The Hearth and Eagle

by Anya Seton

  Goody Carson, the new mother, was up from childbed but her wits seemed befuddled; she neither spoke nor smiled, and she had scanty milk for her nurseling whose wails were incessant. The baby had been named “Travail,” and as the passengers’ tempers grew ever shorter there was many an acid jest as to the appropriateness of its naming.

  Everywhere on the ship small feuds had risen. Master Wenn led a clique of Separatists who joined in disapproval of those whose reasons for emigrating were not primarily religious.

  Mrs. Bagby, from malice and boredom, headed another faction held together by resentment towards Phebe, because she kept herself apart, because she was young and more gently bred than they, because she wore a small lace ruff around her neck on Sundays, because she and her wild young gawk of a husband—naught but a tradesman either—seemed set far from the rest by a wanton show of passion for each other.

  Phebe heard the whispers and knew herself shunned, but she was too weary and indifferent to care. She silently took her turn at the communal duties, the cooking of whatever food the cabin boy flung in the trenchers, the emptying of chamber pots and slop pails, the care of the sick, and otherwise lived for the moments of dubious privacy in the bunk with Mark. She had not told him of her fear, shamed that she should think it a fear. Besides, as long as it remained unvoiced it remained unreal. And there might yet be a mistake. Time enough to face it when they reached land. If they reached land. That was the thought in all their hearts. Day after day the soundings touched no bottom. Day after day the endless ocean stretched on ahead. And then one day they could no longer see the water, for an icy gray fog, colder and thicker than any they had met before, swathed the Jewell in a sinister quiet. The incessant blare of the horn sounded muffled and impotent, and no sound came back except the purling of sea at the barely moving bow.

  The passengers, at first relieved to find steady decks beneath their feet, soon caught the contagion of renewed and sharper anxiety. The sailors had turned surly and would not speak. Captain Hurlston, briefly glimpsed on the poop deck, kept thereafter to his quarters in the roundhouse, and returned no answer to anxious messages.

  Even Mark lost his optimism, and from his few glum words Phebe learned their peril. They must be near the Grand Banks; there were dangerous shoals to the south. They had lost the other boats four days ago, and in the fog the Captain was unsure of his bearings.

  No, Mark answered impatiently, to her frightened question, of course there was nothing further to be done, except wait—“And I dare say you women and Master Wenn might pray on’t.” He escaped soon to the fo’c’sle, where at least there were no foolish questions, and where he had become proficient at knots and splices and learned the knack of the marlin spike.

  The fog continued that night and on into the next day which was the sixth of June, and colder than any January day in Dorset. After a basin of porridge Phebe lay down in her bunk, shivering. The matted straw pallet beneath her was damp as a dishcloth and seemed to have vanquished even the lice which were less troublesome. She lay wrapped in her cloak and with their two bed rugs piled on top. She shut her eyes tight, trying to escape for a while into sleep, when she heard the thumps of running feet on the deck and men’s voices raised in a resounding cheer. “Land Ho! Huzzah! Huzzah!”

  She jumped from the berth and went out on deck.

  The fog had suddenly lifted beneath a pale watery sun, and far off to the north rose a black line of cliff. Her heart swelled with wild relief. “Oh, thank God it’s Naumkeag!” she cried crowding with the other excited passengers to the starboard rail.

  “No, sweetheart”—she turned to see Mark laughing at her—“you push us too fast. It’s Cape Sable, and many days yet ahead of us. But it is the New World at last!” He bent down and kissed her exuberantly, unnoticed for once by Mrs. Bagby and Master Wenn, who were united in the general elation.

  They were indeed off the Grand Banks, the famous fishing banks to which European boats had been sailing for centuries. And the sea being most providentially quiet, they lay to while the sailors and most of the male passengers commenced to fish. They were abundantly rewarded; in less than two hours they had taken near fifty giant codfish. The women retreated to the poop deck, as the main deck became a mass of silvery flopping bodies. Phebe watched Mark, and ignorant as she was of the art, saw that he seemed more apt than the other landsmen. His movements in casting out the hand-line were quicker, he seemed to know by instinct the instant for the sharp jerk, he caught more fish than they did, and he caught the biggest of all—a yard long and near to that around the middle.

  She thought of the Lady Arbella’s remark, “I cannot see you as a fishwife,” and smiled. Far across the water to the southwest the Arbella lay ahead of them, also hove-to, and doubtless also fishing. Later when they had glutted themselves with the sweet fresh fish, so delicious a change in their fare, she thought of Arbella again, and said to her—“You do not despise the occupation so now, do you, milady?”

  The fish were good omen, not only for the bodies which they strengthened, but for the voyage. The winds at last grew fair and the weather warm. Off to starboard high land and mountains streamed by. All might spend the day on deck in the sunshine, and pleasant sweet air drifted to them from the land like the smell of a garden.

  The strain relaxed from Mr. Hurlston, the ship’s master, and he, who had been grimly aloof during those endless weeks at sea, grew affable and pointed out to them the landmarks they passed. Mount Desert, Agamenticus, The Isle of Shoals. Off Cape Ann a stiff southwest gale delayed them but now, so near to land and having weathered so many worse gales, the passengers scarcely minded.

  On June 13, the Lord’s Day, the Jewell slid gingerly through the passage between Baker’s Isle and Little Isle, and at two o’clock the whole ship’s company again let forth a mighty cheer, for there to the north of them rocking at anchor rested the Arbella, seeming as placid and at home as she had seemed so many weeks ago in Southampton Harbor.

  “And THAT is Naumkeag—” cried Phebe staring with all her eyes at the wooded shore behind the Arbella.

  “Nay, Phebe,” said Mark laughing as he had laughed a week earlier when she miscalled Cape Sable. He took her by the shoulders and swung her around toward the southwest. “Down there is Naumkeag. Here is Cape Ann shore, we are still a league away. You must have patience.”

  “I can’t wait to land,” she said, smiling that their characters should be thus reversed, she chafing at delay and he counseling patience.

  “See—” he said, pointing to the Arbella, “they’re manning their skiff. They mean to waft us in, though being so much larger they must wait themselves for high water and a fair wind.”

  At five o’clock of the soft June afternoon the ]ewell reached Naumkeag at last, and dropped anchor in the South Harbor. The low wooded shore was dotted with people waving, and the Huzzahs came now from their throats, not from those on the ship. These pressed together silently gazing at journey’s end. Master Wenn raised his voice in a prayer of Thanksgiving, and Phebe, caught like the rest of them by the solemnity of the moment, bowed her head while the tears started to her eyes.

  Mark was busy helping to lower the long boat, and she was in the first load to leave the Jewell. As he lifted her down from the ladder, she was astonished to feel a sharp nostalgia. The battered little ship which she had so much detested was now friend and home. She looked back at it with misted eyes, and the faces of those still on board, even that of Mrs. Bagby, seemed transfigured and lovable.

  But it was good to set foot on the land though it seemed to sway and heave beneath her like the ship’s deck. Delicious to refresh the eyes with the brown of earth and the brilliant green of the trees, loftier than any at home.

  A score of men and three or four women had gathered at the landing place to greet them, but they held back in respect for the two ministers. Mr. Higginson and Mr. Skelton, tall and solemn in their flowing black prunella robes, bowed to each arrival saying “Welcome to Salem.” It seemed t
hat the Indian name “Naumkeag” had been replaced by the Hebrew word for “Peace.”

  Phebe held back a little, shy of these strange faces and waiting for Mark to discover what was expected of them, and as she watched, her joyous excitement dwindled. They looked haggard and ill, these people who had already been settled for a year in the land of promise. Mr. Higginson, though only forty-six, seemed like an old man. She noted the trembling of his hands, the eyes sunk back into the sockets, the unwholesome red on his cheekbones. Nor did his fellow minister, Mr. Skelton, look much stronger. They were all thin, ill-clothed, and hollow-eyed, these men and women of Salem, and after the first cheer they fell silent, drawing together on the bank and watching withsomber looks while boatloads of passengers disembarked from the Jewell.

  “Come—” said Mark, returning to Phebe. “We go to Governor Endicott’s.” They and the others moved along behind the ministers up a trampled path.

  Phebe stared around her curiously, noting some rough earth dugouts roofed with bark, and tiny log huts beneath the trees, and thought with a thrill that these must be Indian dwellings. “I wonder how far it is to town?” she said to Mark. But Mr. Higginson overheard her, and to her mortification stopped and turned looking down at her. "This is the town, mistress—” he said; his burning eyes showed reproof and a faint amusement. “This the highway—” He pointed down the path, “and these our houses—” His long thin hand pointed to the bark dugouts.

  “Oh to be sure, sir—” she stammered, turning scarlet. The minister nodded and continued to walk. Phebe followed silently, striving against dismay. On her father’s land these dwellings would not have been thought fit to house the swine.

  They came to a clearing of uneven grassy ground and near this clearing there were three wooden houses. The largest was two stories high and fairly built with windows and gables, almost like those at home. It was the Governor’s house.

  John Endicott met them on his stone doorstep and spoke a few gruff words of welcome, but he seemed out of temper, a sharp frown between his bushy brows, his pointed beard waggled irritably. For he was Governor no longer, as he had yesterday discovered upon the arrival of the Arbella with the royal charter, and his successor, John Winthrop.

  “You’d best return to your ship,” he said, “till your new Governor lands and can regulate your proceedings. We’ve little food or shelter for you now and there is much sickness.”

  Even Mark’s enthusiasm was quenched by this, and after further consultation between Endicott, the ministers and the Jewell’s master, the new arrivals trailed disconsolately back to the ship. So Phebe and Mark slept again in the cramped cabin they had foolishly thought to have seen for the last time.

  The first day on shore was filled with a feverish activity. When the Arbella had been warped up to the town dock near the Jewell, the great folk on board, the new Governor, the Saltonstalls, the Phillips, all moved majestically down the gangplank ahead of its lesser passengers. Phebe watched eagerly for the Lady Arbella, until she landed last of all, walking slowly, her tall figure swathed in the fur-lined cloak, though the day was warm. She was leaning on the arm of a tall, fair young man who was her husband, Mr. Isaac Johnson.

  Phebe drew back shyly as the lady passed, but Arbella noticed her, and smiled with great sweetness. “Why, it’s Mistress Honeywood, Isaac, I told you of her.” She held out her hand. “How was the journey, my dear?”

  Phebe took the thin white hand and curtsied. “I thought it would never end, milady, but now I scarce remember it, there’s so much to do here.”

  Arbella nodded. Her blue eyes wandered past Phebe to the dusty lane which disappeared amongst the trees by the first earthen dugout. “ ’Tis good to be on land,” she said vaguely. “I’ll soon gain strength again.” This was to her husband, and Phebe saw the quick anxiety in his eyes.

  “To be sure you will.” He clasped the hand which rested on his arm. “Do you know where we’re to go?” he asked of Phebe. “Governor Winthrop was to return for us, but he must have been detained.”

  “Oh yes, sir, they’ve prepared a fair wood house for you, down by the green, ’twas built last year by some gentleman of Mr. Higginson’s party—at least,” she added, her lips indenting with a rueful humor, “it’s a fair enough house for Salem.”

  Isaac nodded, and she thought how much alike those two were, both tall and fine-drawn, both informed with an idealistic courage.

  “We don't look for a castle in the wilderness,” he said. “Will you guide us, mistress?”

  Phebe gladly complied, but as she trudged up the path ahead of them her heart was troubled. They did not expect a castle, but did they expect the hardships and the actual hunger which already Phebe had discovered in Salem. This morning when filling a pot with water for the cleansing of their garments, she had talked with a gaunt middle-aged woman near the spring. Goodwife Allan acted half-crazed as she told of the previous winter; the wolves, the savages, the bitter bitter cold, the hunger and the sickness and fear. Her high thin voice whined through her drawn lips as though against its will. She had no pity, nor desire to frighten, either. It seemed she could not stop from touching again and again like a festering tooth the horror of her memories. And Phebe could not get away, for the woman followed her about until another woman came and spoke sharply.

  “Hold your tongue, Goody. 'Tis cruel to so frighten the young mistress here,” and turning to Phebe she spoke lower. “Her two babes died this winter. She returns to England when the fleet goes—and so do I.”

  Home to England—! Phebe had clamped her mind down hard against the great leap of longing and envy she had felt, and hope too. Surely Mark would soon see how different all was from his expectation.

  Yet now, watching the Lady Arbella and her husband, she felt some shame for her own faint heart. They would never falter, thought Phebe proudly, nor turn back home in fear and failure.

  Governor Winthrop came hurrying across the green to meet them, and Phebe curtsying and drawing aside noted the Lady’s gracious words, how she praised the beauty of the countryside, and even praised the compactness of the rough-planked two-room house which had been prepared for her.

  The Governor and Mr. Johnson plunged at once into frowning consultation, and Phebe, warm from Arbella’s smile of thanks, slipped away, back down the lane to the South River. A hundred yards up the slope from the Landing Place, near to the Burial Point—Mark had found them a shelter. He had bought it for a barrel of meal from one of the men who wished to leave Salem. It was twelve feet long and eight wide, made from a sapling frame; the walls and roof were of woven rushes and pine bark. Its floor was the ground, its door a single batten of hewn oak planks, and its end fireplace of piled field stones cemented with fish-shell lime provided the only daylight through its wide square chimney.

  It had been copied like its fellows from an Indian wigwam. It was dark and damp and smoky, but it was shelter.

  Aye—but how will it be alone here—she thought, entering the wigwam to start their supper preparations, and the new trouble which the sight of Arbella had momentarily banished came back to plague her. For Mark was leaving her to sail southward with Governor Winthrop and most of the company and search for better lands.

  At no time had Winthrop considered permanent settlement of his company in Salem, but he had found physical conditions far worse than he expected, nor were spiritual matters to his liking. The ministers Higginson and Skelton had unaccountably changed during their year here. They had come over as Puritans, averring their loyalty to the Mother Church and interested only in freeing her from certain forms of Papist corruption.

  Had not Mr. Higginson upon taking the last sight of England a year ago cried, “Farewell the Church of God in England, and all the Christian friends there. We do not go to New England as Separatists from the Church of England—but we go to practise the positive part of Church reformation, and propagate the gospel in America.”

  And yet upon his arrival in Salem, Winthrop found that these same minis
ters had adopted the congregational polity and affiliated themselves with the Separatist Church at Plymouth. And so strict in conscience had they become that Winthrop’s company, being no members of the Salem Church, were not even invited to worship with them on the Lord’s Day.

  There were besides many jealousies; the earlier settlers under Endicott and the ministers felt themselves dispossessed by new authority, just as Roger Conant and his settlers had been literally dispossessed, in 1628, by the arrival of Endicott.

  So Winthrop would sail again tomorrow on the Arbella to explore Massachusetts Bay and decide on a more welcoming site for the new settlement. Most of the male passengers would accompany him, and Mark too of course, already impatient with Salem, but ever hopeful and eager for more adventuring.

  I must be reasonable, thought Phebe, sighing, I can manage alone for a time. She moved around the wigwam trying to make it more homelike. Though all the Jewell’s freight had not yet been unloaded, the Honeywoods had found some of their household gear, and together carried it to the wigwam. There were blankets to sleep on, the two chests of clothing, a skillet and spoon, and an iron pot which Phebe, feeling very housewifely, hung from the green lugpole left by the earlier tenant. And there were the andirons. They gave an incongruous and elegant air to the rough Indian fireplace, and Mark had been impatient with her insistence that they must be used. But when their first fire blazed and they sat down on the blankets to eat, he admitted that they were sturdy, well-made dogs and did better than the stones the other new settlers were using.

  They supped that night on pease porridge and a large catfish which Mark had caught in the river. And they had beer, bought with one of the precious shillings, from a sailor on the Arbella. But the shillings were not so precious here, Phebe had soon realized—only to those who were returning to England. Here nothing mattered but food.