Actual settings—Windsor Castle, the city of London, the Tower of London, Winchester, Cambridge, and Massachusetts Bay Colony—were depicted using information from historical documents. Maps, drawings, journals, and records of these places were employed in an attempt to recreate how they appeared to the people living at that time.
The conflict between Bishop Laud and the Puritans is based on fact. Laud’s relentless determination to force the Puritans to conform to the authority of the church is a matter of history. His consuming hatred, persecution, and punishment of Puritan ministers and pamphleteers is based on fact, as is his insistence on the positioning and railing off of the altar, the wearing of the surplice, and his opposition to preaching.
Laud’s personality is sketched from his own writings as well as descriptions of him by various primary sources. I made two notable exceptions to his recorded personality, in that I gave him a sense of humor and a desire for a close confidant. From all accounts Bishop Laud was a humorless man who had no close friends. He despised women—he would not allow women in his London residence—preferring male companionship. His journal implies agonizing struggles with homosexual tendencies, so I imply them also. He was also a man driven to make the entire realm subservient to the Church of England. In this he underestimated his opposition both in England and in Scotland. As history records, he was tried and beheaded.
The sea battle of 1588, resulting in the defeat of the great Spanish Armada and the battle of San Juan de Ulua, is based on historical accounts. John Hawkins, Sir Francis Drake, the Minion and the Judith are historical, as is Hawkins’ redesign of the English fighting ship. Amos Morgan’s part in the refit is fictitious.
Morgan Hall is a sixteenth and seventeenth century country home. The King Alfred Inn is based on inns and inn customs of the time. The Matthews’ house is a typical example of living quarters in small towns in Devonshire.
The writings of the pamphleteer Justin for the most part are mine. In some of the writing I used the dichotomous form of pamphleteer Peter Ramus and some phrases from Thomas Cartwright. I refrained from using the vitriolic personal attack on Bishop Laud, a common practice among pamphleteers, notably William Prynne. The sermons of Christopher Matthews are the product of my pen.
Bearbaiting was a popular event in the seventeenth century, not only for commoners but for King James I as well. The king enjoyed throwing dogs to wild animals at the Tower of London’s menagerie. The people of that day were crude and bloodthirsty as reflected in their gruesome entertainment. Public executions were regarded as midweek holidays.
Lord Chesterfield’s hunt is based on the account of a royal hunting party and hunting procedures as described in Tubervile’s Booke of Hunting printed in 1576.
The accidental death of Lord Chesterfield’s son and Laud’s use of it to frame Christopher Matthews is fiction. In this event I portrayed Bishop Laud’s Machiavellian approach to his work. He was a man driven to employ anything at his disposal to achieve his desired end. One note in his defense: I’m convinced that despite his ruthless methods, he sincerely believed he was doing the best for England, the church, and God.
The use of the Bible to transmit coded messages is my own invention.
The town of Edenford is also fictional. If you travel to County Devon today, you will not find it on the west side of the Exe River south of Tiverton. However, in creating Edenford, I drew heavily upon accounts of the region for that general time period. One especially helpful source in this regard was Early Tours in Devon and Cornwall, R. Pearse Chope, ed., Newton Abbot (Devon): David and Charles, 1967, which published the journal entries of Devonshire travelers in 1540 and 1695.
Drew’s entrance into Edenford and his subsequent arrest are based on a true account of the period: History of the Life of Thomas Ellwood by his own hand, 1661. And Christopher Matthews’ parable about the downfall of Bishop Laud is a historical tale recorded in Abraham de la Pryme’s Diary of that same period. Both accounts portray the danger of traveling in England in those days.
King James’ Book of Sports, which not only authorized but also promoted recreational activities on the Sabbath, is history. Laws were passed by King James I and his son Charles I forcing Puritans to read the book aloud from the pulpit.
The Puritans’ preference for the Geneva Bible over the King James Version is fact. Actually, the Puritans preferred two Bibles—the Geneva Bible and the Bishops’ Bible. The king’s response was to license the printing of his version only, which hastened its acceptance among Bible reading Englishmen. The Scripture passages used by Nell and Christopher Matthews are quotes from the Geneva Bible, a facsimile of the 1560 edition; I modernized the spelling for easier reading.
The wool industry and the methods of producing serges are based on historical descriptions, as is the production and popularity of punto a groppo, bone lace.
Bishop Laud’s free use of the Star Chamber to advance his personal agenda is a matter of record. After the death of the duke of Buckingham, Laud was without doubt the second most powerful man in the kingdom and King Charles’ closest adviser. The Star Chamber punishments described in this work are based on court records. The death penalty was not an option for a Star Chamber trial; that sentence had to come from a common-law court.
The names of the ships sailing to America and most of the highlights of the crossing are based on real events as recorded in John Winthrop’s journal—the delay in sailing, the breakfast on board the Arbella with Captain Burleigh of Yarmouth Castle, Winthrop’s personal testimony, the presence of Lady Arbella, the feared attack by the Dunkirkers, the ships’ order of arrival and the dates they arrived, the frequent soundings as they neared their destination, the first impressions of the newly arrived colonists, and the first dwelling places are all based on his firsthand account.
Rev. John Cotton’s sermon to the departing settlers is a condensation, a mixture of direct quote and paraphrase arranged to give the gist of the message in a short space. When John Winthrop addresses the disgruntled, newly arrived settlers by reading paragraphs of his thoughts while crossing the Atlantic, I’m quoting portions of his work, “A Model of Christian Charity.” Winthrop actually shared these thoughts with the settlers while they were still at sea. I imagined he would have used many of the same thoughts during his attempt to convince them to stay, so I placed the reading of the text later than it actually occurred in history.
The early difficulties with the Pequot Indians are based on fact. The Pequot tribe grew increasingly concerned over the rapid growth of the colonies and the settlers’ burgeoning intrusion upon their territory. Tensions escalated when a Boston trader was murdered in 1636, presumably by a Pequot Indian. A punitive expedition of settlers was sent to avenge the killing. The result was the destruction of the Pequot settlement. Between five and six hundred Indians were killed or burned to death in the fires, effectively destroying the entire tribe. This was one of the first major conflicts between the bay settlers and native Americans.
Jack Cavanaugh
San Diego, California
1993
JACK CAVANAUGH is an award-winning author of twenty-six novels. Because of the universal scope of his stories, his novels have been translated into a dozen foreign languages
He has three grown children and lives with his wife in Southern California.
www.jackcavanaugh.com
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Preview Book 2
of the
American Family Portrait
Series
The Colonists
Jack Cavanaugh
www.jackcavanaugh.com
1
In 1727 Benjamin Morgan fulfilled his lifelong dream, but he had to die to do it.
Although the Harvard College instructor didn’t live long enough to see the fruit of his sacrifice, there was little doubt in his children’s minds that his death was the
seed that produced the harvest.
The sitting room in which his coffin lay was in an unnatural order. The large circular table, which had always occupied a prominent place in the center of the room, was pushed into a corner. In its place was the draped bier upon which the open coffin rested. Odd-shaped pieces of paper were randomly fastened to the black cloth—laudatory verses and sentences offered on behalf of grieving friends and family. The room’s chairs, normally grouped informally for intimate conversation, were backed against the walls in rigid ranks. A gaping entryway door allowed a chilly wind from the Charles River to intrude into the normally cozy interior, causing Priscilla Morgan to shiver involuntarily.
She stood alone, her back to a wall. Brushing aside a few wayward strands of shocking red hair, she watched as her father’s friends and colleagues drifted in with the breeze to pay their last respects.
Imbeciles and halfwits all, she groused. I daresay not a one of them has ever had an original thought in his life.
As if to confirm her evaluation of them, each man passing through the door followed an identical routine. Upon entering the house, he removed his hat with his left hand, smoothed down his hair with his right, approached the coffin, gazed upon the corpse, made a crooked face, passed on to the liquor table, took a glass of his preferred liquor, then went back outside to talk of things less disturbing—like politics or the new road or summer crops or swapping horses.
Father’s death means nothing to them, Priscilla murmured. What do they care that his body is boxed up like freight, that his mouth is clamped shut in a grim line, that his arms are stiff and unfeeling, that his fingers lie cold and still on his chest?
Priscilla bit her lower lip to fight back the tears. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t give in to emotion. She wouldn’t give these people the satisfaction. Yet despite her best efforts her eyes grew moist. Seeing her father’s hands reminded her of how, when she was little, he would caress her cheek with the backs of his fingers and how those same hands would reach out and snag her unexpectedly, lifting her onto his lap where she would be smothered by his embrace.
Priscilla remembered the way she used to sneak up on her father while he sat reading in a chair. She would duck under his book and climb into his lap, emerging only inches from his face. Then the fun would begin. At first he would act shocked, no matter that he saw her coming and she’d done this hundreds of times before. Then, with exaggerated slowness—to heighten the anticipation of what was about to come—he would mark his place in the book, set it aside, and remove his glasses. No sooner would his glasses touch the table than he would suddenly and with playful ferociousness attack her, growling like a bear. She, of course, would giggle and scream and try to get away. He’d pull her close until they were cheek to cheek. Even now she could remember his scratchy, whiskery cheeks against her own and the smell of coffee on his breath as he rocked her lovingly back and forth.
Coarse male laughter burst through the open door. It was an unwelcome sound that broke the spell of Priscilla’s remembrances. The rude intrusion made her angry, and Priscilla was never one to waste good anger.
She used her anger to keep her mind from wandering back to emotional memories. The unnatural weight on her right hand provided her a ready excuse. The burden was her mourning ring.
A stupid custom and an unnecessary cost, she thought as she twirled the ring around her finger. The gold ring was decorated with black enamel. It bore a representation of a coffin with a full-length skeleton lying in it. Next to the coffin were her father’s initials—BTM—and the date of his death—June 20, 1727. Everyone in the family wore one identical to hers.
When her mother mentioned that the rings needed to be ordered, Priscilla argued against them. It was a ridiculous expense. A pound apiece! Outrageous! But did anyone listen to her? Did her family ever listen to her? Of course not! Break with tradition? they cried. Never! Her mother was horrified Priscilla had even mentioned it!
Rings weren’t the only funeral tradition Priscilla thought should be loaded up and sent back to England on the next departing ship. Gloves were another. Priscilla shook her head in disgust as she remembered how her mother agonized over the glove list. For the governor, the magistrates, and the college staff, Constance Morgan insisted on gloves worth twelve shillings a pair; anything less would be scandalous! Indeed! And five shillings a pair for friends and family. Of course, cheap gloves of two shillings and sixpence would do for casual acquaintances. Priscilla couldn’t understand why casual acquaintances needed gloves at all.
The stupidity of the glove custom was most evident when it came to ministers. If gloves were money, ministers would be rich. They received gloves not only for funerals, but also for weddings and christenings. What could one man do with all those gloves? He had only two hands!
Priscilla imagined what a minister’s closet must look like. It would get so full of gloves that one day he’d open the door and be buried under an avalanche of them. There was one consolation in having so many gloves, she thought. At least when ministers die, their wives don’t have to buy gloves. The widow simply returns all the gloves her husband has collected over the years.
Priscilla shook her head disgustedly. For her, funeral traditions were activities designed to keep weak minds busy so they didn’t have to face the reality of death.
She glanced at the clock on the mantle.
Wasn’t it time to start the procession?
Priscilla searched the premises for the most gloved man in Cambridge, her pastor, the Reverend Horace Russell. She spied him on the far side of the room. He was holding his unoccupied pair of gloves in one hand, slapping the open palm of his free hand with them. The person in conversation with him was her older brother, Philip, and his socialite fiancée, Penelope Chauncy.
Standing next to the short, plump minister, Philip Morgan looked even taller and thinner than he normally did. His dark brown hair fell forward and bounced back and forth in front of his eyes when he talked. Philip’s head was always bobbing back and forth. It was an annoying habit. Priscilla remembered how one day following dinner her father predicted that Philip’s flopping head would someday fall to the ground and he’d kick it with his big feet and never be able to find it again. Priscilla smiled as she remembered how her father pretended to be Philip searching his shoulders for the missing head.
She caught herself just as the emotions began to well up inside her.
Enough! she scolded.
The sound of her brother’s laughter provided the anger she needed to win the battle against her emotions. She envied him with a jealousy that bordered on hate.
Why was he born a male and not she? She was just as smart as he, a better organizer, better with figures. Had the funeral been left solely to him, nothing would have gotten done!
In spite of her feelings, she was the one who ordered the rings and the gloves; it was she who had arranged for the tolling of the bell, organized the order of procession to the grave, gathered the underbearers and pallbearers, purchased the headstone and had the inscription carved on it, and arranged for the digging and filling of the grave.
What had he done?
He shut himself away in Father’s office. Said he was going over the family’s ledgers, investments, college and personal papers. What did he know about any of those things? He got to do it because he was the oldest male—not because he was smarter, not because he knew what he was doing, not even because he wanted to do it. It was his job because he was a male and he was older, two factors over which he had no direct control. Just as she had no control over being born second and female. It wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t fair!
Priscilla had always had trouble sharing her father’s attention. Truth was, Benjamin Morgan had spent a great deal of time with all three of his children, more than most fathers. Philip was following his academic lead at Harvard College; father and son spoke Latin to each other even when they were at home, much to the chagrin of the other family members, especially Priscilla. She
wished she had a secret language known only to her and her father. Instead, she was forced to attend Mr. Brownell’s School for Young Women where she was instructed in the housewifely arts of cooking, spinning, weaving, and knitting. Priscilla hated the school and despised the girls who dutifully attended. She would have given almost anything for the chance to study Latin, mathematics, and theology at grammar school like her brothers.
She never knew if her father gave in because he understood her anguish or if he did it to shut her up. But did it matter? Benjamin Morgan made a deal with his daughter. If she attended Brownell’s school, he would teach her whatever she wanted to learn at night.
Suddenly, a new world opened up to Priscilla. For hours on end she escaped from the humdrum life of women and explored the worlds described in ancient texts; she wrestled with slippery philosophical concepts; but the study that excited her most was the strict beauty of mathematics.
But those days were gone. It was Philip’s study now, not Father’s. He had always been the golden child, the Puritan’s promise of the next generation, the epitome of everything they held most dear. Everyone expected great things of Philip. They predicted he would be president of Harvard someday, maybe even governor of the colony. He was the darling of stuffy conservatives, molded in their image. Philip wouldn’t understand her anguish like Father; he would never let her into the study again.
Priscilla had considered appealing to him for study time, but she rejected the idea. Why should he let her? She was confident he hated her as much as she hated him. Priscilla would just have to admit it. With the death of her father, the door to her world of learning had just slammed shut.
The Puritans (American Family Portrait #1) Page 48