Page 67 of Dark Tides
SEPTEMBER 1670, HADLEY, NEW ENGLAND
It was easy for Ned, a man who had been born and bred on the Saxon shore, the band of marshland between deep seas and flooded fields, to remember the times of the year for his letter to Alinor. He wrote in the autumn equinox, when the waters of the swamps rose high under a huge moon, that hung so close in the pearly sky that he could write by its yellow light.
AUTUMN TIDE
MY DEAR SISTER,
IAM SENDING1BARREL OF DRIED HERBS AND SOME LABELED SEEDS WHICH YOU CAN SET. THEY LIKE A LIGHT SOIL(LIKE RIVER SILT)AND GOODNESS IN THE SOIL(ANY MUCK. WE USE FISH). 1BOX OF DRIED SASSAFRAS LEAVES. 2BOXES OF SASSAFRAS DRIED BARK AND ROOTS AND1BARREL DRIED FRUITS AND ROOTS. IHAVE PUT A MAPLE LEAF BETWEEN EACH PACKAGE SO YOU CAN SEE THEY HAVE NOT BEEN DISTURBED OR WE ROBBED.
THANK YOU FOR YOURS WHICH CAME SAFE TO ME THOUGH IT BROUGHT SUCH BAD NEWS. NO DOUBTROB HAS GONE TO THELIFEETERNAL, AND WE WHO WILL FOLLOW HIM SHOULD NOT GRIEVE. HIS WAYS ARE MYSTERIOUS INDEED. HOW WE SHOULD LOSEROB AND NOT OTHERSIDON’T KNOW. IGIVE THANKS TOGOD THAT YOU ANDALYS AND YOUR CHILDREN ARE WELL AND THATROB’S WIDOW AND BABY HAVE COME TO YOU.
THINGS GO WELL FOR ME. IHAVE LAID DOWN A CORN STORE THIS SEASON. ONE OF THE WOMEN OF THEPEOPLE SHOWED ME HOW TO DIG A GREAT HOLE IN A SANDBANK, LINE AND SEAL IT WITH CLAY, AND WRAP MY DRY CORN COBS SO THAT THEY DON’T SPOIL. IHAVE DRIED MY BEANS AND STORED THE SQUASH, IHAVE SMOKED FISH. MY FRIENDS IN THE VILLAGE WILL TAKE ME ON A DEER HUNT WITH THEM FOR WINTER MEAT. IHAVE SAVED SEEDS TO PLANT IN SPRING FROM MY GARDEN AND GATHERED NUTS AND SEEDS FROM THE WOODS. THEY HAVE PLANTS THAT WERE STRANGE TO ME AT FIRST, BUT NOWIGROW THEM AND HARVEST THEM. THE SQUASHES ARE LIKE OUR MARROWS, ONLY STRANGELY SHAPED AND COLORED. THE NATIVE WOMEN GROW THEM ALONGSIDE BEANS AND MAIZE AND THEY CALL THEM THE SISTERS AND SAY YOU MUST GROW AND COOK THE THREE TOGETHER. THE APPLE TREE WHIP THAT YOU SENT ME LAST YEAR HAS TAKEN, BORE THREE LITTLE APPLES ANDIHAVE SAVED THE SEEDS TO PLANT IN SPRING. THE FORESTS ARE FULL OF BERRIES AT THIS SEASON, ONE CALLED A CRANBERRY GROWS IN THE SWAMPS IN THE POOREST OF SOIL. IT IS SHARPER EVEN THAN A RED CURRANT BUT MAKES A VERY GOOD JAM. WHEN THEY’RE FULLY RIPEIWILL FILL ALL THE JARS THATIOWN, WHICH ARE NOT MANY AS THEY’RE SHIPPED FROMENGLAND. IMOSTLY USE GALLEY POTS MADE FROM CLAY BY THE NATIVE WOMEN THAT ARE SO STRONG THEY CAN BE SET IN THE EMBERS LIKE AN IRON KETTLE. ISEAL THEM WITH PARCHMENT AND STRING AND BEESWAX WHEN THEY COOL. YES! IHAVE FINALLY TRADED FOR A SWARM OFENGLISH BEES. VERY FIERCE—IONLY WISH YOU WERE HERE TO BEFRIEND THEM.
INEED NO CANDLES! IUSE CANDLEWOOD CUT FROM PITCH PINES. THE SPLINTERS BURN LIKE A CANDLE AND IT YIELDS TURPENTINE. IAM LAYING IN FIREWOOD AGAINST THE WINTER AND REPAIRING THE CRACKS IN THE CABIN WITH CLAY AND SAP FROM THE TREES MIXED TOGETHER. IHAVE SHIELDED ONE WALL WITH SHINGLES TO KEEP OUT THE COLD. IF THERE IS TIMEISHALL PUT ON AN EXTRA LAYER OF THATCH WHICH THE NATIVE PEOPLE BRING UPRIVER FROM THE COAST. THE NATIVES TELL ME THATISHOULDDOUBLE THE THICKNESS EVERY YEAR AS THE REEDS DRY OUT AND SETTLE AND THE WINTERS HERE ARE BITTER WITH SNOW FOR MONTHS. IAM BETTER PREPARED EVERY YEAR.
IWILL HAVE NO VISITORS FROM WINTER TILL THAW, EXCEPT THE NATIVE PEOPLE WHO WALK ALIKE THROUGH SNOW AND HEAT. ONE OR TWO OF THEM WILL COME TO ME WITH DRIED MEATS AND STORED CORN TO SHARE, ANDIWILL GIVE THEM AN EGG OR TWO IF ANY OF THE HENS WILL LAY THROUGH THE COLD WEATHER. IHAVE TO BRING THEM INDOORS—JUST LIKE YOU HAD THEM AT YOUR OLD HOME. THEY WOULD DIE OF COLD OTHERWISE. THEY THINK IT RIGHT TO ROOST ON MY FEET ON MY BED, AND WHENITURN IN THE NIGHT THEY CLUCK AT ME FOR DISTURBING THEM.
ITRUST THE NEW KING IS NOT TURNING PAPIST OR TYRANT?WE GET SO LITTLE NEWS HERE AND MOST OF THE SETTLERS ARE INDIFFERENT TO HIM—PROVIDED HE STAYS AT A DISTANCE AND DOES NOT TRY TO RULE US!HERE WE ARE FREE OF EVERYTHING BUT THE RULE OF THE ELDERS, AND IF YOU DON’T LIKE THEM, YOU CAN TAKE YOUR MUSKET AND BED ROLL AND GO—THERE IS A WHOLE COUNTRY TO ROAM.THEY MAY TRY—BUT NOBODY CAN MUSTER OR ORDER ME—AND THIS IS WHATIWANTED ALL THOSE YEARS AGO WHEN MY COMRADES IN THE ARMY SAID THAT WE MEN MIGHT RULE OURSELVES, OWN OUR OWN LAND, AND CALL NO MAN MASTER.
ITHINK OF YOU AT FULL MOON. GOD BLESS YOU ALL,
YOUR LOVING BROTHER
NED.
SEPTEMBER 1670, LONDON
On Saturday, when Johnnie and Sarah came home, they demanded to see the wrapped crates and then set up such a clamor that at least one should be opened, that Livia said she could not resist them. “But they have been packed so carefully!” she laughingly complained.
“We’ll repack them, Aunt Livia,” Sarah assured her.
“This is seaworthy packing, so that they can be carried from ship to shore and in the wagon to their new home!”
“I know, I know!” Johnnie replied. “And we know how to do it! We were born and raised in a wharf! We’ll repack them if you will just let us see one! Only one!”
“But you already know what they are like! You have seen such things at Whitehall Palace. You will have admired the king’s collection. It is just marble busts and columns.”
“We don’t go to court!” Sarah said dismissively. “And anyway, these are your marble busts and columns! That you’ve been waiting for, that you’ve spoken of every Saturday, that you’ve prayed for every Sunday. I want to see them!”
“Do let us see what you have,” Johnnie urged her. “And I can pack it up again. I can nail up the cases.”
“Ah! I cannot resist you, Johnnie! I spoil you, and that is the truth.”
“Very well, open them! I command it! We have to see!”
“If you command with that smile, I have to obey!”
Johnnie fetched a claw hammer from the tools hung at the side of the warehouse and levered the nails from the packing wood. With meticulous care, he laid one plank after another to the side, till allthat stood before the rapt audience was a canvas padded with off-cuts from wool fleeces, too ripped and dirty for sale.
Sarah and Livia stood back while Johnnie and his mother unfurled the canvas and dropped it to the floor. They pulled the fleeces away to reveal the pillar that stood tall in the debris of packing. The scent of lanolin from the fleeces wafted into the warehouse and behind that a stranger smell: exotic, dusty and spicy: “Venice,” Livia sighed. “That is the very scent of my home.”
“Just this?” Johnnie asked. “Just a pillar? A stone pillar?”
“But carved,” his mother pointed out.
“It’s marble,” Livia defended her antiquity, “and very old.”
“I thought it would be a Caesar head!”
