Pilgrim’S Journey

By John M. Brewer

Thomas Wyatt dreams of a future with his first love in Colonial Boston. She suggests he become a doctor. He wants to improve his standing with her wealthy parents, and for her he works his way from berry patch to the halls of Great Britains finest medical school. Just before he is to make the long voyage, he is shattered by her admission that her parents have arranged a marriage for her with a wealthy Tory merchants son. He regretfully leaves his family behind to secure some sort of future as a doctor.

After graduation, he settles into a joint practice in London and falls in love with an apothecarys daughter. As the Revolutionary War rages on, he is haunted by fear for his family and by a promise he made to his first love. He joins His Majestys army to return to the Colonies to find them and save them if he can or learn their fates.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Oct 3, 2014
• ISBN: 9781491745175

John M. Brewer

John M. Brewer is a professor of biochemistry at the University of Georgia, and the author of more than a hundred scientific publications. Pilgrim’s Journey is his fifth novel. He and his “yoke mate” live on a lake with a canoe that figured in their courtship.

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I

Britain

1

A GIANT STEP, 1773

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My back to Boston, I stood at the rail of the ship that was to carry me to Britain. Looking at the rail, I saw it was splintery and tarry. Despite being early in summer, the sky and sea were grey, as was my mood. If I was to be a doctor, I would become a doctor with a degree from a well-known place, not pick up the knowledge as an apprentice. To stay this side of the Atlantic risked encounters with Ann or her intended or her family. In addition, I was loath to live in a province increasingly influenced by louts and bullies and demagogues. No: best to break clear, stay away until I could return as a fully qualified practitioner.

I was standing in the bow. We were anchored by the stern, and the tide was ebbing so I was looking toward my destination, my destiny. The wind was from the land and I heard cries and bustle. The anchor was hoisted and top sails set. We began to move to Britain, to a new life, new studies. I continued to stand looking east to my future, feeling some sadness, a little fear, otherwise nothing.

Once on the ship, on board, I saw how crowded everything was. My chest was stowed in a room which was very small but expected to hold five passengers. The room stank already though was unoccupied, the influence of the bilge I understood. Space was precious. Space for cargo, human or goods, was the sine qua non of ventures, leaving bits and scraps for crew and wandering passengers, by which I mean un-stowed passengers. On deck, I was always in someone’s way, stand where I might. Then I was ordered below to get me out of the way, so the sailors could do their work unimpeded.

Below, I had a level of a stack of places to sleep upon. There were five levels and five of us. Our baggage was set wherever possible, not where it was convenient, adding to my feeling of being cargo. I climbed onto my level—I was not sure how these had been assigned—and found I could not stretch out but had to lie huddled. There was not much space between levels so I had to be careful about raising my head, or I would crack it on something. The levels were wooden, no bedding, so promised discomfort in that direction also.

None of us introduced themselves. Saving one man sitting on a chest, the rest of us crouched on our level. As I lay, I began to smell my companions, who were unwashed, even more unpleasant. The understanding that these experiences were going to continue, probably get worse, over the weeks or months of the voyage made me low. I began to try to withdraw, to think of better times and places, in other words, just about anything and anywhere else.

Ann immediately came to my mind, our happier times together, even our parting. I shook my head, hit it on something, and lay quietly hoping the pain would distract me.

I sighed, stretched cautiously on my level, my shelf, I supposed. I noted a change in the ship’s pitching—deeper and slower—and rolling—less of that, thankfully—and guessed we were on our way. I sighed again. I didn’t know if we would be offered something to eat or if we would want to eat it. I lay with my head on my crossed arms and tried to feign some interest in where I was going and what I was going to be doing. This was hard.

It occurred to me that it was ironic, that I should be crossing the Atlantic to the British Isles to better myself, for my father’s father, my Grandfather Wyeth, had journeyed from England to Massachusetts to the same end.

I remembered my father telling me and my sisters over the dinner table, "Your Grandfather Wyeth was a common carter in Northamptonshire in England. As a young man, he found himself faced with a choice between starvation and emigration and chose the latter. Since he came from a region where the Puritan influence was still strong, he came to Massachusetts. Here he worked for others as lighterman or warehouseman until he was a hand at a farm near Dedham.

"Your Grandfather Wyeth was sober and hardworking, so he was in good repute there as elsewhere, and was able to marry the daughter of the owner of the farm. She was his only surviving child. When his father-in-law died in the scarlet fever epidemic in 1736, Grandfather Wyeth inherited the farm.

Though he is uneducated—he can barely write his name—your Grandfather Wyeth has wit as well as application. He has prospered, partly by supplying provisions to the Massachusetts militia during our war with the Indians and French. So I, the only child to grow to manhood, had much better prospects than your Grandfather Wyeth.

Why did you become a lawyer, Father? I asked.

My elder sister Lizzie added, And how did you meet Mother?

Father replied, Since I was far better educated and wanted a more genteel life, I apprenticed myself to a lawyer in Boston. The daughter of one of his clients, a merchant named Holmes, caught my eye.

Here he smiled at my mother, who smiled back. We married when my term of apprenticeship was over. Then we came here to Shrewsbury in 1751. Your brother Thomas, nodding at me, was born the next year. You and your sister Susan came later.

*****

My thoughts must have wandered. I could not tell if I had been sleeping. Now I remembered something that had happened when I was very young….

I was a quiet child, shrinking from contact from strangers and seeking refuge in books. For I learned to read early, as my mother as well as my father was literate, she having attended dames school in Boston as a child.

Though I early showed signs of scholarly temperament, there were also signs of another sort. While I was usually timid and passive, I could be pushed too far. We had at one point a large tiger-striped cat, a female, and I played with the animal. Though I was as thoughtless of its comfort as most children are, I loved Scheherazade, as our father called her. [My father sometimes named our pets, and he had a somewhat freakish wit; what the animals thought of their names, I can’t say.] When I was about four, she was attacked by a neighbor’s dog.

The dog was tearing at the cat when I rushed at the dog, screaming and pelting it with clods and rocks (though I think now the cat must have received some share of this), and belaboring the dog with a stick. Confused at first, the dog might have finished me but its owner took it in charge. He was quite angry with me for treating his dog so, an attitude that left me speechless with rage. This to the point of tears, though I think the neighbor, a good enough man in his way, took my tears as penitence.

Scheherazade lay bleeding in the yard, her belly ripped open, but stirred at my touch. I fought down my repugnance at the sight of her internal organs. I gathered Scheherazade in my arms, and ran to the town doctor / apothecary / cow doctor. Reaching his shop, I confronted him with my burden and insisted he treat her. I think now with amazement that, though grumbling somewhat at the task, he got out his instruments and began sewing my pet back together.

He shook his head from time to time, though I do not know whether this was to discourage any hopes on my part for her recovery or whether he was wondering at his own sanity. He made me help, and I, who would not watch her deliver a litter of kittens, found myself assisting a surgery which no one then would have dared perform on a man.

At length, I took her home. I think I too had no expectation of her survival, but was merely bidden to make the patient as comfortable as possible with no hope of recovery. Yet, Scheherazade not only recovered, but produced more kittens and grew enormous. I understood even more sharply now there had been two consequences from this: I was strongly influenced by the power of the medical profession; and the cat adopted me as her protector.

She would sleep in my bed thus sharing her fleas with the bed and with me. I disliked this. Being of a nervous disposition, I found the wanderings of these creatures over-stimulating, so was compelled to bathe and change clothes more frequently than was the custom. Also, my mother, who was a meticulous housekeeper, found the fleas of our pet—for we had no other animals indoors—a trial on her temper. The cat understood and resented this, so that the cat would often hiss and spit at my mother when my mother happened by. This amused my father. Memories that alike brought a smile to my lips and tears to my eyes.

2

RETRACINGS

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Inescapably my mind retraced my journey back to where my life’s path turned to join Ann’s, at least for a while. I saw that my restless nature lay behind everything that had happened….

Since the end of the French and Indian War, the dangers from Indian attack were much reduced in our province, and so I could range farther afield from my home. A few miles away were forests. At the edge of these were bushes, some bearing edible blackberries. I needed no urging to venture there and pick these, in season. But when I went to do this, I found the attentions of the black flies and mosquitoes so bothersome that I could make little headway in my picking. Returning to my home, I complained of this to my mother, and she made me a mask such as beekeepers use, of a sort of porous cloth, so that I could see what I was doing but the biting insects could not reach my face and neck. With some thin gloves and a basket on a lanyard hung about my neck, I was able to pick almost any quantity of berry, provided I was willing to give the matter my attention, for such work quickly became tedious.

Once, when we visited Grandfather Holmes and my mother’s brother, Uncle Thomas, in Boston, we took some of the blackberries I had picked with us.

My uncle remarked, These would fetch sixpence a gallon, perhaps more, in Boston.

This remark remained dormant in my mind until I neared fifteen. At that time I became possessed of the notion that I would pick several gallons of blackberries and take these to Boston, about thirty-five miles away over roads which were indifferent at best, and sell the berries. That is to say, I would bring them to my Holmes relations and they would sell them, for I could not imagine having the face to actually meet strangers, argue with them and extract money for the berries. However, my head was now full of this scheme. I worked out everything I would do and began making preparations.

Father shook his head, commenting, Thomas, I must say I think your proposal hare-brained.

Though briefly discouraged, I went ahead and agreed with our wheelwright and blacksmith to take a wheelbarrow of his manufacture to Boston to sell for not less than eight shillings, of which I was to have one, and additionally one half of the excess over eight. My mother and sisters wove baskets of a gallon capacity from local reeds; these would of course be sold with their contents. My mother and sisters would receive a penny for each of the baskets.

My task was first to pick the berries, and since I did not want to be molested by local enemies, I took to carrying a heavy stick. For protection against animals, I told friends and neutrals. Then I spent several days picking; each day I worked from near dawn to near dark, as the bushes were less than ten miles from our village and I had to walk each way. Full of my scheme as I was, I was nearly immune to fatigue, collecting over twenty-five gallons, for the season was full upon us. Then I retired early and rose before midnight. Having stacked the harvest in the barrow and secured the baskets with cord before retiring, I emerged into the cool night and set out, pushing the barrow. My father watched me go.

After the heat of the day, the night air was delicious. The moon was full—I had planned for this—and my path seemed magical, the earth now a thing of enchantment. Or so it looked at first: the jolting of the barrow, a clumsy thing, and the increasingly burdensome weight on my wrists quickly diminished the romance of the venture. As time passed, my back and arms became painful; not having participated much in the usual boyhood exercises (saving walking and running), my strength was little enough to begin with and vanished utterly before I had trod a mile. My hands had no grasp at all, so I took some extra cord—for I had brought some in case it should be needed—and tied the two ends to the handles, and passed the loop over my head and onto my shoulders. Thereby I was able to reduce the strain on my arms.

I proceeded, using my hands to steer the barrow. This was necessary, the surface of the road being very uneven. As the hours passed, the road gradually became better, and as I approached Boston, I even picked up some speed. By the time it was full dawn, I was well toward my goal, but I was growing exhausted. Yet I would not stop, still less turn back, and as the sun rose higher in my face I saw more and more people, all it seems looking curiously at me. By noon I had reached the hills above Boston. There I rested for a time beside the road, watching passersby watching me. Two women ventured to buy a gallon apiece, and this cheered me enough to finish my journey by four in the afternoon. I had rolled a heavy and heavily-laden (for me) barrow thirty-five miles in seventeen hours.

Grandfather Holmes was astonished at my appearance, but consented readily enough to take my wares, including the barrow, for the price I had expected. Indeed, I got rather more for the berries than I had expected, near twenty shillings, though my grandfather could give me only a note for the bulk of the money. Still, I now had money in my pocket that I had earned, and in consequence was filled with the most extraordinary feeling of independence and freedom.

My Holmes relations had me to dinner with them, and Grandfather Holmes asked me, What are your plans, Thomas?

I am thinking of becoming a surveyor.

My uncle however discountenanced this, In our province, the office of Surveyor is so very lucrative that it is controlled by the Governor and his people, so that of necessity you would be involved if only indirectly in corruption and knavery.

This impressed me.

I insisted on returning that evening, even though I was tired, essentially because I had said that I would, so compounded a foolish statement with a foolish act. But my grandfather gave me a letter for my mother, and two of their neighbors also had letters for other people in our village. I was given a penny apiece for their delivery, and set out.

Being young, I had recovered somewhat from my earlier fatigues, but these returned in strength, even though I was no longer burdened. The walk back seemed very long. Even so, I returned before dawn the next day, a Sunday. Thus, I missed church, but I delivered the two letters I had been paid to do.

The next two days were times of agony; for I could hardly move, so sore was my entire body, especially my neck rubbed raw by the cord. However, I began picking more berries. This time I would not have a barrow, but proposed carrying them in two bundles, balanced across my shoulders on a yoke, freeing a hand to carry a stick to ward off dogs. I returned again the following week and I also carried letters and two small packages for various people in Boston. Learning from my first journey, I left earlier and actually made better time, reaching my grandfather’s store just after noon. The deliveries of the letters took the rest of the afternoon, for the recipients were scattered all across the town, which in addition was unfamiliar to me. I was given a package to deliver on my return journey.

Thus, what began from restlessness became a small enterprise. Since I was conscientious and not prone to linger in taverns, I became the postal service for my village and indeed the farms and inns along the road to Boston. For the man who had performed this task was perhaps excessively convivial, and prone to take more time for his deliveries, despite having a horse. And while I feared his resentment for my encroachment on his livelihood, he appeared to bear me no ill will but shifted his routes to the northwards where there chanced to be more taverns. Consequently, I traveled to and from Boston at least once a week, even when not conveying berries. When I had only enough berries to fill a basket, I could make most of the entire trip in daylight in summer.

In this way, I became more aware of political developments: our Province or Colony, like the others, was considered to exist for the benefit of England, or rather the merchants of that country. So the laws they imposed on us resulted in a steady drain of specie from the Colonies, to the point where a serious shortage of coin interfered with all our commerce. As I charged for my services, I found that people could not pay in coin, but rather in kind. I was obliged to accept produce and firewood. Once, in Boston, a woman of suspicious character offered to pay for my service with one of her own, and I was both shocked and tempted, but she looked somewhat old, and I was afraid.

I remember my father remarking, Could the image of King George be impressed on a turnip, the Colonies’ troubles would be over.

Father did not approve of my activities in terms of a career. Still, I think he was pleased I was doing something. He permitted me to keep my gains, though in truth I suspected what I received for my services was much reduced by the wear on my boots, for example, whose cost he bore. In a sense it might have been more rational for me to have stayed at home, and he to have given me the monies produced by my exertions. But I think he was also pleased by my determination, for he uttered not a word when I would make these journeys in foul weather. Indeed I once nearly froze to death in a sleet storm that winter, but I would not give up my excursions, for the feeling of achievement and independence I prized more than life itself. Or so I fancied at the time.

My activities brought me a knowledge of Boston, and while I was at first timid of the rough-looking men about the docks, I soon found I had nothing to fear. Though I was warned to stay clear of the Royal Navy for they had a name for impressment, I had no trouble. I think this was partly because I took care not to linger about the harbor area, and partly because my travels had strengthened and enlarged me somewhat, so that I no longer appeared so spindly, even while I was growing tall.

My deliveries one day took me to the house of a rich merchant of Boston, a Mr. Crewe. I remember well how this house, all of brick, impressed me. When I knocked, a Negro servant answered. I was to deliver the letter to Mr. Crewe’s own hands. This was a frequent injunction and a nuisance since I was rather dusty. However, the gentleman himself, a tall and important-looking man in his prime, came out.

I gave him the letter and then a small blonde girl wearing a blue gown came up the steps and walked into the house, followed by a servant woman. I saw a perfect profile, a glance toward me and my clothes, and I was suddenly overwhelmed by a consciousness of dirt, sweat and insignificance. This was not the intent of these people, I am sure. Mr. Crewe thanked me affably, and paid me tuppence because often postage was paid for by the recipient, another nuisance. Then he went inside. I walked away, despising myself, this from just a glimpse. Since I was too embarrassed to ask who this creature was—I assumed she was his daughter, but for all I knew she could have been anything—I nursed my feelings in silence. Her image became my companion, in my mind my confidante, my Muse.

My schooling had come to an end, as I had exhausted the academic resources of Shrewsbury. Since my delivery service took at first only two or three days a week, I began to frequent the apothecary’s shop. I was fascinated by the jars of drugs and chemicals, the counter where he made up his potions and pills, and mostly the air, not of knowledge (for even then I thought of him as an ignorant man), but of discovery of mysteries to explore.

I am still not sure how he regarded me, for then as now the normal relation between such a man and a youth was master and apprentice. I gradually began assisting him about his shop, reading the few books he possessed (which I am not sure he had read), and following him on some of his errands. He served us all as animal doctor, having successfully treated Scheherazade. Otherwise his most successful work was in assisting at deliveries of cattle and horses. Here I was forced to assist him. I had no desire of such labour, so to speak, indeed regarded the entire matter with revulsion.

However, I was constrained to wash well my hands and arms—he insisted on this—and reach inside the birth organs of these animals at times to turn or push or pull the baby calves or horses so they would emerge unharmed. Sometimes I had to help restrain the mothers. This latter task often required more strength than I could supply, in which case I would at his direction do the turning, pushing or pulling. With time I became hardened by repetition to such scenes and activities, and on the way home he would sometimes tell me of other cases he had attended. This was all he ever talked about, never about himself, and little enough ever. Despite my dislike of such tasks and my inexperience, I think I was a help to him for he had no proper apprentice.

My carrying trade kept expanding to the point where I was hard pressed to maintain it as I wished, and at this point I found that I, not yet seventeen, had an apprentice. This was Daniel Mechin, a youth of perhaps fourteen, large for his age, whom I had known in school. When he began accompanying me on my routes, I fancied he was a spy or decoy for some of my enemies at school, set to learn my routine. Hence I took care to carry not only a heavy stick but also insinuated I had a pistol, for sometimes I carried small sums of money on direction. However I misjudged him. Though I found it hard to imagine myself having authority over anyone near my age who had known me at school, he accepted my decisions without comment, even when they chanced to be wrong, and came to act first as assistant then as deputy and finally as partner.

In person he was notably silent even in that region of succinctness. He rarely said anything even (or perhaps especially) when in our kitchen, where my family made him welcome. My elder sister Lizzie would chatter at him throughout his visits while my youngest sister sat quietly, perhaps stirring something or more often merely listening. I fancied some interest between Lizzie and him. Since I had long since found his company very tolerable, saving his lack of conversation, I did not discourage this, nor did my parents, as his