i b8cff8977b3b1bd2 (23 page)

“Harry! You’re cruel!” Elizabeth cried, starting from the bed. “There, there Matkin - ’tis not bad as all that!” She put her arm around her sister, forgetting everything but the terrified stricken look in the brown eyes that had been so joyous a moment before.

“You mean Uncle John will forbid us?” the girl murmured, shrinking into herself. “He won’t want me for Jack? Aye, of course he won’t! How could he? What a dolt I was. And no doubt Jack didn’t really mean to wed me, he was but being gallant.” All her hard-won confidence had vanished. She turned away from Elizabeth, and dragged over to the window, where she rested her forehead against the panes.

“Oh, come now, Matt!” Harry cried with some contrition. Martha was far too small, pale, and wambly for his personal taste, but he was fond enough of her, when he noticed her. “You needn’t sag like a punctured pig’s bladder! Jack’ll talk Father round in time, I shouldn’t wonder, if need be the same way I got Bess.”

“If he really wants to,” Martha whispered, scarcely listening. “But I am not Bess.” She turned and looked at her sister, dimly hearing as she spoke that her words held deeper meaning than she had known, and she felt an added thrust of bewildered pain. She looked quickly away from Elizabeth - the elder one, the strong one, the beautiful one, who had surely never known defeat.

Elizabeth saw the stiffening, and knew the miserable barrier that had risen between them. “ ‘Twill be all right, darling,” she said with effort. “You’ll be very happy, Mattie, you’ll see,” and she kissed her.

Martha responded a little, but there was still a shrunken look about her as she walked out the door. Harry returned to his shaving and began to sing:

“Troll the bowl, the nut brown bowl,
And here’s hind mate to thee!
Let’s sing a dirge for St. Hugh’s soul,
And down it merrily.

Down-a-down, hey, down-a-down
Hey derry derry down-a-down!
Ho! Well done, to me let come,
Ring compass, gentle joy!”

“You’re in high fettle,” observed Elizabeth bleakly as he sluiced his face and head, emerged with yellow curls dripping, and his face ruddy.

“Why not, my sweet? Jack’s love affair amuses me. Life amuses me, I’m strong and I’m young. I’ve a fair wife - ” he blew her a kiss, “who is plumped as a plum by my fair son - and I’m off to the Fox for a wet of March beer!” This afternoon visit to the local tavern near Groton Church had become invariable since Peyto was no longer there to provide strong spirits. And the landlord extended willing credit to a Winthrop,

“Wait,” she said, putting her hand on his wrist. Harry, who had been adjusting his sword belt over his black satin doublet, looked at her with surprise. “For what, my pet?”

“Harry - ” she said, her hand tightening on his wrist. “How soon will you be leaving with your father and the little boys? Leaving for good, I mean.”

“Oh,” he put his arm around her, “ ‘twill be soon, dear heart. Ten days at most. The
Arbella’s
ready now at Hampton, you know. But think not on that - we’ll have merry times yet together.”

“Don’t go I” she cried in sudden anguish. “Harry, don’t leave me here! Make some excuse. Don’t leave me here with
them
!”

“With them?” he repeated, stroking her hair and frowning. He had never heard her so desperate and wild.

“Jack and Martha.” She buried her head on his breast and clung to him frantically. “I couldn’t bear it”

Harry took her by the shoulders and pushed her away from him. He lifted her convulsed face and stared at her.
“What
couldn’t you bear?” he said sharply. “What am I to understand by that?” His blue eyes had gone hard as turquoises and they held an ugly light she had never seen.

“Nothing,” she faltered, while an inner voice whispered: You fool! What havoc are you trying to make? She drew a harsh breath, and said more calmly, “I mean nothing, Harry, except that bereft of
my
husband I am weak enough to flinch from the sight of other happy lovers. What else could you think?”

His grip on her loosened, the glint faded slowly from his eyes as he relinquished the extraordinary suspicion which had suddenly assailed him. “Aye, I see,” he said at last, and in the saying convinced himself. All the more so because he could not imagine a woman to whom he had taught the arts of love preferring Jack or indeed any other man. “But I cannot stay here, my poor sweet,” he said. “Be reasonable, we’ve had this all before. I’m for New England with my father. As for those two - whether they wed or not, you’ll ne’er notice them, once you’ve our babe to dandle!” He flicked his lace-edged cuffs and seized his black-plumed hat. “Come - no more moping! Smile for me, Bess...”

She moistened her lips and lifted their corners a trifle. He kissed her lightly on the mouth and went out the door singing, “Oh, troll the bowl, the nut-brown bowl.”

John Winthrop could stay but a few days at Groton, and on February 26 there came the last farewells. At eight of a cold grey morning, the entire family assembled in the Manor courtyard where three horses awaited, and two farm carts piled high with chests and last-minute provisions. The bulk of the Governor’s goods and servants had been sent on their way days ago.

While the women, Winthrop, and Jack himself, still observed the full year’s mourning for Thomas Fones and old Mistress Winthrop, the rule had been relaxed for Harry and the small boys, Stephen and Adam. These latter all had new clothes for the journey.

Harry was handsome as a hawfinch in his long ruddy-brown jacket, his slate-blue cape and broad-plumed hat. His new Cordovan leather boots had been made by Reynolds, the Boxford cordwainer, and were cut with swagger. Winthrop had not begrudged the money for this finery, so long as it was practical - the gentry must dress according to their rank - and he himself had a store of elaborate lace-edged ruffs and shoe-buckles of glittering silver and steel. Stephen and Adam were both gay in Lincoln green and Margaret could not bear to look at them as they cavorted around the horses, squealing with excitement. She had wept last night in John’s arms, and he had been supremely tender. His own tears had flowed as he tried to comfort her with the words and promises of God. I’ll not break down again now, Margaret thought - but dear Lord they are so young, my little lads - if I should never sec them more - and John. He came up to her then as she stood on the steps between Elizabeth and Mary. Martha had withdrawn to a corner by the mounting post

“It is time, my own dear heart,” said Winthrop softly, kissing Margaret on the cheek. “If we meet not here on earth again, we shall do so in heaven. Remember Mondays and Fridays at five, as I shall”

“Yes - yes - ” said Margaret, trying to smile, and thinking how little people knew her John who thought him severe, for they had made a pact to commune with each other in spirit at these hours, no matter the distance that separated them. “Farewell,” she whispered, “I can’t say more.”

He squeezed her hand, and kissed each member of his family; the seven-year-old Deane, the baby Samuel, Forth and Mary, Elizabeth, and, after the slightest hesitation - Martha, who responded with a muffled “God be with you, sir.” At no time had her uncle mentioned her betrothal to Jack, but Jack had told her of his promise to wait and soothed her with evidences of affection, so that she had been reassured. Jack too was leaving now to accompany his father as far as London, and though this separation could not compare with that of Elizabeth and Harry, or the elder Winthrops, she was much downcast, for Jack seemed to have forgotten her while he and Harry greeted the relatives and neighbours and tenants who were flocking into the courtyard for the good-speedings.

A watery sun blinked over the Manor’s mossy roof tiles when Winthrop, having shaken all the well-wishing hands, gave the signal to mount.

Harry dashed up to Elizabeth and enfolded her in a hug. “Be good and patient, sweetheart!” he cried gaily. “I’ll send for you before you know it, and mind you give me a fine bouncing son!”

He chucked her under the chin and strode off to his horse. She watched him with dull misery. They had made love last night, and she had wept then. Now she was dry-eyed, but as the little cavalcade and carts started from the courtyard, she hurried down the steps and called,
“Harry! Harry!”

In the din and confusion he did not hear her. She drew back against the house wall. What had she meant by that cry? Not to keep him here, for that would be impossible, not a plea for one last word, they had said all there was to say between them, and never had that been much. The cry had come from some unplumbed depths, and she knew there had been fear in it.

The others ran out on the road watching and waving until Harry’s tall blue-caped figure disappeared last of all around the bend to Boxford, but Elizabeth returned to Margaret, and found her crumpled on the great chest in the entry. She sat down heavily beside Margaret and put her arm around her. The two women leaned against each other a long time without speaking.

On Saturday, April 10 of that year 1630, Governor John Winthrop stood with several others on the swaying poop deck of the
Arbella
and looked his last at England. Far to the north, Cornwall faded on the dipping horizon, and the great dark cliffs of the Lizard merged into an increasingly foggy sky.

“We are truly on the way at last - ” said Winthrop solemnly. He turned with his air of command to the lean, earnest minister who Stood beside him. “Mr. Phillips, be good enough to pray for us!”

“Yes,” agreed the Lady Arbella, sighing. She sat on a small walnut armchair which was nailed to the deck and had been carved with her family coat of arms. From her ermine hood her pale face strained back towards England.

Young Anne Bradstreet, who sat beside Arbella on a stool, could not hide her tears. They ran down the faintly pitted skin. In Anne’s mind verses began to form themselves as always when she sought comfort. “Be still thou unregenerate part. Disturb no more my settled heart” - and she thought of her husband whom she loved, and wished he had come on deck. But Simon Bradstreet had disappeared with William Coddington and Isaac Johnson to quell some fight amongst the servants in the fo’castle. Anne’s father, Thomas Dudley, was confined to his cabin with a sharp attack of gout, while many of the other passengers, like Sir Richard Saltonstall and most of the women, lay in their bunks retching with seasickness. Though they had been near a fortnight on board, contrary winds and minor mishaps had so delayed them near the Isle of Wight that until now they had always been in sight of land, and even had opportunity to disembark at times.

A few minutes ago Captain Peter Milbourne had summoned to the poop deck those of his top-ranking passengers who were able

“ ‘Tis farewell for sartin, this time, my lady, and Sir Governor...” he boomed cheerfully, squinting his keen salt-bleached eyes towards the vanishing shore, then quickly up at his taut sails. “We’ll soon be past the Scillies. After, there’s naught ‘twixt us and your Promised Land but three thousand mile o’ water, and - if God be willing - ” he interpolated this in deference to these Puritan folk, though he was
none himself, “a run o’ codfish off the Banks. We’ll have need o’ them beasties, I’ll warrant I” He bowed and stamped off to his quarters, for a noggin of rum and another glance at his chart and cross-staff.

The minister, George Phillips, did not at once respond to Winthrop’s request for prayer. He was a gaunt little man like a whippet, with eyes grown myopic from much learned reading. As he stood watching the blur of England slide below the waves, he knew a bleak misgiving. I’ll not be at the Governor’s beck and call, he thought, and I shall hold him to the spirit of “The Humble Request” we wrote at Yarmouth. “Aye - ” he said at length, smiling faintly at Lady Arbella. “I
will
pray that God guide our perilous journey, but now that our last link with that dear land of our birth is gone, I would first remind us that we go not like those invidious Separatists who wrangle and rant at Plymouth Colony in the New World. For we will never forget the Church of England, our dear Mother, from whence we rise, and we go forth but for the enlargement of her bounds in the Kingdom of Christ Jesus, and I will pray in the exact words of our prayer book. ‘O Eternal God, who alone spreadest out the heavens, and rulest the raging of the Sea, we commend to thy almighty protection . . .”

When he had finished, Winthrop said “Amen” with the others, though annoyed that the only minister on board the
Arbella
should be laggard in extempore praying, and at once more independent and yet hidebound by the old forms than had appeared before sailing. Still, there was no help for it now, and John’s heart was oppressed by other matters. Not only the poignant visions of home they were all having - he thought of Margaret, seeing her in the Manor garden near the mulberry tree, wondering if the babe were delivered yet - but he had another carking worry. They were two passengers short on the
Arbella.

While the fleet had yet lingered at the Isle of Wight, John had sent Harry ashore with a young man called William Pelham to locate some missing cattle which should have been delivered to the ship. In due course the cattle arrived but neither Harry nor Pelham did. And a servant later reported that the young men, thinking there was plenty of time before sailing, had gone back to Southampton. Each day John had waited, but there was no sign of Harry, and the
Arbella
had finally left without him.

“You look dejected, sir,” said Lady Arbella gently, gazing at the black-caped Governor, whose firm mouth was drooping between the small chestnut moustache and pointed beard, and whose heavy lids veiled his eyes. “You’ve left so many dear to you at home - nay I mean in England - for we must call the
new
land home now - ’tis hard to be resolute - but think as I do of the wondrous farewell sermon Master John Cotton preached us at Southampton. We will be heartened by God like the children of Israel.”

Winthrop started, and took the stool Anne Bradstreet had just vacated. “And indeed you hearten us all, my lady,” John said fervently. “I fear I was thinking of my son Henry - what has become of him - though well I suspect.” His lips tightened.