Beside the Turner lad, the other guests were Mr. William Clarke, a young man who acted as steward for Jack in his absences, and an erstwhile Suffolk yeoman, John Gage, with his goodwife Amy, who was the only woman, except for servants, as yet to join the score or so of men at the new plantation.
Mr. Ward greeted Elizabeth with pleasant courtesy, and drawing his chair over to the truckle bed, expressed concern for Martha's health and quoted comforting verses from the Psalms. But after he had asked the blessing and everyone was happily spooning food from the great pewter platters onto individual wooden trenchers, he turned his ironic gaze on Amy Gage. Tire goodwife was young and comely, her apple cheeks still retained their English bloom, her hair was glossy as a chestnut, and—overawed by the grandeur of her invitation to the Winthrop home—she had dressed herself in the bridal finery with which her prosperous father had once furnished her. This included silver earrings, a lace head veil, and a yellow gown with enormous slashed sleeves. Also several cherry-colored bows and a green taffeta petticoat of which she was very proud.
Mr. Ward said nothing until the lobsters and the piglet had been all consumed, then he observed to the air in general, "How odd it is to find aping of the courtly goosedom in our simple Agawam!"
Amy Gage, not understanding this, went on eating nervously, watching from the comers of her eyes to see how Mistress Feake managed her spoon and napkin. "I see no objection to the true gentry honoring themselves with brave attire," continued the minister, "so long as they be not 'These whim-crowned shes, these fashion-fancying wits who are empty thin-brained shells and fiddling kits,' but when I see a barnyard fowl tricked out in peacock plumage, I cannot cleanse my fancy of it."
Amy understood now that she was being criticized, turned scarlet and her underlip began to quiver.
"Fie, Mr. Ward!" cried Elizabeth indignantly. "You shall not poke fun at our guest. I think the goodwife very sweetly dressed, a gay sight for this dark stormy evening. Had I brought my best clothes you would have found me as fashion-fancying!"
The minister was imperturbable. "You, Mistress, by reason of your station, may wear fine feathers if you must, I'll not say nay, though hoping never to find you amongst the squirrel-brained of your sex," he paused, and added solemnly, "frisking in frippery."
"You are hard on us, sir," said Elizabeth, suddenly joining Jack in laughter, to which Goodman Gage added a chuckle before saying to his mortified wife, "There, there, lass. Oi told ye not to deck above yourself, or parson's wit'd slice ye down, but the poor girl's been pining fur a mite o' fun. 'Tis not wot she's been used ter up here, an' thass the truth."
"Aye, it's hard for women," said Jack, glancing at Martha who was lying on the pillows with her eyes closed. "But soon Ipswich'll be a proper town. The Bradstreets are coming and young Richard Saltonstall and many more. By year's end, I hope some will push further on to the Merrimac. We must populate our land lest ill-wishers to the north should try and seize it first."
"Even so," agreed the minister, appreciatively sipping the canary Jack had broached for the occasion. "I have ever detested foreigners dwelling in my country. There is but one thing worse—toleration of divers religions." He paused again, carefully framing his words into one of the aphorisms for which he was famous. "Poly-piety is the greatest im-piety in the world, and all mixtures are pernicious."
"No doubt they are—" said Jack hastily, thinking his father would have enjoyed this minister, but himself no more inclined than Elizabeth for religious debate. "You'll not object, sir, if we sing—f confess I always doted on music and hear so little now."
"Not at all, sir," said the minister, finishing his wine. "So it be not bawdy. In fact—" he said with a sudden twinkle, looking at Elizabeth, "I'll start you one I learned myself in Bohemia, for I find it as stuffed with wisdom as a sausage with meat." He leaned back in his chair, pushed his spectacles down his nose, and peering over them, sang in a placid cracked baritone:
"The world is full of care, much like unto a bubble,
Women and care, and care and women, and women and care and trouble...
Shall I go on?"
The men roared. Gage slapped his discomfited wife on the thigh, crying, "Eh, our parson be a rare one for heckling the wenches!"
But Elizabeth tossed her head and snapped, "Nay, I'll not stand for this, Mr. Ward!" and she lifted her pure pretty voice in a madrigal she had used to sing in London.
"Away with these self-loving lads,
Whom Cupid's arrow never glads..."
The minister smiled a little and hummed the tune. Jack soon joined in, and Martha tried to, but it brought on the coughing and she lay back again watching her sister.
They sang other songs, and especially the country ballads that young Clarke and the Gages knew. The servants sang too in the kitchen, while Ned, the Indian boy Jack had taken from the Agawam tribe as servant, tried to beat time on the copper kettle. For an hour they all forgot the pelting rain and the close-pressing wilderness. Then just as Mr. Ward said, "'Tis getting late and that's enough frivolity, I shall now offer a prayer," Martha started up from the bed crying in terror, "Dear God—what's that!"
They hushed at once and all heard what her keener ears had caught—a sobbing screaming wail outside, like a woman's voice, yet inhuman and fiendish.
"'Tis a ghost—" whispered Amy Gage, grabbing her husband's arm. "Thot ridge up back's haunted, Oi knew it."
"Forfend 'tisn't ould Satan himself," said Gage, glancing fearingly at the minister, who did not hide his own unease.
"Where's The Book?' said Mr. Ward. "If it should be something devilish..."
The sobbing scream came again and nearer; they heard too the frenzied growls of the three chained wolf dogs, and a commotion in the kitchen. Ned, the Indian lad, came in. "Lion, Master!" he cried to Jack. "Lion. Gun!"
The young men all jumped at once, and grabbing muskets from the wall ran out, the minister after them, his long black robes flapping.
The three women stared at each other. Elizabeth and Amy both hurried to Martha and crowded beside her on the truckle bed. How could a lion make such a noise, Elizabeth thought, holding Martha close, and trying to keep the fear from her face. She had heard captive lions roar at the Tower zoo in London, but never a sound like this.
"'Tis a ghost—" sobbed Amy. "An evil Indian sperit, come to witch us off the land."
"Hush!" said Elizabeth sharply, because Martha was trem bling. "If 'tis a ghost—Mr. Ward's the one to lay it. Nothing'll hurt you, Matt—don't be frightened—"
The girl gave a moan and hid her face on her sister's shoulder. They heard three shots, a silence, and then the wild barking of the dogs. Jack opened the front door and strode in, his musket still smoking.
"It got the calf," he said angrily. "The doltish cowherd had left it tethered in the lot."
"WHAT did?" cried Elizabeth. "What got the calf?"
"Why, the lion, Bess. I've never seen one close, but they're like yellow panthers here. We shot, but missed. I let loose the dogs, but they themselves are so wild and fierce I know not if they'll return, nor are they trained in Ireland for aught but wolf-hunting."
"'Twas a ghost—" said Amy rocking herself back and forth. "Or a were-lion. Parson can read it out from The Book as he loikes, but Oi'm a-going ter set the charm too."
"What charm?" whispered Martha.
"Ah, 'twas what my grannie did in Polstead, when we had a sperit haunting us. Ye cotch some little ould toad—must be toads here—Oi've seen frogs—and make a cage for him wi' rowan wood—" She hesitated. "Oi've seen no rowan, but hazel'll do Oi think—then drag toad 'round the church three toimes an' bury him next churchyard wall..." She hesitated again, frowning. "We've no graves yet, nor burying place, but Oi'll ask parson where 'twill be."
Jack, cleaning his musket and worrying over the loss of the calf, paid no attention, but Elizabeth, now relieved from any supernatural fears, had a moment of amusement for Amy's struggles to adapt a Suffolk charm to the alien land.
>
"I'm sure there's no need to take such trouble, Goodwife," she said kindly.
Amy shook her head. "Oi'll not rest easy till Oi do it. Ye'll see after—we'll all breathe freer."
Amy's chance words echoed long in Elizabeth's mind. The toad charm worked, perhaps, for they heard no more horrid screams or even wolf howls, and the dogs came back clotted with blood and led Jack to the killed panther. But there was one who certainly did not breathe freer in any sense. Martha's coughing fits increased; she had a constant pain under her ribs, and of mornings, Elizabeth found her sister's sheets damp from drenching night sweats. They moved the great bedstead down to the parlor, so that Martha's care would be easier, and Elizabeth slept on the truckle beside it with Lisbet.
Jack, still not seriously disturbed about his wife, went off the first of June to Cape Ann shore where he was trying to start a much-needed saltworks for the colony. From there he went on to Boston to find his father excited over the arrival of John Humphrey and his wife, the Lady Susan, who was sister to poor Arbella and the Earl of Lincoln. Winthrop had conquered his chagrin that the aristocratic family was temporarily housed at Governor Dudley's in Newtown—after all, Dudley had known Lady Susan from childhood while he acted as steward for her brother. Moreover, Humphrey had brought news so disquieting that the general anxiety left no room for personal pride. Laud, the deadly Puritanhater, had become Archbishop of Canterbury, and the King doted on him. The Bay Colony's known enemies, Sir Ferdinando Gorges, who wished to own New England himself; Thomas Morton, the ribald exile from Merrymount, and Philip Ratcliffe with his cropped ears and his grievance, had now managed to get Laud's attention and represented to him the schismatic, treasonable behavior in Massachusetts. The formidable archbishop had flown into a passion, and vowed he would crop "King" Winthrop's ears for him. The colony's friends in London, Sir Richard Saltonstall, Emmanuel Downing and Matthew Cradock, the erstwhile Company Governor, labored all they could, and invoked the powerful Puritan lords to help, but the dangers were mounting. And Cradock, frightened at last by the uproar and threats, had written that the Charter must be sent back to England. "Which we will never do!" cried John Winthrop to his son. "Dudley and I are at one in this! The Council also."
"What will you do, sir?" asked Jack, fully aware of the menace to their freedom, and dismayed to hear that many Massachusetts-bound ships had been stayed by royal command, and others searched for fleeing and dissenting ministers.
"We'll answer Cradock courteously, and ignore the request for the Patent, as though it had not been made," said Winthrop sharply. "If they want it they must come and get it ... Son John, while you're here in Boston, I want you to help with the fortifications. We must strengthen ourselves in every way."
So Jack sent a message to Ipswich that his return was delayed, and begged Elizabeth to wait, saying that he had explained to Robert, who was well in Watertown.
On a warm pleasant day in mid-July Martha turned twenty-three, and Elizabeth helped Sally bake a special cake in celebration. This was difficult since their few fowls had all mysteriously died; the one cow was dry; and wheat flour unobtainable in Ipswich. Elizabeth did the best she could with gulls' eggs found by Ned, the Indian; cornmeal, wild honey, and a gill of goat's milk donated by Amy Gage. She decorated the cake with mauve milkweed blossoms and was delighted with Martha's pleasure. The girl seemed stronger this morning; she ate of the cake with more appetite than she had shown in a long time. "Why, you're better, poppet!" cried Elizabeth gaily. "Mayhap 'tis that hyssop and thyme I've been giving you, or could it be that on your birthday your stars have moved into a stronger sign? Edward Howes used to say something like that."
"Edward Howes," repeated Martha slowly. "How far away and long past he seems..."
"Well, he still writes to Jack. I believe he sent him those wolf dogs. What are you doing, Matt?"
"I want to get up," said the girl. "I want to get dressed and go outdoors. There's something I must do."
Elizabeth finally gave in to Martha's insistence. She helped Martha into a loose green wool gown, noting that though the little body was alarmingly thin, the belly was about the right size for the sixth month, and reminded herself that the baby had duly quickened some weeks ago, and prayed that her constant foreboding was stupid.
"Now, will you sit in the sun, dear?" Elizabeth asked. "We can put a chair by the door."
"I want to cross the river. There's a hill over there, I must get to the top!" Martha spoke with an almost frenzied urgency, and to Elizabeth's horrified protests, replied only that she was well enough, that they could take two of the lads to carry her. But go she would. Again Elizabeth reluctantly gave in. She summoned their herd from the Common where he was tending their cow and pigs, she took the Indian from his wood-chopping, and the two strong youths had no difficulty in transporting Martha. The river was only a few rods from the Winthrop house and they crossed it in a flatboat, then at Martha's direction followed a lane which eventually led to some land Jack owned and had christened Argilla Farm though so far the ground was scarcely cleared. The hill that Martha sought was much nearer the river than Argilla, but the trip was long enough, and when the young men, now puffing from their burden, reached the top Martha was exhausted. Tire men laid her on a blanket, and retired down the hill to wait.
Elizabeth, mystified and perturbed, knelt beside her sister, saying, "Matt—why did you so insist on coming here? 'Tis just a hill like any other."
"No," said Martha softly. "Look behind you, Bess."
Elizabeth turned and saw the sea. Dark, shining blue, it stretched calm and limitless to the horizon where it merged with the misty sky. Martha raised herself on her elbow and gazed out, her eyes black with yearning. "Last fall when I was strong I came here often," she said. "I used to look and look and fancy that I saw it."
"Saw what, darling?" Elizabeth took her sister's hand.
"Home," whispered Martha. "It's still there, you know—across all those endless leagues of ocean."
Elizabeth caught her breath and her throat grew tight.
"Once as I watched, a ship went by to the north," continued the soft expressionless voice. "It was bound for England ... I did a silly thing. D'you remember, Bess—the fern seed? The fairy tales Grandfather used to tell us? There was a clump of fern growing right by this rock. I scraped off the seeds, and put them in my shoes—and I wished—wished. For a trice I thought it worked. The ship seemed to stop, I thought she was turning to come here for me, but she didn't. She sailed on and vanished." Martha sank back on the blanket. "It was foolish, but that's why I called this Heartbreak Hill."
Elizabeth exhaled a long trembling breath, "Oh, Matt—" she whispered, blinded by tears. "Why didn't you tell Jack? He thinks you contented now, and so did I."
"What use?" said Martha in the same remote and patient tone. "I think all my life I've known it would end thus. Bess, don't cry," she said in sudden wonder sitting up and looking at her sister. "Don't you see—you must always be strong. It's such as you who'll go on, and endure, and found this land. To your children it will be home."
"And to yours," said Elizabeth violently.
Martha shook her head. "I am made of cobweb that tears at a touch. But you, Bess, have fiber like the great seines that seldom break no matter their burden, yet if they do they can be mended again and again."
They were silent. Elizabeth bent her head, unable to look at the little sister, who now seemed so far away and wise. A squirrel chattered in the elm behind them, the sunlight shifted and dappled the blanket on which Martha lay, and she spoke again. "Bess, I've done much wrong. I knew it long ago and would not see. I made Jack marry me. I've been a drag on him. He always loved you. You and he would have been happy. And now it's too late."
Elizabeth jerked up her head. "It was always too late! Martha, you shall not talk nonsense. Come, dear!" she cried, jumping up. "Don't be morbid and fanciful. I'll call the men, and we'll go back for you to rest. Soon you'll have your baby, and be well."
; Martha looked up at her sister with a tired smile. "Aye, call the men," she said. Her eyes moved slowly past Elizabeth and rested on the sea.
That night, as she was settling to sleep, Martha had a paroxysm of coughing worse than any before, and at the end blood gushed from her mouth and soaked the pillow. Two days later, Jack came home, and could not help seeing the change in his wife. He grew tight-lipped and silent. He inquired minutely into all the remedies that Elizabeth had used, then took his chest of chirurgery to the barn and compounded stronger medicines from the contents of his vials. He stayed with Martha now, telling her of what had passed in Boston, and of the loving messages that Margaret sent. She had been safely delivered of a little daughter, christened Sarah, and said she longed to see Martha's babe and hers together. "She said how strange it was that once she and Bess had babes at the same time, and now 'tis you, Matt, love."
Martha smiled, squeezing his hand feebly.
Four days later, labor pains began. Jack and Elizabeth worked together to ease the tortured body all they could. Amy Gage came to help, and Anne Bradstreet who had lately arrived in Ipswich. At last they called Mr. Ward who stood beside the bed praying, and reciting psalms in a low compassionate voice, which seemed to soothe Martha. The tiny girl was born, and never breathed. Two hours later Martha opened her eyes which had been wild as those of a snared beast, but now she raised herself and looked up at her husband and sister. "I longed to leave—" she said almost with amusement, "But now I know I shall remain in the new land—God wills it so." She gasped. The warm blood gushed up in her throat, and she fell back on the pillow.