Genesis - The Ponderosa

By

Krystyna

 

******************

 

Chapter 1

 

“Ben?    Ben Cartwright?”

 

Among the group of men a tall well built man turned to face the person who was yelling out his name.   Others turned, momentarily interested, and then resumed their work while Ben walked away from them to approach the newcomer,

 

“I’m Ben Cartwright,” he smiled, extended his hand and shook that of the man who had pulled a piece of paper from his back pocket and was glancing at it at the same time as he was observing Ben.  “What can I do for you?”

 

“More a case of what I can for you, mister.”  he jerked his thumb towards the mail depot, “A box came for you.  Ben Cartwright, The Ponderosa.  That’s you - right?”

 

“Right.” Ben replied with a slightly wry smile at the rather pompous manner in which the other man addressed him, but he appreciated the fact that Bryan Littleman was new to the job, and lived in constant fear of doing something wrong.

 

He followed Bryan into the building and then looked at the box to which the deliveryman pointed.

 

“That’s mine?”

 

“Just sign right here, on the dotted line, Mr Cartwright.”

 

Ben nodded, smiled again and signed, glancing rather thoughtfully at the box.  It was the size of a seaman’s trunk, tied with rope, battered and scored over with the scars sustained during its journey.  He looked at the paper he had just signed and checked the address on it,

 

“Who’s it from?” he asked, seeing that there was no reference to a sender of the trunk.

 

“Doesn’t say,” Bryan replied, “But seems to me, from the colour of the labels and such, it’s been a long time arriving here.”

 

Ben nodded, that, he thought, was an understatement.  He rubbed his jaw and shook his head; the problem now was how to get it to the ranch.  He sighed, and looked over at Bryan who was licking the lead nib of the pencil and writing industriously on a notepad, no doubt to confirm that the parcel was safely delivered.

 

“Fact is, I’m not going to be able to collect it - I mean - take it back to the ranch with me today.  Can I leave it here until Hop Sing comes in with the wagon tomorrow?”

 

Bryan frowned, and glanced over at Tom Riley, the acting Post Master.  Some brief communication took part between them that consisted of raised eyebrows and nods, shakes of the head accompanied by raised shoulders.  Bryan nodded then at Ben,

 

“Sure, Mr Cartwright, what time should we expect him?”

 

Ben stated a time and after examining the trunk, looking thoughtfully at the writing on the label, he left the building.

 

………………

 

“Is it a big trunk, Pa?” 

 

Ben looked at his youngest son, and frowned thoughtfully,

 

“Just about the size to put you in it and get the lid down.” he observed with a smile.

 

“Useful to have around then,” Adam muttered with a lift of one eyebrow and a knowing smile at his brother, Hoss.

 

“Yeah, something we’ve always wanted, somewhere to put little brother when he’s gitting a mite uppity.” Hoss replied as he carefully continued with his task of cleaning his rifle.

 

Joe turned his head away from his brothers as though the conversation had sunk to depths he had no wish to delve into, he looked instead at his father,

 

“And no idea who sent it?”

 

“I’ve an idea, but I could be wrong.”  Ben picked up a rag and gently smoothed it along the barrel of his gun, he looked over at Joe who was sprawled over the big red leather chair, “Can’t you sit in a more conventional position, Joe?”

 

“Con - what, Pa?”

 

“Sit straight, lad, and stop corkscrewing yourself all over the place.”

 

“I’m only in the chair -”

 

“Enough -” Ben lowered his brows and Joe grimaced before sliding into a more ‘conventional’ position and picking up his rags to start cleaning his revolver.

 

“So, what do you think this trunk could contain, Pa?” Adam, all curiosity, set his gun down and began to carefully fold away all the cleaning materials he’d been using.  In the back of his mind he already had a thought of his own, as to who had sent it and from where it had come.

 

“I don’t know,” Ben replied, “I have a feeling it may be from your mother’s family, Adam, as I was the only one of my father’s sons to go to sea, and I can’t see why a seamans trunk could come from any of my brothers or sisters family.”

 

They settled into a silence brought about by thoughts of family, of the past, of something so nebulous to Joe’s mind that he soon got bored and began to whistle a popular tune beneath his breath.  

 

Family - Adam wrinkled his brow and glanced over at his father and wondered what thoughts his father would be having about his own family.   He looked quickly over at Joe and then Hoss, and pursed his lips, when it came to family, there was quite a lot of diversity springing from the four of them alone.   He frowned and looked over at Hoss who had completed his task, and without a word being spoken cleared the table for a game of checkers.

 

Joe, at sixteen years of age, put aside his gun and the rags and got to his feet.  He watched as Hoss set out the board, and then looked over at his father who was carefully locking away the rifles, passing the chain along the rack of them and then closing the glass doors.  

 

“Maybe it’s from my Mother’s family -”  he ventured hesitantly, and Ben nodded, although he didn’t turn to look at the boy,

 

“Perhaps so, son.” was all Ben could say.

 

“Or mine.” Hoss looked up and over at them, a grin spreading over his face, “P’raps Uncle Gunther has remembered that he has a nephew somewhere about -”

 

“Perhaps that’s what it is, son.” was all that Ben could say in reply.

 

Adam said nothing, he kept his eyes on the board and his thoughts to himself.

 

………………..

 

Hop Sing had to push his baskets of washing closer together on the wagon in order to accommodate the trunk, along with several sacks of potatoes, grain and other necessary commodities.   It seemed to him that the old sea chest had seen better days and smelt of the worse of times.   Half way home the thought even came into his mind that perhaps it would be better if the old thing fell off the back of the wagon and tumbled down some crevasse.

 

Hoss was crossing the yard from the stables to the house when Hop Sing arrived home, so with much arm waving and rolling of eyes he succeeded in getting Hoss to haul the trunk into the house while he did battle with the laundry and groceries.  He grumbled beneath his breath that he had enough to do as it was, with meals to prepare and no doubt coffee to be brewed right away now.  He sighed, wiped his brow and shook his head, of course, he wouldn’t want it any other way, although, as far as that old sea chest was concerned, no, he didn’t like it, all the superstitious bones in his body rattled at the thought of it, and what it could contain.

 

…………………

 

“Here y’are, Pa.” Hoss declared placing the old trunk with a thud on the floor, “Phew, it’s old.  It smells old too -”

 

Joe sniffed the air and wrinkled his nose,

 

“Sure does.” he agreed and retreated to wards the chair by the hearth, grabbing an apple on the way as though the fresh smell of the fruit would keep the mustier aroma of the trunk at bay.

 

Adam glanced over at his father and watched as the older man approached the battered object with a knife and cut through the cords.

 

“It’s got a lock to it, but its rusted.” he inserted the point of the knife into the lock and turned it carefully, there was a snap, and he smiled, “There, that’s done it -”

 

“Broke the knife -” Joe observed casually.

 

“The lock was quite rusty, still - let’s see what we have here -” and he carefully raised the lid to expose what the trunk contained.

 

Chapter 2

 

An envelope bearing Ben’s name was the first thing to catch their eyes, it lay upon a covering of cloth, hessian sacking, slightly mildewed.

 

Ben opened it carefully and after a quick perusal he sighed and grimaced, his dark eyes flicked over to his sons who sat close by as though not wishing to miss a single action.  He raised his shoulders slightly, and after he had ‘a-hemmed’ several times to clear his throat he began to read the letter’s contents:

 

“Dear Mr Cartwright

 

I have recently purchased the old house belonging to Mrs Hamilton.   You would not know her but she purchased it from your father in law,  Abel Stoddard.  That was quite a number of years ago, shortly after he had died.”

 

“How could Mrs H have bought it from Abel if he was dead already?” Joe quipped and bit into his apple.

 

“Out of his estate, of course.” Adam retorted sharply, and nodded over at his father, “Go on, Pa.”

 

“I found this old sea chest in the attic, tucked behind a lot of other stuff, but I thought you should have this as rightfully it belongs to  you and I ain’t got no use for it nor any rights to it.

 

Hope this letter finds all things well with you.

 

Yours sincerely

 

Mrs A. J. Appleton.”

 

A collective sigh rippled over the still air.  Not one of them had realised they had been holding their breaths, and Adam took the letter from his father and re-read it to himself, before handing it back.

 

“It’s nearly five years old.”

 

“Well, it’s got here at last,” Hoss muttered, “Can’t we see what’s inside, or do we have to wait another five years?”

 

Ben rolled back the hessian, and the first thing to come to light was the navy blue jacket that Abel would have shrugged on each morning, that was followed by his cap, some medals and a leather pouch containing some coins with the date 1789.  Hoss trickled them through his fingers and watched fascinated as they rolled over the table.

 

There was a package wrapped in an oilskin wrapping which Ben handed to Adam while he continued to take out the contents of the old chest … a dress that had belonged to a child, and everyone knew that it just had to be Elizabeths.  There was a bouquet of dried flowers that gave Hoss the shudders because he liked things to be fresh and glowing with colour, rather than this dusty relic of something that had once been beautiful.   There were a few children’s books, faded in colour, the pages brittle as the books were opened and then carefully closed again.   Wrapped in a pale pink silk shawl that had obviously come from a faraway place was a doll, her dress as fresh as though she had been just picked from the shelf at Cass’ store.  There were a few remnants of Abel’s sea faring days, his sextant, compass and an old log book.

 

Ben rocked back onto his heels and then looked over at Adam who was perched on the arm of the settee watching the revealing of the items, with the oilskin package still in his hand.

 

“What’s in there -?”  Ben straightened his legs and  tried to stifle the grunt that came from those older in years whose bones were just that much stiffer and less pliable than previously.

 

Adam set the package on the table and carefully unwrapped the oilskin.  As though shuffling cards he passed his hand over the papers, letters, envelopes, so that they were spread out evenly upon the polished woodwork.  He smiled and shrugged,

 

“Just old papers -”

 

“And letters -” Joe muttered, he picked one up and raised his eyebrows, “Say, these are seriously old, I mean, they’re even older than you, Pa.”

 

“Enough of your cheek, young man,” Ben scowled but smiled and reached out to take up on of the letters “This is dated 1638 …”

 

“This is a journal -” Adam opened the thin notebook, the pages so thin as to be transparent , “Dated 1627 …”

 

“1627 -” Ben looked thoughtfully down at the relics upon the table and repeated softly,  “1627.”

 

…………………..

 

  The lamp light flickered and cast long shadows upon the walls as Ben made his way down the stairs to the great room.  Ash had settled in the hearth, although there was still some semblance of warmth coming from its midst.  Adam glanced up, frowned and glanced hurriedly over at the clock as though to observe the time before acknowledging his father with a nod of the head,

 

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked with a smile, and Ben frowned, shrugged and set the lamp down,

 

“No, the smell of all that -” he waved a hand towards the papers on the desk, “ was stuck in my nostrils, and I hadn’t heard you come up. Knew you’d be here scrutinising these.”  he paused and leaned forward to pick  up an addition to the collection, “Our family bible?  What did you want with this?”

 

“Oh, I was reading through these letters and the journal, and thought I would check on some of the dates mentioned in the Cartwright family bible -” Adam turned to the relevant page, “Pa - this is our history.  The Cartwrights, the Stoddards.  These papers, the family line written down by generations of Cartwrights,  a journal written by a Stoddard …”

 

Ben said nothing but sat down and with the small journal in his hand, he scanned the first few lines and then looked over at his son and smiled,

 

“This means a lot to you, doesn’t it?”  he didn’t wait for the answer but leaned back and  observed the handsome face of his eldest son thoughtfully, “This is as close as you’ll ever get to the flesh and blood Cartwrights and Stoddards, Adam, it could be a fascinating adventure.”

 

Adam smiled, he was tired and it seemed as though the weight of so many whispered  histories sat heavily upon his mind,  he stood up and walked to the cabinet from where he withdrew two glasses and a decanter of whiskey which he brought back to the table.  Having sat down he poured whiskey into each glass,

 

“It’s an adventure, and a journey -” he replied as he handed his father a glass of the amber liquid, “Several journeys in fact and all ending here, at the Ponderosa.”

 

 

 

Chapter 3

 

Cape Cod, Massachusetts 1627

 

It was an irony of sorts that due to an oversight by a novice navigator, the ship ‘Mayflower’ missed even the northern limits of Virginia by a good two hundred miles and beached at what was to become known as Cape Cod in Massachusetts*.   Since they had missed Virginia they were free from the legalities under which the Virginian settlers had forfeited their freedoms to England and the crown.    Leaders such as Brewster* and William Bradford* set up their own governing body, drawing up laws under which the settlers there were to become compliant.

 

When the Mayflower had sailed from Southampton, England in 1620 there were many with hope in their hearts for a free future, and once they had survived that first winter the settlements grew, expanded and prospered.

 

Francis Cartwright paused along the track that would lead to his home; he paused to breathe in the air, and to look about him and to congratulate himself once again at the wisdom of his decision to settle here.   He had spent some years in one of the Virginia settlements and it was there he had met Ann Fawcett the daughter of one of the founder members of the colony, they had married and within a year had taken a ship to Cape Cod.

 

Yes, a good decision and one he did not for a moment regret for he was a man born and bred in Grimsby, in Lincolnshire, close to the docks where the cries of the gulls could deafen a man in the mornings when the fishing fleets came into harbour.  There was the noise and the bustle of men working to bring in the fish, and the women busy with the gutting knives as they filleted them and packed them for the markets as far afield as London city.   At  14 he was a seaman himself, sailing out with a crew of 12 men to bring in the fish against all the odds that the fomenting seas could throw at him.

 

Grimsby men were called ‘Cods Heads’ by people in Lincolnshire and beyond, and now, as Francis resumed his return home,  he thought it a fine irony once more that  the local name should be so well applied for wasn’t this Cape Cod itself, where the fishing was that grand and that bountiful that he himself was already prospering.

 

He resumed his meditations, recalling to mind the time he had decided to work his passage over to the colonies and make the most of his young manhood while he was able, for life in Lincolnshire was hard, and the fishing was being taxed to ruination by a King and Government that had no empathy for the likes of the poor.  Well, so it had always been, but when chance and opportunity provided a way out, why not take it. And he had, with both hands.

 

There was the house now, who would have thought it?   In Grimsby it would have been a struggle to find even a poor tenement to house him and his family, were he to have been blessed with such a thing.  He smiled slowly at the sight of it, standing proud on the brow of the hill with the well tended garden and the sea shimmering in the background.  His home, built by his own hands, for a settler in the new world had to be more than a seaman, or a farmer, he had to be all things to all people in order to survive. 

 

“Ann, Annie my love, I’m home.”

 

She was laughing as she ran towards him, her arms wide and these she flung around his neck, and held him close.  Goodness within only a few weeks she had got fat !  He laughed and pushed her away, holding her at arms length

 

“Look at you, woman, you’re as fat as a roll of butter.”

 

“Aren’t I though?” she laughed proudly, and patted her body with both hands, “Perhaps I’m going to have twins, Francis.”

 

He only laughed then, and pinched her cheek and kissed her lips and then held her away from him again.  She had been a thin slip of a girl when he had married  her, with long golden hair braided around  her head and covered by the white Puritan cap, freckles had adorned her nose back then, and her blue eyes had shone with the love she had for him, for her black eyed Grimsby boy.

 

Her parents talked a lot about England, but she had few memories of it.  They had been Suffolk born, weavers from the village of Lavenham and had lived in a house that had been built in the time of Good Queen Bess.   But  they, along with so many of their brethren, had felt that the simple faith of Christ had been corrupted by the Church of England and they had renounced it.   They became ‘Seperatists’ and eventually had taken the decision to emigrate to the colonies.   James I, King of England, had declared of such believers ‘I shall make them conform or I shall harry them out of the land’.    The Fawcetts had never felt harried, they felt it a matter of common sense to leave a land that  had no tolerance for them and joined with the party of believers that set their course for Jamestown.

 

Now, here she was with Francis Cartwright,  a seaman who had chosen to cross the ocean.   She held his hand, rough and coarse from hard labour, and looked up into his face, a handsome face with bold black eyes, and some said, back in Grimsby, that his mother had frolicked a while with a local gypsy lad but the Cartwrights knew better, for t he black eyes were an inheritance from a Spanish seaman who had survived the blasting of the Spanish Armada and married a local Grimsby girl years before Francis had been born.

 

“Any news?  How is my sister?   Is everyone well …”

 

“Hush now, my beauty, come, kiss me again and make me feel you are glad to see me out of love of me, and not for the sake of letters …”

 

“Letters!” she exclaimed and clapped her hands together with glee, and then hugged him close, and even closer, for she had missed him .

 

…………………

 

“August 1627

 

Dearest sister, Ann

 

How good to see Francis and to know that all is well with you.  I write this letter having to tell you that father died this year from the fever.  That is the saddest news I bring you.

 

Last week I was delivered of a son,  we are calling him Daniel in remembrance of father.  Your sister, Mary, is well.  She and her husband had a daughter six months back.  They have moved now to another settlement in Virginia as her husband Thomas Grey, feels the confinement of the charters laid down here.

 

There has been much to do.   John is well and strong, and has had a good crop of tobacco this year.  We prosper - thank God - as I pray you will also prosper. 

 

Francis tells me that you are expecting a child of your own soon.  May God grant you a healthy son.  This land needs sons, Ann.

 

I wish you well and God speed

Your sister, Ruth.”

 

 “Greetings, Francis

 

I hope this letter finds you well.  Here in England we have a new King, Charles I.  Hopes are that life will be better for all as he is more liberal minded and God fearing than his old father ever was.

 

This letter is to convey to you the news of your brothers death.  His ship floundered on the rocks at Southwold, and there were no survivors.  You are the last of the Cartwright line now, Francis, descended from your fathers side that is, the late Benjamin Cartwright.

 

God speed and trust all is well with you

Jack Huggins - Captain of the ‘Hesperus’”

 

……………………..

 

 

Aberdeen,Scotland 1627

 

William Stoddard sat down at his desk and dipped his pen into the ink well.  The small croft house in which he lived was damp and cold, the peat fire was smoking, sending billowing black smoke into the room.  Beside the fire sat his wife nursing her first born child, a son, and being the first born they called him Abel.  Margaret Stoddard was crooning a song softly over the head of the infant, heedless of the smoke and the damp for her world consisted of more solid things … her world was that of her son, and her husband.

 

He watched them with a tenderness of a young man who was romantic in his ways, a lover of books and of writing, but now he returned to the letter and carefully wrote the reply to his mothers own which he slipped later into an oil skin package

 

“Dearest  mother,

 

Margaret is well and delivered of a son, we have called him Abel.  He is strong and lusty, a bonny bairn.  

 

I have work, mother, do not worry now.  I teach at the small school here at Kincorth, and send you here some money to bide you a wee whilie.

 

Now then, I believe John will tak good care of you, he is a good son and his wife a fine besom.  Be of good faith now, mother, and God bless you all.

 

Your son

William Stoddard.”

 

……………………

 

Massachusetts, 1635

 

John Winthrop* was a strong minded wealthy man, born an aristocrat at Groton Manor, in Suffolk.   It was his family that would pocket the  profits made by the Lavenham  weavers, like the Fawcett family, and the wool merchants in Suffolk.  He was however, an inflexible Puritan, appalled by the impurities of the Court, by the corruption, by economic inflation and depression.

 

He sailed with his family in the flagship of a fleet of four ships in 1630.  Once arrived at Massachussetts he secured a royal charter for The Company of Massachusetts Bay in New England.*    He set up an industry that was to be bring about great prosperity for the settlement, he founded a fleet of ships to deliver cargoes of codfish to anybody willing to pay the price.

 

Francis Cartwright  lowered the anchor and glanced up at the sails as they filled with the strengthening winds.   He was first mate on the ship ‘Pickering’, even though he had to acknowledge the fact that the Captain knew even less about seamanship than he did himself.   He watched the ship turn from the harbour and make out to sea and then walked to the stern and waved his hat in farewell to Annie, to Benjamin, now nearly 8 years of age, and baby Sarah.  Between the birth of Benjamin and Sarah there had been three other children and he had carefully penned their names, births and deaths in the big family bible that  he had brought with him from England.

 

Joseph Cartwright born October 1629 died November 1629

Martha Cartwright  born March  1632  died  January 1633

Saul Cartwright  born May 1633 died July 1634

 

Winthrops coming had been a boon for the settlement, and Francis had ensured himself a position whereby he could mostly benefit from it.   When the fleet of ships were being built he put himself forward to be master of one of them, and been awarded this promotion as a result.  It had come at the right time too, for the health of his little wife was becoming frail and now with a good income at last, he had been able to afford the hiring of a maid for her, and a woman to care for the little ones.

 

It was a joy now this life.  There was a security to it that no King set up to rule by divine right could touch, the land was beautiful, the climate perfect and the cod filled their nets with an obliging ease.  For a Grimsby man life could not have been more perfect than that.

 

 

Chapter 4

 

There was silence for some moments as Ben drew on his pipe and sent  little puffs of smoke into the ceiling void above his head, Adam leaned over to place some more wood on the fire having earlier rekindled it  in order to warm the room for the evening had grown colder as it had crept into night.

 

Ben looked thoughtfully into his son’s handsome face and smiled, he sat upright and leaned forward

 

“You know, I have some documents that could add to what we have here,”  he smiled, “I’ll go and get them.”

 

Adam sighed, and leaned back into his chair.  He clasped his hands together and then steepled his fingers to tap against his mouth as he looked thoughtfully down at the papers spread out in front of him. 

 

“You know, Pa, perhaps we should draw up a family tree, you know?” his voice held a little tremor of excitement, this was just the most perfect project to get involved in during the coming evenings, “Names and dates, births and deaths,” he glanced at the list of names and dates written in the family bible and sighed, it had been sad seeing the names of Francis and Ann’s infants, the ones that had died so young.

 

“Good idea -” Ben replied from the other side of the room, and closed the door to the safe, he smiled and returned to his chair before placing some documents down on the table, “These could add some more information to the Cartwright side of the family.”

 

“You should be able to add quite a few stories of your own, Pa.” Adam smiled, as he poured a little more whiskey into the glasses, “I mean, Grandfather must have told you bits and pieces of life when he was a boy and perhaps -”

 

“Oh now,” Ben chuckled, “I could tell you some stories that would make your hair curl, but I’ll tell them to you when we get to the relevant parts.  The thing is, Adam, letters and papers only give us the bare bones of what happened in the past.  We can only conjecture and make vague guesses at what was meant or what was happening .”

 

“I know, but -” Adams voice trailed off in the way that some of his ancestors would have recognised so well, and smiled at, “I never knew a William Stoddard before, I didn’t know he was a school teacher in Aberdeen, Scotland.  I didn’t know that  Francis Cartwright  had been a seaman all those years ago -”

 

“Ah, well, that’s who we can blame for the salt water in our veins,” Ben smiled now, and wished his son was still a little boy so that he could lean forward and ruffle those black curls again as once  he did, he sighed, “It’s  quite a journey, this travelling back in time,  I mean, it’s not just Francis and Ann Cartwright we’re learning about, is it?”

 

Adam narrowed his eyes, raised his eyebrows and smiled, his mind was drifting;  good whiskey, a warm room, an ambience perfect for weaving dreams about the names of people who had links to his blood line but about whom he had known nothing until this day.

 

Dreams … dreams …sadly the reality of those lives had been far harsher than any dream.

 

…………………..

 

Massachusetts in the year 1647

 

News of the Civil War in England between the Stuart King and the Parliamentarians had arrived with greater speed than most would have imagined.  Sea trade between the home country and the colonies had been a constant feature to commercial life and new settlers had arrived with the  information on a near constant level until emigration had ceased due to hostilities.

 

Francis Cartwright had laughed aloud when he had been told that a man from Huntingdon from the County of Cambridgeshire had set himself up as head of the opposing forces against Charles Stuart.   Oliver Cromwell* had rallied an army from Cambridgeshire and Lincolnshire and their yellow waistcoats were the symbols of Lincolnshire men, known as ‘yellow bellies’* .

 

“There now, “ he had declared, slapping his knee as though to confirm the fact, “Cromwell’s ‘yellow bellies’ will lick the tar out of those Royalists, see if they don’t.”

 

“Perhaps we should ship you back to join forces with them,”  Ben had said quietly, “Being a Grimsby man after all -”

 

“And proud of it -” Francis retorted quickly, he had reached for his pipe then and sat down with a slight frown on his face, “Lincolnshire men are a tenacious lot, they’ll do Cromwell proud.”

 

But that had been some time ago now,  and Winthrop had  replaced the Royal Coat of Arms with ‘The Sacred Cod’ as the official Massachusetts emblem.  He had built more ships and loaded them with provisions for the slave holding planters who grew tobacco or sugar in the West Indies.    Slavery was, apart from Englands Civil War, another subject that got the Cartwright mens juices flowing.  Slaves were arriving in * vast numbers every month in Virginia, and as the sea was still the main thoroughfare between the settlements * the poor wretches were transported regularly throughout the colonies.  It was a ‘trade’ that Francis had deplored and it had cost him his seat  in  the community’s Government.

 

But the family continued to prosper and Benjamin had grown into a handsome young man, capable with his hands and able to turn to any trade.   He was not a sea man like his father, more of an artisan by profession, and if Francis were disappointed at his sons‘ choice of work he said nothing.  Sarah was blossoming into a pretty young woman, and already attracting attention from the single men in the community.

 

In 1647 he was twenty years of age,  with his eyes set  upon a young woman called Cathleen Whitmore.    He was already busy building a home for his wife and himself, on land that he had purchased from  Winthrop himself.    He was a Puritan, as was his intended wife, and he was already well respected by the authorities.   In a society that was really only as old as himself, laws were set down with a force backed up by scripture, personal conduct was circumvented by secular law and reinforced by religion.  

 

Life, as Francis would lament, did not have the freedoms enjoyed by himself when a young lad in Grimsby, for in the colonies prison existed for the smallest theft, for the singing of lewd songs, for drunkenness.   The stocks existed for any infringement of the law,  and adultery meant death.   There were times when Francis, in quiet moments with his pipe and beside his own fire, looked back on his youth in England, and realised the truth  of the old adage that one didn’t appreciate what one had until one had lost it.

 

It was the summer of that year when Benjamin Cartwright married his Cathleen, and took her to their new home.

 

………………………

 

Aberdeen in the year 1647      

 

The clearancess in Scotland and the islands, even as far as Shetland,  are a matter of history but relating more to the 18^th and 19^th Century when there was mass emigration of Scots throughout the colonised worlds.   But clearances took place long before those years, at the whim of the Laird whole villages could be ‘cleared’,  vast tracts of lands scoured to remove the wiliest crofter, and no matter what excuse or reason to stay it would often end with blood on the land.

 

From the time the Chiefs of the Clans elected to have Chiefs  to dictate over them and set them up as Lairds the authority of the Laird became absolute.  The law was in his hand and even though he may have resided in a fancy house in Edinburgh, or Dundee, or even London itself, when his hand reached out and exercised his ‘rights’  then heads could literally roll and end up on a spike atop the city gates.

 

Men from Kincorth gathered at the school teachers home, some clad in the tartan traditional to their clan and some in the rags they stood up in day in and day out.  As each man arrived the door opened and closed silently behind them.

 

“Well, are we all here?”

William Stoddards voice was soft, his accent a soft burr for he was not an Aberdonian by birth and didn’t speak the Doric, hailing as he did from Edinburgh, not that anyone there held that against him, he had proven his worth over the years.

 

“All present .”

 

“Aye.”

 

A stillness settled over them, and from his corner of the room hidden in the shadows created by so many men, Abel Stoddard watched and listened.

 

“Do you all know what is happening here?” Williams voice again, and his eyes scanned the faces he had come to know so well.

 

“Aye, the Laird wants us out -”

 

“He’s going to burn us out, so’s said.”

 

“Aye, I heard same - what’s going to happen to us and the wee’ans?”

 

William stood up, he was not a tall man, he was not a handsome man, but he had a dignity about him and quietened them all when he raised his hand

 

“Tomorrow I shall go to the Provost in Aberdeen and plead our case -”

 

“T’won’t  make nay diff’rence”  Tulloch McGear growled.

 

“Perhaps not,” Williams voice held a sigh in it, and he looked again at the men, “I shall then go to the Procurator Fiscal -”

 

Duncan McManus spat on the floor, that was what he thought of the Procurator Fiscal.

 

“We have to go through the legal channels first -” Williams voice soothed, “At least to know what alternatives there are open to us.”

 

“This bit of paper -” McGear slammed the paper on the table,  angered by its presence all the more so because he couldn’t read it and hadn’t believed what was said in it when it had been read out to him, “is only good for one thing, it means nothing,  just threats hiding behind words”

‘Aye, that’s the way of it,” old Magnie Hamilton nodded, “Threats - they’ll be coming with their cudgels and firebrands, mark my words.”

 

“What about our women? The childer?”

 

“Enough now”  Abel’s voice broke into the clamour, he stepped forward now, taller, stronger built than his father and with the flaming red hair of a true Scot, he elbowed past McGear to stand beside his father, “We have to find out what we can do for them, and angry words spoken when the laird’s men come won’t help any one of us.  We need to act before they come and going to the legal men here is the best and only way that can be done.”

 

“Then I’ll come with you,” Old Magnie said, his voice a piping thin reed coming from the depths of his tubercular lungs.

 

“Aye, and I also -” McGear thumped his fist on the table and was encouraged by the growls of voices around him.

 

“Very well, and a fine rabble we’ll be to represent Kincorth to be sure -” murmured William with a sigh and a smile, but hadn’t it been as he expected after all?  The men of Kincorth had always stood together, no matter what befell them.

 

William slipped into his pocket the paper that McGear had placed on the table, later that evening he placed it in an oil skin package that until then had contained a letter from his mother, and a small document confirming his employment as schoolmaster of Kincorth in the county of Aberdeenshire.

 

Chapter 5

 

Adam sighed and placed the slip of paper back onto the table, then glanced over at Ben who was looking down through the list of names in the bible,

 

“This is dated 1647 - a demand for the tenant of the property in Kincorth to vacate the premises by the 10^th December or risk being burned out -”

 

“Hmh, sounds like the clearances that took place throughout Scotland.” Ben put the bible down and took the paper from Adams hand and scanned the words, “Signed by the Procurator Fiscal on behalf of the Laird - can’t read his name - poor devils, I wonder what happened to them?”

 

“Perhaps this gives us a clue -”  Adam replied softly and passed over another slip of paper that bore the date 10^th December 1647, 

 

“Death certificate for one William Stoddard, school teacher, during a riot at Kincorth”

 

“Here’s a newspaper cutting, can barely make out the words -” Adam held it closer to the light  -  “It is regretted that several men, one of whom was the local school teacher William Stoddard, were killed while resisting the Laird’s men during their legal and rightful occup - what’s that ?- occupations in removing unlawful tenants from the properties at Kincorth.    Other men from Kincorth have enlisted into the Royalist Army to fight for our King, Charles of Scotland and England and Wales.”

 

They glanced at one another, thoughtful, pensive.  The past had reached out and tapped them on the shoulder, reminding them that they too, were merely dust.

 

…………………….

 

Fochabers  in Morayshire, 1649

 

The baby was small, smaller than average with a pinched little face and tired blue eyes, but he sucked vigorously at his mother’s breast and gazed into her face as even the fattest of babies would and do;  Rhiannan Stoddard looked over at her husband and smiled,

 

“He’s coming along real bonny now, Abel.”

 

“He is, thank God.” he leaned forward and stroked the little chin, gaining a swift glance of acknowledgement from the blue eyes before they returned to gaze at his mother.

 

“He’s like your father,” she whispered softly, “Don’t you think so?”

 

“Aye, there’s a likeness.”  Abel nodded, and passed his hand down the back of her sleek black hair.

 

“David William Stoddard, you’ll grow into a big strong mannie, surely.”

 

He left her to croon over the child and walked to the small fire which he began to build up so that more warmth came into the room.  It was a small house, but it was good enough and pleased he was to have got it after the debacle at Kincorth.  He sat down and stared into the now hungry flames and bowed his head.

 

His father - oh, pitiful heavens what a miserable death for a man so fine as  him, but he had been brave, and he had stood his ground with the men at Kincorth.  Abel sighed and put a hand to his brow, as he recalled the day the Laird’s men had come to the small hamlet.   Their flaming torches indicated their intentions, their blustering legal man on his fat little pony meant not a word of his cajoling, there was the blood lust in their eyes and no pleading from the school teacher, nor the Priest would quell it.

 

Sleet and snow had been driving down all day, the roads and paths were slick with mud and ice, the skies were black and lowering but that mean nothing to the Laird’s men who had brushed the men of Kincorth to one side and entered the houses, pulling out the women and children, even old Mother McGear so crippled with her arthritis that she was thrown out still clinging to her rocking chair.

 

The tartans of different clans had swirled together in the blasts of wind driven snow, and the hair of women and children had mingled together as they had crouched low to avoid the blows of the cudgels and pikes.   And when they had seen their men felled to the ground there had been a wild keening sound from their throats that had made Abel Stoddard turn away in despair and seek a place of solace among the rocks so that he could howl his own anguish.

 

They had stood and watched their homes burn, their goods and chattels got covered with snow and sleet, but no one cared, they huddled over their mens bodies and Abel remembered young Tulloch, his little brother, crying for his mam, who had been spared this ordeal by her own death the previous year.  

 

Abel couldn’t remember how he had reached Aberdeen with Tulloch in his arms, and Magnus, Jamie and Elizabeth trailing along with him.  His wife Rhiannan had stepped out with them, and gone to the Procurator Fiscal with him to plead for help.  That was how he got the posting as school teacher at Fochabers in Morayshire at the mouth of the River Spey.

 

“It’s going to be a bad year,” he said suddenly, “a bad year for Scotland.”

 

“Why do you say that?” she looked over her baby’s head,  a slight frown on her face, and looked over at where Tulloch was sleeping close to his brother Magnie. “Hush, don’t fear them”

 

“What can Scotland expect now, they betrayed their King at Naseby* and now he’s dead.  Haven’t they murdered the King himself at Whitehall *only yesterday?”

 

“I hadn’t heard -” she said, after all,  ‘yesterday’ had been a day of pain and a blur in itself, being the day of her birthing David.

 

“Regicide, the Scots betrayed a Scottish King, a Stuart.  Do you think England will forget that?”

 

“It was an English axe that took off his head, Abel,” Jamie piped up from his huddle of  blankets, “And an English parliament that ordered his execution.*”

 

“Aye, and Cromwell’s English through and through -” Magnus piped up, “You said so yourself time enough, Abel.”

 

……………………….

 

Massachutsetts in the year 1649

 

Winthrop was dead. *   He had died at the age of 61 years* after 12 times being elected as Governor of the colony, and he died, still in office.

 

Benjamin Cartwright  was a father now, a little girl called Jane, and his wife, Cathleen was plump already with her second.   He was a happy man, a contented man, and it seemed that all that he touched turned to gold.  His father, Francis, would quote him the story of the King who turned everything to gold at the touch of his hand

 

“He died wealthy then, father.” Ben would quip, knowing the end of the story so well and they would laugh together.

 

He didn’t worry about the death of a far off King of England, nor that Cromwell had been proclaimed Lord Protector* of Great Britain and the outer islands, his concern now was the Governorship of the colony and how it would run without Winthrop’s stern disciplinary hand for there were already dissenting voices to be heard.

 

Another important occasion for Ben had recently taken place, for he had approached the Chief of the Wampanoags*, Massasoit, and gone through a ceremony with him that had transferred a thousand acres of land to him.  Most of the settlers never bothered to go through such ceremonies, thinking, rather complacently that the native Americans were too complacent, too lazy, to bother with such things.  But Ben was a discerning man, and curious as to the ways of these strange native people who still spoke of the white man John Rolfe who had taken their beloved Pocohontas* to the land across the sea to die there.

 

This was New England, settlements were crowding in upon one another, new colonies were being forged futher inland, and Ben was sensible enough to realise that the true owners of the land would one day realise that what had been theirs for centuries was slowly being nibbled away from them, and would, perhaps, one day decide to grab it all back.

 

“You made a good deal with the Chief -” Francis began cautiously, for he had little tolerance of the native Indians whom he felt had too much arrogance in the way they would strut through their colonies as though the land upon which they trod still belonged to them.

 

“Yes,  he’s an honourable man.”

 

“Won’t make much difference, a thousand acres, two thousand - what does it mean to them, they’ve been giving it away for years.”

 

“They may want it back again one day, Pa.  With blood.”

 

“Pah, nonsense, such talk is just to scare the children, like talking about bogey men -” and Francis leaned forward to tweak little Jane’s curls.

 

“You forget about Staten Island*,  the way the Dutch treated the Mohicans and Raritans?   The Indians here heard all about it, they won’t forget -”

 

“They won’t forget what happens if Indians try any nonsense against us settlers.  The Dutch whipped those Indians good and hard.”

 

“They massacred them.” Ben said softly, “And it won’t be forgotten.”

 

Chapter 6

 

“Take a look at this, son,” Ben passed over a piece of parchment with some rather stately calligraphy on it, “Looks like some kind of contract.”

 

“It is,” Adam agreed after reading it carefully, and he looked at his father and then at the papers in Bens hand, “How long have you had this stuff collecting dust in that safe of yours?”

 

“Years.” Ben said thoughtfully, “And before it went into my safe I can recall seeing it in an old box in my fathers study.   I recall asking him what they were and he used to just tap it and say ‘Family history’”

 

“And you never read any of it?”

 

“Once or twice I glanced at them or just sifted through the papers to see what it was all about, but to tell you the truth, Adam, looking through dusty old family papers never had any appeal to me.”  he pulled a wry face and then grinned rather sheepishly, “I remember when Pa gave them to me wishing he had handed them to John, I just tossed the lot into a box and forgot about them.”

 

“Well, you should have read through it more carefully, Pa, according to this contract we own over a 1000 acres of Massachusetts, signed by your namesake Benjamin Cartwright in 1649 and the mark stands for a Chief  -” he narrowed his eyes to try and read the spelling of the name, and shook his head, “I wonder whether this is still legal?”

 

“I doubt it,” Ben rose to his feet and rubbed his chin, “I think I’ll sleep well enough now, and it’s late, Adam, why not put this away now until tomorrow.”

 

His son smiled and nodded, and looked regretfully at the papers.   He carefully gathered the Stoddard pile back into the old oilskin wrapper,

 

“Why do you think Abel kept all this, Pa?”

 

“Why not?   What we’ve read so far meant something to the person concerned for them to have tucked it all away, perhaps they wanted someone to come along and find them, to know what happened, to give their lives some significance;  I don’t know -”  he shrugged slightly before glancing over at the map on the wall of the Ponderosa, then looked again at his son, “It’s a strange thing really, for the first time in hundreds of years, these people - our family - have come alive again.   I never knew there was a Benjamin Cartwright living that far back although I must have seen his name in the family bible countless times.”

 

Massachusetts in the year 1675

 

It seemed no matter how conciliatory Benjamin Cartwright had been to the native American tribesmen, the majority of settlers were not, and their constant invasion into the territory of peace loving people became a source of constant alarm and concern to Massasosit’s son, Metacom.*

 

Slowly and surely he began to make alliances with other tribes, the Narragansetts* being among this strangely assorted confederacy of Indians.   As his agitation increased the settlers attempted to calm his fears by flattery, proclaiming him as King Philip of Pokanoket*, a title which he accepted with the contempt it deserved.

 

Benjamin Cartwright watched with fearful concerns for the welfare of the New Englanders, but it seemed that the majority held the same attitude towards ‘King Philip’ as his father, Francis, had done; his warnings fell upon deaf ears.

 

In the year 1675 Ben was the father of three healthy children, and grandfather to four.   Jane was a married woman with children of her own and lived in one of the settlements in Virginia, Jessica was also married and  had gone with her husband to the West Indies as missionaries.  They had sailed from their home with beautific smiles upon their naïve and innocent faces and from that moment on had never been heard of again.  Joseph Cartwright had married a pretty young woman called Molly Taylor in 1672 and was the father of Daniel and David, twins, born in 1674.   While David thrived, Daniel had not, and his name had been entered into the family bible having lived less than three days.

 

“Can you hear that?”

 

Cathleen turned to look at her husband and was about to ask him exactly what it was that she was supposed to hear when she heard it herself, the scattered sounds of gunfire.  

 

“A hunting party?” she speculated.

 

He walked to the door of the house and leaned against the doorframe, his tall figure blocking the sun from the room.  He stood very still for some moments before turning towards her,

 

“Get your cloak and put some food in a basket.  Hurry -”

 

“Hurry?  But why?  What’s happening?”

 

“Just do as I say -”

 

As he spoke he was hurrying to the cupboard where he kept his rifle, pistol and ammunition.   He put his powder horn over his shoulder, his bullet pouch was full of bullets, the tin patch box and the box of caps were pushed hurriedly into his pockets and then turning to her he grabbed at her elbow and pulled her along to his side,

 

“There’s not much time, we have to get to Josephs right away.”

 

Cathleen said nothing, she held the ends of her shawl tightly together and at practically a run she kept pace with him as he strode down across the yard and down the track to where Josephs house had been built.

 

Their son was already standing at the door, staring out to the horizon with his own rifle in his hands, there was everywhere an air of the most strange tension as above any other discernible noise was the sound of gunfire.

 

“No one’s out hunting -” Joseph said quietly as his father stepped through the door, “There have been rumours that the Wampanoigs have begun attacking the colonists.”

 

“I had heard the same,” Ben replied and pushed his wife further into the house, where Molly and the little boy were waiting for them in the big room.  “I think we should prepare ourselves for a fight, although I hope and pray that it doesn’t come to that -”

 

“I think we should try and get to the stockade, our houses are too vulnerable here, and no matter how well you got on with Philip, I doubt if it will carry much favour with them now.”

 

Ben could say nothing to that, but only nod in agreement.  Molly was bundling the little boy into his jacket and Cathleen was grabbing at what food she could get into another basket, everything was conducted in silence except for the whispers of a mother pretending to her child that all was well.

 

They reached the wagon and set the horses in the direction of the centre of the settlement, other colonists were doing the same, so that the roadway was soon blocked by the wagons and the horses all hurrying to congregate where they felt most safe.   Whenever they turned their heads they saw evidence that their worse fears were well founded, smoke plumed into the sky from the fires that was burning their wheat, from the houses on the fringes of the settlement.  Gunfire was less now,  but no one dared to say what the reason for that could have been just in case they were proven right.

 

The Wampanoigs, Narragansetts and their allies attacked towards the middle of the day.   Their weapons were primitive, but effective, fire arrows, lances, and the dreaded axe put to good use as they plied their strength against the settlers.   For a full two days the colonists fought hard against their opponents, ,they saw their homes burning, their animals slaughtered and their fields under black clouds of smoke.  All the while the Indians attacked with their full force, their war cries shrill and seemingly neverending.

 

But it did end upon their withdrawal, not beaten nor unbowed, but  retreating nonetheless.   After some time the colonists eventually left the safety of the stockade to count their own losses, which were considerable.

 

“Will they come again?” Molly asked her husband as she slipped her hand into his own, and together surveyed the smoking ruins of their home.

 

“I hope not,” he looked at his father and mother, “Do you think they will?”

 

“Who can tell, I never thought -” Benjamin paused, shook his head, “I never thought they would go so far as this.”

 

“They can’t possibly win,” Joseph said with a calm certainty that shook his father, “We won’t let them.”

 

There was an echo there, Ben thought to himself, he could almost hear his father’s voice from all those years ago.  Well, he sighed, an acorn doesn’t fall far from the tree, not even here.

 

‘King Philip’ and his warriors attacked 52 settlements*,  destroying twelve of them, and after several months of fighting  only succeeded in having his people practically exterminated, himself killed and his wife and child, along with other Indian women and children, sold into slavery*.

 

The alliance between the colonists and the Native American was at an end.

 

Boston in the year 1676

 

The ship was docked at last, what a too-ing and a fro-ing and so many ships piled into the harbour.   David William Stoddard stood beside his wife, Morag, and watched with an intense interest as seamen set to in order to get the gangplank ready for the passengers to disembark.   He pointed out various things of interest to Siobhan, his little daughter, while Abel the infant dribbled milk upon his mother’s shawl.

 

“Look, Siobhan, look over there, see how the man ropes this ship to that bollard?”  then he was pointing to something else, “See?  Over there?  Look at the carriage, my, what a fine horse is that!  Siobhan, one day you’ll ride in a carriage just as grand, I swear it.”

 

“David, don’t make promises you may not be able to keep.” Morag whispered, conscious now that they were gaining the attention of other passengers who were passing, looking over at them and smiling.

 

“Whisht, woman, stop fretting now - isn’t it just so grand to see now?  Didn’t you say just days back that we would never get here?” and he laughed and kissed her cheek

 

“That’s because I was sea sick,” she chided him, but laughed as well, no one could resist David when he was happy and laughing.

 

But she was frightened, even amid all this clamour and bustle, she was so frightened. It had been hard to leave her parents and David’s mother back in Fochabers, and now even the memory of that parting was fading away under the weight of new fears.  She felt her husband take her arm and anxiously she turned to him,

 

“It will be alright, won’t it?” she whispered

 

“Everything will be alright, Morag, everything, I promise you.”

 

She marvelled at his confidence.   There was no work, no home, no prospects and here they were in a new land, a new town, where everything was all noise and hustle and bustle, and she knew no one, no one at all, not like back home where everyone knew everyone else, and even knew their history to way back forever. 

 

She clutched Abel closer to her, and carefully made her way down the gangplank.  She shivered, back home she would have said someone had walked over her grave, but she didn’t think she would be allowed to say that here, not now.

 

Siobhan reached out to take her hand, and she clutched hold of it tightly as she stepped down to the wharf side and took her place by her husbands side.   There was no turning back now, she told herself, she would just have to grin and bear it.

 

David William Stoddard glanced back at the ship, up at the sails and released his breath.  She was a beautiful ship, and he had enjoyed every moment on board her.  There was an awakening in his blood for something he had never experienced before, a feeling of wonderment and awe and a love for the sea that was stronger than he had ever imagined.

 

When his father had died several years previously he had fully intended to remain at Fochabers, but had been far too young to have taken his father’s position as school teacher.  He and his family had been forced to leave the school house and find other premises, and he had worked hard on the croft, hard enough to afford marriage to Morag when he had reached the age of 21 years. 

 

Life had been good to them, cattle had fattened, and sheep seemed to multiply almost as much as the rabbits that enjoyed their produce.  Morag was a good hard working wife, and he knew that he could have wished for none other than her.   But shortly before the birth of their son, David had become restless.  He read about the colonies, about the establishing of settlements and townships, and after a while he knew that more than anything else, he wanted to be there, to be part of it all.

 

And now, here they were, in Boston, part of it all.

 

Chapter 7

 

Hoss and Joe listened to their brother as Adam related the things they had learned about their family; Hoss nodded thoughtfully while his mind trailed off to other concerns like the fact that the saplings they had planted in the spring really hadn’t come along so well as they should have done, and perhaps he should mention it to Pa once Adam stopped spouting on about Stoddards and Cartwrights.   Joe found it all intriguing, exclaiming every so often a ’Wow’ or ’You don’t say?  So what happened to them next?’ which irritated Hoss a little because that encouraged Adam to say more and he just knew that if he didn’t get a chance to mention about the saplings soon then any opportunity to do so would be missed, because he would just plumb forget!

 

“Well, that explains everything -” Joe finally said with a chortle, “Now we know why you are so good at making a dime do the work of a dollar, and hoard your money away like you do.”

 

“It does?” Adam frowned, giving his brother what could only be described as a ’thin smile’

 

“It does?” echoed Hoss who had lost track of which family line they had been discussing prior to Joe’s interruption.

 

“Yeah, obviously,”  Joe reached for another slice of bread, “All those Scots folk in the Stoddard line, stands to reason.  He’ll be buying a set of bag pipes soon, Hoss, and serenading us to bed like they do.”

 

“They do?” Hoss looked blankly from Joe to Adam who merely raised his eyebrows as though to respond to his little brothers comments was just too far beneath his dignity, “You ain’t, are ya?”

 

“What?” Adam frowned,

 

“Going to buy bagpipes?”

 

“Certainly not,” Adam replied with a scorching look at Joe who had began to laugh harder than ever.

 

“That’s good,” Hoss muttered and looked over at Ben who was engrossed in thoughts of his own, “Pa, I was -”

 

“Did Adam tell you that there’s a thousand acres of land we own in Massachusetts?” Ben declared, and Hoss clamped his mouth shut and groaned beneath his breath.

 

“A thousand acres?” Joe whistled, “How come we never got to know about them?  Could be anyone’s gone and built on it now.  Hey, Hoss, reckon we should ride on over and check it out?”

 

“It ain’t jest down the road you know,” Hoss said with a slight scowl.

 

“I’ll probably find out more about that when I check over the papers later this evening.” Adam said quietly, he smiled to himself, and then sighed as his mind drifted to other things that he had learned, some of which had even intruded into his dreams that  night.

 

Joe followed Hoss in getting up from the table, they were both scheduled to check over the cattle in the north pasture, he dropped his napkin on the table and as he passed his brother he placed a hand on his shoulder,

 

“Now, just make sure you don’t come home from town today with red hair and wearing a sporran.”

 

“Idiot,” Adam chuckled, “You don’t even know what a sporran is.”

 

“Sure I do,” Joe frowned, buckling his gun belt carefully around his waist, “It’s what Scots wear on their heads to keep their hair on.”

 

“Rubbish, that’s a tam o’shanter.”  Adam’s laugh was light,  good humoured, and he pushed himself away from the table and stood up, “A sporran is what they put their money in.”

 

“Ah ha, there you go, it always comes back to money with you, doesn’t it?  Never mind, “ Joe laughed again, “you can’t help it being a Scotsman.”

 

“That’s enough, Joe, Hoss, there’s work to be done and it’s not getting done while  you both loiter around here.”  he looked over at Adam who was now buckling on his gun belt  “Adam, when you go into town will you take that letter into Weems?”

 

“Sure, just leave it ready for me to pick up.”

 

The three men walked to the stables, Adam deep in thought, Joe whistling some tune which he thought was close enough to be Scottish, and Hoss trying to remember what it was he had forgotten to say but which he had thought was important at the time it first came to his mind.

 

“See you boys later -” Adam said as he mounted Sport and swung the horse in the direction of town.

 

 

 

Boston in the year 1679

 

Morag Sutherland Stoddard looked anxiously over in the direction of her husband as she poured yet another tankard of ale for yet another customer.  She worked hard at the tavern and over the years since being in Boston they had benefited well from the work.   It had been a real blessing when, almost as soon as they had stepped foot on the wharf David had overheard someone mentioning about an inn keeper being required for a tavern just round the corner from the harbour front, and David had walked in, put forward his case and got the job.  Perhaps the sight of Morag’s pretty face had swung it for him, that was what Morag liked to think anyway.

 

But despite it all working out so well it was obvious life as an inn keeper wasn’t what David wanted in life.  They had three children now, Sheelagh had arrived two years previously, and it seemed to Morag that the work in the inn was getting simply more and more difficult because David was such a day dreamer.

 

Or was it something else other than his being prone to looking back on life in Scotland?  She wondered whether he was wishing to return to the wild heather clad hills and the fresh clean air that blew in across the Spey?   She watched him now and sighed, sitting at the table, tankard in hand and listening to the yarns of the sailors.

 

That’s what he liked to do most of all it seemed to her, drink and talk, or listen to those seamen.   He would be dreamy eyed and  lethargic for the rest of the evening, and she, well, she would have to be bustling about and pulling the ale and serving the customers.  Then cooking the meals, feeding the children, and getting them to bed, before getting back to the duties of the inn. 

 

She pushed a strand of hair from her face and pulled it over her ear, glanced once again at her husband, and was about to speak when a man shouted

 

“Hey, Davy boy, give us one of them songs of your’n?”

 

Typical, Morag groaned inwardly, typical of that big old Scotsman who had decided to adopt the Stoddards as family, seeing that he was, or claimed that he was, a neighbour of theirs having moved to Boston from Nairn, in Scotland. She watched as Davy, flushed with pleasure and pride, rose to his feet, picked up his fiddle and began to play the tune to Alexander Hume's Lament 'The Scottish Emigrants Farewell'

Scottish Emigrant's Farewell
Fareweel, fareweel my native hame,
Thy lonely glens an' heath-clad mountains,
Fareweel thy fields o' storied fame,
Thy leafy shaws an' sparkling fountains,
Nae mair I'll climb the Pentland's steep,
Nor wander by the Esk's clear river,
I seek a hame far o'er the deep,
My native land, fareweel forever.
Thou land wi' love and freedom crown'd,
In ilk wee cot an' lordly dwellin',
May manly hearted youths be found,
And maids in ev'ry grace excellin'.
The land where Bruce and Wallace wight,
For freedom fought in days o' danger,
Never crouch'd to proud usurpin' right.
But foremost stood, wrongs stern avenger.

Tho' far frae thee, my native shore,
An' toss'd on life's tempestuous ocean;
My heart, aye Scottish to the core,
Shall cling to thee wi' warm devotion,
An' while the wavin' heather grows,
An' onward rows the windin' river,
The toast be Scotland's broomy knowes,
Her mountains, rocks, an' glens forever.

Loud cheers, hands clapping and tankards thudding upon the tables.  Aye, Davy’s voice and fiddle playing brought in the customers alright, but it was Morag who did all the work.

 

……………………..

 

 

 

 

 

Massachusetts in the year 1679

 

It had been a terrible accident, no one had any intention of harm when they had set out that morning for the hunting expedition, but it had happened and the consequences for the Cartwright family were indeed dire.

 

Joseph had arranged the hunt with several other young men, and Ben had joined them with his gun slung over his shoulder as always.   It had taken  an hour to find the spoor of a deer, and they followed it carefully, stealthily through the woodlands and thickets.  

 

Ben had been the first to see the animal and had tapped Joe on the shoulder, pointed and nodded, and with a smile Joe had nodded in return.   In those days men went to hunt with their guns loaded,  for if a wild bear or any wild creature were to come at them there was no time for them to stand about while loading the gun, no one wanted to meet trouble and find their gun empty.    Powder had to measured out, put in and shaken down, then the patch and the bullet would have to be pounded down, and then a fresh cap under the hammer - once the ball was on its way the whole procedure had to be repeated, and woe to the hunter who couldn’t fell the beast in that first shot for an injured animal was the worse of its kind and would leave no man time to reload.

 

Ben rose slowly to his feet, and moved carefully through the undergrowth, knelt and took aim.  Joe heard the shot, rose to his feet and moved forward to join his father and it was then that young Jason Meredith fired his own gun and Joseph Cartwright , with not even a cry, fell to the ground.

 

The bullet had entered through the temple, a clean clear shot, he had no chance of recovery, death had been instantaneous.  Jason Meredith had fainted at the sight, and at the realisation that it had been his own weapon that had fired the bullet.  When he had regained his senses he had whispered to his father that he had thought Joe was the deer, for the jacket he had worn blended in so well with the foliage, he had caught a movement out of the corner of his eye, seen what appeared to be the deer and fired without pausing for thought.

 

Ben had gathered his son into his arms, cradled him close to his breast and laid his cheek upon the dark curls of hair.  His son, his beloved, his dearly beloved … he could say nothing, it seemed as though his throat had been seized by a hand with fingers like steel, but the tears had fallen and when sound did return he howled like a man possessed, and such he was for grief devoured him.

 

The days and the weeks rolled by like a river, relentless and never stopping, but to Ben and Cathleen Cartwright it seemed as though their world had ended.  The only joy in their life was David, Joseph’s only son.

 

Boston  in the year 1680

 

David Stoddard held his wife’s hand and looked into her face, he looked hard in order to see whether or not she had understood what he had said to her.  It was true, she had gone very pale, and there was a red blotch on each cheek, beneath his hand her own hand trembled.

 

“Do you understand what I’m saying, dearest?”

 

“I understand that you intend to leave me and the three children -”

 

“No, no, not like that, Morag, never like that.”  he frowned, and released her hand, walked to the counter and poured her a small glass of the best brandy which he came and set down in front of her,  “Morag, I don’t understand it myself, seeing as I’ve not known any Stoddard having a longing for the sea before, but -” he heaved a sigh that seemed to come from right down to his boots, “I can’t fight this longing to be on board a ship again.”

 

“Again?” her voice was shrill, she picked up the glass of brandy and swallowed it down in one gulp, tears pricked her eye lids, “Again?  How can you say that?  You were only ever on a boat the one time and that was when we came here from Scotland.”

 

“And that’s when I got to love the sea, and the ships - and being here listening to the men, Morag, it just calls to me, can’t you see?”

 

“And what about me, and the bairns?”

 

“You have the tavern, and  Magnus Henderson has sworn to help you here, also Mary, she’s more than willing to help.”

 

“I don’t want their help, I want you here with me, Davy.”

 

“Let me go this once, Morag, just this one time?”

 

“And what about all the other times that you’ll be asking me?” she looked at him then, and wanted him to realise that it wasn’t just his help in the tavern she would be needing, but his being with her at night , holding her and loving her;  being there during the day to talk to, laugh with, sing with, and what about the babies …?  Whole lists of needs ran through her head, but all she could do was look into his face with her blue eyes swimming with tears and the tears dripping from her chin.   “I love you, Davy, I thought you loved me.”

 

“I do love you, Morag, I do -” he kissed her then, and when he released her he knew that she had given her consent, it had been in her kiss … a kind of blessing.

 

He couldn’t understand it himself, this longing to be at sea.  As he had rightly said there was no Stoddard in living memory who had been to sea, they had held to the land, to their books and their learning.   Had he but known it  the lust for the sea came from ancestors many centuries down the line from the Stoddards, wild men who had come in big ships across the North Sea with horned helmets and double head axes, who had raided and plundered along the coastline until some eventually settled there.   The Vikings left behind them a legacy of blue eyes, red hair and a hunger for the sea and a ship to sail upon.

 

Chapter 8

 

“Look at this,” Ben held out the frail scrap of paper that looked as though it had a coat of arms at the top, “it’s quite interesting.  What do you think?”

 

Adam smiled at his father and took it, read it and frowned before returning it.  Ben had appointed himself custodian of the Cartwright papers and was scrutinising them with far more interest in them than he had expected.  Adam, who was scanning through the Stoddard papers, found it quite amusing that his father, who had had possession of the other documents for so long, was now at last deigning to read them. Ben picked up another letter and his eyebrows rose in pleasure and  surprise,

 

“Well, now at last we know what part of Massachusetts the Cartwrights came from,” he exclaimed and then gave a low whistle, which immediately brought the attention of his brothers who were doing battle over a game of checkers by the fire.

 

“Whereabouts, Pa?” Hoss asked with a black checker in his hand, poised over the board and hoping that a diversion now would distract his younger brother.

 

“It was a place the Native Indians called Agawam, but which was named Ipswich after a town in Suffolk, England. I suppose that’s logical seeing as how Winthrop was from that county.”

 

“’Cept in Massachusetts Ipswich is in Essex County,” Joe piped up, showing that he had learned something from Miss Abigail Jones, he put out a hand and grabbed Hoss’ wrist “Oh no, you don’t …”

 

“Shucks, Joe -” Hoss scowled having lost his opportunity of a little ’slight of hand’.

 

“We can’t claim those acres of land, either.” Ben smiled, “The  Massachusetts Bay Colony built Ipswich on most of it.”

 

“What’s the letter about, Pa?” Adam gave his father a gentle reminder with a smile, and leaned back a little in his chair.

 

The big table had been commandeered for their research now, papers and books, maps and various other paraphernalia was heaped everywhere, while Adam kept paper, pen and ink close at hand for his own notations.  He dipped the pen into the ink now and waited for his father to read the letter,

 

“It’s from my namesake, Benjamin Cartwright, to the Governor of the colony,  Sir Edmund Andros*  :

 

Sir -  I am writing to you as a founder member of this colony in protest at your recent suggestion to levy a tax upon the colonists of Ispwich, in the county of Essex, Massachusetts.  I put it to you that this is no place for taxation without representation * and stand firmly on the side of the Reverend  John Wise* and others who protest against this levy.

 

If necessary I shall put my case before their majesties, King William and Queen Mary, which I believe various others will be doing likewise.””

 

“That’s why the colonists of Ipswich call the town ‘ the birthplace of American Independence.” Adam smiled and finished his notation with a flourish;  his brothers, unimpressed, continued with their game.

 

“They didn’t do much, just wrote letters -” Joe muttered as he jumped three of Hoss’ checkers in one swift move.

 

“They were still considering themselves as English, and to have done that was a rebellion against the authorities of that time.” Ben said gently, looking thoughtfully at the first letter, the one with the coat of arms at the top.

 

………………

 

Ipswich, Massachusetts in the year 1689

 

“They want to expel him?” Ben’s voice was flat, he asked the question to his daughter in law who was seated opposite him with downcast head, her hands folded tightly together in her lap, unable to raise her eyes to look at him.   He stared once more at the letter, “Did you know that this was likely?”

 

“No, of course not, Ben”

 

“Then how has it come about?   The Latin School of Boston is the very best school throughout the colonies, and take only the -” he paused, he was going to say the elite from the founder members of the colonies, but felt that was false pride, his Puritan upbringing forced him to swallow on the thought, and he cast around for something else to say, “How long has this been going on ?”

 

“I - well - how could I mention it to you, Ben?   You had worries and concerns enough without me adding to them.”

 

Ben firmed his lips together, and put the paper slowly upon the desk before turning his back on her and looking out of the window.  Cathleen had died a few years earlier, and there had been the fiasco with Andros and the taxation matter.   Molly, his daughter in law, had been selling land and property without consulting him, which had irritated him enormously even though he had to remind himself that she had that right, the land had been Josephs and now belonged to her and their son.

 

“Was this the reason you have been selling the land and property?”

 

“Partly, the fees- “ she paused, and shook her head, there was no point in mentioning the fees because Ben paid them, “Yes, I needed the money for David.”

 

“For his debts - gambling, drinking, and - and worse -”   Ben shook his head, he couldn’t bear to look at her he was so incensed with anger.  David - and still so young, was gambling to such an extent that the estate was dwindling bit by bit every month.  He shook his head, “No, it’s not good enough.  He won’t be expelled, I’ll arrange for him to be collected from the school.”

 

“But, his future prospects were all bound up in that school.”  she rose to her feet, white faced, ashamed of her deceit, fearful for her son.

 

“If he stays there he won’t have any future prospects,” Ben growled, “Now, send Forbes in so that I can get things arranged for the journey.”

 

She looked at his back, rigid, unbending, rather, she thought, like himself.  He heard the swish of her gown as she left the room, the click of the door as she closed it behind her.  Once he was alone he returned to his desk and sat down slowly, and looked once again at the letter.  The coat of arms with the school motto was emblazoned across the top Sumus Primi, Latin for ‘we are first’, and beneath were the head masters fatal condemnation of a youth who spent more time drinking, gambling and wenching that on his studies, a boy whose behaviour they could no longer tolerate.

 

…………………………

 

Boston in the year 1690

 

The tavern was bright with lights, loud with merriment and laughter.  The flames of the fire danced in pewter pots and tankards, shimmered in glassware around the room.   Sheelagh Stoddard swirled in her pretty new dress and tried to gain the attention away from her sister, Siobhan, who was the bride and about whom the day was all about. 

 

Morag listened to the clamour of the voices and felt deafened by the laughter, the cheers and shouts, the applause and the thudding of tankards and plates on the tables.  This was her daughters special day and her heart was breaking in more ways than one.  She looked at her children and felt the pride rise up in her heart, and she felt tenderness well over her when young Aaron Clayton swept his new bride into his arms and kissed her before the whole assembly.

 

It had been a pretty little wedding, spring flowers were everywhere, and the fire hadn’t really been needed except that it looked so much better than a cold hearth.  They had walked from the church to the tavern where Morag had prepared the wedding feast, and closed the doors on the general public.  It was a special day, and a time for friends to gather, with family.  She put a hand to her brow, how her head was thumping, how she wished it would all come to an end and she could close the door on them all and return to her room.

 

Now she saw Abel rise to  his feet, and she turned to look at him. How tall he had grown these past years, and how slight his build.  He looked so frail compared to Siobhan who was a bonny lass with her plump cheeks and ample curves, and even little Sheelagh showed promise of being in her sister’s mould.  Abel was playing his violin now, and the silence fell upon the company as they listened for he was a natural musician, and when he played the music he could wring the coldest heart to tears.

 

Magnus Campbell rose to his feet and began to sing the words to the song Abel was playing, and just for a moment Morag closed her eyes and was swept back to the land of her youth, to the evening ceiledhs when the neighbours would crowd into the house for some food,drink and talk, a fiddle would be played, someone would take up the song .. Oh, such times, such wonderful times.

 

She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, a large mirror that Davy had purchased when he had been home one time, and together they had fitted it above the fireplace.  Now she saw herself and looked, wondered, and turned away.  How had she got to be that fat, and that red faced?   Where had the big blue eyes that had fascinated David so much, where had they gone?     Her hair was now thin and straggled from her brow, snatched into a hasty bun at her neck.   Time had gone by so fast, so fast, and she had had no time to hold it back and to look at herself and - and prevent this degradation.

 

If only the singing would stop, if only the whole thing would stop so that she could go up to her room and re-read that letter.   Why did it have to come this week when she was so busy preparing her girls wedding day, and had such hopes that Davy would come home for the occasion?

 

She felt a cool  hand take hold of her own, and lips press against her fingers.  For a moment her heart leapt in hope, one name sprung to mind and she opened her eyes - Abel smiled at her, her hand still in his own,

 

“You looked so sad, Mother.   Why not come and dance with me?  Fergus has his -”

 

“No, son, no, I don’t want to dance.”

 

“But you have to dance,” Sheelagh’s shrill voice, “You’re the bride’s ma, you have to dance.”

 

Dance?  She shuddered inside, how could she dance when she felt as though her life was over?   Davy would never be coming home now, the sea had swallowed him down as it had so many hundreds of other good men over the centuries.  It had opened its throat and gulped him and his ship and another two thirds of the ships company as well, and taken them down to its very depths. 

 

In some kind of dream she allowed her son to take her hand and lead her to the small space opened up for them to dance while her mind was on the last night he had spent with her, and he had said that when the sea stopped calling his name, then he would come home, and never leave her again.

 

……………………

 

Ipswich, Massachusetts in the year 1692

 

“More debt!”

 

The two words hung in the air.   Ben looked at his grandson who stood before him, tall and proud, handsome and arrogant.  The old man shook his head

 

“This gambling, this life of yours, it has to stop.”

 

David said nothing, there was nothing left to say, all this had been said before, often.  Behind him his mother sniffed into her handkerchief.  He stared out of the window unable to face the old man glaring at him across the table.

 

“David?  Are you listening to me?”

 

“Ye-es,” he drawled the word slowly and sighed, tapped his fingers impatiently against  his thigh.

 

“If your father were alive today -”

 

“I know, I wouldn’t be like I am now -” the young voice intoned the words as though it were some rite of passage and again he sighed.

 

“Don’t you realise, young man, that we are not made of money?    Your gambling has to stop before there is nothing left -”

 

“The fact is, I’m bored -”

 

“Bored?” Ben’s voice was cold, flat and heralded a threat that only Molly seemed to perceive for she rose to her feet from her chair and reached out to touch David’s arm, as though to caution him to take care with what he said next.

 

“Yes, bored.” David snapped, and then he turned towards his grandfather, “bored, bored, bored.” he shouted.

 

The silence that fell upon the room shivered. The three of them stood as though frozen until Benjamin Cartwright picked  up a letter and slowly put it in an envelope which he sealed with his personal seal.  

 

“Very well, David.  Here’s your chance never to be bored again.  Tomorrow you will take this letter to Captain Harris who will escort you to Newburyport.*   You will board a ship called The Demaris, and I promise you, you will never be bored again.”

 

“No, I don’t want to go.” David jutted out his chin and firmed his lips.

 

“If you don’t go, I will disinherit you and everything I own will go to your cousins instead.”

 

David blushed with anger, humiliation and fear.  He glanced at his grandfather, wished that he could tell the old man to take his money and go to blazes, but he knew he couldn’t, he knew if he said one word of what he wanted to say, Ben would cut him off without a penny.

 

He snatched the letter from the other man’s hands and turned to leave the room, glanced at his mother who was weeping into her apron, and slammed the door shut behind him.

 

The following day he boarded the Demaris and by evening time was sailing to Holland.

  

 

Chapter 9

 

Ben gave a grunt of annoyance, much as he did when he couldn’t tally his figures in his ledgers, Adam ignored it, as he would have ignored it when sitting opposite his father with other ledgers.  Joe and Hoss raised their eyebrows and grinned, while concentrating on setting up another game of ledgers,

 

“Seems David Cartwright has simply dropped into thin air.”

 

“He can’t have done,” Adam said calmly, writing some words in his note book with a precision that made Ben even more irritated.  “Otherwise we wouldn’t be here.”

 

“Well, he isn’t mentioned any more.  He left school and that was that -”

 

“That’s a pity,” Joe muttered, “I rather liked the guy, after all, anyone who can get themselves expelled by gambling, drinking and - er - wenching -”

 

“That’s enough from you -”  Ben grumbled, “Looks like the line continues through Ben’s daughter, Jane.”

 

“Jane?” Adam frowned, then gave a slight shrug, “A mystery.”

 

“I hate mysteries.” Hoss groaned.

 

“Well, stick to your checkers, Hoss, ‘cos there’s no mystery involved there.”  Joe chuckled, jiggling the checkers in his hand.

 

“There ain’t ?”

 

“Shucks, no, it’s always a foregone conclusion as to who’s going to win, ain’t it?” Joe winked over at Adam who gave only the ghost of a smile back in return.

 

“Shucks, you jest put  your checkers where your mouth is, smarty pants, and see here who’ll win this game.” his good humoured brother remarked as he began his first move.

 

“You know,  I wish we knew more about these people,” Adam sighed, “We have names and dates, but we don’t really know them, do we?”

 

“Well, that’s not possible,” Ben replied quietly, striking a match now and lighting his pipe, “After all they’ve been dead a long time.  Unless you leave a journal of every day of your life, then in a few generations time you’ll just be a name and a date as well.”

 

Adam sighed like a man who having scratched the surface of these lives now wanted to dig deeper, to discover what their lives were really like, what they were like as people, and what influenced the decisions they had made.

 

“There’s an entry here, made by Jane, she married a Nathaniel Laurence if you recall, and moved to Virginia.  She must have returned to care for her father as there’s no mention of Molly Cartwright anymore, she disappeared into the ether of time with her son by the look of it.”

 

There was a rustle of papers as he sorted through some of the frail letters and carefully laid one down

 

“A letter from her father asking her to return home.   She had been recently widowed and he was too old to care for himself.  He has told her that he would settle his estate on her children should she do so and disinherit David.”

 

“Poor David -” lamented Joe

 

“In the bible she has listed the name of five children, three of whom died in the same year, within the same week -”

 

“An epidemic of some kind?” Adam raised a quizzical eyebrow …

 

Ipswich, Massachusetts in the year 1699

 

Jane Laurence spun the yarn with an expert hand, transferring the spun yarn deftly onto the spindle.   She was deep in thought as the shadows lengthened in the long room of the house in which she had been born nearly 50 years earlier.

 

Her thoughts were about her own life, as she spun the wheel she felt as though she were spinning years of her life away.

 

She had been happily married to Nathaniel, and he had been a good husband, a fond father and a generous provider.  Her years of  life in Virginia had been happy ones, even  during that time of the Indian uprisings when so many had been killed.  She recalled that time with a shudder, such memories were not to be dealt upon, it was best to pass on to others.  There had been the births of her children. She had five children, Susan  had been the first born, followed quickly by James, who had looked so much like her brother Joseph that she had wept.  Then there had been Mary, followed  by Henry and then little Peter.

 

It seemed no sooner was her happiness overflowing than tragedy struck with a smallpox epidemic that came with new settlers from Holland.   Peter had been first to die, then Henry and Susan, and she the one, Jane thought, who was strong enough to surmount anything.   The three little bodies had been buried together in the cemetery years ago, but  now, as she sat spinning the grief touched her heart as fresh as ever.

 

Mary had been scarred badly with the pox and so it was thought that had been the reason she had not married until quite late in life, a man old enough to be her father, a good match in financial terms, but one which failed miserably in the ways of love.  Nathaniel had charmed them all into thinking this the best outcome for his spinster daughter.

 

James had married his childhood sweetheart,  Anne Goudie, the daughter of a merchant from Dundee in Scotland.   A happy marriage blessed by several children.  Jane spun a little slower, her hands tiring as she had become more aware of the cold draughts coming from the open window.

 

It had been provident that her father had summoned her to return home when he had, for Nathaniel had died and she was left with little upon which to live, while James with a burgeoning family was kept busy in his father in law’s business to feed his own.   As she thought of the last  years of her fathers life, Jane wondered about her nephew, David, a youth she had met a mere twice in  his life time.  Where was he now?  How often had they wondered that question, she and her father between them.

 

It made her wonder whether it had been the death of his little brother, Daniel, that had caused the boy to be so diffident, or whether he had just been born with that weak trait in him, inherited perhaps from some long ago Lincolnshire man.  Maybe if Molly had been able to have more children or even if Joseph had not been killed for he had been a good, loving but stern father when alive.  Who would know?  She shook her head again, who would know ?

 

“Grandmother?”

 

She turned at the sound of her grand daughters voice, and smiled, leaving the spinning wheel to embrace the girl.  How she loved this child, there was no doubt about it, but little Jessie was a beautiful girl, everything lovely in their family had come together in the formation of her.  She took the girls hands in her own and leaned forward to kiss her smooth soft cheek, and when a bunch of violets was placed in her hands she kissed the girl again.

 

“You’re a love, child, where did you find these?”

 

“Down in the marshes.” she smiled and slipped off her cloak, “I’ll put them in a jug for you, grandmother.”

 

 “Do that, child.”

 

Jane watched her and sighed, Jessie was a mere 14 years old but already a blossoming into womanhood, soon there would be young men hanging around the place wanting to woo her, and surely many a heart would be broken for the girl looked as though she had the Cartwright stubbornness and wasn’t going to be so easily fobbed off into marriage as  her aunt Mary had been.

 

In the two years since James and Anne had moved to Ipswich, Jane had enjoyed the warmth of being loved, and being able to love in return.  Her life, she felt, had been enriched and blessed.

 

Boston in the year 1700

 

Abel Stoddard paused at the gate of his house and looked at it thoughtfully for he had only recently taken tenancy of it in his role as the music master at the school.  He was young, just 25 years of age in fact, yet he had an old head on his shoulders and talent in his fingers.   He was more than a little proud of the house, even though he had to admit it was rather large for just the one person.  He pushed the gate open and approached the door, unlocked it and entered and in the hallway he once again paused, looked about him, and wondered how on earth he had managed to achieve so much in such a short time.

 

There was no doubt about it, it was the music that had won him the employment as the music master, his ability to make a man cry when he played the violin, or when he sang in his rich baritone voice, for there was very little else he could think to recommend him.    He was slight of build, shorter than average, pale in feature, with eyes the colour of gooseberries, he suffered badly from a skin complaint which caused him to be timid and to blush easily.

 

As he glanced at himself in the mirror -something he didn’t do often - he was reminded of his sisters’ taunts at his appearance, and wondered whether or  not, some of what they said would prove to be true.  No one, he sighed, would find him of any interest at all, no one.

 

Siobhan and her husband owned the tavern now and doing well, profits were always healthy, but then they were in an excellent position near the harbour.   Seamen always had a thirst and a hunger when they came in to land, and the tavern was perfect to provide both.  As for Sheelagh, she had married a seamen, and already had two children to care for, and always coming to the house begging for some money to feed them.

 

Better, Abel decided, to be single than to be miserable with such baggage around one’s neck.   He went into the large room and was grateful to see the fire burning already, which meant that Mrs Jackson had been in earlier, and that there would be a good meal on the table awaiting him.

 

He walked to the music stand and leafed through a few pages, then with a sigh of pleasure he picked up his violin, caressed it lovingly and placed it along the line of his jaw … music, how he loved music.

 

He had written this particular piece himself, a combination of something Scottish that he could recall his father singing years before, and something soft and yielding that he could imagine being played by the finest violinist in Europe.

 

It was so beautiful that the girl passing the house had to stop to listen,  and when the music stopped she found her cheeks wet with tears.

 

Chapter 10

 

“Pa, I need to talk to you about something -” Hoss rose to his feet, abandoning his game leaving the way open for his brother to claim the victory as he had foretold,

 

“Talk away, son -” Ben smiled as Hoss approached the table, “Is it important?”

 

“Yeah -” Hoss frowned, and nodded by way of emphasis, “I meant to discuss it with you this morning but plumb forgot but it is important -” he added hastily seeing his father’s face and guessing rightly that Ben was about to dismiss the matter as ‘it couldn’t have been that important then.’

 

“Then what is it?”

 

“The saplings we planted up in that new section of woodland jest ain’t taking right, they look sickly.”

 

“All of them?”

 

“Quite a number of them - p’raps it’s the soil, I dunno, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

 

“Best show me where exactly -”  and Ben rose to his feet  and walked with his son to the map of their territory for Hoss to show him the exact area of concern.

 

Joe whistled to himself as he put the checkers away and folded up the board.  The fire was dying down, the clock ticked to the hour and chimed obligingly, which prompted him to bid everyone goodnight.  

 

At the table Adam turned and nodded goodnight to his youngest sibling and then returned to his task of trying to locate David Cartwright  in the pile of papers that were accumulated around him, he drew the big bible forward and began a methodical check of names and dates.  The soft  murmur of voices from the other end of the room was a pleasant hum in the background of more subtle noises such as the ash falling into the hearth, the clock ticking and overhead the sound of Joe’s footsteps on the floor of his room.

 

 

Ipswich, Massachusetts in the year 1702

 

Queen Anne’s rule began in the year 1702 at the death of her brother-in-law William whose wife, Mary, had been his co-ruler until her death some years previously.   In the colonies settlements spread out and grew and prospered, they reached down from the Atlantic seaboard from northern Massachusetts (now known as Maine) through Georgia.  Each colony was separately governed, had different economies, even different laws administered by a variety of ‘lawgivers’*.

 

In 1702 Jessie Laurence was 18 years of age and still unmarried.   Her beauty was both admired and condemned, a curse as well as a blessing.  As her grandmother had predicted many young men beat their way to their door only to be turned aside with bruised if not broken hearts.  There was not a man in Ipswich who would seem worthy of the fair maidens hand.

 

The day was warm and she was walking along the edge of the fields, her fingertips just brushing across the heads of corn and the petals of poppies.   She had paused a moment to watch as a horseman cantered slowly along the roadway towards the town.  It was no one she recognised so she turned away and continued her stroll, stopping once or twice to pick a poppy and twirl it  round and round between her fingers.

Her mind was on the latest altercation she had had with her father, James Laurence and her mother.  Why, she asked herself, was there this constant pressure on her to marry?  Why did women have to marry and have children?   Who said that a woman couldn’t have a business to administer, and what right did a man have to, upon marriage, take over his wife’s assets.  She scowled slightly and wondered just what her assets would amount to anyway, life, she felt, was very unfairly balanced.

 

“Excuse me -”

 

The young man on the horse had paused and looked down at her with a smile, dark eyes twinkled in a tanned face and his teeth were white as his lips parted in his smile, she answered with a smile of her own and a polite turning up of her face in anticipation of his next question,

 

“I was wondering if you could direct me to the house of  -” he paused, a slight frown on his face, “Benjamin Cartwright?”

 

“He’s been dead some years.”  she replied still with the smile on her face.

 

“Oh, I - I hadn’t realised.  Of course, I should have done, he would be quite old by now - I mean - if he were still living.”

 

“I daresay.”  she nodded in agreement and twisted the poppy lightly between her fingers.

 

“They die you know,”

 

“What?”

 

“Poppies - they die almost as soon as you pick them.  Some things have to stay where they grow, even beautiful things -”

 

She sighed and tossed the flower aside, as though ashamed to have been so uncaring about a mere flower of the field,  she shrugged slightly,

 

“Why do you want to see - did you want to see Mr Cartwright?”

 

He laughed then, a low chuckle and his eyes twinkled again,

 

“Look, just help me out here, where did he live?  I presume he still has family living there?”

 

“Of course -” she raised her arm and pointed in the direction of the house, “On the horizon there, you can’t miss it.”

 

“Thank you,” he tipped his hat to her and turned his horse’s head in the direction of the house, and as it cantered away he turned to look back at her.

 

She was already resuming her walk, plucking at the flowers as she went along, her brow creased and no doubt any thought of him gone from her mind.

 

He would have been wrong in that instance for her mind was full of thoughts about him.  She wondered what his name was, where he had come from and why he had wanted to see Great grandfather Benjamin.   She thought of the way the brown eyes had twinkled down at her, and the way dimples had formed in his cheeks when he had smiled.   She had liked the way he had laughed, and the way he sat his horse, and the way his hair, worn long as was the custom of the day,  fell lightly upon his shoulders.  In fact, she couldn’t stop thinking about him.

 

 

Jane Laurence sat by the low fire in the big room, it was not a cold day, but she was frail now, even though not yet in her sixties.  When the maid announced a visitor to see her she paid no particular attention until the young man entered the room, removed his hat and stood several feet from her, his brown eyes cautious as he looked at her and then glanced hesitantly around the room.

 

“If you’re on an errand of business then it’s my son you will need to see -” she said immediately, “I’ve no head for business, my late husband attended to all that kind of thing.”

 

“Of course, I apologise for disturbing you.  Is your son at home?”

 

“I am -” James Laurence answered the question from behind the visitor, and stepped forward, “This is my mother, Mistress Jane Laurence, I’m James Laurence.” he then looked at the young man  and stepped further into the room, “Who am I addressing?”

 

“My name is Charles, Charles Abbott.”

 

Jane, craning her head forward and her eyes widened while her son narrowed his eyes and stepped closer to his mother, as though together they could form some kind of barrier against an unseen threat to themselves.

 

“You have no reason whatsoever to know me, but my Grandfather was a friend of your father, Mistress, and asked me to call in to see him should I ever come to this colony.”

 

“I recollect no one of the name Abbott,” James said drily, and Jane also shook  her head although she put out a hand as though to reach out to him and beckoned him closer,

 

“Come nearer, let me look at you, let me see you in the light by the window here, my eyes are not as good as they once were.”

 

He approached as she had asked, and looked at her as carefully as she now regarded him.  After some seconds had passed she smiled, and nodded,

 

“I recall my father talking about a Jeremiah Abbott -” she paused and when he nodded with a smile she continued, “I thought they were sailors?”

 

“My Grandfather was a seaman from the same town in England as your grandfather, Mistress.   In the way things happen his path crossed that of your father at some time, and they became firm friends.”

 

“Yes, I remember now -” Jane said slowly and narrowed her eyes, “He was the owner of a ship, The Demaris.”

 

Charles nodded and looked at her thoughtfully, and Jane glanced over at James  before turning back to regard Charles.

 

“Have you news of my nephew - David?”

 

“Nothing, I’m sorry.”  he frowned and looked from mother to son with that quiet regard that seemed customary to him, “Your nephew was taken on board the Demaris as a favour to your father, I believe?  Well, all I can tell you is that he disembarked in Holland from his first voyage and was never seen again.  Every time my Grandfather went to Holland he would make enquiries, for your father’s sake, but sadly nothing came of them.  I take it - you have not any news?”

 

“Nothing, not from the time he left here.” Jane sighed, “But, Master Abbott, where are our manners, please, may I ask you - where do you intend to stay while you visit Ipswich?”

 

“You must stay here,” James said promptly, with unusual alacrity, “For the sake of old friends.”

 

“And new ones -” Jane smiled, and when she heard the sound of the door opening and gently closing, and a light footstep on the hall floor she nodded to herself, and sighed with contentment, perhaps, she thought, this was going to be an answer to a maiden’s prayer.

 

Boston in the year 1702

 

There had been weeks of celebrating in Boston, celebrating the crowning of a Stuart Queen.  The mood of Great Britain was as alive in Boston as it was in London, or any other part of the British controlled world … the Dutchman was dead, long live the Queen.

 

Abel was still unable to comprehend his many blessings - his whole life had been wrapped up in love and care, and music.   From a child onwards he could recall evenings of music playing, his father singing and his mother bustling about cooking and serving and fussing and loving.  It had been a wonderful childhood.

 

Now, as he stood at the altar and said his vows he looked again at his bride and marvelled that such a beautiful girl could have consented to be his wife.

 

Una Cameron - tall and slender, black hair that fell straight down her back to her waist and curled in wisps about her ears, dark eyes that gleamed amber sparks when happy, angry or just like now, as she gazed upon him.  He watched as  her lips spoke the most important two words of their lives … ‘I do’  and the ring was on her finger and their lips touched and this dear sweet girl was now Una Stoddard.

 

She had knocked on his door one morning just before he was going to work at the school.

 

“Please, sir, I was wondering if you would need a maid - someone to cook for you, sir, or to mend your clothes?”

 

“Well, thank you, no -”  he had replied hastily, taken back by the brazen approach of the girl, a little timid, as always, and unprepared, “I - I have a woman who comes in to cook and clean.”

She said nothing, but bowed her head and stepped back from his side,

 

“I’m sorry, please excuse me.”

 

He left her and walked quickly away from the house, but the words ‘I’m sorry, please excuse me.’ stuck in his mind so much that he had to turn back and hurry to catch her up as she walked slowly away from his house,

 

“Do you need the work so much?” he had asked her and she had looked at him and nodded, and then he had noticed the thinness of her, the pallor of those who starved on the streets, the sunken eyes, and the hands that  gripped the shawl around her shoulders, “What is your name?”

 

“Una Cameron.”

 

“A Scottish name?”

 

“My father was a Scot, a soldier in the Black Watch.”

 

He noted the past tense, the slight burr in her voice, and without any doubt of her honesty he had reached into his pocket and handed her his house key,

 

“I get back from work at 3 o’clock and don’t worry about the woman who may come in and light the fire or cook the meal, I shall explain to her when I get home.”

 

That was to be the first time he would see the amber sparks glow in the dark  of her eyes, she clutched hold of the key to her chest and followed him to the house, where they parted, he to go to his work and she to commence her own.

 

 

“Tell me how you got to be here …” he had asked her that evening as they ate the meal she had prepared, for Mrs Jackson had taken umbrage and stormed off in a huff rather than be supplanted by this thin slip of a girl.

 

“Because you gave me your key.” she replied with a slight smile and they had laughed together, companionably and warmly.

 

“Tell me about yourself, that’s what I really meant.” he said and persuaded her to take the last bread roll.

 

“My mother was the daughter of -” she paused and glanced warily at him “of a woman from the Leni Lenape tribe, they dwell on the Delaware River where the Dutch built New Amsterdam.” she looked at him again to see if he had displayed any distaste at this disclosure, but he had continued to eat in his customary slow manner, “and her father had been a man who liked to live with the Delaware, but I do not know where he came from, no one spoke of it.  My mother was very lovely and her name was Mary.   My father was a Scot from Dundee, and an officer in the Black Watch regiment.   He was killed several years ago and later my mother also died.”

 

“So what brought you to Boston?”

 

“I wanted to come here, my father had spoken of it often and promised my mother that he would bring her here.  I thought I would come here and achieve   -” she stopped and shook her head, then wiped away tears, “Well, anyway, “ she lowered her voice a little, “I was passing your house the other day and heard you play your violin.  It was so beautiful that it made me cry.  I wanted to be near where that music was …”

 

He looked at her and then lowered his eyes for his thoughts were on her beauty, and how terrible it would be now to lose her now that she was found.  He had to think for a moment, just sit there quietly and think, about what she had just said and then he had said simply

 

“I love music.”

 

But his heart had already told him that he loved her.

 

 

So now they were wed, and he could take her to live with him in his house, away from the tavern where she slept the nights before walking to his house to cook and clean for him.  Now she was his wife and the future lay all before them…

 

Chapter 11

 

Once Hoss had got his concerns about the saplings off his chest and come to some arrangement regarding them with his father, he decided it was time to get to bed.  Ben went to his big leather chair and with a long sigh stretched out in it, reached once again for his pipe and began to puff contentedly ceiling wards. 

 

“Have you found him yet?”

 

Adam started, he had been so engrossed in reading a letter that  his father’s voice broke in upon him like a clap of thunder, he smiled and rose to his feet

 

“No, not a sign.  Here’s a letter tucked in among the Cartwright papers though …”  he perched onto the corner of the low table, and glanced at Ben with a smile, before his eyes returned to the letter, “It’s dated 1705 from Pennsylvania :

 

“My dear parents,

 

I was very saddened to hear of the death of Grandmother Jane, and know that she will be a sad loss to you both.   I think of her often as she was my dearest friend and comfort before I met my dear Charles.

We are now living in quarters here, in Pennsylvania, and how quaint it all is here, and how different from  home.  

 

I see many native Indians here, something that was not common back home, and sometimes I feel quite afraid of them, but Charles tells me that they are good friends and fought alongside the English when there was the fighting taking place against the Dutch some years ago.

 

But I wanted you to know my very good news … Charles and I have a son, and his name is Jonathan.   He was born in January of this year.  He is a healthy child …””

 

“And?”

 

“And that’s all, there isn’t anything left, the other page has obviously been mislaid.” 

 

“So, who was Charles ?   Remind me again?”

 

“According to the bible record he married Jessica Laurence in 1703 and he must have taken her away from Ipswich with him -”  he rose to his feet and returned slowly to the table, deep in thought.

 

“It still irritates you that you can’t see the real people behind those letters, doesn’t it?” Ben smiled, even as the smoke trickled in a blue plume from his nostrils.

 

“Yes, I guess so.  We get just snatches, little glimpses of their lives … it’s quite sad to never know all the important things in between, like, why did he have to take her from Ipswich?  Where did he come from ?”   he pulled out his chair and sat down, pursed his lips in the familiar pout  that summed up his frustration.

 

Ipswich, Massachusetts in the year 1703

 

“It’s Charles.  He’s come back.”

 

Jessica’s voice rose in excitement and she stopped hanging out of the casement window to run down the stairs to open the door, her face was pink  with her delight at seeing him again, and Jane laughed to herself at watching her grand daughter doing a little jig of impatience on the doorstep.

 

She thought back to the first time they had met Charles Abbott, and how he had charmed them all with his handsome looks, his deep resonant voice and assured manner.   During their first meal together he had told them a little of himself and his family, how they had come from England and settled in Amesbury, although it was first known as Salisbury New Town, but when it was separated formally in 1666*  they were already living on the opposite side of the Powwow River and remained settled there.

 

Ship building was one of the main industries in the area and the Damaris had been built in the local shipyards.  He had told them about the 90ft drop in the Powwow River falls, which was an impressive feature of their area, and of the ferry that went from the town to Merimac. 

 

“So, Charles, what exactly do you do for a living?” James had finally asked as they had settled in front of the big fire and relaxed a while after a substantial meal.

 

“I’m a seaman, sir.  The Damaris is still a prime ship, after all, and mercantile trading is life blood for our community.  I sail all over Europe -” he glanced over at Jessie who was sitting demurely by the window, sewing some needlepoint as though her life depended upon it.  “There are some wonderful places one sees on these voyages.”

 

“And you came all this way to Ipswich on a whim?” Ann asked, glancing over at her mother in law with a mischievous twinkle in her eye,

 

“Partly,” he replied, “And also out of curiosity.   When I have time for it, I like to travel through the colonies and see what things of beauty we possess here that are not available in Europe.” and he cast a thoughtful glance over at Jessie.

 

Whether or not she was conscious of his attention she did not indicate, although a faint blush was just discernible beneath the modest collar of her dress.

 

 

“Jessica - may I call you Jessica?”

 

She turned and looked at him with a slight frown on her brow, and her hair dishevelled from getting it entangled with some briars when she was fruit picking.

 

“Certainly, sir,” she nodded and hoped that the stain of some of the fruit wasn’t too obvious around her mouth, she caught at a loose strand of hair and tucked it behind her ear, “Are you enjoying your visit, sir?”

 

“Much more than I thought possible,” he laughed and took the basket from her hand, looked at her and smiled, “Here -” he picked a strawberry and carried it to her mouth, which she laughingly accepted, “Jessica - I have to leave today, I had only so long to indulge my whims after all, and - and yet I am loathe to leave because -”

 

“Because?”

 

“Because of you.”

 

“Oh, why, sir?  Have I caused you some - problem?” she blushed, and lowered her eyes as a modest maiden should under such circumstances, or, so she had been told.

 

“Yes, you have caused me some problem, and come, Jessica, don’t play the coquette with me, I know you already too well.” he took hold of her free hand in his and set down the basket, while with his other hand he took hold of her chin and brought her face up to meet his, he smiled, “You do like strawberries, don’t you?”

 

“Oh dear, is it that obvious?” she said,

 

“Yes, very -” he lowered his face to hers, “I like them too -” he whispered and gently kissed her lips.

 

 

That had been the start of their romance.  A realisation of love, heady and sweet, as sweet as strawberries that had been warmed by the sun, and as delicate and fragile as poppies dozing under sunlight.   Each time he returned to her, their love deepened, he sought her out and woo’d her, and she, despite herself, realised that she loved him, and whatever assets she possessed she would gladly deposit at his feet.

 

In the year 1703 Charles Abbott took his Jessica to be his lawful wedded wife, and removed her from Ipswich, in the county of Essex in Massachusetts and took her to his own home in Amesbury.   Within the year they had moved from Amesbury to Pennsylvannia where Jessica awaited the birth of their first born son.

 

Boston in the year 1710

 

Morag Stoddard was born in a bright sunlit room in her parents home on a May day in 1710.   She was Abel and Una’s fifth child, their third daughter, but only the second girl to survive as her little sister born in 1708 had died only days after her birth.

 

She resembled her father, slightly built, pale eyed, nondescript colour hair, and her complexion was sallow.  For some days it had seemed unlikely that she would survive but she struggled on each hour until eventually, after a month, she began to thrive.  She was their last child to be born.

 

As Abel sat to write a new composition for the school concert that year, he basked in the warmth of the family home.  His wife, well, Una had grown more beautiful each year, and despite their loss of one child, the remaining four brought them intense pleasure. 

 

William had been the first born, arriving within a year of their marriage and a sturdy, strong little boy.    He was followed by Hamish, in the year 1705, who had the strong build of the Sutherlands and the love of music from the Stoddards, Mary had arrived next with black hair like Una’s and a quick temper that turned from laughter to tears so quickly that Una called her Quicksilver, and eventually along came Morag.

 

Blessings - Abel smiled in contentment and carefully signed his name at the bottom of the page.  Years later his descendent, a young man with a love of music, Una’s high cheekbones, and dark hair, and a rich baritone voice, would find a copy of the music nestling in among other papers that brought with them a link to his past.

 

 

Chapter 12

 

The picture of a young couple with two small children was nestled within the pages of the Prophet Isaiah, and for some minutes Adam looked intently at the picture before turning it to see the inscription at the back:

 

‘To dear mother and father

  Pennslyvania 1711 

Charles, Jessica, Jonathan and James’

 

The young man in the picture wore the uniform of an officer in the English navy, from the epaulets and braiding Adam assumed he was a Lieutenant or in that line of ranking, for the uniform was old fashioned, even though the young man wore it with a pride and upright bearing.

 

“What have you found here?”

 

He offered up the picture to his father, smiled and was about to make some quip about poor Isaiah had obviously been neglected in the bible reading when Ben, having removed the pipe from his mouth nodded and sighed,

 

“Yes, I remember this picture well, I often wondered who they were, my father was not particularly forthcoming about them.”

 

“They make a handsome couple don’t they?”

 

“Very handsome.”  Ben returned the picture and looked at the papers strewn over the table, the open bible, “Found young David again yet?”

 

“Well, not really, perhaps he’s lurking about in the Book of Psalms or Revelation.” Adam  said smugly.

 

……………..

 

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania in the year 1733

 

Tamar Sutton was not the most beautiful girl in the family of Suttons, but she was intelligent and quiet.   Even in the year 1733 the Quaker influence of the colony’s founder still had a strong influence on many of the English colonists, even if they did not claim to be members of the religion.

 

In 1681 Charles II of England had granted William Penn a charter*  for what would become this thriving community.  Penn, a serious minded and humble man, bought the land from the local Lenape even though he was in possession of  a Royal Charter.  To him, it made far more sense to make a Treaty of Friendship with the Lenape Chief, Tammany* than to rely on a piece of paper from a far distant King.

 

Perhaps due to the persecution he himself had experienced Penn desired that all living in the colony exercise extreme tolerance, and with this optimistic hope in mind, he called the city,  Philadelphia (brotherly love).   Being sited on the Delaware river the city would serve as a port, and it thrived as more and more settlers crowded in around the river, making it an important trading centre.

 

Charles Abbott had seen the practical wisdom of moving there soon after his son, James, had been born and although it was a struggle initially, he soon established himself and prospered.  Jessie, however, longed to be home in Ipswich, when she lost two infant girls between the times of her sons births, and then another daughter shortly after their move to Philadelphia she went into a steady decline and depression.   It was to no avail that Charles prospered, for his business called for him to be absent for lengthy periods of time, and upon his return he would find her sunk further into her depression.

 

Their love for one another, however, never weakened.  Perhaps the guilt Jessie felt upon inflicting her misery upon her beloved husband pushed her further into the misery she was experiencing.   When Tamar Sutton began to cast her eyes at Jonathan Abbott, Jessica resigned herself to another loss and sunk even further into the black hole of despair.

 

James Abbott  had never been close to his mother.  The fault was no ones, it was a tragedy created by the deaths of his three sisters and the misery that created, leaving Jessica emotionally crippled and unable to give to the warm hearted little boy the love he so needed.   He grew to be wilful and strong minded and as soon as he could he ran away to sea.   James chose to join the English Navy, and at the age of 15 left Philadelphia to serve where he felt he could be of better service.

 

“I was thinking of going to Ipswich, to visit my family,” Jessica said quietly one morning as they sat together at the big table overlooking the garden, “They are growing old and frail now,  I don’t know if I could bear not to see them again before they died.”

 

Charles looked at her and noticed how the light played upon her features, there was just the faintest tracery of lines starting to etch into her fine skin, but she was still beautiful, very beautiful.   They had been to Ipswich twice during their married life, the last time when James had been a small child.   He knew that had been some while ago now and could see the fairness of her request, he rose to his feet and pulled up a stool to sit at  her side, he took her hand in his and kissed her fingers,

 

“Do you really want to go, beloved?”

 

“Yes, I worry about them so much, Charles.  They are old and it frightens me to think I may never see them again.”

 

“Very well, we shall go.” he reached out a hand and stroked back her hair from her face, that silly curl that always fell loose

 

“Both of us?  Oh Charles, that would be wonderful.  And Jonathan - could he come too?  Mother would be so happy to see him again.”

 

Charles smiled, nodded and agreed. Yes, mother would be proud to see Jonathan again and equally proud to see James as well, no doubt. 

 

Jonathan however protested that he could not possibly leave Philadelphia for Ipswich, his marriage to Tamar was going to take place that year and he had no intention of leaving.  Perhaps it had been Jessica’s last hope of keeping her son close to her side for a little while longer, but Jonathan persisted that he was now a man, he should be married not traipsing around the colony with his mother like some errant school boy.

 

In 1733 Tamar Sutton married Jonathan Abbott, and a week later Charles and Jessica left Philadelphia to visit Ipswich.  They were never to return.

 

Boston in the year 1733

 

“Isn’t he handsome, mother?”

 

Una Stoddard looked down at the infant snuggled in her arms and then smiled up at her son, yes, the boy was handsome, just like his father and nothing like his grandfather.  She held the new born carefully, almost afraid to hold him too tightly in case he would break.  Crowding around her Mary and Morag coo’d and ooh’d and declared that little Hugh was the handsomest child they had ever seen.  In her bed Isabel Stoddard listened to the admiring sounds and smiled herself to sleep, she had done her duty and now she was - well - just so tired.

 

Life for Una had not quite turned out to be the way of all blessings as Abel had hoped.  Certainly all his life long he had had nothing but blessings come his way, but a particularly unpleasantly cold winter had struck the colony bringing with it a very virulent influenza and Abel, never the strongest of men, had succumbed to its effect.  He had  returned home from school one day, mounted the stairs to his room and taken to his bed.   He had been happy all his life long, he even died happy if that were possible with the effects of the illness, but he never imagined that his family would have to suffer as they were about to do so.

 

The house came with the position as Music Teacher at the school, so Una had to find a new home for herself and her four children.  She took with her all their treasured possessions, and Abels’ sheet music of all his compositions.    For a while they survived as a happy family unit as she sold off one treasure after another, and when she realised that the selling of their possessions was more soul destroying that she had realised, she found an even smaller home, at a cheaper rent, asked Siobhan to care for the four children, and found herself work by indentured service to a wealthy landowner.  Indenturing was as close to slavery of a person as it was morally permissible by law and church, it provided barely enough to live upon.

 

She did ask her sister in law if it were possible for her to share the work load in the tavern, but Siobhan now made it quite obvious that she really had no desire to have anything to do with her brother’s widow, a woman with native Indian blood in her veins was not exactly ‘desired company’.  She did condescend to care for the children for a wage.  

 

At age 9  William worked alongside his mother, but  by the age of 19 his enterprise and energy had brought him to the attention of Mr Belshaw, and his indentureship ended when he was placed in a good paying position, by the age of 29 he was Belshaws Manager with a good income, married and settled.  A self educated man he had a head for figures and an ability to organise labour, Belshaw found him indispensable. The more he accomplished the more he prospered.

 

Hamish was a handsome strongly built young man  and took to the sea.   He had a love for music and for reading, but  he loved the sea.   He returned home one day with a young woman in tow,  Isabel Murray.   They were married in 1730.

 

It seemed to Una that life could not be better now, that her little house was now not so little and she could take her ease at last.  As she sat in her son’s parlour she marvelled at the little infant in her arms, the perfection of fingers and tiny finger nails, the long dark lashes and the black hair.  Oh he was handsome, just like his father, and nothing at all like his grandfather Abel.

Perhaps, who knew, this child would become a wonderful musician like her husband had been, he would create music that would make people weep as well.

 

Ipswich in Massachusetts in the year 1733

 

Ann Laurence was more than pleased to see  her daughter and son in law again, her greeting had been effusive and warm;  James Laurence had been more distant, but in had always been in his nature to be less tolerant than his wife, he had been a harsh disciplinarian as a father and Jessica, upon her return found herself noticing her father’s coldness more than she had ever done before.  He was abrupt in his speech, and cold and reproving towards Ann who was a warm and devoted wife to him.

 

“Why do you let him speak to you like that?” Jessica asked her one morning, “No man should talk to his wife in that manner?”

 

“Shouldn’t they?” Ann replied vaguely, and looked at her daughter rather curiously, “Jessica, you have to realise that not every marriage is a love match, like yours and Charles’.”

 

Jessica had been crushed by that reply, the thought that her mother had succumbed to the oppression of such a tyrant for so long, had borne him children and been patient and loving, recalled to her mind the times she had thought about the unfairness of a woman’s worldly goods being handed down to the man.  She remembered and now understood why, as a young girl, she had been so strongly influenced to feel about such matters.

 

She grieved for her mother, for the youth and joys that her mother had lost, for the lack of love she had never known.  It sent her into another deep spiral of despondency.

 

Chapter 13

 

Philadelphia in the year 1753

 

Jonathan  Abbott  paced the floor of the big room as he read his brother’s letter and once he paused in his reading as though to gather his thoughts before he recommenced  his careful perusal of his brothers latest news.

 

Tamar Abbott watched him from her chair by the fire and wondered what  it was that had caused her husband to knit his brow so furiously, for the jaw to tauten so, it was at times like this that she could see how close in resemblance her husband was to his father, Charles Abbott.

 

As her mind touched upon Charles’ memory she sighed, and set down her needlework to think back to the time twenty years ago when Charles and Jessica had left their home, only a week after she and Jonathan had married.  Who could possibly have imagined that they would never be seen by them again?

 

Twenty years?   It hardly seemed to have been so long ago.   Charles and Jessica had left to spend a summertime with Ann and  James Laurence, and had never returned.   News had been slow to arrive but it had none the less been devastating.   They had left, in company with several others returning to Boston, when they were attacked by a band of hot headed Indians from the Osewega tribe and left for dead on the road.

 

For some time the tribes living along the borders and within the colonies had began to exhibit some restlessness, their unrest agitated by the influences put upon them by the French colonists who were growing constantly more aggressive in their claims on Virginian territory.   Charles, in his attempts to protect the women in the company had died heroically, but for Jessica it had meant a slow lingering slide into mental oblivion, nursed by her mother, until she had died a few weeks later.

 

Her son, James, had married a girl from the Ipswich colony and took over management of the Laurence’s plantations in Massachusetts, and it seemed, to Tamar at least, that any news from him during the past twenty years was constantly about the incursions of the French and their Indian allies upon their borders.

 

She was about to open her mouth and ask her husband what was wrong when there came a commotion from the front  hallway, the door was flung open and their youngest daughter, Phyllis catapulted into the room,

 

“Mother.  Father.   Come quickly, Rachel has had an accident -”

 

Hand on heart Tamar rose from her chair, the needlework fell to her feet and was forgotten as she made a dash to the doorway, Jonathan had stepped forward but paused as his daughter was brought into the room, carried in the arms of a tall young man,  wearing no hat and slightly dishevelled.

 

“Excuse me, sir, madam - but your daughter -?”

 

“Here, here - put her here, please” Tamar cried and indicated a comfortable chaise longue upon which Rachel was set, quite gently, by the stranger who stepped back for the mother to reach her daughter’s side.

 

“I believe that she is not greatly harmed.” he said reassuringly, “I managed to stop the horse -”

 

“The horse?” Jonathan cried, “What horse?”

 

“A horse, Papa, it was running loose -”  Phyllis exclaimed, her eyes red rimmed from the tears she had shed as she had trailed all the way home behind Rachel and her rescuer.

 

“It had obviously been scared by something -” the young man said with a smile, and he raised his hand towards Jonathan, “I’m sorry, I seem to have lost my hat - my name is Daniel,  Daniel Cartwright.”

 

“Mr Cartwright,” Jonathan bowed slightly and shook the proffered hand, “Hatless or not, you are more than welcome, and please  receive my deepest thanks for your help.  I’m afraid Rachel has a tendency to get into scrapes.”

 

Daniel smiled more broadly now, his dark eyes twinkled and he turned towards the young woman who was now opening her eyes and rubbing her head as a result of the smelling salts stuck under her nose by her mother,

 

“Ouch, my head hurts -” she moaned.

 

“Oh Rachel, Rachel -” Phyllis promptly burst into further tears, “You’re alright, you’re alright.” she sobbed in relief.

 

“Of course I’m alright.” Rachel rubbed her head and blinked rather rapidly about her, she smiled at her mother, then at her father and then looked at the young man who was standing looking anxiously at her.  “Oh dear, are you alright?”

 

“I’m very well, thank you.” his smile broadened, dimples showed in his tanned cheeks.

 

“I nearly knocked you over -”

 

“You could have done nothing else but that in order not to have been trampled down by that horse.” he declared gallantly and a lock of black hair fell across his brow which he impatiently pushed back.

 

“I’ve got it -” a voice declared from the doorway, “I found it for you,” and the second daughter of Jonathan and Tamar Abbott hurried into the room bearing aloft her trophy, a rather battered hat.

 

“Thank you, mistress, I thought I had lost it forever”  he laughed lightly, it came easily from him, deep within his throat.

 

“Joanna, ring the bell, get some water for your sister -”

 

“No, mother, it’s alright, I’m quite alright -”

 

“That’s quite enough, child, Joanna, do as I say.”

 

The three daughters exchanged glances and with a collective sigh, Joanna did as she was told, while Tamar and Jonathan turned their attention to their uninvited guest,

 

“Mr Cartwright, please sit down - what can we do to thank you for helping Rachel?” Tamar asked in the same tone of voice she would have used had Rachel been having trouble with her school homework and he had sorted out some algebraic problem.

 

“Thank you, Madam, you are very kind, but to be honest I can’t stay any longer, I am already late for an appointment.” Daniel looked towards Rachel, and then at Jonathan, “If I may have your permission, sir, to call again to see  how the young lady is recovering.”

 

“Of course -” Jonathan nodded, “Oh, my name is Abbott, Jonathan Abbott and this is my wife, Tamar, my daughters - Rachel, Joanna and Phyllis.”

 

Daniel bowed his head politely to them all in turn, he didn’t say anything about the fact that he already knew only too well exactly who they were, which was more than could be said about them, regarding him.

 

Boston in the year 1753

 

Hugh Stoddard had lived up to his grandmothers hopes for he had grown into a handsome man, tall, broad of shoulder, slim waisted, with near black hair and dark eyes, which many attributed to his beautiful grandmother Una.   He was intelligent and perceptive with a deep voice that was like a warm caress to the ears, and when he sang people stopped to listen with attention and respect.

 

His grandmother had lived to see him mature into a man much respected despite his youth, and had died content, being buried in the family plot beside her dearly beloved Abel.    Her daughters, Mary and Morag, both married and settled into the responsibilities of family life beyond Boston.   William  continued to prosper, and settled into a more ‘elite’ area of the city.

 

Life, however, was not a settled one for the colonists, particularly those who lived near the French borders.   At the end of the 1740’s the French had decided to stake out their main claim on their colonies.   Their claims on the territories along the Ohio River conflicted with those of the English colonies, particularly the Virginian planters who had been given a Royal patent to survey the same territory.   From Erie, Pennsylvania, all the way through to the mouth of the Mississippi they began to build a chain of impressive forts.

 

“What are you reading there?”

 

Hugh lowered the newsheet and turned to glance at his friend, Owen Morgan.   Morgan’s family had emigrated and arrived in Boston when Hugh had been four years old and Owen was six.  They had formed an unholy duo, creating mischief wherever they went but seemingly able to charm the birds from the trees because no one could ever recall either of them receiving any dire punishment for their trouble.

 

While Hugh was tall, Owen was short and stocky, with the typical dark features of his Celtic forebears.  Even though he had lived in Boston since the age of four he still had the soft  lilt of the Welsh accent, kept alive by the fact that his family covering several generations were all crowded into the one house with him.   Merthyr Tydfil was many miles away, and Evan Morgan, Owen’s father, and his father, Dai, may have left the coal mines of mid-Glamorgan far  back, but the songs and poems, the stories and the history of their forebears still made the rafters of their home ring of an evening.

 

The two lads had matured, were now full grown, they shared a grin and a wink of the eye and their feet seemed instinctively to follow the same route, to the tavern.

 

“Well now, what were you reading and showing so much interest in too?”  Owen demanded, his hands in his pockets, and his dark hair standing, as always, up on end as though he had just had a terrible fright.

 

“About the fighting, of course.”

 

“Fighting?”  Owen frowned, and shook his head, “Nothing you can do about it.”

 

“I know that -”

 

“You’re not thinking of doing anything stupid, are you, boy?”

 

“No, not at all.  Are you?”

 

“Chut, as if?  Would I now?”

 

They pushed open the doors of the tavern and the thick warm air embraced them, the smell of tobacco, smoke, drink and body odours covered them like a blanket.

 

“Do you think we should enlist?” Hugh asked having paid his money for two tankards of beer.

 

“No, not at all.”

 

“Why not?   They need men -”

 

“Heavens, man, listen to yourself?  You have a family here, don’t you know?”

 

“Of course I know, are y ou daft?”

 

“Sounds to me that you are -”  Owen buried his face into the tankard and gulped down the beer, “Phew, why do we drink in this place, the beers awful.”

 

“Well, I’m told they’re some kind of relation to us -” Hugh muttered, and doodled patterns on the table from the spilt beer.

 

“Anyway, I thought you were planning to court that  Elinor Morris, or have you changed your mind?”

Hugh shook his head, he hadn’t thought about Elinor Morris since her father had chased him down the alley behind her house after finding him throwing pebbles up at the window, unfortunately for him, the wrong window.

 

“I don’t know, I doubt if she will give me another look now her father keeps giving me the evil eye.”

 

Owen just grinned and shrugged.  He sighed and looked around him, and after a few moments of silence had passed between them, during which both were listening to the conversation going on around them, he leaned forward towards his friend,

 

“From the talk hereabouts not one man thinks this fighting will come to anything, the British Government is sending in more and more men to fight.  There won’t be anything for us to do.”

 

“Us?”   Hugh grinned impishly.

 

“Can’t leave you to have all the fun, can I?   If you were to join up, I’d be coming too.” he drained his tankard and set it down on the table, “Not that we will, you’ll see, it’ll be all over soon as winking.”

 

 

 

Chapter 14

 

Adam stretched to ease the kink in his back before he leaned forward to turn up the flame in the oil lamp.  He frowned slightly at the papers and various things strewn across the table and then looked over at his father who was looking thoughtfully at what appeared to be a letter in his hand,

 

“Found anything  interesting?”

 

“Could be a clue to our missing ancestor.”

 

“Which one?” Adam replied laconically, “There’s a host of them d’you realise?  I mean, where did this Charles Abbott come from for a start?  What happened to the sister in Boston who disappeared and was never heard of again -”

 

“Which one?”

 

“Exactly?” he ran a finger around his collar and sighed, “To be honest, Pa, we’re getting more questions than answers.    It‘s really annoying me”   and he gave a soft chuckle as though laughing at himself for taking everything so seriously.

 

“Well, this could answer one of them -” Ben replied, handing over the paper in his hand and sucking harder on the stem of his pipe.

 

“What is it?  Oh - dated 1753, Ipswich.” he glanced at his father, “But I thought -”

 

“Read on -” Ben smiled.

 

Boston in the year 1753

 

Once the door had closed on the stranger, Jonathan picked  up his letter and began to read from where he had left off.   Tamar was fussing around her daughter and checking the state of the egg swelling on her forehead and the swelling of her ankle, it became a topic of discussion as to whether or not to get the doctor between her and her three daughters while Jonathan read on unheeded.

 

Once again he re-read some sections, hummed and hawed, shook  his head and declared several things as being impossible, but no one took any notice of him so he sat down in the chair to read it all through from beginning to end more carefully.

 

With the hubbub surrounding Rachel’s injury beginning to get on his nerves he rang a bell which was on the desk at his elbow, which gained immediate silence and a maid hurrying into the room to await orders.  He cleared his throat, asked the maid to bring in coffee and then turned to the four females who were waiting with some impatience to find out what was wrong.

 

He stood up and raised the letter in the air

 

“Is it to do with your letter, dear?” Tamar asked, her blue eyes widening in enquiry.

 

“You are, as always, very perceptive, my dear.” came the reply couched unfortunately in rather sarcastic tones.

 

The daughters looked at one another, while the mother sat down in her vacated chair and waited to be told more.  Jonathan, a kindly man but not prone to patience, surveyed each one of them thoughtfully, and admitted to himself that the girls were pretty, an asset to him and to Tamar, but not one of them had the bold dark brown eyes of his own father, nor the dark colouring, each of them had blonde hair varying from flaxen to corn coloured, resembling the Sutton family to an almost depressing degree.  He hemmed loudly,

 

“First of all - a question.”

 

“Oh good,” Phyllis sat down with a smile, she was 11 years of age and slightly precocious, “I like your questions, Papa, especially if I know the answer.”

 

“If you know the answer to this one I shall give  you a reward,” her father replied generously which was greeted with applause from Phyllis and Joanna, who lived in hopes, being 13 years of age she was more sceptical about her fathers offer.

 

“Now, think carefully,” he eyed them all, including Tamar, which wasn’t always the best idea because she sometimes fell asleep while thinking, “Who did that young man remind you of ?”

 

“The young man who just brought Rachel home?” Tamar asked hopefully and just to make sure of the facts before she engaged her brain.

 

“Was there another?” Jonathan asked in tones dripping sarcasm.

 

He could see that they were all thinking furiously, they stared up at the ceiling or into the fire, eyes half closed and brows furrowed, mouths open or not, but certainly pursed.  He began to stride the floor, the letter rustling in between his fingers,

 

“Well?  Well?” he suddenly shouted so that it sounded liked two gun shots exploding in the room, startling them all, the cups and saucers on the tray the maid was bringing in rattled alarmingly.

 

“He looks familiar, but I swear I’ve never seen him before.” Rachel protested, hoping that her father was not hinting at some clandestine meeting on her part with the stranger.

 

“I thought he looked like you, Papa,” Phyllis said innocently, “Only thinner -”

 

“And younger -” Joanna added.

 

He rustled the papers and straightened his back,

 

“I’ll read you what your Uncle James has written here -” he glanced at them all over the edge of the paper to make sure they were paying attention, “” Now, Jonathan -”

 

“Are you reading the letter now , dear?”

 

“If I may?” came the sarcastic reply.

 

“Now, Jonathan, a few days ago we were faced with quite a puzzle when a young man arrived on our doorstep asking  if any Cartwrights lived here.  Of course, there hasn’t been a Cartwright by name living here for nearly a hundred years I believe, so when he looked rather disappointed I assured him that the same family had lived here since the place had been established in the previous century. ‘Yes’ he replied, ‘by someone called Francis Cartwright.’     I immediately sensed  a problem here, and agreed somewhat reluctantly that  our forebears had borne the name Cartwright but we were now Abbotts.

 

“But,’ he then said, ‘there was once a Joseph Cartwright here, who was killed in an accident?’  I didn’t know what he was talking about and said so quite clearly.   He tried to ingratiate himself further but must have realised I was not going to brook any nonsense from him.  He left looking very disgruntled but - to be honest, Jonathan - he had a very familiar look about him.

 

‘ Later I was approached by Parson Grieves who mentioned that a young man by the name Daniel Cartwright had been asking about our family.   I believe this said person is now on his way to see you.  Be careful, Jonathan, he could be making claims to be he has no right.  I know how generous and open handed - ‘ er - um - well, we won’t go into that any further, irrelevant.” Jonathan folded the letter and looked once again at his assembly of girls, “Well, what do you think of that?”

 

“I thought you read it marvellously,” Tamar said unblinkingly, “Just like a story book,” she smiled at the girls who all dutifully nodded agreement, “I’ll pour the coffee now, shall I?”

 

“Father, I think Uncle James is right,” Rachel said solemnly, “I think that young man could well be related to us.”

 

“Ah -” Jonathan brightened, he pounced towards Rachel “What  makes you say so?”

 

“The old bible has a list of all the names, dates of birth and deaths, doesn’t it?”  she said slowly, fingering the tassel on her jacket, “There was a Joseph Cartwright, and he was killed in an accident. He had a son called David who never died - I mean - there’s no date recorded of his death.  If I remember rightly, there was a legend in the family about someone who went to sea and never came back.”

 

“People do get lost at sea,” Tamar said handing her husband some coffee and rather absent mindedly forgetting to let go of the saucer so there was a minor tug of war before Jonathan could take his drink to the safety o f his desk, “I had a great  Uncle who was drowned at sea once.”

 

“Only once, Mama?” Phyllis asked and giggled behind her hand as her mothers blank features indicated that she was having to think about that -.

 

…………………….

 

Daniel Cartwright was surprised at the welcome he received several days later when he called to enquire about the invalid, a large bunch of flowers in his hand and a new hat in the other.   Jonathan greeted him cordially enough and offered him a seat, while a maid relieved the visitor of the flowers and the hat.

 

“Mr Cartwright -”  Jonathan sat down and surveyed the younger man thoughtfully,  “I believe you paid my brother a visit recently?”

 

“That’s true.” Daniel nodded, and sighed, “I was under the impression that -” he paused now and bit down on his bottom lip, his dark brows furrowed across the tanned skin and then he shrugged, “ I thought he would be able to help me with some enquiries.”

 

“Enquiries about what exactly?”

 

“Family, sir.”  he looked directly into Jonathans face and the other man looked down, stared at his boots and bit HIS bottom lip, “As I am sure you are aware…”

 

“Yes, of course,”  Jonathan stroked his chin, and leaned back into the chair, “What enquiries - I mean - what exactly was it you wanted to know?”

 

“It’s rather awkward -”  Daniel murmured,  “ You see, my Grandfather died only a few years ago.  His name was David Cartwright.”  he glanced up in time to see  Jonathan’s neck redden, “He was an old man, but for as long as I can remember he would tell me the story about his father, Benjamin Cartwright, who was the son of an Englishman called Francis.  He told me how life had been hard for them coming to the colonies, and how they had settled in a place called by the native Indians Agawum, later known as Ipswich.”

 

“Are you claiming to be descended from this Francis Cartwright?”

 

“Undoubtedly, sir.   With as much right to the claim as yourself I should think,” came the reply given with some force.

 

“Tell me about your Grandfather - David.”

 

“He went to the Latin School in Boston, but unfortunately got involved with rather a wrong crowd, if his Grandfather, Benjamin, had not taken steps to remove him from there he would have been expelled.”  Daniel frowned thoughtfully, “I’m afraid my Grandfather was never repentant of his youthful deeds, he was sent off to sea in a ship called the Demaris but ran off as soon as he could when it docked in Holland.”

 

“Go on -”

 

“He led a rather wild life until he decided that he had quite enjoyed the sea after all, so he signed on for a ship going to the West Indies where he met my Grandmother, Carolyn.  My father, Jack, was born there, as was my Uncle Henry.”

 

“And yourself?”

 

“My father and Uncle are both seamen, and while my Uncle preferred to stay in the West Indies my father settled here when he married my mother, Ann Sheldon.   I was born in Maryland, 22 years ago.”

 

Jonathan rose to his feet and began to pace the floor, he pursed his lips and folded his hands behind his back before turning to look at Daniel who remained calmly seated.

 

“You could have found all this out by looking through various records, of which, I am sure some exist.”

 

“Indeed, I’m sure they do.”

 

“What papers do you have to prove your claim?”

 

“I didn’t think I would have to prove my claim.” Daniel rose to his feet now and looked at the other man kindly, “Claim is perhaps, a strong word. I only wished to make an acquaintance with my family.   Curiousity perhaps - call it what you will - my father isn’t that much interested, he’s happy in his own life, but my Grandfather and I, well, we  had a special bond.  He would talk to me for hours about how things had been in Agawum, and how happy everything was until his father was killed.”

 

“Do you know how he was killed?”  Jonathan asked quietly.

 

“Shot in the head in a hunting accident, by a man called Jason …Jason …” he paused, “Grandfather was never very good at remembering names, he could only recall that the young man committed suicide and that not long afterwards he was bundled off to school in Boston.”

 

“Yes, the young man couldn’t bear the consequences of what had happened,” Jonathan sighed, “He cut his own throat - .”   he frowned, “You could have found that out from old Parson Grieves, he likes to talk when he’s had a few tankards under his belt.”

 

Daniel smiled and nodded,

 

“Yes, true enough, I found that out -” 

 

“Then I could dismiss all that you have said as hearsay.”

 

“You could, sir.”  Daniel replied, “But as I said I didn’t come to make any claims on you.  My father is a good seaman, as am I, we do well for ourselves, we don’t need to make claims on relatives that seem reluctant to acknowledge us.”  he turned to go, and followed from the room by the older man.

 

“You must understand that -”

 

“I do understand,” Daniel said quietly, retrieving his hat from the smiling maid who dropped him a curtsey, “By the way, sir -” he paused then, picking up the bouquet of flowers as he did so, “You do not ask the significance of my name?”

 

“Cartwright?  I know the significance of that name.”

 

“I meant - my first name - Daniel?”

 

“I fail to understand what you mean …”   Jonathan’s voice trailed away

 

“My Grandfather said that when he was a boy he was looking through a big book, he thinks it was the bible, he saw his name and the name of another born on the same day.   He asked his mother who the other boy was, and what had happened to him.  It was his twin brother, Daniel, and he had died aged 3.   He said that made an impact on him …”

 

There was silence between them, after a moment Daniel handed Jonathan the flowers,

 

“Please give these to Mistress Rachel, with my compliments, I hope she is much improved.”

 

Jonathan stammered a thank you, took the flowers and watched as the tall young man was shown the door.  As it closed behind him Jonathan called to his manservant -

 

“Follow him, tell him that if he has time we would hope he will join us for dinner this evening.”

 

For some seconds he stood there, deep in thought, then he turned and went to the library where the big family bible stood, he turned the pages to where the family had traced their geneology and as he had expected found the names of two boys born in the year 1674, Daniel and David.

Chapter 15

 

 

“Here’s another letter -” Ben passed the faded yellow slip of paper to his son, who took it with a slight air of distraction, “Anything more on the Stoddards?”

 

Adam smiled and pointed to the dried relic of the floral bouquet before returning to read the letter,  he set it down and jotted down a note of his own

 

“The thing with Grandfather Stoddard is that although he has proven to be rather sentimental, in that he didn’t throw anything of this away, and even added to it, he didn’t keep a methodical record available.”

 

“Well,” Ben flourished his pipe in the air, “he never was very good at keeping the log book either, the truth of the matter is that Abel was a dreamer, although he would never have wanted anyone else to think that, probably Elizabeth was the only one who did know it.”

 

“Well, it’s not much help at the moment -” Abel Stoddard’s grandson muttered under his breath.

 

Philadelphia in the year 1755

 

“Dearest Rachel,

 

You can’t imagine how hard it was to leave you so soon after the birth of our dear son.   I pray that both you and he are well, and that he continues to thrive.  What a handsome little boy he is going to become, God keep him safe.  I pray also for you, dearest Rachel, and kiss your picture that I carry with me everywhere.

 

 The situation here at present is not good, although, having said that, dearest, I don’t want you to worry unduly.  I am far safer on board ship than the poor souls on the ground.  I have heard a whisper that it will not be long before there is a formal declaration of war between France and England.   We have captured several ships taking arms and supplies to Montcalm and the other French Officers at Lake George and Lake Complian, we have freed the men, but once war is declared that may no longer be the practice.

 

I can’t say more, my dear, about the current situation, except that we harass the French as best we can, so that we can prevent Montcalm from getting reinforcements, but I fear for the safety of the colonies for the English soldiers have no idea of what kind of fight this could become.  There is a terrible strong presence of Osage, Huron, and other Indians who are gathering in great numbers along the Delaware.  

 

I look forward so much to seeing you again very soon.

 

Your devoted husband, Daniel Cartwright.”

 

Scribbled in pencil at the back of the letter ;  ’Before sending this to  you, sweetheart, I have to tell you that my father was killed in action …D’

 

Albany in the year 1756

 

At the spot where the Monongahela and the Allegheny rivers met the English had built a fort, but in 1754 the French destroyed it and Fort Duquesne was built to replace it, and under a French flag.     Hostilities began, and a young Virginian by the name of George Washington took command of a small force against the French only to face defeat.  It left him and his fellow colonists ready for another fight.  He had a further six years conflict ahead of him.

 

The English Government  sent  soldiers to fight alongside the colonists and the allied Indians against the French and their allies. It  created in the hearts of the colonists a sudden awareness of their loyalties, for so long so far removed from their British roots and now fighting shoulder to shoulder with them for the lands that they now felt was theirs by birthright.

 

Hugh enlisted in the army and left  his pregnant wife, home and family to join the new British command under Lord Abercrombie in Albany.     The French Commander opposing them was a man the Colonists were to remember for years to come, his name was Montcalm.   While Abercrombie dithered about in Albany, Montcalm took bold action, and gained victories.

 

“Look, Owen,” the young man leaned against the wall of a house and wiped his brow, the sun was high and even the walls of the house seemed to burn from its heat, “you tell me now what point is there in remaining here?  It’s like we were flies pinned to the wall -”

 

“You mean you’re feeling like a fly pinned to the wall -” the other man smiled, his pale grey blue eyes twinkled, and they shared a laugh together.

 

“You have to admit that we haven’t achieved much, have we?”  Hugh said, straightening  himself up and looking around him, “Sometimes it seems as though there’s no war on at all, the days pass and we stay here -”

 

“Because there’s nothing else we can do.” Owen replied and joined his friend leaning against the wall.  

 

Together, and in silence, they watched as scarlet coated English soldiers of the Coldstream Guards marched past them, further along soldiers were being drilled by a loud mouthed R.S.M

 

“Pity them -” Owen muttered, “poor devils, they haven’t a clue as to what they’re up against.”

 

“I was talking to one of them the other day, said he was scared stiff when he saw his first Indian.  I said, wait until they come at you with their tomahawks and screams, you’ll think  you’re in hell.”

 

“What did he say to that?”

 

“He said he thought he was already.”

 

They shared a half sympathetic grin between them before watching the soldiers once more,

 

“They’ll do the best they can, but I don’t reckon their chances,” Owen now said slowly, “I’ve not been here long but long enough to have learned something about the way the Indians fight, and how to conduct myself in the wilderness yonder” he paused and glanced at his friend, “What are you thinking?”

 

“I am thinking of Elinor - sorry, Owen, my mind was wondering, and I couldn’t help but think of her.”  Hugh blushed a little now,  and looked away at the horizon, where the smoke rose from the chimneys of the sun kissed houses.

 

Owen said nothing to that, but turned his head away and looked in the opposite direction.  He saw a carriage pull up in front of the house commandeered by Abercrombie, the Officer in charge of the English forces, and watched as several officers stepped down and entered the house, followed by several Indian scouts who had been hanging around the building as though waiting for someone, obviously their patience had been rewarded.

 

“What do they find to talk about?” he murmured in his Welsh lilt and then turned to look at Hugh, “There isn’t much  you can do about it now, Hugh, you’ve just got to get on with the business at hand and leave thoughts of Elinor behind.”

 

“Easier said than done,” Hugh sighed.

 

Owen shrugged and returned his attention to the Officers’ accommodation.  He wondered if Hugh had ever realised how much he, Owen, actually loved Elinor himself.   Why, didn’t he worship the ground she walked upon?  A prettier looking girl and a sweeter tempered one he had never found, and he had loved her from the first moment he had seen her, even before Hugh had any rights to claim love of her. 

 

He should have told her then and there, all that time ago, how much he loved her, but then a girl of twelve is hardly likely to take seriously the protestations of love from a boy of the same age, although, perhaps, she would have kept it in consideration for when they had grown older.

 

Owen sighed, no, it wouldn’t have worked, as soon as Elinor had seen Hugh she had set her bonnet at him, and he, well, he had loved her as much.  Owen, with the soul of a poet and the blood of bards flowing through his veins, had stepped back, made no claims, only sworn to be a loyal friend to both of them.

 

He wondered what Hugh would have thought if he told him about the evening before they left, and how Elinor had sought him, Owen, out and with tears had begged him to care for Hugh, to make sure he was safe, to keep close and to make sure nothing, no one, would harm him, but that he would return safely to home, to his wife, and to his as yet unborn child.

 

“Seems like something is happening now, after all.” Hugh said loudly, his voice breaking through Owen’s thoughts, “They want us to muster up …”

 

Boston in the year 1756

 

Elinor Stoddards home was small and neat, the furniture and hangings were of the minimum, perhaps when Hugh returned home and returned to work there would be more money after all, her father had assured her that Hugh would get good wages for a good days work and being at sea, in her father’s own ship, would guarantee them security for time to come.

 

She sat by the window and looked out through the window at the harbour, gulls flew overhead and shrieked at one another, heralding the fishing boats were in.   Patrick Morris wasn’t into fishing he was more involved in mercantile, and, some whispered, that even involved the slave running business.

 

She bent her head and concentrated on her needlework, smocking the little garment that would be for her son or daughter.  This new life conceived so soon after the wedding hadn’t been planned, but was nevertheless welcome.  When her fears for Hugh became too great, she would think of the little one, and make her plans, as so many mothers had done in the years prior to her, she would run through the list of names for him or her, and think of all the changes that would make to their lives. 

 

She sighed now and set the needlework to one side.    The bouquet of flowers she had kept from her wedding was faded and dry,  the colours had blended into a background of subtle hues, no longer vibrant.   She picked the bouquet up and some petals fell to the ground … she looked at it thoughtfully and wondered if now was the time to throw it to one side, discard it, forget it. 

 

The wedding day had been so full of promise, the sun had shone, no clouds in the sky, and Hugh so handsome, and Owen by his side as she walked up the aisle and leaned  upon her fathers arm.  The flowers meant and reminded her of all the promise that day had contained.   She couldn’t discard them, it would be like closing a book on the most important moment of her life were she to do so.

 

Chapter 16

 

 

Philadelphia in the year 1757

 

The house gleamed in the light of a fading fall sun, shadows from the trees surrounding it seemed to embrace the building as though to warn any stranger approaching to beware in causing any harm to it, all in their embrace came within their protection.

 

It was, in fact, how he remembered it and as he approached the door he paused awhile to look around him, and to remember the very first time he had come to the house, carrying Rachel Abbott in his arms and looking down at her sweet face as he stood at the door.   Even as he raised his hand to knock it was thrown open and a woman stood before him, golden hair dishevelled and tears streaming down her face while her arms reached out to embrace him.

“I saw you coming, I was at the window, I saw you … oh Daniel, Daniel …” more tears, quite a few of them trickling down his own face as he held her tightly in his arms, “I knew it was you, my love, my darling.”

 

“Come, let’s go inside -” he whispered softly into her ear and gently led her into the vast hall, where others of the family were gathering.

 

“I wanted to be first to see you -” she cried, holding onto his arm, and looking into his dark eyes as though in fear of him melting away before her.

 

“And I - just wanted to see you.” he whispered.

 

“Welcome home, Daniel”  a deep voice sounded overloud and the young man looked  up to see Jonathan Abbott standing nearby, a kindly smile on his face, and  his powdered wig immaculate on his head, making his tanned skin appear even darker.

 

“It’s good to have you back, young man.” another deep voice, almost a replica of the first, from James Abbott who extended his hand to shake that of the newcomer.

 

There they were gathered, all nervous, all wondering what to say and how to say it.  Tamar, dithering as ever with her grey curls tumbling down over her shoulders and her gown far too low in the bosom, Joanna clinging to the arm of a thin young man whom Daniel vaguely remembered having met before he left for sea all those months ago, and little Phyllis looking up with shy frightened eyes.   He forced a smile, shook their hands, and marvelled yet again at how wonderful it was that people could appear to be living such normal lives when he had just left hell.  

 

“We didn’t know you were back -” Tamar said, rushing up now to cling to his other arm and nearly overbalancing him in the process.  “When did you get back?”

 

Jonathan  came nearer, a hand settled heavily upon his shoulder, he thought he would fall under its weight, but heard his father in law enquire after his health and then James’ voice saying something  and all the while they remained standing in the hall and he leaning heavily upon his wife’s arm.

 

“You need a rest, come along you can answer all their questions later.” she said quietly, and in a voice so determined that everyone fell back to allow them to pass them by.

 

It seemed to him he had been walking for hours, but now that he had arrived his legs seemed too weak to carry him further.  He could only smile like an idiot as the faces around him merged into one and he felt himself falling forwards and everything receding into a blackness darker than night.

 

When he opened his eyes the sunlight was streaming through the windows of the bedroom. He loved this room, it was white and pale blue with pictures adorning the walls and two large mirrors.  He stayed quite still as the warmth bathed him comfortably from head to toe, he closed his eyes and listened to birds singing, and from what seemed a long way distant, the sound of traffic.

 

No gun fire, no screams, no war whoops.

 

He fell into a deep sleep and when he next opened his eyes she was sitting beside his bed, and on her lap sat  a little boy who was looking at him gravely, thumb in mouth, and damp hair curling over his head.

 

“Hello, darling.”

 

She leaned forward as though to catch more clearly the whispered words and smiled that slow magical smile that lit up her eyes and brought dimples to her cheeks, the infant raised a hand to clutch at the ribbons in her hair.

 

“Hello, my sweet.”

 

Their lips touched in the tenderest of kisses,  and  he raised a hand to caress  her cheek, how soft it was, and how lovely her perfume, he wanted the moment to last forever.

 

“This is your son, this is Francis,” she said softly, and turned a little to the side so that the child could look down upon his father and  Daniel could see his son, capriciously the boy hid his face in the folds of his mothers shawl, “He’s shy -” she said quickly, and her face fell a little in disappointment, perhaps she had thought the boy would remember him and just say “Hi , Pa” and him only being days old when his father had left home, the thought amused Daniel for he laughed in the way she loved so much.

 

“Oh Daniel, welcome home.” she sighed, and kissed him again.

 

Could he ever have enough of her kisses?  How he had longed for this moment, to see her again, to know that she was safe and loved him still.

 

Chepontuc" (Iroquois; "difficult place to get around"), also referred to as the "Great Carrying Place,"

 

Hugh Stoddard put his hands to his ears to block out the sounds that were all around him now, although he kept his eyes alert, glancing constantly from left to right and back again.  It didn’t pay to be careless, not with so many Indian scouts hunting down anyone who belonged to the British or Colonial armies.   He felt his elbow nudged by Owen and turned,

 

“Do you think it’s safe to move now?” Owen whispered.

 

In answer Hugh put his finger to his lips and shook his head, pointed to just above his head and with a grimace both men hugged closer to the ground.    Another man sidled down close to them, his blackened face a sign of recent battle, and the blood staining his previously white cravat evidence of some injury.  He placed a hand on Hugh’s arm and nodded, as though to confirm that they were on the same side.

 

“Did you see anything?” Hugh whispered to the newcomer.

 

“Too much,” came the reply, “ I barely got away with my life.”

 

Owen said nothing, but stared about him with the same alertness a deer would have when having heard the sound of the hunter’s guns.   He tugged at Hugh’s arm and signalled that they slide further down into the undergrowth.

 

“They can’t call it a war when they slaughter women and babes like that -” Hugh whispered to the Officer who had shed his scarlet coat upon realising how easily the Huron could see it through the trees.

 

“They slaughtered injured and dying men in the hospital quarters, I saw them scalp them -” the Englishman whispered back, “I only hope they suffer as a result.”

 

“If it’s true what we were told they will -” Hugh said grimly.

 

“What did you hear?” the Officer whispered back and stared anxiously into their faces.

 

“That there was smallpox there -”

 

“Yes, and many who died of smallpox were buried there in the grounds, but the Indians dug the graves up to descecrate the dead* -” the Englishman’s lips were bleeding from where he had bitten down on them so hard during his escape from the horrors of his escape from the Frenchmen and their allies, he wiped his brow, “Fools that they are, they’ll kill more of their own people as a result.”

 

“True enough, “Owen whispered, “Smallpox doesn’t care about the colour of a man’s skin, or his religion, come to that -”

 

There came the sound of other men approaching, stealthy footsteps, soil and grass and leaves being shifted by booted feet and several more men came and slid into position by their sides, several soldiers, some settlers, an Indian scout who clutched his coup stick firmly in his bloodied hand.  Hugh and Owen glanced  at one another, feeling already that their shelter had suddenly become rather over crowded.

 

“If we can get to the river, we could get to the caves -” one of the colonists whispered, he pointed to the Indian, a youth from the Osage tribe, “He said there are caves everywhere around here.”

 

“Then you go, there’s nothing to stop you -” the Officer whispered in return and watched them as they slithered and sidled their way from the hollow to eventually disappear into the trees.

“What about you two?”

 

“Not going far just yet,” Hugh said quietly, “Owen’s been injured.”

 

“It’s nothing -” Owen said quickly, “I can move.”

 

“Let’s go then,” the Officer said and paused, “Not the way they went, they’re heading into trouble.”

 

“You can’t know that,” Hugh replied, giving Owen a helping hand to get to his feet,.

 

“True, but to my mind there’s too large a group of them, and the savages out there won’t take long to notice them.”

 

Owen nodded agreement and with Hugh’s arm around him to give him support they made their way through the thick undergrowth.  What a blessing that no settlers had yet decided to clear the land, and that so far they had moved without being seen.   The terrible sounds of the slaughter was receding now, the French would claim this as a victory Hugh told himself, but it wsn’t  really any such thing, it had been an out and out massacre of innocents who had been promised free passage to Fort Edward.   Nothing made sense anymore, nothing.

 

Thankfully they had been towards the front of the column when the Indians struck, it was those in the rearguard, closest to the Fort that had suffered the worse harm, and, of course, the women and children.   When some Indians had attacked them Owen and Hugh had fought back to back, just as they had fought when boys in the streets back home against  ‘the big boys’.  A tomahawk had smashed into Owen’s leg, and as he fell Hugh followed him, and they had plunged head long down a crevasse into the hollow.   The Indian with so many other victims to pick and choose upon, had left them to their fate and thus they had survived… so far.

 

It was Owen who saw the Huron first, he drew his pistol and fired even as he pushed Hugh out of the way, at the same instant the English Officer drew his sword and ran at the Indian who had already sent his knife speeding towards its target.   Owens pistol had fallen from his hand, the knife had pierced his chest and he staggered some paces back upon his injured leg.   Hugh caught him before he could fall and lowered him carefully to the ground while above them the soldier and the Huron fought their own battle.  They heard the clash of good Sheffield steel against the thud of the singing Tomahawk, and the grunts of the two men as they struggled one against the other for supremacy.

 

“Owen -” Hugh whispered softly in his friends ear, “Owen, hang on, you can ‘t die …”

 

Owen merely smiled, shook his head and turned to look into his friend’s face, saw the moist eyes and the trembling mouth, he sighed,

 

“Tell her I loved her -” he said softly, “Tell her I kept my promise -”

 

“I will, Owen, but hold on now, you can tell her yourself.”

 

Owen could barely shake his head now, he struggled to see Hugh’s face clearly,  he put his hand to his jacket, and his fingers groped for what he sought, then he smiled as though in satisfaction,

 

“Name your son after me, Hugh -”

 

“You know we would have done anyway.”

 

“Just in case -” his fingers tightened around the rose he had taken from her bouquet on her wedding day, he had kept it in his pocket all this time, and who knew but himself.

 

“I’ve always known you loved her, Owen, always, and in lots of ways you were the better man for her, I knew that, but she loved me, otherwise I would have -”  Hugh paused,  gulped, “I would have done what you have done for me, I would have stepped aside for you both to have been happy but -” he stopped again and looked down at his friends face, “Owen?”

 

The soldier grabbed at his shoulder, shook him, he was breathing hard and fast, the battle with the Huron had been difficult and his own wounds betrayed his weakness, but he had won and now there was no time to lose.  He shook Hugh’s shoulder again,

 

“Come, man, we have to go if you want to live.”

 

“My friend -”

 

“There’s nothing you can do for your friend now.  Come -” and he turned, sword still clutched in his hand and hurried several paces before stopping and turning, “Come, you can’t stay here unless you want to die with him.”

 

Hugh managed, somehow, to get to his feet, he looked at Owen, at the still form stretched upon the fronds of bracken and grass, and waited for the chest to rise and fall, some indication of life, but there was nothing.

 

“I’ll tell her, Owen brawd, I’ll tell her …”   he brushed aside tears, “diolch, da bach*”

 

Boston in the year 1757

 

There was the first sign of snow in the air, and Elinor Stoddard closed the window to the room and looked at the meagre fire in the grate.   In the shadows there came movement and she turned, smiled as Bronwyn Morgan came into the room and closed the door behind her,

 

“Have to keep the room warm for you, Elinor.”  the Welsh lilt of her voice made Elinor smile and she leaned down and put another log on the fire, and turned to look at her friend who had come to share the little house with her until Hugh returned home, after all, she knew he would, she knew Hugh could never leave her.

 

“I heard in town that the French captured Fort William Henry.”  the Welsh girl paused and looked at Elinor who seemed to have frozen to the spot, half crouched with her hand reached out still for another log, “but I don’t think the boyo’s were there, were they?”

 

“I don’t know,” Elinor straightened herself and turned to the window, she needed air, and she pushed it open again, “No, they wouldn’t be there, Bronwyn, they’re coming home.”

 

Bronwyn said nothing to that, but placed her home spun shawl across the rocking chair next to the fire.  The flames were beginning to take hold on the fresh logs placed on them, and she looked into the fire and wondered where they all would be if the French marched in Boston in the same way it was reported that they had walked into the Fort.

 

Elinor looked up at the sky and prayed.  She needed her husband home, she wished that the baby they had been expecting had lived so that she had a son to show him upon his return.  She felt barren, not only in body, but also in soul.  When he returned, when he came home again, then she would be whole once again.

 

Philadelphia in the year 1757

 

Daniel Cartwright didn’t talk much about what had happened  on board ship, he told them only of the blockades on the French ships in the Atlantic, and the regular excursions on Lake George to take fresh troops to the Forts there, he referred lightly to the fighting and the miserable conditions for the soldiers, claiming that  the seamen had had a better time of it, but after that he didn’t discuss it.  

 

He didn’t  tell them of the time the boat he was in was blown up by a French cannon ball and how he had been ill for weeks with a broken hip which although healed had left him with a need to lean and rest awhile, although thankfully due to the skill of the surgeon, he had no limp, and the assurance that in time, with good food and rest, he would recover completely.

 

As he sat with his wife’s head resting upon his shoulder, and his little son sleeping in his arms, Daniel Cartwright thought himself the most blessed of men.  He had survived … and he was home.

 

Chapter 17

“You’ll find this interesting to read,” Ben murmured and handed his son part of a broadsheet, so long ago folded and tucked away that it was in danger of falling into several parts as Adam carefully unfolded it.

 

“Have you read it before?” Adam enquired but Ben shook his head, and turned his attention to other papers still scattered over the surface of the table.

 

Adam smoothed out the yellowing paper.   It had been torn roughly from the remainder of the broadsheet, and then very carefully folded away and placed in the package along with the other Stoddard documents.   As his eyes lingered over the old fashioned printing out of the news his mind thought of the care that would have been taken to set out the letters, place them in order and then to print out the columns of news, even the detail of the engraving that depicted the scene was very impressive.

 

“Well?”

 

He glanced up, taken from his wool gathering by Ben’s question and he sighed,

 

“The picture was engraved and printed by Paul Revere*, and sold to the journalists for this broadsheet.” he muttered

 

“And so?”

 

Adam cleared his throat,

 

“It’s a very graphic telling of the Boston Massacre or, as they have called it The Bloody Massacre* perpetuated in King Street, Boston on March 5^th 1770 …”  he read the parts that could be deciphered for the old broadsheet was so yellowed and creased with age that most were no longer clear for reading,  “They certainly didn’t spare their readers from any details of the manner of the deaths, ‘Samuel Grey, killed on the floor, the ball entering his head and beating off a large portion of his skull, and further gruesome details of the other deaths.”

 

“To be in the wrong place at the wrong time -” Ben sighed, and tapped the ash from his pipe into the hearth for he had left the table to return to the fire, “I believe one of the victims was a mulatto man -”

 

“Yes, Crispus Attucks, just there to travel to North Carolina from New Providence.  Others killed, as we know, were boys of 17, and various others.”

 

“I believe Attucks was already becoming well known, the Abolitionists* of the time having made something of his situation?”   Ben sighed, placing his pipe carefully away on the rack with others.

 

“I remember being told that -” Adam replied and looked carefully through more papers to find anything else relative to the occasion that could connect the Stoddards with the infamous affair.   “I wonder what this had to do with the Stoddards?”

 

“Probably nothing, they just kept it for what it is, a piece of startlingly terrible news of their home town.”

 

Adam frowned, and after reading through the whole account, refolded it and returned it to the packet from where it had been taken.

 

Boston in the year 1770

 

Morgan Stoddard was thirteen years old when the events took place in King Street that were to become known as the Boston Massacre.   It was March, spring was beginning to make itself felt despite the snow still on the ground, and the air remaining chill.  Elinor, Morgan and Bronwyn with her son, Emrys, were strolling down King Street when they heard a youthful shout, a wigmakers apprentice called Gerrish was taunting the sentry on duty about the non-payment of his bill.  The sentry ignored the taunts (he had paid the bill and put the insults down to ignorance*),   no one was taking much notice for such situations occurred from time to time.  Morgan and  Emrys turned their heads to watch and while their mothers attended to their shopping, the boys loitered a while, hands in their pockets and grinning as boys do when sensing a little mischief.  Nothing more was said or done and when Elinor and Bronwyn had ended their business they made their way home.  At the corner of the street near the harbour the two women part, Morgan choosing to go with Emrys and Elinor to her home.

 

Some hours later Gerrish had returned to the scene with a group of other boys, who began to taunt and insult the soldier who reacted by striking the lad with his musket.  The scene was set for the carnage that followed, young boys, innocent bystanders, mere passersby, paid the price as the soldiers fired upon the crowd.    Emrys and Morgan, who had sensed trouble was brewing had taken themselves to the area a few moments earlier, had watched as the crowd grew larger and louder.   The sentry, Private White* retreated to the Custom house, his back to a locked door.   The mob grew thicker, louder, Emrys and Morgan was now unable to leave the place as the crowd pushed them against the wall, effectively trapping them between themselves and the wall.

 

Hugh Stoddard heard the commotion of the crowd from the deck of his ship, berthed as it was in the harbour, he watched as people began to stream from the taverns  to wards the town centre,

 

“Somethings happening -” he said to his masters mate who shook his head and muttered dire warnings beneath his breath, and continued with his business.

 

Elinor set out the table, fresh bread on the board and golden butter in the dish that had come all the way from England.   She began to get restless, Morgan was late in returning from Emrys’ and opening the door to their cottage she watched as people ran past her home towards town.

 

“Whats happening?”

 

“Don’t know, we’re off to find out -” came the reply.

 

She glanced over her shoulder at the clock on the wall, surely Morgan was still at Bronwyns with Emrys, but she slipped the shawl over her head and ran with the crowd, stopping at her friends home and rapping on the door.

 

“Is Morgan here?”

 

“I thought Emrys was with him, at your place -”

 

“Somethings happening in town and -”

 

Bronwyn grabbed at her shawl, there was no time for further speech, together the two women ran with the crowd towards King Street.

 

Officer of the Day, Captain Preston ordered a relief column to assist the oppressed sentry, and gathering at the custom house stairs loaded their muskets.  As the crowd, estimated between 300-400, pressed about them they formed a semicircular perimeter.

 

“Let’s get home,” Morgan whispered, grabbing at Emrys arm

 

“I would if I could,” Emrys replied, “But I’m wedged in tight against the wall.”

 

The crowd began to yell and blows were exchanged. There were cries of ‘Fire, Fire’ and then the soldiers fired into the crowd.   The accompanying cries and screams, the tension in the street, the sound of running feet all reached Elinor and Bronwyn long before they had actually reached the area, causing them to turn back and hurry to their homes.

 

Within half an hour Emrys and Morgan were also home, recounting all that they had seen and heard, white faced, shaking with fear, and Morgan with his shirt stained with the blood of Mr James Caldwell, a mariner, who had died with two balls in his back.  The splaying blood had splattered over the boy as he had cringed against the wall.

 

Hugh Morgan listened to his son, and in the evening walked to the tavern where men were gathering, there was a lot of drinking, talking, and hot air spoken that night, and despite the authorities removing the presence of all soldiers from the town the next day, Hugh knew that this was a prelude to more terrible times to come.

 

Philadelphia in the year 1770

 

No one mentioned the incident in Boston at Daniel Cartwright’s home.   The broadsheet remained on the table, had been read carefully, and then set aside.   Daniel Cartwright had been  home on leave for two weeks and enjoying the time with his wife and three sons, Francis, John and Henry.   It was only when Jonathan Abbott was announced that Daniel’s face lost his smile and Rachel sensed that something more serious than a local fracas had taken place.

 

Still tall and good looking, Jonathan Abbott entered his son in laws study and paused while Daniel closed the door behind them.   He wore a sombre brown suit, a well starched white shirt and cravat, and his wig had been freshly powdered that morning.  He sat down in the chair he customarily used when visiting and after a moments silence looked thoughtfully at Daniel,

 

“Well, you have read the news?”

 

“Yes, it makes grim reading.”

 

“There’s already talk in the streets that there is going to be further trouble as a result of all of this.”

 

“From what I heard the soldiers were hard pressed, the crowd itself was taunting them to fire and -”

 

“They should have had the self control not to fire upon unarmed citizens.” Jonathan’s pale face flushed a ruddier hue, and his eyes darkened, “It was disgraceful.”

 

“Yes, it was.” Daniel agreed, “On all sides -”

 

“It shows the mood of the people.”

 

“Yes, it does.”

 

They relapsed into silence, grateful when the door opened and Rachel stepped inside with a tray of hot coffee, made the way she knew her husband and father would enjoy it most.  She then left the room and closed the door behind her, returning to the sitting room where her mother sat, twisting a lace trimmed handkerchief round and round between her fingers.

 

“Jon says there’s going to be a lot of trouble over this -” Tamar said, she sipped her tea, which she preferred to coffee, and she drank it in the old fashioned manner, by pouring it first into her saucer and drinking it from there.

 

“I don’t think there will be, mother.”

 

“There’s talk everywhere about it, you know?   Jon says that there’s the smell of rebellion in the air.” 

 

“No, mother, that’s not possible.”

 

“No one would have thought it possible for soldiers to fire upon citizens in Boston but -” she put the saucer down and reached out for her daughters hand, “People are already talking about what side they will be taking if there is a war.”

 

“There won’t be a war.”

 

“Oh, daughter, I pray you are right, but your father has a nose for these kind of things, and he’s never wrong.”

 

Rachel shivered, she thought of her fifteen year old son, Francis, and his younger brothers, John and little Henry, only ten.   If there were a war - what would happen to them?

 

Jonathan was now pacing the floor, his hands clasped behind his back,

 

“Government saw fit to repeal the Stamp Act, thank goodness, they should have realised that was folly -”

 

“There was enough trouble over it to make them realise that, Jon.” Daniel replied in his deep warm voice, and he poured himself more coffee.

 

“The sad fact is that George III has two men in office very willing to enforce laws and taxes upon us for their own ends.   Look at the restrictions they have levied on the West Indies trade?  That’s affected you now, hasn’t it?   There are import taxes on English paper, glass and tea, and rum.”

 

“There have been very effective boycotts, Jon -”

 

“Some.” Jon scowled, “there’s talk that they’ll repeal SOME of the taxes this year -”

 

“Then be patient, wait and see what happens.”

 

“You’ve already read about what will  happen.  What happened in Boston in March, is just the beginning.”

 

Daniel bit his lip, he looked anxiously at his father in law and in the back of his mind heard once again the beat of drums, gun fire, war whoops and the anguished screams of the dead and dying.  He gripped the arms of his chair and shook his head,

 

“I can only pray that you won’t be proven right -” he said in a very low tone of voice, and a lock of dark hair curled over his brow making him look vulnerable and boyish once again.

 

Chapter 18

 

Necessary work kept Adam away from the papers concerning his family for some days, which caused him a deal of frustration.  Even Hoss got a little irritated at his elder brother when he saw him drifting into a daydream when he should have been concentrating on the branding.

 

“Dadgum it, Adam, ain’t you able to think about nothing else?  Waving a branding iron about ain’t making you the most safe person to be around jest now.”

 

“Sorry, Hoss - I was just thinking -”

 

“I knows what you were just thinking, I jest wish you would jest think about the job you got to handle right now, here, give me the danged thing and I’ll do it myself.”

 

And

 

“Adam, ain’t you done with that thar rope yet.”

 

“Er - sure, Hoss, any minute now.”

 

“Shucks, brother, you still got the calf attached to the other end -”

 

“Well, I was -”

 

“Jest don’t say a word, I don’t want to hear - dad blamed papers, I jest wish you’d never set eyes on them.”

 

“But, Hoss, if you -”

 

“I said, I don’t want to hear, and if you start on about ‘em agin I’m gonna start singing, loudly!”

 

“You know that’ll stampede the cattle -” Adam replied with a smirk on his face

 

“Ha Ha”  Hoss growled as he released the calf, “And I ain’t laughing.”

 

Heavy rain curtailed further work and Adam was the first to saddle up and head for home, he gave his brothers a tip of the hat as he passed them , leaving them both looking thoughtfully at him as they mounted their own horses,

 

“You can guess why he’s in such a hurry to get home, can’t ya?” Hoss grumbled.

 

“Yep, I bet you a dollar to a nickel that he’ll have those papers scattered all over the table again by the time we get home.”

 

“Huh, they even smell weird.”

 

Joe grinned slightly and looked at his big brother thoughtfully as he turned Cochise round in the direction of home,

 

“But you’d like to have letters and papers telling you more about your family, wouldn’t you, Hoss?   The country your Ma came from has a lot of history connected to it, and you could find out that you own most of it”

 

“Oh sure, probably find that I have debts to pay off left by a long dead relative,” Hoss grunted.

 

“I think I’d like to find out more about my Ma’s family, it would help me know more about Ma, what her life was like, where she came from -” Joe sighed, then shook his head and turned resolutely towards the Ponderosa.

 

Philadelphia in the year 1774

 

Francis Cartwright was twenty two years of age and returned home from Boston after several years of studying  the classics at Harvard.   He had sought a teaching profession in his home town and in the year 1774 returned to Boston to bring home the young woman whom he had fallen in love with, and wished to marry.

 

Ffyon Evans had a pretty face, dark eyes and hair, and was as Welsh as could be, her mother being Bronwyn Morgan and her father Edward Evans, who hailed from the Rhondda Valley and had settled in Boston in ’54, married Bronwyn in ’55 and had several children, Emrys Evans being one of them, and Ffyon the only daughter.  

 

Six months after his marriage Francis Cartwright  and his brother, John,  joined the new Continental Army under the command of George Washington and was not to be seen or heard of again for the duration of the war.  Such was the fate of wives, sisters and daughters … to sit, wait, endure.  

 

 

 

Boston  on March 17^th 1776

 

So now it was over … the seige of Boston had ended after 18 months of the most  miserable of times for the inhabitants, where food had become scarce, wood for heating equally so, old houses being pulled down to provide fuel.   When the colonists under the command of Washington had come up against the city it had forced the inhabitants to decide whether they were loyalists or Americans, and most of them changed their minds constantly throughout the seige.

 

March 17^th saw Hugh and Elinor Stoddard watching, along with many others, as British ships began to move out  from Boston.  There were in total 120 ships, with more than 11,000 people on board, these numbers were made up of British troops, women and children.  

 

Morgan Stoddard shook hands with his friend Emrys, renewing their vows of friendship, a friendship that had suffered under the strains of divided loyalties throughout the seige.  Emrys had made his decision , he was going to go with his family, and restart their lives elsewhere. 

 

“You don’t know where you’ll be going, do you?” Morgan said quietly,

 

“No, but we’ll take our chances.”

 

“Emrys, you’re not Welsh now, you’re a Bostonian.  You should stay -”

 

“No chance, Morgan, I’m not like you, your family are Bostonians, through and through, but me and my family … we’re still new generation, we don’t matter.”

 

“Every man matters, Emrys.”

 

“At least my sisters safe, in Philadelphia.”  Emrys’ lips twisted into a parody of a smile, “If you ever see her again, Morgan, tell her we love her -”

 

“Can’t you tell her yourself?”

 

“Perhaps - one day -” Emrys sighed, he was Welsh enough not to be optimistic about it, he bowed his head, shook Morgans hands again between his own and turned away, quickly, so that his friend wouldn’t see the tears standing in his eyes.

 

His mother, Bronwyn, was struggling with tears of her own as she bade farewell to her dearest friend, Elinor, they embraced, didn’t say all the things that tumbled about in their hearts and minds, didn’t remind one another of those they had loved and lost, of Owen, of Fyyon, nor of other friends who had died or moved away in the years since their friendship had first blossomed.

 

They picked up their belongings, and without turning their heads to look back on their friends, in case their resolve weakened and their feet betray them, they fell into line with all the other loyalists who were taking to the ships.

 

“What happens now?” Morgan said to his father as they made their way to the cottage, and  each of them refusing to mention the hardship of losing friends in whatever manner they were lost.

 

“Wait and see,” Hugh replied, and held his wife closely to him, “Although, having said that, I think we all know what happens next.  The coming days are going to force us into making decisions, one way or another, and perhaps, the decisions we make will shape our lives to come forever.”

 

“You mean, we may have to take arms and fight?” Morgan said as he closed the door behind him.

 

“Yes, that’s exactly what I mean.” Hugh pulled out a chair and sat down heavily, as though the weight of the world was upon his shoulders, “In a way this seige was like being in limbo, most of us didn’t really know what side we were going to take in this war, but now, well, we’ve more or less been forced to decide,  haven’t we?”

 

“I’ll go and fight,” Hugh said raising his chin defiantly.

 

“Oh no, Morgan, don’t say so -”  Elinor protested, then turned away to look down at the miserable fire burning in their hearth as she remembered the number of times she had made the same plea to Hugh, and to her son, during the course of the constant discussions they had held in their house, and in the houses of numerous friends and neighbours.

 

In the end though, it had all been a case of waiting, and seeing … now the deciding was all that was left for them to do.  Morgan Stoddard was now 19 years of age.

 

Valley Forge, about 20 miles n.w of Philadelphia in the year 1778*

 

Washington had chosen the valley for its obvious military advantages, it lay between a creek and a broad river, with hills high enough to survey the main supply routes  from the south.  At the commencement of the campaign he had approximately 11,000 men and everything appeared to go well until January when with early winter snows, the ground turned to oceans of mud.  By March the columns were suffering blizzards, a third of them had typhus, smallpox or dysentery.   Disease claimed numerous souls, starvation claimed many more and desertion was commonplace.   Food was unattainable and the men were foraging for what they could find.  His 11,000 men were reduced to a mere handful, estimated at 3000, many without adequate clothing, and all half starved.*

 

As he made his way through the snows Daniel Cartwright caught sight of the clash of scarlet between some trees and promptly threw himself down onto the ground in case the British scouting party had seen him, his men hurried into positions where they hoped they would not be seen by the enemy but could get the chance of a pot shot at them.

 

One of the advantages these men now possessed was the creation of a weapon taken from the Pennsylvania flintlock,  German settlers in Pennsylvania had doubled the length of the  barrel of the flintlock  and grooved it to make the bullet spin and stay on line, this ‘rifling’ led to the use of the word ‘rifle.’ * Another advantage the colonists possessed that was much to their advantage was the fact that they were men who depended on shooting their food on the wing, they didn’t shoot for sport, but for survival, and their ability to put a rifle ball into a man’s head at a 150 or 200 yards had become legendary.*

 

Now they waited, poised, waiting for a sight of the scarlet coats once again and when they did the guns blazed.     Daniel reloaded his gun carefully, his eyes scanning the area through the haze of gun smoke for a sight of others, but there was only the rippling echo of their gun shots through the trees, and the heavy breathing of his own scouting party around him.

 

They rose to their feet slowly, cautiously, no one taking it for granted that the men they had fired upon were all dead, it was quite possible for a man to have survived and seeing them discharge his musket in a desperate bid for life - or revenge.

 

There was no sound, Daniel heard the men whispering among themselves, and waited for the inevitable request that he knew would come, because it always did -

 

“Mr Cartwight, sir, could be they’ve got good boots on their feet -”

 

“They won’t be needing ‘em, sir.”

 

“Permission to -”

 

And then, without waiting for ‘Permission granted’ they inched their way down to where the dead lay and began their pillaging.  Daniel sighed, well, even trained soldiers would do the same he thought (as he thought every time it happened), and these men were anything but trained soldiers, no matter how much Washington bullied them on the concept of ‘duty, duty, duty before anything.’

 

He made his way through the trees and paused at a sound that came from behind a tree, a soft whimper which made him think of a whipped puppy he had found once back home in Maryland.  He made his way, slithering in the mud and slush, to discover a huddled over figure clutching a musket between his arms.  He paused and waited, then realising that the figure was that of either a very slightly built man or an adolescent he reached out and touched his shoulder.

 

A white face turned towards him, pinched and thin, with feverishly bright eyes that blinked up at him, either because the light was too strong, even though dappled through the trees, or because he wasn’t sure whether he was staring at friend or foe.   It was obvious that the boy, for he could not have been older than fifteen, was half starved and Daniel felt misery and pity touch his heart, he made his way down to the lad and crouched by his side.

 

“Are you hurt?”

 

“Shot, mister, here -” the boy pointed towards his hip, and Daniel could see then the blood seeping from the wound into the mud.

 

“I’m sorry -” Daniel pulled out a rag of a handkerchief and tried to find the entrance to the wound in order to staunch the blood flow, “Have you been here long?”

 

“About half an hour, mister.”

 

Daniel couldn’t smile although it was comical for the boy to answer thus when Daniel had meant had the boy been in the camp for very long.  From the state of him he must have been with them for some time

 

“Can I go home now, mister?”

 

Such a sadly whispered request, Daniel could see the light already fading from the blue eyes, and the boy was shaking with cold, so he pulled off his jacket and draped it around him, then pulled him roughly into his arms, after all, he thought, if it were one of his sons would he not wish for someone to do this last kindly act for him.

 

“I’d like to go home  -” the boy said softly, “mum would be baking bread and my sister will be brewing tea now.  Time to bring in the sheaves, and the cows will need milking.”

 

Daniel frowned, at this time in the colonies such expressions weren’t in common usage any more and he looked at the boy thoughtfully, doubtfully,

 

“Whereabouts is home, boy?”

 

“Suffolk, but we caught the boat from  Liverpool and sailed here from there.”

 

“Your father’s here too?”

 

“Not now -” the voice trailed away, a wistful sigh, “I don’t know where Dad is now,” he shivered, involuntarily his teeth began to chatter, “Caught the boat together though, I said I was old enough but Dad said not to lie about my age and mum will be that upset -”

 

“You’re English?”

 

“Felixstowe in Suffolk, mister, you’d like it there, next to sea it is, and the River Orwell is that grand -”

 

Daniel just held him in his arms until the shivering stopped and nothing else could be heard, not a sigh, not a whisper.   He sat in the freezing mud with his arms around a 15 year old boy, one of the enemy, and while he waited for the child to die he remembered a conversation he had had with Jonathan Abbott over a year earlier as they sat in the library of the Abbott house,

 

“There’s no reason for war, because that is what this is becoming -” he had said, and Jonathan had removed his wig and placed it on the desk, his shaven head showing evidence that he was going quite bald 

 

“It will mean we’ll be free of King George and his henchmen, free, Daniel, to rule ourselves.”

 

“Nonsense.”

 

“Don’t say ‘nonsense’ so glibly, son.  Why should we be tied to the old country when all they can do is levy taxes on us and make life more difficult than it should be -”

 

“Jonathan, we don’t have to be tied to the old country, as you put it.  We can distance ourselves in other ways, there doesn’t have to be all this killing and fighting.  It wasn’t that long ago that we relied on the British soldiers to free us from the French, and the Dutch”

 

“That was for their benefit, not ours.”

 

“Economically perhaps, but it suited us well enough, didn’t it?   Jonathan, in generations to come, our descendents will be proudly identifying themselves of Irish, Scottish, Welsh, English descent, as well as all the other nationalities that will come flooding here.  Britain and the colonies will always be bound together, it will be like the dog and tail, where one leads the other will follow.”

 

“Nonsense, it won’t happen -  it’ll be a clean break.”

 

“No war brings about a clean break, especially a war like this one.   Welshmen shooting at Welshmen, Scots at Scots - it’s tantamount to civil war.”

 

Jonathan had sighed and nodded

 

“Yes, in a way, I suppose it is.” he shrugged slightly, “But we will have a nation that is our own, we will have our own laws, our own legislature -”

 

“You don’t seem to understand what I mean -” Daniel had sighed and Jonathan had shaken his head, no, he hadn’t understood, not at all.

 

Daniel looked up at the sky through the trees, and when he heard the sound of his men approaching he looked down at the boy in his arms, and then moved away from him, taking the jacket and shrugging back into it.   What a miserable way to give birth to a nation, he thought, and I don’t even know your name.

 

Chapter 19

 

“Did you know Francis Cartwright at all, Pa?”

 

Adam was lounging back comfortably on the settee, his long legs stretched out in front of him and his arms folded behind his head as he gazed up at the ceiling and watched one of his fathers smoke rings disperse among the rafters.  A fire was burning cheerily in the grate and the lamps glowed warm and cosily around the room.  The aroma of coffee mingled with that of the fire, and tobacco.

 

Ben puffed a spectacular smoke ring and smiled slowly although his eyes lingered back to the family bible which was on the low table along with various pieces of paper, he glanced over at Adam and then nodded

 

“Yes, I met him on several occasions, he was a handsome man even when elderly.” he paused and frowned slightly, “Having said that he was probably younger than I am now when I first saw him.   I must have been old enough to remember the occasion … perhaps five or six.”

 

“And Daniel Cartwright - did you meet him?”

 

“No -” Ben admitted with a sigh, “I wish I had, he was quite a character.  I mean, not just from what we’ve learned about him but from what the family said, what was passed down -” he lowered his head in concentration then asked Adam what was the last  bit of written information about him in the papers they had left to explore.

 

“I’ve checked and re-checked, but there’s only the mention of his death in the bible, and a short note from your Grandfather to his mother,”

 

“That would be Rachel - yes, that’s right, I recall reading it, it was to tell them that Henry had written and was living in Nova Scotia.   Now -” Ben leaned forward and jabbed the stem of his pipe in Adam’s direction, “nothing was really known much about Henry, he was the youngest son, and apparently went off with the British when they left Philadelphia.  He and several of his Ipswich cousins went off together.  That reference from Francis was the only known record of what had happened to him.”

 

“And John?”

 

“No, no one could confirm what happened to John.  He and Francis went off together, they got separated at the battle of Bunkers Hill, and the only thing Francis knew was that his brother was still alive by the time the fight was on at Saratoga.  The family had to presume he had died with - well - with too many others.  He was quite young, I don’t think Rachel ever recovered from that war, from all accounts she begged Daniel to take her to live at his old family home in Maryland. That’s where they lived until they died.”  he puffed at his pipe for a while, and stared thoughtfully into the flames, “I remember listening to the grown ups talking, I was young, sitting under the table playing with something or other -”  he puffed more violently at his pipe and Adam winced, waiting for a minor volcanic eruption of burning tobacco, “Daniel died first, he was quite ill for some time and Francis and Ffyon - nice name, isn’t it? - they went to see him, he was delirious for some days, but mostly he seemed concerned not about his missing sons, but about a boy whose name he never knew.  Kept on saying to Francis ‘You must find out his name, his mother should know that he’s safe -’ and then he would get distressed and seem to be chiding himself ‘No, not safe, of course not, he’s dead.  That’s right , dead.  And I never did get to know his name.’”   

 

“I wonder what happened, someone he must have met during the war?”

 

“Probably, that seemed to be the conclusion my Grandfather had come to.”

 

Adam said nothing to that but picked up some papers and slowly fingered through them, he paused at one and looked over at his father

 

“Was there some dispute between Grandfather and your father?”

 

Ben smiled slowly and leaned back in the red leather chair, he sighed then and nodded

 

“Yes, you have to remember that Francis was a clever intellectual, an academic.  He wanted all his sons to have a good education, preferably at Harvard, but my father was more like his mother, Ffyon.   Now, she was of Welsh blood -” he paused, and narrowed his eyes, “I can remember her, vaguely, white haired, dark eyed, short … I remember one evening when she was with us, shortly after Grandfather had died, and she was scolding my father about something and he just picked her up, and laughed at her.  There she was with her little feet dangling a good foot off the floor and both of them laughing.”  he smiled, dreamily, it was obviously a happy moment, a moment to treasure.

 

“Did Joseph and Francis argue - have a disagreement?”

 

“Yes, well, you can read it for yourself in that letter -” Ben stabbed his pipe towards the paper in Adam’s hand, “You see, you have to remember that Francis was an academic, a teacher of the classics, he wanted all his sons to follow in his footsteps.”

 

“And Joseph wouldn’t?”

 

“No, he wouldn’t and he didn’t.  Francis wanted them all to have a good education but Joseph would have none of it.  Well, you read the letter and see what it says.”

 

Philadelphia in the year 1800

 

Joseph Cartwright sighed, scrawled his signature and then leaned back in his chair.  He was not relieved at having written the letter, perhaps a little down at heart , and as he stared at the words worming their way across the white paper he wondered if he could have phrased anything better, or whether his feelings had been too raw, too bitter.  He covered the letter hastily under a book when a light tap came to the door and his mother peeked into the room,

 

“Can I come in?”

 

He smiled, and stood up, pulled out a chair for her to sit upon and waited for her to do so, before resuming his own seat.  She looked at him with her dark eyes anxious and round, her mouth was down turned, it was obvious she had come to try and coax him into a better mood but he firmed his heart and waited.

 

“Are you still angry with  your da, Joseph?”

 

He loved how she talked, that Welsh accent was like music, and she often used the Welsh form of words, especially when talking to him.  He nodded, and glanced anxiously at the book under which his letter was hidden.

 

“He only wants what is best for you, son.”

 

“I know that,  but I don‘t want to do what he wants, I want to go to sea, I want to be a seaman like my Grandfather and his father before him.”

 

“I know, I told him that blood will out, but he doesn’t listen, he’s frightened for y ou.”

 

“He doesn’t have to be, I can take care of myself.”

 

She looked at him thoughtfully, in that ’tone of manner’ that had the ability to make him realise that he had said or done something stupid, he leaned forward and took hold of her hands,

 

“I’m not a child, mother.  I can manage.  Remember the first time I ran away to sea?”

 

“As if I would forget it, you were only twelve.”

 

“And father brought me back home.”

 

“Yes, kicking and screaming.”  she smiled indulgently.

 

“How many times have I left home for the sea since then?”

 

“Once every year.”

 

“So, I’m not likely to change my mind now, am I?”

 

“Joseph -” she leaned forward now and stroked back a lock of dark hair from his brow, “You have to understand that it isn’t really that long ago since your father left his family and went away from them.   He had two brothers then, when he returned - he was the only one to come home.”

 

“I know that -” Joseph said impatiently.

 

“Yes, I know that you know, but I want you to stop and think about what it must have been like for him, and for his mother and father.  Stop and think, son, of how they all felt when John never came home, knowing but not knowing  … and then Henry, for years wondering where he was, if he was safe.”

 

“Da won’t worry about me like that, Ma, it’s different -”

 

“I wish I could make you understand,” she sighed and stroked his cheek, and being his mother she saw the little boy looking back at her and had to force herself to see the man.

 

Later he took the letter and re-read it through, he knew that although it was addressed to his father, it would be his mother who would be the most distressed as a result of it.  He sighed heavily as he read it, and then folded and sealed it.

 

“Dear Father

 

I wish you could understand why I am having to write this to you, but I really do not wish for our last evening to gether to be marred by angry words, and I do not want to leave your house with bad feeling between us.

 

I am not an academic, Father, I have no love for book learning, I want to go to sea.  I want to do what my Grandfather did, and his father before him.   I signed up to go on a voyage with some men, brave men, going out on an expedition.

 

I wish you and mother good health, I love you

Your son - Joseph.”

 

Philadelphia in the year 1800

 

The house facing the harbour was in shadow, although the window overlooking the harbour itself was illuminated, a welcoming warm orange globe of light.   Towards this house the two men strode, their heads bowed against the wind.

 

Boats in the harbour bobbed up and down as though rebelling against their being tethered so securely to the bollards, further out to sea ships were heading into the harbour in order to escape the fast approaching storm.

 

As they reached the door a third man approached from a different direction and joined them, together they entered the house and closed the door with such a sharpness that the woman dropped the teapot she was holding, and it shattered on the flagstone flooring.

 

“Heavens,” she gasped and then turned to look at the three men crowding into the big room, a smile illuminated her face and she ran to greet them, her arms flung around the older mans neck and then around that of the youngest, the one who had come in last received a warm pinch on the cheek, “You startled me coming in like that - I didn’t even realise you had berthed.”

 

“We berthed just an hour ago, came home as fast as we could.” Morgan Stoddard muttered, “Brew us some tea, Elspeth,  we’re thirsty men.” Morgan turned to the last man to enter, “How are you, Douglas?”

 

“Well enough, father.” Douglas Stoddard replied and shook his fathers hand, then reached out and ruffled his brothers hair.

 

It looked odd, Abel Morgan Stoddard was a well built young man with thick hair and already sprouting a beard  for he was all of 18 years of age now, but Douglas Hugh Stoddard was slight of build, short and stringy, although no one in the family could recall a Stoddard with such a meagre build.  Abel laughed and beat his brother’s arm aside, asking him if he had asked Peggy to wed him yet to which Douglas laughed, winked and said nothing but pulled up a chair and sat down.

 

“Was the trip good?” he asked, looking from his father to his brother.

 

“We made enough money to pay for the repairs to our own ship.” Morgan said, and then he sighed, walked over to his pipe rack and took out his favourite, he filled the bowl with some tobacco and lit a taper.

 

“Blood money -” Abel muttered.

 

“What’s that?” Elspeth turned, frowned and then looked at her husband,  “What does Abel mean?  What did he say?”

 

“He said what it was - blood money  - glad to hand it over to Peterson to pay for the repairs.  Never want to undertake a voyage like that again, never.”  replied her husband and he tossed the taper into the fire, “I don’t think I’ll ever forget it.”

 

“What happened?  Storms at sea?”  Douglas asked, picking up a spoon and toying idly with it as he looked from one to the other of the men.

 

“Did you - did you lose some of the crew?” Elspeth asked.

 

“Id have liked to have thrown some of them overboard,” Abel retorted, and his eyes rolled as though the anger inside himself had to have some way of being released.

 

“What was wrong?”

 

There was a silence for a moment and then Morgan shrugged, lowered his pipe and shook his head,

 

“Plenty of ships are doing it, but not for us, never again.  Never.”

 

“What is it?  Why don’t you tell us?” Douglas insisted.

 

“We took our cargo to the West Indies, as agreed.” Morgan pulled out a chair and sat down, “As is usual we took on fresh cargo, to bring to Carolina.  We knew what we were doing, we’d agreed to it, signed the papers, even you could say, taken the money, but - “

 

“For heavens sake, what?” Douglas groaned in impatience.

 

“It was a slaver.” Abel replied shortly, “We knew when we took her over that when the cargo was removed, the new cargo would be slaves.  It’s just that when you’re doing it yourself -” he paused, “I mean, others do it all the time, but seeing it on board the ship you’re sailing on, with them on the voyage all that way, then you get to know why no decent man should do it.”

 

“No decent man should want to do it.” Morgan nodded as in agreement with Abel.  “I don’t want to talk furthermore about it, it’s bad enough knowing and seeing what we saw.”

 

Abel glanced over at Douglas who had just opened his mouth, but decided better of it, and closed it again.   Not for the first time did Douglas Stoddard and his mother thank God that he had not chosen to go to sea but had taken a ’safe’ job in the customs department as a clerk.

 

 

It was late at night when Elspeth awoke to find her husbands side of the bed cold and empty. She rose and crept downstairs, to find him seated by the dying embers of the fire, his head in his hand and his eyes fixed upon the fire.  Quietly she approached him, knelt at his side and placed her head upon his knee, just as they would sit together when first wed, and instinctively he stroked her hair, and reached out for her hand.

 

“Was it so bad?”

 

“Worse than I could ever have imagined in every sense of the word.”  he replied, and she could tell from the smell of him that he had been drinking whisky, something he did only when truly distressed.  “Elspeth, I made Abel swear on the bible never, ever, to take out a ship for the use of the slave trade.  Oh, they pay good money alright, but when it comes to it, its money in exchange for human beings, it  isn’t right, and I would cut off my right arm never to have gone on that voyage, nor to have taken Abel with me.”

 

“But they’re only slaves, Morgan.  They -”

 

“Don’t, Elspeth, don’t say no more about it.”  he put his fingers to her lips, and shook his head in warning, then he turned away to look at the fire, “Was a time they preached that slaves had no souls, they were like the animals, that made folk think it was alright to treat them the same way, if the men in the pulpit said so;  but then -” he pressed his fingers against his eyes, “Elspeth, I wish I could forget the sights I seen,  the things I heard on that ship.  It was like the voyage of the damned.   The stench, the agony -”

 

“Don’t, Morgan, say no more about it now -”

 

“You don’t know, woman, you don’t know the half of it.”  he said and stroked her head again, very gently, very tenderly.

 

He remembered the women and children cast into the sea, deemed unworthy to keep as good cargo, perhaps dead already, perhaps not, but too weak and emaciated to be of further use.  The slaver had decreed that they be thrown overboard.  Abel had stepped forward to protest the first time and got a taste of the stick as a result.  There were the times the slaves were brought up on deck, their chains rattling, dazed and bewildered, stumbling about in the sudden light, frightened, children crying, once bold men reduced to cringing whimpering humanity.  They had been sluiced down with water to remove the excrement and the stench of their bodies, refused the dignity of clothing, then sent down below decks again.  Horrible, it was all horrible.

 

The dead and dying had been released from their chains, cast overboard, and the living had probably envied them that freedom as they were hurried back down into the hold.   The majority, coming from different tribes, lacked even the comfort of conversation between peoples of the same background.  There was nothing to afford them relief, dignity, respect.

 

It changed something in Morgan Stoddard.  He became a staunch abolitionist,  his son Abel constantly at his side, and most nights they sought the solace of more than just a dram or two.   

 

Chapter 20

 

The grandfather clock grumbled the hour, and Adam began to gather in the papers.  He paused at one, a marriage certificate between Abel Stoddard and Ann Sinclair.

 

“What do you know about Abel, Pa?  Did you ever meet his wife?”

 

Ben rubbed his chin thoughtfully, glanced over at the clock, not because he hadn’t heard the hour strike but because when shadows crept long in the big room and the ‘boys’ were not yet home he just needed to reassure himself as to exactly the time, knowing then that perhaps he still had time not to become too anxious about them.

 

“Abel?  Well, he was a stickler for doing things right.  Some crew members thought he was over strict, and over righteous, but he wasn’t really, he just liked the security of discipline.  He taught me a lot.”  Ben smiled slowly, and then pursed his lips as though in contemplation, staring into the shadows as though groping for memories.

 

“And his wife?”

 

“Oh, no - I never met Ann.  I heard a lot about her though, Abel talked often about his wife, and so did Elizabeth.” 

 

“And does the doll have any significance?”  Adam picked up the doll, still wrapped in its silken shawl, and handed it to Ben when his father reached out his hand for it.

 

A slight frown furrowed his fathers brow as he slowly  unwrapped the doll, and then he stared at it, sighed and pulled the silken material once again around it before handing it back,

 

“Yes, there is a story about the doll.” he passed a  hand across his mouth and rubbed his jaw, his dark eyes half hooded by heavy eyelids, “Yes, I remember Abel mentioning it, oh, it was along time ago now, a long time.”

 

Boston in the year   1814

 

The sun was high in the heavens and shone brightly down upon the harbour, and bathed the walls of the houses in gold.  Long streams of sunlight patterned the floor of the bedroom where a woman struggled to give birth to her baby, the two people in the room anxiously monitoring her progress while downstairs a ruddy faced man held his little daughter in his arms and rocked back and forth in the rocking chair in front of the empty hearth.

 

Abel Stoddard listened for the sounds above him that would tell him whether or not he had a new son, or daughter, his heart was beating so fast that his daughter could hear it thudding beneath her ear as she lay her head against his chest.   Whenever she raised her head he would whisper ‘shush, shush’ as though she had made too loud a noise and disturbed his concentration, and then he would stroke her hair and pat her back in an absent minded manner.  She didn’t mind that, she just loved to be with him in the old rocking chair, and she felt safe and protected from any harm when his arms were around her.  She could smell the tobacco from the old pipe he would smoke, the salt and sea in his clothes, sweat and all the other smells that mingled together meant her safe haven, her father.

 

She wasn’t sure why they were downstairs and Ma was upstairs with the doctor and Mrs Kay, but if it meant a little more time alone with father, that must be a good thing.  She snuggled closer and tried to keep her eyes wide open so that when whatever was supposed to happen, happened, she would know, and then father would give her a present.  Not really A present, but THE present.  He had told her weeks before that if she were a good girl, and she always was, then when something special happened soon, she would have her very own special present, something he had bought for her all the way from Germany. 

 

As she was only two years and a little bit old, Germany meant nothing at all to her, it could have been something from the shop just around the corner for all she knew, but father had been very definite about it, and every so often since that day he had taken her in his arms and said

‘Not  much longer now, my poppet.” and then he would wink and she knew that meant soon she would have the special present.

 

Elizabeth Ann Stoddard fell asleep in her fathers arms and so deeply that when the doctor called for him, he just lifted her up and put her in a shawl and left her on the bench seat.  The sun was warm and shone down upon her,  she looked like a doll with her black hair and white skin, dimples in her cheeks, chubby dimpled hands clasped beneath her chin and long lashes forming dark crescents of shadow upon her cheeks.

 

When Abel went into the bedroom his wife, Ann,  lay pale and haggard upon the bed, her hair was wet and in strands  upon the pillows that supported her head, her gown was clinging to her body like a second skin.  There was blood on the bedding and Dr Hunnisett was busy in looking at something in a bowl while Mrs Kay was bundling something else in a cloth.  He looked at the woman who lowered her head and turned away from him.

 

“Abel -”

 

Ann’s voice, weak but soft to his ear, he hurried to her side, knelt beside the bed and held her hand in his own, he kissed her fingers tenderly,

 

“It’s alright, Ann, my love, it’s alright.”

 

“I’m so sorry.” she whispered, “I’m so sorry.”

 

“Hush,” he placed a finger on her lips as though to forbid her to speak any more, and she kissed it, looked deep into his eyes as though to make sure that he understood her misery, and to assure him that she understood his, before she turned away and fell into a deep sleep, exhausted and beyond comprehending the cruelty of having another life taken from her.

 

Hunnisett approached the kneeling man and placed a firm hand on his shoulder,

 

“I’m sorry, Abel, the child wasn’t strong enough, the labour was too prolonged -”

 

“Couldn’t you have done something for them?”

 

Hunnisett said nothing, he turned away.  Certainly if he had had the equipment he would have attempted a ceasarean birth, but he had only ever performed that operation once and then in hospital conditions.  He could have  told Abel that had he tried then perhaps Ann as well as the infant would have died, whereas at least Ann was alive … just about.  He sighed and returned to the examination of the placenta, if it was not complete then there was a danger of Ann haemorrhaging and in her weakened state he couldn’t guarantee her life then.

 

Abel leaned down and kissed his wife on the brow before walking over to Mrs Kay,

 

“May I ?”  he indicated the little bundle she had placed in a wicker basket,  and when she nodded he just flicked over the corner of the blanket to reveal a perfectly shaped handsome baby with black downy hair and little eyelashes “A boy?”

 

“Yes, Abel, I am sorry.”

 

His adams apple jerked convulsively,  a son,  and this was the third son that  Ann had given birth to who was born sleeping, the first, their very first baby, had arrived prematurely and died within days of his birth, the other was born the year before Elizabeth’s arrival, already dead, like this wee one.  He looked again at the little face and the flicked the blanket back over his face.    He left the room, for he knew he would only be in their way, Ann would sleep and wake up needing him, but until then he would grieve alone.  He went into the room he used as a study, and it was then his eyes fell upon the box on the shelf. 

 

He lifted it down and looked at it, opened the lid and gazed down at the little doll he had bought for his daughter.  This was going to be her baby to care for while her mother cared for the baby, but not now … he shook his head and after wrapping the doll in a silk shawl that had come all the way from China, he placed it carefully in a trunk where he placed other treasures, and where ‘secret’ things had been kept for many generations.

 

He didn’t know that a long time ago, nearly two hundred years in fact, one of his ancestors had brought the trunk all the way from Scotland to this territory, and that over the years, as generations had come and gone, there had been some clue, something of themselves, placed carefully within its confines.   When he was a child his father would say ‘Don’t touch, don’t pry’, whenever he had approached the trunk, so he didn’t, he just added to the secrets, and the doll was going to be one of them.

 

When Elizabeth opened her eyes it was the morning of the following day.  She had slept long and deeply, thanks to a draught of laudanum in her milk, there was soft rain pattering on the windows of her room, and the sun had gone away.  

 

Pennsylvania in the year 1814

 

John, Sarah, Benjamin, Martha and Francis Cartwright stood silently in a row as their father stood in front of them, very tall and very stern.  Mother stood by the door, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders, a large carpet bag tied with a leather strap at her feet.

 

For two whole days there had been so much too-ing and fro-ing that the children were constantly being shuffled off to one room and then another, and another.  Things were disappearing from the rooms, some were never to be seen again, others reappeared on a wagon now standing outside in the street. 

 

Benjamin Cartwright was seven years old, tall for his age, dark eyed and, as his father would say whenever he looked at the boy, a ‘real Cartwright’, not that that meant anything to Benjamin.  He was high spirited, always the one coming home dirtier than when he left, with grazed knees or barked shins;  of the three boys Benjamin was the one thirsty for adventure, the one who would get lost, and insist he hadn’t been because  he knew exactly where he was; if any of the Cartwright children was in trouble it was always Benjamin.

 

“Why are you always in trouble, son?” Joseph asked him on quite a regular basis

 

“I don’t know, Pa, I don’t mean to be, but I think trouble just waits for me and then pounces out and gets a-hold.”

 

“Perhaps this will help you to think in future to make sure it doesn’t ..”  and then he would take his medicine staunchly and go to his bed where he would cry on his own, without the humiliation of his brothers and sisters seeing him.

 

“Where we going, Pa?”

 

Joseph paused and turned, of course it had to be Benjamin who asked, the others would have been waiting for him to do so. 

 

“We’re going to start a new life, Benjamin.”

 

“Why?  What’s wrong with this one?”

 

Joseph sighed, what indeed?   How could he explain such things as family disagreements, legal ambiguities, leaseholds and such to children?  He now took his stance in front of them, his hands behind his back and his eyes solemn as he looked down at them,

 

“Well, you know I’m a seaman -”

 

“Sure, Pa, we know that,” said John, nearly 18 months older than Sarah, who was a year older than Benjamin.

 

“Some years ago I had to sell my ownership of the ‘Welsh Maid’, your Uncle Aaron took it on instead.”

 

They didn’t understand, he was confronted by five pairs of confused eyes.

 

“It means I don’t have a ship of my own anymore.”  he frowned and squatted down to their level, “It’s as though someone had taken one of y our toys from you, he lets you play with it now and again, but it isn’t yours anymore, you can only play with it when he says you can.”  he looked at them, they nodded, even Francis understood.

 

“Uncle Aaron’s a bad man then,” Benjamin said solemnly.

 

“He’s not a bad man, Benjamin, he’s still my brother, and  your Uncle, don’t forget that…”  Joseph glanced over at Maggie, his wife, and exchanged a swift glance between them, she turned her head away, and Benjamin, sharp eyed as ever, noticed  it and knew that as far as Mother was concerned Uncle Aaron was a bad man.  He resolved there and then that he would not call Aaron Cartwright Uncle ever again.

 

The children followed their parents from the house that had been their home since each one of them could remember.   They were placed carefully in a wagon behind their parents, surrounded by packages and parcels, valises, and trunks, and behind that wagon came another, driven by one of Uncle Jonathan’s slaves, a friendly man known as Toby.  Upon that wagon was heaped furniture, mattresses, mirrors all tied down securely by ropes.

 

Friends and neighbours came to wave them farewell.   There was no sign of Aaron or Jonathan with their wives and children, but then Joseph and Margaret Cartwright hadn’t expected them to be there, not now.

 

As they left their home Josephs mind wandered back over the years that had followed his leaving his father’s home.   He returned a prosperous man, and a popular man.  He had joined various expeditions, learned his trade as a seaman, and had gained a wife, two children and a ship of his own, the ‘Welsh Maid’, named in honour of his mother.   It had come as a shock to him that his father had been so bitter and angry, the hurt  the older man had felt having his orders disobeyed by his youngest son had gone deep, and bitterness had rankled deep in his heart.  When he saw his son’s prosperity he had felt no compunction when announcing to Joseph that  he was ‘on his own’, that there was nothing there for him, no handouts from the Cartwright coffers.

 

Joseph had laughed it off, what did it matter, he had enough to live on, he owned a ship, owned his own property, there was no reason why he should need ‘handouts’.

 

His older brothers closed ranks with their father, friendly and warm hearted men though they were, they were prejudiced against this young man who had so blithely broken his parent’s hearts and then just as blithely returned to the fold, complete with wife and family.

 

Time passed,  pressure was put on Joseph to engage in the trafficking of slaves, good cargo brought from the Africas in exchange for tobacco and other luxury goods in London.  He refused, time and again he refused.   He had to mortgage the house, eventually he had to mortgage the ship.   When he asked for help from his family he received  it, except that the mortgages were redeemed and paid for in Aaron’s name. 

 

The arguments created a bitter feud between the brothers, Jonathan tried to act as intermediary coming to see Joseph with his family, so that the children played together amicably in the yard while the adults argued heatedly in the house.  Eventually he conceded to Aaron’s stronger position, and stood back while Joseph and Margaret packed up their home,  and left  all they had known behind them.

 

……………….

 

Adam placed the last piece of paper down on the pile and looked over at his father,

 

“So your father took a strong stand against slavery,  and that was the cause of the feud in the family?”

 

“Not the slavery issue as such, just the fact that Aaron took what my father felt was rightfully his, and left them in a very poor situation.”  Ben frowned, “That’s when we came to Boston.  We lived in a poor kind of house compared to the one we had left behind, but it soon became home.  Children don’t much notice their surroundings when there’s plenty of love shown them.” 

 

Adam said nothing to that, remembering his own ’surroundings’ as a child, and the lack of a mother’s love that was to be found in them. He looked again at the paper he had put on the pile and then glanced once more at Ben,

 

“This letter from Grandfather Francis was quite conciliatory …”

 

“More Grandmother Ffyon’s doing I should imagine, she loved her youngest boy very much and it caused her a lot of distress when we all left Philadelphia.   When she came to see us in Boston and saw how happy we were, and that father had another ship, she seemed more reconciled.  That’s when I recall seeing her most, on her visits there.”   Ben sighed deeply and reclined further into the back of the chair, “You know, Adam, if we hadn’t moved to Boston, in all likelihood I would never have got to serve under Abel Stoddard, nor have met your mother.”

 

They said nothing for a while, there was only the sound of the clock ticking, the papers rustling as Adam tidied them away.  Ben turned his eyes towards his son and watched what he was doing,

 

“Have we come to the end of the journey then, son?”

 

“I guess so, Pa.” Adam smiled slowly, although his eyes had a dreamy even a sad look about them, “I still feel that it has left me with more questions than answers.”  he rose to his feet and looked down at the bible and papers that he held in his hands, “I have a list of dates, names, certain facts that I can speculate about, but I don‘t know them, I don’t know what they looked like, nor why they made the decisions they chose to make, or -”

 

Ben raised a hand, he shook his head, and smiled,

 

“Adam, that’s life, that’s how it is, and perhaps, in some things, perhaps it’s wiser not to know all the answers.”  he glanced over at the clock as there came the sound of horses galloping into the yard and he smiled again, his eyes twinkling, “An hour late … wait until those two get in here, I tell you, they had better give me some good answers to the questions I’m going to be levelling at them.”

 

Adam smiled knowing his father well enough to accept that as far as the ‘journey’ they had shared together was concerned, the subject was now closed.   He placed everything back in the trunk, and closed the lid.   He put the family bible down on the bureau where Ben preferred it to be, but he paused a while, his hand hovered over the leatherwork on the front cover, a wistful look drifted over his face and with a sigh he turned towards the door as his two brothers made a noisy and joyful return home.

 

For him, the journey would never be over …

 

 

 

                                   WILLIAM AND MARGARET STODDARD

                                            Origins :  Aberdeenshire, Scotland

 

ABEL            ELIZABETH                 JAMIE              MAGNUS        TULLOCH

b.1627           b.1630                           b.1632              b.1633             b. 1640

       l

m. Rhiannan McManus 1647

        l

DAVID                   JESSIE             ABIGAIL

b.1649                     b.1652            b.1653

        l

m. Morag Sutherland 1670

 

SIOBHAN             ABEL                SHEELAGH

b.1672                   b.1675               b.1677

                             M Una Cameron 1702

                             

                               WILLIAM              HAMISH              MARY             MORAG

                               B 1703                    b. 1705                 b.1707             b.1710

                                                            M Isabel Murray

                                                           

                                                            HUGH               ELIZABETH

                                                            B  1733            b 1736

                                                            M Elinor Morris 1756

 

                                                            MORGAN

                                                            B 1757

                                                            M Elspeth Hamilton 1778

                                                         

                                                            DOUGLAS           ABEL MORGAN

                                                            B 1780                  B 1782

                                                                                         M . Anne Sinclair 1805

                                                                                       

                                                                                       b ELIZABETH ANNE 1812                  

                                                                                        M Ben Cartwright  1829

                                                                                        B.  Adam Cartwright 1830

                                                                                              

 

 

     

                         

 

 

 

                                  FRANCIS    AND    ANN    CARTWRIGHT

                                     Origins:   Grimsby, Lincolnshire, England

 

BENJAMIN                            SARAH

b. 1627                                    b.1635

 

 1646

 

JANE                                   JESSICA                       JOSEPH

B  1647                                  b 1650                         b 1652

M. Nathaniel Laurence  1663                                    m  Molly Taylor 1672                                     

                                                                                  DANIEL  &   DAVID

JAMES                 MARY                                                            M Carolyn Lane  1702 

B 1665                  b 1677                                                                                                

m. Ann Goudie 1685                                                                                      JACK      HENRY

      l                                                                                                   1705       B.17O8

JESSICA                                                                                            M. Beatrice Weiss  1735

B. 1685                                                                                              

M.  Charles Abbott     1703                                                              *   DANIEL   

JONATHAN         JAMES                                                                     B 1736

B. 1705                   B 1710

M.  Tamar Sutton   1733

RACHEL      JOANNA     PHYLLIS

B 1735           b 1740         b 1742

M.   Daniel Cartwright  1754*

 

FRANCIS        JOHN       HENRY

B 1755              B 1757    B 1760     

M.  Ffyon Evans  1777

JOHN              AARON         JOSEPH

B 1780              b.1782            b. 1784

                                                M. Margaret  Lansdale 1804

                                                JOHN   Sarah  BENJAMIN Martha  FRANCIS

                                                 B. 1806            B. 1808             B. 1810             

                                                                         M. Elizabeth Stoddard  1829