We journeyed on without the little sounds that have accompanied us for so long: sudden bird calls, the rustling of animals. Silence filled these woods. Only the drilling of woodpeckers echoed through the creaking trunks. The effect was eerie and not a little sinister, as if we travelled a road used only by ghosts.
The hill stood before us, a river snaking round the base of it. The settlement spread down from the summit, small houses dotting the hillside, smoke curling up from the chimneys. All around, the forest had been cut down, the land cultivated into fields. Men and women were bent upon their business: a man on a roof hammering in shingles, a woman pegging out washing, others weeding and hoeing, walking the rows, checking how the tall corn grows. The light was golden upon them and they had not noticed us. For a moment we stayed as watchers, as if after all these weeks of journeying, something was holding us back.
Then someone looked up and called out. The cry went up, taken from one person to another. Figures racing up the hillside to take the news met those coming down. Our column broke ranks. Babies and children were swept up and everyone was running, young and old, weary legs finding new strength. They met between town and forest; old friends, neighbours, relations falling upon each other to weep and praise God together.
I stayed with Tobias and Jonah. We stood back and kept to watching. There was no-one to greet us, no-one to meet us. The Indian boy and his grandfather also hung back. They were looking towards the township when the old man muttered something in his own language. It sounded like a prayer, but could have been a curse. I had no way of knowing. He nodded once to Jonah and then they turned, stealing off into the forest as quietly as they had come.
g
Settlement
Entry 44 (August 1659)
Not all is joy, not all rejoicing. Martha finds one sister in the Burying Ground and the other much changed. Little Annie has become Mistress Anne Francis, married to Ezekiel Francis, one of the chief Selectmen. At home, according to Martha, Ezekiel Francis was not much above a hired man, but here he owns a deal of land. He is one of the chief men of the town and it is clear that Mistress Anne looks forward to her sister acting as servant with me thrown in as a make-weight.
‘I did not cross the ocean for that. You, neither. I thought all were free here,’ Martha tells me.
Jonah says we can go in with him and Tobias. Martha can keep house, but she will get equal shares, which sounds fair. Neither of us wants to end up as a servant. Martha’s sister is not best pleased, but there is nothing she can do about it.
Others, too, find disappointment. John Rivers hoped to find his brothers here, only to be told that they have moved on. When he asks where, the townsmen do not know. When he asks why, they just shrug their shoulders and tell him: ‘This is not the place for everyone.’
Sarah has found kin here, her sister and brother-in-law are high placed in the town, but it seemed for a time that the Rivers might move on. In the end they decide to stay. Sarah argues that they cannot wander the Colony forever, searching for John’s brothers. She is weary of travelling, the children need a home building. They will not want for land here, there is plenty for those who are willing to work it. Rebekah tells me her father is still not entirely happy. He is a deep-thinking man who likes to have answers. His brothers knew he was coming. It bothers him that they should have left without waiting, without leaving word. But it is late in the season, and where they have gone, there is no way of knowing. His wife and Rebekah persuade him to stay.
I am glad of it. Rebekah is the only true friend I have ever had, and I would miss her. Tobias says little, but I know that he would miss her, too.
Entry 45 (September 1659)
The Vanes and others have families to help them build for the winter. The Vanes live in a compound that’s near a village of its own, ruled over by Jethro Vane who is an important townsman and leader of the clan. He is a greedy man and quarrelsome. He has already disputed some of the land given to us. His title appears on no map, so his claim cannot be upheld, but that does not stop him complaining. He owns a great many evil-tempered hogs who wander where they will. I think he sets them loose deliberately for they trample ground that Martha has set aside for a garden. Tobias has promised to build a fence to keep them out, until then it is one of my jobs to drive them off.
Having no kin to help us, we must shift for ourselves, and there is much work to be done. We have little time to build houses. Two months, three at the most, before winter comes. The land allotted is generous, but some has to be cleared from the forest and the rest has to be broken and ploughed.
There is much to do, but no-one can work on Sunday. The Sabbath is strictly kept. ‘Six days shalt thou labour, and do all thy work: But the seventh day is the Sabbath of the Lord thy God: in it thou shalt not do any work.’
They keep the Lord’s time here. On Sundays, no work can be done, no fires lit, no cooking, animals must forage for themselves. Much of the day is spent in the Meeting House on top of the hill. All roads lead to it like the spokes of a wheel. It is the most impressive building in the town. Square built, facing south, with a four-sided roof and a central turret. It is set on a platform of stone slabs, massive and time-worn. They hold the building off the ground. Stone steps wedged one on top of another lead up to the doors.
The walls are rough unpainted clapboard; the bounty heads of wolves are nailed to one side of it. They are nailed in an irregular row, their blood staining the wood with beards of rust and crimson. They are there to remind us of the dangers that lurk in the forest, and to show the wolves who’s master here. For some reason, they fascinate me. I’ve never seen a wolf, alive or dead. These are very dead. Some are rotted to matted lumps, weathered and maggot-eaten beyond recognition. Others are fresh and still retain some of their awesome fierceness. The fur is dry and death has dulled the staring eyes to opaque blue, but the bloody teeth still snarl defiance.
‘I got that’n.’ An old man pointed proudly when he saw me looking, then he pointed to himself. ‘Old Tom Carter. Trapped ’un good and proper.’
I know him. He lives hard by the forest. He’s nigh toothless and smells of stale liquor among much else. I thought his hut a haystack when I first saw it. It is not much more than a hovel made of mud and thatch.
‘You a new ’un?’
I nodded.
‘Ain’t I seen you in the forest?’
I nodded again. I had ventured in a few times, just to explore.
‘You keep a sharp look out then, my maid.’ He nodded towards the wolf’s head. ‘Don’t look much bigger’n a dog, do it? Don’t let that fool you. What they lack in size, they make up in savagery. Run you down and rip the throat right out of you ’fore you can make a sound.’
The door of the Meeting House is covered with notices: some new, fresh written, others old, the paper yellowed, the writing scarce readable. Wedding banns, orders, and prohibitions of which there are many.
Thou shalt not ...
The town is run in strict accordance with God’s Laws. Anyone disobeying them can find themselves in the stocks, or whipped, or having to find another place to live.
Sunday Service is attended by all, there are no exceptions. The penalty for non-attendance is expulsion. Not just from the church, but from the whole community. The sermons go on for hours. Now Elias Cornwell has come to play Aaron to Reverend Johnson’s Moses they often preach one after another. We sit in rows on wooden benches, women and children one side, men the other. We have to sit ramrod straight. Anyone slumping, anyone nodding, earns a jab in the back from a Tithingman, or a sharp rap across the head.
The Reverend Johnson is hailed as a prophet. The people who came here with him almost worship him. They hang on every word he says. His word is God’s word and God’s word is law. They often write down his sermons to read back later. I sit, head bent, scribbling away, but I write with a different purpose. The pulpit is painted with a great eye. God watches us all the time. I keep my Journal under His gaze.
T
he Reverend Johnson does look somewhat like a prophet, in that he wears his hair long, and has a great beard jutting out. Other than that, he is square built, deep-chested and thickset. He looks more like a blacksmith than a preacher. The hand he bangs down on the edge of the pulpit is thick as a ham and as hairy as a hog’s back.
I do not like him. I do not like his eyes. They are very dark, showing like holes between his tangled brows and the line of his beard, as cold and empty as musket barrels. I try to avoid them when they look in my direction. I do not want to be noticed by him.
I sit next to Martha. As newcomers we are positioned on the right, at the back, by the big double doors. This will be draughty in winter, but this place suits me. It is as near as I want to be.
Reverend Johnson’s wife and his children take the first row.
Goodwife Johnson is as thin as her husband is burly. She stands, easing her back with one hand, her face so pale as to be almost grey. Her mouth is pinched as if she is sucking lemons or fighting back nausea. Martha whispers that she might be with child and hopes not with the same breath. The children sitting in a row next to her must number ten, ranging from a girl of fourteen, or so, to little ones hardly toddling.
‘Not with that great brood she’s got already. And there’s a raft more buried in the graveyard, poor little mites.’
Martha’s whisper is hardly above a murmur, but one of the Tithingmen frowns in our direction. Martha’s sister sits in the next row from the front, along with the wives of the other Selectmen. She’s very proud of this, turning to smirk as we come in.
The Rivers, Sarah and Rebekah and the children, sit in front of us. John sits on the opposite side but near the front. Although too new to have a voice here, John Rivers is an Elder in his own church and is very much respected.
Elias Cornwell is stepping down from the pulpit. The Reverend Johnson is mounting to speak.
‘“Remember this day, in which ye came out of Egypt ... ”
‘We are God’s chosen people, just like the Israelites. Did we not suffer in the wilderness? Was our path not guided? Did we not see a beam shining down like the finger of God? Pointing out this place to us?
‘We found a hill already levelled upon which we could build our city. We came upon it famished, and were fed. We did no more than scratch the ground and good things were given in abundance so that we lived all winter and wanted not. We found meadows here, fair pastures and sweet water in abundance that man and beast may prosper.
‘All signs of God’s Providence, of His care for us. We called this place Beulah, bride of God. We wait for His coming, and, I tell you, it will not be long. For Satan has come into his kingdom. He reigns everywhere. His forces are all around us, even here in New England.’ He turns his shaggy head and bends his black brows on us, the newcomers. ‘We welcome you, our brethren, and rejoice that you come to us safe delivered, but if you thought to leave the Devil at home, then you would be wrong. If we hope for salvation, we must be ever vigilant. Know you not that the evil one is immensely strong and cunning? Know you not that the Indians are in league with him, worshipping him in their forest? His forces lurk all about, waiting in ambush in fern and thicket. They are even here among us, slithering like snakes, sly and unseen, hiding in the wainscot, like low creeping things ... ’
At last we file out, back to our half-built house. We can do no work, but I see Tobias itching for adze and saw. John Rivers, too. Jonah would rather be working in his garden, but since he cannot do that either, they stand together, hands in breeches pockets, looking at the half-built structure and the half-dug plot.
We build our houses together, side by side. As newcomers, we are given plots out from the centre, near the forest edge. Our nearest neighbour is that old man Tom Carter. We do not build like him. We build in wood. We build to last.
Tobias and John do the hard work, felling, hauling and sawing. Joseph, John’s oldest son, is thirteen now and works like a man beside his father. Sometimes others come to help them. All must have shelter before the winter. It is important for the settlement. Jonah advises on the building. The houses differ from the others on Jonah’s instruction. He orders that they be made from solid trunks squared off and fitted together with moss between the layers to fill in the cracks. He has seen this done in Bohemia. It makes the houses snug in winter.
As summer fades to autumn, we look always towards the winter, for the winters here are severe. By then the work must be done, or we will freeze to death, our animals with us. John says to build a bier for the animals close to the house, so that they have warmth and shelter. The animals would perish if left outside in field or forest, and they will be easy to get to when the snow is deep and even to step outside the door will be a test to be endured.
Aside from Martha’s chickens, which lay well and prosper, we have a cow now, and swine. Tobias has traded some of his spare tools and Jonah is an apothecary. As there is no doctor here, people have begun to come to him for treatment and they pay him in kind.
Entry 46
Our time has been filled to brimming with work and still more work, but now the Rivers’ house is finished. We all live crammed in there together until the other one can be done.
I have begun to visit the forest to collect moss for the house building, and plants for Jonah. He and Martha are making a Physick Garden. Tobias is fencing it now to keep the hogs out and they are preparing beds for seeds and planting cuttings brought from home. Sage, thyme and rosemary are planted in pots so that they can be taken in when the frosts come; feverfew, selfheal, sorrel, tansy, peony and poppy will be sown in the spring. Jonah’s own knowledge is extensive, but he draws on Martha, writing down the things she tells him, things he didn’t know.
‘What can I tell you, my dear? I’m just a simple countrywoman,’ Martha says, feigning impatience.
‘You know much.’ Jonah’s dark eyes sparkle. ‘More than many a London Doctor of Physick.’
Martha demurs and blushes, telling him to go his ways, but I can tell she is flattered by his praise. She is keen to help him and has a great store of lore, learnt from her mother and her mother before her, but no-one has ever written it down before.
Jonah intends to make a book: Jonah Morse’s Compleat Herbal and Historie of Plants of the Old World and New. At present this is just a great chaos of papers kept in pasteboard covers. He has been taking plants, drawing and describing them, listing their properties, all his life. He has done this in every country he has visited, and wants to collect here, too.
He wanders the forest, and I go with him. We go by instinct, familiarity, or pick anything curious that might be interesting. Some plants we know already, they only differ slightly from those that grow at home. Others he knows from what the Indians told him on our way here, or plants that Mr Tradescant brought back from Virginia. For many we have no guidance, even to the naming of the plants, let alone their properties. These are the ones that interest him. He wants to be the first to record them. He wants his book to be the first to list their virtues and uses.
‘That’s one of the reasons I came here, Mary. It is my life’s work, you see.’
Entry 47
I do not always go to the forest with Jonah. Sometimes I go alone. The seasons turn towards full autumn. The days are hot still, but the nights grow colder. Jonah is needed to help with the building which must be finished before winter comes. The woodland swells with bounty. I go in search of fruits, nuts, mushrooms, anything to add to our stock of food, and I have to confess a terrible thing. I have a very great secret. If any one discovers it, I will be punished severely.
I have taken to wearing boy’s clothing when I venture out alone in the forest.
The paths are close and small. Briar and bramble would snag on my long skirts, snatch off my bonnet, tear my bodice, so I stole a pair of Joseph’s breeches that Sarah had put by for mending, along with a cap belonging to Tobias and a stout leather jerkin of Jonah’s. I keep them hidden, wrapped in oilskin, in the middle of a hollow tr
ee.
Entry 48
Today was clear and warm and I ventured far, farther than I had been before. I wandered until past noon. It was very hot and airless under the trees and my sack was growing ever heavier. I was thinking of going back, or at least stopping for a time, when I came upon a great pond, so overhung by trees that I almost fell into it.
It looked cool by the water and I climbed down to where a great smooth rock jutted out like a sunlit platform. I reached down to scoop a drink. The water felt cold, but not chilling, and soft to the touch. I was hot, sweating under my clothes, as I seemed to have been all summer. The days are warm and we work hard. How many times have I longed for a bath? But there is so little privacy that washing more than hands and face is next to impossible.
I looked around. I had seen no-one all morning and I was miles from the village. I quickly stripped off my clothes and let myself down into the water. It felt smooth, folding round my body like dark green silk. I had no soap, but scrubbed myself as best I could, washing my hair and wringing it out. I swam to the middle and let myself float, looking up at the leaves, the sunlight through the trees. When my skin was beginning to pucker with goose-flesh, I hauled myself out and lay on the sun-soaked rock.
I must have slept, for when I woke, the sun had changed in the sky. I recollected where I was and grabbed my clothes. As I lifted the bundle, something fell from the top of it. A little bunch of leaves. The leaves had a soapy feel to them, waxy to the touch. I held them tight in my hand. They had not been there before I went into the water. Of that I was sure. I had never seen them before. How did they appear?
I looked around. There was no sign of anyone. Everything was quiet, the lake lay still as a mirror. A sudden cry made me start. It was a jay bird, that was all. The jays here are bright blue, their call softer than ours at home. I looked for the flash of colour, but saw nothing, just heard the call again. It sounded like laughter as it echoed through the silence of the woods.