The Mayflower Marriage

By Arminal Dare

The Mayflower Marriage breathes life into the story of the Pilgrims who landed at Plymouth in 1620. This compelling and very human tale follows John Alden and Priscilla Mullins as they fall in love during the historic 1620 crossing of the Mayflower from Plymouth, England to Massachusetts. Their love is constantly challenged, but survives batterings and betrayals, and through this the couple achieve a stronger and deeper devotion.

John and Priscilla meet in England as preparations for the Mayflower’s departure are in progress, Priscilla as a passenger and John as a member of the crew. They gradually discover their mutual attraction as they cope with a voyage fraught with sickness, strife and ferocious storms. Life in early Plymouth is grim as the settlers suffer famine, disease and death. One after another, Priscilla loses her father, mother and younger brother. The comfort and support John longs to give her is limited by Pilgrim morality and strict social norms.

Over time, conditions in the new colony gradually improve, with help from friendly Native Americans and occasional supply ships. Despite resistance from the Pilgrim leadership, John and Priscilla finally win through and marry. The sweeping, heroic narrative follows them throughout the remainder of their long and eventful lives, raising a family while navigating the political infighting and squabbling of early Pilgrim society.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gatekeeper Press
• Release date: Apr 25, 2020
• ISBN: 9781642379563

Book preview

son

Part 1

1620–1621

Leaving England’s Shores

Chapter 1

March 1620

The Star Inn – London

It was the close of the day, the time when dusk melts into darkness, the hour of shadows and blurred moving shapes. On this evening, a soft, cold March rain fell straight from the sky. William Mullins, head bowed against the heavy drizzle, encouraged his tired mount through the north gate of London Bridge.

‘Not far now, not far.’ He leaned forward to pat the mare’s neck. Second turning on the left, leads almost directly to the Star.

‘Hie, Hie! Dismount or your life. Your purse, man. Gi’ us your purse and we’ll let you go.’ Two beggars leapt from the shadows. Scrawny, barefoot and ragged, they moved with practiced agility.

Damn no! My future’s in my purse.

One man caught the bridle and reins. The other thrashed with a stave while tugging at Mullins’ leg to drag him from his horse. Pulled sideways, Mullins’ face came close to his assailant’s snarling mouth: foul breath, spittle cracked lips, a few black teeth. Losing his right stirrup he dropped the reins and caught the stave. Gripping the flanks of his horse with his knees, he drew his dagger from its sheath and slashed at the man’s hands, then his neck. A gash poured blood; the man screamed. His grip loosened. He fell. Shaking, dripping with sweat, Mullins righted himself on his jostling horse.

‘Gee up; gee up… come on, girl!’ The horse reared, kicked, and whinnying, set off at a gallop along the nearly deserted street. After a short distance Mullins slowed her to a trot. ‘Easy now, easy. Good girl.’ There, in the mist and drizzle, he could just make out a turning to the left. About five hundred yards on, after a dogleg in the road he spied the barely visible hanging sign of an inn. A hundred yards more, still trembling and breathing hard, he turned his mount into the open cobbled yard.

Safe at last, pray God. He made the sign of the cross. A young ostler hurried from the shadows to take the reins. Thankful that no one was about to see the decrepitude of his old mare, Mullins dismounted.

‘Here.’ He pressed two farthings into the lad’s open palm. ‘See you give her a good brush down and feed. She’s trekked all the way from Dorking this day.’

The lad nodded. ‘Aye, I will, sir, she’s all of a sweat.’ He led the horse away to the stables.

Weary and stiff, Mullins straightened his back, trying to reach the height of his youth – about five foot, ten inches – a good height. He stood a moment to regain his composure. Shaken as he was, he was grateful for his strength of limb. The street stench of sewage and rotting carcasses permeated his nostrils and rain dripped from his graying beard. Anxiously, he peered into the silent shadowy mist, and strode to the door of the inn. Taking a deep breath and keeping one hand on the dagger by his side, he lifted the latch and pushed. The heavy oak door yielded to his weight and he stepped into a warm blast of loud talk and a pungent haze of pipe smoke, blended with the steam rising from wet doublets and coats. Candle flame punctuated the dimness, and the savory odors of ale and beef pie chased the stink from his nose. He turned to close the door.

‘Master Mullins?’

He jerked round, hand dropping to his dagger.

‘Deacon Carver. Welcome.’

Mullins faced a slender man slightly taller than himself, dark hair cropped short, dressed in black homespun breeches and jacket, adorned only with a broad, flat white collar: the style of a religious non-conformer. Above the severe garb a welcoming smile and kind brown eyes greeted him. Mullins nodded. ‘Aye. Good evening.’

‘Master Weston and I are seated over there.’ Carver gestured toward the far side of the room. Mullins followed as his host, with a natural grace of movement, threaded though small groups of men, some standing, some seated on stools round tables, drinking, eating, talking, and laughing. As they reached their destination, Weston stood.

‘Master Weston, Chairman of our Board of Investors… Master Mullins,’ Carver said.

Mullins returned Weston’s nod of greeting. Weston was a short man of pallid complexion, clad in a velvet doublet decorated with silver buttons, a crisp white cartwheel ruff at his neck and white lace cuffs setting off his sleeves. Mullins regretted his worn velvet and hoped his ruff hadn’t gone limp and gray in the rain. He noted Weston’s well fed paunch and round face, squinty green eyes restlessly glancing here and there. His hands rested on the table: thick fingers, short stubby thumbs, soft and white, unlike his own, muscular, hardened and brown from years of tanning hide.

‘Do be seated.’ Carver drew up a stool. Mullins sat, arranging himself to appear at ease, shoulders relaxed, face adopting an expression of confident well-being. He did not want to betray his weariness or any traces of fear.

‘Goodwife!’ Carver called and beckoned. The innkeeper’s wife, plump and red faced, hurried over, weaving in and out through huddled groups of garrulous men. ‘May we please have another tankard and a trencherful of pie for three?’

Mullins was pleasantly surprised at the Deacon’s courtesy, unusual toward a woman of lower social status, especially in a hostelry such as this.

‘Might as well keep this flagon.’ The goodwife set the large jug of ale down with a thump. ‘Gets busier and busier here with all the planning and preparing for voyages. Ye’ll be another I wager?’ She mopped her perspiring brow and cleavage with an already damp handkerchief. ‘’Tis good for business but runs me off my feet. Back in a trice.’

Taking his seat, Carver addressed Mullins. ‘You have come to learn details of our proposed voyage?’

‘It interests me,’ Mullins replied.

Carver lowered his voice, bending his head. ‘I represent a group which has withdrawn from the Anglican Church. Suffering many trials and betrayals we escaped to Holland where folk have religious freedom, and established our own Church of Christ. A great balm it is to be free from persecution.’ Carver held Mullins’ gaze. ‘But as you may have heard, the Catholics are on the rampage. Holland has been a safe haven but you watch, we’ll all be suffering papist persecution before long.’ Carver spoke with quiet fervor. ‘We must find a place where we are free to worship without fear of persecution; where we can build a new Godly England, free of the corruption that infects this country.’

Mullins twisted his hands under the table and leaned back, crossing and uncrossing his legs. He had not risked his life this day traveling a long road, besieged at every turn by thieving beggars, to join a flight from religious persecution. Where religion was concerned he could bend with the wind. He was also very hungry.

Weston placed a restraining hand on Carver’s arm. ‘The strength of your faith does you credit, my friend, but I think Master Mullins’ interest lies more with business concerns.’

‘Aye,’ Mullins said. ‘I am a master craftsman shoemaker. Footwear ranging from sturdy boots to fine shoes, my specialty, for merchants, magistrates, nobility. I need superior hide from Spain, silver buckles and laces. Scarce as hens’ teeth. These days peddlers have naught to offer but news; news of wars in Europe, no money, folk starving, so no trade. And with sheep farming replacing crops, out of work farm laborers come into the town desperate for work, begging for food. Only a few days gone by a group of vagabonds broke into a goodman’s house. Smashed the heads of all the family with an axe – crazed with hunger. They’ll hang for sure.’ Mullins suffered a surge of fear for his own small family left behind.

Weston leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. ‘Our venture may be the very opportunity you need. We have a plan, a far advanced plan, to build a colony for the Crown in North America, land of endless riches. A land where industrious men like yourself can prosper. You would be the colony’s only shoemaker, unfettered by wars, the recession and,’ he lowered his voice, ‘the whims of the Crown.’

‘A land free of popery and corruption.’ Carver leaned into the conversation. ‘Our Crown has emptied its coffers with profligate spending on male lovers. Whores they are; Buckingham the worst. Drain the King dry. I tell you, Master Mullins, the comet that streaked across the sky two years back. Accepted wisdom that it was a portent of disaster, God’s wrath.’

Mullins gaped in alarm at Deacon Carver’s dangerous talk.

‘Hush!’ Weston hissed. ‘Spies everywhere.’ He refocused all his attention on his guest. ‘Our plan. We have formed a venture company and recruited almost one hundred colonists: tradesmen, women, children, hired hands and servants. Just over half are religious protestors. The others are folk like yourself, men of business who do not want their hard earned prosperity to be swallowed up in the economic crisis that is upon us. We’ve commissioned a ship, the Mayflower skippered by Master and Commander Captain Christopher Jones.’

Deacon Carver interrupted. ‘Our people in Holland will commission a smaller ship and rendezvous with the Mayflower in Southampton. We’ll sail in tandem to America. The Mayflower will return to England and the smaller vessel will remain as the colony’s trading ship.’

‘Ah!’ Weston looked past Mullins’ shoulder. ‘A welcome sight.’

Mullins turned. The goodwife was struggling across the room bearing a large tray, holding it aloft above heads and her ample bosom. She squeezed through the crowd and fairly collapsed her burden onto their table. ‘Phew! Here ye be. Hope ’tis to your liking. Ye’ve plenty of ale?’

‘Aye. Thank you, goodwife,’ Carver said. ‘You do us proud.’

In concentrated silence they ate, Mullins being careful not to take more than the third that was his portion.

‘Ah, delicious!’ Carver said, relaxed now. ‘A man can use his mind to better advantage with a full belly.’ He placed the empty trencher under the table and poured from the flagon, refilling their tankards.

‘Thank you,’ Mullins said. ‘That was excellent fare and most welcome.’ The steak pie was clearing the fog from his brain.

Weston then outlined details of their planned venture; to set up a colony in the fertile Hudson River valley, a land brimming with fish, beaver and endless trees. Colonists would export timber and beaver pelts to England where they would fetch a handsome price. Guaranteed prosperity.

In response to Mullins’ anxious questions regarding the dangers of the sea crossing and rumors of massacres and scalpings by savages, Weston reassured him that their skipper, Master Jones, was one of the most experienced sea captains in England. ‘He’s sailed the North Sea many times – the most treacherous waters in the known world. If anyone can take a ship safely across the ocean it is he. And as to the savages,’ Weston reached across and clasped Mullins’ arm, ‘I know. Peddlers peddle such stories across the country along with their wares. Exaggerated – greatly exaggerated. In fact traders report that the natives are more often welcoming and eager to learn our ways. They are very keen to trade beaver pelts, desiring such novel trinkets as we can offer.’

Nodding in agreement, Carver said, ‘As it is God’s will we should build a new England, it follows the savages should belong to His kingdom too – through our ministry.’

‘Or our firearms will defeat them,’ Weston said. Carver flinched. Weston leaned back and smiled. ‘It is hard to imagine a better prospect. Think of it. Your own large house…’

Weston and Carver stared past Mullins’ head toward the door. The loud hubbub of the room gradually dimmed to silence. Mullins swiveled round.

A young man stood in flamboyant pose, legs astride, one hand on his hip, the other resting on the hilt of a heavily engraved sword. He wore an emerald green doublet of fine satin, embroidered in gold silk. His hose were silk, his legs shapely. A black velvet cape embroidered with gold thread hung on his shoulders, held in place by a large gold chain.

‘One of the King’s courtiers,’ Weston muttered, barely audible. ‘Damn waste of time and space.’

The courtier’s arrogant gaze roved around the room as he swished his long dark curls. Seeing the object of his quest he pushed men out of his way, striding toward a lad, fresh faced, blushing and eager, not of courtier status but well clad nonetheless. The youth stood and received his lover’s long kiss. Seemingly oblivious of where they were, or perhaps enjoying the silent consternation surrounding them, the courtier embraced and fondled his lover, not heeding the passing minutes. It is as if he relishes putting on a spectacle. How long before a protest erupts? Mullins had difficulty stopping himself from fidgeting.

Flushed with arousal, the courtier took his lover by the hand. ‘Come… my carriage is waiting. Out of the way, rabble.’ He led his companion through the wave of men stepping aside. On reaching the door he faced his audience; flourishing his hat he bowed, ‘Adieu.’

As the door swung shut a swell of voices, excited, indignant, disgusted, filled the room.

Mullins was shocked. Queen Bess kept her courtiers under control. Whatever they did behind the scenes, in public they behaved impeccably. King James seems not to care what his subjects think and if a soul dares protest he’s had for treason. Slowly he turned back to face his hosts.

Carver spoke softly but with vehemence. ‘England is a stinking mess of corruption and disease. Master Mullins, surely you want your children to grow up in a land free of depravity, founded on godliness, honor and virtue. Where men elect their leaders. No more blind subservience to a king proclaimed to be next to God.’

‘You are talking treason,’ Mullins whispered. ‘The King is next to God.’

‘Some would disagree, Mr Mullins, and our leader, William Brewster, is in hiding for printing such ideas.’ Carver breathed his words. ‘But once we are on the other side of the ocean there is nothing the King can do.’

‘No,’ Mullins said, keeping his head lowered. ‘I’ll not be party to a treasonous plot. I don’t want to endure the rack and be hung, drawn and quartered.’ He raised his head and sat back on his stool, hands pushing against the table, grateful for the sheltering volume of talk and laughter.

‘You need not fear.’ Weston leaned forward, quiet, reassuring. ‘There is no plot. And in America we’ll be free of spies and royal dictates. Our colony will be a settlement where men prosper through their own ability and hard work. Not through birth, trading favors with men in high places, or bribery. Equal justice for all; where murderers and charlatans do not walk free because they have connections. Think on it. A land where every man has the chance to better his lot. What say you, Master Mullins? A man of your understanding and experience would be a great asset in building and administering our colony.’ Weston leaned back slightly, sitting straight, hands folded on the table. He assumed a dignified, somewhat detached demeanor, his features composed, a half-smile conveying confidence as if to say, ‘I have what you need. You would be a fool not to accept.’

Mullins recognized the manner and ploys of a man practiced at persuasion. He looked past his hosts at the oak paneling behind their heads. He stared into the veining glowing deep brown in the wavering candlelight. English oak. Solid English oak. He turned to Weston. ‘Who else is on the Board of Investors? How much have they contributed? How well funded is this venture?’

Weston leaned forward. ‘It is not our practice to divulge details of our investors’ finances.’ He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. ‘But for you… I’ll give you a notion.’ Weston named six investors beside himself who had each invested five hundred pounds. Mullins knew of several; wealthy, canny men. ‘Shares are ten pounds each,’ Weston continued. ‘With seventy investors so far, many of them men of accomplished status like yourself, buying upwards of ten shares, you can see we are well funded.’

Feeling giddy with the enormity of his decision, Mullins gazed again into the oak paneling. He had reviewed both sides of the argument, again and again, back and forth. His estate was leeching away in high prices and taxes, even as business dwindled. He couldn’t bear to see his family reduced to poverty. But at least if they remained here in England they would be in a familiar life, amongst kith and kin, not cast upon the vast ocean to sail to an unknown wilderness with only strangers as companions. He sensed Weston staring at him, fidgeting; twisting his hands, shuffling his feet. Let him wait. Carver sat still, head slightly bowed. Carver is right. This country stinks of corruption and disease. In America he could build a new life, prosperous, clean and just.

No risk no gain. I would prosper, being the only shoemaker. My lass, Priscilla, an adventurous spirit, would thrive on the challenges. Fine looking; she’d have the pick of suitors. Young Joseph. Already showing intelligence, fleet afoot, sporting. They would have space to grow, make good lives of their own. And Alice, dear wife. I know she’ll be apprehensive. But I reckon she’d give it her all, and I would build her a fine house.

His eyes met Carver’s honest gaze. He liked the man, and sensed that for all his suspect beliefs, he was a sensitive man and trustworthy. He did not warm to Weston. But Weston was a man who made things happen, keen to make money and nothing wrong with that. The venture seems solid. That is the important thing.

Mullins drew his hand across his eyes. Slowly he reached into his doublet, fingering the threadbare velvet of his money pouch. ‘I’ll pay two hundred pounds for twenty shares and passage for five.’

‘Did I hear you right?’ Weston flared. ‘Ridiculous. How can we finance a venture on chicken feed?’

Mullins stared into Weston’s face. Small beads of sweat gathered on the merchant’s upper lip. He thrust his stubby thumbs into his waistcoat.

I reckon they need me. ‘I’ll offer two hundred and twenty-five pounds. That’s all I’ve got.’

‘To have a man of your experience in our number,’ Weston said, ‘agreed.’

Mullins withdrew his money pouch and holding it out of sight on his lap, counted out two hundred and twenty-five pounds. He kept back enough money to pay for his lodging and to buy gifts for his family; gifts to celebrate the start of a new life.

Chapter 2

June 1620

Thames Street – London

The air hung heavy with dockside smells: rotting fish, rotting carcasses, men’s sweat mingled with the acrid smell of the river. John Alden’s nostrils and throat cloyed. He sweated in the sultry evening heat, as wearily he trudged along a narrow alleyway that ran parallel to the quay. The upper stories of the houses leaned inwards creating a tunnel with shafts of light filtering through. He glanced around for pickpockets and robbers lurking in shadowy doorways and looked up, preparing to dodge objects and slops flung from windows above. A woman ranted; then came the crash of splintering pottery on the cobbles behind him. A filthy ragged child stepped out from a doorway; stretched out a flea-bitten arm.

‘Please, sir.’

John reached in his pouch and at arm’s length dropped a half-penny into the cupped hand. Hurrying on he caught the toe of his boot on a loose cobblestone and stumbled. Strewth. Time to seek refuge.

Pushing open a tavern door, he stooped to enter and shuffled through the sawdust into a dim, dusty room permeated with pipe smoke, the pleasant smell of ale, sounds of raucous laughter and hands slapping thighs and tables. The room was filled with sailors disembarked from ships moored in the Thames. Removing his hat he asked the tavern-keeper for a jug of ale. A call from one of the drinkers rose above the surrounding din. ‘Look at that head ’o hair. Yeller as cornsilk. Must be from strange parts.’ John spun on his heel to face a heavy belching lout staggering toward him. He wasn’t bothered. He could flatten any man in a brawl. However, the tavern-keeper shoved the drunkard back onto his stool.

‘Shut yer mouth or I’ll throw ya out.’

Jug of ale in hand, John seated himself alone at a small table, and staring into space, pondered his predicament. Here he was, a skilled cooper, taught by his father from a lad in a time when there was work aplenty. But now, with wood so scarce and expensive, no one wanted a wandering cooper. Merchants made do with the barrels they already had. Nigh on a year he had traipsed through towns all along the coast. No work. He gazed into his tankard. Would he have to beg? So far he’d survived doing odd jobs on farms, but farmworkers were a penny a dozen.

‘Mr Alden! John!’

John started. A wave of ale spilled over the lip of his tankard. That deep hearty voice. ‘Master Jones!’ He stood in greeting. The sea captain clapped him on the shoulder.

‘I’ll get another jug.’

John flushed with surprised delight as his gray-haired friend drew up a stool.

‘How many years? Here’s to you.’ Master Jones raised his tankard.

‘Reckon about two. Finding work here and there but almost none the past year. And you, sir?’

‘Been plying the seas, to Flanders, France. The usual. Until now. Been commissioned to take a load of discontents to North America. Took my fancy. Always wanted to cross the Atlantic.’

‘’Tis a long way,’ John said.

‘Aye, but sail in the summer, before the westerlies blow, should only take a month.’ Master Jones went to the bar to light his pipe. ‘New horizons,’ he said, settling again. ‘Captain John Smith was telling me ’tis a wondrous land. Endless forests, fish, rich soil.’ He leaned forward, forearms resting on the table. ‘Good fortune to find you here, John. The organizer, man called Weston, has asked me to find someone to maintain the barrels in the hold. You’re just the man. Deal is, sign up to stay for a year, help get a colony built, and then you can return if you wish. Passage and victuals free. Give you work and a chance to start afresh.’

John peered into his ale as if it were a fortune-teller’s crystal ball. Crossing the Atlantic. Fearsome. A land of endless forests. Could make a good living if I liked it there. Could marry and make my own home: a solid, loving home. He looked up into Master Jones’ crinkly eyes. ‘You reckon?’

‘Aye, for sure. With your skills in woodworking you could build your own business, with no interference, probably no competition for a time.’

John gazed again into his ale.

‘Your uncle was dastardly.’ Master Jones reached across and put a hand on John’s shoulder. ‘But there’s nowt you can do to be rid of him – except wait for him to die, and that could be many years hence.’

John looked up. ‘I keep hoping for word he’s met his end; sickened or been murdered, but ’tis a vain hope. I’ll never get my father’s business back. Damn.’

‘You’re young and strong – in your prime. Surely the new world is worth a try. As I said, you can always return after a year if you want.’

Don’t relish the sea crossing; a hell of a long way – but what sort of man am I if I can’t take a risk? ‘Agreed.’

‘Good man. I’ll have you on my ship once more.’

‘Still the Mayflower?’

‘Aye, fine little vessel. We sail a month from today – 3rd July.’

‘Aye, sir. I’ll be there.’

‘Promised my dear wife I’d not stay out. I miss her and the children, so many months away. We moved to London a year ago – please call by. Harwich House, Candlewick Street. Mistress Jones will give me no end of trouble if she doesn’t set eyes on you, and you’re most welcome to bide with us.’ He touched his hat. ‘Goodbye, John. Hope to see you soon and don’t forget – we sail a month today.’

‘Aye, sir.’ John stayed, seated, sipping his ale. He closed his eyes against the sting of pipe smoke and, wrapped in the comforting blanket of men’s voices, let his mind drift back into memories he usually kept at bay; his father’s long, slow death from consumption; John aged fourteen, taking on his mantle to be master of his trade, foremost coopers in Harwich. Even while his father was still alive, John witnessed his mother and uncle kissing, fondling and fornicating in secret corners. They wed before the earth had settled on his father’s grave.

Then the beatings. On the slightest pretext ten to twenty horsewhip lashes, sometimes more, and when his uncle was spent with whipping, the kicking boot, in his stomach, groin, face. Was he trying to kill me?

He remembered the day when, recovered enough from a beating to stand, he stumbled out the front door. A familiar voice called, ‘John! My lad.’ Master Jones strode to his side. ‘John, what has happened to you? How fares your father?’ With Master Jones supporting him they walked to the quay and John told his story.

‘I was always uneasy about your father’s brother. Something about him smelled bad. Your father was a good man. Many an hour we passed by your hearth exchanging yarns. You sat still as a stick, listening.’ Master Jones put an arm round his shoulder. He flinched. Raw – red raw pain.

‘You’re not to go back to that house. Come bide with us. Mistress Jones will treat those wounds and feed you. Skin and bone you are. Come with me when I next sail. Learn the ways of the sea. Who knows, you could become a sea captain – have your own ship.’

John opened his eyes, took a last swig of ale. Pity I couldn’t take to it. Three years I tried. Wanted to succeed for Master Jones. However, he understood. Some men are meant for the sea, some for land. So I’ve been wandering and now, just at the moment when I’m so far down, almost penniless, Master Jones appears with a way forward. Is this a sign? John shuffled through the sawdust to the door.

Chapter 3

July 1620

Dorking to London

It is so hot. I wish I weren’t laced up in this thick gown. And poor old Dolly, pulling our heavy load. Priscilla Mullins wriggled amongst pots and pans, kettles, rugs and chairs, trying to make a comfortable nest. She looked up at the blazing blue sky and longed for a soothing breeze. How many hours will we have to endure this grating noise of wheels on chalk and choking white dust. But I must not feel cross. We are on an adventure.

Mother and Father sat on the cross bench, looking straight ahead, Mother swishing at flies with her willow bough. Her young brother, Joseph, slept; a welcome respite from continual storytelling.

Priscilla reached into the small pouch at her waist and pulled out a parcel wrapped in her handkerchief. Her secret treasure. Given to her by Father when he returned from London, to celebrate their coming voyage on the Mayflower. He’d also brought her a gardening book, a book of recipes for Mother, and a small musket for Joseph. But he’d given her the sash when she was alone, milking Bessie in the field behind their house.

‘This is for you, lass. I want you to have something of luxury and beauty. Keep it safe. Your mother wouldn’t approve of the expense, as there is no practical use.’

Making sure that no one was looking, Priscilla unfolded the sash, only partway. Gazing at the wide black satin embroidered with gold silk, she stroked the fabric and imagined. How lovely around my small waist against a deep blue gown. Harry said my eyes are midnight blue pools. He had charm, Harry, but not much wit. And he would only ever be a tenant farmer. I don’t fancy being a farmer’s wife! She traced a finger over her nose, cheekbones and full lips. Surely my features are too fine to be seen only by livestock and babes. Or a gown of emerald green. My hair would go well. She gathered a curl of her rich dark auburn hair round a finger and inspected it. Yes. Or a gown of deep crimson – would set off my fair skin, neck and bosom. She peered down at her curved breasts, pushed up with a tightly laced bodice, her neckline low, almost exposing a nipple. I wish I had a mirror. If I marry a nobleman I will have a mirror. Pity I’ll have to wear a high neck when I marry. She refolded the sash, wrapped it in her handkerchief and replaced it in her pouch, smarting with the memory. She had made good use of her beauty and wiles enticing James. Tall, handsome, son of a magistrate, he’d been attending the grammar school and was a good catch. She was the envy of all her friends and betrothal was expected any day. Then, in the evening, walking home from milking Bessie, she’d spied him and her cousin Eliza behind the hedge, making love, about to… Priscilla brushed away a tear. It was unbearable, inexplicable. At least now she could escape the humiliation. When we reach America, I’ll show them. Father will build a grand house – he promised – and I’ll be courted. There must be some worthy young gentlemen on this voyage.

Resting her head against a rolled up rug, Priscilla lapsed into a dreamy doze, drifting through images of tearful goodbyes to visions of fine houses, walled gardens and gentlemen coming to call.

‘Are we nearly there? How much longer?’ Joseph’s high pitched questions roused her. The sun was halfway down to the western horizon. A soft breeze eased her discomfort and stirred the petals of wild roses twined in the hedgerow. Frail pink-white petals, delicate as a butterfly’s wing. Small birds now had the energy to twitter and flit about. Looking down to the right Priscilla saw a stone marker ‘London VI Miles’.

‘Only a little over an hour now. Come on, Dolly, I know it has been a long hard day,’ Father encouraged the old mare. Dolly put her ears forward and tried to quicken her pace, but she stumbled.

‘Father, what will happen to Dolly?’ Priscilla had the fearful thought she might be butchered.

‘Don’t worry. When I was staying at the Star Inn I arranged for a man to have her. Master Mathewe. He’ll meet us at Galley Quay.’

Priscilla’s stomach churned with nervous excitement. Wondering and wondering about what lay ahead, she hardly saw the last of the hedgerows and fields. They all passed in a mist. And then they were in sight of London Bridge!

‘Look – look – look!’ Joseph jumped up in excitement.

‘Joseph, hold still! You’ll make it harder for Dolly.’ As they approached the massive Great Stone Gate to cross the bridge, Father said, ‘Look to the left.’ Priscilla was amazed. So many boats and barges. A person could go from one side of the river to the other by climbing across them.

Joseph called out, ‘There’s a glass boat!’ Priscilla looked further to the left upstream and sure enough, floating among the smaller wooden boats, some carrying passengers, some transporting casks, barrels and timber, was a huge glass barge. A high dragon-head bow adorned a vessel of grace and beauty. From the dragon-head the line of the barge followed a long gentle curve to the stern where a banner fluttered in the breeze. From bow to stern a patterned strip, glistening gilt, decorated the side of the boat.

‘’Tis like a magical ship!’ Priscilla clutched her hands.

‘That is the King’s barge, and those are the King’s swans swimming all around,’ Father said.

Priscilla imagined herself amongst the lords and ladies of the King’s court, lounging on cushions, listening to the King’s musicians as a crew of oarsmen rowed them smoothly, gliding along the river.

Now, about to pass through the Great Stone Gate, Priscilla looked up and gasped. Too late she put her hands over Joseph’s eyes. Mother hid her face in her hands. But there was no protection from the sight and stench of rotting heads and skulls stuck on tall spikes. ‘Why?’ came Priscilla’s hoarse question.

‘This is what happens to traitors,’ Father said. Frowning, he urged Dolly on through the gate and into the midst of a noisy, jostling crowd of horse-drawn carriages and carts, folk on horseback and on foot. Priscilla and Joseph held onto the sides of the cart so as not to be thrown about and bruised. The bridge was lined with tall, three-story houses and shops, and Priscilla marveled at an enormous, brightly painted timber house with glass windows, built right across the bridge with a passageway through the center so traffic could pass.

‘Father, when will we get to the other side?’ Joseph asked.

‘It will take a while, lad. A man at the Star Inn told me this bridge is eight hundred feet long! And with all the folk and horses jostling about and getting in the way it might take some time.’

Market folk called out, ‘Buy my fine sausages. Finest in all London Town!’

‘Hot puddings and pies! Here, dearie, have a nice pie. Ye look peaky.’ A plump untidy woman thrust a pie at Joseph.

‘No thank-ye,’ Mother replied sharply.

‘Rosemary, rue, bay, lavender.’

‘Ribbons and laces.’

As they passed through the final gate at the northern end, Father steered Dolly’s head to the right. Priscilla gazed through a forest of masts and sails, stretching down the river as far as she could see.

‘Oh, William!’ Mother exclaimed. ‘All those ships! There must be hundreds and hundreds!’

‘This is the main port of London. It is deep enough here for big ships to moor. Upstream, the other side of the bridge is for smaller boats and barges,’ Father said.

Burly, rough men hurried everywhere, shouting as they heaved and tossed barrels and crates across from barges to big buildings on the left.

‘Father, what is in all those?’ Joseph asked.

‘That’ll be goods from far shores: wine from France, spices from hot lands t’other side of the world, cloth from Flanders. The stevedores are loading all those goods into the warehouses where merchants will come to collect them. Now, here we are at Galley Quay. See that ship anchored yonder?’ Priscilla followed Father’s gaze and gesture. ‘That’ll be the Mayflower.’ He shaded his eyes. ‘And I’m sure… yes, there’s Deacon Carver.’ He handed Mother the reins. ‘Hold Dolly, Alice, while I greet the Deacon and find a sailor to unload.’ Priscilla watched as Father strode across the quay to meet a tall, slim man overseeing provisions being loaded onto a barge. She gazed at the ship. It seemed enormous: three masts reaching way up into the sky and a towering castle-like structure at the stern, rising as high as a three-story house. Attached to each mast was a latticework of ropes rising from the deck up to the tapering top.

Vile odors from the river hit her nose, and the noise! The shouting and banging, catcalling and cursing of stevedores reeled round her head. After the long hot journey, the excitement of crossing London Bridge, and horror of the gory heads on spikes, Priscilla felt giddy and faint. ‘Mother, the stench. I feel unwell.’

‘We must be strong, Priscilla,’ came the terse response.

Priscilla thought back to the day Father had returned from London. He’d thrown his hat into the room, caught Mother in his arms. ‘We’ll be going to America!’ Eyes sparkling, with the excitement of a young man, he told them of the plan to build a new life in a land full of riches. ‘Don’t you fear, Alice,’ he responded to the look of shock and dismay on Mother’s face. ‘I’ll build you a fine house and you need never be cold again. America has endless forests for the taking.’

‘When do we depart?’ Mother had asked.

‘July.’

In the months that followed, as they sorted and packed, Priscilla had spied Mother weeping when she thought she was alone. She wished Mother were like Father, keen to set out on an adventure.

Just now she wished Father would return to the cart. Glancing to her left she noticed narrow stairs and a passage that cut through the warehouses to the streets beyond. It was dark and, she imagined, dank and stinking. A woman leaned out of an upper story window to empty a chamber pot, the contents splashing onto a man passing below who cursed and shook his fist. Joseph sat very still, wide-eyed and silent. Priscilla put an arm round his shoulder. She was glad their servant, Robert, hefty, young and strong, was seated behind.

‘There’s Father.’ Joseph pointed. Far down the quay amidst the shouting stevedores, Father appeared, accompanied by three burly sailors.

‘These are our possessions,’ Father said as they reached the cart. ‘All labeled ‘Mullins’.’

‘Aye, aye. Heave to,’ one sailor commanded the others.

Robert and Father helped Priscilla and Joseph climb down from the pile. Within minutes their household goods and trunks were in a heap on the quay. Father explained which items were to go in the hold and which to be placed in their living space.

‘Aye, aye. Cursed landlubbers. Take up room – always seasick,’ the lead sailor muttered.

Priscilla raised her chin. Vile man, way above himself. If he’s in the Mayflower’s crew, he had best keep out of our way.

‘Ah! Master Mathewe,’ Father called to a bent elderly man stumping along, with a limp and a stick. Priscilla knew it was time to part with Dolly.

Master Mathewe raised his hat. ‘Good-day, ladies. Now don’t you fear, your Dolly will have a good home with me. She’ll be well fed and not worked too hard.’ Mother handed the reins to Master Mathewe and Father gave her a hand down. Priscilla and Joseph went forward to stroke Dolly’s muzzle for the last time. ‘Oh, Dolly, Dolly,’ Priscilla murmured softly, stroking the old mare behind the ears and down the neck as she had always done ever since she was a child. The mare pricked her ears forward and nodded with a soft whickering sound. ‘Farewell, Dolly.’ She pulled Joseph away, wiping the tears from her cheeks.

‘There, me old beauty, thee’ll come along with me now.’ Master Mathewe climbed up onto the cross bench and gently persuaded Dolly to ‘Gee-up’, pulling the empty cart behind.

‘Now,’ Father said, clearing his throat, ‘we’ll go up these stairs and through the streets to the Star Inn. Tomorrow we sail!’

Chapter 4

July 1620

London – Southampton

‘Aboard! Aboard! Y’beggardly landlubbers!’

Priscilla’s gaze traveled up the Mayflower’s hull, up the rope ladder, to a huge sailor standing feet astride by the ship’s rail. Her heart sank as she recognized the surly man who had unloaded their cart.

‘Wretched scum. Nothin but trouble ye’ll be.’ The man muttered and cursed as one by one, the passengers cautiously stepped from the barge to climb the rope ladder. Priscilla followed Father who had helped Mother and then Joseph to begin their ascent. Trying to curl her feet round the rope rungs she struggled not to trip on her skirts and keep her balance as the ship’s hull rocked in the waters of the Thames. When she was one rung down from the deck rail the sailor taunted, ‘There’s a fair wench. Hurry on, hurry on or we’ll sail w’out ya. Ya wouldn’t want that now.’

Horrible man. As Priscilla grabbed hold of the rail the sailor took her arm. ‘Don’t touch me!’ She yanked her arm out of his grasp, and felt herself falling. She clawed at the rail posts. A strong, unseen hand held her waist from behind, keeping her steady, guiding her over the rail onto the hot noisy deck where sailors called out, tossing barrels and trunks, hurrying, knocking into passengers.

‘Thank you. Thank you, sir.’ Priscilla grabbed hold of the rail and turned, feeling herself blushing. A trickle of sweat traveled down her neck toward her bosom.

‘Close call. Easy to lose your balance,’ the man said, his voice deep and genial.

‘Yes.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I… It was that vile sailor. So disrespectful… how dare he…’

‘Sailors can be a rough lot, but I can tell you Master Jones will be sure you ladies come to no harm.’ The man doffed his hat letting loose a tumbling mass of blond curls. Priscilla looked into his open, inviting face, noted his strong arms and physique. Her tummy flipped. But his garb. Lowly. Brown leather jerkin and breeches, holland shirt. And his bootlace is untied. No.

‘Setting sail for a better life?’ The man leaned against the rail, one foot across the other, arms folded across his chest.

‘Yes. Father wants us to prosper.’

‘Your father a farmer?’

‘No! My father is a member of the shoemakers’ guild. He makes footwear for the nobility.’ Priscilla raised her chin.

‘Ah. Great asset. We’ll all need sturdy shoes and boots.’

‘I’m sure my father will have an apprentice to make footwear for the common folk. He specializes in fine boots and slippers for those of superior status. They pay a handsome sum. Our house has glass windows. Father says in the new world we’ll have an even grander house with more glass windows than the one we’ve left.’

‘Oy!’ A sailor bumped into her from behind. Her rescuer reached to steady her. She snatched her arm away and took a step back.

‘A house fit for a fair… elevated lass like yourself.’ A smile hovered on his lips as he leaned back against the rail. His glance traveled down her body and back to her eyes. ‘You’d perhaps be wanting a cooper such as I for a servant?’ He raised an eyebrow. His eyes laughed.

‘Sir! I never.’ Priscilla tilted her nose and looked away. ‘I must find my family.’

‘Mr Alden, Mr Alden… Good, good.’

‘Master Jones!’

Priscilla’s savior eased past her to meet the hearty greeting. Tall, solid, with gray hair and gray-blue eyes, the Mayflower’s Master and Commander wore a deep blue tailed coat with shiny brass buttons, crisp white breeches, tall polished black boots and freshly brushed black hat.

‘Come along to my cabin.’ Master Jones put a hand across Alden’s shoulders and led him away.

How dare they! Positively rude. Didn’t even… ignored me, as if I weren’t here! Flushed with anger, Priscilla pushed her way into the jostling crowd, standing on tiptoe to search for Mother and Father. The upturned ship’s rowing boat, lashed between the mainmast and the fo’castle made it impossible to see across the deck.

‘On wi’ ya – git up there – faster, faster.’ Hearing the crack of a whip above, Priscilla craned her neck, squinting against the fiery sun. A lad no older than Joseph was scrambling up the rigging chased by a grown sailor; up… up. The whip flicked his legs drawing blood.

Priscilla swayed and covered her eyes. Something banged into her legs, throwing her off balance. A dog. A massive dog, wagging its tail, slobbered on her skirt. ‘Get off! Get away!’ Oh where is Mother? The stench. Must get across to the rail; I feel sick. Tears pricked her eyes.

‘Out o’ the way… move!’ A sailor carrying a trunk on his back pushed her aside. With tears blurring her vision, Priscilla pushed and shoved her way to the rail, collapsing against it. Holding on, she closed her eyes, swallowed hard and steadied herself. Opening them again she stared at the huge ropes holding the Mayflower at anchor. Thick as a man’s wrist, they were covered in dead fish, seaweed and filth. In the river she saw floating feces, dead vermin, even a dead sheep. A gull swooped down and pecked at the carcass. Far over to the left a human corpse, bloated and purple, bumped against the ship’s hull. Mercifully she didn’t retch but grabbed the rail and twisted round, concentrating all her effort on searching for Mother and Father. Where could they be? Fear gripped her; she became a small child again, parted from Mother, lost in the marketplace, abandoned. Would they have gone off the ship and left me? She knew Mother wasn’t happy about this voyage. Ah! Father’s hat! Priscilla elbowed her way across the deck to her family, standing by the stern rail.

‘My dear, you’re white as chalk.’ Mother clasped Priscilla’s hands. ‘Cold and clammy. What has happened? Are you unwell?’

Before she could answer, the sailor bellowed, ‘All passengers below! Hurry! Out o’ the way wi’ya!’

Priscilla followed Father to the hatch and the ladder that led to below decks. Only halfway down the air became dim and dusty. After the bright sunlight above, she could not see. In their half-blind confusion passengers jostled into one another garrulously searching for their belongings. How will we ever all fit? ‘Ouch!’ She whacked her head against a beam. ‘Only a midget or a child could stand up straight down here.’

‘Ach – I’ve banged my elbow,’ Mother tut-tutted. ‘Where’s Joseph?’

‘I’ll search.’ Priscilla clambered through the jumble of trunks and boxes. ‘Joseph, where are you?’

‘Boo!’

She jumped and whirled round, tearing her skirt on a protruding nail. ‘Oh bother!’

Joseph grinned at her from behind a cannon. ‘Scared you!’ He taunted as he chased after a calico cat picking its way among skirts, legs, and the multitude of human belongings. The cat slithered out of his grasp as Priscilla grabbed his collar.

‘Come with me and stay put!’ She scolded and hauled him back to where Mother sat, slumped, on a trunk. ‘Mother, where is Father?’

‘Over there, behind that cannon with the gentleman who was on the quay yesterday, overseeing the loading of goods. What is his name?’

‘Deacon Carver.’

Father was nodding as the Deacon gestured toward Priscilla and Mother. He then picked his way through the chaos to join them. ‘We’ll have this space near the hatch,’ he said. ‘More air here. Not so fetid as farther back toward the stern.’

Joseph, his arm hooked around a stout post, swung in a circle. ‘What are these posts, Father? They’re like tree trunks growing through the roof.’

‘These three are the masts and this is the capstan, for raising and lowering heavy cargo.’ Father put a hand on Joseph’s shoulder and gave a kindly squeeze. ‘Now hush,’ he said as Deacon Carver raised his hand for attention.

Gradually folk fell silent, all eyes on the Deacon’s face.

‘Welcome. As you may know, I am responsible for the care and management of all passengers for the duration of the crossing. In due course I will give details of rules and procedures, but for the moment our priority is to establish order. Therefore, would you kindly pull your trunks into your allotted spaces?’

‘We’d best stand over by the ladder, out of the way.’ Mother carved a path through trunks, baskets and bedding rolls. Priscilla followed, grasping Joseph’s hand. A sharp bark and pawing at her skirt halted her. Another dog. A spaniel. ‘Don’t pet it, Joseph. You never know. Why these dogs? How many more? Go away – off.’

The two dogs barged about, tails wagging, while excited children leapfrogged over barrels and each other. The chickens and goats penned near the fo’castle squawked and bleated and a sow grunted.

‘Can you please hold those dogs still – and the children?’ Deacon Carver called out above the din. ‘We cannot shift these jumbled piles of stuff in all this commotion.’ Priscilla chuckled.

Finally, when all was in order, the Deacon spoke again. ‘Thank you. When we reach Southampton we’ll put up walls so each family will have some privacy.’

‘Reckon I’ll go down in the cargo hold and check our belongings are stacked together,’ Father said.

‘We’ll sort the trunk.’ Mother took a key from her pouch.

‘Please may I go and play?’ Joseph pointed to a cluster of children gathered round a cannon in the far corner.

‘Yes, but no mischief!’ Mother said.

Priscilla pushed back the heavy trunk lid and unpacked bedding, a chamber pot, a trencher, knives and tankards. ‘Look. I’ve found your little bag of rosemary, lavender and rue.’

‘Good. We are so crowded, likely to all die of disease before we ever reach America. Need every remedy and protection we’ve got.’ There was a crash and wailing. Mother wheeled on her heel and hurried toward the children.

Priscilla bent over the trunk and dug down to retrieve their Bible, psalter and almanac. She wished she could bury her head in the linen to get away from the high pitched chatter and thumping and raucous sailors’ calls. She was shoved from behind and stood abruptly.

‘So sorry. Sorry, dear.’ Leaning into her was a large woman. ‘I’m desperate… desperate for… ’ She pointed at the chamber pot. ‘I can’t find ours.’

‘Here.’ Priscilla held the woman steady as she squatted.

‘I’ve been waiting so long.’ When at last she’d finished, Priscilla helped her to her feet. The chamber pot was almost full to the brim.

‘Thank you. Goody Billington. And you?’

‘Mistress Mullins.’ Priscilla raised her chin.

Goody Billington raised her chin. ‘Mistress are ye? Sorry to leave you with that.’ She nodded toward the chamber pot and slowly shuffled down the deck.

Priscilla seethed. How dare she!

Gingerly, carefully, Priscilla picked up the offensive pot full of urine. She would have to climb the ladder and empty it over the side of the ship.

Rung by rung, struggling not to trip on her skirts, holding onto the ladder with one hand, grasping her foul smelling burden in the other, she climbed as quickly as she could, fearing a sailor would come and push her away. Sweat covered her face and neck and made her hands slippery. Once she almost dropped the pot, and urine spilled onto her skirts. It felt like a miracle when she climbed onto the upper deck, hurried to the rail and poured the liquid into the Thames. Suddenly hands grabbed her waist. She screamed, whirled round and bashed a sailor’s face with the pot.

‘Thought m’be y’d be wantin somethin, comin up’ere against orders.’ The man leered, grinning, eyes fixed on her breasts, unperturbed by the clout he’d received.

Priscilla wielded the pot again, ran to the hatch and almost threw herself back down the ladder. She looked for Mother, who was now at the far end of their quarters talking with another woman; then sank onto a pile of bedding, taking deep breaths as she wiped the sweat from her face and bosom. What has Father done? Why are we down here in this filthy dark place? Why do we not have our own private cabin? She thought of their room in the Star Inn. She knew no cabin on a ship could be as comfortable and pleasant as that – but this. We might as well be cattle – though the sailors would show more respect to cattle than they do us. But Father must know what he is doing. Only a month. When we are in America he and Robert will build a big house and in no time at all we’ll have a fine town with wide streets.

Priscilla delved into the trunk and took out her own small box of treasures. Unlocking it, she took the sash from her pouch and laid it carefully beside her lace handkerchief. One day. Sighing, she locked the box and buried it deep down near the bottom of the trunk, keeping her gardening book handy near the top.

‘Have you found our Bible?’ Mother’s voice made Priscilla jump. ‘What have you been doing?’ Priscilla recounted what had happened with Goody Billington but said nothing about the sailor accosting her on deck. It would only cause worry.

‘Hmpf. I can see this voyage is going to be a trial. I must ask your father to request pails. How else are we to manage?’ Nodding in the direction of excited babble and scolding coming from behind a pile of trunks, Mother said, ‘Those children are going to be a handful. There’s a mischief maker amongst them, called Francis. You’re not to be led astray by him, Joseph. And there are four little mites, all hollow-eyed and thin, without a mother or father. Poor things.’ She looked to inspect Priscilla’s unpacking. ‘Good. Everything here we’ll need for the night. We’ve got bread and cheese left from breakfast and I’m sure we’ll be given a ration of ale.’ Hands on hips, she declared, ‘We’ll be a whole month with scarce a hot meal. Mistress Carver said the only fire is in the fo’castle, where the ship’s cook prepares meals for the crew.’ She shook her head. ‘Nor able to sit at table. Here. Take this hunk of bread and cheese over to Robert. He’s worked hard. Look… he’s over there.’

‘But he’s our servant. They’re all servants over there. Surely I shouldn’t…’ Priscilla tilted her nose.

‘Priscilla. This is not the place to have airs.’ Mother thrust the bread and cheese into her daughter’s hands.

Priscilla struggled along the narrow pathway to where Robert sat with a group of single men. ‘Do you all have to share this small space? All dozen of you?’ She handed Robert the food.

‘Aye, we’re at the bottom of the heap, Mistress,’ Robert smiled ruefully. ‘And we’ll be piled in a heap, sharing this patch.’

Priscilla felt a sudden unwelcome pang. A dozen of them, in that tiny patch, hardly as big as a pig’s sty. No matter. We are all crowded and they are only servants. She set about picking her way back, taking care to keep stooped over and not trip.

‘Out o’ the way – move!’ The jeering sailor barked from behind and pushed her aside. ‘Take up all our space, vermin. Us crew can’t bring truck to trade with the Indians.’ He glared at Priscilla. ‘Stealing our rightful gains, you are.’ He spat. A large glob of spittle hit her skirt. He kicked at bedding, rugs and small stools as he lumbered to the ladder to climb up on deck.

Shaken, Priscilla stumbled in his wake. Mother comforted her with a hug. ‘Poor lass. He’s a beast! Gives orders to the other sailors. Hope they won’t all be that bad!’

‘Splendid, splendid.’ Father emerged from the cargo hold. ‘All our belongings are together, everything in order. Alice, even you would be impressed with how all the provisions are arranged, the farming and hunting gear, and all the crates and trunks and pieces of furniture and carpets. Amazing. Priscilla, it’s the young man who saved you from falling in the Thames. John Alden, he’s called. Signed on for a year. Cooper by trade.’

He may have saved me but he was unforgivably rude, not introducing me to the captain. Who does he think he is? Priscilla frowned, pursed her lips and rounded on Joseph. ‘Hold still. Stop that poking about and fidgeting. Time to learn your letters.’ She ferreted down through the trunk ’til she found Joseph’s slate.

‘No souls on deck. Stay below all o’ ya!’ The sailor’s face appeared in the hatch. He slammed it shut.

‘Too dark, too dark, can’t see,’ Joseph crowed.

Priscilla stood still, grasping Mother’s arm. The darkness brought a hush of waiting. A loud deep voice called out, ‘Man the windlass.’ Shadowy shapes of sailors appeared, just a few, gathered round the windlass, operating it with wooden staves. Hearing a clunk she squeezed Mother’s arm, whispering hoarsely, ‘What was that?’

‘Hauling up the anchor,’ Father said.

Then from above the command, ‘Make fast and cat the anchor.’ The sound of hurrying feet and the order, ‘Loose the main s’l, the fore s’l.’ This was the moment; they would be carried away, imprisoned in this vessel with frightening sailors and sounds: timbers creaking, the slurp and gurgle of the river as the ship, loosed from her anchorage, tilted slightly to the side, sailing down the Thames.

‘Here, we’d best sit on the trunk lid.’ Mother pulled Priscilla to sit beside her. Father leaned against the masthead. ‘Where is Joseph?’

A dim shaft of light revealed a small figure at the top of the ladder close against the closed hatch. ‘Joseph?’ Priscilla called.

‘I want to hear the first mate’s orders.’

‘Come down from there this instant,’ Father said.

Joseph climbed down and groped his way to stand beside Priscilla. ‘I wish I could be on deck to see how we sail down the river with so many boats in the way.’ Priscilla thought of the lad she’d seen being chased up the rigging and hoped he was safe.

A soft, light body jumped onto her lap. Purring. Priscilla stroked the silky fur. Even in the murky shadows she recognized the small calico cat. ‘Where did you come from? You pretty thing.’

‘Will it be ours?’ Joseph asked.

‘I expect it’s the ship’s cat,’ Mother said. ‘I hope it doesn’t have fleas.’

‘It is probably seeking refuge from the dogs, and boys like you, Joseph, who give chase.’ Priscilla hoped the cat would adopt her.

On and on. It seemed the ship was creeping along until at last Priscilla felt a swing and pull as the wind filled the sails.

‘Here we go,’ Father said. ‘We’ve left the Thames. We’re sailing straight down the Channel.’

Chapter 5

July 1620

London – Southampton

A sailor opened the hatch. ‘Ya can come up now. See how many can stand. Ha!’

Priscilla pushed to be among the first to climb the ladder. The deck rolled and pitched under her feet, one instant rising to meet her, the next, falling away. She grabbed whatever rope, post or rail she could get hold of and waited until she got her balance enough to stagger across to the outside rail. Around her folk were slipping, falling, calling out. Holding tightly to the rail, she gazed up at the high white chalk cliffs rising on the right, topped with green turf, vivid against a bright blue, cloudless sky.

‘France is over there, across the water,’ Father said as he and Mother and Joseph lurched their last few steps to join her. ‘Mr Alden told me the Mayflower has sailed to France many a time, fetching cloth and wine. The spilled wine is why our ship smells sweet.’

‘I wondered why the air below isn’t foul,’ Priscilla said, grabbing Joseph’s arm. ‘Hold on and stay still or you’ll slip overboard!’

‘Because of the wars and high prices,’ Father continued, ‘folk no longer have enough money to buy fine cloth and wine. A good reason for us to go to America, land of endless riches.’

Priscilla caught Mother frowning, shaking her head.

‘Father.’ Priscilla spoke just above a whisper. ‘Who is that fine couple in such elegant garb?’

‘Ah yes. Deacon Carver introduced them to me. Master and Mistress Winslow. Wealthy. Apparently he leaves behind a large estate. They’ve joined the religious group and Winslow prints all their pamphlets; writes some of the discourses. He’s been in trouble several times; printing machines smashed.’

Priscilla sighed, examining Winslow’s jacket of fine velvet, lace collar