the cries of the marsh birds and the glow of the last light on the yellow water
lilies. Nor shall I forget the sound of oars as a boat moves through the fens,
or the way the morning mist lies close above the grass.”
“You were born here?”
“In the cottage we just left My father was a soldier home from the wars, given
this land in respect of things done. It was what he wanted, I think, land of his
own and a free, honest life. He had lived by the blade and bow in many a land.
He taught me much the schools teach, and much that no school could teach, and I
honor him for it. He wanted a better life for me, and I shall have it, in
America.” Black Tom nodded.
“My father finished his life,” I continued, “and made a better foothold for me.
And I in my time shall do the same for my sons. Yet it is honor I wish for them,
honor and pride of person, not wealth. Nor do I wish for titles, or a place near
a Queen or a King, for pride of title or family is an empty thing, b’ke dry
leaves that blow in the cold winds of autumn.”
“You have a wife?”
“Nay … but soon, if all goes well. A bonny lass who will go with me to
America.” I considered, and smiled. “It is not so much that I wish to take her
to that wild land, but that she will not be left behind. She’s a lovely lass,
and we sail well together. I’ve a fine ship waiting, a cargo loaded, and she
waits upon the wind … and me.”
“She must be a strong lass, to risk a wild land.”
“Aye, and I’ve thought much upon that, Tom. It is well for men to risk dangers,
for we have broad backs to bear the blows, but I marvel at the courage of women
who go with us, and must think of bearing children alone, and in a far place.
“I wonder sometimes. Why do I go, Tom, when I have this? If Queen Bess drains
the fens I would be a man of wealth, for much of this about us is mine. But I
will not stay for it.”
“With me it is different, lad. There’s the noose at Tyburn waiting for my neck,”
said Tom.
“Perhaps, Tom. But think you: others like you stay. How many men in Britain
today would sail for America? How many do you know that have lurked in the
towns, hiding or moving from place to place rather than try a new land? They
hide from change. They fear it. We do not.”
“What of the savages there?”
“I have known but few, and as their lives need strength, they respect strength.
As they must fight with their enemies, they respect a fighter. As a coward is a
danger to them, they despise a coward.
“There are honest men among them, and dishonest, even as with us. One must deal
fairly, and watch himself against weakness, for they despise that. Give no gift
without reason or they will think it an offering from fear, and kill you out of
hand.
“In the forest they are masters, craftsmen as sure and true as men can be, and
there’s much to learn from them. Vast areas of the land seem to be uninhabited,
for they are few in proportion to its size. They are a different people, of
different backgrounds, and you cannot expect them to react like Christians. They
have not heard of turning the other cheek—”
“And well enough they haven’t. I never got far with that myself.”
We came upon William. He and I had much of which to talk, of plantings and
harvests and what to do with the money earned from the produce of my land,
little though it was. In all I owned but some small pieces of tillable land, and
some from which rushes might be cut—enough for a man’s living and a bit over.
William was a solid man, and I’d promised him half. When there was sufficient
earned, he was to buy another small piece of land.
“And what if you come not back, Barnabas?”
“Leave it in the trust of a good man. For if I come not back, a son of mine
surely will.”
William and I had known each other from boyhood, although he was the older by
some seven years, a strong, resolute man who had land and crops, and worked hard
with his hands.
I said to him, “And if the time comes you wish to cross the sea, come to me and
I shall find a place for you.”
“I am an Englishman, Barnabas. I want no more than England.”
Was he wiser than I? My father had lived through wars and troubles, and it left
him with a sense that nothing lasted but what a man made of himself. “Be wary,”
he advised me, “of trusting too much. Men change and times change, but wars and
revolutions are always with us.
“Own a bit of ground where you can plant enough to live, and be not far from
fuel, for days and nights can be cold. Be friendly with all men and censure
none, tell nobody too much of your affairs and remember in all dealings with
men, or women, to keep one hand upon the doorlatch … in your mind, at least.
“Men distrust strangers, so have a few places where you are known … but not
too well. Not even a marsh-rat will trust itself to one hole only, so always
have an escape route, and more than one, if it can be.”
So in the days of my growing up we had used more than one market town, to become
somewhat known in each, and we went to church now here, now there. My father did
no smuggling as many fen-men did, but we knew the smugglers. We of the fens were
a close-mouthed lot, not given to talking to strangers, but with a strong
loyalty for one another.
The mysterious swordsman, if such he was, might ask in vain and learn nothing to
help, nor would he find me now, for a myriad of watery routes led to many towns
and villages in several shires.
With a warm fire going William and I talked much, and at the last he said, “Do
not worry about your fields. I shall handle them as I would my own, and will
take one-third.”
“One-half,” I repeated.
He shook his head. “You give too much, Barnabas.”
“One-half,” I insisted. “I wish you to have the reward of your care, and with
what you have and what you can make of mine you can become a man of
consequence.”
“You go to a far land, Barnabas. Are you not afraid?”
“The forest seems safer than the London streets, William, and there is land for
the taking—forests, meadows, and lakes. And there is game.”
“Poaching?”
I smiled. “There are no lords there to bespeak the deer or the hare, William.
There is enough for all. I shall take seed to be planted, William, and tools for
working the land and cutting down the forest I shall build what I need. My hands
are fanning with tools, and necessity will add to their skill.”
He shook his head, slowly. “No, Barnabas, it is for you to do this. I have not
the courage to risk all upon a chance. My own land is here. I shall plough my
own acres, sleep in my own cot.”
“I wonder what it is?” I said. “I wonder what chooses between us, that I go and
you stay? Our situations are not too different, one from the other, nor is one
less or more the man than the other, it is only that we are different.”
He nodded. “I have thought much upon this, Barnabas, and asked of myself the
reasons. I do not know. Perhaps it is something in the blood of each of us that
you go out upon the sea and I cling to my small holding here.
“You will allow me to say I think it a foolish thing you do? What will you do
for drink, Barnabas?”
“I will drink water.”
“Water? But water is not fit for men to drink. For the cattle, for birds and
beasts, but a man needs ale … or wine, if you are a Frenchman.”
“The water of the new world is wine to me, William. I ask no more. The water of
the streams is cold and clear.”
And so we parted, we two who were friends but strangers, we whose paths would
diverge, yet cling. As he waved good-bye from the island, I thought there was a
little of wistfulness in his face. Perhaps something deep within him longed to
follow me to the far lands. But that may have been my own pride in what I was,