Chapter 1

The forest crowded in as we made our way through the narrow track, in truth barely wide enough for two travellers to pass each other. A horseman must needs warn a walker that they should step aside to allow passage. In places the gloom matched my mood, one of despair at ever finding myself once again in civilised company. And when we did get there, what then?

Not that my recent hosts were uncivilised except in the manner that we might so call it. The Indians of this region were less enamoured of the white interlopers, as well they had cause to be; their lands were being slowly cleared of undergrowth, wildlife, and the human denizens of the region to make way for those who claimed God had given them goodly right to the land. My colleagues from further west had been, after our initial introduction, more friendly than I had wont to expect.

My name is Sir Peter Walkley – or at least, that is the name you shall hear. I did have another name some years previous; it might seem remiss to forget my own name, but there are good reasons for such. I left England, from the port of Whitehaven, under a cloud; landing in a small harbour in Lough Foyle in Ireland, I travelled south and further west and took another ship to the new lands of the Americas having reinvented myself and my name along the way.

My reason? I had offended a powerful local potentate in my region. I am well-read, took to the medical profession via a local priest turned village cleric or cleric turned monk turned cleric (a cleric who saw no contradiction in being taught by one who was a monk under the Pope and Henry – named Defender of The Faith by that same Pope; then Anglican under that same king; my clerical friend and mentor similarly switched the colour of his outward belief to suit the climate. He explained how his true calling was to help the people, he had little interest in the political shenanigans or dense theological arguments that surrounded each new monarch). He taught me much of use and, more importantly taught me that converging events did not always mean cause and effect. An old woman picking herbs followed by a baby dying at birth did not mean witchcraft. He saved not a few old women from such accusations.

My skill brought me to the notice of Sir EF- for whom I performed a service. That meant that when Earl A- found his daughter was smitten with a flow of blood that seemed too heavy, Sir EF- recommended my services. It was meant as a reward, but Earl A- was not one to reward success and forgive failure.

My investigations were initially made with the mother present, then a lady-in-waiting; and finally I was trusted to be alone with the comely lass who was already promised to a neighbour. She was sixteen and the flow of blood was the only block to a useful unity of two families. Even our wise and devout monarch had consented – a necessary prerequisite given the noble birth of both families.

My application of herbs within her lower receptacle finally had the desired effect of stemming the flow. The young lady – weak from so much bleeding – was grateful but concerned that the wedding night might re-cause the stimulation that had resulted in the loss. She begged me to test this for her in such a way that she could concede to marriage without danger to her father’s reputation. I resisted at first, but, having the means (a room empty of other people and a bed offering a naked and pretty young virgin) and the base nature of a man, I finally complied.

How was this discovered? I know not, but it was to be kept secret. She was not with child – Providence had not punished her to that extent – but she was to be married quickly, in case the midwife had misdiagnosed. As for myself, Earl A- let it be known that a knife in my innards would be rewarded with a bag of money. I was lucky that the mother – grateful for rescuing her daughter – warned me by secret message and I fled my village, my county, my country, my very name!

So I sailed from Whitehaven as – well let us leave that name unsaid – and arrived in Foyle as Sir Peter Walkley. Or rather I disembarked, walked out of the small town and towards the town or city of Derraigh (if I have spelt that correctly – it hardly matters, the shithole takes no part on my story). From thence to the port on the West. Until that moment I had little plan but to hide away until the hew and cry died down, but a ship lay in the harbour, and a man was expounding the riches to be accumulated in the new world opening up beyond the horizon. I had arrived as Sir Peter; I had little enough to prove myself; perhaps, I thought, a new world, entirely, would be welcome. I little knew how right I was.

There had been few takers so far; for some many reasons. Some had not the wherewithal to purchase even the cheapest fare, some had no desire to bond themselves to be able to export them (this was a bond whereby the Master of the vessel would sell you at the far side for seven years bonded servant; essentially a slave – the master took the risk that no-one would buy, but it was a small enough risk, he would lower the price until someone purchased, and the traveller took the risk as to the work that would be required), still others still firmly believed that beyond the horizon the flat earth stopped and the ship would fall off the world – nevermind that the master claimed to have made the journey once before and returned. On a whim, a flight of delusion perhaps, I signed my name and gave my fare. The master of the fair ship ‘Delusion’ bit the coin to ensure its probity. I returned to him that with a ship named Delusion he was lucky to get any takers. He smiled and said “Beggars are not choosers, sir.” I took him to mean the travellers, but he meant himself foresooth.

We sailed on the tide. A worthless crew and a poorer set of travellers. All of us travellers were packed into one large open space: we comprised the family Murphy, whose father had a reputation for a short temper. He hoped to start anew and his wife oft and repeatedly impressed upon him the need to control his anger. Her black eye showed he had not learned the lesson well. He had two small sons, one of which would succumb before five days were out. That gave us all the fear that they were plague carriers and none would sleep nearby after. Two other families had travelled here to emigrate as well. They were genuine believers and were horrified at the language of the sailors. All three families would keep their children well clear of the seamen; who would use the sexual parts of a woman in their general conversation as easily as think. The weather was a cunt if it was too breezy and if it was too calm. The master was a cunting tit and his daughters were milky dugs and milky cunts – I think this was meant as a compliment. The passengers were often referred to in unflattering tones, though the younger women were frequently invited to join the men below for entertainment. There were four strapping young men, setting out to make their fortune. They believed the stories of Milk and Honey and gold in the hills. I was not so foolish. Then there were two smaller men who had signed up for bond-servant. I feared for them; they would be worked hard and long, neither looked able to withstand hard work for long. The last group were five young women, also bond-servants of a sort. There were plenty of men who had travelled out to make themselves a life, and now wished to have a life-help-mate; in short, a wife. Two were travelling as genuine bond-servants, paying nothing for their fare and intending to work for seven years in the hope of discovering a swain to take them body and soul. The other three had paid a smaller fee; their deal was that they would offer themselves as wife and their husband-to-be would pay the remainder of their fare.

These last three had to be careful to arrive virgo-intacta; for any man would insist on such before parting with money. The other two girls would have seven years (plus the voyage) to lose whatever innocence they had. If they were attractive, it was likely that their duties would extend beyond their daily tasks, I surmised. I put this to the master who said “Not so, good sir. The settlement we are to land at is Puritan to a man – and woman and child – no man would be so bold as to take a woman, not his wife. Such an action would result in his severe punishment, and hers. Stripes would be the least of it.” We had been sailing one full day, and I was already beginning to suspect that Providence was having His wee joke with me.

“But surely these are Catholics, from the West of Ireland? How will they fit to Puritan ways?”

“Aside from their religious beliefs, I should say ‘our religious beliefs’, there is little in ways of living to distinguish them.” He looked around to see his daughters were not close. “To be frank, sir. A Catholic maid would as soon throw herself from a cliff in Donegal than give herself to a man unmarried, and a Puritan is the same.” I suspected he knew this from experience. “It isn’t that their passions are low, but the community – be it Priest or Elder – will punish such actions severely.” He went on to tell me that, as servants, they could all believe what they liked inwardly, provided that they complied with the laws of the settlement. Else they could leave and make their own livelihood beyond.

He told me that his eldest daughter Maeve had fallen for a robust and honest young Puritan in an unusual match. He had gone five years ago and had promised to have a place for her five years later “And I have agreed to transport her to check the veracity of his promise.” She had thrown up her allegiance to the Beast of Rome and wore quiet and becoming grey and black and white as befitted a believer and follower of the Puritan edge of Christianity. Master McVeagh – her father – had similarly given Rome its marching orders and was of my own church – the established church of the United Kingdoms of course – his reasons were not any more convincing that hers. She had espoused Puritanism for love – or lust, is there a difference? - not by being convinced of the truth; He had joined the church of which our monarch is the Head because there was no likelihood this side of the eternal divide that a Catholic would command anything more impressive than a rowing boat. This was his meaning earlier – as a convert determined to gain his own vessel on the sea, he was not going to disagree with the vessel’s name. His younger daughter – Mary McVeagh – accompanied him and her sister, and to add to the confusion she refused to convert for any reason. She was hoping to find a good Catholic farmer in the new world of Virginia, or beyond. More of her anon.

As I have already implied, travelling as a young woman on a ship populated by men was never going to be easy. The McVeagh sisters had their protector – their father had made it clear that anybody taking advantage of the girls would find themselves thrown into the sea unbound. Why unbound? Because if you were tied or weighted, you would drown quickly, if you were free to swim then your death would take much longer. In truth, they were a welcome sight since their red hair and green eyes made many of the passengers and crew pontificate on what they would like to do the patch of red hair between their legs. Mary was barely fifteen but was well able to understand the desire she elicited in others. Her sister, being promised, I did not look at for lust-sake.

The five ladies in the hold were a different matter – to be clear, I do not include Mrs Murphy (or the other family wives) as being at risk, both because her husband was large, ugly and dangerous, but also because, to be honest, so was she. The five went always and everywhere together. They timed their washing, holding a blanket to hide themselves, to times when most of us were allowed on deck. They went to their bodily functions as a group as well.