October-December 1685
With the clan gone, we stayed another week at the encampment, near our sons grave. Collecting and packing together things we needed to travel, we packed them onto the horse that had been a gift from one of the young bucks of the clan. Eventually we made off, heading east towards the water, and then then following it up the broad muddy flats of Delaware Bay, until we came to Willington.
Camping in a secluded spot, we dressed in the remainder of our more traditional clothes. These had been kept packed and unused, with the little money we had, for over a year. We headed towards town, nervous and excited. Being sat together on one horse was cosy and, as Mary leaned against me, I fancied I could feel her heart beat against my back.
Willington had changed in the years since I had last seen it, there were more streets, more stone built houses, more people. Making our way through it I had expected to receive stares, but we were ignored, a few glances only; there were sights stranger than a man and woman sharing a horse.
We made our way to the hotel where we stayed for a night after first arriving, Mary having expressed her desire for a real cup of tea, and some fruit cake. Tea was an extravagance rarely experienced in the best of times, and we thought ourselves very regal as we sipped delicately from fine cups.
“John, Mary?” We both turned at the questioning way our names were said and found ourselves looking at Paul Cooper. “It is you. By the Lord, I thought you both dead, and here you are sitting taking tea.”
“Hello, Paul.” It seemed only polite to respond, we had been close friends at one point. He pulled out a chair and perched on it, resting an arm on the table, and leaning towards us with an openly surprised expression.
“We came to find you, but the house was a wreck; the windows gone, and animal tracks every-where. Did you leave before the town went, or what?”
It was our turn to look surprised.
“Before the town went where?” I asked, and we stared at each other in confusion. “Let’s start again. The last time we were anywhere near town was when I spoke to Anne, and she shooed me away. We were at the house another seven or eight weeks. We left just after the first snowstorm hit, it nearly killed us, did kill our son, but we survived, with help. We haven’t been back since. What happened to the town?”
“Right, of course, I was away when you last came. Anne said she was scared to speak with you because of Masterson, God-rot his soul.” The way he spat out Masterson’s name was telling. Paul had sided with me for the main, though he voted against the Lenape; for fear he had admitted, not conviction. “That winter a plague struck the town, every household suffered, John, everyone. I lost Anne and both the children.”
He carried on speaking, over-riding our attempt to show sympathy.
“The Alderman called it a plague from God, said it was a punishment for our sins. After you were banished, he became worse, breathing judgement and hellfire at every turn. He had Sarah Arkwright stoned to death for witchcraft near the start of the plague, swore it would be atonement.”
He looked from me to Mary and back, shaking his head as he did so. “My Anne was already gone, died early on, and the children too. I left the day Sarah was condemned at his leading. Took my horse and left everything else. Governor Clayton was good enough to hear my tale and dispatched a troop of men. I went to show the way. When we got there, the town held a few dead bodies, including Sarah’s, rotting, and surrounded by stones; but no sign of the rest. We set fires and burned every building, to kill the plague, and we came to look for you.” He lowered his head as if in prayer. “I pray for mercy on all of their souls, except that evil son of the Devil, Masterson.”
Mary and I sat in silence, astounded. Eventually Mary spoke.
“Paul, I am so sorry. Anne was…”
Paul interrupted her, “Anne was scared of Masterson. I was scared of Masterson. Anyway, they are both gone, and I am going too. Back to England, my ship leaves on the early tide. I have had enough of the new world.” He stood, readying himself to move off. “Do you remember staying in this hotel when we arrived? I am to sleep here tonight, my last hours in the colony. Ironic is it not, to begin, and end, here. Anyway, may the Lord bless you You are good people and we did you wrong. I’m sorry.”
He turned without awaiting response and, heading out of the doors, passed into the street. We both stared in his direction, our tea cooling and forgotten.
§
After Paul left our appetite was gone, and with it the small, happy, bubble we had started to inhabit. A melancholy spirit descended. We went for a walk around the town and at one point stood overlooking the harbour with its ships.
“How far out to sea do you think our boundary goes?” The question was a good one, and I hadn’t considered it.
“Probably similar to on land, about a half-mile. Why, do you think we should sail our boundaries?” I spoke with a smile at this last bit, but the look Mary gave me was one of her wistful, far away ones. “Mary.”
“It’s okay my dear. Can we afford to stay in the hotel for the night, in any hotel. I’d like to sleep in a proper bed again, even if it is just one night.” The idea had appeal and I tried to remember if we had seen room rates, no clear recollection presented itself.
“That would be nice, let’s head back and see if there is a room free.”
When I awoke Mary was gone. I knew instantly, unable to feel her presence. Not just the physical warmth in the bed, but her presence, a gap she alone filled. Her note, on fine hotel paper, told me of her plan to board ship, and endure whatever form death took, as she sailed out to sea.
My breathless flight to the docks was far too late. Two ships had sailed together on the morning tide, and while one shore-hand remembered a woman boarding unusually late, he could not swear on which vessel she embarked. It did not matter, by now both ships would be out of the bay, and Mary's fate sealed, or close to it.
Her letter spoke only of her loss and suffering, laying no blame, casting no stone of guilt. But I could not read, without feeling each word form itself in accusation against me.
I walked in a daze, returning to the hotel without conscious thought. Part of me must have remained aware, for I paid our due money and received receipt for it. For many years that receipt acted as cover for Mary’s missive, protecting it as I kept it folded in a pocket. The sheets gathering, over the years, a patina from the reading, and re-reading; words streaked as un-guarded tears fell upon the sheet in the early days, when I was careless in shielding it.
Initially I hoped, desperately hoped, that I would see a ship sailing back upriver, make my way to the dock and find Mary waiting. For those storm-filled weeks I haunted the riverside, became known, recognised, pitied, despised and ignored. But I still hoped. We did not know where our boundaries may go, we had only tested them around the land, maybe at sea the land did not know you had gone.
The anniversary of our son’s death came the day before my fragile hope was destroyed. A battered ship made its way to shore, ragged chunks of ice scraping around it as the winter started to grip. It was one of the two ships to have left on the morning that Mary did.
I forced myself into the mêlée around its landfall, calling Mary’s name, my voice stretched and breaking. Voices shouted, a few calling for someone to shut the madman up, but on the deck of the ship a ragged man, whose clothing spoke of previous quality, heard my calls, and fixed on me. He spoke with the harbourmaster, who had boarded with the excise man, and pointed at me. Soon I was ushered up the boarding plank and the three of us were huddled in the captain’s cabin, my gaunt unshaven face a reflection of the captain, the man who had pointed for me.
“Tell me about this Mary.” His voice was west country, Bristolian I would guess. He and the harbourmaster sat and watched me.
“My wife, Mary, she left on your ship, where is she, she left on your ship.” I raved, stumbling over the words. “My Mary.”
The Captain stared hard before speaking. “Not my ship, my cousin’s, though I warned him agin’ it. Why was your wife on that ship?”
“She wanted to go back to England, the death of our son… Where is my Mary?” I beseeched, keening her name in forlorn hope. The Captain continued to stare and before he spoke I knew, with certainty in my soul I knew. The last vestige of hope surrendered its grip and the certainty swept through me, so that as he began speaking, I was already dissolved sobbing and muttering, whispering her name over and over, a catechism of loss.
“Like all on my cousin’s ship, she is perished. Not a more than half a league out of the bay, the ship and all her crew and passengers. Wrecked and gone in the time it took me to come about. If the winds allowed, I’d have returned then, but they drove us on so we ended going back to England.”
Notes
Although now called Wilmington, in the period of this story Delaware's capital was still called Willington.
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Six
text and picture by stuartcturnbull. picture created via openart.ai