Chapter 4

At last we reached a great river or inlet, I knew not which. On the other side, small lights suggested that there might be a settlement of like minded, or like skinned, people. I made a decision and we crept to the bank where five canoes were drawn up. A man sat; actually just a boy. Canoes were not something to leave unguarded. Even now, I could hardly bring myself to kill to steal; though others would say ‘he is only a redskin’; Maeve held my arm and whispered that I must not kill for our safety, which persuaded me if persuasion was necessary. I held a knife to his throat from behind, it was risky, he might twist away and scream. But he did not, thank the Lord. Maeve gagged him, bound his arms and legs and we loaded him, ourselves and our meagre possessions into one; we towed the others out two hundred yards and tied them to a driftwood island. Even this would give us a sufficient start.

Then we canoed across. Maeve did her part, and, once out of ear shot, we both assured the boy we should not kill him. At the other side, a shout rang out. Here was a community feeling threatened. “We are two white people, escaped and seeking refuge.” I shouted back. When we landed, four muskets were pointed at us. They would have clubbed the captive, but Maeve put herself in their way. I cut his bonds and set him on his way back. Perhaps he may one day think that not all white men are lying braggarts; I hope so.

Fairly Redeemed was the name of the leader of the group – a ridiculous name if ever I heard one; but who was I to judge if they were helpful. He was kind, helpful, and could not wait to get rid of us. These communities all fear that their particular clear revelation from God might be challenged by outsiders as not quite the perfect doctrine. Two days, we were allowed to stay. Despite spending so much time alone in the woods together, when they realised we were not matrimonially hitched, they insisted we sleep separately.

Then we were set on our way to New Jerusalem, a community of the Puritans determined to be the purest believers in the land.

At New Jerusalem, Maeve believed that her beloved was farming near by; so we headed that way; she was so totally sure that all would be well.

My heart suggested the reunion after so long was likely not to be what she hoped. Now you know why my heart was heavy as I walked along the narrow path with her following. I descried from her look that she, too, wondered what the day would bring. But still so determined. What makes a woman think a man will stay true after so many years? Because she had stayed true to him.

We walked into the town; people on the main street (if you could call it that) stopped and stared. I guess we weren’t the usual visitors. I was dressed in rough buckskin clothes, badly sewed together. Maeve was the same, but her sewing was even worse. As she walked, her long skirt, which she had created to be more respectable, unravelled one seam up to the thigh. Since she (and I) was naked underneath, the result was that every step revealed a long, shapely, naked leg. I thought it might one day be a popular way to dress; but not here, not now. I think her free red hair caused as much, or more scandal to the observing people. All the women covered their heads as was appropriate in their culture.

A woman beckoned us. “Come my ducks, you cannot walk round looking like that. That wilst offend the elders. Whither comest thou in such oddly garb?” She carried on talking as she led us to her residence. She explained that she was the wife of the minister Reverend Mr Wilton; he would want us looking respectable, she said. Respectability seemed to be very important. Goodwife Wilton leant me a cloak from her husband’s stock – he seemed to have a multiplicity of dark grey cloaks; why does a man need more than one unless he has a certain regard for himself? Self-regard was not something meant to be rewarded in New Jerusalem. She found a respectable dress for Maeve and clucked and fussed when Maeve began to undress in full view of herself and me. We had both lost much sense of private bodies after a year in the company of Indians who had far less concern for such things. Then we had travelled together for many miles and seen each other wash in streams and make waste beside bushes. Never once did I seek to take advantage, even though her body had been much misused by our captors. Yet now we were free. She would not have struggled had I sought to take her, and it was not that I did not desire her, but her sense of honour kept me from suggesting the same communion as the Indians had taken roughly and often. It was, perhaps, a small gift from God that she did not become pregnant. I rather suspect, though, that it was the result of poor food and hard work.

Mrs Wilton led Maeve to a private place and she returned for all the world like someone born to this Puritan life; hair was covered demurely, body covered by a rough dress of black, an old black cloak over the whole. Goodwife Wilton had only two cloaks, and had offered her good one, but Maeve had insisted on borrowing only the older, patched one. It seemed Mr Wilton did not see the need for his wife to be as similarly dressed always in perfect clothing as himself. I was already starting to like her, and dislike him.

Then she prepared us some food and heard our story. Some, in truth, we left out, but I think she surmised that an attractive young woman like Maeve would not be left unassaulted. Mr Wilton had been visiting a parishioner who had recently lost her husband. It seemed very early in the day to do so, but I was given to understand the wonderful Mr Wilton was dedicated to his flock. Mrs Wilton was clearly very loyal, but I wondered how much love was involved. She was just past the age where comely was a proper description (though not an appropriate description to use in a Puritan community I suspect), but still was shapely – even under the shapeless drab garb, that at least was obvious.

Mr Wilton returned and looked surprised to have visitors. I stood and greeted him, detecting a small resentment at our intrusion. An irritation flashed briefly on his face and then vanished; he was well-trained at not showing his true feelings. A man does not become a senior minister if he cannot simper to elders, patiently listen to old widows and preach sermons that sound deep and mean little. Mr Wilton was just such a man.

Once more we recalled our history. I had hoped for a suggestion to go and rescue the others from the clutches of despair, but none came. “They are probably in the hands of their Maker by now; and if not, they will be soon.” was his view. A view which seemed uncharitable – unloving – at best.

We asked for the whereabouts of Mr Thomas Telford. We neither of us mentioned that Maeve was engaged to this man, Mr Wilton assumed a familial or friendly association, which seemed a good approach for now. Out to the south of the community, a farm had been ripped from the woods and was sustaining Mr Telford. Mr Telford and a Mrs Telford it transpired. Maeve moved not one facial muscle when she heard. We walked out that way.

Mr Thomas Telford’s face fell and paled when he saw Maeve; his wife was older than himself. I suspect it was her widowhood inheritance that was the attraction. That or the natural desire to lay with a woman. Now his earlier promise lay in ashes. He had his farm, courtesy of this widow (who provided the money to employ labourers so they had no need to work too hard wresting this place from the wilderness), but she still had her looks.

Maeve said nothing about the earlier promise, only suggesting that they had known each other in Ireland. “You have done well Mr Telford. I wonder, might we stay for a day or two to recover? We were shipwrecked and have had a hard time.”