Witch Child (7 page)

She winked at me, then, but I did not wink back. I know she is half joking, but marriage! I had not thought of it beyond a game of ‘let us pretend’. I do not want to think of it in any other way, but Martha is my only protector, it would not do to upset her, so I bow my head and spend my afternoons sewing and snipping like a goodwife.

Entry 26

We are nearing the end of our long journey. We have entered a great bay dotted with many small islands. To the west of us lies a line of high hills. Jack points out landmarks on the shore: Mount Desert, the Campden Hills, Agamenticus, Cape Porpoise, Pascataquac. Some are known only by their Indian names, others have been named by sailors. The wind blows from the land with a garden scent of trees and earth and things growing. I gaze at the sea dashing itself against tall cliffs cloaked in dark green forest. The coast looks unknowable. Empty of life.

Entry 27 (mid June? 1659)

Last night we stood off between Cape St Ann and the Isles of Shoals waiting for the right wind to take us towards our harbour. We woke to see Marblehead looming up on the western horizon, but then fog came, shrouding everything, slowing our progress in towards Salem. The sailors sounded the depth beneath our hull every few minutes, calling the fathoms back to the captain. The main ship channel passes between two islands and the approach to the harbour is narrow and hazardous.

The mist cleared after noon, allowing us the first glimpse of human habitation since land had first been sighted. People crowded up on deck to see ships clinging like insects to the wharf. Behind the quay lay the square squat buildings and triangular roofs of Salem.

Deck and cabin are loud with excitement, but I do not share in the general joy. I do not know what this place has in store for me. The ship is familiar to me; it has been home to me. I would rather stay on board.

I was watching from the ship’s bow when Jack swung down from the rigging, light as a cat.

‘Here, Mary, this is for you.’

It was the coin he had been given for first sighting land. It was broken in two.

‘Half for me. Half for you. Keep it to remember me.’

‘You have come to say goodbye?’ This made me more despairing than ever.

‘I reckon so. For now, anyway.’ He looked towards the nearing shore. ‘We will soon be into port and I’ll have to look lively.’

‘But I’ll see you in the town!’

He shook his head. ‘I reckon not. We sail for Boston on the morning tide. That’s why I thought to say farewell now. Later, there mayn’t be time.’

I did not know what to say. I had not thought to part in this way, had not expected it to come so sudden. Jack was like the brother that I had never had, more than that. I turned away in confusion.

‘Do not be sad. I’ll come back and find you. This,’ he held up his half of the coin. ‘This will be a sign. One day the two halves will be joined. You have my word on it. I’ll never forget you, Mary, and I never break my word.’

He leaned towards me, as if he would kiss me, but just then a voice roared out.

‘You, boy, Jack! Get up to the lookout!’

He looked to leave me, but darted back to kiss me anyway. I thought I saw the captain grin, and then Jack was off up into the rigging. I watched him sitting on the cross-trees, as tiny as a child’s toy. My mouth burned and my fist closed over the broken shilling. I know that this will be the last I see of him.

g

New World

Entry 28 (June 1659)

We came into harbour on the early evening tide and it seemed as though the whole town had turned out to greet us. Men, women and children surged forward, voices raised, yelling out greetings and shouting up for news. Some passengers went below to gather their things, but most stayed up on deck to witness the moment of our coming in. They lined the rails, scanning the faces in the crowd. I felt the mood around me change from elation at our safe arrival to anxiety. They turned to each other with a slight shake of the head and then looked back to search again. I asked Martha what was the matter?

‘There’s summat amiss. The Brethren who went before us – at least some should be here and none is.’

She left me to join a knot of others. I could not tell what they were saying, but I could hear the rhythms of worry in the rise and fall of their voices.

It took a long time for us and all our goods to be unloaded from the ship. The Elders, and the Reverend Cornwell, were the first to step ashore. They stood in huddled talk with the leaders of the town, leaving others to supervise our disembarking.

At last we were all on the dock. Then it was the turn of the beasts we brought with us. Cattle and hogs, sheep and gaunt horses emerged blinking from the confines of the hold. They were hoisted and winched across, legs dangling. A good number have died on the voyage, those that remain stood, legs wobbling like newborns, bellowing and bleating their bewilderment. Martha’s fowl, the few that remain, lay huddled in their coop, as lifeless as bunches of rags.

I wanted to go back on board. Homesick for the ship, on dry land I felt as bewildered as the lowing beasts. The ground felt strange beneath my feet. The light was glaring; the air hot and still. It was stifling, even there on the quay, and I did not like all the people staring at me. I wanted to go back. I wanted to find Jack. But that was impossible. There could be no going back. The last of our goods had been unloaded and new cargo was swinging on board. We ceased belonging to the ship as soon as we set foot on shore.

Family groups gathered in clusters among the barrels, boxes, crates and sacks. They stood on the quayside, their personal things stacked around them, waiting for news. Anxiety grew. No-one knew what we were to do.

The Elders had gone with the Salem men. When they returned, their faces were grim. Elias Cornwell climbed up on to a barrel. He stood to address us, arms stretched. A black shape rimmed with light, he cast a long shadow in the setting sun.

First he bid us bow our heads before the Lord and offered a long prayer of thanksgiving for our safe deliverance.

‘We crossed the ocean to join our Brethren and make a new life in a new world, a pure life, free from outside interference. We are arrived, safe delivered, for which we thank God and His Providence.’

These words brought a quick pattering of ‘amens’, but then a voice called from the crowd:

‘What of our Brethren? What news of them?’

‘Aye’, ‘What news?’, ‘What news?’ The questions rustled round the crowd, repeated from mouth to mouth. Elias Cornwell lifted his arms higher to quell the muttering.

‘Reverend Johnson and his flock are no longer here.’ The muttering grew to a roar. Elias Cornwell had to raise his voice to be heard over the din. ‘Hear me, good people, hear me. The leading men of the town tell me that Pastor Johnson has taken his flock, leading them like Moses into the wilderness.’

The sound from the crowd grew. ‘What are we to do? What are we to do?’

Reverend Cornwell’s voice took on the edge of command. ‘We must ask for God’s guidance until our own way forward is clear. Meanwhile, the good people of Salem have opened their houses to us, offering shelter in the spirit of Christ, for which we thank them. Tomorrow there will be a meeting of the Elect in the Town Meeting House. Until then, I want each one of you to spend time in prayer and reflection.’

He lowered his arms and bowed his head, the signal for a period of silent prayer. We stood, our shadows lengthening in the last rays of sun, the dust beneath our feet taking on a golden cast. We were on solid ground, but I found myself swaying, my body moving still to the remembered rhythm of the ship. We have arrived, but we are strangers in a strange land. This dust looked the same, settling on my shoes like the dust of home, but it is different. I did not suffer seasickness before, but sudden nausea all but overwhelmed me.

Entry 29

It is the night of our first full day here and the feeling of strangeness continues. Rebekah and I explored the town, in the company of Tobias, but none of it seems real to me. It is like being in a dream, or the world of Faerie, where all seems the same until you look carefully.

It is hot, hotter than an English summer, and much more humid. The heat does not fade with the setting of the sun, it seems to increase until I find it hard to breathe. I cannot sleep. That is why I am writing my Journal. I write at the window. The table upon which I write is a shelf cut into a great forest tree that is part of the frame of the house. I take light from the sky. The night is very clear. The moon hangs low and large, like a silver lantern, and the stars blaze across in a great arc. I recognise constellations, but even my untutored eye can see that they have changed. It is as if a great hand has twisted the spheres out of their position.

On the ground fireflies give out little points of light and crickets and frogs call into the night. The scent of new-worked wood is everywhere. Nothing is old here, little is built of brick or stone. Most of the houses are wood-framed and clad in planks, their steep pitched roofs tiled with wooden shingles. Everything appears new. Even the oldest buildings have scarce had time to weather. Few of the buildings are very large, or very elegant. Most are small to middling, built for strength and shelter and to keep out the weather.

The people resemble their dwellings in that none are very mean and none of very grand estate. I have seen no beggars, sturdy or otherwise, and no very rich people either. Dress is no marker since all dress the same, in colours sad and sober. Blacks, browns, greys, russets and greens, unadorned with lace or silk. What they wear and cannot wear is dictated by law. They are strict in this, and I suspect in much else. It is hard not to notice the gaol, the stocks and the whipping post.

The good folk of Salem show us how life will be. This is no land of milk and honey. Their faces show a history of work and hardship. They have built their life from nothing, fashioned it from the forest. Belongings brought from home are few and stand out among furnishings made from what they find around them. Pewter is for display only. Even the plates and bowls and spoons are made from wood.

The people are hospitable, sharing their houses and food with us, but they are dour. Even the way they speak is different. A marked nasal twang harshens each pronunciation. They give us porridge to eat and meat and vegetables all boiled together. The food is fresh and each mouthful tastes like manna after weevil-riddled biscuits and salted pork half rotten from the barrel. Most of the food is the same as we would cook at home, except for the porridge which is bright yellow in colour. It is made from the corn which grows tall in the fields and gardens which surround the settlement. There are other plants, too. Beans and a low creepy plant with large fruits something like a marrow in taste but which swell round and orange. At least the land seems fertile. One of the first things Martha did was kneel down and scoop up some dirt.

‘Good growing earth, that’s what this is,’ she said, crumbling it between her fingers, showing it to Jonah. He nodded his approval, smiling his pleasure. They are going to plant together. Not just crops to eat. They are planning a Physick Garden so that they can grow the herbs they need to make medicine.

Jonah and Tobias are lodging with us, along with Rebekah and her family. We have all found a place at the house of Widow Hesketh. She welcomed us in readily enough and sat us down and fed us, but she is of the unsmiling type and her hard life shows in her face. She’s no beauty, that’s for sure, I heard Jonah whisper to Tobias as they went up the stairs, and I’m afraid he’s right. She is spare of build, tall and angular, with red raw hands as big as a man’s. She lives with her son, Ezra. Together they keep an inn in the town.

Her husband died soon after their arrival. She told us the story of it soon after our own arrival.

‘He’s yonder in the burying ground,’ she said with a jerk of her head. ‘Along with a good few others. Weren’t nothing here when we came, and our ship arrived late in the season, too late for planting.’

It was after dinner and we were all sitting round the fire. At those words, John Rivers glanced up with a look of unease. We are late for planting.

‘Terrible crossing we had. Held up by storms, sickness on board. We arrived with precious little food left and many of our party weakened beyond recovery. Winter carried ’em off. The Lord took ’em to Him, including my Isaac.’ She paused in her telling, and looked down at the kerchief twisted in her hands. ‘We didn’t have it as bad as some, but we’ve had our starving times, that we have. The town’s changed since then, mind. No-one goes hungry now.’ She leaned from her settle to stir the fire. ‘No telling what it’s like up country. Wilderness land. What you don’t take with you, you can do without. Check your provisions is my advice. Buy more while you can. If you can’t plant you need enough to tide you over until the crops come in next year. Winters are cruel harsh here.’ She fixed John Rivers with her hooded eyes. ‘Look to your bairns, your wife, they’ll not get through a winter here with empty bellies.’

Entry 30

John Rivers has followed Widow Hesketh’s advice and gone with Tobias and Jonah to examine the goods that they brought from England. Anything spoilt on the voyage must be replaced and anything that we may have forgotten, and any extra supplies, must be purchased before we leave the town and go into the wilderness.

Today was a market day and the town was thronged with people, settlers and those just in from England, all come to buy needful things. Martha stayed to help Widow Hesketh, so Rebekah and I went together. It seemed that everyone from the ship was there. There was an air of merriment about, a feeling of gladness at being safe delivered. Relief at being on dry land again, at having a chance to bathe and rest, to wash dirty ship-worn clothes and shake out the things that had been kept to wear on arrival. We were stopped every yard, or so, by people enquiring of Rebekah how baby Noah does, and about her mother.

‘She does very well, thank you,’ Rebekah replied in her grave, quiet way. ‘The baby, too.’

Few spoke to me. They look in my direction and then quickly away. Even after all the weeks at sea, they still do not accept me as one of the Congregation. Not that it matters. Martha, Jonah and Tobias are all the family I need, and since the birth of Noah, Rebekah and I grow closer, like sisters. When we first met, I thought her unfriendly, but I have learnt better since then. Her reserve does not come from hostility. It comes from shyness, an awkwardness towards those she does not know well.

She is hardly a chatterbox, but that is just her way, she only speaks when she has something to say. She is careful of the feelings of others. She does not pry into my past, I do not ask about hers. That is not unique to us. I have a feeling that the same is true of many here. They have crossed an ocean to make a new life and are content to allow the past to dwindle and fade behind them, like the last sight of land.

Not all the traders were Puritans. There were packmen and peddlers about. Deborah Vane, her sister Hannah and their friends Elizabeth Denning and Sarah Garner were busy rummaging through the wares of one such, out to discover forbidden fripperies, when one of them looked up and saw us.

I know them by sight from the ship. They spent the first half of the voyage groaning from seasickness. When recovered enough to go up on deck, they spent the rest of the time flirting with the sailors, or huddled together, talking about sweethearts and weddings, wanting to be goodwives before they have left their girlhood. Today they were dressed in their best, out to impress. Their clothes were still creased from the hold and not properly aired so that they gave off a faint smell of mildew and mould. Their mothers do not have Martha’s way of spreading sweet-smelling lavender between the layers of clothes.

Deborah and Hannah Vane. They are aptly named, at least Deborah is. She is their leader. Near to Rebekah in age, she has a certain plump prettiness and today her cheeks were pinched to pinkness, her lips bitten to cherry redness. Her collar was livened with a breath of lace at the throat, her dark bodice trimmed and edged with silk. The ornamentation is subtle, carefully judged to fall just short of disapproval. Likewise, her rusty red hair contrives to escape the confines of her white cap, spiralling down to frame her face in suspiciously perfect ringlets.

Her sister, Hannah, is younger, and shorter by a head, with sharp, weaselly features. The redness in her hair is diluted to a sandy hue. It escapes her bonnet also, but springs in wiry spirals, like unravelled rope. Her eyes are brown, like her sister’s, but dark and shiny, like chips of coal. Any beauty to be had fell to Deborah.

The sisters are always together, Hannah’s face perpetually screwed round, looking up in puppy adoration, hanging on every word Deborah says. Elizabeth Denning and Sarah Garner defer to her, too. She rules the crew. They are ever in each other’s company, giggling and whispering. I do not like them. On ship they gave me black looks for no reason, talking about me behind their hands. Today they ignored me altogether. It was Rebekah they wanted as they beckoned us over, but their interest was not in her mother, or her baby brother. They wanted to know about Tobias.