by Ann Turnbull
Five
The Friends who welcomed us were ready with the essentials: food and drink, comfort for those who were sick, blankets and tents for hire, a plan of the city-to-be with all the plots marked on it.
It felt strange to be walking on land after being so long at sea. I saw the unsteadiness of others, and how pale and tired many of them looked. A man directed my father to the agent’s office, where details of our plot could be found. My mother and I watched for our trunks and the crate of books as sailors unloaded the hold.
“Jos, go and hire us a cart,” my mother said. “Have the man wait over there – stay with him.”
A large number of carters had congregated on the quay, eager for business. We had an address – a street and plot number; it was near the junction of Third and Sassafras Streets.
The man I found knew the place. He came to assist as my mother signalled that our goods were coming ashore. I helped heave everything onto the cart and wedge it securely in place; and then the five of us climbed aboard and sat on the plank seats, clinging and steadying ourselves as the wheels jolted over the rough ground. It was no distance: a few minutes’ drive along the front and then two streets back from the river.
Along the waterfront we passed large brick buildings: merchants’ houses and counting houses, I guessed; all new, and all occupied. Away from the harbour were a mix of such buildings and smaller ones – family homes and shops. Many of these were still under construction, and most were being built of wood. There were glimpses of gardens at the backs of them – a few cultivated, but a greater number still scrub or mud.
“See the log cabins?” My father pointed one out. “That’s probably what we’ll have to build first, to live in until we can build our house.”
The log cabins looked heavy and crude, with jutting joints at the corners; but these were the simplest and quickest style to build, our carter agreed.
“Mam hopes our real house will be brick,” Sarah told him.
“Only if we can afford it,” my mother said.
The man glanced over his shoulder at her. “You’re Londoners?”
“Yes.”
“Thought so. Londoners always want a brick house. Afraid of fire. And who can blame them? Now the north-country folk, they don’t mind. Timber’s cheaper; and they’re thrifty. Well, here’s your plot!”
We had stopped at a long narrow rectangle of land, full of tangled grass and weeds and a few small trees.
“Ah…” My mother let out a breath. “At last.”
I stared at the little strip of land. It was hard to believe we had come across an ocean for this; that we would build a new life here.
Next door on one side was a log cabin and a partially cleared garden, on the other an empty plot. Looking around, I saw a mixture of unclaimed plots, log cabins and houses – mostly built of wood, but some of brick. Building was going on apace, and workmen were everywhere, mixing lime, laying bricks, sawing wood; two men were setting small panes of glass into a window frame, others planing off the base of a door. There was much whistling and singing, and shouts rang from building site to street.
The carter left us, surrounded by our many boxes and crates – and the tent my father had hired at the waterfront. The first task was to find a suitable space to erect this. We chose the most level area, and began pulling up weeds and treading the ground flat. Then my father and I struggled with the tent. At last we had it up, the guy-ropes taut and pegs hammered in, and were able to move around, stooped, inside, and drag some of our belongings under cover. My mother cleared a space outside for a fireplace, and we fetched stones to enclose it and sticks to make a tripod so that we could cook.
My mother had recovered her authority. She had hated the voyage, but now I could see she felt secure again. She would take charge.
We had no need to go in search of firewood, water, beer or bread, for a neighbour appeared, bringing those necessities, along with a meat pie. She was the wife of a shoemaker from the cabin next door. While she talked to our parents and advised them about many practical matters, my sisters and I drank our beer, took slices of pie and wandered around the space that would become our home, workplace and garden.
A flock of birds flew up at our approach with a great rush of wings. They had been feeding on something in the grass. They looked rather like our English pigeons and yet there was something subtly different about them. At the far end of the plot were a few trees, some of them bright with autumn foliage. One in particular took my eye: its leaves glowed with radiant colours of yellow, deep gold, scarlet and purple.
My mother joined us. “Our neighbour says this is a sassafras tree. The street is named for them.” She gazed up into its branches. “How beautiful the New World is! We shall keep these trees, but we must clear an area back there for planting vegetables. There is much to be done.”
She looked at me, and I shrugged. I supposed I would be expected to help, at least until I could find work that would take me away from home. Gardening did not appeal to me. I was eager to explore this new land but not to be digging a garden under my parents’ eyes.
Betty nudged me. “Who’s Dad talking to?”
I looked round. Two men had appeared at the entrance to our plot and were in conversation with our father. Both were tall, fair-haired and strong-looking, wearing workaday clothing, leather jerkins and sturdy boots. We all made our way towards them over the rough ground.
My father drew my mother forward to meet the men. “Here is my wife, Susanna. Su, these men are Gunnar and Lars Andersson. They own a woodyard in the city and have been working here for a year, building cabins for English settlers. They say they can build us a simple cabin in less than a week.”
“Four days. The more men, the better.” The older of the two looked at my father and me. “You can help. No need to be skilled.”
“When can you start?” my mother asked.
“Monday, first light.”
Today was sixth-day – Friday. My mother nodded approval.
“We have logs ready cut at the yard,” the younger one said.
They appeared to be father and son. Lars was probably nineteen or twenty – tall, well-muscled, his hair the blondest I had ever seen, his eyes vivid blue in a tanned face. He seemed to belong in this new country, and made me feel pale and unmanly.
My father began discussing the price, and where the cabin should be built. The shoemaker from next door came over and offered to help.
Not long after they had all gone, while we were still contemplating the site of our cabin, two more visitors arrived: a man and a woman. The man – burly, with russet curls springing from under his hat – called out, “Will? Susanna? Is it you?”
My mother gave a gasp. She picked up her skirts and ran stumbling over the uneven ground into the street, followed by my father. We three hung back and watched. The woman turned to my mother, and with cries of joy the two of them flew into each other’s arms and hugged as if they would never let go.
“That must be Judith,” said Betty.
My mother and Judith stood back, gazed long at each other, wiped away tears, and embraced again. My father and the man who could only be Daniel Kite, the blacksmith, did less hugging, but they too seemed greatly moved to see each other.
I felt embarrassed by all the emotion; I did not expect such displays from my parents. But there was no escape. The four of them drew together and called to us to come.
My mother brought me forward; presented me to their friends. “This is our son, Josiah. Our eldest. And here are Elizabeth and Sarah.”
They greeted us each in turn. Judith – a tall, spare woman with clear blue eyes – said to me, “Josiah! Su’s first-born, after the Fire. Oh, thou hast such a look of Will!”
I grunted something I hoped was polite, and backed away, not wanting so much attention. I didn’t know these people; they were my parents’ friends, not mine, though I did not doubt that they must be good people. I was relieved when their attention shifted to the girls.
My father told Daniel about the builders, and Daniel said, “Oh, the Anderssons? They are skilled men. Fast, and honest. Gunnar showed me how to make my own outhouse with logs. I’ll come and help.”
My mother and Judith were talking about food supplies, and medicines – my mother full of questions and Judith full of advice.
But our visitors did not stay long. “We won’t hinder you,” Judith said. She arranged for us to visit them the next day at their home. “Come early, and spend the day with us. Join us for dinner.”
She would have had my mother and sisters go back with her immediately and sleep at their house, but my mother said no, we’d stay together in the tent, and make plans, and keep one another warm. And so we did. We were as close-packed as in the ship, but the air was sweeter, and we woke early to sunshine penetrating the canvas walls. My mother had lit the fire the night before, and now she revived it and heated water for washing. We found clean clothes in our trunk. These had been packed in wormwood, and we shook them out in the fresh air, wrinkling our noses at the smell.
We left mid-morning for the Kites’ home. Their house and forge were little more than a mile away, but as soon as we left our street behind, the going became rougher. Fewer plots had yet been occupied further back from the harbour, and the roads were mere tracks through woodland. On the way we passed people busy with construction or planting. The day was bright, the air fresh and clean, and all around were the vivid reds and golds of autumn leaves. I had never seen such intensity of colour in England, and thought it must be the purity of the air that caused it.
We were all hot and dusty by the time we reached the forge.
Daniel was shoeing a horse – for he acted as farrier as well as blacksmith. Working with him was a young man, strongly built and auburn-haired, like him. This was his son, Ben.
Judith came out of the house, drying her hands on an apron, and after her came three younger children – a girl and two little boys, all blue-eyed and red-haired. I was told their names but instantly forgot them.
Judith had prepared dinner – the first large, proper meal we’d had for more than two months. It was a comforting meal, full of meaty sauce and dumplings and home-grown vegetables. And there was good beer, and afterwards a plum pudding served with cream from their cow. Judith Kite rose greatly in my estimation after that dinner.
Later I went for a walk with Ben and the Kites’ dog, a brown and white mongrel. The dog ran ahead, forging his own tunnels through the grass, his passage marked by the alarm calls of birds. There were large clearings in the woods where the grass was shoulder-high and full of flowers and herbs, most of them turning brown or dropping seeds. I had no names for any of them. I felt surrounded by nature as never before, by the huge wildness of the woods. The smell of the grass and flowers, the feel of them brushing against me as we pushed through, made me realize that I had lived all my life till now separated from the natural world of God’s creation. I was amazed and entranced by every plant, every smell, every bird sound.
“There’s a little creek along here,” said Ben. “Full of fish.”
“Thou catch them?” I saw the shimmer of fish beneath the surface of the water.
“Yes. And trap birds and squirrels. Got traps at the house.” He had a slow, shy smile. “Thou could come with me, if thou like.”
I nodded. “Maybe I will.”
We walked on, the meadow rustling, sunlight sparkling on the water, bird sounds all around us.
I liked Ben. He didn’t talk too much, and he allowed me to feel equal to him, even though I was younger and a newcomer. We talked about what we’d come from, our lives in London and New England. He too came of radical stock, I realized. Daniel Kite had been continually in and out of prison. Ben seemed a milder person, less forthright, but certain in his faith; and he was happy in his work as a blacksmith alongside his father. I envied him that ease.
When it was time to leave we found that Dan and Judith had loaded up a handcart with food, bedding, beer and other goods.
“Some provisions to start you off,” said Judith.
“We can’t take all this!” my mother protested.
“Indeed you can; it is merely some small comforts,” insisted Judith. “And if you wish, when you are settled, you can do the same for other newcomers.”
My parents thanked them, and we made ready to go. Ben turned to me and asked, “Will we see thee tomorrow, at Meeting?”
I nodded. “Yes, for sure,” – and saw my father smile and give a little exasperated shake of his head.
The meeting was held at Front Street, in the house of one of the leading merchants.
People crowded into the room. Many were artisan families like ours; others looked like farmers. I saw a group of people in plain but costly clothes, and guessed them to be merchants or landowners – perhaps one was William Penn?
There were several children, a babe or two in arms, a few youths and girls who looked up as Betty and I passed. We saw the Kites and went to sit near them.
It was a relief to be in Meeting and not to fear the knock at the door, the soldiers marching in. I relaxed as the quality of the silence began to change and deepen. Those around me were centring down. I tried to do the same, to become part of the meeting, but this cannot be achieved by any act of will, and my mind remained restless. So many new experiences crowded in on me. I thought of our long voyage; of the vast wild country we had come to. I wondered what work I might find; whether Ben might become a friend; whether, tomorrow, Lars would mock my cabin-building skills…
On second-day morning, early, Gunnar and Lars Andersson arrived in a large cart laden with logs and tools, and work began on our cabin. First, they staked out the length and breadth on the ground, and we pulled up shrubs, then beat and trampled the earth till it was level.
“Beat it down well,” said Gunnar. “This will be the floor of your home.”
When the space was ready, the two of them laid the first logs, making the longest sides of the rectangle. Next came two shorter logs. Gunnar measured twelve inches from each end, and cut a notch, and the notched logs were fitted over the longer sides, to make the shape of the cabin.
Now we continued laying logs, two on the long sides, two on the short sides, Gunnar making the notches. Our neighbour, the shoemaker Stephen Parkes, arrived, and then Daniel Kite joined us. We all worked at lifting and placing the logs in position. It was tiring work, and my father and I could not match the speed and strength of the others.
Gunnar reassured us. “Two months on a ship – it’s no good. People come here weak – often sick. You rest now. Don’t lift too much. Get strong slowly.”
We all stopped work for a while. My mother and Betty brought out beer and pies, and Ellen Parkes provided more; then we sat on packing cases and ate together. The Anderssons told us they had come to Philadelphia from Upland on the Delaware (“Chester, you English call it now,” said Gunnar) knowing there would be a need for their expertise and plenty of work in the new city as more and more settlers arrived. Betty moved among us, serving beer, offering more pies, making herself useful.
When the lifting became too high, we were obliged to work on trestles, and that slowed us down. Even so, by the end of the first day we had raised the walls and Lars and Gunnar had cut out the windows and doors. The next morning my father complained that every muscle in his body ached, and I too felt the strain in my shoulders. That day the two Swedes began building up the pitched roof. It was satisfying to see the house take shape. Betty wandered around, asking questions of the builders. She was looking prettier than usual, I noticed; she had done something to her hair, so that it escaped her cap, allowing loose dark curls to bounce against her cheeks. Lars, who was cutting shingles, let her help him sort them into piles. By the end of the second day we had a roof and a half-built chimney. I thought the cabin was all but done now, but the last two days were spent finishing the chimney and making doors, shutters, hinges and latches. The most tedious job was caulking all th
e gaps, something we would carry on with when the builders left.
My father paid them, and they loaded their tools onto the cart.
“Where will you work next?” Betty asked Lars.
“Across the way.” Lars indicated a nearby plot. He smiled, teasing. “You want to come and count shingles, Betty?”
“Betty,” said my mother, “find a broom and start sweeping out the cabin.”
For the next two days I helped my father saw wood and make bed frames and shelves. We left the printing equipment in its packing case and used that as a table, to save space, but moved all the boxes of books and stationery to one end of the cabin. Lars and Gunnar had built our cabin larger than average, with a partition separating the living quarters from the shop. But the shop was a tiny room; it had no drop-down counter and little space to display goods, so shelves were essential.
“It’ll be a start,” my father said, when we paused for a rest. “We shall need to begin earning.” I knew it was his inheritance from my grandfather Henry Heywood, along with his share in the business in Stepney, that had enabled him to bring us here to live without incurring debt; that, and a thrifty lifestyle. He would not want to be laying out too much with no return.
He smiled at me – a warm, unguarded smile with none of his usual hint of reproach. “Thou hast worked hard, Jos, and done well, these last few days. I would have struggled without thee.”
His rare praise made me feel accepted, part of the family, in a way I so often did not. We were both covered in sawdust, our hands scarred with small cuts and splinters. Neither of us had any great skill at carpentry, but the shop was taking shape; it was satisfying work, and we were doing it together.
But I knew we would need more than the bookshop.
“I’ll find a master,” I said. “Start earning money again. That will help.”
“Yes. We can ask Friends after Meeting tomorrow…”
