Letters to America

by Tom Blair

  Mother and I much conversation. Tells me that this will be a most wonderful time and not to despair. During an afternoon trek talked about nothing for some time, then Mother spoke of men. Told me that a husband should be of strong build and character. Pleasant manners and handsome face be good, but most important virtue and acknowledgment of God’s intent. Ask I what God’s intent be. Mother silent for a few groans of the turning wheel. Then her answer. Ten Commandments should be the strong frame for the painting of life. Our life’s painting within the frame must stay. But to each the choice of the painting, for her a loving family. Not certain what this meant, but smile I did. Some more groans of the turning wheel and then I asked, did Mother think Jack a strong man? Her answer with no pause, Jack is a fine boy.

  More days of dusty roads, then the rain. Dark clouds, wind, and nothing dry. Mother and I huddled. Nathan with a blanket for a hood. Father and Jack walking as if the sun was shining its warmest. The night of the first rains a barn was our shelter. While a dry roof, no fire to warm our clothes. A second day of rain and cold wind. Mother and I shivered. No fire for cooking, just bread that night. Next day cold with a sharp wind, but no rain. Mother was distressed, a cough and chills. Father stopped and did make a grand fire. Warm tea was passed, and clothes were dried. He told us not to be unhappy, only two more days of travel before the great city of London.

  On our final night we lodged in Clerkenwell. Never have I seen so many cottages. For some sum of consideration Father bargained us a room at a tavern; Jack shared with the mare. With an open window, the fresh night air chased out the smells of others before. Mother was unrestful. Coughed until day’s light. A surprise before we departed in the morning. Jack, how I do not know, became the owner of four large green apples, roasted, with a sweet syrup in the dimples from which stems grew. One each for Mother, Father, Nathan, and me. Father, pretending perhaps, pleaded no interest and told Jack to eat his apple. Looking somewhat hurt, Jack walked to the cart with apple in hand. At nightfall, after bread and dried fish, Jack came to me when I was alone. With knife in hand, he split his apple in two, one half for me, one half for him.

  Off to London on a warm spring morning. Quickly our path of two weeks turned to a road. Soon this road became wider and more traveled. Squeezing the road clusters of cottages. Then shops and cottages, many gathered where our traveled road met another. In the afternoon stopped by a rocky creek, one side weeping willows bending to cool their leaves in the waters. Rest the mare, some bread and cider, some chatter, then off again. On the horizon there it was, home of our ship, London Towne. Buildings, not cottages, broke the sky. Cathedrals, not churches, marked their place. At a distance, no detail. All grays in color. But the size, no question. Together they were a mountain.

  Another mile, more carts, more horses, some pulling, some ridden. Many people walking, all with a purpose. Our road, once with fields and a few structures became a journey of structures with a few fields. Then nothing green. Noise, so much noise. Then the smells. Turned right on a road of a kind not seen before. Not dirt, all stone, one laid next to the other. Cottages, higher and higher, no space between, one touching the other. People, people everywhere. On the road, on the walks, peering from windows, standing and eating, carrying packages, pushing carts, doing nothing.

  When we departed Tewkesbury, I believed we were so fortunate to have a horse and two-wheel cart to ease our journey. Here, so many four-wheel carriages. Some with roofs and doors. Some painted in splendor, ornaments of polished metals with drivers dressed as a king. We turned to Edgewater Street. Father said it would take us to London gates. Our pace slowed to a walk. Better for me to gauge the sights. Came to a stop.

  A splendid structure stood to my side of the cart. A church it could be, but no steeple or bell tower. All brick with a roof not thatched, but of a gray flat stone. Around this structure, a home, a fence of iron. Hundreds of metal spears standing at attention protected those within. Then a yell. From the door and down stone steps ran a well-dressed servant man to open the gate. A clatter of metal-rimmed wheels on stone. Past us a most grand carriage was drawn, stopping only a small distance from me. It was white, with patterned lines of gold. Not one driver, but two. One with the reins stayed, the other off and to the carriage door. Slowly opened the door. From the carriage came a gentleman dressed in black, a black with thin gray stripes. A coat with rounded tails, and britches with buttons of gold. Shoes, not boots, that reflected light. A hat, not for warmth, was more over his head than around his head. He was tall and most, most handsome. By the carriage door he stood. His hand extended in. First the gloved hand. A glove with buttons of white globes. Then the skirt. So much cloth. Not a skirt, more a red cloud. Then the bodice, red and tight to the fit. Around the neck hung a constellation of stars. Then the hat, wide, wide brim dipping to the right, with ribbon flowing behind, all red. So much red.

  The lady carefully stepped down. Safely on the road she stood, tall and straight, head back, face beautiful, skin of cream, lips of new strawberries. Words briefly spoke to the gentleman, then turned toward the guarded home. Somehow, I know not why, our eyes meet. She paused. In the sagging cart I sat, her gaze on me, mine on her. Then she smiled. A smile of beauty to me and no one else. Her gentleman saw the lady’s pleasant stare. Looked at me he did. Perfect he was. Then! Then his head bowed forward, and with the hand not holding the lady’s hand he tipped his hat. All and only for me. A moment forever, a moment no longer. They turned, our cart moved on.

  Down Edgewater Street we went. So many sights. Through Moor Gate, then many turns right, many left, then straight, there the dock. Not what I thought. I sought a large harbor large, with our fine boat anchored as the centerpiece in fresh waters. Rather, animals at a trough. Ship after ship. One next to the other, bows inwards. No white sails. No fresh breeze. Many questions, then our ship found. No better, no worse than others. Up a plank Father went. The ship is named Essex. Back came Father, not pleased. Two nights before we board, a week before we depart.

  Off we trekked to find a place to sleep. Stop one place, a tavern with much merriment. Father in, Father out. Not for us this night. The sun was saying farewell. Mother distressed with coughing. A turn up a narrow street. First Father to one home, then to another, then we have our place. One room for everyone to sleep for two nights. But not like any I’d seen before. The room upstairs and down a passage dark. Our room not large, but dry and warm. Father, Jack, and Nathan leave. Mother and I washed with a bucket of water. Then Jack and Nathan back with our trunk. Then Father returned, a brief moment with Mother, then we were told. Tonight, we would go to a tavern.

  To the street, lit by glow of lanterns through glass windows, not shuttered for the night. Down the street, more people than horses, walking fast. Nathan ran ahead, and then back at Father’s bark. Some doors open, glance inside. So much furniture. Some chairs covered in cloth. Walls of color. On the walls many things of beauty hung. Then something never seen, in one passing room, a wall. As trunks set one upon the other, floor to ceiling. But all sides open. Books, all books, each and every one filled. A wall of books.

  Down another street to a tavern. Smoke and noise of many voices not in tune. Closer to Mother I stood. Father off, then back with a large woman. Big smile, few teeth. White apron to the dirt floor. To a table she led, one tattered man there, elbows down, head in hands. Moved by her, not with lady’s words. One bench on each side of the stained table. Mother and I to one, the men to the other. Food is brought, one plate for all, fingers for forks and spoons. A large fish. No head, no tail, with a mountain of golden hot potatoes. But not round as new potatoes. Rectangles, like small bricks with salt and vinegar. Then two mugs. One of ale, one of cider. Father the ale, a few sips each of the cider for the others. Before we take our leave Father spoke to Jack of a task well done. Then the mug of ale to Jack. A small drink, a big smile.

  In the morning I woke to see Father at the trunk. He lifted out the candlestick holder, silver base and stem, wrapped in a clo
th carefully before our journey. Mother watched, then turned away. Into his great gray coat pocket it went, then Father left. I rose, Nathan and Jack gone. Today, we were to wash our clothes, tomorrow to our ship with no certainties. I looked at myself in a smoky mirror on the wall. My face, I knew it well. Just a girl. The lady that smiled, the lady in red, so beautiful. Could this be me someday?

  By noon Father returned. Jack spoke to Father, then to Mother. To me Jack came, stopped, and talked to his boots. Asked for a brief walk with me this afternoon, before he departed. Yes I said. He stepped back and fast to the door, then down the steps. To Mother I turned, may I go, should I walk with him? Mother smiled. A cloth wetted across my face, then her brush. Told me to stand still and brushed my hair. To the trunk, and then back. Then she stood facing me, parted my hair, easy for two ribbons to hold. Then the hair clip from the trunk. Fine polished metal and shining blue stones, her mother’s mother’s. Never before in my hair, holding tight.

  Down the steps and to the gray paved street, Jack was there, standing as a sapling. Off we walk. His gait too long. My small steps became many. What to say, “How long is your journey home?” Down a winding street, then down another past a church of stone with ringing bells. The Thames below, London’s great river wide. Not with trees on its banks, but buildings, all sizes. To the left, from where the stream flowed, a bridge. Not a wooden span, not a stone arch. This was a highway. People, carts, carriages, and shops with wares across the flow. We walked across. At midpoint stopped. For a coin from the pocket of his frayed coat, Jack bought two ciders from a man in a cart with long red hair, no teeth, one arm, one leg. Our cider poured into well-used tin cups. Told they must stay. So there we drank. To the edge we walked, water below. Noise and bustle behind. Shoulder to shoulder we stood, one hand cups, the other on the stone. We talked. Easy words, only the river’s flow in our gaze. At first we recounted our journey together, some good, some with humor. Then talked of the future. Jack thought well of the New World. Someday he will go. He said we will be fine. I neither agreed nor stated other. I asked, though, what price we would pay. We were not leaving bad for good. We were leaving contentment for the hope of contentment in a strange land. A bad trade, I thought. Jack assured that on the journey from Tewkesbury he spoke to Father much as they walked. This I knew. Most words to mark time or day’s events. But some not. To Jack, Father spoke of a future. Land for his family, as much as could be cleared and fenced. No limits, other than a man’s limit. I was silent. Neither spoke for a time. Dark water drifted below. Then I turned, a glance at Jack. This made no sense, I said. In Tewkesbury we had everything. There was nothing I needed, nothing I wanted. Jack turned to me. A pause. Then a smile. Not of humor. But of a knowledge of something known that someone thought unknown. So he asked, everything I wanted? A long silence before he answered his question to me. “A white carriage trimmed in gold and a dress of red would be nice.” Only I saw, I thought.

  Tin cups back to the one-legged man, us back to Mother, Father, and Nathan. Up to our room, Mother there, Father below. Out the window I look. Jack off, leading the mare. Home to Tewkesbury. He paused for a moment, looked back, his gaze upward. Saw me in the window, halted his stride. A grin, a bow of his head, a slow tip of his brown cap, then off.

  With morning light we rose. A pole Father found, longer than he is tall. With two handles of rope our trunk swung below. Nathan to one end and Father to the other. Off we went. Past no more than a few doors and Nathan pleads for a pause. His fingers hurt. Two more streets and several stops, then I was told to join Nathan’s burden. Not that heavy, I think. Finally, the dock and the Essex, our cottage for the sea.

  As Father and Nathan lifted the pole from under which our trunk swung, a shout from above, then quickly down the plank from the Essex a man. If not a man, a beast. Tight britches, many patches. No shirt. Arms as legs. Long hair, one eye open, one closed. Not a beard, but not a shave. Something never seen before. On his arms drawings. Some with scripture. He reached down, removed the pole, and hoisted the trunk to a shoulder, up the plank he went. After a moment Father, holding Mother’s arm, climbed the mountain plank. Next Nathan and then me. The plank was twenty good strides long, but many small steps for the steep rise. Halfway up I paused. The smells, a blanket of smells wrapped tight. I looked down. No rushing water. Green-black pond of disgust. A dead rat, a cat, and a hundred things not known. More a chamber pot. My climb resumed, off to the New World.

  A man appeared. A patch over one eye, but kind face. Welcomed us, a fair journey we will have. Then down to our quarters, one deck below. The stink was worse than of all the barnyard animals in the hottest month of the hottest summer. No person could suffer this smell. Dark, dark as almost night. The only light those slivers that squeezed through a grate on the deck above. Father did not mask his feelings about our shipboard lodging. A Mister Rountree, an officer with rank and command, reported three other families yet to arrive be berthed in space we thought ours for the journey. Father was ashen, then red. He paced, five paces wide, seven in length. How could this space be divided into fourths, stating not even God could arrange such meager space for four families. Rountree answered, God created man and woman, not families. The space would only need to be divided into two. One half for women, one for men.

  Two days before we sailed, others boarded. Four blankets nailed to a beam splitting the space in half. One side for women and children, the opposite for men. For the women the privy was a bucket under a stool nailed to the deck to the women’s side. Surrounded this by a large piece of well-worn stained canvas from a sail.

  In time the winds and ebb tide spoke kindly, departed to southwest. First fortnight was intriguing and entertaining, like a play. The stage was set and the characters introduced. Some to be cameos, others of note and portents, some kindly and some harsh. The stage was the Essex. With the winds pushing us forward, the blanket of smells was no longer, ocean air and water as a new snow, perfect, with not a blemish. Our quarters were shared not with with three other families, but with three couples plus two unmarried gentlemen who had each brought a servant. Since servants were male, only the men’s portion of the quarters suffered.

  Mother, Nathan, and I, shared with three women. Mrs. Sandys was the most pleasant, with words of kindness. She was first to chores, first to help with others’ burdens. Her age, I am not certain, somewhat old, near thirty. Brown hair, but short, perhaps cut for the journey. Sparkling brown eyes and the most white teeth, as a porcelain teacup. And perfect they, all straight and true. Mrs. Sandys wore the most beautiful dresses. She told me that someday I would wear grander. Her husband was older than her by many years. This would be his second time in Jamestown, this her first. His task of importance to represent gentlemen in London. Many books brought by him, many books read.

  Mrs. Shelton was so thin, bones showed below her cold white skin. She had dark eyes, dark hair, dark clothes, dark foreboding. Words sparse, a look of despair. She spent most days on her cot, without speaking. Her husband to be a Jamestown blacksmith. As her, he rarely spoke. He became a sailor for our journey, helping those on deck with tasks. His freedom from below. Freedom from his wife I think.

  Of the skirted few, Mrs. Forchee was the most uncontent. Nothing good, nothing right. Always spoke of times better. Not pleasant to share our days and nights. Chewed food with mouth open, smelled not good, and slept with loud noises. Her husband never seen, hid I think. He was off to the New World to make glass.

  Other players of many importance on our floating stage. Captain Jones was our king. Not of an inclination to dally with his subjects, a crew of twenty-five. The king’s ministers were his officers, Mister Rountree, and Mister Johnson. I was never certain as to their rank. Captain Jones was forty or so in years. Taller than even Father. A build of a man of work. Dark hair, fair skin, and eyes squinting. On one hand, two fingers missing. As an apprentice his hand rested wrongly on an anchor chain. Little known of the Captain. Only once he spoke to me, moving from tween deck
to main deck we passed. A nod, a good day, and he be gone.

  Mister Rountree was shorter by a hand than Captain Jones. A deep voice, much as Father’s. Blue eyes, not as blue as Mother’s. Brown hair, a brown beard with slivers of gray. Always polite, but never kind. To him passengers were cargo, not to be damaged, no other care needed. Mister Rountree I heard speak often, but not to me. To the crew he gave orders, crisp and short.

  Mister Johnson, I think the oldest of all, perhaps fifty. Not tall at all. One arm limp, twisted and torn in a storm many voyages ago. Most teeth, no beard, white hair, long to the sides. One eye bright and gray, the other a patch held by a thin strap around his head. Nose with a scar, from the tip to the patch. Walked with a drift, his path not following his gait. Mister Johnson never a smile for the crew, always harsh his words. Uncertainty in a command is as a ship without a rudder, he said. When told this I nodded acknowledgement while wondering what a rudder be. For Nathan and me, he had a quick smile and soft words of explanation and comfort. I wondered why he was so kind.

  First days at sea the food was not good. Then became worse. Prepared by the cook in the forecastle, with its brick hearth. Two meals each day. One in early morning, another before the shadows long. In the morning warm oatmeal. If for me and Nathan, a touch of honey and a smile. After a fortnight, oatmeal no longer. Bread our meal. Evening meal at first warm with a taste. Potatoes boiled and salted with dried meats. Most special if a great fish were caught, then a stew for all. When the seas were rough, no fire to warm, only bread and dried meat. Longer the journey, shorter the flavors, tougher the meat.