Daughter of Satan (35 page)

Richard took her by the shoulders and shook her gently. ‘Tamar, what are you saying? I am going to get you a glass of spirits. Then I am going to make you lie down. I am going to make you rest and, when you have recovered, I shall talk to you. You have let yourself become overwrought by this terrible tragedy. You have been over-excited by the last few days. When I have talked to you, you will see this more clearly. Humility's death was an accident. He would never have killed himself because of what you call a lustful act. You were his wife.'

‘He thought I was with child. I had lied to him . . . because I did not want him. He thought I was with child, I say . . . and still he . . .'

‘You must be calm, Tamar, or you will be ill.'

She took his hand; hers was quite cold.

‘I am calm,' she said, ‘and in my calmness I see myself a murderess. I sent him to his death, and all the work that was to have been done will be left undone. I can only be at peace if I take on that work. Richard . . . Father . . . try to understand me. Try to help me.'

He put his lips against her forehead.

‘I understand, my dearest child,' he said. ‘I understand. I will help you. Together we will do his work.'

The days passed rapidly. Stores were unloaded, pens set up for the pigs and poultry. There was timber to be felled, as many more houses would be needed. Then there was the perpetual hunt for food. If they had been content to eat the fish which abounded off their shores, they might have saved much time, for it was only necessary for a few small boats to go out for a day's fishing to bring back enough to feed the community. But they felt the need of flesh. Lobsters, oysters, clams and cod could not completely satisfy them; they must hunt the deer of the forest.

The children were made to work, fetching and carrying. Tamar watched Dick and Rowan running hither and thither with the younger members of Annis' large family and others. Even Lorea was given small tasks to perform.

‘There is no idleness here,' was the rule. ‘There is no privilege. Those who would live in houses must build them; those who would eat must work.'

But the children were delighted with their new life. Everything was so strange and exciting; the changing colours of the sea, which was somehow different from that sea of Devon; the sandy bank on which the water broke violently; the ship lying there between the bank and the land, the ship which had meant adventure and exploration; the Cape which could easily be seen on dear days; the swiftly flowing river emptying itself into the sea; the Cheuyot Mountains in the distance; the town itself spreading on the hillside; the wild birds – geese, cranes, herons; and beyond, the forest. Dick's eyes were turned again and again towards the forest – the enchanted forest in which lurked red-skinned men. Dick was awake early every morning, was tired out every night. Dick was enchanted with the new life.

Richard had plans which had met with the approval of the Governor and those in charge of the settlement. Richard had brought carefully chosen books with him and proposed teaching the children. It was absolutely necessary that they should learn to read and write. They could not be allowed to grow up
ignorant, or they would not be able to read the Bible and teach their children to do the same.

That, it was confessed, had been a matter of great anxiety to the leaders of the Pilgrims. There had been little time to think of education; they had been too busy trying to keep alive. Richard, finding that he could be useful in the new community, was in high delight. Tamar announced her desire to help him; and, Richard said, as there was now quite a large juvenile section of the population, he would need a helper, and who better than his own daughter, whom he himself had taught?

This suggestion was received with slightly less enthusiasm than the first. A certain James Milroy, a middle-aged widower, whose wife had died the previous winter, volunteered the suggestion that it might not be meet in the eyes of the Lord that a woman should teach male members of the community.

Richard challenged this view, declaring that he would need help and that it was for him to choose his helper; he chose his daughter. The matter was allowed to rest there, but, looking round at those stern faces, Tamar felt sudden anger rising within her. She must keep her lips tightly pressed together to stop the flow of words which afterwards she would wish she had not uttered, for even as she opened her mouth, she had seemed to see Humility standing among those men.

So instead of making angry retorts, she determined to show by her ability that a woman could do the work as well as any man, and that, providing she was a good and enthusiastic teacher, her sex could be of no moment.

Richard's house was to be the first of the new houses, as it was also to be the schoolhouse. While it was being built, a few Indians came to watch. They stood about, their faces painted vermilion to show they came in peace; they smiled and chattered together. They offered wampum and deerskins in exchange for saws and oiled paper.
‘Mawchick chammay!'
they insisted. ‘Best of friends!' They laughed as they watched, for it seemed to them that the ways of the white men were strange and wonderful.

Annis and her family were split up between other families
so that they might have a roof over their heads while they were waiting for a house of their own. Annis went about in a state of bliss.

‘Why, mistress,' she said to Tamar, ‘this is indeed a great land. I know now how feared I was, every time John went out, that they would have taken him for questioning. If you did but know how wonderful it is to have lost that fear. And they do think a lot of John here. He be so good with the land. The Governor, he did say to me: “Your man is the kind we want here!” Yes, he did. And Christian and Restraint are fine workers too. And he said: “And you, daughter, with your fine family. You are the sort of woman we want, a woman who knows her duty to God, a pure woman who has given us children.” Oh, mistress, I be so happy. This be the promised land.'

Mistress Alton was living with another family until the time when Richard's house should be built; then she would become his housekeeper. In the house where Mistress Alton dewlt, James Milroy also lived; and Tamar had heard that James Milroy was looking for a wife.

‘Who knows?' said Tamar to Richard. ‘Mistress Alton may find a husband in her new country!'

Bartle was giving Tamar cause for anxiety. He was even more apart from this community than she was. He was accepted as the Captain of the ship bringing stores and colonists. He never attended prayer meetings, and was not expected to. He had said that when the spring came he would take the
Liberty
back to England, report on the colony to London, and arrange either to bring or send the stores and cattle which New Plymouth needed.

But Bartle, of course, had no wish to become a part of this community, whereas Tamar was growing more and more certain that within it lay her salvation.

Bartle was angry. This, he declared, was yet another phase of her perversity – the perversity which had dogged them since their first meeting and ruined their lives. Would she never learn her lesson? It was always wait . . . wait . . . wait. Did she not know that her prevaricating had been responsible for all the misery they had endured?

‘
Now
is the time!' cried Bartle. ‘Not tomorrow . . . or next year! Now!
Now!
'

‘You must try to be understanding,' she said. ‘You must help me.'

‘Humility'Brown was in our way when I came home. He is no longer in our way. We are free . . . free to marry, and still you say, “Wait!” We grow old, waiting. We are both past the first flush of our youth, and still you say, “Wait!”'

‘We are
not
free, Bartle. Humility is between us.'

‘He is dead!'

‘He lives on to haunt me because I killed him.'

‘What nonsense! He killed himself. Or it was an accident. Yes! It was an accident.'

‘You cannot say it was an accident just because it makes a prettier story.'

‘I can and I will. He is dead; his life is done with; and ours are short. You try my patience as you ever did. You know what I am like when I get impatient. I refuse to wait. I refuse to waste my life.'

Her eyes filled with tears, ‘Oh, Bartle, I beg of you . . .'

‘It is no use begging of me! I ask you to marry me, to sail back with me to England in the spring. Come! That is the life for us. We will stay there.'

‘Richard says I shall never be safe in England. They know me for a witch. They will remember always.'

‘Do you think that any would dare hurt my wife?'

‘I should never be safe in Devon where they know me.'

‘That is not why you will not go back. You would not be afraid of them!'

‘I will not go back because I want to live here. I want to be of these people. I must live a life of sacrifice and restraint. I know it. It has been revealed to me. They have revealed it to me by their goodness.'

‘You will change your mind.'

‘I do not think so.'

He caught her hand in a grip that hurt. ‘You are a fool, Tamar. You set yourself ideals which you cannot live up to. You think with your emotions.
You
can never live among Puritans. There is nothing of the Puritan in you. You belong
to me as I do to you. I marvel at my patience. One of these days I will make you see how wrong you have been to waste our time. Indeed, I will not allow much more time to be wasted. Do not stand there looking sad and holy, or by God, I will take it upon myself to show you that there is nothing holy about you . . . and no need for sadness!' He turned away, but before he had gone a few paces he turned once more to face her. ‘Think not that I shall endure this state of affairs. You will see.'

She was trembling. She remembered that smile so well, that flash of the intensely blue eyes. Her heart was beating fast, and she knew that she wanted him to come back, to repeat that he would wait no longer. But Humility seemed close then, Humility, with his white face and wet clinging garments – a sad, repentant ghost. ‘Pray,' said the ghost of Humility, ‘pray for help to fight your lust.'

She prayed as she turned and ran back to watch the builders at work on that house in which she would work with Richard for the good of the colony.

However, it seemed that even Bartle had a place in this community. He went off into the forest with the hunters. He was an expert shot, and there was meat in plenty whenever he was of the party.

‘You are a mighty hunter, friend,' he was told. Shrewd eyes smiled kindly on him. ‘Stay with us!' said those eyes. ‘There is work for you here; and in time God may see fit to save your soul from eternal damnation. He has given you the eyes of a hawk, the fleetness of an Indian, the strength of three men. There is work for you here.'

But Bartle saw no permanent place for himself with them. It was merely that he could not resist the thrill of the hunt, and it gave him great pleasure to come back after a good day in the forest and see the eyes of the people glisten in anticipation as they gazed on the spoils.

One day Dick was missing, and Tamar was frantic with anxiety.

It was a bright winter's day with a keen frost in the air. She imagined her son lost in the forest, injured perhaps, unable to move, spending the night there . . . the cold night. It would
kill him. The winters of this land were more rigorous than the winters of Devon. It was realized by many that the winters they had known at home had scarcely been winters at all. In Devonshire a whole winter could pass without a sight of snow; it was one of the most temperate spots in a temperate island. Now they were learning what a real winter could be, and it was harder to bear for those who came from Devonshire than for the men from colder East Anglia and Holland.

She must find her child, but she dared not let it be known that he was missing, for fear he had transgressed the rules; and if he had gone into the forest, he certainly had. They were right, of course, these men with their sternness. Children, they said, were born in sin and must be led away from it. This often meant harsh correction; and there were a good many beatings administered on the instructions of the Elders of the Church. But even if they were right, it must not happen to Dick, for he was a proud child, deeply conscious of his dignity. He was herself all over again, and he had learned to be like Bartle too. He would be resentful of public humiliation, since he thought himself a man already, worthy of a man's privileges.

If she found Bartle, he would help her to search for the boy and bring him back so that his misdemeanour might not be known.

She made her way down to the shore, determined to row out to the
Liberty,
find Bartle and ask his help. Her heartbeats quickened. She could imagine Bartle, cruel as ever, making conditions. ‘I will find the boy, and in payment for returning him to you and keeping his sins from the Puritans, I demand . . .'

Someone was calling her name and, turning, she saw coming towards her, James Milroy, that middle-aged widower who had objected to a woman's teaching boys.

‘You are anxious on account of your son,' he said. ‘I can tell you where he is.'

His eyes studied her with disapproval and she put up her hand to tuck a straying curl under her cap.

‘You know?' she cried. ‘He . . . is safe?'

‘It would seem so. Sir Bartle has taken a party on a day's hunting in the forest and the boy is with them.'

She was filled with relief, but James Milroy shook his head sternly.

‘If you would care to take the advice of a friend who wishes you well, this is it. The boy should not be allowed to spend so much time with the Captain. That man is a sinner and he will lead the boy into temptation. His language offends the ears of all men of God. He has an evil reputation.'

‘I thank you, sir,' she said, and her eyes flashed, ‘but the boy is mine and I think I know what is good for him.'