by Anya Seton
"And if I was!" said Jack. "She is my sister, as you well know. And we had been speaking of Martha."
His wife drew back. Into her calm blue eyes there came a glint. "You wish to pain me with mention of your first wife? To remind me of all your life in which I've had no share? I'd no notion you were so fond of this 'sister'!" Her large white hand pointed to Elizabeth who had recovered, and was now wavering between pleasure at the intruder's discomforture and sympathy for Jack who looked as miserable as did all men when caught between two women.
Elizabeth finally spoke quietly. "Cousin," she said, "Jack and I have indeed known each other all our lives. We have the same Winthrop grandparents, he married my sister and I his brother; in view of this, I think you need hardly question our relationship."
The other Elizabeth looked uncertain while she considered this slowly. She had a well-bred, usually complacent nature unsuited for delving into motive. In England she had loved long walks and hunting and dog-breeding, and she loved her husband in the same forthright way. She was willing to be reassured, especially as Jack took her hand and said, "You see, my dear, you are making a pother about naught. Come, we must go in to our guests."
However, since that time there had been constraint between the two Elizabeths, who seldom saw each other since the younger Winthrops had their own house in Boston, and now in the meetinghouse as Mr. Wilson droned on and turned his hourglass yet again, the two women sat far apart, so that their fur-lined capes did not even touch.
It had started to snow outside and it turned bitter cold in the meetinghouse. Margaret had a charcoal foot-warmer but the other women did not. Elizabeth managed to tuck her feet up under her long concealing skirts, while watching her breath float out in vapor. There had been a moment of diversion when Mrs. William Coddington, a buxom matron, fell asleep in the corner of her pew, and the watchful tithing man came down the aisle and tickled her awake with the foxtails on his staff. Mrs. Coddington sneezed violently, and Elizabeth would have giggled as hard as the boys in the gallery had she dared. She did steal a look back at the lady's husband, Elizabeth's erstwhile suitor, who was now the Colony Treasurer. She saw Coddington send his wife an outraged glare and amused herself for some minutes by remembering the night at Groton when she had so thoroughly disenchanted him. Thank God at least for that, she thought. What a husband he would have been—and wondered what Robert was doing in Dedham, poor soul. An uncomfortable recognition came to her that some such faintly contemptuous pity always accompanied thoughts of Robert, and she sighed, easing her cramped legs into a new position.
She was stupefied when the service finally ended at noon, and convinced that she could not possibly endure the next one, and yet she was ashamed of her weakness. The rest of the congregation obviously derived enjoyment from sermons and prayers that she never did; even Margaret had been interested in some of Mr. Wilson's points and discussed them at the exceedingly scanty dinner, where nobody mentioned Mrs. Hutchinson's behavior. Elizabeth, eating boiled salt cod in silence, suddenly felt a surge of loneliness and exile. These aren't really my people, she thought—I don't belong to them—even Margaret. At twenty-seven Elizabeth was too old for indulgence in the changeling fancy which came to many children, and yet on that dreary January day, she first consciously felt herself an alien to the thoughts and wishes of all her family, and saw no means of breaking through the suffocating gray veil into any brightness where she might feel at home.
It was in a rare mood of bleak depression that she trailed through the snow with the rest of them to the afternoon service, which was, however, sufficiently lively to startle her out of introspection.
Mr. Cotton, Boston's "Teacher" and co-minister, was now in the pulpit, while his colleague, Wilson, sat in a chair behind the Communion table, chewing his lips and glowering at Mrs. Hutchinson's pew, where she had arrived early and was now reinforced by her brother-in-law, Wheelwright, who had ridden over from his own little parish at Mount Wollaston. In view of the snowstorm, Wheelwright's presence here was startling. John Winthrop and Mr. Wilson exchanged a foreboding glance, while Margaret whispered to Elizabeth, "Oh dear, I feel there's going to be some sort of trouble."
Jack's wife had not come to the afternoon service, having sent a message that she had been seized with a sudden chill. And whether it were really a chill, or avoidance of herself, Elizabeth cared not at all, buoyed up like the rest of the congregation by cross currents of tension and expectancy. She found herself really listening to Mr. Cotton.
Even Elizabeth who understood little of the controversy knew that Cotton had jumped into the middle of the fray when he announced his text as verses from the Forty-eighth Chapter of Isaiah, which declaimed the intent of prophecy and was obviously aimed at convincing Mrs. Hutchinson's enemies. The cherubic face, crowned with fluffy white hair, was illumined, the organ-toned voice which had so moved the citizens of old Boston had lost none of its power as he cried out to them, "I have shewed thee new things from this time, even hidden things, and thou didst not know them!"
Before he had spoken many words, Elizabeth heard a stir in the pew behind her and Mrs. Hutchinson's unmistakably exultant voice, "Aye, Aye, HE is sealed with Grace, Mr. Cotton is of God's elect, the spirit hath told me so."
It was a powerful sermon, clothed in poetic language, nor was it inflammatory, since Cotton, using all the force of his golden persuasiveness, endeavored while expounding the Doctrine of Grace to spare the feelings of those ministers who still adhered to the plodding, uninspired Doctrine of Works. But his opponents were not appeased. Wilson's foot soon began to tap on the floorboards, his jowls quivered with indignation as he saw his brilliant colleague sway the meeting as he himself never could.
John Winthrop listened in gloomy quiet. That female has bewitched Cotton, he thought. That virago, that false unwomanly prophetess who had set herself up as judge of salvation and its secrets. He saw that the young governor's face was afire with excitement, and that Vane even forgot all decorum by turning and sharing with Mrs. Hutchinson looks of triumphant delight. And why is Wheelwright here? Winthrop thought. What are they plotting? What new threat is this to our unity? Surely they don't hope to oust Wilson from his own church, and undermine all the other ministers! His worst suspicions were soon confirmed.
Cotton finished his sermon, then instead of lining out the final psalm for them, he held up his hand, and smiling somewhat anxiously in Winthrop's direction, said, "Mr. Wheelwright, our reverend brother from Mount Wollaston is here today. And I have invited him to exercise for you, so you may better understand these matters."
John Wheelwright jumped to his feet and hastening down the aisle, climbed into the pulpit with alacrity, then bowing to Cotton and ignoring the outraged Wilson, he launched into what was ever after known as "The Fast Day Sermon."
Wheelwright was a large, powerful man of decided opinions like his friend Oliver Cromwell, with whom he had studied in Cambridge, and who he hoped would shortly join them here in the New World, as England became increasingly dangerous for Puritans. Wheelwright was ambitious and brash, he admired his sister-in-law Anne Hutchinson, and believed in her Covenant of Grace, but he was also profoundly impatient with what he considered the bigoted hidebound form of government he had found in the Bay. He had expected a position of ministerial power fitting his proven talents, and had run headlong into opposition and lost the first skirmish, when he had been shunted off to the tiny distant parish south of the Neponset River. Where he had no intention of remaining. He detested Wilson and Winthrop and considered them negligible, for was not Governor Vane on the Hutchinson side? Also Mr. Cotton, and influential men of the town sitting now below him in the pews and looking up at him with approval—Mr. William Coddington, Mr. Coggeshall, Mr. Aspinwall, Mr. Hough—even Captain John Underhill, and solid tradesmen like William Balston.
So, rejoicing that at last he had opportunity to rally his friends from Boston's own pulpit, he began confidently, "The way we must take, if so be we will not have the Lord
Jesus Christ taken from us, is this: We must all prepare for a spiritual combat."
The meetinghouse grew very quiet as Wheelwright's eager voice went on, using over and over again words which lost the unworldly meaning with which he was glossing them, and became by very repetition the primitive war cries which rang truer in their hearts than mystical analogies. "Fight!" "Gird our loins!" "Sword in hand—show ourselves courageous!" "When enemies of truth oppose the ways of God—we must Kill—" "If we do not strive, those under a Covenant of Works will prevail." "Kill!"
Mr. Cotton began by looking anxious, then with murmurs tried to stop his protégé, who did not listen but rushed on. Winthrop sat petrified, mastering his initial fury with savage control. This was sedition, this was real danger, and they must be careful. "Careful—" he signaled to Wilson whose eyes were bulging, and whose whole squat body could be seen shaking beneath the black robes. The pastor did not heed his friend's signal, he did not see it.
Wheelwright, thoroughly enjoying himself, informed the congregation that he and those under the Covenant of Grace were by no means Antinomians or libertines, but that through Grace they had the benefit of holy inspiration. "And," he added, his voice rising to a sonorous shout, "those who deny this are but whited sepulchers, and Anti-Christs, and we must FIGHT them!"
Mr. Wilson sprang to his feet, bellowing, "So it's fight, you want, is it! And it's Anti-Christs you call us! I say that Satan himself has got in my pulpit! And I'll get him out!" The enraged pastor rushed to the pulpit and swarmed up the steps before Wheelwright understood the meaning of the commotion behind him. Wheelwright found his robes yanked so violently that he overbalanced, and was immediately pounded on the head and shoulders by flailing fists. He stumbled down the steps on top of his assailant, and recovering himself, began to hit back.
Margaret screamed. The meeting exploded into uproar. Another fight broke out amongst the boys in the gallery; there was a scuffle near the door with the bewildered tithing man, and Winthrop standing on his pew, called "Guards! Captain! Captain Underhill! Halt this disgraceful brawl!" before running to help Cotton who was ineffectually trying to separate the two angry ministers.
Captain Underhill had been sitting in the back of the church, and he now moved slowly down the aisle, his black mustache twitching with suppressed laughter. He ignored Winthrop and the struggling parsons, walked instead to Vane, and said, "What are your orders, Your Worship?"
"Arrest Wilson!" cried the young governor, excitedly. "He started it."
Underhill shrugged. "I know he did, sir. And I'd like nothing better. But I fear 'twouldn't do. Besides—" He glanced towards the pulpit. Mr. Wilson now sat trembling and vanquished on the step, dizzy from the final blow on the ear dealt him by the much larger and stronger Wheelwright. Nor was the latter unscathed. His nose was bleeding and he looked white and shaken.
"Captain!" called John Winthrop sharply. "What's the matter with you! Where are your guards? There's still fighting in the gallery."
"Only a bit of youthful sport, sir," said Underhill airily, flicking a blob of dust from his shining cuirass. "Taking example from their elders, as you might say."
Winthrop stiffened and turned away. Enemies. The meetinghouse was filled with enemies, and this was not the time for routing them. Mrs. Hutchinson, bending over and soothing her brother-in-law, it wasn't only Cotton she had bewitched, but Vane, Underhill and most of Boston. Still she'd not get by with it long. Any more than Roger Williams had been permitted to remain in the colony and promulgate his heresies. I've been accused of laxness and lenity, Winthrop thought. There shall be no grounds for that reproach now. He felt indomitable strength rising in him like a black winter tide. The other Bay towns were not beglamoured; when their ministers heard of Wheelwright's sermon they would know how to act, even Dudley would lend his support to the extirpation of this menace. But one must tread with care, with care and due formality, nor ever forget the hostile eyes which watched the colony from across the ocean. "Speak to them—" he murmured to Cotton, and added a suggestion to which the minister replied, shaking his head, "Aye—but this is appalling—appalling, Mr. Winthrop, I beg you to believe I'd no idea that Wheelwright would sermonize like that—the Lord help us all."
Cotton mounted the pulpit, and spreading wide his arms, looked down with deep sorrow at the congregation which gradually stilled. He prayed then, simply and fervently, asking God to heal the breech between them. And he ended by following Winthrop's suggestion, saying that he knew a ship was shortly to set forth for England, and that perhaps some of its passengers were in the meetinghouse today. If so, he commanded that they keep quiet about the lamentable differences that had arisen, and simply say if they were asked about any strife in Massachusetts, that it was not strife; only different ways of magnifying the Grace of God.
"One party," said Mr. Cotton, his beautiful voice ringing to the rafters, "is but seeking to advance the grace of God within us, while the other seeks to advance the grace of God towards us, and so there is no need for conflict."
So great was Mr. Cotton's eloquence that they all filed out quietly, half convinced that the extraordinary scenes they had witnessed never happened, and even Elizabeth was under Cotton's spell until the cold air cleared her wits and she thought with sudden revulsion, But what does all that really mean? And thought too that the grace of God, whatever that was, either inside or outside, had very little to do with the clashing angers of its proponents.
But metaphysical intricacies could never long hold her interest. As she walked through the snow down the High Street with Margaret who was still near to tears, Elizabeth reviewed the feelings she had had in the meetinghouse. At first when the ministers began to fight she had been as alarmed as Margaret and the other women, but then had come an exhilaration and release, despite the shock of sudden violence. There had been satisfaction too when Uncle John's power had been flouted by Underhill. Power—for a second Elizabeth saw the whole episode as a turbulent struggle for power, regardless of the motives beneath, but then her thoughts dwindled to confusion. There was more than a desire to dominate about MR. Hutchinson. As she had tended her brother-in-law after the battle she had appeared distressed, and uncertain. Elizabeth had seen her throw Winthrop a look of pleading contrition which he had ignored. Mrs. Hutchinson's face had grown sorrowful, and yet it kept that luminous conviction. I believe she is a good woman, Elizabeth thought, and echoing Deane's youthful rashness, she added, maybe God does speak to her, how does Uncle John know?
By the time she reached home with Margaret, Elizabeth had determined to meet Mrs. Hutchinson, and talk with her, though unaware that this was the strongest impulse she had felt in a long time, since, indeed she had rushed down Boston Common on Election Day three years ago to greet Will Hallet.
It was the following Tuesday afternoon before Elizabeth found a chance to slip out of the house and go to the Hutchinsons, who lived in a mansion as large as the Winthrops' and only a block or so away on the comer of School Street and the High. John Winthrop did not approve of his womenfolk roaming the wintry streets and would certainly have stopped Elizabeth had he seen her, but he had called a meeting of all the nearby ministers for a council of war and was locked with them in his parlor. Elizabeth from her chamber window had watched them arrive on horseback, except Mr. Wilson who came first on foot from his parsonage. Hugh Peter had come from Salem with John Endecott; old Dudley with his pastor, Thomas Shepard, from Newtown; her own George Phillips from Watertown; the lean rat-faced Thomas Welde from Roxbury with his colleague, John Eliot, the Indian missionary; and others whom she didn't know. Mr. Cotton, whose true sentiments were doubtful, had not been invited.
Elizabeth bundled herself in her fur-lined cloak and pulled her hood far over her face, then ran lightly down the stairs past the shut parlor door, avoiding the kitchen where the children and servants were gathered. She had her hand on the latch when Deane jumped out from the shadows under the stairs. "And where are you sneaking off to, cousin?" he cried, chu
ckling.
"Sh-h..." she said involuntarily, glancing towards the parlor where there was a clamor of male voices; then she recovered and said haughtily, "What are you doing here? You ought to be at school!"
Deane brandished a sackful of books with a very inky hand. "That's where I'm going. What a to-do—" He hunched his shoulder towards the parlor. "All those black crows flapping about Mrs. Hutchinson, they want to jail her, and Wheelwright too."
"Deane—you've been eavesdropping," she said weakly, "and you must show more respect, and they couldn't jail Mrs. Hutchinson, why, she's gentry and she hasn't done anything bad."
Deane peered shrewdly at his cousin, whom he admired. "I believe you're sneaking off to one of her conventicles—the Lord save you if Father knew it."
Elizabeth reddened, while Deane's eyes sparkled.
"I won't tell," he said. "But you better hurry, or half Boston'll be there, and you'd be recognized."
She nodded, giving up pretense, and they went cautiously through the front door together. "Put your mask on," said Deane when they were at the garden gate. "Didn't you bring it?"
She nodded again, and pulling a black satin mask from her muff, tied it under the hood. "Everyone wore 'em in London," said Deane. "When it's cold like this, it's odd they don't much here, I guess 'cause there's so few gentlefolk."
"Deane," she said as they neared the Hutchinson doorstep, "why do you like this lady? You said you did, but you can't know her."
"Don't I though!" said the boy. Suddenly embarrassed, he stopped and began kicking at a snowbank. "Last autumn I was well—downcast—melancholic. I couldn't seem to feel at home here, and Father, he was always, always—" Deane looked up at Elizabeth and feeling sympathy, went on quickly, "Mrs. Hutchinson, she has a fine apple tree in back—I don't know why but 1—I stole some. She caught me. I thought she'd have me flogged or worse—she could've had me put in stocks. She didn't."
"What did she do?" said Elizabeth.