Mary of the Mayflower

Chapter 1.

The Heirloom

I’M A DUTCH GIRL.

Mary’s mother quickly replied, No, Mary, ye are English.

Aye, we’ve come from England but we live in a Dutch country, her father proudly added, stirring the embers in the hearth.

But I feel like I’m a Dutch girl and I look like I’m Dutch. How can I be English and feel so Dutch? Mary wondered as she sat on a tall stool, petting her newly found cat.

Mother wiped off a carrot with her apron and handed it to Mary. Leaning into her, she said, Mary, there is so much for ye to know and understand about who ye are and where ye came from, dear.

Mother returned to chopping vegetables. Mary, because ye are the youngest in our family, ye don’t remember, like your older sisters do, when we lived in England and had to leave our home to travel to Holland. It was true. Mary had been little more than a toddler. All she could recall of those dark days were a few hazy memories. Trying to remember always left her feeling a little sad, like she’d lost a good friend whose face and name she couldn’t remember.

From the rafters overhead hung bundles of dried herbs, nets of onions, and a basketful of eggs while the warm firelight from the hearth flickered over everything without distinction, including Mary’s puzzled face.

Mary scooped up her cat, whose name was Master Albert, just in time before he upset a basket filled with colored skeins of wool yarn which sat on the sill of the window facing the alley.

She climbed onto her father’s lap. How old was I when we came here? Mary studied her father’s reflective[1] face.

Ye were a wee child, so small that when we arrived in Holland in the middle of the night, ye thought the windmills were scary giants.

Mary giggled. She loved hearing her father talk about when she was smaller.

What else, Father? Mary moved her fingers through Master Albert’s warm, fluffy fur. She listened as her father’s rich voice began, always learning something new from him.

Mary, her mother interrupted with concern, If ye handle poor Mister Albert too much . . .

"His name is Master Albert, Mum, not Mister!"

Fair enough, dear. I just do not want him to get sick, continued her mother.

Master Albert’s green eyes and soft golden fur fascinated Mary. She had found him on her way home one afternoon in a nearby alley, sniffing for food.

Father pulled her close. "When ye were just a wee little girl, we lived in a small corner of Canterbury, England. Engle and Isabella, being the oldest daughters, helped Mum in the cottage. She taught them to be temperate[2] and chaste,[3] to tend a garden, and prepare food. And ye spent much time in my tailor shop."

I do remember folks coming to ye for clothes, Mary responded.

Do ye remember that? He went on. "Ye have a good memory. Aye, ye would greet them with cheerful smiles, and ye were full of life to the brim. I think back on how ye would hurry to complete your little tasks, twisting skeins[4] of wool and colored spools of thread and gathering up the scraps of fabric from the floor, and straightening the precious packets of needles. Then ye would tug on me apron and eagerly plead in your small voice, ‘Father, may I go now?’ Her father mimicked Mary’s little voice.

Mary put her head on his chest and giggled.

Ye were such good company for me. I would always glance around the shop for more things to keep ye busy hoping to find a reason for ye to stay longer.

Listening eagerly, she sat up with a big smile. And did ye keep me there longer?

Father tapped her nose lightly. If ye had finished your chores I’d send ye on your way.

Where would I go? She wanted to know everything.

"Ye were never idle. Ye loved to play in the dell[5] where the ground was hilly and hummocky.[6] Ye would burst out the door to meet your jolly pals. I watched thee skip past the gatepost, across the fields of bluebells and into the woods. Do ye remember those little blue flowers?"

Mary squinted her eyes and shook her head, trying to remember. Somewhere in the back of her mind she caught a glimpse of sunshine and a flash of blue.

On a strand of silk cord around her neck, Mary wore a golden locket engraved with roses and an old inscription: Sweet are the uses of adversity.[7] It had been handed down in the family from her beloved grandmother Isabelle. The family remembered her fondly as Nana.

Father, tell me more about Nana. Mary loved this time with her parents, when she was the only one at home with no sisters around to divide or share their attention.

Oh, Mary, she was a fine woman with great courage. She died many years before ye were born and the locket that ye wear is an heirloom that belonged to her.

Was she very old when she died? Mary asked.

Aye, but let me continue. His eyes held a faraway look, as if he were lost in thought as he spoke lovingly of her grandmother. She had a soft voice and bright blue eyes just like yours, Mary.

Until then, Mary had never given any thought to what color her eyes were. With no looking glass to catch a glimpse, no one ever knew what, or even who, they might resemble.

Why did she die? Mary wondered.

Her father paused. Well, she was old for her years because Nana endured many hardships and carried heavy burdens. Her greatest desire was to serve her family. She had dreams of a better time and place for her children and grandchildren.

He continued, Whenever I smell fresh lavender, I think of her. She would gather long stems in her arms and weave them together to adorn our humble cottage. While she was a very strong woman with a lot of responsibility, there was a kind gentleness about her. I wish you could have known her.

Holding up her locket, Mary asked her father, Tell me again what it says on my locket. Like most women and girls, Mary didn’t know how to read or write. Of course, not many men could read either, unless they were noblemen or scholars or priests. Mary was glad to have a father learned enough to be able to read the Bible to the family.

Now her father turned the locket over and read out loud. "Sweet are the uses of adversity. It is a wise and yet foreboding[8] message. Family members who came before our time affect us now. What they believed, their choices, and the way they lived their lives has a direct influence on others for many generations."

Master Albert leaped away as Mary slipped down off her father’s lap. She didn’t understand all that he was saying, but she knew his voice sounded serious. She felt a slight chill run through her body, wondering what hardships life might bring.

Mary studied her locket, wondering aloud, How can adversity be sweet? Even at her young age, she was aware of some of the sorrows life brought. Although it was seldom mentioned, she knew that she had seven siblings that had died before she was born. Only her two sisters and she survived. Maybe that’s why she always felt a little sad when she tried to remember what life had been like in England. How could something that brought such pain be sweet? She shrugged her shoulders. Maybe someday I’ll know what it means.

Her mother quietly added, Trust the inscription on your locket, and one day ye will better understand the meaning. Everybody’s life has some adversity. ’Tis what ye do with it that makes all the difference.

Just then Master Albert suddenly jumped up on the table where Mum was preparing food! Scat, scat, go away! Mary, ye must domesticate this animal! He may be a master but he is NOT master of my kitchen!

Chapter 2.

Escape

MASTER CHILTON ROSE FROM his chair and walked to the little inset window. Pulling the lace curtain aside, he looked down the slight footpath called Grachtengordel Canal Alley. Grachtengordel meant narrow ditch, and the alley was as small and cramped as the canal that ran parallel to the path. It was getting dark, and he was expecting his older daughters. At night, Mary’s sisters returned home along a dingy, ill-lit passageway. It was a distressed section of Amsterdam, but it was where they could afford housing along with many other of their congregation members. Together they renamed their narrow alley Gezelligheid, which meant cozy or pleasant.

The oldest Chilton daughters made swiftly down the alley with their workbaskets in hand to their small home and cozy fire. By keeping to the narrow byways and alleys, they avoided the wet wind from the rooftops. They closed out the noisy city behind them as they entered their humble place of rest. Engle and Isabella were always relieved to return home from their long days of tediously working needles and thread into fine lace for the rich ladies of Amsterdam to wear on their cuffs and collars when they attended weddings, the baptisms of their infants, fine affairs, and even funerals. The Chilton sisters had a reputation for creating beautiful lace, and their customers were demanding and expected the finest.

Come along and warm thyselves by the fire and have something hot! Mary’s mother stirred the pottage of herring,[9] while her father carried the coal and short supply of chopped wood to keep the hearth fire burning.

Master Albert ran up beside them, paused to lick his paws, stretched, and then darted off again. In the evenings, the rafters would ring with songs and light laughter, filling the small dwelling that was squeezed between the dark alleyways of the big city.

It was the middle of another cold winter, and they were chilled to the bone until the fire was underway as they gathered in the kitchen, which was their main room and where they could keep warm.

Father was a talented tailor and benevolent to all that knew him. He worked hard to support his family. After a modest meal, Mary’s family talked of their day’s work. Mary liked to see her father’s gentle face as he reached for the old family Bible where it was always kept up on the mantel. He began reading aloud from the pages, while everyone found their place near the open fire.

While father was reading, the cat, who had come back to sit on Mary's lap, darted away from her. When she gave a shiver and reached down to pull her stockings up, she was distracted just long enough that Master Albert’s allegiance went to Engle. He crossed the room and settled next to her by the fireplace hearth. Mary was too content to feel abandoned. This was one of her favorite times of the evening. Mary loved listening to the stories of faithful men and women. It struck her that they had all faced adversity: Esther putting her life in danger to save her people; Sarah waiting endless years to have a child; Ruth leaving her home to travel to a distant country. Would she have been that brave?

Father closed the sacred book. Let me see how well ye know your poem, he told Mary and her older sisters. ’Tis six lines. Who can say them by heart?

With rapid response Mary recited the poem she’d learned since she first began to talk:

The Bible, a book of worth.

Bound carefully by leather girth.

Held by Father’s hand since birth.

Gives life purpose here on earth.

’Tis musty, worn, tattered, and old.

’Twas owned by God, so I’ve been told.

She gave her father a hug, and his soft beard brushed across her rosy cheeks.

He whispered in her ear, Mary, those are prudent words you have committed to memory.

Mary was pleased at her father’s praise. In that fleeting moment, peaceful and secure in his arms, she knew that she was loved and treasured, not only as her father’s daughter, but as a child of God.

In spite of chores that never seemed to be done, the family gathered around the hearth. Engle brushed her long hair, Isabella knitted woolen stockings, and Mary watched her mother’s nimble fingers mending cloth. Mary carefully copied every move, trying to make her own stitches as neat and small as her mother’s. Mother kept her needle moving deftly as she cheerfully said, Come, let us have a tune.

Master Albert found his favorite spot and curled up next to the fire. One by one they began to sing a favorite hymn.

All praise to Thee my God this night,

For all the blessings of the light.

Keep me, oh, keep me, King of Kings

Beneath Thine own almighty wings.

Father, Isabella spoke softly, will ye tell us stories about when we lived in England?

Goodwife, do we have time to speak of our homeland this evening? Father had a twinkle in his eye.

Mary’s mother responded, Aye, there’s enough time before bed.

The girls loved hearing stories of their homeland, especially Mary, who recalled so little. She sank to the floor wide-eyed, with her chin nestled on her knees as her father began to speak.

"Those were laborious[10] days and nights." Father sighed.

"We learned that the king’s men had punished some folks in a nearby hamlet.[11] One woman did not baptize her baby and was told the infant would be condemned; they forced the woman off to prison. In another cottage across the meadow, a father was dragged away, clinging to his goodwife, because he spoke openly about religious freedom: ‘If all men are equal before God,’ he spoke bravely, ‘why not before the law!’ No one ever saw him again."

Where did he go? Mary asked in a worried whisper.

Shh, Mary, ye must listen, bid[12] her mother. At once Mary held her tongue. She knew that children should be still and quiet. But sometimes the feelings in her heart threatened to spill over, and often, the words just burst out of Mary without warning. In spite of her curiosity, Father seldom reprimanded her. He loved all his daughters, but as his last child born, Mary held a special place in his heart. Indeed, she was the darling even of her sisters and mother—a bright, cheerful child who was still young and least burdened by everyday life and household chores.

Thoughtfully, he proceeded. Few people would speak up like that. Instead, they would hide in their farm houses and cottages, fearful of King James. We realized we no longer had freedom to worship as we saw fit and knew that we had to separate from the king’s church, so we gathered with others who called themselves Separatists.[13]

Mary was watching both her mother and father closely and wanted to ask more questions, but she didn’t say a word or budge. She sat quietly with Isabella and Engle. All three of them leaned in as they listened intently.

It was the first time the king’s men had come unannounced. Our settlement had been awakened in the wee hours of the morning by sounds of horses. A cool wind moved through the meadow grass and down in the dell. It had been a chilly night. Lanterns were lit a few flickers at a time. One by one, folks peered out of their dark windows. There were sharp, angry shouts through the narrow streets. The girls loved how their father told stories, but they knew that this was more than just a story.

"If ye will not bow to the crown, off to the stocks[14] ye will go!" They enjoyed how their father used his deep voice to add emotion and suspense to the life’s experience he was sharing.

Children peeped out from the corners of the garden gate, and others ran into their parents’ arms. Families held on tight to each other and all that was precious. Commotion was stirring within every humble household. One old, God-fearing neighbor spoke to Mother in a low, trembling whisper. ‘The township of Dewsbury has seen countless travesties. There is talk of farms being burned to the ground and scores of innocent folks and even children beheaded for refusing to bow to the royal crown. What on earth will we do?’

Mary could hardly sit still thinking of how unfair the world around them could be. She beckoned Master Albert to come sit in her lap.

Mother said, Mary, ye dashed to your sisters for protection. Even though Engle and Isabella were frightened as well, they kept calm and gathered you about. Her mother’s voice was tender and soft, but her face was grim. She leaned over and rested her hand reassuringly on Mary’s head. The three of ye held each other close.

Mary had so many questions, but she kept her head down trying to be still because she knew children did not speak until they were spoken to. Once she recalled