by Anya Seton
"'Tis naught so bad," said Elizabeth faintly. "Only I think my back will break in two. I expect it'll be over soon."
"Ha!" said Goody Hawes without the least conviction. "We'll hope so, you're built for a good breeder." But she had sensed trouble as soon as she arrived at the Manor and examined the younger woman. Her fat sensitive little hands had assisted at a thousand births, and they could guess many things from the shape and feel of the belly. That little one in there's a-coming bottom side up, or I'm a Welshman, she said to herself, we're in for a bit of work, we are. And so it proved.
All that night and the next day and half the next night, Elizabeth labored. The pains came in whirlpools—blood-red, streaked with black, they came as grinding knives, as fire, they came like the tortures of the rack. She heard herself scream and wondered what the noise was; exhausted at times she fell into stupor. Frightened faces swam past her bed, Martha's, Mary's, Sally's, and at one time Mr. Leigh with a bandage on his head, who said, "My poor child, I fear you must prepare for death, have you made your peace with your Maker?"
"Go away—you fool!" she screamed through bared teeth. "Always you interfere!" Then Goody Hawes came with a cup of poppy juice and she slept a little before it began again. She did not think of Harry. She did not think of Jack. She was alone with this monstrous thing that clutched and rent and would destroy her. But once as the second evening advanced towards midnight, she whimpered for her mother. Soon after that, she felt a gentle hand on her clammy forehead, and a voice full of pitying tenderness said, "Bess dear—my poor Bess. Be brave a little longer, the physician's coming from Hadleigh." And she opened her eyes to see Margaret's woeful haggard face looking down at her.
"You shouldn't be from bed," Elizabeth whispered.
"Nay—think not of that," said Margaret smoothing the damp hair. "But pray, darling. Pray with me."
Elizabeth couldn't pray but she followed the sound of Margaret's voice and knew a moment of surcease. I will not die, I'll not give up, she thought in some far-off realm where the pain did not reach. At midnight the physician arrived from Hadleigh, consulted hastily with Goody Hawes, ripped off his cuffs, rolled up his sleeves and took a small iron instrument from his pouch.
Monday morning at one o'clock Elizabeth was delivered of a baby girl.
When Jack arrived from London on the Friday, Elizabeth's strong twenty-year-old body had nearly recovered and when he came in with Martha to see her, Elizabeth was sitting up in bed nursing her baby, a dreamy smile on her red lips. She wore a crimson chamber gown, and her black curls tumbled loose down to the brocaded coverlet. "Greetings, Jack—" she said from the remote fastness of a blissful preoccupation. Suckling was to her a sensual joy from the first. "See my babe? She's still a mite puffy and askew from the fearful time she had a-birthing, but Goody Hawes says she's sound as a trivet."
Jack swallowed, discomfited by her almost ethereal beauty, as well as by the fullness and whiteness of the blue-veined breast at which the baby tugged avidly. He had been deeply shocked at the accounts of her danger, shocked also though in different degree by the rector whose head was still lumped and who met Jack in Boxford with a lurid relation of the scandalous happenings on May Day, climaxed by Elizabeth's insufferable rudeness and virtual blasphemy when the rector, exercising Christian forgiveness, had gone to prepare her for death. Elizabeth was certainly too headstrong and irreligious, Jack had thought, and meant to tax her, as his father would have done. But when he saw her he forgot her misbehavior and was stricken with confusion.
He inspected the baby, which seemed to him remarkably ugly though its abundance of light fuzz prompted the only remark he could think of. "'Twill be like Harry, no doubt."
"Aye," she said, kissing a tiny wrinkled fist. "Poor Harry, he was sure of a boy ... but next time..."
"Oh, Bess—" cried Martha, staring at her sister. "How can you speak of that—so—so calmly?" Still Martha heard in nightmares the echoes of Elizabeth's screams, still saw how she had looked with face like a clay death's head—and the disgusting smell of blood.
"'Tis over and forgot," said Elizabeth smiling. She shifted the replete baby and covered her breast, then looked at Jack and Martha. "She'll be baptized Sunday of course? Will Mr. Leigh do it or is he too angry with me?" The green twinkle of mirth shone in her long hazel eyes.
"Of course he'll officiate. I'll tell him to," answered Jack.
"I wish you two to be godparents, please." Elizabeth gave them both a look of purest affection from which all baseness had been purged by agony, and now the bliss, of motherhood.
Jack suddenly realized that Martha was there, clinging to his arm. He patted the childish hand and said quickly, "We'll be honored, won't we, Matt dear?" The girl nodded looking up into his lean brown face, and Elizabeth thought, They are alike these two in feature, I never saw it before because Martha's so small.
"I wish the baby christened Martha Johanna for you both," she said.
Martha reddened with pleasure. "Oh Bess, TWO names for such a wee scrap!"
Elizabeth nodded. Her eyes met Jack's in a fleeting glance that said, And thus we will always be reminded by my babe of the barrier between us.
"We'll soon need Mr. Leigh to officiate at something besides a baptism, eh, Mattie?" he said, putting his arm around the girl. "As soon as we hear of my father's safe arrival in Massachusetts I'll write to him and tell him we've waited long enough."
On Saturday, the 12th of June, the Arbella having been nine stormy weeks at sea slid along the southern coast of Cape Ann and sighted journey's end at last; the collection of bark huts and sod-roof dugouts which the Indians called Naumkeag, but the settlement's temporary governor, John Endecott, had rechristened Salem.
The air was fresh and sparkling with a whitish light unlike the golden mists of England, a land breeze brought the eager passengers the fragrance of pines and wild strawberries. They were crowded on the decks, exclaiming, cheering, and some weeping, as the Arbella ran up the Royal Ensign and shot off two salutes to alert those on shore.
John Winthrop stood with the gentry on the poop deck. They had all donned their finest clothes, just unpacked by their servants. John Winthrop wore a new black silk doublet trimmed with gold braid. His ruff was edged two inches deep with Mechlin lace. His hat though unplumed was garnished with gilt band and buckle. Across his chest a baldric of red, silver and blue, the royal colors, supported an impressive sword of state. On a stool beside him in an elaborate padlocked box, reposed the precious charter. John saw a shallop put out from the flimsy-looking dock on shore and knew it contained Endecott, because Captain Peirce of the Lyon had gone to fetch the supplanted governor.
"How happy they'll be to see us!" cried the Lady Arbella, leaning against the rail in her rustling blue taffeta dress, "and to know we've brought the Charter!"
Winthrop bowed to her and smiled. His heart swelled with pride and thanksgiving. "Praise God that we have come here safe!" he cried impulsively, "and that it seems such a fair goodly country."
They all assented: Lady Arbella, Isaac Johnson, and Thomas Dudley who stood slightly apart with his wife and children. George Phillips and the Boston merchant, William Coddington, stood together with the other Company assistants, Sir Richard Saltonstall, and Increase Nowell, all gazing with excitement at the shore.
"O Give thanks unto the Lord, for lie hath led his children to the Land of Canaan, where milk and honey flow," said Phillips solemnly.
But it very soon developed that neither milk nor honey flowed at Salem. When Endecott and his minister, Mr. Skelton, had boarded the Arbella they were sparing of their welcome speeches, nor had Endecott bothered to change a stained leather jerkin and frayed shirt. He made slight obeisance to the new governor who ousted him, and seemed preoccupied as he invited Winthrop and the principal gentlemen on shore. As soon as they had landed, Endecott led the way up a muddy path to a one-and-a-half-room timber house floored with packed earth, which was the largest Salem afforded. "'Tis the best we have," he said
in answer to Dudley's look of dismay.
Endecott was a big pompous man of Winthrop's own age. He had a forked grizzled beard and a grim fanatical eye which never softened. He was a man who did his duty and had a horror of episcopacy so intense that even Winthrop was startled. Conference with Endecott, and Salem's two ministers, Skelton and Higginson, soon showed John that Salem's religious views had in two years grown far closer to those of the Separatists at Plymouth than to the reforming Anglican spirit Winthrop and his company professed. But there were more critical matters even than religion to be dealt with.
Endecott fed Winthrop and his assistants a good venison pasty and some beer, and when they expressed their thanks, said "Aye, 'tis a change from sea fare, but not to mince matters, Sir Governor, that's the end of it. We're well nigh starving here, and you musn't think to stay. We can't feed our own, and now you tell me you've scant provision left. You must find some other part of the Massachusetts to plant in with the great company you're bringing."
"I intended to," said Winthrop stiffly after a moment. "We'll set off down the coast at once. I see you've no room here."
"We've sickness too," said Endecott. "There's not three sound folk in my town; if they're not coughing and sweating, they're puking and purging, and a fair lot of 'em want to go back to England when your ships leave."
"You're something gloomy, Mr. Endecott," said Isaac Johnson, his fresh boyish face darkening. "I trust you're not of those who would leave."
Endecott shrugged his massive shoulders. "I've no love for England. I'll do my best here, if I'm spared. But you'll find it naught so easy to settle in this devil-scourged wilderness."
"Nevertheless—" said Winthrop rising, and putting on his hat, "I intend to do so." He bowed and walked with the others down the muddy track to the dock and the Arbella.
On the 6th of July, John Winthrop sat in his private bark wigwam at Charlestown on the Mystic River, writing home-bound letters for which Captain Peirce, Master of the Lyon, was waiting.
It was hot in the hastily built wigwam, but hotter yet outside, where the sun glared down as it had for days, and never did in England. John wiped his face on a small linen towel, and tried to marshal his thoughts. There was a crowd of people milling as usual outside, desirous of interviews; some were discontented settlers who were tired of existing on mussels, wild berries and Indian corn, and many had constant belly gripes which Charlestown's brackish water augmented.
There were also four Indians whose frame of mind was not yet apparent except that they felt they owned the land hereabouts, and wished to know how long the English intended to camp here in their Mishawam. Two of these Indians were called John and James Sagamore, and with them was the chief of the Neponsetts, Chickatabot. They were tall smelly bucks who wore nothing but red or yellow paint, turkey feathers in their scalplocks, and deerskin breechclouts. The fourth Indian was oddly enough a forceful woman, known as Squaw Sachem. She had a string of the valuable purple wampum around her thick neck, owned considerable land, and gave herself airs. All four squatted outside the wigwam, peering curiously at the scowling English, and greedily guzzling the precious beer Winthrop had ordered his servants to give them.
John dipped his pen and wrote on. Just within the canvas door Captain William Peirce, ablest of all the master mariners, stood gazing out to sea while he smoked his pipe and wished the Governor would hurry with the letters. The Lyon must set forth at once if she were to fetch the provisions from England so urgently needed, and return before the winter storms began.
And I know not what the poor gawks'll do whilst I'm gone, Peirce thought, looking at the Governor with pity. The English did not seem to be able to live off the land as the Indians did and most of the farmers and artisans in the fleet were poor huntsmen too. Many of Winthrop's company were sick of the scurvy and flux, the water supply at Charlestown was poor. It was obvious, as the ships straggled in, that so many people could not exist on this barren peninsula. Already Sir Richard Saltonstall and the minister, George Phillips, had gone up the Charles and found a new location which Sir Richard called Watertown. While Isaac Johnson had rowed across the river to explore the queer three-hilled peninsula called Shawmut, where lived—they said—a mad or eccentric Englishman who was probably bewitched.
In truth I believe they're all bewitched, Peirce thought, to leave their good homes and risk their lives in this heathen wilderness. But that was none of his business—his was to ferry them across in his staunch little Lyon, a job which he had done excellently for seven years now. He straightened, suddenly peering over the heads of the squatting Indians.
"Ship's just 'ove in sight, sir!"
"Oh?" said Winthrop raising his head. Each day since arrival at Charlestown the ships had been coming, after touching at Salem for directions. The Mayflower, the Whale, the Hopewell, the Trial, the Success, the William and Francis, and at each landing Winthrop had questioned the passengers about Harry. Will Pelham from the Mayflower told where he'd last seen him in Southampton, but that was all.
"'Tis the Talbot, sir!" said Captain Peirce triumphantly, knowing how eagerly Winthrop awaited this particular ship which was long overdue. Winthrop jumped up and stood in the doorway beside Peirce. "'Er flag also is at half-mast," Peirce added sadly. There had been deaths on nearly all the ships, not only human deaths but what had come to seem almost as bad since it imperiled those who survived—heavy loss of cattle, the precious cows, sheep and goats which were to start the new stock, and supply food through the winter.
Winthrop returned to his letters. "When they land send them here." He had checked his first impulse to rush down to the shore. If Harry were indeed on board he was not to be forgiven so easily.
Captain Peirce went off followed by the Indians, who were still fascinated by these monstrous white-winged floating birds, and soon joined by the Winthrop lads, Stephen and Adam, who were equally attracted by the Indians.
Winthrop wrote on to Margaret:
Blessed be the Lord, our good God and mercifull father, that hath yet preserved me in life and health to salute thee, and to comfort thy longing heart, with the joyful news of my wellfare, and the wellfare of thy beloved children..."
when he heard a low, shocked murmur of voices outside, and the heavy tread of measured footsteps.
He put his pen down and waited, while his heartbeats slowed. A black-haired soldier in a cuirass stepped through the doorway, saying, "By your leave, Your Worship." He held his helmet against his chest and bowed. "I am Captain John Underhill from the Netherlands reporting for your service according to the agreement."
"Ah yes, Captain, welcome. You came on the Talbot? And Captain Daniel Patrick? And your wives?"
"They are all here." Underhill usually had a handsome mobile face quick to laugh or frown, and was something of a dandy with small clipped mustache and pomaded hair. But now he was unshaven, his hair unkempt, and his dark eyes held only a painful reluctance.
"Your Worship, I have bad news—" he said staring at the earthen floor.
Winthrop's hand tightened on the pen. "You lost many on the Talbot?"
"Fourteen at sea, sir—and—and one other."
"One other—" repeated Winthrop in a whisper. The pen dropped and rolled off the table. "You mean something, Captain," he said steadily. "Who was this other?"
The Captain glanced at his governor, and back to the floor. "Your son Henry—sir. And it is near the greatest grief I've known that I must say so. We were fond of him, Patrick and I. He was a fine lad."
Winthrop drew a sharp breath, and bowed his head on his clenched fists. Underhill heard the low sounds of stifled prayer, and though he was no man for religion his eyes misted. Harry's death had been so sudden and so senseless; they had stood like stones, he and Patrick, on the riverbank, helpless as it happened, though both had rushed in later for the grappling.
"How was it?" asked the Governor in a wooden voice.
"Four days ago, sir, when we touched at Salem, it was mortal hot. We went for a
bit of stroll along the North River, and across it saw one of these Indian canoes. Master Harry, he was merry at being on land, and he laughed and said 'twas like some the Caribs had at Barbadoes. 'I'll get it for us!' he cried, 'and show you rare sport!' He was the only one of us to swim, having learned in the Indies. He wouldn't listen to us. He plunged in as he was, except for his boots, and we thought he'd make it—but the water was cold, and he overhot." Underhill paused.
"Overhot with brandy too..." murmured Winthrop closing his eyes. "Oh, my son Henry, my son Henry—poor child—" His voice broke.
Underhill turned away. "He sank like a plummet, sir, in the middle of the river ... but later—too late—we found him."
"You've brought him here then...?"
The Captain nodded slowly and gestured towards the outside. Winthrop lifted the canvas flap and saw the raw pine box resting on the ground beside a sandy bank of scrub oak.
"Thank you, Captain," said Winthrop. "I know you did what you could ... find and bring to me Mr. Wilson, the minister, if you please,—and tell—tell the Indians I will receive them presently."
John Winthrop did not finish his letter to his wife. He wrote instead to Emmanuel Downing by the Lyon, and held Margaret's letter for another ship.
It was on Michaelmas Day, September 29, that Emmanuel Downing and his manservant trotted through Boxford, noting despite the melancholy of their journey that the church was being decorated for the Harvest Festival. Lads and lasses were nailing sheaves of grains upon the door, a cartful of garden stuff and fruit was drawn up by the lych gate, awaiting ornamental distribution along the nave and through the chancel. As Downing pursued the road to Groton, he encountered a procession of tenants plodding towards the Manor with their rents—many of them in kind; lambs, fat geese, barrels of apples or sacks of barley.