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“How happy they’ll be to see us!” cried the Lady Arbella, leaning against the rail in her rustling blue taffeta dress, “and to know we’ve brought the
Charter
!”

Winthrop bowed to her and smiled. His heart swelled with pride and thanksgiving. “Praise God that we have come here safe!” he cried impulsively, “and that it seems such a fair, goodly country.”

They all assented: Lady Arbella, Isaac Johnson, and Thomas Dudley, who stood slightly apart with his wife and children. George Phillips and the Boston merchant, William Coddington, stood together with the other Company assistants, Sir Richard Saltonstall, and Increase Nowell, all gazing with excitement at the shore.

“O give thanks unto the Lord, for He hath led his children to the Land of Canaan, where milk and honey flow,” said Phillips solemnly.

But it very soon developed that neither milk nor honey flowed at Salem. When Endecott and his minister, Mr. Skelton, had boarded the
Arbella
they were sparing of their welcome speeches, nor had Endecott bothered to change a stained leather jerkin and frayed shirt. He made slight obeisance to the new Governor who ousted him, and seemed preoccupied as he invited Winthrop and the principal gentlemen on shore. As soon as they had landed, Endecott led the way up a muddy path to a one-and-a-half-room timber house floored with packed earth, which was the largest Salem afforded. “ ‘Tis the best we have,” he said in answer to Dudley’s look of dismay.

Endecott was a big pompous man of Winthrop’s own age. He had a forked grizzled beard and a grim fanatical eye which never softened. He was a man who did his duty and had a horror of episcopacy so intense that even Winthrop was startled. Conference with Endecott and Salem’s two ministers, Skelton and Higginson, soon showed John that Salem’s religious views had in two years grown far closer to those of the Separatists at Plymouth than
to the reforming Anglican spirit Winthrop and his company professed. But there were more critical matters even than religion to be dealt with.

Endecott fed Winthrop and his assistants a good venison pasty and some beer, and when they expressed their thanks, said “Aye, ‘tis a change from sea fare, but not to mince matters, Sir Governor, that’s the end of it. We’re well nigh starving here, and you mustn’t think to stay. We can’t feed our own, and now you tell me you’ve scant provision left. You must find some other part of the Massachusetts to plant in with the great company you’re bringing.”

“I intended to,” said Winthrop stiffly after a moment. “Well set off down the coast at once. I see you’ve no room here.”

“We’ve sickness too,” said Endecott. “There’s not three sound folk in my town; if they’re not coughing and sweating, they’re puking and purging, and a fair lot of ‘em want to go back to England when your ships leave.”

“You’re something gloomy, Mr. Endecott,” said Isaac Johnson, his fresh boyish face darkening. “I trust you’re not of those who would leave.”

Endecott shrugged his massive shoulders. “I’ve no love for England. I’ll do my best here, if I’m spared. But you’ll find it naught so easy to settle in this Devil-scourged wilderness.”

“Nevertheless - ” said Winthrop rising, and putting on his hat, “I intend to do so.” He bowed and walked with the others down the muddy track to the dock and the
Arbella.

On July 6, John Winthrop sat in his private bark wigwam at Charlestown on the Mystic River, writing home-bound letters for which Captain Peirce, Master of the
Lyon,
was waiting.

It was hot in the hastily built wigwam, but hotter yet outside, where the sun glared down as it had for days, and never did in England. John wiped his face on a small linen towel, and tried to marshal his thoughts. There was a crowd of people milling as usual outside, desirous of interviews; some were discontented settlers who were tired of existing on mussels, wild berries, and Indian corn, and many had constant belly gripes which Chariestown’s brackish water augmented.

There were also four Indians whose frame of mind was not yet apparent except that they felt they owned the land hereabouts, and wished to know how long the English intended to camp here in their Mishawam. Two of these Indians were called John and James Sagamore, and with them was the chief of the Neponsetts, Chickatabot. They were tall, smelly bucks who wore nothing but red or yellow paint, turkey feathers in their scalp-locks, and deerskin breech-clouts. The fourth Indian was oddly enough a forceful woman, known as Squaw Sachem. She had a string of the valuable purple wampum around her thick neck, owned considerable land, and gave herself airs. All four squatted outside the wigwam, peering curiously at the scowling English, and greedily guzzling the precious beer Winthrop had ordered his servants to give them.

John dipped his pen and wrote on. Just within the canvas door Captain William Peirce, ablest of all the master mariners, stood gazing out to sea while he smoked his pipe and wished the Governor would hurry with the letters. The
Lyon
must set forth at once if she were to fetch the provisions from England so urgently needed, and return before the winter storms began.

And I know not what the poor gawks’ll do whilst I’m gone, Peirce thought, looking at the Governor with pity. The English did not seem to be able to live off the land as the Indians did, and most of the farmers and artisans in the fleet were poor huntsmen too. Many of Winthrop’s company were sick of the scurvy and flux, the water supply at Charlestown was poor. It was obvious, as the ships straggled in, that so many people could not exist on this barren peninsula. Already Sir Richard Saltonstall and the minister, George Phillips, had gone up the Charles and found a new location which Sir Richard called Watertown. While Isaac Johnson had rowed across the river to explore the queer three-hilled peninsula called Shawmut, where lived - they said - a mad or eccentric Englishman who was probably bewitched.

In truth I believe they’re all bewitched, Peirce thought, to leave their good homes and risk their lives in this heathen wilderness. But that was none of his business - his was to ferry them across in his staunch little
Lyon,
a job which he had done excellently for seven years now. He straightened, suddenly peering over the heads of the squatting Indians.

“Ship’s just ‘ove in sight, sir!”

“Oh?” said Winthrop, raising his head. Each day since arrival at Charlestown the ships had been coming, after touching at Salem for directions. The
Mayflower,
the
Whale,
the
Hopewell,
the
Trial,
the
Success,
the
William and Francis,
and at each landing Winthrop had questioned the passengers about Harry. Will Pelham from the
Mayflower
told where he’d last seen him in Southampton, but that was all.

“ ‘Tis the
Talbot,
sir!” said Captain Peirce triumphantly, knowing how eagerly Winthrop awaited this particular ship, which was long overdue. Winthrop jumped up and stood in the doorway beside Peirce. “ ‘Er flag also is at half-mast,” Peirce added sadly.

There had been deaths on nearly all the ships, not only human deaths, but what had come to seem almost as bad since it imperilled those who survived - heavy loss of cattle, the precious cows, sheep, and goats which were to start the new stock, and supply food through the winter.

Winthrop returned to his letters. “When they land send them here.”‘ He had checked his first impulse to rush down to the shore. If Harry were indeed on board he was not to be forgiven so easily.

Captain Peirce went off, followed by the Indians, who were still fascinated by these monstrous, white-winged floating birds, and soon joined by the Winthrop lads, Stephen and Adam, who were equally attracted by the Indians.

Winthrop wrote on to Margaret:

Blessed be the Lord, our good God and mercifull father, that hath yet preserved me in life and health to salute thee, and to comfort thy longing heart, with the joyful news of my welfare, and the welfare of thy beloved children ...”

when he heard a low, shocked murmur of voices outside, and the heavy tread of measured footsteps.

He put his pen down and waited, while his heartbeats slowed. A black-haired soldier in a cuirass stepped through the doorway, saying, “By your leave, Your Worship.” He held his helmet against his chest and bowed. “I am Captain John Underhill from the Netherlands reporting for your service according to the agreement.”

“Ah yes, Captain, welcome. You came on the
Talbot?
And Captain Daniel Patrick? And your wives?”

“They are all here.’’ Underhill usually had a handsome mobile face, quick to laugh or frown, and was something of a dandy, with small clipped moustache and pomaded hair. But now he was unshaven, his hair unkempt, and his dark eyes held only a painful reluctance.

“Your Worship, I have bad news - ” he said staring at the earthen floor.

Winthrop’s hand tightened on the pen. “You lost many on the
Talbot?

“Fourteen at sea, sir - and - and one other.”

“One other - ” repeated Winthrop in a whisper. The pen dropped and fell oft’ the table. “You mean something, Captain,” he said steadily. “Who was this other?”

The Captain glanced at his Governor, and back to the floor. “Your son Henry - sir. And it is near the greatest grief I’ve known that I must say so. We were fond of him, Patrick and I. He was a fine lad.”

Winthrop drew a sharp breath, and bowed his head on his clenched fists. Underhill heard the low sounds of stifled prayer, and though he was no man for religion his eyes misted. Harry’s death had been so sudden and so senseless; they had stood like stones, he and Patrick, on the river bank, helpless as it happened, though both had rushed in Later for the grappling.

“How was it?” asked the Governor in a wooden voice.

“Four days ago, sir, when we touched at Salem, it was mortal hot. We went for a bit of a stroll along the North River, and across it saw one of these Indian canoes. Master Harry, he was merry at being on land, and he laughed and said ‘twas like some the Caribs had at Barbadoes. “I’ll get it for us!’ he cried, ‘and show you rare sport!’ He was the only one of us to swim, having learned in the Indies. He wouldn’t listen to us. He plunged in as he was, except for his boots, and we thought he’d make it - but the water was cold, and he overhot.” Underhill paused.

“Overhot with brandy too . . .” murmured Winthrop, closing his eyes. “Oh, my son Henry, my son Henry - poor child - ” His voice broke.

Underhill turned away. “He sank like a plummet, sir, in the middle of the river . . . but later - too late - we found him.”

“You’ve brought him here then ...?”

The Captain nodded slowly and gestured towards the outside. Winthrop lifted the canvas flap and saw the raw pine box resting on the ground beside a sandy bank of scrub oak.

“Thank you, Captain,” said Winthrop. “I know you did what you could ... find and bring to me Mr. Wilson, the minister, if you please, - and tell - tell the Indians I will receive them presently.”

John Winthrop did not finish his letter to his wife. He wrote instead to Emmanuel Downing by the
Lyon,
and held Margaret’s letter for another ship.

It was on Michaelmas Day, September 29, that Emmanuel Downing and his manservant trotted through Boxford, noting despite the melancholy of their journey that the church was being decorated for the Harvest Festival. Lads and lasses were nailing sheaves of grains upon the door, a cartful of garden stuff and fruit was drawn up by the lych gate, awaiting ornamental distribution along the nave and through the chancel. As Downing pursued the road to Groton, he encountered a procession of tenants plodding towards the Manor with their rents - many of them in kind; lambs, fat geese, barrels of apples, or sacks of barley.

At least the harvest’s been good, he thought, no matter the other trials, - which included Winthrop’s mounting debts. And the Manor, through some legal oversight in Winthrop’s method of conveyance, had not yet sold. A bungling matter, thought his brother-in-law, sighing and reining in his horse, for all John’s training he had scant head for business. And yet a stubborn man of vision who let naught daunt him.

Downing turned his horse through the Manor gates and saw a happy party on the lawn. Everyone in the house was nutting, as was the custom on this day. The manservants flailed and shook the four magnificent walnut trees that stood near the garden well, while the children and maids capered beneath, gathering the crops in sacks, cracking and eating as many as they gathered. Martha, Mary, and Elizabeth were also nutting, and Emmanuel paused to admire. The three girls made a charming picture of youth in their bright-coloured clothes - especially Elizabeth in a new saffron gown, girdled tight around a waist even slenderer than it used to be, though her bosom was fuller, and her skirt, kilted up like a milkmaid’s, showed off her pretty ankles. Downing stared at her appreciatively, seeing the vivid rose of her cheeks, the glossiness of her black ringlets. Poor lass, he thought, mindful of his tragic errand - ah well - she’ll have no trouble finding the next one.

He dismounted heavily, having grown stouter of late, and walked to the bench by the garden well, where Margaret was placidly mending linen while she kept an eye on the two babies in their cradles. She rose to meet him with a cry of delighted astonishment.

“Why, Brother Downing, what brings you here from London to our great pleasure?” She had no thought of trouble, because Forth, still in Exeter, had written that a ship at Bristol had brought news of the Governor’s safe landing with all his party. The whole family had held Thanksgiving in Groton Church. “You’ve brought letters, at last?” she cried, her plump face glowing. “We so long for them!”

“A letter - ” said Downing slowly, and at her sudden look of alarm, added, “Oh, Brother John is well, and your little boys, fear not, but - ” he glanced at the nutting party which had not yet noticed him - ”where’s Jack?” he asked, shrinking from his task and knowing that his nephew’s notable tact might make it easier. “Receiving rents in the Hall, I believe, or physicking one of the horses - he has so much to do - and I don’t know how we’d manage without him - but what
is
it, Brother?”