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He did however record the Patrick death in his journal, with his own characteristic emendations:

Captain Patrick was killed at Stamford by a Dutchman, who shot him dead with a pistol. This captain was entertained by us out of Holland (where he was a common soldier of the Prince’s guard) to exercise our men. We made him a captain and maintained him . . . But he grew very proud and vicious, for though he had a wife of his own, a good Dutch woman and comely, yet he despised her and followed after other women; and perceiving that he was discovered, and that such evil courses would not be endured here, and being withal of a vain and unsettled disposition, he went from us, and sat down within twenty miles of the Dutch, and put himself under their protection, and joined to their church without being dismissed from Watertown; but when the Indians arose in those parts he fled to Stamford and there was slain. The Dutchman who killed him was apprehended but made an escape. And this was the fruit of his wicked course and breach of covenant with his wife, with the church and with that state who had called him and maintained him, and he found his death from that hand where he sought protection.

It is observable that he was killed upon the Lord’s Day in the time of afternoon exercise...

Margaret, who prayed often for Elizabeth, worried about conditions down there in Dutch country where the Indians were doing such fearful things, like massacring the Hutchinson family. John saw that particular tragedy as the natural end-result of Mrs. Hutchinson’s heresies and her excommunication. Margaret never doubted that he was right, yet she could not exclude pity, nor anxiety for Elizabeth, no matter how many of her niece’s afflictions were also sent by a just God as chastisement.

Even Lucy Downing, when she heard of Daniel’s death, wrote John Winthrop a letter about Elizabeth saying:

I have not had opertunity to writ to her since she leeft the Bay, not have I heard of her but by others, and that only which was not like to be for her good, or our comfort. And now I hear Patricke is cut off, which makes me hope that by the use of some good means theer might be more hopes to reduce her . . . every one is not hir mother’s childe, theerfore I am thus bould . . .

This last sentence, with its nostalgic reference to Elizabeth’s mother - Lucy and John’s sister Anne - disquieted the Governor, and it did, with Margaret’s urgings, incite him to write the Feakes a letter tepidly suggesting that in view of the Indian menace and obvious Dutch dangers, they might come to Boston if they wished. He added that if Elizabeth came he would endeavour to pardon her many follies, find her a home in Boston, and supervise the godly rearing of the children.

He consigned the letter amongst others to the master of a Virginia-bound sloop, then turned to write a far more congenial letter to Jack, who was endeavouring to establish an ironworks at Saugus with workmen he had just brought back from England.

Elizabeth did not receive her letter until April, since contrary winds had prevented the master of the sloop from putting into Greenwich Cove, and he left the letter with Captain Underhill in Stamford to be delivered. Underhill was extremely occupied that spring of 1644 and knew nothing of the letter for many weeks. Had Elizabeth received it in March she might have gone back to Boston for the children’s sake, and because her spirit had been crushed. By April however her thoughts ran differently.

The time following Daniel’s death passed in misery so acute and constant that she was spared full realization. No glossing or uncertainty about the “strangeness” availed her now in regard to her husband. Whatever precarious hold he had had on reality broke off sharp when his friend was killed. Robert was mad.

He had not been violent when the horrified Dutch officers removed him from Daniel’s corpse, nor needed the bonds they put on him. He had not seemed to notice when they lashed him to a chair in the kitchen, but sat there docilely, murmuring senseless words in a faint babbling voice, rubbing his hands together in a ceaseless washing motion, even after they were cleansed of Daniel’s blood.

When Captain Kuyter took the murderer Blauvelt to Stamford and put him in Underhill’s custody, Mr. Baxter had remained at Greenwich Cove out of pity and concern, doing what he could to help the two stricken women. Three of his soldiers dug Patrick’s grave and buried him next to Ben Palmer, while Baxter read the Church of England burial service. This gave Anneke comfort, and she regained control in a few days. She was strained and woeful, often taken with paroxysms of sobs, but she performed her housewifery with her usual effortless skill and therein found some solace. The arrival of Toby Feake also contributed to her recovery, though she felt for him no romantic attraction. He was simply an older son like Danny, on whom she could depend and who helped both unhappy manless households with the heavy work.

Toby’s presence, and the return of Angell Husted with his bride, reassured Baxter, and he came to Elizabeth one morning saying gently, “We shall sail for New Amsterdam today, Madam. I needn’t tell you how - how deeply I regret all that’s happened. Terrible - ” The young man shook his head. “Have you thought what you’ll do with him?” He indicated Robert, who sat on a stool by the fireplace, crooning to himself while he wound and unwound a ball of yarn. Elizabeth had managed to substitute this activity for the hideous hand-washing.

“What
is
there to do with him?” she said calmly.

Too calmly, Baxter thought. He had daily expected her to break down, sobbing and bewailing like Mrs. Patrick. But she had not, A woman of great strength, Mrs. Feake was, and showing a stony endurance he respected though it made him uncomfortable.

“Will you and the children be safe?” he asked in a low voice. “Suppose he turns violent?”

“I’m not afraid of Robert,” she said. “More beer, Mr. Baxter?”

He saw that she could not bear discussion of her tragedies, and had withdrawn into a proud aloofness, but he persisted. “Couldn’t you go back to your Winthrop relations? I could arrange passage for you.”

“No,” she said starkly. “They don’t want us. I never hear from them. My uncle was very angry when he heard we’d gone to the Dutch, nor - ” she added, “have I been a favourite of his.”

“Captain Underhill, then,” said Baxter after a moment. “Oh, I know what you think of him, and I’m privately inclined to agree. That was a shabby trick, his letting Blauvelt escape or at least not guarding him properly. You’d think that, whatever his doubts about Patrick, Underhill’d want to see the murderer punished.”

“What good would that do?” said Elizabeth. “There was a blood curse on Daniel, it had to happen one way or another. Daniel killed Mianos.”

Baxter did not follow this logic, so he reverted to his previous thought. “You had better go to Stamford, to Underhill’s protection - in a large community with plenty of men should there be trouble.”

“Trouble?” she said, her beautiful eyes green and hard as beryls. “Can there be more trouble than there has been?”

“Of course there can,” he said sharply. “The Indian matter’s not settled at all. The danger continues, is greater even - from what Underhill tells me. He’s an experienced Indian fighter and has offered us his services. I’ve no doubt Director General Kieft’ll accept them. We
must
end this constant warfare; secure the lasting safety or all our settlers.”

“No doubt,” she said. “Mr. Baxter, you’ve been very kind, and mean well. I know you can’t help obeying Kieft’s orders. But I wish you’d leave us alone here. And leave our Siwanoys alone too. Their chief, Keofferam, is our friend, and Anneke told you what they did for Danny Patrick.”

“But, Mrs. Feake - ” he cried. “They’re very artful, I regret to remind you of the Hutchinson massacre, and Underhill says - ”

“‘Underhill says - ’!” she interrupted acidly; turning her back on him she walked into the great fireplace, and opening the oven where pumpkin bread was baking, inspected the loaves.

A haughty woman, Baxter thought, somewhat vexed. Handsome though, very - even though she seemed much older than the time he had seen her in New Amsterdam. Then, despite her pregnancy, there had been a girlish merriment, a most appealing prettiness about her. The charm that had so pleased Kieft. Baxter had thought her very young, the mid-twenties perhaps, but now, lacking all smiles and sparkle, her abundant curly black hair drawn severely into a knot, her full lips compressed, and the red of her cheeks gone pale beneath the fine white skin, she seemed ten years older than he had first thought her. Still young enough for a better fate than this, however, Baxter thought, admiring her slender back and graceful movements as she scooped the loaves from the oven with the heavy iron peel. He determined to urge Kieft to help her if Mr. Feake continued to be deranged.

The three Dutch yachts sailed out of Greenwich Cove that afternoon and Elizabeth did not bother to watch them go, though the children did.

Lisbet and Johnny wept at seeing the departure. The soldiers had made great pets of them, playing games with them, letting them ride out to the ships and teaching them Dutch words.

“Oh, dear, I wish they wouldn’t leave,” said Joan as the last sail disappeared down the Sound past Great Captain’s Island which Daniel had bought and named for himself.

“Well, you needn’t weep after them,” said Elizabeth dryly. “Very likely they’ll be back.”

“You’re glad they’re gone, aren’t you, Mama?” said little Hannah, looking up into her mother’s stern face. “They made bad things happen. They made Uncle Dan be dead, and made Father be so silly.”

Elizabeth put her hand on Hannah’s curly red hair, but did not answer.

“Shall I feed him tonight, Mama?” went on the child. “He lets me.”

Her mother nodded. “Thank you, poppet, it would help.” She gave Hannah a bowl of cornmeal mush and stewed rabbit. The child seated herself beside Robert, who did not cease winding the yarn, but he ate when Hannah put the wooden spoon to his lips.

The only one of the children who showed fear or revulsion towards Robert was Lisbet, who kept away from him as much as she could. Joan took the change passively, and helped with Robert’s care when told. The little boys were too young for wonder, and with the acceptance of childhood soon forgot that Father had ever been any different.

At times however Robert grew agitated, sang or laughed incessantly and tried to get out of the house. Toby Feake and Angell Husted therefore built for Elizabeth a lean-to on the north side of her house, and opened the great chimney so that there might be another fireplace. In this third downstairs room they installed Robert, where during the worst periods he could be locked up. Toby slept in the loft, Elizabeth and the children in the two upstairs chambers.

Anneke and her household, a few hundred yards up the cove, managed well enough. Young Danny was strong. Also Toby was there a great deal in the daytime, taciturn and stolid as ever, avidly consuming Anneke’s good food, forsaking his shallop which he had raised on stays for the winter.

The months passed. There was much snow. Game grew very scarce, and the families relied on their powdered meat and corn. At Christmas time Keofferam and three of his Siwanoy braves suddenly appeared down the northern trail, bearing gifts as he had the year before - a whole frozen venison and three turkeys.

“Mer-ry Christ-mas,” he said carefully to Hannah, proud of remembering the phrase she had taught him last year. The young chief knew almost no English, but by means of signs he managed to convey to Elizabeth his regret for Daniel’s death and his shock at seeing Robert’s condition, neither of which he had known. He was following Mianos’s orders in keeping his tribe segregated from the white men. But his code of honour, and gratitude for the cure Elizabeth had wrought a year ago, prompted him to this commemorative visit

Elizabeth received the offerings with fervent thanks, gave the Indians beer and a few of the precious marchpane sweets Anneke had made. She asked after Telaka, and understood from Keofferam’s nod and smile that the squaw was well. Nor was she surprised that the squaw had not come with her brother. It was a final farewell Telaka had made when she gave her promise on the day of Mianos’s death. And she had kept her word in all things.

The Indians did not stay long. They padded back through the snow on their swift moccasined feet; Keofferam’s short, squatty figure was invested with new dignity by his father’s magnificent turkey-feather mantle, by the red deer hair and the copper-tipped heron feathers in his roach.

“Whew - ” said Lisbet, fastidiously wrinkling her delicate little nose. “They smell, and’re always so bear-greasy. I don’t like Indians. Look, Mama, here’s a louse I saw jump off Keofferam.”

“Aye - ” said Elizabeth, squashing the louse. “But you must take the fat with the lean in this world and the gifts they brought are very welcome.” Her heavy heart was lightened by the visit. For a while it seemed to restore some order of balance and decency. It conveyed meaning, where all else in her life was compounded of monotonous, blind struggle.

Then Joan, having reached the age for it, developed weeping spells and painful cramps in her little belly, and finally a mysterious fever which required constant nursing. Elizabeth endured through each day as it came.

By February Joan had recovered, but blizzards set in. The north wind whistled down the cove, snow piled in drifts up to the lean-to eaves. The cow died of cold, and the howling wolves came nearer than they ever had. Anneke’s spaniel, having ventured too far one evening, was devoured by a wolf. They found the tracks around the house next morning.

In the third week of February the cold let up. Ice floes melted in the cove. Muddy brown patches showed through the snow, and the wind veered to the south. Early one morning Elizabeth awoke to an authoritative banging on her front door. Shivering, she got out of the great feather bed which she now shared with Joan. She dressed and wrapped herself in her fur-lined cloak. She opened the upper half of the door and peered through the crack. Captain John Underhill stood on her stone step, shining in new Dutch armour, a sword dangling from his belt, a musket on his shoulder.