I’m thankful for the incredible opportunity to learn and be mentored by the industry professionals of the American Christian Fiction Writers, the Romance Writers of America, and Bob Welch and Jane Kirkpatrick’s Beachside Writers.
A big thank-you to author and freelance editor Christina Berry Tarabochia—a mentor and friend—for her support and advice.
Through all of this, Tom has been with me. He is my first reader, my friend, and my one true love. Thank you, sweet husband!
For more information about Rebecca DeMarino and her books, please visit www.rebeccademarino.com. You may contact Rebecca on Facebook at www.facebook.com/AuthorRebeccaDeMarino, Twitter @rebeccademarino, pinterest.com/rebeccademarino and google.com/+RebeccaDeMarino
A Note from the Author
My mother, Helen Jean Horton Worley, grew up listening to stories about her ancestor Barnabas Horton, and how he’d come across from England on a ship called The Swallow. But the details were obscure, and it wasn’t until my brother became interested in genealogy and traced our links back to Barnabas that we discovered our history in Southold, Long Island.
In 1999, I found Horton Point on a map and asked Mom if she’d like to fly out and visit the lighthouse named after her eighth great-grandfather. We flew first to Boston to visit her sister, then drove down through Connecticut and took the ferry from New London to Orient Point. Little did we know we followed almost the same path as the Hortons did in the 1600s!
We were amazed at the information about Barnabas that the Southold Historical Society possessed and marveled at the Horton Point Lighthouse, commissioned in 1790 by George Washington. It was built in 1857 on the land originally owned by Barnabas Horton.
We discovered Barnabas was considered one of the founding fathers of Southold and had built the first timber-framed house on eastern Long Island. He was a widower with two young sons when he married Mary and then sailed to New England. There seemed to be much information about Barnabas, but little about the woman who was my ninth great-grandmother.
My mother passed away in 2005, and since then I’ve made many trips back to Southold, always wondering about Mary. A large slab of blue slate, with a legible epitaph he is said to have written himself, still marks Barnabas’s grave in the Old Burying Ground of Southold. I’ve never found Mary’s grave.
I wondered about Mary’s motivations and hopes and desires. Why did she marry this man with two young boys and follow him across an ocean, leaving family behind? And so, in the fall of 2008, I began writing my novel.
In my research I found few original documents to base my story on. It is believed that Barnabas and Mary Horton came over on The Swallow somewhere between 1633 and 1638. There are no ship passenger records to prove that and no records for The Swallow. There are no diaries or journals that remain from the first English families to settle Southold—or Yennicott, as it was called in the early 1600s. Indeed, they may have been too busy surviving to record the events as they happened.
The earliest of the Southold Town Records, from possibly 1639 or 1640 to 1651, have been lost for generations. Rev. Epher Whitaker, historian and pastor of The First Church of Southold, wrote in 1881: “In their absence it seems impossible to determine how early in 1640, or it may be in 1639, the first English settlers were living within the bounds of this Town, which has long been noted as the oldest town on Long Island.” He also notes in his book, History of Southold, L.I., that most likely the early settlers were there many months, perhaps two years, before the official organization of the church on October 21, 1640.
The dates I have chosen for my story are based on the likelihood that the immigrants were in Yennicott a year or two before the township and church were established and because Barnabas and Mary’s first child, Caleb, was born there in 1640.
The exact date Barnabas built their house is not known, but the plaque on the corner of Horton Lane and Main Street states early 1640s. It was a grand house and six generations of Hortons lived in it before it was torn down in the 1870s. Barnabas’s occupation on one document is listed as a baker, though his family were wealthy land and mill owners in England (another paradox), and for story purposes, I have him build a large house for Mary, with an amazing hearth and oven. Most likely, the original house was small and added on to as their family grew.
The spelling of places and towns was another difficulty, as spelling among even the well-educated Englishmen was subject to phonics and words were spelled the way they sounded. Thus, I found Barnabas and Mary’s hometown of Mowsley, England, spelled four different ways, including “Mousely” on the blue slate gravestone. Yennicott is also found as Yennicock, and Long Island could be found spelled with an “e” among other spellings. My editor suggested going with the modern-day spellings, and in the end I’m glad I did!
In addition to definite historical differences, I also had family lore to honor in my story. For example, it’s been passed down through generations that Barnabas brought his blue slate with him when he sailed on The Swallow. Historians of the 1800s say that was highly unlikely, due to the weight restrictions on the small ships and the fact the cargo was actually people with few of their possessions. I was intrigued and decided to write that controversy right into my story.
Epher Whitaker wrote in History of Southold, L.I., “A goodly number of women—faithful daughters, wives and mothers—who have no written record here (Southold), doubtless surpassed in patience, industry, virtue and piety many sons, husbands and fathers whose names are thus known. They shall in a future day and henceforth and forever have their proper and honorable meed when the names, written in the Book of Life, become known to all mankind.”
Indeed, their names shall be known in God’s Book of Life. For today, it is my humble desire to give a voice to those courageous women who followed their men across a tempestuous sea to a wild, mostly unknown land.
As I wrote A Place in His Heart, I took the sometimes confusing facts, added in some fun family lore, and laced it with imagination. I hope you enjoyed reading the story as much as I enjoyed writing it!
1
June 21, 1653
The thunder of a thousand hooves pounded her ears and she buried her head beneath her tethered hands. She muffled the noise with her arms pressed into the sides of her head. Heather Flower sat very still, remembering the stories of childhood games. Peek-a-boo. She remembered peek-a-boo. It was a time she believed if she could not see her mother, her mother could not see her.
But this was not a game. Her legs, bound at the ankles, were drawn up under her skirt, and her knees trembled as she lowered her covered head till her forehead touched them. A pool of quiet tears soaked the soft, beaded deerskin.
Sudden silence, save for the occasional snort from the winded horses, or the soft swish of their tail, brought intense fear. Her body shook as she tried to draw herself into the smallest mound possible. Her mouth quivered as the restraints dug into her slender wrists, but her lips were sealed together in a thin line, and not a cry escaped.
The footfalls of the man approaching were not the tread of her Indian captors, and when he lifted her chin with his leather-clad hand, she looked into eyes the color of the crystal clear bay on a warm summer afternoon. Her heart hammered in her chest and her throat constricted until it ached.
“Hallo! You are Heather Flower, the daughter of the Great Sachem, Wyandance?” His voice was deep like the sound of ocean in a conch shell, smooth and comforting.
Her chin quivered in the cup of his glove and tears moistened her lashes, but her voice was strong. “I am Quashawam, the Heather Flower of Montauk.” She studied his face and saw kindness.
“We were sent from Lion Gardiner and his friend John Smith, to find you and take you to your father, who waits for you.” He removed his gloves and drew his knife. With a quick cut he released her ankles. He grasped her arms and lifted her to her feet.
Her legs found no bearing, and he steadied her before taking her hands in his to cut the last tether. “Thank you, my pal
eface brother.”
“Take some water to drink, and when you have had your fill, I have some biscuits and dried berries for you. When did they last give you food?”
“They have left me here for many days. I do not remember how many. They might come again soon. We must go. I fear the mean brothers of Connecticut.” His face blurred in front of her as she dropped into his arms, and the young white brave helped her back to the ground and pressed a cup of water to her lips. She drank deeply, then pushed the cup away. “Ooneewey. Thank you.”
“You are welcome.”
His inflection gave her pause. “You are Dutch? What is your name? Why would the Englishman Gardiner send you?”
“I am Lieutenant Dirk Van Buren, from Fort Amsterdam. I serve a different army, but when the captain needed men, I asked to be permitted to head the party. We Dutch have our own reasons to hate the fierce Narragansett. And I know their territory intimately.”
He dug into his knapsack and offered a biscuit. “You may call me Dirk. Here, you must eat this before we travel. You need strength.”
A thicket of bayberry shrubs directly behind her rustled with activity and she startled. A young cottontail scrambled from beneath.
He squatted close beside her and pressed the biscuit into her hand. “Amazing what noise a small creature can make, ja? You are safe now. Take this.”
She chewed as she stared at the rescue party, now dismounting and rummaging their own knapsacks for food. She counted twenty-five men. “I heard the running of many hooves—I thought hundreds of horses, thousands of hooves.”
“I’m not sure there are that many horses on Long Island.” His clear blue eyes penetrated hers. “Hoe gaat het? How are you? How were you treated?”
She gulped the warm air, scented with the bayberry and old pine needles, and calm engulfed her. “They were happy to have the daughter of Wyandance. They taunted me with thoughts of what my father must endure. And though they did not hurt me with arrows or knives, they cut to my heart with their words. When they received the wampum sent by my father and the paleface Gardiner, they told me they were releasing me, but then left me here to die. Or worse, to fear they would return with their mean ways.”
Dirk stood and held out a strong hand. She held tight as he pulled her up and watched as he brought his horse, the color of tanned buckskin with a sooty black mane and tail, to her side. She held out her hand and stroked the horse’s muzzle. “He has a name?”
“She. She’s a she. Ja, her name is Button. Miss Button I call her.”
Heather Flower nodded.
“I can protect you best if you ride in front,” he said simply as he lifted her in one swoop into the saddle.
The English search party mounted their horses, and split to ride fore and aft of their Dutch leader. The long ride around the North Sea began.
The tall woman in front of him captivated Dirk as he guided his horse up a wide deer trail. The Montaukett, as a population, were a tall, strong people, and she was almost his equal in height. She held herself in a majestic manner that bespoke of the royalty she was born into. Her eyes were fiery like black opals, and her mouth pouty and red like a blossom. Her skin was a creamy copper, and her hair ebony black with the sheen of bear grease. Tangles and snarls from weeks without a comb made him want to reach out and smooth her tresses.
He was drawn to her, there was no denying, and he longed to be her hero, to protect her. That he would do, but her heart was tender. Ninigret killed her groom on their wedding day before he’d kidnapped her and thirteen other Montaukett women. He would protect her, yes, but that meant to protect her heart as well. He’d have to guard his own to do that.
He urged his steed down a steep embankment toward the bay and kept the reins in, guarding her like he would a flickering flame on a windy day. “We will ride west along the bay until we can cross the East River at Manhattan over to Brooklyn. It’s a long seven-day ride to Montauk in good circumstances. You must tell me when you need to rest or when you are hungry. I want you to be strong.”
She stared straight ahead, head held high. He knew he would not hear a complaint from her, not even a whimper. It was the way of her people.
Hours passed and the sun became a blazing ball in the west, low on the horizon. Fort Saybrook loomed on the hill and Dirk passed word to the front that Captain Mason had expected them within a fortnight. They rode past the old burned-out portion of the fort, and he found it odd to be coming here, a Dutch fort now under English control, and he, surrounded by Englishmen. But there were issues in this wilderness that brought them together on some fronts.
As they entered the palisades, a small contingent of men greeted them, taking Dirk’s horse to livery and directing them to headquarters.
Captain Mason stood up from behind his desk and came around to shake Dirk’s hand, but his eyes were on Heather Flower. She remained in the open doorway, and with her rounded cheeks, large eyes, and lips like Leonardo’s Mona Lisa, Dirk was certain the captain was as enchanted as he was. “Sir, I present Heather Flower, daughter of the Grand Sachem Wyandance of Montauk.”
Mason cleared his throat. “We have much regard for your father. It is a privilege to assist Captain Gardiner in your return. You shall sleep here tonight and on the morrow Lieutenant Van Buren shall escort you home. Now in the meantime, you need a hot meal.” He took her arm and led her out.
A hearty meal of corn mush and biscuits with a slather of butter was served, and Dirk watched with pleasure as Heather Flower eagerly ate a full portion. The content but weary party threw their bedrolls down for the night. He spread hers a bit further from the men.
“You are safe here. There are men that guard the gates and fence line at all hours.” He settled himself atop his own bedding, tucking his musket close to his side. The ground was hard and the night alive with cricket chirps. Somewhere an owl hooted. He propped his hands beneath his head and stared at the heavens.
The night was warm and the ink sky a dance of thousands of winking stars. An astral display of stars fell as if the sky had parted. Some Indians believed it to be a sign of travel heroes and he glanced over to the still form of Heather Flower and hoped she’d seen it.
He asked God for travel mercies as sleep claimed him.
Heather Flower was awake before the sun rose. The half-crescent moon had set hours ago, but the crisp stars illumined the sky. She crept toward the glow of the fire and sat. She clutched the comb Dirk had given her the day before and began to pull it through the tangles in her hair. Strand by strand the snarls came undone. As the men began to stir around her, she finished a long braid over her shoulder.
Cook came out to refresh the fire and fried yesterday’s corn mush for a tasty breakfast. He put together a dinner packet of salt pork, biscuits, and dried apples. Dawn was still new as the small band of men mounted their horses. Dirk lifted her to the saddle, then swung up behind and led the party out of the palisade gate.
He was very quiet this morning, but Heather Flower did not mind. She was safe and she was going back to her father and mother, to her people. “You are very brave to rescue me from the fierce Narragansett. You are clever, too. You did not come across the North Sea in the great canoes with wings. You would have been slaughtered by Ninigret. You come by horse following the land.”
“Ja. I know the heart and thoughts of Ninigret. I know his land like my own home-country. It is why Captain Gardiner entrusted his best men in my care. It was the wish of your father, as well.”
They rode in silence as she thought of her family, her head barely touching Dirk’s shoulder. She studied the trail in front of them and listened to the wind in the willows that lined the path. She would know trouble before it could be seen, and certainly before any of the rescue party.
At length they entered an open saltmarsh and she relaxed ever so slightly. “They killed my new husband. I saw them. As we celebrated our wedding, they killed him. And then Ninigret came for me. He ordered his men to take more women and they threw us
into the bottoms of canoes and rowed swiftly across the black waters.”
“You need not tell me this if it hurts you. I know the story of what happened. I am sorry for the terrible massacre. I am sorry for your husband. I am sorry for your pain.”
“I would die rather than stay with the Narragansett.”
“Ja, but you don’t have to. You are safe, Heather Flower. Safe with me.”
She let her head rock backward until she rested in the hollow of his shoulder. This man she owed her life to. A small smile played at the corner of her mouth—the first smile since she’d smiled at her new husband—as he tried to speak her language with his Dutch accent. It was very different than the English, but she liked the cadence.
They rode with few stops. With the summer solstice a day behind them, the evening light gave them a long day of travel, and when the sun set they bedded down where they could, always with men guarding the night. On the fourth day of travel, Fort Amsterdam was a welcomed sight. Heather Flower was given her own quarters that night. The Englishmen slept in their bedroll by the fire.
At dawn Heather Flower awoke before anyone, as she had each morning. Joining the search party by the fire, she broke her fast with little cakes the Dutchmen called poffertjes and found them to her liking. She watched Dirk while he ate with gusto. Her brother, Wyancombone, could wolf his food in that way. It would be good to see him again. Soon she would be home.
Lieutenant Van Buren fastened his knapsack and musket to the back of his saddle. Moving to the front of Miss Button, he untied her feedbag and talked low as he patted her neck. The last leg of the journey would be a long one. He knew they could make Wading River in two days, but tonight they would need to find shelter somewhere in Samuel Ketcham’s valley.
A Place in His Heart Page 27