Chesapeake (27 page)

Old Pentaquod, realizing that he would not see his daughter again, summoned her two sons, and holding them by the hand, even though they were grown now, walked to the shore and called after the departing sloop, ‘Tciblento! What shall we do with your boys?’

But she was gone, gone from her tribe forever, and the boys would somehow be absorbed, and they would wander bewildered with the rest of the Choptanks, and in the end they would be hunted like deer and slain, and the needles of the pine would cover them.

Oh, Tciblento!
The old man wept, and when the geese departed from the river his spirit followed.

A basic characteristic of the Eastern Shore was that significant events which happened elsewhere excited wild reverberations throughout the peninsula, but nothing which happened on the shore ever influenced
history outside. This was demonstrated in January 1648 when a ship from Bristol put into Devon with a small group of indentured servants, a huge supply of trading goods for the Steed warehouse and a Catholic priest freshly ordained in Rome.

Ralph Steed, thirty-two, had done well in his studies and should have taken pride in being the first citizen of Maryland to achieve holy orders, but when he descended the gangplank it was obvious that he was disturbed. Grave of manner, his blond hair agitated by the wind, he kissed his mother soberly, greeted his two brothers, and said, ‘Let us repair to the chapel.’

There he led a brief Mass attended by two sailors, after which he closed the doors and met solemnly with his family. ‘Events of profound gravity are sweeping London,’ he confided. ‘King Charles is being hounded by Protestants, and a hideous person named Cromwell is threatening to capture the throne and have himself proclaimed king.’

‘Are they going mad?’ his mother asked.

‘They are. And the consequences can be awful. Parliament is trying to revoke the Maryland charter. There’s talk of sending the most dreadful commissioners here to wipe out Catholicism. We’re in danger.’

He had only fragmentary information; aboard ship he had been treated with hostility by those who supported the Protestant Parliament in its fight with the king, and he had not been told some of the most disturbing news, but now the captain and the sailors were confiding everything to the Protestant stragglers who had come down from the camp to trade.

‘Yes, sir,’ the captain told them, ‘there’s fighting up and down England. A madman named Rupert is supporting the king, but General Cromwell is putting armies in the field to defend honest men. If Cromwell wins, the days of the Papist in Maryland will be numbered.’

Some of the sailors, rabid Parliament men, wanted to organize a kind of Protestant militia for the Choptank, to defend the new liberties being achieved in England, but their captain squelched this. ‘The fight will be won in England,’ he predicted, ‘and that will determine what happens here.’

He was not correct in his prophecy. The planters of Virginia and Maryland were now and always would be staunchly royalist; they positively loved the king, any king, and the closer Parliament came to victory in England, the more fiercely did they defend Charles along the Chesapeake. To them the crown was a symbol of permanence, of the England they remembered, and Cromwell’s insolence infuriated them—‘How dare he move against the king!’ And they circulated petitions attesting to their support.

But Father Steed, a solid scholar as well as a devout Catholic, perceived that a revolution of some magnitude was under way and knew that it must ultimately involve everyone in Maryland, not only the planters.
‘We are king’s people,’ he told his family, ‘and Catholics, and both attributes will place us under pressure. We must be prepared to defend ourselves.’

So Devon Island became a bastion guarding the Choptank. The three Steed brothers owned seventeen muskets but were hesitant to arm the servants, who were all Protestants, as were the hunters at the camp. All settlements in Virginia, of course, were vigorously anti-Catholic and could be expected to mount some kind of invasion. Indeed, the only hope of the Steeds was that stable citizens in Maryland-across-the-Bay would rally to the king’s cause and maintain a rough stability until Englishmen in London subdued the Protestant threat and hanged Cromwell.

Ralph was the organizing genius. Staying in the background and allowing his younger brother Henry to assume visible control, he crossed the bay and quietly inspirited Catholics, assuring them that the present troubles were an aberration that must be resisted. He said further, ‘We must not panic. It is inconceivable that Maryland, which allows religious liberty to all, should ever strike blows against the Catholics, who provided that liberty.’

But one night, as he was preaching thus, a Catholic housewife told him that renegades had broken into her home and burned her crucifix, and Ralph had shuddered with a premonition that the evils which he had been saying were inconceivable were already real. When he returned from his priestly duties he found that Henry had received news from England, and it was all bad.

‘The Scots have sold King Charles to the Protestants for pittance. Prince Rupert has been driven from the land and is a pirate in the Azores. Commissioners of the vilest sort are being sent to subdue the colonies, and there has been rioting against Catholics.’

The Steed brothers might have acted imprudently except for the pacifying influence of their mother. Martha was fifty-four that year, white-haired, thin, but composed as always. She had survived many vicissitudes on this remote island and did not propose to surrender now to either panic or despair. Her Catholic family was destined to come under severe pressure; indeed, she had often wondered why this had not happened earlier, and she believed there was a non-hysterical way of combatting it. She told Ralph, ‘Become invisible. You form too tempting a target.’ She advised Henry to ease off on his trading lest he arouse the cupidity of the hunters at Patamoke. She also suggested that overtures be made to Turlock to see if he and Tciblento might move onto the island and man guns if violence occurred, and it was in pursuit of this proposal that Henry Steed, the fastidious manager of Devon, climbed into his bateau and had his servants sail him to the marsh.

What he found revolted him. At the head of the little creek which separated the marsh from fast land, there was a hut of the meanest sort,
occupied by Turlock, his Indian woman and twin half-breeds that had been mysteriously born to them; Henry had supposed Tciblento to be far past childbearing age, but there the scrawny children were, playing on the earthen floor. Turlock, the master of this hovel, was in sad condition, emaciated, pimply-faced, ragged and with two teeth missing in front. To visualize him as a colleague was repugnant, but Henry had always respected his mother’s counsel and began negotiations.

‘Mother thinks it might be best if you moved onto Devon … with your wife … and children, of course.’

‘How else?’

‘We’d move out two of the servants. You could have a rather fine cabin.’ He looked distastefully at the hovel.

‘Trouble?’ Turlock asked, chewing on a weed.

At first Henry was inclined to dissemble, but he suspected that Turlock might somehow have heard rumors from Jamestown, so he spoke openly. ‘They’ve deposed the king.’

‘What’s … that … mean?’

‘Got rid of him.’

‘Good.’

‘Real trouble may reach Maryland.’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘If you would help us, Turlock, we’d have the warrants for your arrest vacated.’

‘Nobody … arrest … me.’

‘One day they’ll come for you. Trying to kill Janney. And they’ll hang you.’

‘Never … find … me.’

‘Turlock, I’m offering you a sensible plan for restoring your citizenship. Come with me.’

The fugitive studied young Steed carefully, and instinctively drew the two boys beside him. ‘Tcib, come here,’ and he placed her behind him. ‘Protestants fight Papist?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m Protestant.’

‘I know you are, Turlock. But you’ve seen Father Ralph, the good work he does.’

‘Ralph is good.’

‘So’s my mother.’

‘She was good.’

‘She still is.’

‘You’re Catholic, Steed. I don’t help you.’

Steed sat down on the only piece of furniture, a three-legged stool. He had not anticipated such a rebuff, but he needed this ugly fellow on his side and was prepared to humiliate himself by begging. ‘Turlock, what
happens in the next months will determine what happens on this river. Do you want to lose your land? Spend the rest of your life in jail? Or be hanged by the neck?’

‘Protestants win, never touch me.’

‘Dear friend,’ Steed said hurriedly, ‘you’re exactly the kind of criminal these Puritans will hang! Believe me, Turlock, if you want to preserve your home here in the marshes, come with me and help my mother.’

Accidentally Henry had stumbled upon the two symbols that held meaning for the fugitive: his marshland and the kindness of Mrs. Steed. Grudgingly, and with the sorest doubts that he would be right in siding with a Catholic, he loaded the sloop he had stolen seven years earlier and took his family to Devon, where, as Henry had promised, they were housed in a well-built cabin. There he and the three Steed boys awaited the conflagration that was sweeping the western shore.

It reached the Choptank in a curious way. A twenty-six-year-old servant on the York River fell into an argument with his master, who lost his temper and whipped him severely. The man was so humiliated by this unwarranted punishment that he set fire to his master’s house and fled; warrants had been issued for his arrest on the grounds that no matter what a master did to a servant, the latter must acquiesce, so, fearing that he might be hanged, the servant fled Virginia and found refuge at the camp on the Choptank.

There he inflamed four renegades with lurid reports of general revolution in Virginia, with Protestants burning Catholic homes, until one of the hunters cried, ‘There’s a whole Papist chapel on Devon Island, priest and all!’ And canoes with five wild men set off down the river; the battle that Father Ralph had feared was ignited.

It was a grisly affair, and during the gunfire Timothy Turlock suspected that he was fighting on the wrong side. Still, his musket kept the marauders away from the Steed house, but since he had placed himself at the eastern windows, where the landing party would first assault, he was not able to protect the western end of the house, where the chapel stood. Father Ralph had taken his position at the altar, and when incendiarists approached with brands, he discharged his musket, accomplishing nothing.

Two stout hunters bashed in the doors and overwhelmed him. They certainly would have killed him, for they were infuriated by the sight of his priestly garb, except that Mrs. Steed screamed for help, and Turlock came rushing up, but not before the chapel had been set ablaze. As it burned, the invaders cheered and sought to cap their victory by destroying the Papist house as well, but resolute shooting by Turlock and his companions drove the rabble back, and at dawn, with the chapel smoking, the victors withdrew to their boats.

Father Ralph, bruised and shaken by the assault, gathered his family
for prayers of deliverance, but Timothy Turlock and Tciblento did not attend. The fugitive had assembled his family and was now loading the two boys into his sloop; when Henry, stifling his pride, ran down to thank him for his help, he said merely, ‘To hell with Catholics,’ and returned to his marsh.

The effect of this battle on Father Ralph was crushing. The loss of the chapel in which he had prayed as a child was a heavy blow, but his mother reminded him that Lord Baltimore had counseled his Catholics against public displays of their religion lest they attract opposition, and she judged that the chapel had been ostentatious. What embittered him was the fact that Maryland, the colony in which Catholic proprietors had offered religious freedom to all, should be the scene of persecution of Catholics. But he was not sure of his position; at the height of the fracas in which his life had nearly been lost, he had heard his Protestant enemies shouting, ‘This is for the thirty thousand you dirty Papists killed in Ulster.’

In Rome he had heard whispers that the Catholics of northern Ireland, sorely beset by Protestant tyranny, had revolted and slain many thousands of their oppressors. ‘Is it to go on forever?’ he asked his brothers. ‘This fratricide?’ For weeks he brooded about it, then decided that he must go to Jamestown to confront the terrorists who had sent this poison across the bay.

His brother Paul accompanied him to secure the quashing of the warrant against Timothy Turlock, and when they reached Jamestown they were told that each of their missions could be handled best by Councilman Matthew Maynard, so they marched to his home, where that portly gentleman caught his breath when they announced their names. He was further surprised to find that a Catholic priest in clerical garb had dared walk the streets of this town.

‘Come in,’ he said without enthusiasm. ‘I think my wife would be interested in meeting you.’ He said these words maliciously and dispatched a slave to summon Mrs. Maynard. Before either young man could state his mission, the counselor’s wife appeared, a striking blonde in her late fifties wearing an impressive dress that must have come from London; it was not garish or blatantly expensive, but it was made of fine cloth and fitted well.

‘I am sure you will be pleased to meet these young men,’ the counselor said. ‘This is Father Ralph Steed of Devon, and this his brother, Dr. Paul Steed.’

Mrs. Maynard betrayed no emotion other than the taking of a deep breath. Adjusting the heavy cloth of her dress, she addressed Ralph. ‘I am most pleased to see you in Jamestown after all these years. I am Meg Shipton.’

It was Ralph who blushed. In fact, he trembled and would have sat
had there been a chair at hand. He could say nothing, and Paul, who had never been allowed to hear of Meg, was left bewildered by his brother’s extraordinary behavior. ‘I am Paul Steed,’ he said, half extending his hand to the mistress of the house. When she made no effort to take it, he added lamely, ‘I’ve come to see your husband about a pardon for Timothy Turlock.’