by Anya Seton
"To be sure," answered Isaac blushing and nodding. "I meant nothing else, sir."
Cradock had scarcely listened to this, but he increasingly approved of Winthrop and interjected quickly, "Aye, the law. It would be of great help to our company, Mr. Winthrop, did it include an attorney of your standing amongst the leaders." He looked at him hopefully and waited.
Winthrop's mouth pulled to a thin groove; he glanced at his brother-in-law, to whom this would be a shock, and he said without emphasis, "My office at the Court of Wards is gone. I am nearly certain of it."
"Good God, fohn!" Emmanuel started back, staring. "What does that mean?"
Winthrop's thin shoulders sketched a shrug. "Doubtless that in some mysterious way I have come under unfavorable notice from—" He lifted his hand in the direction of Whitehall, then let it drop.
"'Tis yet another straw in the wind," said Sir Richard Saltonstall heavily. "My dear sir, my deepest sympathies. You will then retire to your estates in Suffolk, I suppose?"
"My estates are much impoverished—my three elder sons must be provided for, and one of them—" He stopped. "But my family afflictions have no bearing on the matter in hand."
"We must move fast," said Cradock, leaning forward and speaking low. "Everything points to that. Fast and—and cautiously. Or we may be hindered."
"Come to Lincolnshire!" burst out Isaac Johnson. "My noble brother has authorized me to ask you. There at Sempringham we may all confer in utmost secrecy. Lord Lincoln yearns to be of help in establishing a new kingdom to God's glory and the Church's good!"
Again Cradock glanced at the faces around the table, until his eyes rested on Winthrop, noting that the others unconsciously did the same. The man had strength and a powerful attraction, for all his brooding gravity. "You will go to Lincolnshire, Mr. Winthrop?"
John exchanged a look with Emmanuel, and slowly nodded. "Mr. Downing and I will be pleased to confer with the Earl of Lincoln and the others..."
"Ah, but you'll go over there too—to the new land with us, sir, won't you?" cried Isaac. "I saw your eye kindle when I spoke of it!"
"I've given the matter insufficient thought," said Winthrop after a moment. "It seems unlikely, but it is a decision only God can make."
They all bowed their heads, and Sir Richard said, "Amen."
For the ensuing hour, they arranged matters preliminary to the Lincolnshire conference. They made lists of possible financial backers, and lists of the few men amongst these whom they felt it safe to sound out at this time. Robert Feake was one, and a message was dispatched to him. It was Emmanuel Downing and Cradock, both shrewd merchants and men of substance themselves, who led in this discussion, and though Winthrop listened and contributed at times, he also fell into long abstractions. In his heart was a great question, and his thoughts—despondent and elated by turns—could neither be marshaled nor quieted.
At Groton Manor during May and June, despite lovely weather, an unhappy restlessness prevailed. Margaret and Elizabeth were drawn close by their mutual cares, for neither was sure of her own husband's intention, and each letter from London added to the uncertainties. Harry too was in London, though out of touch with his father, and all Margaret's dutiful efforts to keep her stepson on the Manor had failed. So had Elizabeth's.
In the long June evening of the 29th, the women sat together in the walled garden by the mulberry tree and watched the Manor road for Bluet, the servant, who had been sent as usual to meet the London carrier in case there should be letters. For some days he had brought none. Margaret's little boys were in bed, Forth, Harry's younger brother, had ridden to Cambridge to give up his chambers there, for he was no longer inclined towards the ministry. Mary Winthrop was visiting her Aunt Gostlin in the next village. The two Winthrop wives were alone, and this rarity moved them both to more frankness than usual.
Margaret sat on a bench sewing a pair of linen drawers for her youngest, but Elizabeth sprawled on the grass idly combing the thick turf for four-leaf clovers. The last rays of mellow sunlight gilded her rich dark hair and pretty downcast face. The older woman said gently, "Will you read us a psalm while we wait, Bess? 'Tis always better not to mope in idleness."
The girl sat up and cried passionately, "I can understand that he has merry times in London, with Thanet and Seaton no doubt and with—" she bit her lips thinking of all the Chloes and Sylvias with which London abounded, "but he does love me in his way. I know that! Why does he not write!"
Margaret sighed thinking of a sentence in her John's last letter.
Henry is in London, but I have seen him but twice, I know not what he doth nor what he intendeth, I mourn for his sins and the misery that he will soone bring upon himself and his wife.
Yet she tried to comfort.
"Harry was never one for letters, dear, and is naturally busy arranging your voyage to Barbadoes." Her own voice faltered, and the girl said with quick bitter sympathy, "Aye, Mother—'tis of a different voyage you think, isn't it!"
Margaret put down her sewing. "I cannot think John means to go..." she said half to herself. "Not to that wilderness of wild beasts and savages where so many have perished. To leave me and the children behind—to leave this—" She opened her eyes and looked at the rosy gables behind them, at the great sheltering roof, the smoking chimneys of the Manor House. She looked at the little walled garden with its sweet trim roses, gillyflowers and lilies she tended herself. Both women were silent while the church bell chimed the hour gently across the meadows, and the doves cooing in their cote seemed to answer the bell.
"But I'm weak," Margaret whispered. "This shrinking savors too much of the flesh. John has said so. He told me that it would be a great service to the Church to carry Gospel to that other land and raise a bulwark against the kingdom of anti-Christ which the Jesuits labor to rear in all parts of the world. He told me that the land here in England groaneth under her inhabitants, and there is so much deceit and unrighteousness that it is almost impossible for a good man to maintain his estates and live comfortably in his profession. He is right, ever right, and I will always submit to his wishes." She bent her head.
Elizabeth had not been listening; her thoughts had flown to Harry, praying that he were indeed hastening their own voyage to Barbadoes or anywhere that he would stay with her, yet something in Margaret's speech caught her laggard attention and she said slowly, "Do you know why Father Winthrop lost his office at the Court of Wards when Uncle Downing is still secure in his?"
Margaret shook her head. "John knows not how it was, but somehow the Winthrop name would seem to have vexed the King himself. These are dreadful times."
Elizabeth thought of that far-off happy day on the Thames, of their meeting with the royal barge and the King's questions, and was stricken with guilt. But of what use to mention it? The damage was done, if indeed it were her fault, and the memory of that day was filled with nostalgic pain. She touched the gaudy gilt and crystal brooch Harry had given her, as though it were a talisman. He does love me, she thought. I must be patient, but while she thought this, deep down a hot rebellion stirred. She grabbed up a handful of grass and threw it violently at the mulberry trunk. "Why was I not born a man?" she cried. "Why can't I enjoy myself in London too? Why must I sit here waiting, wondering—it's too humbling—and dull—dull!"
"Hush, dear," cried Margaret, momentarily dismayed. "You mustn't question God's provision for you, or your lot as a wife. You will settle to it better, when the babes start coming."
"Ah..." said Elizabeth glumly. There had been no shameful result from that night in St. James's Park. Had I known for sure of that, she thought—would I—? And at once chided herself. It was not because of that she had married Harry; they loved each other, and also John Winthrop had made them marry. That there was some contradiction in these thoughts she saw dimly, and suddenly began to cry.
"Poor child," said Margaret patting her on the shoulder. "Oh, look, Bess, there's Bluet coming and he has letters in his hand!"
The g
irl dashed her apron across her eyes and sprang down the lane. There was a note from Harry, terse and misspelled, but it supplemented the letter from John Winthrop to his wife. They would all be arriving at Groton next week, and Winthrop said he was bringing Priscilla Fones, Sammy and Martha too. "Harry is coming, and oh, how glad I am that Martha comes too at last!" Elizabeth cried, laughing huskily when they had read the letters.
Margaret nodded. "You see, Bess, how God is good and kind, always, if we be patient."
CHAPTER FIVE
IN AUGUST John Winthrop and Emmanuel Downing rode to Lincolnshire and visited Theophilus Fiennes Clinton, the young Earl of Lincoln, at Sempringham. There in the great mansion which had been recently erected on the site of the once famous Gilbertine Priory, John Winthrop definitely made up his mind for the adventure overseas. He found himself in the company of an earnest charming family, all of whom were dedicated to the glorious enterprise and had thought of little else for two years. The Earl, because of his responsibilities and vast estates, could not emigrate, nor of course could his Countess, Bridget, though she was the daughter of the Puritan Lord Say, and as enthusiastic as her husband in furthering the new plantation. The Earl's three sisters had each married men to whom the colonization of a new and freer England was of paramount importance. The Lady Frances and her husband, John Gorges, were not present at this meeting in Sempringham, but the Lady Susan, with her husband, John Humphrey, and the fair Lady Arbella were anxiously awaiting discussion of the great project. Arbella's husband, Isaac Johnson, was even more fervent than he had been in London and—it soon developed—he was prepared to invest a very large sum in the Massachusetts Bay Colony as well.
On the second night after his arrival John Winthrop sat well up the board at the Earl's huge dining table, and having eaten superbly and drunk three silver gobletfuls of excellent claret, he leaned back in his chair content as he had ever been in his life. Amongst the score of diners there had been much inspiring talk, after a beautiful prayer offered by John Cotton, the nonconformist rector of St. Botolph's Church in nearby Boston. Long ago Cotton had been at Trinity College when John himself was there and he found that the lanky young Cotton had developed into a man of magnetic power, whose long fluffy white hair, flashing dark eyes and bell-like voice combined to move his hearers mightily. An Ezekiel himself, Cotton seemed, when he had quoted that prophet in heartbroken tones:
Son of man thou dwellest in the midst of a rebellious house, which have eyes to see and see not ... therefore thou son of man prepare thee stuff for removing, and remove by day in their sight...
When he finished his prayer, tears had flowed from Lady Arbella's eyes, and John himself swallowed a lump in his throat.
There were two other clergymen at Sempringham that night; Roger Williams, a young firebrand with ginger hair, pronounced liberal opinions on everything, and a quick pleasing smile. Also Thomas Hooker, a placid middle-aged vicar from Chelmsford, who spoke very little but watched the others, particularly the Reverend Mr. Cotton, and the disciples Cotton had brought with him from Boston. They were a couple called Hutchinson, a weedy little merchant of obvious means, and his tall vibrant wife, whose brilliant gray eyes rested admiringly now on the Earl, now on the Reverend Cotton. No doubt she was in awe of the people she found herself amongst, Winthrop thought quite wrongly, not hearing her occasional decisive remarks, nor knowing that Mistress Anne Hutchinson was in awe of nobody.
But John, beneath his polite smile, was intent on his own problems.
For weeks he had been uncertain of his course. He had written page after page of argument pro and con the new plantation in endeavor to clarify his own mind, and he had waited on God's sure direction, aware of the pitfall of vanity. For it had been most agreeable to feel that his participation in the infant company was so much wanted and by such exalted men. Nor was this for the money he might invest in the venture; he had made clear his financial embarrassments. They wanted him for himself, for the qualities of leadership, administration and integrity they so flatteringly imputed to him, and during this dinner his uncertainty ceased. The Earl suddenly leaned down the table and said earnestly, "Well, Mr. Winthrop, may we hope that you are definitely joining the company and will go to New England?"
John bowed his head and answered solemnly, "Ave, my lord, I will."
The Lady Arbella clapped her slender hands, Isaac, her husband, laughed with relief, Sir Richard Saltonstall cried, "Splendid!" and was echoed by most of the others around the table except Downing who gave a dismayed grunt, for he had decided that though he would venture an investment, he would not himself emigrate at present.
"It'll be hard, John," he said below his breath. "You're forty-one, used to gentle living, and not so hale—"
John did not hear him, for the Earl was speaking again. "And to what, Mr. Winthrop, do we owe your most gratifying decision?" Lincoln asked with the warm shining smile which was like Arbella's.
John hesitated; he might have referred to Cotton's prayer, or to the glow of fellowship and dedication he had found at Sempringham, but he instinctively substituted a Sign. "On my way here, my lord, as we crossed the fens, my horse fell in a bog, and I in the water. I'd have been drowned, had not God preserved me for a manifest purpose, and thus made known to me His Will."
They all nodded understanding and Cotton said resonantly, "Praised be His Mercy!"
The Earl glanced down his great candlelit dining table, at his sisters and their husbands, at the three ministers, at Cotton's forceful follower—Mrs. Hutchinson. He looked at William Coddington, a substantial Boston merchant who was anxious to emigrate, perhaps not entirely for religious reasons, the Earl thought. There would be self-interest, the acquisition of land, particularly, to influence many of the venturers, or even the hope of ruling. His eyes grew troubled as they rested on his old steward, Thomas Dudley. Dudley was a red-faced truculent man of fifty-three who intended to emigrate, as did his seventeen-year-old daughter, the dreamy Anne, who sat beside her husband, young Simon Bradstreet. Both Dudley and Bradstreet were members of Lincoln's own household and eminently efficient men. The Earl glanced at Sir Richard Saltonstall. He then thought of the other directors of the Company who were known to him and not present; and particularly of the Governor, Matthew Cradock, who had remained in London but had sent the Earl certain advisements by letter, "in case Mr. Winthrop should find himself persuaded..."
This will go hard with Dudley, thought the Earl, but I had better give some warning. He motioned the footmen to refill the goblets and rose to propose a toast "To John Winthrop, Esquire, who has joined our great enterprise," he paused, "and whom I believe we may see become the temporal leader of it in the New World!"
John barely smothered a gasp, while dull red flushed his thin cheeks. Now what does he mean by that? he thought in confusion. Surely not the governorship! A leap of excitement was balanced by dismay. As he made some vague mechanical response, he received impressions from the faces at the table. Some looked surprised or uncertain, some like Isaac Johnson looked pleased, but there was no mistaking Thomas Dudley's reaction. His big hairy hand clenched on the goblet, while he choked on a mouthful of wine. His jowls quivered, and though he said nothing, Dudley sent Lord Lincoln a glare of indignation.
Surely there was no doubt that I'd be made Governor! Dudley thought, since Cradock won't emigrate. He stared down trembling at his dish of sugared figs, while blood drummed in his head. Who was this new-come pettifogging attorney anyway! An attorney who had lost his job, and admittedly most of his lands as well. A country squire whose grandfather had been a clothier. While I—thought Dudley burning with injustice—well born, of the great Dudley blood, raised with noblemen—Lord Northampton, Lord Say—and my long services to this ingrate, the Earl of Lincoln!
The Earl had been bankrupt when Dudley took over the stewardship of the estates, and in twenty years had managed them so well that now the Earl was solvent. Who better qualified than Dudley to administer a new colony? And besides there were
the rights of birth and seniority. I'd not have agreed to go if I'd had wind of this, he thought, which brought an unpleasant corollary. For the Earl had urged his going, and Dudley's work at Sempringham, Tattershall, Folkingham, Lincoln, and a dozen smaller properties was done. The Earl had no further need of him, nor even of his son-in-law, Simon Bradstreet. Dudley looked up suddenly to see that his daughter Anne was staring at him. In her lightly pock-marked face the big eyes shone with concealed anxiety. At once he softened. Never mind, darling, he thought, your old father'll be Governor yet, and in the new land we'll bow to no Earls, or Bishops, or—his wrinkled lids raised to stare at Winthrop's flushed uncomfortable face. What do they SEE in him? thought Dudley. They can't make this Suffolk squirelet Governor!
Yet John Winthrop was elected Governor of the Massachusetts Company in London on October 20, 1629, and after long delay Dudley was named Deputy. Like it or not he must go second to the new land. Dudley did not like it but by then he had cooled off, and also been won to grudging acceptance of Winthrop's indisputable sincerity and energy—so he bided his time.
Dudley had seen Winthrop's qualities best exhibited on the 26th of August, when they had all left Sempringham and foregathered in Cambridge, with the other members of the Company who were going to emigrate. There Winthrop had behaved himself with intelligence and foresight, collaborating so wholeheartedly with Dudley in the draft of the "Agreement" proclaiming the venturers right to take their charter with them that Dudley could find no fault with the clear and earnest document, nor for the moment with Winthrop.
It was while his father was in Cambridge, signing the historic agreement, that John Winthrop, Junior, came home to Groton, thereby greatly disturbing Elizabeth's hard-won peace of mind. He had arrived in London from Venice via Amsterdam on August 13, he had exchanged letters with his father and with Margaret, he had announced himself as delighted with the Massachusetts project, and ready to co-operate in all things with his father's wishes. So Elizabeth had been prepared, and thought herself fortified, yet when he dismounted at the door of the Manor on that late August afternoon she discovered that she was not.
