Mary of the Mayflower by Diane Stevenson Stone

Author:Diane Stevenson Stone
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781311749307
Publisher: Scrivener Books
Published: 2015-05-30T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 12.

Will-o’-the-Wisp

THE DAY-TO-DAY VOYAGE WAS hard on Mary’s father. Being the oldest of all the Pilgrims, he was unable to move around much and became weaker with each passing day. Mary whiled away the time dreaming about the day that they would see land. Hunger and thirst were becoming more and more familiar. Like their parents, the children wore the same clothes day after day, week after week, getting dirtier and more worn all the time. A smell of wet wool stuffed her nostrils. The air was thick and stagnant—it was no longer unusual to spot a mouse, or even a rat, or see bugs crawling around. By now the hardtack,[69] salted pork, and fish were gone. Everyone washed as best they could with the seawater. Splinters were always getting into little fingers and toes. Many of the Pilgrims fell to their knees, and in spite of suffering, gave thanks to be alive, while some of the shipmates wept openly.

“Be sparing with the water—we have precious little,” was often heard.

The ship rolled from side to side for days on end, causing falls and spills. For safety and warmth, the passengers kept to their hammocks and bunks. Sleeping, for some, was a quiet escape. Lying there, nestled in her hammock, Mary peered over the edge, listening to the sound of footsteps overhead on the main deck. Hearing the long, continuous drone, she slipped easily into slumber, even with the sounds of a hundred others around her. Within minutes she fell quietly into a dreamy slumber . . .

Mary’s eyes adjusted from the brilliant sunshine outside as she entered the darkness of a petite cottage. She could barely make out the shape of a single cloak hanging on a wooden peg. She entered the small doorway to a cozy room. There were two windows with a fireplace between them. The flames in the hearth flickered and danced before her eyes. Rough stone walls were whitewashed with wattle and daub—a mix of straw, animal hair, lime, and mud plaster. She could see bits of straw in the mud between the timber beams in the low ceiling that stretched across to the top of the windows. Through blurred glass, Mary could see a small graveyard and a field of lavender beyond that—it looked like a coverlet of purple linen.

She pulled herself from the warmth of the fire as her father suddenly appeared and beckoned her outside, down a random pathway, and through a rusty garden gate. It screeched as he pushed it open.

“Come, Mary.” Her father took her by the hand.

“Now turn around,” he said quietly.

Her eyes traveled from a thatched roof made of marsh reeds and hay to the circling smoke that came from the chimney, then down to the miniature cottage, and finally, her eyes settled below on the humble headstones. She was focused on every detail. Years of wind and harsh weather had all but removed the carved names from the faded headstones. Green moss, soft and velvety to the touch, covered the stones, and the mayflower bushes were blushing with creamy pink blossoms.

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