CHAPTER THIRTEEN

 

It was by faith that Abraham obeyed when God called him to leave home and got to another land that God would give him as his inheritance.

(Hebrews 11:8)

 

The time passed quickly and before I knew it the day of John’s departure arrived. On the 30th of March in the year of our Lord 1637, John, William and Alexander were to set sail from Southampton to America. Tearfully, Agnes and I said our goodbyes in Scrooby on the 20th, Agnes wondering aloud to me whether we would ever see our men folk again. Of course, I knew different, but that didn’t stop me from worrying. William had never enlightened his wife as to my life before this one and so I was unable to ease her fears. However, we didn’t have too much leisure time to miss them, for our own preparations were in full swing and took up a great deal of our time. We thanked the Lord for John’s little sisters, Mary and Elizabeth. Their help with the children left Agnes and I much time for preparations.

Agnes’ house was large and sprawling, so in order to save steps and to facilitate the planning, the children and I moved in with her. That put us all closer to Mr. Sandys, and enabled him to watch over us more efficiently, and to help us with our preparations.

In November, I was delighted to receive my first letter from John:

 

My Dearest Sarah:

While at sea, the wind blew very hard for two days, and the next day, Saturday, June 21st, we went ashore in Hingham. After a five-day’s journey to Salem, William, Alexander and I proceeded to provide for ourselves an adequate shelter, preferring not to remain in the tent we had brought with us. We felled and carried timber to provide for building and the following Monday, we had ourselves somewhere to get out of the elements. Many here build wigwams, like those of the native peoples, so we copied their designs. The shelter is passable, although a dangerous place to reside. Just yesterday night, John Fisk lost his wigwam to fire, with all his goods. William and I are helping him build another one. Fisk is staying with us until his new wigwam should be completed. The roof leaks like a sieve when it rains, which it does with regularity at this time of the year.

Although I know you’re familiar with them, the wigwams here are built by small poles prick’t into the ground and so bended and fastened at the tops and on the side. They are matted with boughs and covered over with sedge and old mats, which we obtain from the Indians by barter. Some use old pieces of sailcloth when it can be found. A fireplace is built of stones or bricks, constructed at one end. A door in a hewed frame, with wooden hinges is installed. William gathered many rushes to cover the floor, like we do at home. After this, we plan to construct a real house so you and the children have someplace to call home when you arrive next year.

I am unable to adequately express in written form how much I miss you and the children. There are many men here who are awaiting their families. William and I pass much of our free time discussing doctrine and reminiscing of days gone by—which much of the time only brings home to us how much we miss you all. May the Lord help the time to pass quickly until we are all together again.

 

Your loving husband,

John Keeney

 

And in March, Captain Maynard brought another one:

 

My Dearest Sarah:

I miss you and the children terribly. I cannot wait until I see you all again.

Our house is nearly finished now. I will try to describe it to you, so you are not surprised when you arrive. Of course, it is not so grand as you are accustomed to in England, but it will suffice here in the New World.

The house is a wooden structure of two stories built around a brick chimney containing large fireplaces to warm us in the cruel winters. It is located on Liberty Street—isn’t that fitting: Liberty. We are not allowed to use thatch or rush for roofs, because of fire, so the roof is covered with wooden shingles, which William and I split from pine logs and shaved smooth by hand on a shingle horse. The outside walls are covered with clapboards, also smoothed on the shingle horse, made of oak. The windows are filled by casement and contain real glass set in lead cames. The glass is diamond-shaped and the panes measure 4 x 6 inches. The glass came from England in sheets already leaded and was cut to size by the local glazier, Edward Allen. The casements can be opened on hot nights. Inside, the walls have been white-washed and the floors sanded and oiled. I think you will approve. Now, William, Alexander and I must build his house.

By the time you arrive, we should have the gardens in. Our separate homesteads are actually located within the town of Salem. However, William and I purchased 30 acres of upland, 60 acres of meadow and six acres of planting ground near town in which to raise a crop, and to enable us to give to our children at later dates. We plan to plant at least four acres in corn to trade with the Indians. William and I dug and transplanted seven wild apple trees in the garden area—I know how you love apples.

You would be very proud of Alexander, Sarah. He has proven to be a very capable assistant and an accomplished hunter, supplying us with meat of all kinds. We have purchased a mare, three cows, two steers, two heifers, four calves and four pigs. Last week, we acquired an indentured servant, Thomas Accorn to help with the cultivating and caring for the livestock. Little by little, we are acquiring furnishings. So far, we have bought two bedsteads, a cupboard, a round table, and two chairs. William is having a desk built. The feather beds and pillows will cost quite a pretty penny, almost twice as much as the bedsteads themselves. Try to bring as many linens and other sundry items as you can—they are in short supply here. Hopefully, I shall have acquired a loom by the time you arrive.

Again, I miss you immensely, my sweet Sarah.

 

Your loving husband,

John Keeney

 

Agnes had also received several letters from William, and we shared them tearfully with each other. We continued our preparations that spring, gathering herbs for drying and small cuttings of various plants to wrap in wet cloth for transplanting in the New England. Slowly, we sold most of the large furnishings to purchase the linens and other items that John said we must bring with us. Once again, I dug up my precious tulip bulbs to take with me to America. I would not leave them behind. They had become something dear to me, and would be a small reminder of England.

By the time April came, we were all sleeping on pallets on the floor, all the bedsteads having been sold to neighbors. Mr. Sandys had made the arrangements for our sailing from Southampton on the ship Confidence on Saturday, April 24th. We would pack up the children and travel the nine-day’s distance from Scrooby to the sea with seven children under the age of 14 and the two older girls, Mary and Elizabeth. The twins, Arthur and Mary, were now thirteen, so they would be a great help with the younger children: Lydia, age 11, John, age 8 and Elizabeth, age 7. Agnes’ girls, Susanna, 10 and Mary Agnes, age 5, would need a great deal of watching. It would have been nice if Mr. Sandys had been able to accompany us, but his health was not up to it. Our voyage to America would prove to be one of the hardest and most arduous journeys of my life, making my trip to Scrooby thirteen years before look like a vacation.

 

*************

 

Twelve days before our sailing date, we were startled one evening by a persistent rapping on the door. The sun had set a few hours before and we were not expecting any visitors. Looking at me cautiously, Agnes answered the rapping.

“Sir,” she said, tartly to our visitor, “you are not welcome in this house. Please go away.”

“Who is it, Agnes?” I asked her, coming up behind to peer around her into the night.

I was shocked to discover Jeremy Tibbets propped up against the doorframe, looking pale and weak, gasping for breath.

“Please, Mrs. Keeney,” he said, “please, let me in. I need your help.”

“Mr. Tibbets, I told you….” Agnes began, angrily.

For some strange reason, I suddenly felt that something was very different about Jeremy Tibbets. “No, Agnes,” I said, opening the door wider. “Let him in. He’s hurt. It would be un-Christian to ignore someone in need.”

“Sarah, I don’t think we should….”

“Please, Agnes, let him in.”

Reluctantly, Agnes stepped aside and opened the door wider. At that point, Mr. Tibbets fairly fell into the room and I could see that he was indeed severely injured. His shirt was torn in several places and blood was running down the backs of his trousers. In the light of the room, I saw that his face was gravely pale. He had fainted.

Elizabeth jumped from her chair by the fire and ran to Mr. Tibbets’ side as he lay on my nice clean floor, bleeding profusely from cuts on his head, back, and hands.

“My goodness, Sarah, we must help him,” she cried.

Between the three of us, we managed to get Mr. Tibbets into bed. Stripping the rags of a once-beautiful shirt off him, I was stunned to see that the young man had been savagely beaten across the back. Huge chunks of flesh were missing and what was left of his back was a mass of bleeding weals. Feeling his head, I detected the subtle beginnings of fever.

“Who could have done such a horrible thing to him?” Elizabeth whispered.

“I don’t know, Liz,” I said, as I sponged away the blood. “Maybe later he’ll be able to tell us. Take one of the older boys and go to the well. I’m going to need plenty of boiling water and some of that chickweed salve for these wounds. Agnes, start a pot to boiling. Rip up one of my petticoats for bandages. We’ll need some dogwood bark for the fever, too. Oh, and some honey for if he goes into shock.”

While the others set to their appointed tasks, I continued to undress the young man and get him under the covers, and within an hour we had him sleeping peacefully—mercifully drugged with some laudanum against the pain I knew would assail him upon waking. The only thing left to do now was to watch him throughout the night, for the fever from such severe wounds would be virulent. If he survived until morning, I believed the battle would be won.

Over the course of the next few days, Jeremy Tibbets wove his way in and out of consciousness, sometimes mumbling unintelligibly, sometimes screaming, but always moaning. Agnes, Elizabeth and I worked in shifts so that he was never alone, and by the sixth day, all of us were worn to a frazzle and snapping at each other in weariness.

On the seventh day, I was greeted in the morning by a smiling young man when I entered the sick room.

“Well, Mr. Tibbets,” I said. “How are you feeling today?”

“Much improved, Mrs. Keeney. The pain’s almost gone. I cannot thank you enough for your care. I must have been a very difficult patient.” He looked down and began twisting the sheet between his fingers, making little peaks and valleys. “I….suppose you would like an explanation of my sudden appearance upon your doorstep.”

“I believe that would be in order, Mr. Tibbets, if you feel well enough to give it.” I felt sorry for this young man. His life had been a hard one. I wished John were here to pray with him. But then of course, if John were here, Jeremy wouldn’t be.

“Please, sit down, ma’am,” he said, shifting himself into a more comfortable position. “This may take a while.”

Over the course of the next hour, Jeremy Tibbets proceeded to tell me a tale that, frankly, I was not sure I believed. I knew that Agnes was still very nervous about our new houseguest. Elizabeth, on the other hand, was becoming quite enamored with the handsome and witty Mr. Tibbets, and sought any excuse to wait on him hand and foot. I, on the other hand, was still uncertain as to what I should believe. It appeared that Jeremy had left London in much the same condition that he had appeared on our doorstep. According to his account, he had finally had enough of Bishop Laud’s improper advances and underhanded practices, and had expressed his desire to leave the Bishop’s employ. The reaction he received was not what he had expected.

“I hoped he would just let me go,” he said. “I never believed in my wildest dreams that he would explode like he did. He just seemed to come apart at the seams. His face became blood red and he began screaming that I was an ungrateful wretch, unappreciative of what he had done for me, pulling me out of the gutter and setting me up in a fine house with fine clothes and the best of everything.

“But I just couldn’t stay there any longer, Mrs. Keeney. He was trying to get me to do things that were .well, unnatural. You being a woman, I just can’t tell you, really.”

“I think I understand, Mr. Tibbets,” I said, knowingly. “I am not a vestal virgin. Please go on.” Homosexuality was a common lifestyle back in my future—it didn’t shock me to find that it had been a part, albeit a closeted part, of life here in the 15th century.

He went on to tell me that when he insisted to the Bishop that he really wanted to leave, Bishop Laud called in one of his henchmen, who hauled a struggling Jeremy Tibbets to the basement, tied him to a post and proceeded to beat him unmercifully until he finally passed out from the pain. When he came to, he was lying in the gutter in front of the Bishop’s grand house, with his life’s blood draining from him. A few minutes later, Bishop Laud appeared, looming over him, shaking his fist and screaming for Jeremy to get out of his sight.

“He said that if he ever saw me again, he would kill me. I had to leave London. I didn’t know where to go, so I just started walking. That was two weeks ago. How I ended up in Scrooby, I don’t know. Mrs. Keeney, I’m sorry for all the trouble I caused you. I was just so blinded by the wealth and pleasure. But I just couldn’t work for that man any more. What he’s doing to you people is just plain wrong—I know that now. Please help me. Elizabeth said that you are going to America in a few days. Would you please take me with you? I’ll work my passage—I’ll do anything I have to. Please, just take me with you.”

As I started to speak, suddenly a stern voice spoke behind me.

“Don’t listen to him, Sarah,” Agnes spat, viciously. “He’s lying. He’s trying to get you to lead him to John and William.”

“No, I’m not, really, I swear,” Jeremy pleaded, holding up his hands. “Please, you have to believe me.”

“Mr. Tibbets,” I said, standing and straightening my skirt. “I’ll have to pray about this. It is entirely possible that you are lying to get to my husband and brother-in-law. However, it is also possible that you are telling the truth. I need to seek the Lord’s will in this matter.”

“That’s fine, ma’am. You do that. And while you are praying, would you please pray for me?”

“I can do that, Mr. Tibbets. You rest now.”

Praying for the Lord’s guidance in this situation was not an easy thing. I had the children to think of, and if the Bishop was attempting to trick us, they would be the ones who would suffer the most. I struggled with the thought that it was highly possible that Bishop Laud had sent an unsuspecting Mr. Tibbets in his condition to prey upon our sympathies and entrap us in order to hold us hostage, thereby forcing John to return to England. I shuddered to think how we all would fare in a dark, dank, pest-infested London prison. In the end, I made the only decision I could base on my inherent mistrust of Mr. Tibbets—I could not allow him to accompany us to America. Besides, I knew that John would never countenance Mr. Tibbets’ presence, as we were still unsure whether he’d had anything to do with Lady Elizabeth’s murder—a question that I still planned to put to him before I banished him from our lives.

When I told him my decision the following morning, I was shocked by his reaction. He wept bitterly. This response completely unsettled me and caused me to wonder whether I was making the right decision after all. Finally, Mr. Tibbets seemed to accept my decision and assured me that once he was well, he would no longer be a burden to us—which made me feel even more of a louse.

Within a few days, Mr. Tibbets was recovered and left our home for parts unknown. I had not had the heart to question him about my mother-in-law’s murder—I suppose, deep inside, I really didn’t want to know. I expected—rather hoped—we had seen the last of him. There was little time for reflection, however, for the day of our departure had come at last. Tomorrow we leave for Southampton.