The Winthrop Woman

by Anya Seton

  "So it was there he so naughtily put up his maypole?" asked Mirabelle with lively interest. "I met him in London, where these Puritans had banished him. He was so enraged about it, poor man. He is a friend of my husband's," she added.

  "I know, m'lady," said Peirce, chuckling. Mirabelle, dressed in embroidered green velvet, with her flaming hair, decolletage and daring beauty patch, was certain to produce quite an effect on Boston, especially if Sir Christopher were still in gaol. But the young lady could take care of herself; of that the Captain had grown very sure in these weeks.

  He looked at the Winthrop women, also dressed in their elegant, brightly colored best, and felt satisfaction. They were thinner than when they sailed, of course, there were some scurvy sores around Mistress Mary's lips, and Mistress Winthrop Senior's plump cheeks had sagged, but none of them looked too peaked.

  "Journey's end, ladies!" he cried to them. "Barring that tempest, and considering the time o' year, not so bad a passage—eh? Oh, and your loss, ma'am—" he added hastily to Margaret. "Ye know 'ow sorry I am for that." He had momentarily forgotten the death of two sickly children at sea, so usual were such occurrences, but it was unfortunate that one of them was the Governor's baby.

  "I marvel at your skill and excellent care of us, Mr. Peirce," said Margaret gently. "We all thank you from our hearts." Her voice trembled. It was hard in these last moments of suspense to keep from tears. They had finally arrived safely, but who knew what might have been happening here in the seven months since John's last letter to them left Boston on this same Lyon.

  "How far away England seems," whispered Martha, pressing close to Elizabeth, who was leaning on the rail, ecstatically sniffing the pine and earth smell. "It seems so strange to see no houses, and I never expected it, yet I dread to leave this dear old ship ... Oh, what's that!" she ended with a little shriek.

  Elizabeth looked where her sister pointed and saw a birch-bark canoe gliding near them, paddled by two feather-topped figures. "Our first savages, Mattie," Elizabeth cried, peering down.

  The canoe grazed the Lyon, and the Indians rested their paddles. The stern paddler was a small young Indian dressed in a blue English doublet and breeches. The doublet was lavishly trimmed with brass buttons sewn on at random. His dark face was tattooed on the cheeks and painted with ocher stripes. His head was shaved except for a long scalp lock which was stiffened with bear's grease and pierced with pheasant feathers. He wore three necklaces of dark blue shell wampum beads and one of wolf claws. His companion was far less splendid, and wore nothing but a skin mantle and breechclout.

  "How!" called the first Indian raising his paddle in salute to the row of faces on the poop deck. "Netop. Friend. Call Captain!"

  Peirce had gone to his quarters, but now reappeared, and recognized the Indian. "Ahoy there, Chickatabot, ye rascal!" he shouted jovially. "I'm back again, ye see. 'Ave ye beaver for me?" He turned to the gaping English. "'Tis Sagamore Chickatabot, chief o' these regions on the Bay. Lives by the Neponset River. A good Indian. Damme if 'e 'asn't got a fine mess o' skins too." For Chickatabot was pointing to a gleaming pile of fur in the bottom of his canoe, and crying, "Trade, Trade—" while he beamed up at the Captain.

  "Is he a Christian?" asked John Eliot earnestly.

  "Bless ye, sir—I shouldn't think so. They believe in a kind o' Great Spirit called Manitoo, and a devil named Obbomock—that's all I know. Say, ye rogue," he called down. "Where'd ye get the English clothes?"

  Chickatabot nodded complacently and ran his hands over the gleaming buttons. "Governor give," he said.

  Margaret drew a sharp breath. "Ask him if the Governor's well!"

  Peirce smiled and invited the Indians aboard, where communication was easier. They soon gathered that the Governor had been well when Chickatabot last saw him several sleeps ago. Margaret murmured a prayer of thanks and went to her cabin, followed by Martha who hated the way the Indians stared at the women.

  Elizabeth, though intensely curious, was overpowered by the Indian smell. Not the stink of unwashed bodies, she was used enough to that on shipboard, but a heavy animal scent augmented by the rancid grease in their hair.

  Captain Peirce dickered for the beaver, while Eliot fetched his writing materials and listened, occasionally interrupting to ask the meaning of an Indian word, and write it down.

  Peirce finally traded three knives and six clay pipes for the skins, having sternly ignored all Chickatabot's plaintive requests for strong water. "That's one thing ye'd best take note of," Peirce said, eying the minister's linguistic labors with some amusement. "Spirits sets Indians wild. They've no 'ead for it. And don't give 'em firearms neither. These Massachusetts are friendly knaves, but we must keep the upper 'and."

  "I shall endeavor to do that by leading the poor innocents to Christ," said Eliot smiling. "And I fear the early settlers have much wronged them."

  Peirce scratched his nose and shrugged. "Mebbe so. Ye talk a'most like a parson I brought over 'ere last winter. Roger Williams 'is name was. Claimed the King 'ad no right to give the land to the English, 'cause it belonged to the Indians. Said the planters should buy it! Lot o' contentious ideas 'e 'ad, and Governor Winthrop wasn't pleased. Last I 'eard, Mr. Williams 'ad quitted the Bay Colony."

  Elizabeth listened and was chilled. Here was still another man who had disagreed with Uncle John, and gone or been banished elsewhere. I'll not be afraid of him, she thought. He can't force me to do anything I don't want to. After all I am a Winthrop, and he's never been overharsh to his own family—nor, she admitted after thought—to anyone else that she knew. Yet Mirabelle had told her of a young man called Philip Ratcliffe, who had been brutally punished in Boston last June for criticizing the colony. He had had both his ears chopped off his head, and been shipped half dead to England. "They are saying in London," Mirabelle had added, "that Governor Winthrop thinks himself a king, takes the law into his own hands, and punishes all who do not see religion as he does. This I find confusing since that was précisément the Puritans' complaint against the established Church in England, when the Star Chamber chopped off Puritan ears."

  Elizabeth also found it confusing, but thought Mirabelle dangerously outspoken.

  "Don't you fear for yourself in Massachusetts?" she had asked, and Mirabelle laughed. "Ah ça, non. The Governor is a man, is he not?"

  Elizabeth admired this superb confidence, but was unable to apply it personally. During the hours that they waited on the Lyon, her apprehensions grew, and were no less uncomfortable because she did not know what she feared except her uncle's powerful will. She applied common sense to these forebodings, telling herself that Margaret and Jack loved Uncle John, that many of the Groton Manor folk had too, and reminding herself that on the night of the great tempest she had promised God—in the likeness of John Winthrop—to be obedient, and must fulfill her vow. Yet the unease continued, and the feeling of urgency as though she must arm herself for battle.

  It was nearly dusk before the lookout raised a cry and they saw a large sailing shallop round the tip of Long Island. It flew the British ensign and was crowded with men amongst whom the Governor in black doublet trimmed with silver lace and wearing the sword of state was easily recognized. The Lyon set off three cannon in salute, and its passengers began to cheer.

  Margaret snatched little Sammy's hand and hurried down to the main deck, Elizabeth carried Joan and was followed by Martha and Mary. Mirabelle tactfully held back with John Eliot until the family should be reunited.

  The sailors and common folk ranged themselves on either side the gangway, where the Captain stood with the Winthrop ladies. The bo'sun piped a patriotic tune as the Governor was assisted up the ladder, and stepped majestically onto the deck. He shook hands with the Captain, raised his arm slowly in greeting to all the shipload, then turned and looked at his wife, saying in a low voice, "God bless you, my dear. This is a happy moment."

  He has changed, thought Elizabeth, seeing that he held back from kissing Margaret as he had always
done, and that consciousness of his position gave him a new rigidity, but his wife crying out, "John, my dearest—" flew into his arms. And he did kiss her, though hurriedly, before picking up Sammy. Their two elder sons, Stephen and Adam, scrambled on board and ran to their mother. There was a babble of greetings and tears, but Winthrop said, glancing at the watching crowd, "This is too public a place for reunion. Let us adjourn to the Great Cabin."

  When they were sequestered, Winthrop became more natural. He kissed Elizabeth, Martha and Mary on the cheek. He admired Joan, his only grandchild so far. He put Sammy on his knee and stroked the little boy's hair. He voiced his joy at their safe arrival, and uttered a long prayer of heartfelt thanksgiving in an unsteady voice. Yet there was constraint about him, and he had aged. His eyes were tired, there were deeper wrinkles on his forehead, new gray in his hair and pointed beard. When Jack proposed a toast to their reunion, he shook his head. "No, my son, I no longer drink to anyone. It is frivolous and leads to inebriety. In fact I take no spirits nor tobacco now. I would prefer that my family didn't. Remember we set an example to the entire colony, and there is no sanction in Scriptures for strong waters, or smoking."

  Jack put down his mug of weak brandy, and ventured to say, "There is none for beer either, sir, is there?"

  "Precisely," answered Winthrop. "So I do not drink it, though I have not yet been able to enforce this view."

  I should hope not, thought Jack dismayed. To deprive English folk of beer would be as galling as to forbid them bread.

  "Mr. Dudley, my deputy, combats me in this as in other matters," continued Winthrop heavily. "Sometimes I feel he does not heed God's clear directions as he should, yet ever pray that Mr. Dudley and I shall work together in Christian love."

  Jack was not at the moment interested in Thomas Dudley, so unpleasant did he find his father's new convictions of the need for total abstinence. "But sir—" he cried, "Our Lord Jesus drank wine, and Paul said 'Use a little wine for thy stomach's sake.'"

  "For thy stomach's sake, not for pleasure," answered Winthrop, but he suddenly smiled, the rare sweet smile that few had seen. "Come, my son. This is no time for argument. You will do as conscience bids you. Where is the young minister, John Eliot? We're in sore need of him to preach in Boston, since Mr. Wilson is now in England."

  Eliot was brought into the cabin, and conferred some time with Winthrop, and then after some hesitations and throat clearings, Captain Peirce produced Mirabelle. "Lady Gardiner, Your Worship. The first—that is, I mean to say, the French wife o' Sir Christopher."

  Elizabeth barely suppressed giggles, when she saw Mirabelle who had had ample opportunity on deck to size up the Governor and whose female instincts were infallible. From Elizabeth's cabin she had filched a large demure collar which completely hid all the charms she usually displayed. She had braided her fiery hair and covered most of it with a kerchief. She had removed her lip paint. She walked in with downcast eyes, and curtseying low to Winthrop, seized his hand and kissed it. "Oh, your most honorable Excellency—" she faltered in a melting voice, "Do you know where is my so wicked husband, who has broken my poor heart?"

  Margaret looked astonished, not having hitherto received this impression, but she chimed in kindly, "Poor Lady Gardiner."

  Winthrop's face darkened at Gardiner's name. Sir Christopher had caused Winthrop and Governor Bradford at Plymouth much anxious embarrassment. Gardiner had been exposed as a Papist and also as a spy for the wicked Sir Ferdinando Gorges who sat comfortably in England and plotted to seize all the country from Virginia to Quebec for himself. Yet Gorges had much noble backing, and Winthrop had not dared punish Sir Christopher as he deserved. Winthrop examined Mirabelle searchingly, and she gave him a lovely tremulous smile. He stood up and raised her from her curtsey. "You've come in search of your husband, my lady?" he said, his voice softening.

  As Mirabelle nodded, he went on. "My clear, I sorrow to tell you this, but he has gone, fled north to the country above Piscataqua that Sir Ferdinando Gorges claims—Agamenticus. I had Sir Christopher in detention here for—well, no matter—I would not cause you added pain. But he escaped, with the help of his—h'm—of a young woman who claimed to be his cousin."

  "Ah, quelle misère..." cried Mirabelle who had listened attentively, and she burst into most becoming tears.

  "There, there," said the Governor patting her shoulder, and looking helplessly at Margaret. "Pray don't weep. We'll take care of you here, as long as you'll stay. I'm sure we can find room." He checked himself, for in his unfinished Boston house there was certainly not room in view of all these new arrivals. "I'll place you with some gently bred family who will respect your rank, your beauteous youth and your unhappiness. I shall personally interest myself in your welfare."

  "How kind, how good you are!" cried Mirabelle, sending Elizabeth the tiniest flicker from the corner of her eye, that said, You see how easy it is to manage him.

  Elizabeth saw, and resolved that she would profit by the lesson. She too if need arose would be all soft pathos and tender submission. She would coax, flatter and weep; her future would be easy, she would gain the freedom for which she yearned; she would find new love, true love, at last and would marry when and as she pleased, but first perhaps she could enjoy herself in the adventurous new land.

  Yet not an hour passed before all her resolutions were forgotten. Winthrop was to spend the night on board, but before he retired with Margaret, his respect for both ceremony and family ties prompted him to private interviews with his daughter Mary and his two daughters-in-law. lie seated himself in the Captain's chair and summoned the girls one by one, while the rest of the company chatted at the far end of the cabin.

  Elizabeth saw Mary's serious face lighten with a contented smile while her father spoke with her. Martha blushed and looked delighted when Winthrop bade her officially welcome as his daughter-in-law, saying that he was sure she would make Jack a loyal wife.

  Elizabeth's turn came last. She chided herself for previous anxiety when her uncle took the reluctant Joan from her arms and settled the child on his knee, saying "Nay, nay, poppet. You must not startle at your grandsir," and he bounced Joan up and down and let her play with the silver buttons on his doublet. "She's something like Henry, Bess, is she not?" He said with a sigh, "You will have seen from my letters, how deeply I felt for you in that terrible affliction the Lord sent us all."

  "Yes, my uncle," she said softly.

  "You do not call me 'Father'?" he asked in faint reproof. "Yet that is what I am to you now, and I've thought long for your future, as a father should."

  Elizabeth stiffened, she felt her heart beat, yet remembered enough of Mirabelle's example to lower her lids and say meekly, "Aye, my father, you are ever wise."

  The lass had matured, thought Winthrop, gratified. God through affliction had much improved her. She was a trifle pinched and wan from the voyage, but still an exceptionally pretty woman, and her new suitor would certainly not repent of his generosity.

  "I was sorry to hear that you displeased Mr. Coddington," he said, but kindly. "I thought the match most suitable."

  "He displeased me—" she began, then bit her lips. "I'm sorry, sir, that you were disappointed."

  "No matter, it was doubtless the Lord's all-seeing providence, for this match will do as well."

  Elizabeth's chin jerked up, she looked Winthrop full in the eye. "This WHAT, sir?"

  "Why, this match, this marriage I have consented to for you. You must have known I've worried about your situation, and would try to better it. Yet so few men in the colony are eligible. Mr. Robert Feake is—a young bachelor, church member, gentleman, and sufficiently well off to overlook the—the—well—smallness of your marriage portion."

  Elizabeth clasped her hands and pressed them hard against her chest. "It matters not that I've never heard of this Mr. Fick, I suppose?"

  Winthrop looked genuinely puzzled. "But he knows you. He speaks as though he'd formed a deep attachment for you. I assumed you
had been in correspondence."

  "You assumed wrong!" she snapped and clenched her hands tighter, for they were trembling.

  Her tone was rude and Winthrop's benignity faded. He put Joan on the floor, eying Elizabeth's flushed face coldly. "Whether you know him or not, is immaterial since you soon will. And I'm sure find him to your liking if the Devil does not tempt you into your old stubborn, headstrong ways. The matter has been arranged, and I know what's best for you."

  "You don't. You don't!" she cried so wildly that the group at the other end of the cabin all turned their heads. Joan stared from her mother to her grandfather and began to wail. Winthrop rose, trying to master the uprush of anger which foolish opposition roused. They looked at each other with the mutual antagonism which had always been latent, and Elizabeth's eyes fell first.

  "We'll speak no more of this tonight," Winthrop said harshly. "I pray God will bring you to a better frame of mind, but in any case, the matter is decided." He turned on his heel and walked over to the others.

  A flood of bewildered rage and fear choked in her throat as it had fourteen years ago at Groton, but she was twenty-one now and could not scream that she hated God, or run away, or swoon as she had then.

  She sat on the bench staring at a crack between the boards, until Martha came over to her. "Bess, dear—what is it? How did you offend our father?"

  "Leave me alone, Matt," Elizabeth turned from her sister. "I must think—think what to do."

  The next morning the wind had veered to the east and blew them chilly rain, but it also filled the Lyon's sails and the ship glided slowly through the islands and dropped anchor in Boston Harbor.