The Winthrop Woman

by Anya Seton

  Elizabeth was at Watertown as she had been since the day after her January visit to Mrs.Hutchinson. Robert had been in a fever to leave Boston before Winthrop should hear of Elizabeth's disgraceful behavior, and she, a little frightened herself, had obeyed his pleadings. She was all the more willing because, as a climax to the strange experience at Mrs. Hutchinson's and Elizabeth's consequent remorseful softening towards Robert, they had come together again as man and wife. He had lain in her arms that night, and she had known bodily release, and some contentment. The contentment deepened when she shortly afterwards found that she was with child. Depressions and doubts vanished; in a state of calm well-being she ceased to think much of Mrs. Hutchinson, especially as reports from Boston indicated that after the inconclusive hullabaloo over Wheelwright, the conflict had quietened. Nor obviously had Coddington reported Elizabeth's visit after all.

  Margaret's occasional letters were as affectionate as usual, and ended as usual with "Your uncle sends his love, and prayers for your favor in Christ." So Elizabeth was able to reassure Robert.

  One morning during the second week of May, Elizabeth was in her garden, sitting on a bench under the maple tree and trying to teach five children—her own and three of the Patricks'—their letters from a hornbook. Discipline was difficult. Elizabeth herself was almost as distracted as the children by the perfume of her growing herbs and flowers, the twittering of the birds in a white-spangled cherry tree and the antics of the Feakes' new puppy which imagined it had cornered some sort of enemy in the lush grass.

  "Now children, again," said Elizabeth tapping her straw pointer on the hornbook. "What is this?"

  "M?" said Lisbet, tugging at one of her flaxen curls. "M for mouse."

  "Not M—you silly," cried Joan shaking her brown head importantly. "That's W. Isn't it, Mama?"

  "Which is it, Dan?" Elizabeth asked of Patrick's young son, who was lying on his stomach teasing an earthworm. "Sit up and pay attention!"

  He glanced at the hornbook, said, "I dunno, ma'am," and yawned.

  "Well, you've got to learn," cried Elizabeth, "or I'll tell your father to switch you. Stand up! All of you!"

  They straggled to their feet and reluctantly recited in chorus as her straw moved up and down along the first two rows of the hornbook. "Big A, little a. Big B, little b—" They had reached R when the youngest Patrick gave a delighted squeal and ran to the corner of the house to greet Daniel Patrick who was dismounting from his horse.

  "Faith, Bessie—" he said, patting his offspring and advancing to the group, "'Tis a pleasant schoolroom ye've found for yourself. How's Danny at his letters?"

  "Laggard," said Elizabeth severely. "But I think he knows his catechism." She turned to the boy. "Dan, what is the chief end of man?"

  "Man's-chief-end-is-t'-glorify-God-'n-enjoy-Him-forever," said Danny glibly.

  "What rule hath God given to direct us how we may glorify and enjoy Him?"

  "Word-O'-God-contained-in-Scriptures-Old-n'-New Testament'sonly-rule-t'-direct-us-how-we-may-glor'fy-n'-enjoy-Him," said Danny on one breath.

  "Good. Good lad—" interrupted Patrick hastily, before Elizabeth could continue. "I see we'll not have that blasted tithing man on our necks again, thanks to you, Bess. 'Ods body but I'd like to slice off his prying ferret nose fur him."

  Elizabeth made a warning gesture because of the listening children, but she thoroughly agreed. Job Blunt, the tithing man, had several duties beyond keeping order on the Sabbath, and had recently made the scandalized discovery that the Patrick children had not been taught their catechism, an offense punishable by fines and public humiliation.

  "Be off wi' ye—childer," said Patrick to the group. "School's out fur the nonce!"

  They obeyed with alacrity, scampering from the garden towards the river, except Lisbet whose tastes never ran to wild games.

  "I want to talk to ye, Bess," said Patrick sitting down on the bench beside Elizabeth. "There's news from Connecticut. From Underhill. The Pequots're massing, they even dared attack Saybrook Fort, though little came of it. They've killed more settlers, at Hartford this time. We've not enough soldiers there. I've been summoned."

  "Well, that's what you want, isn't it?" asked Elizabeth, knowing how the big redheaded captain had chafed at being ordered to remain home on guard while Underhill sailed off with his force of twenty men to join Captain John Mason in Connecticut.

  "Aye," said Patrick grinning at her. "I've no fancy to be left out when there's a spot o' fighting, though I've no special stomach fur shooting Indians as a rule. And if that damned old fool, Endecott, hadn't stirred up all the Pequots last summer wi' that hapless raid on Block Island, we wouldn't have this wasp's nest buzzing about our ears. Still and all, they are buzzing, and must be quelled."

  Elizabeth nodded and waited.

  "They won't let me leave for Connecticut till after the election, next Wednesday," Patrick went on, frowning. "Expect trouble, they do, and want me and my men to stand by."

  "Trouble here?" said Elizabeth. "Over the election? Won't Governor Vane be returned again?"

  "Ha!" said Patrick. "Not if your uncle can stop it, and he's taken mighty good care to stop it. Election's to be at Newtown so Vane and Mrs. Hutchinson's Boston friends'll have less chance. I tell ye, Bess, this squabble at the Bay'd make a cat die laughing! Folk going about hissing that they're Works or Grace like in the old country they'd be Papist or Protestant. Only that made sense and I can't make head or tail o' this."

  "Nor I," said Elizabeth. "Except—" But even to Patrick, of whose understanding she was sure, she didn't wish to speak of Anne Hutchinson.

  "That's not what I came to say," said Patrick, pulling a dirty clay pipe from his leather pocket, stuffing it with tobacco, and lighting it after some difficulty with his flint and steel. "'Tis Robert," he said puffing out a long trail of smoke. "I wonder should I order him to go along wi' me to Connecticut."

  Elizabeth swallowed, astonished that she had not thought of this. "Why, yes, I suppose so," she said uncertainly. "He's your lieutenant, I know he'd want to go with you."

  Patrick glanced at her, his vivid Irish eyes clouded, and he stared at the cherry tree. Innocent Bess was, and unperceptive when it came to Robert of whose peculiarities Patrick was well aware, and yet he had sympathy for the man quite aside from his admiring fondness for Bess. Back in the monastery near Armagh there had been one of the monks a bit like Robert, a quiet meek man called Brother Edan who was forever telling his beads and at his devotions, gentle too with the younger brothers, who were all fond of him. And then one terrible night the Abbot found out something. Daniel, though he hadn't understood much then, remembered yet the shocked horror that had swept the monastery, the hushed conferences in the chapter house, the special masses, the whisperings, and then the end—a week later—when Brother Edan had been found dangling in his cell, hanged by his own knotted scourge. God save his poor soul somehow, for it was madness did it—all of it—Daniel thought, and turned to see that Elizabeth was watching him uneasily. "Ye see, m'dear," he said quickly, "I was just considering, would ye be content without your husband now, seeing that you're breeding and all—and," he added gently, "I'm not sure Robert's what ye might call a fighting man."

  "No," she agreed after a pause. "But I think he'd like to be." Always Robert was happy for a while when starting a new venture, and when he felt himself accepted in a world of men. But it didn't seem to last. She sighed, and Patrick, who had been watching her, followed her thoughts enough to ask, "The settlement at Dedham's come to naught for ye, hasn't it? Miat happened?"

  "In truth, I don't know," said Elizabeth. "Though he said he had a dream warning him not to settle there. I was dismayed at first, but then I thought it might be better if my babe were born here at Watertown, and Anneke to help me again." She looked at him with her quick pretty smile that brought soft lights to her hazel eyes. "For both Robert and me, you Patricks seem our only true friends."

  "I faith!" he cried. "We feel so too!" He
gave her a bear hug, kissed her on the cheek, and got up. "Where's Robert now, in the fields with the men?"

  She frowned, turning the hornbook over and over on her lap. "Nay," she said at last, "I fear he's gone to the burying ground. Somedays he goes there and sits amongst the gravestones, reading his Bible!"

  "A pious pastime," said Patrick with a grimace. "Doubtless edifies the godly, but not me. Aye, Bess, I'll take him off to Connecticut, willy-nilly, at least knock some morbid dithers out o' him."

  On the following Wednesday, May 17, the General Election was held at Newtown; an occasion fully as disturbed as had been expected. Governor Vane and those who had signed the remonstrance wished it publicly read, Winthrop did not. Mr. Wilson clambered up the oak tree, and perching on a lower limb like a stout angry crow, vehemently harangued the meeting. There were furious shouts. There were fist fights. There was tumult; which Winthrop overriding Vane's shrill protests, managed to quiet by a direct command that they ignore the petition which had nothing to do with the election, and proceed at once to vote. He was greeted with cheers and hisses, but the cheers predominated. Winthrop had planned shrewdly when he had got the election moved to Newtown, which was far more accessible to the freemen of Watertown, Roxbury, Charlestown and the towns on the North Shore than Boston. These other towns had not been impressed by Vane or influenced by Mrs. Hutchinson; they had been during the last weeks continually exhorted by their ministers.

  John Winthrop was returned to office by a huge majority, Vane and his party suffered crushing defeat.

  Late that night Elizabeth heard of the election from Robert, who was jubilant. "A great day it was, wife," he said happily, as he helped himself to an unaccustomed drink of sack. "So now after three years our uncle is Governor again, and we may all rejoice."

  "Except Mrs. Hutchinson and her family," said Elizabeth on a dry note.

  "Oh, they'll see the error of their ways," said Robert without interest. "They'll have to. Wife, where's my leather jerkin, and my sword belt? Daniel says we'll be off tomorrow."

  She looked at him with attention. His fair skin was flushed from the sack and from excitement, his thin silver-gold hair was almost tousled, his long white fingers were restlessly tripping the hammer on his musket; while so often he was gray and wan, now he looked younger than his thirty-five years. "You're not afraid, Robert dear?" she said. "And be careful of yourself, won't you?" Suddenly she had realized he was going into danger and she felt compunction that she had not thought of this before. The inadequacy of her question and the tardiness of the emotion prompting it made her go to him and kiss him.

  He responded with grateful surprise, as he always did to any overture from her. "Will you miss me, Bess?" he asked humbly. "I'd not leave you except Daniel says we'll be back long before the babe comes."

  Daniel says, she thought, aye that was why she had had no fear for Robert; of course, they both leaned on the huge captain, as trustingly as did his own children. "To be sure I'll miss you," she said, "but I'm proud to have you go, and I shall be quite safe."

  During the next two months she was indeed safe enough at Watertown, which was now thickly populated, and there was nothing to fear from the local Indians of whom only a dozen or so had survived the smallpox three years ago. The days were hot, and Elizabeth's pregnancy made her indolent, so that she skimped all but the most necessary chores, and wished fervently for a maid, even so inefficient a one as Sally had been. The little girls reluctantly helped with the dishwashing and bedmaking, and from time to time Elizabeth was able to hire the twelve-year-old daughter of her immediate neighbor to the east, Goodman William Bridges, but Dolly Bridges was a flighty child. If not constantly watched she incited Joan to naughtiness, and terrified little Lisbet with tales of ghosts, and a black man who hid under the stairs. Elizabeth preferred to do without her when she could. Besides herself and the children she had the two menservants to feed, her garden to tend, baking, brewing, rush peeling for candlewicks, malt and corn grinding, the stilling of necessary simples, and the constant mending of clothes and linen. There were now a few shops in Watertown, and Robert had left her supplied with several pounds, so that she could buy soap, sugar, and even wheat flour ground at the Watertown mill, but there was still so much to do that she fell exhausted into bed at night and after a vague prayer for Robert, slept without dreaming.

  A letter from Margaret received on the fourth of July was exceedingly welcome. Elizabeth received it from a Winthrop servant and hurried along the river path to Anneke Patrick's.

  Anneke was shelling peas on the Dutch stoop Daniel had made for her, and she greeted Elizabeth with her usual dimpling smile. "Velcome, Bess! Vat makes you hasten so this hot day? Nothing bad, I hope?"

  "No," said Elizabeth sitting down beside her friend, and waving the letter. "Good news! From my Aunt Margaret. She confirms what we heard. The Pequots are wiped out. There was a battle at a place down there called Mystic, an Indian town. Daniel was there with Robert, and Captain Underhill, and Captain John Mason that used to be in Dorchester, remember?"

  Anneke nodded, her plump rosy face earnest between the white lace wings of her Dutch cap. "So Daniel is unharmed—and Robert? Good, I have been so anxious, so anxious." She drew a deep breath. "Vat else does the letter say?"

  "They killed almost all the Pequots but the chief, Sassacus. Daniel is going to stay down there and chase him a bit longer, with Underhill, but we're not to worry, my aunt says. None of our men were lost."

  "Och, I am happy," said Anneke. She put down the pan of peas and called into the house, "Danny, Danny! Tell your sisters vader is veil, and the bad Indians are beaten!" There was a joyous whoop, and Danny rushed out.

  "There's more," said Elizabeth. "My aunt summons me at once to Boston, because forty-eight Pequot women and children are to be landed tomorrow. Captives sent up by boat. They're to be parceled out on the Common, and though some have been bespoke already, Aunt Margaret says she and Uncle John will see that I get a squaw."

  "Vat for?" said Anneke puzzled. "Vat do you vant of a squaw?"

  "Why, for a maidservant. Maybe I could get you one, too."

  Anneke chuckled. "I vouldn't have those filthy creatures in my nice clean house. No, Bess, lieveling, I'm used to vork hard always, you are not. I hope you get a good squaw."

  She put her arm around Elizabeth and said happily, "Ve must drink a little something for gladness that our men are veil. My good genever from The Hague I've been saving, and my special cheese I made from the nanny-goat's milk!"

  Anneke's kitchen, like Anneke's person, exuded a sparkling cleanliness which always shamed Elizabeth. Anneke's aprons were as spotless as her brick hearth. Her copper kettles and pewter dishes twinkled like stars; from her coils of yellow hair, smooth as butter, no strand ever was misplaced. Placid and practical, she understood the effortless management of domesticity, and loved her work, never suffering from the rebellions and spasmodic yearnings which afflicted Elizabeth, who was always calmed by Anneke, and returned from each visit determined to cope better with her own housekeeping problems.

  Today, as usual, Elizabeth was defeated. She arrived home hot and tired from her walk, wishing only to sit and contemplate her flowers while indulging in delightful plans for their future as medicines and pot pourris and perfumes. She was greeted by little Dolly Bridges with a gloomily triumphant list of emergencies. The cornbread in the bake oven had burned to a crisp. The water bucket had developed a leak, making it impossible to haul water from the well, and consequently the huge stack of trenchers, pots and mugs was still unwashed. Worst of all, one of the last precious linen sheets brought from England had torn right down the middle while Joan was making the bed. Elizabeth, who loathed sewing as much as she had at seven, glared at the sheet, lost her temper, boxed Joan on the ear, and set grimly to the unsuccessful conquering of muddle, which like a jellyfish oozed up in a new place as soon as one side was flattened.

  Boston Common on the sixth of July presented an extraordinary appearance.
A hundred square feet had been fenced off near the ducking pond, and the Pequot captives put in the enclosure, loosely roped together at the waist. There were about forty young squaws; the older captives had not been sent—and a handful of children, well grown enough to be of service. Though some of the women were taller and some fatter than others, at first they looked much alike. They were all naked from the middle up, and all wore short doeskin skirts. Their coarse black hair flowed loose. What ornaments or wampum necklaces they might once have had were long since removed. Within the barricade they stood motionless and soundless, staring at the ground, ignoring the milling crowd which surrounded them and avidly discussed their physical points.

  All the more prosperous Boston housewives had come, and a sprinkling of men. Governor Winthrop was there too, standing on a little platform near the enclosure, while Elizabeth and Margaret were near him. Behind the platform on which Winthrop stood, a plank had been upended and down its length were nailed the severed hands of dead Pequot warriors, sent from Connecticut.

  Winthrop was dressed in his most ceremonious suit of rich black satin, topped by the old fashioned lace-edged ruff he still wore. His broad black beaver hat was garnished with silver braid and a glittering buckle—the sumptuary laws naturally did not apply to the Governor. His tricolored baldric supported the great sword of state. He was flanked by his new halberdiers, Vane's guard having proved insolent and been dismissed; and his expression was definitely complacent. It was apparent to Elizabeth that Uncle John was very glad to be back in office.

  He raised his arm, and his watchful drummer beat a tattoo, thus silencing the throng. Winthrop then said, "Before proceeding with this afternoon's business, I shall offer a prayer to the Almighty that he may continue to shed blessings on us." He went on to thank God, for having exterminated the Pequots, and for having sent them these captives. It was God's manifest purpose that the captive Indians should now labor for their new owners, and be Christianized as well. He trusted that they would profit by sight of the row of mangled hands to realize the wickedness of their warlike folly and that the Christian God alone could save them. It was a joyous day for the captives, did they but realize it.