It must have been an extraordinary experience to walk through one of these cultivated woodlands. Even in late November, which is probably when they set out, the overall impression would have been one of imperial variety. There were long wide avenues of what Anne called “glistering” sunlight, and the soil was warm and dry. Later in life, Anne would write admiringly of the beauties of the New World trees, describing the “strength, and stature” of “a stately oak . . . whose ruffling top the clouds seemed to aspire.” Even burdened as she was by her heavy unborn child and her bundles of possessions, she could not help but gaze up at the sun through “the leavie tree[s]” and confess that the more she “looked, the more [she] grew amazed.”6
But it was dangerous to be alone in the forest. Few Englishmen had ever ventured so far into the wilderness. The path itself was barely discernible, and it was hard to trust that their Indian guides knew where they were taking them. Indeed, naive and inexperienced as she and her family were, it would have been easy for the Indians to betray them and to steal their goods, leaving them to die.
America still seemed treacherous, unknowable, and untamable to the English; it could fool you into taking a wrong turn. Winthrop often told a story about searching for firewood not far from his home and suddenly finding himself lost. He spent a terrifying night wandering in the forest, bewildered and turned around, before he found his way back in the morning. The newcomers believed that every moment they were away from a settlement they were in mortal danger, and they were not far from the mark. There were many tales of vanished explorers and settlers who had strayed too far from their villages only to encounter wolves, a sudden impenetrable snowstorm, or other dangers too awful to consider.
Anne must soon have been exhausted by the long trek. It is possible that the women had the opportunity to ride one of the few horses that had survived the journey from England, but even the respite from using their own legs would have ushered in other discomforts—stiffness, blisters, and cold. At times they walked through stands of enormous trees, at others they emerged into clearings and grassy meads, startling deer and geese that Dudley, Simon, and Anne’s brother, Samuel, attempted to shoot for their dinner. When they were silent, the sounds of the land crowded in upon them. Odd birds cried, branches cracked, the wind tossed. Anne could not help but feel the enormity of the countryside around them, its vastness, its mystery, and its danger, as well as the presence of the Lord. Later she would write, “If so much excellence abide below, / How excellent is He that dwells on high?”7
On that first night as they built a fire and breathed in the comforting smell of smoke, Anne must have been grateful to be able to sink to the ground and hold Samuel in her lap while the servants busied themselves, clearing places on the ground to sleep and preparing the evening meal. As the night thickened and the dark closed in around them, the disconcerting howl of the wolves would have reminded everyone of their danger. The livestock was herded close to the fire, and the men posted a watch with their guns ready. Hard as it might have been to sleep under such conditions, it was important to rest. There were twenty more miles to cover.
The next day, the hills began to slope down into lower country and they began to encounter marshy lands that were reminiscent of the Sempringham fens. This meant they were drawing near the settlement, but the sun set early in late November. If they did not want to spend another night in the wilderness, they would have to push along briskly. At last, shimmers of lights, curls of smoke, and the sharp triangular pitch of well-roofed homes lay spread out before them. Thankfully, Ipswich was not another Salem. In the two years of their settlement, over fifty settlers had constructed sturdy cabins and a few “great houses.” The homes were grouped together in a wide and pleasant-looking clearing that spilled down the side of one of the seven hills ringing the village.
As they strode into the town, footsore, thirsty, and weary, they were greeted by Simon’s old Cambridge friends as well as by many of the General Court’s officials. Surprisingly, this remote settlement was the home of eleven elected assistants, or magistrates, notably Richard Saltonstall, Nathaniel Ward, Richard Bellingham, and Samuel Symonds. All of them, like Simon and Dudley, had wanted more land and a certain distance from the politics and disturbances at the center of the colony. These men were wealthy, educated, and pious and, to Anne’s delight, had substantial libraries. They prided themselves on staying in touch with the latest political and theological developments in England and the New World. No other frontier town in history had ever been populated by so many intellectuals and university colleagues. It might have taken longer than usual for roads to get built and fences erected, but the conversations and debates were undoubtedly lively. Perhaps life in Ipswich would not be as terrible as Anne had feared.
At the heart of the settlement, there was a simple meetinghouse with two respected ministers installed: Nathaniel Rogers, yet another Emmanuel College alumnus, and more important, the distinguished Nathaniel Ward. Ward was famous among the Puritans because of the strength of his convictions. It was reassuring that he, too, had selected the frontier for his home. Anne and her family recognized a kindred soul in this eccentric old Elizabethan, a man with many of the same tastes and inclinations as Dudley. In fact, both men were in their fifties, elder statesmen in what was really a young man’s world, since the bulk of emigrants were in their twenties and thirties.
Almost immediately, Ward warned the newcomers that despite the tidy new houses that had been constructed and the old friends they were glad to see again, they must “be carefull” whom they trusted in Ipswich. The settlement did not consist only of highly educated and wealthy colonists. There were plenty of other “ill and doubtfull persons” who spent the majority of their time “drinking and pilferinge.” He complained bitterly about the “idle and profane young men, servants, and others” who seemed drawn to life on the edge of civilization.8
But Anne seems to have been untroubled by these ne’er-do-wells. Instead, it seems likely that she and her family took up temporary lodging in the largest house in Ipswich, since it was vacant when she and her entourage arrived. Built by John Winthrop Jr., the cottage had wind-tight walls and enough room to store their belongings until their new homes were constructed. The library alone contained hundreds of books. Certainly this young man’s house would have been a far more agreeable shelter than any that Anne had enjoyed since they arrived in America.
It is likely that most of the extended Dudley clan—Dorothy, Dudley, Sarah, and Mercy; Samuel and Mary; Anne, Simon, and baby Samuel; Patience and Daniel; and their servants—spent at least part of their winter in this snug “great house.” Despite the quarrels such tight lodgings might have caused, there was comfort to be had in close quarters. The gentle hills notwithstanding, Ipswich seemed forbidding when wintry nor’easters banged in from the ocean and battered the hopeful little town.
It is not clear when Anne went into her second travail, but it was probably early in the year 1636. She entered this trial without the benefit of Mrs. Hutchinson, but the attendance of the Ipswich women and her mother and sisters seems to have worked just as well. To her delight, she delivered another healthy baby—this time a little girl. In honor of her mother, Anne named the new infant Dorothy. The Dudley-Bradstreet clan must have seen the infant as an auspicious sign. Perhaps their future on the edge of both ocean and forest would be fertile and filled with joy. Of course, Anne viewed the birth in religious terms. Little Dorothy seemed evidence that God was yet again blessing her with His love.
The first months of Anne’s sojourn in Ipswich were spent largely indoors, and although it was helpful to have her sisters and mother close at hand, the lack of privacy was probably challenging.9 Her servants were helpful, but Anne had been taught that they were liable to get into trouble if not closely supervised. Although they could prepare food and draw water to wash the linen rags she used for Dorothy’s diapers, many responsibilities were Anne’s alone.
It was time for three-year-old Samuel to sta
rt reading his letters and to memorize the children’s catechism, which was forty-five thousand words long.10 Between household chores, therefore, Anne brought out the well-worn texts her father and mother had used to instruct her. While the kettles simmered and the women busied themselves sewing, knitting, and slicing turnips and onions, little Samuel began to mouth his letters and repeat the lessons of Puritanism:
A: In Adam’s Fall
We Sinned all.
And
T: Time cuts down all
Both great and small.
And
X: Xerxes the great did die
And so must you and I.11
Somber though these words seem, they were recited by children throughout Massachusetts. Anne would have felt remiss if she had not required Samuel to memorize them and to focus on readying himself for God. Since she was also responsible for her servants’ spiritual education, Anne might well have made them learn these verses, too.
AT LAST THE AIR became sweet smelling, and when the daylight hours stretched past dinner and into the evening, Anne and her sisters grew eager to move into their new homes. All winter long they must have heard the strike of axes as their husbands and hired carpenters built their houses out of white oak and pine. Generally speaking, it would have taken at least three or four months of good working weather for the new homes to be habitable.
Each house was constructed around a towering chimney. Without brick, stone, or other fireproof material, the settlers made enormous clay-daubed structures, hoping their width would help ward off the sparks that inevitably flew upward. The mouths were so wide that two young Ipswich pranksters once dropped a live calf down the tunnel of their unsuspecting neighbor’s chimney, startling the man and no doubt horrifying the calf.
Most of these houses, like Anne’s cottage in New Towne, had two rooms on the first floor. The hall was where most activities took place: cooking, chopping food, sewing, eating, visiting, and sleeping. There was a big four-posted bed near the fire, a cradle for the baby, and a little sleeping pallet for Samuel. Another slightly more private room might hold another bed for the servants, a spinning wheel, or stored sacks of grain for easy access. Two rooms on the second floor provided additional storage and extra sleeping quarters during the summer. In the winter, though, everyone needed to sleep near the fireplace downstairs.
The walls, floors, and ceilings were often daubed with clay to keep out the wind. Sometimes, as additional fire protection, they were whitewashed or even, as time went on, plastered. But generally the planks of new wood were left untreated, and as a result the rooms smelled bright and clean, the resin from the pine perfuming the air. Rugs and bolsters were too precious to be laid on the floor. They were saved for bed coverings and were essential for enduring the long winter nights. Some women “sanded” their floors, sprinkling a white layer of sawdust or sand from the nearby beach across the planks as yet another layer between themselves and the damp pest-ridden earth.
As Anne and her sisters’ houses took shape, they started to plant their own vegetable and herb gardens, putting in the peas first and then the seedlings that they had grown indoors, near the warmth of the fire—carrots, rosemary, angelica, and lavender, to name just a few. A New England garden needed to contain not only squash, lettuces, and onions—as well as “pot herbs” (savory, sage, dill, mustard, and so on) for flavoring pasties, salads, soups, stews, and pottages—but also medicinal plants. There were no stores at which to buy the healing tinctures that might be needed and, in the earliest days of the settlements, no doctors to prescribe a treatment. Anne was responsible for the overall health of the garden and for properly selecting, harvesting, and storing each plant. If she could not find the varieties she needed in America, she would need to send for seeds from England. As one poet wrote: “Good huswives provide, ere an sickness do come.”12
She would have known that adder’s tongue was excellent for healing wounds and ground ivy for those struggling with a “ringing sound and humming noise” in their ears. Angelica could “abate the rage of lust in young persons” and was an antidote to poison, “all infections taken by evill and corrupt aire,” toothache, sciatica, and gout. Anise quieted “belchings and upbraidings of the stomach” and also helped mothers produce “an abundance of milk.” Artichokes eliminated “the rank smell of the arm-holes” because they produced such a “stinking urine” that the body was purged of all foul-smelling toxins. Basil was used by women in labor, as it “expelleth both birth and afterbirth.” Cinquefoil treated toothache, “falling sickness,” ulcers, liver disease, pleurisies and other lung complaints. There was cucumber for complexion; endive for “cool[ing]” the “heated” stomach; fennel for kidney, lung, and liver complaints; gentians for those who had fallen off a roof or to rub on the udders of cows that had been bitten by a snake.13
Herbs were also useful for emotional and spiritual complaints. Anne, who was prone to “droopings of the spirit,” would also have been sure to plant feverfew, which was famous for “draw[ing] away . . . melancholy,” but she would have known to avoid eating garlic, as this herb was considered harmful for those suffering from depression. Lavender could help when she was afflicted with too much “passion of the heart.” Blessed thistle could help bolster her memory; marigolds were known to help shore up the fearful. Mint would have been especially important to Anne because it was said to stimulate the mind. Rosemary could make you feel more “lively” and lift up your heart with joy. Sage also “quickeneth the senses,” enlivening those heavy in spirit, and Saint-John’s-wort was useful against melancholy and madness in general.14
It was not enough simply to grow these plants and then harvest them. You had to know whether they should be taken raw or dried. Should they be made into a syrup or candied? Were they most effective on their own or mixed with other herbs? Did you use the root, the leaves, or the oils? How long should the tinctures rest before use? At the old manor house in Sempringham, Anne and her sisters would have learned from their mother the delicate arts of “distilling and fermenting and brewing, seething and drying, and making waters and spirits and pills and powders.”15 This made the Dudley women an excellent resource for the others because, although a few handbooks were available, most housewives relied on their neighbors to learn this lore.
For example, one recipe for “dropsie, palsie, ague, sweating, spleen, worms, and jaundice” that also strengthened “the spirits, brain, heart, liver and stomach” is typical not only for the number of steps involved but for the sheer quantity of ingredients it demanded:
Take Balm leaves and stalks, Burnet leaves and flowers, rosemary, red sage, taragon, tormentil leaves, Rossolis, red Roses, Carnation, hyssop, Thyme, red strings that grow upon Savory, red Fennel leaves and roots, red Mints, of each one handful; bruise these herbs and put them in a great earthen pot and pour on them as much white wine as will cover them, stop them close, and let them steep for eight or nine days, then put to it cinnamon, ginger, angelica seeds, cloves and nutmegs, of each one ounce, a little saffron, sugar one pound, raisins . . . one pound, dates stoned and sliced, half a pound, the joints and legs of an old Coney, fleshy running Capon, the red flesh of the sinews of a leg of mutton, four young chickens, twelve larks, the yolks of twelve eggs, a loaf of white bread cut in sops, and two or three ounces of Mithridate or Treacle, and as much . . . Muscadine as will cover them all.16
Such a recipe necessitated community involvement. What if you had run out of fennel or couldn’t afford to buy saffron or cinnamon off the boats from the West Indies? It was easy to lack essentials or to be unable to purchase what was needed. Wealthy, organized, and knowledgeable as they were, Anne and her family must often have played the role of town apothecary, supplying the needy with medicine and medical counsel.
But faced with the unpredictable growing conditions in America and the many unfamiliar plants, everyone had to try new concoctions and experiment with strange new roots and leaves. The risks were high. Using the wrong herb or too much of a dangerous p
lant could literally kill one’s patient. Still, some brave souls desperately scoured the countryside for plants that might hold within the secrets of a cure.
Puritans like Anne believed that those who were truly close to God had a better chance than others at this task because they would be better able to detect God’s presence in the universe. According to the seventeenth-century theory of “signatures,” God had left His “handwriting,” or clues to the uses of all the herbs, in telltale markings on their leaves, flowers, roots, and juice. For example, the liver-shaped leaves of liverwort meant that it would help with disorders of the liver. The bright red of poppies indicated that they were useful for diseases of the blood, or to stanch bleeding. Puritans also assumed that the cures for most afflictions lay close to home; for instance, if a man suffered from rheumatism because of “living in a damp and swampy” area, his nurse should make a tincture from the willow bark that grew nearby.17
Each housewife, then, had to be a detective seeking out the advice of experienced foragers and a chemist experimenting with new ingredients, at the same time that she prayed fiercely over her creations. But if preparing medical tinctures could be a confounding and even dangerous enterprise, cooking was no simple matter either.
Fireplaces were the command centers of the colonial home. They were equipped with an arsenal of cranes and hooks so that pots could be hung at varying levels. Anne first had to determine the kind of fire she needed. Low embers for custards, greater flames for roasting, a steady burn for stews. Then there were the utensils and pots to choose from. Double boilers “could be made by putting hay in the water at the bottom of a large iron kettle so a smaller kettle could rest inside.” There were “spiders,” or frying pans that balanced over the white ashes on their iron legs; spits for roasting foul and joints of meat; “toasting forks, long-handled dippers, earthenware dishes, glass bottles and copper kettles.”18
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