The Pilgrim Conspiracy

by Jeroen Windmeijer

  Peter raised his eyebrows slightly, but Willem ignored the man’s comment and continued.

  ‘It became difficult for them to find work,’ he said. ‘Travel was forbidden unless you had official permission, and it was quite common for people to be accused of crimes they hadn’t committed. In 1608, a group of Puritans from Scrooby in Nottinghamshire decided to leave England. These people, who later became known as the Pilgrims or Pilgrim Fathers, fled in secret and went to Amsterdam. The Netherlands was a land of religious tolerance, and it was also increasingly prosperous. Above all, there had been a truce between the Spanish and the Dutch for twelve years, so it was a peaceful country too. After a short while …’ Willem tapped the old city map with his right hand ‘… the group’s religious leader, John Robinson, decided they should move from Amsterdam to Leiden. There was a lot of work available in the textile industry here, and you could get a job even if you had no previous experience. All you needed was physical strength. They lived here …’ he circled his hand over the map ‘… around the Pieterskerk, including the area where the Pesijnhofje is now. It’s a little courtyard with almshouses around it. We’ll be visiting that later.’

  The tourists, who had arranged themselves in a semi-circle around the table, were spellbound.

  ‘They stayed here for eleven years. During those eleven years, they worked hard and saved hard. Then, part of the group decided to go to America. Most of the group stayed here, so in Leiden, you’ll still meet people who are descended from those Pilgrims in one way or another. They have typical Leiden names like Cooke, Cooper and Turner.’

  ‘Are we allowed to take photos?’ someone asked Peter, who nodded in reply.

  Evidently, this was the moment the visitors had been waiting for; they immediately took out their cameras and were soon busily absorbed in taking photographs. In such a small museum, it was almost impossible to take pictures with no other people on them, so a complicated choreography of stepping aside and squashing together had to be performed to give everyone room.

  ‘The kitchen is next door,’ Willem said. ‘We’ll have to go outside to get there because there’s no connecting door between the two rooms.’

  He nodded at Peter, who took some keys from a drawer and handed them to Willem.

  ‘Follow me,’ said Willem.

  ‘So what made them leave Leiden?’ Peter heard another woman ask when they were outside.

  Peter smiled.

  They always asked the same questions. It was understandable, of course. He could probably have given a guided tour himself by now, just based on everything he’d picked up from Willem’s answers.

  ‘That’s an excellent question,’ Willem said to the woman, whose face lit up at the compliment. ‘There were lots of reasons. It was clear that the English king would punish them for leaving England, so there was a fear that they would be prosecuted, even here. In addition to that, the truce with Spain was coming to an end, and there was already growing unrest in the Netherlands. What else might have played a role is that some members of the group didn’t want to integrate into Dutch society. They wanted to stay pure, not mix. There were religious disputes, too complicated to go into now, but they didn’t want to get involved in them. All sorts of things played a role, actually. Many of the Pilgrims just wanted to make a fresh start in a new country without any interference from others, so that they could practise their religion the way they thought was right.’

  ‘Very good,’ the fat man butted in again. ‘That’s why apartheid was a great system for us,’ he said, his words a jumble of Dutch and Afrikaans. ‘It’s a great pity that this is over. You see, South Africa is a mess now.’

  An awkward silence fell over the group.

  His wife looked around the room, her face grim, like she was preparing herself for a discussion that she’d had many times before.

  ‘If you’d all like to come with me,’ Willem said, breaking the impasse.

  With apparent relief, the others followed their guide to the second entrance on the corner of the street.

  ‘Am I right in thinking that you’re from South Africa?’ Peter asked the couple, who had now dropped to the back of the group. They looked like they weren’t sure if they wanted to go on with the tour.

  ‘Yes, of course, we’re from South Africa. At home, we speak Afrikaans, but I’ve always spoken Hollands too. This is very important.’

  ‘Your ancestors—’ Peter began to ask, but the man didn’t allow him to finish the question.

  ‘More than a hundred and fifty years ago, my own ancestors went to South Africa. They were Huguenots. That is why we’re here, to find our roots. They were Voortrekkers, pioneers. My oupa’s oupa was one of the founders of the Orange Free State. They left the Cape Colony with the other Boers when the English came. That was the Great Trek. They were also like Pilgrims.’

  Peter nodded. Although the man’s earlier comment had made him feel uncomfortable, as a historian, he always found it interesting to talk to people whose ideas were radically different from his own.

  ‘That’s why we live in Orania now. It’s independent and slegs vir blankes, whites only,’ the man said, unabashed. ‘We have made our own free state, like my oupa’s oupa. We have our own money, our own school, our own judges. Nobody tells us what to do. We also want to stay pure.’

  ‘It’s …’ Peter began and then realised that he didn’t have a clue how he should react to this last statement.

  ‘Just like those Pilgrims,’ the man continued. ‘They also wanted to stay pure. They also left and went to a new land, a land full of savages, to make a fresh start as true Christians. But they did this better than us. They got rid of the natives, like Joshua in the promised land.’

  ‘I don’t think we …’ Peter began hesitantly. ‘In the Netherlands, we see that differently. We think …’

  The man stared at him. He tilted his head upwards and stuck out his bottom lip as if he had already formulated an answer to what Peter was about to say.

  ‘Come on, let’s join the others,’ Peter said, cutting the conversation short.

  They would only find themselves mired in a pointless argument if he responded to the man’s comments – although now he felt like he had merely chosen the path of least resistance.

  ‘Yes, good,’ the woman said.

  The man looked like it had just dawned on him that the conversation – on this particular topic at least – was over.

  Peter and the two South African tourists joined the rest of the group who were already in the other side of the museum. They entered a narrow hallway where a set of stone steps led to the kitchen about a metre and a half below street level. An assortment of items like tools and kitchen utensils had been laid out on a long, rough wooden table. Next to them was a large, antique Bible with decorative metalwork corners and clasps.

  There were logs and large turves of peat stacked in the corner of the kitchen and in the hearth. Hanging over the ashes in the fireplace was an old cooking pot. It was empty, but it looked like it was still perfectly usable.

  ‘The English colonies,’ they heard Willem explaining to the group, ‘had very high mortality rates caused by hunger and disease, and there weren’t enough new people arriving to replace those who died. So the Pilgrims were more than welcome in America. As I said, not all the Pilgrims left Leiden – only those who were brave enough and healthy enough, and who had enough money for the journey. They had one last meal together in the home of their leader, Pastor John Robinson. Then, on July 21st, 1620, they travelled to Delfshaven, where a small ship, the Speedwell, was waiting for them in the harbour. The men, women and children sailed to Plymouth in England, and from there, they started the long crossing to America with the Mayflower.’

  Peter walked over to the fireplace.

  ‘This is clever,’ he said, putting his hand on the hook that the cooking pot was hanging from. ‘You can hang a pot on this pothook by its handle on these things sticking out here. Then you can raise it and lower it. As yo
u might imagine, metal hanging above a fire would get extremely hot. So hot that you wouldn’t be able to touch it. So, in Dutch, we say something is a heet hangijzer – a “hot pothook” – when it’s a sensitive issue, like the Dutch slave trade or war crimes in Indonesia … or apartheid in South Africa.’

  The South African couple’s expressions remained blank, but the other members of the group smiled at the sly jibe.

  ‘Anyway,’ Willem said. ‘As I was saying, on September the 6th, 1620, the Mayflower left England with fifty-seven people from Leiden on board. The journey was beset by problems, and it was only two months later, on November the 6th, that the passengers saw land again. On November the 11th, after a few reconnaissance expeditions, the Pilgrims found a suitable area for their settlement in New England. They called their new home Plymouth Colony. It would become the first permanently inhabited colony in America.’

  ‘True pioneers,’ said the South African man.

  ‘Indeed,’ Peter agreed, ‘but without help from the natives, they would all have died within the first few weeks. It was winter when they arrived, and they couldn’t find enough food. The severe frost and snow made it impossible for them to build houses. In those conditions, the weaker and younger ones were especially vulnerable, and half of the passengers and crew died. But their fortunes changed when the Wampanoag tribe helped them. They brought the Pilgrims food and tools and showed them which plants could be cultivated and where they could catch fish. But we all know how the colonists repaid those Native Americans for their help because—’

  ‘Right,’ said the South African man, who had now clearly had enough. ‘We’ll be off now. Thanks, that was very interesting.’ He extended his shovel-sized palm and shook Willem’s hand. Then he pumped Peter’s, hand squeezing much harder and longer than was necessary.

  Peter tried to hide his annoyance, but he was deeply irritated by the way the visitor seemed to be trying to exact some sort of revenge.

  ‘Baie dankie, seun,’ the man said with a grin. ‘Thank you very much.’

  ‘Baie dankie,’ said his wife, avoiding shaking Peter’s hand.

  Without waiting for a reply or saying goodbye, they went up the steps and left the building.

  As soon as the door was closed behind them, a few of the visitors let out audible sighs.

  ‘Goodness, what horrible people. I’m glad they’ve gone,’ said the woman who had asked a question earlier. The rest of the group nodded in agreement.

  Willem gave them another opportunity to take photos, which they all gratefully made use of.

  After the group had left, Peter returned to the living room and reinstalled himself next to the space heater, turning up the heat as far as it would go.

  He rubbed the sore spot on his right hand.

  They also wanted to stay pure. Peter mulled over the South African man’s words. But they did this better than us …

  Fragment 1 – Flight from England (January 1609)

  We made it. We’re safe.

  For now.

  In the year of our Lord 1608, John (Robinson – Piet van Vliet) and William (Brewster – Piet van Vliet) led us to freedom. We cried out ‘Let my people go!’ but it did not soften the hardened heart of the king. And so we were forced to leave our beloved England, creeping away in secret, like thieves in the night. True, the seas did not part for us, and the king’s soldiers were not drowned, but we were able to escape on a ship sent by God. However, at first, it was only the men who escaped.

  We had been betrayed a year earlier. We had paid an enormous sum to an English captain to take us to the Netherlands, a country where religious liberty still prevails. To avoid drawing attention to ourselves, we walked in small groups from Scrooby to Boston on the east coast. Once we were on the ship, we found out that we had thrown in our lot with a monstrous man. The devil take him! We had barely even set sail before a ship of the king’s fleet appeared. The captain had reported us. They arrested all sixty of us, the men, the women and even the little children. To amuse the public – and, I am quite certain, to also make them afraid – we were made to walk through the city in a long procession. The crowds pelted us with rotten fruit and eggs … They threw us into prison, a dark, filthy dungeon infested with rats. The bread they gave us to eat there was mouldy, and the water they gave us to drink was foul, but even there, we gave each other strength. Even there, we found comfort in singing and prayer.

  John spoke so beautifully when he quoted Paul’s famous words, saying to us: ‘But God chose what is foolish in the world to shame the wise; God chose what is weak in the world to shame the strong; God chose what is low and despised in the world, things that are not, to reduce to nothing things that are.’

  After a month, it was decided that we had been sufficiently punished. We were sent home, burdened with shame and bereft of all else.

  But if they had thought that this defeat had put an end to our desire to leave, they were wrong.

  A year later, in the year of our Lord 1608, we tried again. Our group had grown and now numbered at least one hundred souls. The blessing of the Lord was upon our work.

  Or so it seemed.

  We men went on foot. We started in Scrooby in Nottinghamshire and went over the border to the neighbouring county of Lincolnshire and the stretch of shore between Grimsby and Hull that we had chosen for its remoteness. The nearest settlements, Immingham and Killingholme, were no more than a few farm cottages. We were so vulnerable, all too visible to anyone who was paying attention. Leaving the country without permission was forbidden, and a watchful shepherd boy or farmhand pausing to rest could easily have brought an end to our second attempt to escape. On the way, we drank from streams, catching the water in our cupped hands, and we ate the meagre rations that we had brought with us.

  It had been arranged that the women and children would make the journey by water. Their boat, with all our possessions on board, arrived before us. But it ran aground in the shallows, and they were forced to spend the night on shore.

  When we were reunited with our families early the next morning, we saw the Dutch captain’s ship sailing into the estuary. But the tide was too low for him to reach us, and time was running out. As many people as possible were ferried to the ship by boat. The men went first, a decision that we came to regret because no sooner had we boarded the ship, a company of soldiers came rushing along the beach towards us. How we despaired, we men, when we saw our women and children being dragged away by the merciless soldiers of King James’ army. We could only watch from the deck as our ship was tossed about on the surf. One man wanted to jump overboard to rescue his wife and children, but he would surely have been drowned by the powerful waves. And what could he have done if he had reached the shore? One man against the might of so many soldiers, all armed to the teeth?

  I write ‘men’, but there was also a boy among us. He was under the special protection of Josh Nunn, one of the other leaders of our group. The boy never left Josh’s side, often keeping tight hold of his hand – and when that was not possible, he held onto his coat.

  The captain ignored our pleas and weighed anchor. And so, cowards that we were, we watched our wives and children being roughly led away as the ship sailed towards the open sea.

  Not long afterwards, we were caught in the most horrendous storm. Many of us were convinced that this was where our story would end. We were blown adrift almost as far as Norway, and our journey took two weeks instead of the two days that the crossing should have taken.

  All of us on board were despondent, praying, sick, nauseous, vomiting incessantly, growing weaker each day, roaming like ghosts over the deck and through the holds while our little ship was at the mercy of the elements. We had not brought enough supplies for such a long crossing. Our salvation was that there were fewer of us on board than we had initially planned.

  Josh shared his food with the boy, the same scanty ration that had been given to the rest of us, which made the lad the best-fed passenger on the whole ship. No one kn
ew who the child was, and no one dared to ask where he had come from. We knew that he was an orphan and that just like Josh, he did not have another living soul in the world, but we knew no more than that.

  They often retreated to a quiet spot belowdecks where Josh talked to the boy endlessly, like a seller on a market stall persuading a customer to buy his wares. The boy appeared to repeat his words, nodding his head earnestly as he spoke.

  Then, after our terrible journey, we finally arrived in Amsterdam. News of what had happened to our women and children eventually reached us: they had been dragged from prison to prison because nobody had been able to decide what should be done with them. After all, hadn’t their only crime been a desire to be with their husbands and fathers? So, at long last, they were given permission to leave England and allowed to join us.

  By August 1608, we were all together again, around one hundred and fifty men, women and children. In Amsterdam, we joined John Smyth, a good friend of our own John. You see, we are not the first Separatists to flee England because of James I. But our peace was short-lived; here too, we found discord. John Smyth felt increasingly drawn to the ideas of the Mennonites, who only baptised adults and not children, and he wanted to impose these ideas on us.

  ‘Our’ John decided that it was time to go, to leave Amsterdam behind us. He wrote a letter to the council of the city of Leiden.

  The year of our Lord 1609 had only just begun.

  Chapter 3

  Peter closed the museum and went to the Lipsius Building to get a coffee and something to eat in the university’s restaurant. Then he took a slow bike ride to the Jean Pesijnhofje near the Pieterskerk where Fay opened the massive courtyard door just as he arrived.

  ‘Hey, sweetheart,’ she said, her voice warm, as always. She brushed his cheek lightly with her lips, like a butterfly’s kiss, and put her arms around him. ‘I’m so glad you’re going with me tonight,’ she said.