Pillars of Avalon

by Catherine Pym

  He waggled a paper over the table. “Bloody ship tax, that’s what.”

  With war on the Continent, King Charles had resurrected the Medieval Ship Money, a tax that was generally levied on towns and ports along the coast to increase the Navy’s fleet. Last year it had been extended inland, and to London.

  Sara did not understand. “But we gave what was owed last Lady Day. Twenty shillings.”

  David began to pace. “London’s supplied Charles with a ship that cost six-thousand pounds sterling, armed to the rails with cannon, victuals, men, powder and shot.”

  “What’s the problem then? Why are you ranting?”

  He thrust the rumpled paper at her. “Read this.”

  She scanned the letter. “Oh dear.”

  “Aye, they want me ship, the Abigail.” His face fell into a mask of wretchedness. “I love that ship.”

  Sara stopped breathing. Their ship that held so many memories. How could the king do this to David? “And if you don’t give it to them?”

  “They will seize her anyway.” He stabbed his finger on the paper.

  “But it’s at Deptford being scrubbed of barnacles and other horridness that clings to the hull.”

  “They expect us to finish refitting her, load her with armaments and victuals.”

  “This is mad.”

  “Indeed, our good king squeezes us of coin in any manner he can. We already pay tonnage and poundage on any goods brought into this country. We’ve paid the Ship Money required, yet his pledge has never been realized. The French still owe us a damned fortune for our losses in Québec.” He dashed his fist into the air. “It is bloody criminal is what it is.”

  He threw off his house cap and thumped on his hat. His cloak swirled. “I shall not take another moment of our Majesty’s greed. I’m off to the judge of the High Court of Admiralty.” He swept out the door.

  Sara’s shoulders slumped. The man was a whirling dervish. It was a good thing she was young, for it took all her strength to keep up with him.

  * * *

  That evening, Sara wrapped a blanket about Jarvis, but he continued to cry and could not be comforted. For the first time since he was born, she wondered if there was something seriously wrong with her baby-boy. She pressed her fingers to his neck, felt his heartbeat throb erratically, touched his forehead for any signs of fever.

  His cries became deeper, more intense. She opened the blanket and looked for anything that may have hurt him, pierced his skin. He could not keep anything down. Sour milk filled the creases in his neck. He always had a large belly but of late it had become distended. She prodded the swelling and he screamed.

  “Nay, nay, what is this?” Sara whimpered, her heart in her throat for the fear he may die. “Nurse! Come quick.”

  Where was David? He’d been gone for hours. How long did it take to speak with the High Court of Admiralty, for pity sakes? She’d wring his neck when he returned.

  Nurse entered the chamber, her face filled with alarm. “Aye milady?”

  “Have you noticed this?” Sara wanted to rub Jarvis’ stomach but was afraid to hurt him more.

  “Aye, ‘tis larger than this morn and his stools are very dark.”

  “Why hadn’t you said something sooner?” Panic set in with a fear so great she could not breathe. “Run for Physician Cole. Since it is night-time, take a strong manservant with you.” When the girl did not move, Sara cried, “Now!”

  Hours later, when stygian darkness and a heavy pall of quiet settled over the house, Sara sat in the parlour before the dying fire. The rats had paused in their scurries. David still had not returned from the Admiralty.

  Exhausted, she held Jarvis in her arms and stared at the sizzling embers. Physician Cole had left. There was nothing he could do. Her dear baby-boy had finally released his anguish and now slept in peace.

  A man’s drunken baritone drifted down the lane, wafted through the window chinks and into the house. Footslogs scuffled over the rough cobblestones in front of their house.

  “Who goes there at eleven of the clock on a deadly foggy night?” a gruff voice called. “Must I take you afore the judge and have you thrown in gaol for vagary?”

  The Watch.

  “’Tis I, David Kirke, knight, come home after a long day.”

  “Show me true. Dost thou have a key to this house, or will you cut away the door hinges?”

  “I’ve a key.” Shoes scraped up the treads. A great deal of scratching attacked the lock; finally it gave. The door opened. Heavy coal smoke burst into the house, up the stairs where Sara sat, holding Jarvis.

  “Twig,” David cried. He crawled up the stairs.

  “In here,” Sara’s eyes filled with tears.

  “Why is it so dark? Light a candle.”

  “I’m holding Jarvis,” Sara could not suppress a tremble.

  “We lost the Abigail. Couldn’t be helped.” David jabbed a taper into the simmering coals and lit a candle. “But we’ve gained Newfoundland.” He laughed mightily. “Isn’t that grand? Laud and Hamilton came through for us. The king granted us the whole of it. We’ll establish a governorship and rule the land.” He hiccupped, wobbled on his feet.

  The flame marked his suddenly troubled face. “What’s wrong? You should rejoice with me.”

  Sara choked on a sob.

  David stared at her. “What?”

  “Jarvis.”

  He smiled. “He’s finally calmed, thank the Lord.”

  He leaned forward and stroked Jarvis” face, now cold, his body stiff in her arms. With a shuddering gasp, he fell to his knees. “What is this?” He wept. “Nay, it cannot be true.”

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Newfoundland, June 1638

  David and Sara stepped ashore. The skies were grey, the winds fitful. A noisome stench came from a privy at the water’s edge. Sara reckoned the tide should clean out the filth, but it had not.

  They took the stony path toward Baltimore’s mansion, past the lone tree whose quest for survival persisted after all these years. Most of its roots exposed, they clutched bare stone. Some had found a crack in the rock, the tentacles digging deep. Sara noted fewer leaves on the branches this year but they were robust. This gave her hope their new life would be successful.

  David paused and hoisted their four-year-old Phillip onto his shoulders. “When the king named me governor of Newfoundland, he sanctioned a monopoly. I shall tax the fisheries. I’ll not tolerate dissention by anyone. My word will be law.”

  Sara stood beside him, holding six-year-old Georgie’s hand, who stared about with wide eyes. “You will rule wisely, Husband,” she admonished. “There is no reason to annoy everyone the moment we step ashore. You must also be patient.”

  He grunted. “You will follow me in this, Mistress. I shall be the justice of peace in this land and everyone on it. We brought a hundred souls with us, whom we must take care of and guide.”

  “What of those who already reside here? They will also be under your protection.”

  A cold wind rolled down the hill. Sara pushed Georgie’s hat down to his ears. She set his neckband more securely and tucked it into his doublet collar.

  Even as he had not reached seven-years, he no longer wore gowns but a gentleman’s suit of clothes. Phillip still wore gowns. Whilst aboard ship, their hems caught on everything as he dashed around corners, and up and down rope ladders. David secured their active lad with a harness so he wouldn’t tumble down companionways to the lower decks or fall into the sea.

  David turned around. His eyes widened as he watched the busy coast with its ramshackle fisheries, where birds argued over the fish guts that rimmed the lapping shore. A crush of fishing boats plied the grand banks. “There must be over five thousand people here.”

  “’Tis the summer months. I’d like to see how many stay the winter.”

  “As Justice of Peace, I will regard fishermen as persons to be taxed and overseen, but servants do not count,” David said.

  “Serva
nts are people, too. You shall count and protect them. You will also protect women.”

  “Women are not persons,” he continued, his eyes still on the crowded shore. “They are under the guidance of their husbands.”

  “Then you will not tax them,” Sara admonished, knowing this to be the way of things in the world. Her heart filled with disgust that men, and her husband in particular, could be such horrid creatures to propagate this mad philosophy.

  “I will dispense punishment over sailors and ship masters who defy my law.” David’s lips had formed a grim line.

  “What will you do with them? Is there a gaol on the island?” Sara stared up the sombre hill at Baltimore’s mansion, whose windows were dark and uninviting. Even as joy filled Sara they had arrived safely, the daunting task ahead of them overwhelmed her with anxiety.

  They were alone on a distant, untamed part of the world of which little was known. No one would come to their aid should they need it.

  She regarded David with trepidation, her voice soft. “What have we done?”

  He scoffed. “Let us remove Mister William Hill from the house.” He started to walk the path that would take them to the mansion’s front door.

  “We need him on our side,” Sara cautioned, frantic they should not make an enemy right out of the wicket gate.

  “Why? He’s a shittle-witted person with no head for business.” He motioned to the house. “Look at it, falling to pieces.”

  The stone façade had darkened from the harsh weather over the years but the front portal looked solid enough.

  Foreseeing a difficult moment when David tossed Mister Hill from the mansion, Sara had continued her correspondence with the caretaker. She had construction materials sent from England these past years so that Hill could maintain the mansion. Using bills of exchange from their successful sack business, and adding some of Hill’s rewards for his care this side of the ocean, she had sent enough to build and furnish a house for himself and his family.

  The outside did not look promising, but Sara hoped he had followed her wishes. Since the last time they had been to Ferryland, more structures dotted the shore. Mayhap, one was his.

  Georgie ran up the path. Phillip wiggled atop David’s shoulders. “I want to go with Georgie,” he cried.

  “The king’s grant states no one is to inhabit land within six miles of salt water,” David said as they climbed the hill. “But here we have Baltimore’s house and several others, a veritable village.” Holding Phillips legs as he sat on David’s shoulders, he waggled his brow. “Would it be regarded wrong if we toss everyone out their doors and level the buildings to the ground?”

  “You’ll have a riot on your hands,” Sara said.

  “I agree. It would be unkind. And foolhardy.”

  Dispersed amongst the newer structures, some of the buildings were ramshackle; some had fallen to piles of stone and rotting wood.

  Phillip laughed. “More. Turn more.” He pumped his backside against David’s shoulders.

  David grunted and set Phillip down. “You’re too big to be doing that. Twig, where’s that harness?”

  “But I want to ride.” Phillip’s face puckered as if he’d set to tears that very moment.

  “Later.”

  Hawkins trudged up the hill, mumbling, “I shouldn’t have come.” He pointed to the privy onshore. “I shall not use that. Wild beasties will murder me in the dark of night if I must trek all the way down there.”

  Sara’s maid, Mary, gasped. “You’re worse than an old woman.”

  He dolefully wagged his head. “I tell thee, I shall be murdered mid-piss.”

  Mary laughed, her ringing peel very pleasant. David smiled. Sara chuckled. Georgie and Phillip giggled.

  “Piss,” Georgie cried loudly.

  “Piss,” Phillip mimicked his brother.

  “We’ve been granted the Gulf of St. Lawrence and the river almost to Tadoussac,” David stated. His loud voice carried over the buffeting winds. “I shall procure a navy of sorts to keep the damned Frenchies from coming into our waters.”

  Sara tsked. “As the patent states, foreigners are allowed to fish all about Newfoundland.”

  “That is unreasonable since we cannot fish in French waters.”

  “Don’t forget, we have the right to charge them for the privilege, the Dutch and anyone else.” Sara started up the mansion porch stairs. “The king gave us leave to levy a five-percent tax on the catches.”

  David growled. “You are too smart for your own good, Twig. I shall go secretive on you, hide me correspondence under lock and key.”

  Sara laughed. “If you do, I shall jimmy the lock.”

  He knocked on the door. “Someone within must have seen all our vessels crowding the pool. Why didn’t Hill come to greet us?”

  “Probably because he doesn’t want to see thy scowling face, or your finger pointed to the cold out-of-doors where he must immediately vacate.”

  David sniffed. “You make me into an intolerant beast.”

  Sara grinned. “Indeed you are. I sent Mister Hill materials with which to build a house for himself and his family. I would like you to make him our gardener.”

  “What?” His face flattened with shock.

  The door opened by a frowning Mister Hill. Every time Sara saw him with his brown eyes and hair, his narrow face, he reminded her of an almond.

  “Good day to thee,” David said, his adjustment to her words still roiling about his visage.

  Hill bowed. “And to thee, Sir.” He moved aside, opening the door wider. “All is in readiness.”

  Sara stepped over the threshold, stunned at how very cosy the Hills had made the house. The ground floor no longer stored goods. Chipped flagstones had been replaced. Lace curtains were opened to show clean mullioned windows, the wood about them puttied and lime washed. She could see clearly downhill to the water with the protective islands that dotted the coast. “How lovely.”

  * * *

  Ferryland, January 1640

  A sharp wind whistled around the corners of the house. Ice pellets pattered against the leaded lights of the kitchen windows. Sara sat near the warm hearth of burning logs and roasting meat, and nursed three-month old Davy, their newest member of the family. She would have liked a daughter, but after a difficult birth Sara knew she’d have no more. She accepted this child into her heart. She saw much of David in this little lad, who was healthy, energetic and stubborn. He enjoyed food, too, for he sucked greatly, near pulling her nipple down his gullet.

  “Ouch.”

  Mary stood at the ready with a dry blanket and cloth for Davy’s bottom. “Art thou well, milady?”

  “Aye, but he’s a strong ‘un,” she murmured.

  Georgie and Phillip tumbled about the kitchen, making an unholy din. “Oiy then, Mister George,” Mary scolded. “You are supposed to be caring for thy little brother, not frisk and hey about like little savages.”

  “Cook.” Sara raised her voice to be heard. “In another month, we shall begin feeding this child thin gruel. Cook had come with them from England. She was a wonder about the hearth and could make the strangest of foods taste good.

  Davy released Sara’s breast and smacked his lips. Sara gently ran her finger down his chin, then put him on her shoulder and patted his back. “You lads have too much energy. If it weren’t so horrid out-of-doors, I’d have you run up and down the hill five times.”

  Nine-year-old Georgie came to stand next to her, his light grey eyes so much like his father’s. He grinned. “I should like to run up and down the hills, Mamma.”

  She smiled, for her firstborn was a pleasant fellow with a wondrous mind for learning. “You are getting so tall, me lad. Soon, you’ll be big as thy father.”

  “I want to be a fisherman,” Georgie announced. “Why won’t you let me go out with Ted? He yields three-hundred cod a day.”

  Hawkins came into the kitchen. He smiled at Cook and stood for a moment, watching her gentle movements about the hearth.
“Something smells very good.”

  Cook blushed. “’Tis a bear haunch, gently roasted.”

  Hawkins seemed to fight a grimace. He turned to Sara. “Sir David is about to begin the proceedings, milady. The big book is ready, the inkpot filled.”

  Sara nodded, appreciative of Hawkins. His duties now extended beyond being David’s manservant to the sack business where he had developed a keen insight.

  She stood and handed Davy to Mary. “I shall talk to thy father about the possibility of you going to the grand banks with Ted, but later, after supper.”

  Georgie did not look happy. “Mother-”

  Sara followed Hawkins through the short, connecting corridor and entered a large chamber on the ground floor of the house. A staircase that led up to the first level hugged the far wall. David sat at a large table, their family crest proudly displayed above him. He waved a newly cut fir branch to disperse the odour of rotten fish guts, sweat and stale tobacco smoke.

  Men and a few women crowded before him. Sara worked her way through the chamber, took her place at the end of the table and dipped a quill into the inkpot.

  Two men stood before David. “But he deliberately destroyed me flakes and stole several days’ worth of dry salted fish,” a fellow in stiff buckskins complained. “Let me search his miserable cabin, where I’ll find me lovely new cod-oil. I was going to sell it to the apothecary in London or Salem down Massachusetts way. They like me healthful oil in that Puritan world. I make the best, I do.”

  Sara wrote down the man’s name; Mister Jasper Tolt. She would remember this later, for new cod-oil sold at a good price.

  “What say you,” David regarded the paper before him, “Mister Smart? Have you robbed Mister Tolt? Shall I have the hinges removed from thy door and search your house?”

  Smart gave Tolt a dirty look. “We was good partners once, then you got greedy, wouldn’t pay fairly me part in the catch. What do you expect but I take some of what you claim is yours?”