Chapter 6

London

16 Jul  ENTERING THE RIVER THAMES

Our voyage did end. It was in the morning of the second of October in the year of 1629. Amidst dense fogge, The Black Swan entered the River Thames. All the passengers, with the exception of the prisoners, were allowed to stand with all their possessions on the weather deck. As I rose to join all the excitement, Bertrand grabbed my hand, holding it firmly, “Don’t leave me,” he appealed. I assured him that I merely wanted to see what his England looked like, that I would soon return. Unforgettable was the crest‐fallen look of abandonment in his shadowed face. I doubled my promise before springing up to the deck.

Without winde and with all sayles furled, twelve hard‐pulling oarsmen in a small boat towed the ship at flood-tide on the journey upriver. From the weather deck, rolling banks of fogge hid the oarsmen from view, at tymes even making the bow of the ship not visible. The heavy mist covered us in an eerie silence, save for the steady splash of unseen oars. Ships large and small lay at anchor along the way, some suddenly appearing then vanishing as suddenly into the mist.

17 Jul  STENCH

At tymes, the fogge bank lifted, exposing long stretches of shoreline. Walls of stone, some with steps, rose straight up from the river. I caught glimpses of tall buildings, windows, and spires before they disappeared in the rolling fogge. Reappearing were small houses and more tall buildings all along the riverfront. And so here at last I was coming to the City of London in England.

Standing on the deck, I imagined myself afoot and free to explore the city from end to end, to learn its secrets, and to look in every door along the way. My heart almost burst with the excitement of discovery. Oh, what stories I would have to tell my sisters!

As if I had spilled water over my cookfire or dropped a basket of just-picked berries, my pleasant reverie ended in an instant. A terrible stench, rivaling that of the bilge, reached my nose. The ship was fast approaching a wharf where hovered, it seemed, a low-lying cloud of unspeakable odor. Within a breath, ship and land were held firm together.

18 Jul  MOLDING MY CLAY

Perhaps a reader will assoon think that I write too much about the next period of my life in a newfound home. Yet, my long stay in England molded and hardened my clay. Here will be writ how my tyme passed. Even after five decades they are still cleer in this fuzzy old head. Pages to follow will explain why I have chosen to write this story in the language of the people of England.

19 Jul  BATHHOUSE

The wharf resounded in noisy confusion. Squawking birds swarmed overhead. Horse‐drawn carriages and hawkers with baskets of fish or vegetables added to the din. In the gathering crowd a few joyful people waved wildly and cheered mightily as they spotted a familiar face on the ship. Most standing there, however, were cruelly disappointed. From them, there was no waving and no cheering.

Grabbing their bags, passengers rushed onto a rickety footbridge that slanted downe from the weather deck to the wharf. The bosun, with stiff arms, barred me from turning back to say a few parting words of thankfulness to Bertrand: to wish him well and to lift his spirit for the moment. Instead, I was forced onto the footbridge. And so, another of my life promises was not kept. The pain of this thought persists to this day.

Beyond the swirl of people at wharf-side I spotted a small building. Over a doorway was a sign Sea Lion, just as my letter from Mr. A. Jones indicated. A woman with yellow and blackened teeth stood at the doorway. “Emily?” I inquired. No response except for a slight lift of the eyebrows and a nod. After barely glancing at my now much wrinkled letter, the bathhouse attendant beckoned me to step through the doorway. There, inside, backlit by a fireplace of stone sat a huge wooden tub.

“Take off your clothes,” said Emily. These were the first words to greet me on arriving in a new land a world away.

20 Jul  LUXURY

Even her words were spoken with annoyance as if my arrival had already brought her no little inconvenience. “Get in,” came another instruction. Steam rising from the tub forewarned me of her intention to roast me alive. With little spirit to protest, I assoon found myself to my neck in hot water. In another moment, my whole being gave way to the luxury of a soapy bay-scented wash after weeks of nothing but a rare splash of chilling, salt water.

21 Jul  MY “WILDE” APPEARANCE

Worries deepen. Still no rain falls. Nor is a cloud in sight. Even leaves on the shrubs are shriveling. When everything becomes so parched, a single, flying spark would turn my house into flames in an instant. I have writ, I feare, too much of my gloomy moods from too much rain. ’Tis this absence of rain that frets me more.

Back to my wonderful bath. With nary a word, Emily scrubbed me from head to toe. She then gave my hair special attention, combing out the snarls with a sharp yank. Next, I heard snipping and in a stroke my hair—hair that I had let grow to my waist, always keeping neat in two braids—was short. I protested with hands, but Emily was not to be denied her purpose. She parted what was left of my hair in the center, then curled it into a snug knot at the nape.

Next, Emily dressed me in an undergarment, followed by a long white gown of linen, buttons on back and tied around the waist. Next were shoes of leather, closed by a buckle on top. One pair was far too loose. Another one squeezed my toes beyond tolerance. A third, wide at the toes and flat heeled, felt tight. Emily let me know with a shrug that these were good enough. Last came a bonnet of white linen that covered all my hair. My tattered doeskin smock, my cornhusk doll and my necklace of seashells went into the carrying sack.

All this grooming was my entry into what I later learned was the world of “people of quality.” Little did I realize how extreme this changeover would be. Scrubbing and snipping was only the beginning. Little, too, did I realize that my adventure in the bathhouse was the first step in an arranged plan to disguise my Iroquois heritage. Over tyme, I promised myself that this change would never happen completely.

22 Jul  CARRIAGE

Here I write the remaining story of my first day in England, seeking pardon if I am too tedious. “Wait here,” Emily directed bluntly, walking away whilst pointing to a spot just outside the doorway. I stepped out of the Sea Lion into the brightness of midday. A black carriage drawn by two horses stopped in front of the bathhouse. It was a strange boxy affair, rolling on four wheels. In front sat a driver.

A tall and slender man stepped downe from his high perch. He wore a black hat and a long red coat with absurdly wide sleeves. A ruffle of lace decorated the collar. Emily and the driver exchanged nods. After handing him the tattered letter of Master Jones, she disappeared into the bathhouse with nary a word to me.

“Sky Flower,” he said flatly. I nodded. “Follow me,” added he, taking my sack and flinging it atop the carriage. He then walked stiffly as if one knee would not bend, and pulled aside a cloth curtain. I stepped into the carriage; the curtain closed behind me.

23 Jul  RIDE THROUGH LONDON

The carriage was already cramped with people and stuffy in the extreme. I found myself seated beside a chubby‐faced man with an egg‐shaped, red nose. His belly spilled out almost to his knees. Across from me sat a restless boy with a ruffled shirt, our knees almost touching. Beside him sat a woman of great age. She held a glass to one eye to look me over. In her other hand was a fan decorated in many colors. No one spoke. Then, with a “gee haw” from above, the sounds of a whip cracking and the clip-clop of horses, the carriage rattled off. Despite the unceremonious reception, my high spirits at that moment were no less than when I stood on the quarterdeck during the river journey from Fort Oranje to New Amsterdam.

The thrill of carriage riding assoon turned into a bumpy and bone‐shaking ordeal. Through a slit in the curtain I looked at the city of London. I note quickly my impressions as I recall them. Streets: narrow and bordered by over‐lapping houses, nay, hovels to be sure. These were of two or three levels. People: some stood motionless or squatted beside a table holding sundry items. Many, barefooted, carried heavy burdens on their shoulders; others balanced wide baskets on their heads. Dirt‐smudged children ran hither and yon. Clothing on all: threadbare. Noise: earsplitting, caused by the clatter of horses’ hooves on cobbled streets, the quacking of free running poultry and geese, the bellowing and grunting of sheep, goats, pigs, and cows and the screams of vendors hawking their wares. But best remembered from that day was the smell that had gagged me at the wharf: a mixture of the most foul, overpowering odors that rivaled those in the bilge of The Black Swan.

At one place farther on, the carriage came to a momentary stop. In my slit‐narrow view through the curtain, I saw a barefooted young boy in tattered clothing approaching. His face was thin, ashen, and covered with pocks, his hair, long and matted in dirt. He held one outstretched hand toward me. I had nothing to give him. The carriage lurched on.

24 Jul  REFLECTIONS

Like all tribes, my Mohawk clan was always working to survive. Humble and simple, yes, I suppose we were. Yet, we knew how to make do with things of the forest and the waters around us. In London I was looking face to face at true poverty: the vacant stare of hopeless despair, a stare that I would see again.

I wondered how people in England created something as wonderful as a carriage, made such things as blankets and cloth of fine threads, constructed an instrument to tell directions and lenses that make things appear larger, trained great animals to work for them, even built immense ocean‐going ships that use winde not paddles, yet allowed such a terrible fate for this pitiable boy and others like him. At the tyme, I had no knowledge of the differences that placed people of England in “classes,” what I was assoon to learn they called the “Great Chain of Being.”

25 Jul  APPLE AND FAN

The red-headed boy inside the carriage was not like the pitiful one I had just seen through the curtain. The carriage-rider had a round smooth face with bright red cheeks. He was dressed in fine clothing: a broad white collar and a dark blue jacket with shiny silver buttons. Despite the wide gap between two upper teeth, he nibbled with noisy crunches on a huge red apple that was half as big as his head and almost as round. His legs never stopped jiggling, and, to my discomfort, he stared at me intently.

Sitting next to the boy was the woman of many years. She would oft tap his knee with the tip of her fan. The taps, however, failed to quiet his restless legs, and now and then they kicked me in the shins. Otherwise, she just seemed to stare into space. Her long, unsmiling face with its inward sloping jaw remained frozen. The only thing that moved was the slow, steady fluttering of the fan of many colours.

26 Jul  SEATMATE

My fretting about water increases with every passing day. Today, I bother that my streame is almost dry. It frightens me that only a trickle runs downe the center, just enough to fill every gourd and pot. I know, there is a lake a long walk from here… I think I will need to go there. My parched plants and lips urge me to try.

Now, about my journey to Littleton. We bounced and swayed dizzily as the carriage moved into more open spaces. Some houses along the way were small and peaked. Some had large gardens. I wondered, yet, at seeing so few trees! To my pleasure, at least, I found the air pleasant.

My seatmate, he, being of ample size, held a long‐stem pipe from which rose a curl of smoke that filled the carriage. The fan of many colours beat faster and faster, pushing the smoke away from the fanner toward me. From tyme to tyme, he coughed with a wheeze, then spat through the slit opening of the pulled aside curtain, each tyme grumbling some oath that was to me far from intelligible. All ended when he fell asleep, his head rolling from side to side with every bump.

The man’s snoring added to the jangle of a creaking carriage, the shouting along the streets, the fluttering of the fan, and the crunching of an apple. These, the silly things remembered from such a long, long tyme ago!

Our carriage eventually bumped along a quiet, rutted road with small, square houses. I later learned that these houses were made with timber and mud plaster. Most curious, their tops were covered with tightly woven, long grass. Many houses had small walls around them, barely knee-high, made from neatly placed stones of no evident purpose.

27 Jul  IMAGINATION

Though hardly people to kindle fondness, my traveling companions bore airs of being important. Foolish as it may seem, they made me, riding in the same carriage, feel important too. What girl in my situation would not think of wonderful things to come? The folly of my imagination knew no bounds. The thought came to me that perhaps I was being brought to serve the Queen, the most important woman in the nation of England. The seamen at the groggery oft talked about kings and queens in Europe. These people lived in great dwellings called castles, having many people taking care of their every need. I imagined, indeed half-believed, that the Walsinghams were the King and Queen of England. I might then partake in all the niceties of an easy life. I was assoon to discover what Master A. Jones meant by a chance to “better myself.”

28 Jul  CARRIAGE RIDERS DEPART

By mid after‐noone, the carriage stopped alongside a small stone bridge. I was about to see another amazing sight. Here the egg‐nosed, fat‐bellied man would end his journey. The carriage driver helped him downe, swinging his tall black hat with a wide arc and making a deepe bow. As we sped off, I saw a throng of people greeting the man, their hats doffed and all trying to kiss his hand. He seemed not to notice but rather walked through them, disappearing from view. Surely, this was a man of great importance.

There was one more stop for the woman and the apple‐headed boy among a throng of greeters. The coachman helped her step downe from the carriage, courteously acknowledging her with a full bow. She then reached in, tugged at the collar of the boy and partly dragged him outside. Before stepping out, however, my knee‐mate gave me a well‐aimed kick in my shins and one last toothy smile, before dropping the core of his well‐munched apple into my lap. The driver helped them into another waiting carriage, this one open, and pulled by only one horse. The carriage departed without delay. The boy looked back as if to enjoy my response. The reader can correctly guess that I showed a face of stone.

Now, alone in the carriage I felt the notion of my importance stirring againe. The ride was quieter now. My imagination knew no bounds. Perhaps, one day, I would even become the Queen of England. The first thing I would do as such is fetch my sisters. In London City, they, too, would enjoy a fine hot scrub and a ride in a horse‐drawn carriage, but not with the apple‐eating boy who kicks. I would see to that.

29 Jul  LOVELY REVENGE

Another thought came to mind as our carriage sputtered onward. If I were the Queen of England, the second thing I would do is send this boy with the red hair, the bright buttons and the big red apple to my village in Tahawus. There he would learn the simple ways of respect. My aunt Meadow Bird Singing would put a quick end to his mischief-making. Oh, what lovely revenge that would be. The thought turned into a smile.

The carriage groaned and creaked over pebbled roads and rutted pathways. Every bone in my body was slowly separating one from another, bringing up short my fantasy of living the life of a Queen.

30 Jul  NO CEREMONIAL BOW

Toward sundown, the carriage bumped over a short bridge. As I looked downe at the water glistening below, my thoughts jumped to Katrina’s sparkling necklaces. An instant later as the carriage rounded a sharp turn, my reverie abruptly ended. “Whoah!” shouted from above brought the wheezing horses to a stop. We had arrived at an immense house.

The driver, descending from his perch and still holding his whip, yanked aside the curtain and motioned that I step out. Handing me my small bundle, he pointed toward a great building. This tyme, there was no wide, deepe flourish of his tall hat and no ceremonial bow, rather, a quick bound up onto the carriage. The crack of his whip came at once. In another moment the carriage turned with a squeal. A small plume of dust was assoon all I saw of the carriage, horses, and driver. Amazed at such a rapid departure, I could only watch the dust slowly settle back onto the roadway.