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Journey 1

Entry 4 (March, 1659)

The changing motion of the carriage woke me. I must have fallen asleep, my senses dulled by exhaustion and lulled by the constant swaying movement. I started awake to the sound of horses’ hooves clattering on cobblestones. Outside the day had darkened. I judged it to be late afternoon, although tall buildings crowded out the sky. The coachman called and the horses neighed in answer as the coach turned into a wide inn yard.

‘Where are we?’

My companion still said nothing, merely smiled beneath her veil and put one gloved finger to her lips. The coach had come to a halt. I drew back the leather curtain a little more to peer out. The coachman opened the door for my companion to step down. People came running: an ostler to hold the horses, the innkeeper bowing, his wife dropping curtsies. Their eyes widened somewhat as my companion turned back to help me out, but they said nothing. It was as if we were expected. I stumbled slightly, my legs stiff from sitting so long and my head still rocking with the motion of the coach. The hand on mine tightened and did not let go.

We were shown to a spacious room, part bed chamber, part parlour; obviously the best the inn could provide. The landlady brought food and drink: pewter plates laden with stewed meat, mutton by the smell of it, wheaten bread and cheese, a mug of beer for me and wine for my companion. The woman laid the food, bobbed her head at both of us and left us.

My companion ate little, just lifted her veil to sip her wine, crumbled some bread between her gloved fingers and pushed the stew about on her plate. Perhaps the food was too rough for her taste. I was aware of her eyes upon me, that now I was the object of her study, but I did not look up until all the food was finished, the last smears of gravy wiped around with bread, for despite her scrutiny, and despite all the things that had happened to me, I found that I was very hungry indeed.

‘Are you sufficed?’ Her thin fingers drummed the table.

I nodded.

‘Is this room to your liking?’

I nodded again.

‘Good.’ She stood up. ‘Now I must leave you. I have much to do. Annie, the landlady, will care for you. You will be safe with her, have no fear.’

With that she left. Outside the room, I heard her talking to the landlady, ordering a bath for me. This duly arrived. A great tub lined with linen, followed by maids bringing pitchers of steaming water. I had never even seen such a thing before, let alone been in one. At home, my eyes stung a little at the thought of it, at home we bathed in the river, if we bathed at all. The landlady came bustling in when all was ready and took charge of me. I was ordered to undress.

‘That too,’ she said, when I was down to my shift.

A maid collected my clothes and took them away with her.

‘Where is she taking them?’

‘To be burned.’

‘What am I to wear?’

‘This until tomorrow.’ She had a long white linen gown over her arm.

I was left standing naked before her. My hand went to my neck. I wore a small leather pouch there, made for me by my grandmother. It contained things, special things, not to be seen by anyone. The hot blood rushed to my cheeks. I feared that I was undone.

‘You are safe with me,’ she said quietly, as if she knew who I was and what I had come from. ‘Put it aside and then into the tub with you.’

Annie was a big woman with little black eyes set like currants in a round bun of a face. She rolled her sleeves to show forearms as thick as ham hocks, caught me in a farmer’s grip and began to scrub me clean. I had not thought myself especially dirty, not compared to most in our village anyway, but it took two changes of water before Annie was happy. My hair caused the most difficulty. It was tangled and knotted, snarling up the comb so she had to shear hunks of it away. Then she anointed me with a sharp-smelling concoction.

‘Black alder bark boiled in vinegar,’ she replied when I questioned her. ‘You’re as lousy as a beggar’s dog.’

She left that to soak while she scrubbed away at the rest of me with lumpy balls of hard soap and bags of sweet herbs. Then she attacked my head again with a fine tooth comb to remove all the nits and lice. It felt as though most of my hair was going with them and my scalp was near bleeding before she was satisfied. I was sitting in the tub until the water was cold and I was shivering. Finally she bade me get out and rubbed me pink and warm again inside a sheet of coarse linen.

‘There,’ she held me at arm’s length, her face red and sweating. She parted my hair and peered at my scalp and then looked me over from head to foot before pronouncing, ‘I think you’ll do.’ She held the nightgown for me. ‘Into bed with you. I’ll bring you up a posset.’ Her homely faced creased in a smile. ‘You’re quite a pretty one under all that dirt.’ Suddenly, she hugged me. ‘Poor little maid. What’s to become of you?’

The bath was cleared away, the dirty water emptied in a great sloosh out in the yard and I was left alone. I took the candle and went over to the cracked and misted mirror that stood on top of a tall chest of drawers. Soap suds and kind words had brought the tears stinging to my eyes. They stared back, red-rimmed, the irises black-bordered, luminous grey flecked with yellow, gazing out of a face all pink and white and many shades paler than before. My hair fell down in thick cords, grey as ash bark, the tips drying to dull gold, the colour of oak leaves in winter. It framed a face full of unfamiliar hollows and shadows. Perhaps it was the candle’s flickering light, but I seemed to be looking into another’s face, a stranger’s face. The face of a woman, not a child.

A knock at the door made the grey eyes start wide as a deer’s. It was the maid carrying my posset. The mess of bread was well soaked in hot milk, generously flavoured with brandy, honey and spices. I stirred it with the horn spoon and ate it slowly, letting its warmth comfort me. I stayed, curled up in a chair in front of the fire, until the logs fell to red embers. Only then did I climb into bed.

I had never been in a bed like this before. I had only known the little sleeping platform in the smoky loft of our one-room cottage, rough homespun blankets, straw-stuffed palliasse. The bed was heated by a brass pan full of coals, but that was no comfort. I missed my grandmother’s warm bulk next to me. She was all that I knew, all that was dear. I’d loved her and she’d loved me. Now I was alone in the world. How would I do without her? My thoughts echoed the landlady: What would become of me? I turned my face into the feather bolster, and clutched tight on the woollen blanket and smooth white linen. I drew them about my head to muffle the sound as I wept.

Entry 5

I did not see the woman who had brought me here until towards the next evening. In the meantime, Annie looked after me, feeding me and bringing new clothes: linen, skirt, bodice and jacket, a cap to cover my hair. Good material. Not of the finest, but better than the rough homespun stuff that I was used to. Plain dark colours. Sad colours. Puritan colours. I should have guessed my fate.

My window had a good view of the yard. I turned the chair and sat there in my new clothes looking out. I had been told to keep to my room, so spying was my only amusement. Just as the light was fading I saw her coach turn into the yard. She got down, but told the coachman to wait. An ostler came out to feed and water the horses but he did not take them from their traces. We were to travel on together, or so I thought.

‘Quite the little Puritan,’ she said as she came in through the door. ‘Let me see you.’ She came over to my place at the window. ‘You will do well enough. At least you look the part.’

‘Well enough for what?’

I looked at her, comparing my plain clothes with her rich attire. I suddenly knew that I would not be going with her.

She seated herself in a chair opposite to me. ‘We live in difficult times. Lord Protector Cromwell is dead. His son’s rule will not last much longer. Charles will come from exile and we will have a King again. Already the people are clamouring for him and there are plots aplenty to get him here. Then who knows what will happen?’

I looked at her, trying to see through her veil to search her face for clues as to what this had to do with me.

‘There are those who do not want to stay. Here. In this country. Puritans, Separatists, people who fear that their faith will no longer be tolerated. They are leaving for a new life. In America.’

Puritans. Separatists. I looked down at myself.

‘And I am to join them?’

She nodded.

‘America!’

I could not have been more astonished if she had told me that I was bound for the realm of Faerie. In fact, that seemed more real to me. I had visited it often enough through my grandmother’s stories, but a new world across the ocean? I had heard of it. I knew that such a place existed, but I had never thought to visit it and I had no way of imagining what it could be like there.

‘Yes, America. They take ship soon. You will go from here to meet them in Southampton.’

‘Why?’

‘It is not safe for you here. My husband was a soldier in Cromwell’s army. Some of their number served under him. They are good people, they will care for you.’

‘What shall I tell them? About myself? Who I am.’ I bit my lip. They were bound to be curious and Puritans do not like witches. This seemed a dangerous course to take.

‘You are Mary Newbury. An orphan. Father a soldier, killed at the Battle of Worcester fighting in Cromwell’s army. Your mother dead of a wasting sickness. Grandmother too feeble to care for you.’

‘Where am I from?’

‘Your mother was on the road until she fell ill. Your grandmother lived in a little village, no more than a hamlet, outside Warwick. Near to where she really lived, but not too near. You were only with your grandmother a short while. That is the story you will tell. Though I doubt that you will be questioned too closely. They are departing the country, and have concerns of their own. You should slip among them without much notice. I will give you a letter of introduction. Give it to John Rivers, along with your fare.’

‘But why must I go with them? Why can I not stay with you?’

She shook her head. ‘That would be impossible.’

‘Why?’

‘I am in danger myself.’

I did not believe her. To me, she seemed untouchable.

‘It is true, I do assure you. My husband put his name to the old King’s death warrant. All who signed will be arrested as soon as the new King returns.’ She sighed, and when she spoke again her voice was quiet and bitter. ‘He might as well have signed his own.’

I did not know what to say. Her husband must be a man of very great importance to be involved in such high affairs of state. This made her even grander in my eyes, but it was not just that which silenced me. My grandmother was no Royalist, she’d been on the side of Parliament in the War, but she’d seen the killing of an anointed king as a dread sin. To be married to one with that blood on his hands filled me with awe.

‘If that be so – why do you not flee to America instead of me?’

She shook her head again. ‘That cannot be. My husband will not leave, he would see it as cowardice, and I must stand by him. Anyway, he would not be safe there. He will not be safe anywhere once Charles is on the throne. It will be time to go soon,’ she added, abruptly switching to practical matters. ‘Gather your things together.’

I looked around at a loss. I was standing in all I possessed. She seemed to remember this.

‘Your box is already loaded. I have tried to anticipate your needs.’ She handed me a purse. ‘Here is money for your fare and should you wish to purchase anything else. There are rogues everywhere, so keep it close and guard it well. John Rivers and his party wait to take ship in an inn in Southampton. The carter knows where. He will take you there. Give this to Rivers as soon as you arrive.’

She thrust the letter at me and turned abruptly, as if to go.

‘Wait! Wait, madam!’ I took her sleeve to restrain her. ‘There are some things that I must know.’

‘Well?’

Her voice retained its cold formality. The questions dried in my throat, but I did not let go. I would not let her leave. Not until I knew.

‘Why?’ I said finally. ‘Why me?’

‘I owe a great debt to Alice Nuttall, the woman you call grandmother. She was my nurse. As a child, I held her in great affection. I was as close to her as you are. Were,’ she corrected. ‘Later, she helped me in a time of trouble, when no other could. She rendered me a service and now it is my turn. Over the years, I have tried to help her, make sure she was comfortable.’

How did Alice Nuttall live so well with no man to keep her? That had long triggered suspicion.

‘But my husband is a soldier and latterly a politician, following him took me far away. I came when I heard of her trouble, but I was too late, too late to prevent –’ she stopped for a moment to collect herself. ‘The only way I can repay her now is through you. Now haste, there is no time to waste.’

She came towards me and lifted her veil. She took me into her arms in the briefest of embraces. She smelt of flowers. For a moment I breathed the sweet haunting scent of roses, then she let me go.

‘Here. Take this as a token and talisman.’

She took a ring from her finger. A purple stone, flat cut, engraved with the initial E at the centre. My fingers closed around it. The gold weighed heavy in my hand.

I looked into her eyes, and saw my own staring back, the same peculiar shade, pale grey, flecked with yellow, rimmed with black. Now I knew the nature of her debt. It had weighed on her conscience for fourteen years. I was looking into the eyes of my mother and I knew that I would never see her again.

Entry 6

The carter picked me up as if I weighed nothing. He was a big man, hunched over, with long arms stretching down. He was wrapped up in layers of clothing and wore a big black hat, shapeless and greasy, pulled low over his forehead. He put me on the little bench above the horses, swinging himself up next to me with surprising agility. The horses pulled in their traces, impatient to get started. The heavy animals stamped their great feet, snorting and blowing, their breath showing like plumes. I pulled my cloak about me, glad that it was thick wool and of good quality, for the air was chill.

The carter sniffed the air and muttered, ‘Frost tonight, you see if there ent.’

He wound his scarf tighter and whipped up the horses and we were clattering out of the inn yard and into the cobbled street.

Soon the cobbles ended and the thick wheels jolted over the rutted track which was the road south. I said little to the carter, he even less to me. I felt small next to him, and lonely, full of doubt and uncertainty. I could see no end to the journey I was starting.

I must have fallen asleep, for I woke to find us crossing a vast open plain.

‘Them’s Merlin’s Stones, them is.’

The carter waved his whip towards huge stones looming to the right of us, rearing up out of the close cropped grass. I stared, transfixed. This must be the great Temple of the Winds. My grandmother had told me about it. A circle of stones, much, much greater than any other, built far to the south of us. Such places are sacred to those who live by the Old Religion. At certain times of the year my grandmother would set off for some stones that lay a day’s journey or so from where we lived. She never told me what went on there, or who else attended, and I knew better than to ask her. The rituals practised there were mysteries, the celebrants known only to each other.

Soon the great stones faded. Darkness drew in on either side and there was only the road unwinding like a white thread in the moonlight.

Beyond that all was black.

Entry 7

I had never seen the sea, but even before the carter’s brawny arm could shake me, I felt a difference in the air, damp against my cheek and smelling of salt and fishy decay, and heard the cry of the gulls like mocking laughter. I opened my eyes to white curling mist. The masts and rigging of tall ships showed through it like bare branches in winter. The cart rumbled along the quayside on iron-rimmed wheels, and all around was the suck and slap of water, the creaking of timbers, the grinding of ships rubbing together. I wondered which one of them would take me to America.

Puritans are early risers. The day was scarce past first light, but they were already breaking their fast in the inn’s cavernous parlour. I stood at the door, reluctant to enter, listening to the murmur of voices, the rattle of dishes, food being chewed. The moment weighed heavy upon me. As soon as they noticed me, my life would be changed entirely. I wanted to run away, but where could I run to? The carter had already left to make his other deliveries. I had no place in the world to go.

The children noticed me first. They were good and dutiful: eating their food quietly, only speaking when spoken to, but their eyes were moving all the time, darting this way and that, alert to the chance of distraction. A row of little ones looked at me, then at each other. One of them pulled the sleeve of an older girl, older than me, about seventeen, who I took to be their sister. She, in her turn, regarded me with large grave eyes before dabbing her lips with her napkin and touching the arm of the man sitting next to her.

‘Father ... ’

The man looked up and saw me standing in the doorway. He continued to chew his food carefully. Then he swallowed and stood up. He came towards me, a man above average height, his light brown hair greying, hanging straight to his shoulders. I judged him to be a farmer; his face was leathery from outdoor work, the skin round his eyes crinkled at the sides from squinting at the weather and the hand that shook mine was callused across the palm.

‘You must be Mary. Welcome, child. You have been expected.’

His eyes crinkled further in a smile and, as he looked down at me, I saw that his face, although hard and grooved with lines, was kindly.

‘Thank you, sir,’ I replied and dropped what I knew of a curtsy. ‘And you are?’

‘John Rivers.’ His voice was deep and the words came drawn out and slow, different from where I lived.

‘Then this is for you.’

I handed him the letter which I had been given. He read it and nodded before tucking it inside his jerkin.

‘Are you hungry? Come. Sit. Eat.’

He led me back to his table. The children shuffled along the bench to make room for me. His wife ladled porridge from a pot over the fire, moving slowly as if her back pained her. I guessed her seven months with child, perhaps more than that, although little showed under her bulky clothes. The girl who first saw me filled a mug with ale and then turned away to help her mother. I remembered to mutter a prayer of thanks, in part for the food, but also for my own deliverance.

As I ate, I felt curious eyes on me. I observed back from under my lashes. As yet no face stood out from another. They appeared as similar as the lumps in the porridge in front of me. I estimated about twenty families in all. Folk of a middling sort, none very rich, none very poor. A mix of farmers and tradesmen, all dressed in the dark sober clothes which mark them as Puritans. I had no clue as to what type. They could belong to any one of a multitude of sects, each one with their own set of beliefs. It would not do to say the wrong thing. I would have to listen carefully and take my lead from what I heard.

They soon lost interest in me and went back to eating and talking among themselves. I could see strain on their faces, hear worry in the low muttering voices. These people had suffered, like folk everywhere, their lives thrown into confusion time and again by war, bad harvests, poor prices, lack of trade. Peace and prosperity go together, that’s what my grandmother used to say, and the country had seen neither for too many years. Most folk just put up with misfortune, taking it as their lot, but these were different. Disappointed, disillusioned, doubting what was to come, bitterness had grown in them until it was strong enough to drive them across an ocean. But what would happen then? They were as anxious as I was. I saw my own fears reflected all about me.

‘On your own, young ’un?’

I turned to see a woman smiling at me. She was past her middle years, the hair tucked beneath her cap was streaked with grey, and her skin wrinkled as a winter apple, but her eyes were bright and sharp.

‘That I am.’ I tried to muster a smile, but this crowded room, all the families together, had made me feel more lonely than ever. ‘My name is Mary.’

‘I’m Martha, Martha Everdale.’ She put out her hand to shake mine like a man. Her fingers were strong, her palm toughened by work to the hardness of polished oak. ‘I am alone, too. Husband dead. Children along with him.’ She looked away to the distance for a moment, as if into some time past, and then back at me again, examining me closely, head cocked on one side, as though making up her mind. ‘We could make a good pair, I reckon. You can travel along a’ me.’

When we had finished breakfast, Martha took me upstairs to a large room where many of the families were sleeping. There was hardly space to move among their goods and the makeshift beds.

‘You can stow your goods along a’ mine.’ She looked around. ‘We’re all from the same place, more or less. Same town, same church. We follow our Pastor, Reverend Johnson. Him and the other church members who left years go. We were to follow soon after, but the War made everything uncertain. We were content to bide, for a time, but now the will is to go.’

‘The will?’

‘Of the Congregation. ’Tis important that all should be together and I go to find my sisters. They’re all I have left.’

‘How will you know where to find them?’

‘Trust to the Lord’s guidance.’ She spoke simply, as though this was a truth too obvious to question. ‘Now,’ she smiled down me. ‘Tell me, Mary, where are you from?’

‘Warwickshire. A little village.’

‘No one left there?’

I shook my head, and lowered my eyes as if tears threatened to spill. I was careful not to say much, but she did not ask about my family, or how I came to be here. She just cupped her hand under my chin and looked into my face. Her green eyes seemed to see clear into me. It was as if she did not need to question me. She knew already.

She took a lock of hair from my brow, tucking it under my cap. Her fingers smelt of juniper and made my cheek tingle. She has a healer’s touch.

‘You are with a friend now. Never fret.’

I stayed with her as she moved among the others, making herself useful, talking to this one and that one, introducing me to the company. She let me hide behind her chatter. The less I say about myself, the better. Lies are not rooted in the mind in the way truth is. Some think I am some relation of Martha’s, a niece, or a granddaughter. We let them think what they will.

It is not uncommon for orphan boys and girls to be taken to America. Not infants, or babes in arms, but sturdy boys, and girls nearing womanhood. The colony needs brawny arms and strong backs to fell trees and farm, and a good supply of wives and mothers to populate the new land. There will be others like me, attached to families, with them, but not of them. It seems to me an awkward position, like a servant, but not so. All in all, I am glad that I found Martha, or rather that she found me.

When we go about, I watch the other girls my age, observing how to behave, how to be the perfect little Puritan maid. Rebekah Rivers, the girl who first saw me, would make a good model, for she is quiet and helps her mother. Others, I notice, are not so demure. They giggle together and flirt with the inn servants and don’t help anyone at all.

It is not until evening draws in that I am able to examine the box that accompanied me here. It is not big, but handsomely made and carved with my initials MN. My heart beat hard when I opened it, wondering what I would find. The letter I hoped for was on the top.

g

Mary,

I hope the box pleases you and that you make good use of what it contains. It is no good wishing for what was not to be. Fate took us apart and has contrived to keep us so. You are ever in my thoughts, that you must know, and you will not be alone, however you think otherwise, wherever you go. I could write more, fill pages, but I see no point in it.

Do not doubt that I love you.

Farewell and may God be with you and keep you.

E.

g

My hands shook as I read it. I sat for a moment, staring at it, as though these few lines of writing could reveal the woman I would never know. Then I put the letter aside. No good crying over milk shed, that’s what my grandmother would have said.

I turned to examine the rest of the box. This is what I found: Clothes: several changes, spare sets of linen, a length of good cloth, sewing things – needles, threads, a silver thimble. A knife sheathed, a pewter plate, another knife, a spoon, a fork to eat with. Basic necessaries. It could have been packed by a maid.

At the bottom was ink, quill, and a deal of paper, folded to make a book. I seized on this, turning the leaves, hoping that here I would find answers to ease my heart. I put them back, my disappointment turning to anger. If this is a jest, I do not see the humour. Every page is blank.

I use the ink and quill to begin my Journal. Many here are writing them, to record the commencement of their Great Adventure. I resolve to do the same. For I do feel alone, very alone, whatever she may say.

Entry 8

The ship was to set sail on the morning of my arrival, but the mist came in with the tide, bringing a dead calm. It has lingered all day, smothering everything like a great fleece. The men go down to the dock and the women peer into the street. Ships can be confined for a week or more, becalmed like this, or kept in port by contrary winds. With each hour anxiety increases. These Puritans are careful people and every shilling spent here is a shilling less to spend in the New Land.

Evening comes on and the fog lies as thick as ever. The captain of the vessel has come to the inn, his fleshy face as long as a fiddle, to meet with the church Elders in worried consultation. They are inclined to say that there is no help, that it is God’s Providence – His Will, but they have declared tomorrow a day of solemn humiliation, of preaching, prayer and fasting. The captain leaves gloomier than ever, cursing under his breath, wanting to know what damned good that will do.

Entry 9

This morning, breakfast was replaced by prayers and they were led by a man whom I have not seen before. He is young for a preacher, not out of his twenties, tall and very thin. He wore a rounded hat and from under it hung whitish hair, tinged with yellow, straight as flax. The tabs at his throat proclaim him an ordained minister and he is treated with deference by the Elders.

I whispered to Martha, asking who he was.

‘Elias Cornwell. Reverend Johnson’s nephew. He ent been with us long. Come from Cambridge.’

He is young, but he stands with his shoulders hunched and his back bent like an old man. Scholar’s stance, Martha calls it. His black clothes hang loose on him and his bony wrists thrust out from his sleeves as if his coat is too small for him. His long pale hands fluttered over the pages of the Bible like a spider, the fingers inked from nail to knuckle. He found his place, looked over the heads bowed in front of him and prepared to speak.

He reminds me of a ferret. His face is white to milkiness, with pinched features gathering into a thin pointed nose. The tip is pink and square ended. I kept expecting it to twitch.

He removed his hat and cast pale eyes over us, catching mine before I could lower them. Frown lines marked his high sloping forehead and I thought I saw that sensitive nose twitch as if scenting an interloper. I hurriedly studied the rough floorboards beneath my feet.

He marked his place in the Bible, but he did not read. The text he had chosen was learnt by heart. His speaking voice was a surprise to me. Deep and full, despite his frail frame, it filled the small hall.

‘We are God’s chosen people. His purpose for us is clear. “I will appoint a place for my people Israel, and will plant them, that they may dwell in a place of their own, and move no more; neither shall the children of wickedness afflict them anymore, as beforetime ... ”’

He was quoting from the Second Book of Samuel. Grandmother made sure that I was well versed in biblical matters.

His rich voice rang out over the congregation. Heads nodded slightly in response to his words, shoulders and backs braced and relaxed with the rhythm of his preaching. He spoke a belief that was shared by all.

‘If we have transgressed, if we have strayed in any way from God’s purpose, we must beg His forgiveness. We must pray ... ’

I listened for a while, there was much to admire in his eloquence, but as the hourglass turned I found my attention straying. I thought my own thoughts, all the while trying to keep my mind away from the aching discomfort spreading up my legs from the hard floor and the long standing, but I am used to lengthy preaching and praying, and well practised in seeming to be devout.

My grandmother always attended church, tramping the path from our cottage in the woods to the village in all weathers and taking me with her, even though she did not believe a word of what was said and it was four miles there and four miles back. She went every Sunday, even after they had sent the vicar packing, burnt his robes and taken mallets to the statues of the saints and the Virgin, smashed the coloured glass in the windows and taken away the altar to set up a simple table in its stead. She went, even though malice whispered all around us, and hatred muttered after us like pattering footsteps. She never missed a service, even after she was scratched on the cheek, scored above the breath with a steel pin to break her power as a witch. She did not even flinch, just stood, head bowed, while her blood dripped down, spotting the worn stone flags on the ground.

‘Mary? Mary?’ I felt a hand shaking me. ‘Our prayers are ended.’

It was Martha. I looked about as if waking from sleep. Even the most devout were stirring and stretching. I went to move too, but my head swam and I staggered a little. Martha’s grip on me tightened. I saw the minister’s pale eyes narrow. For a moment I was afraid he had seen right into me, guessed my true nature, but then his mouth, thin as a razor slash, twitched with approval. I lowered my eyes. He had taken my rapture for excessive devotion. I could breathe again.

Entry 10

Our prayers are answered. The mist has disappeared, torn apart by a fresh wind blowing steadily from the east. I joined in the thanks, as fervent as the rest. Tarrying here is tedious. I want to be gone.

We left the inn and made our way to the squat tower which marks the West Gate of the city. Through it the ships stood anchored at the quay; beyond them lay the sea. We went through the massive archway in ones and twos and little groups, carrying babies and baggage, carting bundles of bedding and cooking utensils. We picked our way between rubbish and puddles, trying not to drop things, hoping that we had all we needed, parents calling to children not to run off, not to get lost. Each person, caught up in the occupation of the moment, stepped through with no seeming pause or hesitation, although this is the Gate of No Returning. There will be no coming back.

I had never been on a ship before, never seen the sea until a day or so ago. To me, the vessels looked huge. Our ship, the Annabel, seemed to stretch nearly the length of a street. It smelt of tar and new wood. As I stepped on board, I felt the subtle rocking motion beneath my feet. I clung to thick rope held taut and creaking by the masts and spars high above me. I was no longer on solid ground.

When all were aboard and the ship was loaded, we were called to assembly. I stood with the others, head bowed, staring at the wooden planking, scrubbed white and caulked close so no gaps showed in it. Elias Cornwell led us in prayer while the great ship strained at its ropes, as if anxious to be gone. All its human cargo was silent. The captain ceased from shouting and giving out orders. He and his sailors stood bareheaded, as solemn as Elders, as the minister asked for God’s blessing upon us, and all:

‘“... that go down to the sea in ships: and occupy their business in great waters.

These men see the works of the Lord: and his wonders in the deep.”’

After our prayers were over, we were directed below to the great cabin. This is to be our home. It seemed a great expanse at first, running nearly from one end of the ship to the other, but it has soon filled up until each person’s space is but a bed width.

The sailors sweated and chanted above us, hauling sail and heaving up the great iron chain of the anchor, and we set ourselves up in little groups, piling and positioning our belongings to make enclosures.

‘Packed as tight as the cattle in the hold,’ I remarked as we arranged our bundles.

‘And likely to smell as rank.’ Martha nodded towards the slop buckets in the corner. ‘Here, strew this in your bedding. I plucked it from my garden just before I left.’

She reached in her pack and handed me a bundle of herbs: lavender and rosemary, fresh and pungent, and meadowsweet dried from another season. The scent took me straight to my grandmother’s garden and my eyes blurred with tears. Martha went to speak, but her voice was drowned by a fresh flurry of shouting from above us. The heavy mooring rope fell with a dull thud to the side of the ship. The movement changed, rising and falling in sudden surges of motion. The mainsail cracked as the wind caught it and the whole ship veered, causing people to stagger. We were away.