Ferryland, Summer 1675
Sara climbed the hill behind the ruins of the old Baltimore plantation. Two years ago on a bright sunny day, when most of the fishing boats were on the grand banks, the Dutch had come ashore and burned the plantation houses and fishery buildings to the ground. Today, stones from those ruins were the foundations of her new home, of her rebuilt fishery.
She had taken from David his singlemindedness to make good what he was not allowed to finish. Today, she had more cod liver-oil vats and fishing rooms, more fishing boats than almost any planter in Newfoundland.
She ran out of breath and paused near the top of the hill. The path was worn from years of coming up here, where she sat on a weathered bench to oversee her life’s work. Now, her heart thundered in her breast from the climb. She tired more easily these days, but she was not yet ready to transfer her holdings to her sons. At the ripe age of sixty-four, Sara still loved to perfect cod-oil that brought the best prices from the apothecaries in London, Boston and New York.
“Sara, halt,” a voice drifted to her from below.
Sara turned to see Frances working her way up the hill. While she waited, the pool filled with her fishing boats. Men scrambled ashore with their catch of the day. Barrels of pure salt garnered from the Atlantic sat near the tables and awaited the processing of the fish. A sea of flakes with dry-salted fish covered the lower green hills.
Gasping, Frances trudged up to her. “I’m getting too old for this.”
Sara laughed. “We should have the lads build us a pulley swing that goes from the bottom all the way up here.”
They walked the rest of the way with arms entwined to the bench Georgie had built for her. She brushed flora leavings from the wood that had cracked over the years. She sat down and breathed in deeply the fresh air, so different from the rank odours of London. After David’s death, she never returned to that bustling city, and was glad of it.
He’d left her in debt, and she lost the Baltimore mansion and lands even as she’d petitioned the king to return them to her. The old martyred king would have wanted his son to leave her the house and lands, but his administers preferred Cecil Calvert, second Lord Baltimore. He had fought for a piece of land and a structure he never intended to see or improve.
Shading her eyes against the sun’s glare, her gaze fell on the rocky shore where the tree had struggled to survive all those years ago. She remembered clearly on her return after David’s death, two young saplings had sprouted from the old withered stump, providing nourishment to the new growth.
Now, the trees were twenty feet tall; their twin columns supported branches that extended over the water and up the hill.
“’Tis like our families.”
“What is?” Frances asked.
Sara pointed. “The trees there, onshore. They stand like pillars to our legacy, our putting down roots on this vibrant Newfoundland. They are the pillars of Avalon Province. “
Frances took her hand and held it. “Nay, sister dear. You and David are the pillars of Avalon.”
The End