

  “Is it another merchantman to load fish?” Hill asked, his brown eyes staring out to sea. “Methinks we’ve enough fish for a lifetime. I’m not used to this hullaballoo. It takes me away from farming.”

  Sara saw that the thin caretaker had put great effort into his plantings. Apple trees struggled for survival in the dip of two hills. A fenced garden with root vegetables meandered around rocks and between footpaths.

  David cleared his throat.

  Afraid he’d say something about the furniture destined for Baltimore’s house, Sara raised several papers in the air. “These are bills of exchange, Mister Hill, each to go with a ship’s master. They explain how the goods will be traded, funds to be accounted for, at each port-of-call. You will give these to each ship’s master. Their name and ship are written at the top of the paper.”

  “Why not send payment with chests of gold or silver?” Hill enquired.

  “‘Tis illegal to remove bullion from England, sirrah,” David chimed in. “These ships will carry three to four thousand quintals of dry fish. At eleven shillings a quintal, chests of silver and gold will amount to a treasure-trove of several thousand pounds sterling.” He shook his head. “If we did this and word got out, we’d annoy the king and be swarmed by rascals of the worst kind. Our business would be ruined.” He stabbed a finger toward Hill’s chest. “Your business would be ruined.”

  “I’m not sure I like this business,” Hill whined. “’Tis far too difficult.” He ventured a glance toward his gardens.

  Dartmouth ships, the Desire moved from the storehouse entry to make room for the Olive. The Eagle and Faith floated at the mouth of the pool awaiting their turn.

  Frowning, Hill took the papers from Sara and studied them. “Where will these be sold, again? I’ve no head for geography or the names of such far flung places in this here world.”

  He scratched his head, making his hat wobble. It fell off his head and onto the rocks. The winds buffeted it toward higher ground. �
��Methinks I’d be better as caretaker only,” he cried and dashed after his hat, clutching the bills of exchange.

  Indeed, as Sara’s gaze roamed the bustling Ferryland, she noted a vast improvement after the previous keepers.

  Hill returned with hat in hand, the bills of exchange waving in the heavy breezes. Raindrops hit the rocks.

  David eyed the lowering clouds. “One of the ships will go to Cartagena. ‘Tis far down the coast almost to the end of the world.”

  Sara knew David had made contact with factors in Barbados, for everyone loved salted codfish. In exchange for fish, two of their ships would take on tobacco, casks of rum and molasses and return to England before the winter storms set in. The others would head to the Mediterranean where they’d trade fish and cod-oil for olive oil, wines, and other exotic goods.

  David scratched his nose. “Our company, Mister Hill, will hold the monies we gain with my man, Mister Delabarre in London. Each time you require something from England, you will have the funds to purchase it through Delabarre.”

  Sara watched greed colour Mister Hill’s lean visage. She turned away.

  “What if a ship is lost,” Hill asked.

  “’Tis a game of chance, sirrah,” David replied. “You must not think or mention such an event, or it will happen.” An eyebrow rose into his hat.

  “God’s law forbids such talk.” Hill regarded David as if he were a devil.

  The Nathaniel disappeared behind a barrier island, only the top of the main mast showing. Soon, the vessel would round another island and enter the pool.

  “Art thou a Presbyter, now, Mister Hill? ‘Tis against Lord Baltimore’s papist religion.”

  Sara sighed. She disliked religion and its hypocrisies.

  The longer it took for Hill to learn his house would soon be taken over by the Kirke’s the better. Sara pushed Hill toward the storehouse. “You must take those papers to the ships’ masters. Soon, two of them will set sail for the West Indies.”

  “Not in the coming storm,” Hill shouted above the growing winds. Fishermen began to find their way back to shore.

  She turned to David. “You must do something.”

  “Like what?” he hollered, his voice lost in the whistling winds.

  The Nathaniel entered the calmer pool, its sails furled. Chains rattled as they dropped anchor. The waters no longer calm, waves whipped onto the rocks.

  Men and lads cleared the flakes and dashed the fish into the storehouse whilst others secured barrels of cod-liver oil.

  “Take the papers to the masters,” Sara ordered Hill above the unholy din. “If you stay one moment longer the words will run down the paper, the bills ruined.”

  A small boat was loosened from the rear davits and plopped onto the choppy water. Three men scrambled into it, one sitting on a bench as two men rowed to shore.

  Lightning flashed and thunder rolled nearer. Large rain drops splattered at their feet. A man emerged from the rowing boat and approached them.

  He hollered. “Where dost thou want the furniture?”

  Chagrined, Sara watched Hill’s jaw drop in sudden realization.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  London, November 1637

  Sara walked to David who sat at his table in his private office, diligently writing. He did not seem to see her. With head bent, the quill nib scratched along the paper.

  “I hear you,” he said, still scribbling.

  “What are you about?”

  “I am forging our way to Newfoundland.”

  Sara had always understood David’s singlemindedness to gain what he’d lost at Québec. But since their return from Newfoundland four years ago, he’d become the most troublesome, impertinent man she’d ever dealt with. He strove with every breath to obtain his goal.

  At the end of the day when they climbed into bed, he’d flop on the pillow and cry, “Me head is overloaded from endless tasks, me tongue nearly broken from today’s diverse discussions.”

  Fluffing her pillow, Sara would laugh. “Delegate, Husband. That’s what our clerks are for.”

  “I wish Robert was still with us. He’d know how to release me from this infinite business.”

  Still saddened by the loss of their wine clerk, Sara could only shake her head.

  Whilst still in Newfoundland and without their say in the matter, Madame replaced Robert with a Huguenot from Dieppe. He had lived on a narrow lane where she and Father Kirke raised their family and ran their wine business.

  David thumped the table. “Where is Antoine?” He lowered his voice. “I do not like the fellow. He’s filled with dirty cunning. How could Maman have selected him?”

  “Mayhap, he reminds her of Thomas.” Sara preferred Father Kirke’s other clerk. “I’ve warned Hugh. He’s not to allow Antoine near the ledgers or see our accounts. He’s not to give him the keys to our moneybox.”

  “Rightful thinking.” David dipped his quill in the inkpot.

  Sara pulled out a chair and sat before her own pile of papers, ledgers and books. She continued throughout the winters to refit their fleet of sail bound for the New World, their holds partially filled with English goods for sale.

  David continued to scribble furiously. He muttered under his breath.

  “With whom are you forging the way to Newfoundland?” She smiled at her own quick turn of words.

  “Our Archbishop Laud.” He looked up at her; a crease formed between his eyebrows. “He’s making enemies as he imposes the high Anglican Church upon the world, but I like him. He’s been a good friend to me.”

  Sara agreed. “I’m very pleased he’s taken a liking to you.”

  “With me younger brothers ready to take their places in the business, we will be free to expand the sack trade. We need to be in Newfoundland and form a base of operations. The heavy work is there.”

  Sara noted several sealed letters piled at the table’s corner. “Who else have you appealed to?”

  “James Hamilton for one.”

  Sara remembered he was one of the leather purses at the start of their involvement with Newfoundland. “Methinks, he’s come up in the world.”

  David dipped the quill in the inkpot, tapped it against the rim; then set to writing, again. “Aye, the Marquess of Hamilton, Gentleman of the Bedchamber, Master of the Horse. These last years, he fought for Protestantism in the Holy Roman Empire. Now, he’s returned to England and is looking for a new investment. He has the king’s ear.” He picked up the paper and squinted.

  “I shall drag you to the haberdashery for a pair of spectacles, sirrah,” Sara admonished.

  “Either that or me scribble has shrunk.” David shook his head and set down the paper.

  “Why art thou so stubborn you will not wear spectacles? They’ve greatly helped me father, and William Hopkins looks very well in them. I consider them romantic.” Sara could only think David’s cock-pride prevented him from conceding his youth was in a state of decay.

  He stared at her as if she were mad. She laughed and batted her eyelashes.

  David shook his head. “At times you are very strange, Twig, but I like you. Have the haberdasher come here with a basket of those lenses you think are so romantic.” He set to work, folding the letter.

  Pleased he had succumbed to her wishes, she said, “I don’t think I’ve met Hamilton.”

  “You have not, nor will you.”

  “Why not? We could bring him here for a nice lamb dinner.”

  David put a stick of wax to flame and watched it drip onto the paper. He set his seal to the wax until it cooled. “Hamilton sees His Majesty every day. Hopefully, he’ll convince the king to give us the patent for Newfoundland. After all, the first Lord Baltimore’s dead, Avalon Province all but deserted.”

  “Hill is there.” Sara winced at the memory of the caretaker’s response when furniture and building materials were deposited on the ground floor of the mansion. At David’s audacity, the poor wretch near fell into an apoplectic fit.

  “The man’
s a rattle-head. How could you have brought him into the business?”

  “We need eyes on that side of the ocean, otherwise we could lose all.”

  He harrumphed. “Without our king’s sanction, we could lose all. I want the whole of Newfoundland to govern as we see fit.” He took another leaf of paper and put his quill into the inkpot. “Besides, Baltimore’s grant with the late king must have expired by now.”

  “Does a grant ever expire?” Sara inquired, vexed he did not answer her with regard to Hamilton. Things like this only made her more determined. She would learn why David did not want the marquess visiting them.

  “I’m sure it all depends upon the king, who reigns at the moment and if he keeps the word of the previous king.”

  He stood and stretched. “Our Charles is always hungry for coin. We shall give him what he wants in exchange for Newfoundland.”

  Sara glared at him. “You will tell me why Hamilton is not welcome in this house.”

  “He is a rake with few morals. No woman would be safe within a mile of here.”

  A baby wailed, a woman’s soothing voice drowned out by the battering cries.

  David regarded the kitchen door with a frown. “Our new lad is in constant fits of temper. He sobs like a twitter-pated woman.”

  Sara gasped. “You will not speak ill of women or against our youngest. Jarvis is only a year-old. All babies cry thusly.”

  “Not like this lad. His temper is worse than Thomas’.” He looked stricken. He took hold of her hands. “Tell me we won’t have another Thomas to deal with.”

  “Nay, we do not have another Thomas,” she tried to assure him but of late, Jarvis’ cries had become strident, as if he were in great pain. She was at a loss as to what could be wrong.

  After a lovely dinner of shredded piglet pie and back to business, David suddenly stood, knocking over his chair. Greatly surprised, Sara’s quill nib cracked. Ink pooled across her letter.

  “What is it?” she cried. “You’ve put me in a mighty sweat and I’ll have to redo this.” She crumpled the paper and threw it in the rubbish basket.