Down Salem Way

2. 11 January 1691, Tuesday

11 January 1691, Tuesday

Cows. I live down the road from cows. I traveled all the way from England expecting the Promised Land, as Father said it would be. He made it sound like a place where gold grew from trees and silver was ripe for the plucking. Instead, I find myself keeping company with kine. In truth, I do not mind them since they make for good, quiet neighbors who spend their days grazing languidly in the boundless fields. Occasionally, one will low, a melancholy sound, but I nod, understanding the lament. I have come to enjoy watching the cows through my window, the animals chewing the cud carefully, one mouthful at a time, looking content with their lot as the long grass slips between their teeth.

My dearest dream is to take Lizzie, commandeer one of Father’s ships, and sail for England where I can return to my studies. This merchant life does not come naturally to me. Tis Father with the business sense, Father who can talk to anyone, buy anyone ale at the public house, Father who understands how to get what he needs. But one day I shall take Lizzie home. I shall stay awhile yet to help Father, and then I shall take Lizzie and go to where we can be free to live our own lives.

In truth, I’m tired of working with Father’s ledgers. I’m tired of puzzling out loss or profit for Father’s various importing and exporting ventures. Tis an odd job for me, I reckon. I understand words. I know figures, too, but I do not enjoy their company as well. Figures have to work out correctly. Sums and differences and percentages are simple enough to calculate, yet it causes problems when the numbers do not meet up as they should. I prefer words, reading and reflecting, to maths, multiplying and dividing. With words I can decide for myself what I believe. Tis difficult to have deep, considerate thoughts about a numerical fraction, but then I am no Newton or Descartes.

I must write down a conversation between Father and myself that occurred this afternoon before it slips from my memory.

I have asked Father about my grandfather on countless occasions, and on countless occasions I have been rebuffed, which is unlike him. Father is a chatty man if ever I met one. Father and I were at his house sitting at the table before the hearth, I calculating figures as per usual, Father grumbling about a Royal Navy man, a former Royal Navy man, I should say, by the name of Thomas Oliver who owes us money. Father calls this Oliver fellow a sailor. Sailor is not the word I would use. Apparently, this Oliver owes debts along the coast, and probably everywhere else he’s plundered from, but he is more useful than costly, so Father pays Oliver’s obligations with only a few sneering remarks.

Father looked through the window, the diamond panes casting iridescent shadows on the floor whilst the sun struggled to break through this latest winter storm. There was such sharpness in the air that even before the fire I shivered. Suddenly, Father’s helping-girl scuttered to the frying pan spitting butter everywhere. She stirred the contents of the pan and the room filled with the scent of browning onions. She added salted cod and chopped parsnips and stirred some more. I pressed my spectacles against my nose, hungry suddenly as the sweet smoke wafted in my direction. The girl wiped her hands on her apron, then turned to me, half a peek, and I wondered what held her attention.

Father nodded at the girl. “Prudence, how fares your youngest sister, Providence?”

Prudence shrugged. “Providence is afeared of the Devil.”

“Aren't we all?” Father leaned back in his chair and sipped the tea Prudence placed before him. “I presume your sister has been listening to the sermons of the illustrious Reverend Mr. Parris?”

“The Devil is here in Salem, Mr. Wentworth. Haven’t you heard?” Prudence peered round the corner and shivered. “The Devil may be in this house right now.”

“The Devil in Salem? Possibly. In this house? Nonsense. You needn’t fear anything or anyone here, Prudence.” Father winked at me. “I am not the Devil. My son is most certainly not the Devil, so you needn’t sneak glances his way. We have no supernatural affiliations. My son is a mere merchant’s assistant.”

“A mere merchant’s assistant?” I laughed. “I’m your assistant, Father.”

“Precisely. You are not one to fear. There are wars with the French and the Indians in Maine where settlers are murdered in their homes. There are battles here in Salem, Villager against Villager, who squabble over land or do not care for the Reverend Mr. Parris. Parris is waging war against whatever ails his girls. But here in this house we wage war against no one.”

“Exceptin’ the tide, Mr. Wentworth,” Prudence said. “You and your ships are warrin’ against the tide.”

Father slapped his hand on the table. He looked pleased with the girl. “Too true, Prudence. You are an observant girl, at that.”

She curtsied as she refilled Father’s teacup. “Thank ye, Mr. Wentworth.”

After the salted cod with onions and parsnips was served with bread and ale, after the plates were cleared, Prudence left for her own home where she would meet with her sisters Providence and our helping-girl Patience. Twas then Father leaned toward the hearth, his balding head nearly too close to the flames and I was afeared the gray hairs at the back of his skull would catch fire. He looked at me in his usual manner, as though he would search out any secrets, not that I could hide my thoughts from him even if I tried. Then, as if he could read my mind, he said, “So tell me, James, what is it about Salem that sets your very being on edge? The only time you do not look as though you are grating sand between your teeth is when you are with Elizabeth.”

“I’m not certain I understand it myself, Father. I’m not comfortable here. I would say we should have settled elsewhere, only this is where I found Lizzie.”

“That’s right, Son. Elizabeth was here, so naturally you would end up where she was. Tis destiny that you two are together.” He blew into his teacup, it still steamed, and he took a long sip. “I did not realize you were so upset at our joining the Town Church as full members, James. You should have said so.”

“I did not want to cause problems with your business associates, Father. In that moment, I did not mind so much, but now I find I’m a member of a Church I do not believe in.”

“You still prefer the Anglican ways? There’s an Anglican Church in Boston. I shall not tell if you go there when you wish.”

“Tis not the Church itself,” I said. “Most people believe in a Hailstone and Hellfire God. A God watching angrily over an Earth populated with heedless sinners. That part of their doctrine does not surprise me. But I do not understand their belief in Predestination. How can our fate be determined before we are born by a God who takes vile pleasure in withholding love from His creatures?”

“The Puritan God is an offended God, and an offended God believes in His righteousness and His judgments before He believes in His people. Or at least that is what they want you to believe.”

“But the Puritans came here seventy years ago seeking salvation from persecution.”

“Aye, but after the starving years they prospered.”

“The starving years?”

“Aye, Son. You have been spared the back-grinding labor of we ordinary men. The Puritans, for whatever you think of their beliefs, chopped down trees with naught but small axes until their hands were blistered and raw. They built the homes they lived in. They ate whatever they could find, which during those first winters was little enough. Those who survived prospered. After they prospered, others such as us, who do not share their beliefs, followed to see what successes we might discover for ourselves. Some came believing they were promised God, some came believing they were promised Gold, and some came believing they were promised the chance for a better life. We cannot allow others to determine our fate. We must keep our eye on our goal.”

“Which is?”

“You know the story, James. I was born to a poor family. I had humble beginnings. But I learned of the need for English goods such as textiles, metalware, and hardware on this side of the Atlantic. Then I recognized the English need for tobacco, sugar, and cotton, so I worked, and I saved, and then I supplied whatever I could wherever I could. London is a gateway to the rest of the world, so I set up shop and watched my business grow. After your mother died I decided I would be better off on this side of the Atlantic. Here we can see where our wits might take us.” Father poked the flames to life and leaned toward their warmth. “Tis no surprise I found my fortune as a merchant. The sea is in our blood. My father was a sailor, as was his father before him, and his before him.”

I slapped both hands on the back of Father’s chair, I laughed so hard. “You did not look as though the sea was in your blood when we stepped off the ship from England. I thought you were going to trample the captain himself in your haste to be on steady land. You were looking rather mawkish, and, if I recall, I had to catch you to keep you from hitting the dock face first.”

“No one could wait to get off that creaking woodpile, James. And you were an odd shade of green yourself. Never was there a more perfect Hell on Earth than being trapped in the confines of that dark, narrow ship in the middle of the ocean with no way off and no way out whilst the waves slapped your innards round for suet. Besides, I did not want to leave myself to the fate my father suffered. As a merchant and a shipbuilder, I can still follow previous generations of Wentworth men onto the high seas but I need not travel across the water so often myself.” Father placed a steady hand on my shoulder. “You shall be a different kind of Wentworth, Son. An educated man. And tis a fine thing. But I felt it my destiny to follow the path of my father, even if I hardly remember him.”

“Tis true, then? Your father died at sea?”

Father’s eyes narrowed. “He went to sea when I was a lad and never returned.” His shoulders slumped as though heavy with the memory. “Twas odd, though. Others from his voyage said he returned with them. They said he was with them the whole time. And yet.”

“And yet?”

“He never came home. My mother was certain he must have fallen overboard when the others were not looking, but with the ship’s watch, with all the men everywhere, that never sounded likely to me.”

“What do you think happened?”

“I could not say. But I have spent my whole life wondering. One day I finally accepted that I shall never see him again.” He shook his head. “Some ailment or accident stopped him from coming home. I do not believe twas something he chose. Something took him away from his family, something beyond his control. To this day I believe he would have come home if he could have.”

“I’m certain of it, Father.”

“And now Massachusetts is home. We are blessed with the opportunity, and blessed that you have found Elizabeth. I think of her as my own daughter, you know.”

“I know, Father,” I said.

I could see he was tired and wanted an early night. That was well by me. Now, as I sit before the window, staring into the gusts of trembling wind pushing the oak tree as though it would slam the branches to the ground, I’m reminded to be thankful for what I have received here in the Massachusetts Bay Colony—Lizzie.

Everything changed when I met Lizzie. When I first noticed her I pressed my spectacles against my nose to be certain I saw clearly. Surely, I must have been imagining this dark-haired Angelic beauty. Twas more than the wisps of chocolate-colored curls slipping out from under her white cap, more than her full lips the color of ripe cherries, more than her peach-like complexion. Twas more than the wide, inquisitive chocolate-colored eyes. Her external beauty is merely a physical manifestation of her internal beauty, and that is the woman I was, and still am, eager to know.

Twas merely chance that I was at that house in the Village that autumn day, but that is how Fate works, is it not? Sometimes when we do not mean for anything to happen, everything happens. Ned Rood, the head carpenter for Father’s ships, has family in the Village down the field from the Joneses, who were newly arrived from England and settling into their leased farm. Rood invited Father to the meal his wife planned to welcome the Joneses to Massachusetts. Father, always a congenial man, was more than happy to take up the invitation and he brought me along.

Silas Jones is a farmer who had fallen on hard times in England, so much so that he decided to try his luck in New England. Twice widowed, Silas has a son from his first marriage who had already trained as a surveyor and settled in New York. He brought both of his daughters from his second marriage with him across the ocean. Ned Rood informed Father that the Joneses had been headed to Connecticut where those of their Quaker faith are more welcome. Then Silas met someone aboard ship who knew of a farm for let in Salem. Though the rocky ground here is not so conducive to growing things, Silas was convinced into settling in Massachusetts.

I watched the eldest daughter, Elizabeth, as she brushed an escaped dark curl from her mouth whilst caring for her younger sister, Mary Grace, with such tenderness. We were popping corn, shuffling the long shaker over the fire, listening to the pop! as the kernels burst into tender fluffs that we put into a bowl, smothered in butter and salt, and ate by the fistful. Watching Lizzie, seeing her contentment in such a simple thing—making popcorn with Mary—brought me joy unlike any I have ever known.

In that moment I knew I wanted to marry Elizabeth Jones. I wanted that kind of joy in my life. Though we were strangers, I knew I would love her, if I did not love her already. This marriage had to be for love since she was a farmer’s daughter and would bring nothing of financial value or social status to our union. But I am one of the lucky ones. Father did not press me to make a more profitable arrangement, as I might have done had I married a more privileged daughter. Father allowed me to follow my heart, which is so rarely done, but then he is a rare man.

And I do love her. Though I am still learning her, learning her ways, I love her. Tis not logic that tells me so. Tis instinct. In the most secret chamber in my heart, I knew that if Lizzie was half the woman she appeared to be then she would be a miracle. And she is—a miracle. The more I learn of Elizabeth Wentworth, the more I know Fortune smiles upon me.