by Ann Turnbull
“The houses won’t be as close-packed as in old London.”
“No. It will be safer. We shall flourish here.”
She poured beer for me, listened to the voices of the girls behind the screen, and said, “They’ll come for theirs when they want it. Let’s leave them be.” She touched my hand. “I see thou hast a liking for Katherine.”
“We are friendly – as we should be.”
“She seems a good girl, without pretence or worldly ways.”
“She is.” And yet I was glad Katherine was not one of those who think continually of God. In her the spirit seemed to find expression in a cheerful busyness – she was always looking for something useful to do. “Thou would approve of her housekeeping skills,” I said. “She’s most capable…”
“And merry,” said my mother, as a burst of laughter came from behind the screen.
“That, too.” I grinned.
“Be sure thou treat her with proper respect—”
“Mam!”
“I know. I know thou will. I need not tell thee. But, living in the same house…”
“Mam, we are not… We have scarcely exchanged more than a few words.”
She smiled. “Oh, words don’t matter. It is all there in thy looks.”
She was right, of course. I tried to pretend otherwise, but Katherine came to absorb much of my thought. We walked back that afternoon, talking easily together about our families, our friends, about books.
“Betty is reading Herodotus,” she said, in some surprise.
“Oh, she’ll read anything. She likes history especially.”
“Thy father has a great many books there – some I would not have expected: poetry and drama, and music.”
“He learned such things at school,” I said. “He was not brought up a Friend. His father was an Anglican – and a merchant, like thine. Our bookshop in London was large; you could wander in it and make discoveries. I liked the maps, and the books about voyages. There was a book of travels we used to look at, Betty and I, that had pictures of strange beasts, and men whose heads were below their shoulders…”
“Ugh!” She laughed. “At home in Yorkshire we had only the Bible and some almanacs and recipe books. But in Maryland I had lessons with our friends’ daughters and we read more. I liked The Pilgrim’s Progress best.”
“I have that book at home! ‘As I walked through the wilderness of this world…’”
She smiled in recognition.
The wind was behind us now, and we hurried before it, driven by the cold blast.
Once inside, the door shut, we recovered our breath. Mary appeared and took our coats, and asked in her timid way if we wished for anything to eat.
“No, Mary, we’ll wait for supper,” said Katherine. “Is my father back?”
“Not yet…” – Mary knew not to call Katherine “Miss”, but she made that little bobbing movement I’d seen before, as if subservience had been bred into her. “The fire’s lit in the parlour – and the old dog’s in there.”
“Let’s go and get warm,” Katherine said to me.
There was only one candle burning in the parlour, and as we entered our shadows leapt about the walls. I should have liked to stay and talk in the half-dark, but Katherine – conscious, no doubt, of propriety – took a spill and lit a few more candles.
Hob occupied most of the hearthrug. He stirred and gave a brief wag of his tail. I patted him, then sat down on the bench by the fire, thinking Katherine would sit in her father’s chair opposite. But instead she dropped to her knees beside the dog and began stroking and playing with him. A quiet settled between us. I heard only the crackle of flames and the contented sighs of the dog. Hob rolled in restrained ecstasy and allowed Katherine to tickle his belly. The firelight glowed and flickered on her face and her moving hands; she looked up at me and smiled. I was shaken by a desire to kneel beside her, to take her in my arms and kiss her.
“Katherine…” I said – and was on the brink of following my impulse when Isobel came in with a jug of warm beer and three tankards.
“Thou’ll scorch thyself, Kate,” she said, setting the tray down on the sideboard. “I’ll leave this here and you can help yourselves. The master should be home any minute.”
The moment was gone. Katherine tried to stand up, but the dog was lying on her skirt. “Let me go, old boy,” she said, giving him a shove. “I want to pour Jos some beer.”
It was the first time she had called me Jos.
“I can do it,” I said, standing up.
“No! I shall.”
She pulled herself free of the dog, and was up and standing at the sideboard when her father came into the room.
He greeted us. Katherine handed out tankards of beer, and we all talked together of small things until Isobel and Mary brought in the supper.
My moment of quiet, alone with Katherine, had been brief, and yet I knew something had happened between us. We were no longer merely friends.
Eleven
During the remaining two weeks before my bond with George Bainbrigg was to be decided, I was in a heightened state of feeling, constantly aware of the presence of Katherine and seeking out ways to be alone with her, if only for a few moments. I was sure she felt the same. Whenever we encountered each other we talked and listened to one another’s deepest concerns. And all the time we were talking I was aware of her physical presence: her eyes, her body, her voice. She was like a magnet, irresistibly attractive to me.
Along with my pursuit of Katherine, I worked hard at mastering the system of double accounting and familiarized myself with the names and locations of the merchants my master dealt with in New Jersey, Maryland, Boston, New York and the Caribbean. I studied the account books and bills of lading, and began to read about the principles of navigation.
By the end of the month the weather had turned colder still. It was not the chill damp and fog of an English November, but a fierce, clear cold that swept down from the mountains in the north. In the mornings the windows of my bedchamber were transformed with sharp-etched star patterns of frost. Deep frosts whitened the trees and shrubs, and the churned-up mud of the roads turned silvery and crisp to walk upon. There were a few light falls of snow.
Katherine and Betty had met a few times more, usually at my master’s house, where they could sit in the parlour and talk and sew. But one day Katherine said she would go that afternoon to the bookshop and call on Betty, and I offered to go there after work and escort her back to Walnut Street.
It was already dark when we left my family’s home. We walked back along Third Street, where the lamps above people’s doorways cast pools of light and the snow sparkled underfoot, and as we talked we drew closer and our gloved hands brushed briefly together. I caught Katherine’s hand and held it. She did not resist, though she fell silent. We walked on slowly, our hands clasped, and I felt a bloom of happiness and expectancy unfolding within me.
When we reached the turn into Walnut Street I saw the house only a short way off, the lantern shining above its door. From now on there might be eyes watching us.
“Kate,” I said – and I stepped back into the shadows and turned her towards me. And it happened easily, as if by instinct; her face lifted to mine, our noses bumped, and then my lips were on hers, and I felt her respond and soften against me. We dropped hands and our arms went round each other. I kissed her again, and pulled her closer. I didn’t want this to stop.
But we heard footsteps coming nearer, and voices. We drew apart and moved on, linking hands again, and only let go as we approached the house.
Once inside, I felt that everyone – Mary, Isobel, my master, even the dog – must be able to see the glow that came from us. I wished them all a quick “good evening”, and went up to my room, my heart soaring.
The next day I was kept busy. The Frances returned from New England, and when she dropped anchor in the river my master took me out there in a boat and showed me around. There was plenty of storage space in the schooner
’s hold, which at that time was laden with a cargo of fish and about to be unloaded. I saw the captain’s cabin, and the one my master would use if he travelled with the ship. These were plain, but comfortably furnished with bunks, tables, chairs and writing materials. The sailors – and no doubt any apprentice who accompanied the merchant – would make do with whatever space they could find.
On board I met the captain, Richard Grey. He was a Bristol man, someone George Bainbrigg put much trust in; and we had his company later at dinner, and heard news of Boston and Rhode Island merchants – many of them fellow Friends or Yorkshiremen – of my master’s acquaintance. I listened with attention to all the talk of his travels and dealings.
The Frances would not now undertake another voyage until the spring, for at the beginning of December the snow began in earnest and the weather grew much colder.
We heard that William Penn was shortly to leave Philadelphia and set off with a group of Friends for an area of wilderness in the north of the province to negotiate the acquisition of more land from the Delaware Indians. He was gradually buying up tracts of land in this way – for although the king of England had granted him ownership of Pennsylvania, the Indians who lived there knew nothing of this; and William Penn would take no land unless it had been fairly purchased from the Indians and agreements drawn up and signed by all parties.
I looked at the map in my master’s office and saw that the area called Pennsylvania was immense, most of it unmarked by any settlements.
“The settlers occupy only a small part of this great wilderness,” George Bainbrigg said. “There is room for all.”
We occasionally saw Indians in Philadelphia. They would arrive with furs for sale – beaver, fox, otter. These Delaware Indians were strong, hardy men, their skins brown and greased with bear’s fat against the cold. They wore trousers of animal skins, and mantles of duffel, and their hair fell straight to their shoulders, much like ours. Many strings of beads hung about them, and feathers, and little skin bags, and other heathen objects like bones and animal skulls. They wanted metal goods, kettles, tools, blankets and duffel cloth, and when they were bargaining they kept their faces very still and expressionless and showed no emotion, no clue to what they were thinking.
I watched how my master dealt with them.
“Never smile,” he warned me. “They don’t like to be smiled at.”
He bought furs and sent them to the tanners to be cured. When they came back they were soft and pliable, and we hung some of them for display in the sales area, where Kate came to admire and stroke them.
The time had come for a decision about my future. Was I willing to be bound as an apprentice to George Bainbrigg for five years? He had made it plain that he wanted to keep me.
“I’m pleased with thee, Josiah,” he said. “And pleased with myself, too, for judging well. I thought, that day when thou knocked on my door, that thou seemed a suitable lad. Thou must talk to thy parents, but I’ll be glad to sign the bond.”
There seemed no reason to refuse. I’d wanted freedom – but to do what? To pick up rubbish? To swill floors? Every job worth doing needed a time of learning. I liked my work here; and my parents would be pleased.
And there was Kate.
“I shall tell them I am happy, and want to stay,” I said.
“Good! Then I’ll arrange for the agreement to be drawn up.”
The contract was signed in the second week of December. I read it through, and agreed to the conditions; then my father and George Bainbrigg signed it. And so my life for the next five years was settled for me. I’d be nearly twenty-two at the end of my apprenticeship: old enough to set up in business on my own, to marry, to rent or build a house. Such things seemed far off.
Later that day I walked over to the forge to see Ben Kite and tell him my news.
“Thou hast done well!” he said. He was beating a rod of iron into a hook shape, the hammer blows ringing in the cold air. “A lot of conditions, aren’t there, for apprentices?” He paused. The hook was finished. He set it aside to cool, and grinned at me. “So – what is forbidden thee? I know there’s fornication.”
I laughed, and began ticking them off on my fingers: “I must not fornicate. I must not marry. I must not frequent playhouses or taverns, or play at cards, dice or any other form of gambling. I must faithfully serve my master, and obey his lawful commands. I must not buy or sell without his licence. I must do no damage to my master and his business, nor steal his goods, nor lend them unlawfully to anyone…”
“Well, that lot should keep thee out of trouble!” Ben said. “Which dost thou think will be hardest to keep?”
“Fornication,” I said, grinning – for it seemed the thing to say.
But I was resolved to keep all these commandments. There were no playhouses for me to frequent in Philadelphia; and taverns and gambling seemed to me part of my old London life. I thought about Kate, and the feelings I had for her, and believed I could – indeed, must – resist temptation, or at least postpone it until I was of age. As for the promise to obey my master’s lawful commands and to protect his goods and interests: not to do those things seemed so alien to my nature that I never gave it a thought.
Tokpa
We are in the great hut, in a room at the back. The whiskery man, the one who bought me when I stood on the block, brings clothes: trousers and shirts like those the Bassa man wears, and skirts and blouses for the women. We put them on. The trousers feel strange on my legs; I feel as if I am caught in a net.
When we are dressed they take us into a kitchen, where a black woman is cooking over a fire. She offers us food and water. I am so thirsty I gulp the water down. There is stuff she calls corn in a dish with beans and spices. I eat some and begin to feel stronger.
The chief comes into the room. I know at once he is chief because the whiskery man and the cook both show respect to him. He talks to the man and they gather us together – those of us who came in the cart. They count us, look us over and begin to send us out into the yard.
But then the chief puts a hand on my shoulder, holds me back.
At once I am afraid. What have I done? Why can’t I go with the others? He will whip me, I think.
But no one seems angry. The whiskery man goes out with the captives from the ship. The chief begins to talk to the cook, and then to me. He seems to be speaking English, but there are too many words; I can’t follow them.
But I understand when he points at me and says, “Antony. Thy name is Antony.” I want to cry out, “No. My name is Tokpa!” But the words are afraid to leave my mouth.
He goes away, and I stay with the woman. She is a Vai woman, but she speaks to me in English, like the chief. She speaks slowly, so that I understand, and her voice is kind.
“Don’t be afraid,” she says. “Master is a good man. Thou’rt lucky.”
I ask, “Why others go, I stay?”
“He wants thee for a house slave, not to work in the fields.”
“What I do?”
“Look after Master’s clothes. Clean boots and shoes. Wait at table. Chop wood. Light fires. Many things. But not cutting cane. Not under the overseer with his whip.”
She takes away my empty cup and plate.
“Thou’rt lucky,” she says again.
Twelve
That winter was one of the coldest that people in Delaware and West Jersey remembered. By the end of tenth-month – the month the world calls December – the Delaware and Schuylkill rivers were frozen over and the snow was several feet deep. The builders stopped work on my parents’ house, leaving posts set in holes ready for when the thaw came. The Swedes who had been building log cabins went home. The cold was intense, but bright and clear, and I enjoyed being out in it and active about my master’s business.
I seized every moment when I was not at work to be with Kate. My master must have been aware of our attachment, but he said nothing about it, only to remind me generally that my behaviour must be proper at all times and that I
must never be idle but always have his interests in mind. I think he was pleased that Kate was happy and had made a friend of my sister.
Although Kate and I lived in the same house we were rarely alone together. In the evenings we sat with her father, and if he was away from home Isobel made it her business to keep an eye on Kate and not to leave us unchaperoned for long. But there were moments: chance meetings in the kitchen, in the storeroom, on the stairs, or in the counting house. There were times of day when such encounters were more likely and we soon got to know how to achieve them. Then we would move swiftly into each other’s arms to kiss and whisper endearments.
Betty began visiting more frequently, driven by the cramped conditions in the cabin now that people were mostly staying indoors. “And it’s warmer here!” she’d say, holding out her hands to the parlour fire. She and Kate would sit in the parlour with their books or sewing and talk.
Later, when I had finished work, I would walk Betty home along the snowy roads, taking Hob with us for exercise. One dark afternoon, on my return, I came in through the back door into the lobby, stamped off the snow from my boots, and began drying the dog with a cloth.
Kate met me there. It was one of our trysting-places. We knelt together, rubbing the dog and smoothing his coat.
“Betty seemed a little low in spirits today,” I said. “I don’t know why, unless it’s being cooped up in the cabin so much.”
“No,” said Kate. “It’s because of Lars.”
“Lars? The one who built our cabin?”
“Yes. The builders can’t work in this weather, so they have gone home – and Betty is pining.”
“She never told me.”
“She never told me until I asked her.” She frowned. “I hope she will forget him over the winter. He is too old, and too handsome, and sure to have a girl already. He is not suitable for her.”
I laughed. “How shrewish thou art, Kate! Am I unsuitable for thee?”
“Thou’rt entirely suitable and know it.”
