Christmas Ghosts

She sat there by the fireside in her Grandmother's rocking chair. Her once lovely auburn hair was now as white as the snow outside her living room window. Across the room stood a small Canadian spruce tree decorated in antique ornaments that had been collected over a lifetime. On the tree hung several of her favorites.

There was the pink and white sugar plum with sparkling crystals, a small, cut glass bell that shimmered when the colored lights on the tree struck it's prisms, a china sleigh with a single horse and a tiny hand-beaded Christmas tree her great grandmother made from Austrian crystals of green and red. But, her favorite tree ornament was the single gold star atop the tree. It brought tears to her eyes whenever she attached it to the top of the tree.

The house seemed cold like a tomb, save for the warmth of the firelight. She stared into it with her grey eyes misting over. Oh, yes. She still made those sugar cookies...just in case. In case, she might hear a knock on her door and see the faces of her loved ones. But, she knew that was not to be.

Christmas was a time for joy, not sorrow. Staring into the amber and red flames in the fireplace, Christmas ghosts seemed to fly across her memory. So many years had passed since the first time she baked cookies for her children, decorated the tree with them and...she could almost see them stringing popcorn and stuffing whole cloves into oranges to put on the tree. She wiped a tear from her eyes.

"No, I won't cry. This is Christmas. It should be a time for happiness," she said to the silent room.

She sipped a cup of hot cider.

I always made hot cider for my husband and children for Christmas, she thought.

Then, we'd sing carols until the children were sleepy. My George and me...we would put out Santa's cookies and a glass of milk on the kitchen table. Then, we'd put the gifts beneath the tree and hang the stockings over the fireplace. When Christmas morning arrived, the sound of the children waking us was the first thing we heard. Oh my! But weren't they in a hurry to open their Christmas presents.

George and me...she thought.

It had been more than thirty years since George Emerick passed on. He was only fifty-seven when he was rushed to the hospital. He never came back home.

Lila Emerick could still see him standing beside the fireplace as he always had on Christmas Eve, proud of the bicycle he managed to put together in time to set it near the tree.

It was like their first Christmas. He still had a full head of chestnut hair then. He had stuffed a small box into the stocking she crocheted, one for him and one for her. He insisted she not open her gift until Christmas morning. It was a gold wedding ring. They never had the money to buy a gold ring when they married. Oh how she missed him.

Memories...What are they but reminders of how little time we have to be together? she thought.

When their two children, Ashton and Gabrielle, grew too old for toys, there were the latest do-dads teens always seem to want. George and Lila scoured stores, high and low, for weeks before Christmas to make sure their children had a few.

Crowded stores, packed shelves and display bins and a memory of togetherness as husband and wife to treasure for a lifetime.

Then, Ashton was called into the military. Lila had a bad feeling about her son going off to war in some faraway land. George pretended not to be worried. But, Lila knew he was more worried than she. After all, he had been in the thick of the Korean War and narrowly missed being captured as a POW.

Lila sipped her cider again. She could see Ashton Emerick standing by the Christmas tree as a young boy, so eager to tear into his presents and as a teen, being less than thrilled with "practical" gifts from his Mom like a knitted scarf to ward off winter's chill. Funny, but that was what he requested her to send him when he shipped out.

He was such a handsome young man. Tall and lanky with chestnut hair like his father and grey eyes like mine, she thought, as she imagined him standing beside the tree.

Tears rolled down her wrinkled face. Ashton never did make it back home from that awful war. He died a hero. Oh sure, George was proud as he could be when his son was given a full military funeral. Still, Lila knew deep inside the loss of their only son was taking its toll on her husband.

George and Lila's spirits soared when two years after their son's death, their daughter Gabrielle or, "Gabby" as they lovingly referred to her, married one of the young men who returned from his tour of duty in Viet Nam. Their new son-in-law, Terrence Connelly, was Ashton's childhood friend and a member of his troop. It was like having Ashton near again for George and Lila.

Lila smiled wanly as she remembered the happy couple standing near the tree admiring the antique ornaments.

"Mama, can I have one of these when we have our first child?" Gabby asked.

"Why certainly! Then, it will be a family heirloom, won't it?" Lila asked.

Lila was thrilled that finally she would have grandchildren to fill the house with the sounds of laughter and fun.

Gabby was true to her word. She had the first Emerick grandchild not one year later. And true to Lila's word, she handed one of the antique tree ornaments to her daughter as a Christmas gift. For a time, Gabby and Terrence lived nearby. Then, Terrence got a job in another state. Still, they and their son, Christian, made sure to visit "Grandma and Grandpa Emerick" every Christmas.

Lila imagined she saw little Christian, "Chris" as he was called, sitting atop a bright red tricycle George lovingly put together just days before. They all laughed when Chris, only four years old then, nearly rode his "trike" over the manger under the tree.

She thought she heard their laughter ringing in her ears.

She wiped away a tear when she recalled how George told little Chris how proud his Uncle Ashton would have been to have his very own nephew.

"Grampa? Who is Uncle Ashon" the little boy asked.

"Your Uncle Ashton was a very brave man who went off to war. He is your Mama's brother," George answered.

Gabby and Lila both wiped away tears at the mention of Ashton's name.

"Chris resembles Ashton, doesn't he, Gabby?" Lila asked.

"Yes...in more ways than appearance," Gabby had said then.

"What do you mean?" Lila asked.

"He asks nearly as many millions of questions as Ash used to do," Gabby said, with a laugh.

Lila stood up from her Grandmother rocking chair and gave the fire a poke with the long metal stoking rod. Then, she put another log on the fire. The bark on the log sent out crackles and a few hisses before it settled down. Lila sat down again.

When George passed on, Lila felt really alone for the first time in her life. Gabby and Terrence were living in New York City where they both found jobs. Chris was in sixth grade then. Gabby telephoned her mother at least twice a week and they stopped in on weekends. Lila looked forward to that.

One morning as Lila dusted the living room furniture, she heard a news break on the TV. She hurried to hear the rest of the news clip. Apparently, a plane had flown into one of the Twin Towers. Lila was in shock.

"It can't be true!" She said to the empty room.

She listened carefully. Then, the news came about a second plane hitting the other Tower. Tower Two was where Gabby and Terence both worked. Surely, they managed to escape.

The horror and awfulness of that moment was too much to bear. Lila felt an odd pain in her left arm, as it spread to her chest cavity. She called emergency services and was taken to St. Michael's Hospital. She needed surgery to repair a leaking valve in her heart. Much of the trauma of that horrible day and the fears for Gabby and Terence were hidden behind the anesthetic she'd been given.

When she awoke in the ICU, she knew the truth. Chris was standing at her bedside with tears in his eyes.

"Grandmother, Mom...Dad..." Chris broke down and sobbed.

Lila tried to soothe him; but, the gaping wound in her own heart made her feel imprisoned by surgical pain.

"Chris...you mean...they are...they were...?" she began.

"Yes."

'Those towers are still burning. There are thousands of people who are dead or missing. Thousands more are working to find survivors. It's been nearly four days and the entire place looks like a massive earthquake struck. Grandmother, I know this is not a good time to ask this of you. But, do you think it would be alright if I came to live with you?" Chris asked.

"Oh Chris. Why dear boy, of course you can! In fact, look there in my purse...it's in the little drawer next to this bed. Take the house key and ...How did you get here? By yourself?" Lila asked.

"No. Our neighbor managed to get me onto a water bus across the bay. Nothing is going in or out of New York City. Everyone is walking around like we are all zombies," Chris said.

"Our neighbor is downstairs in the waiting room. I'll tell him to call me a cab. Schools are closed indefinitely in the city. So, I don't have to worry about my classes for a while," Chris said.

Lila felt exhausted from the surgical procedure and the awful news Chris had relayed.

"I will be able to leave the hospital in two days. You go and stay put at my house. I'll have the hospital take me home by ambulance, if need be," Lila said.

The days after the horrible attack were as Chris had said. People all walking around in a daze. No one venturing out for fear of another attack. All broadcasting via TV or radio was blacked out.

Bridges and roads out of New York City were all under watchful eyes of the military and the skies were deadly silent. All airports were shut down. At night, people gathered together on street corners with candles lit to honor the dead.

Gabby and Terence would never even have a grave for Lila and Chris to visit. Lila tried not to think about the details of their death. It made her feel as if she was dishonoring them. Chris seemed as edgy as she felt. He jumped at the sound of a car backfiring or any other sharp noises. He made himself useful around the house and took on jobs that his grandfather would have done...just to keep busy.

The savagery of her daughter and son-in-law's deaths made her angry for the first time in her life. She knew she had to be careful of revealing it. She had to take care of her grandson. This she vowed she would do at all costs. She observed him cutting wood for the fireplace. He'd heft the ax against the logs as if he was exhausting his anger and feelings of grief and loss. He was an orphan who would be raised to adulthood by his only living relative, Grandmother Lila.

Lila remembered how Chris became overprotective of her. He worried each time she had an ache or a pain. She understood why. He was too old to hug and soothe. She recalled how he would give her a peck on the top of her head or a quick hug each night before he went to sleep in the room that had once been Ashton's.

Lila saw a picture in her mind of her grandson as a teenager, quite reserved and mature for his age. He chose a local college. Lila was glad. He would study engineering.

"Grandmother, I chose this college to keep my eye on you!" he said, laughing.

"You have two eyes and you need to keep both on your studies, young man!" Lila shot back with a grin.

She rose to go to the kitchen. It was a cup of hot tea she wanted now to soothe her old bones.

Hot tea...Chris's favorite drink, she thought.

She waited for the tea kettle to begin its shrill whistle, poured the boiling water into a cup with a teabag and made her way back to her rocking chair.

She laughed as she recalled how Chris thought using one of those "old fashioned" metal tea infusers needed "updating." That Christmas, he stuffed a box of tea bags into her stocking.

"I get your message, Chris," Lila laughed.

"Grandmother, just try using a teabag. You'll see. You'll love it," Chris encouraged.

"I am surprised that a young man so focused on the "environment' as you call it, wouldn't see that you can't recycle these tea bags. A tea infuser doesn't need to be recycled and the used tea leaves inside it, can be," Lila reminded him.

She smiled as she recalled the expression on her grandson' face. It was like the expression he had when his name was called during his college graduation exercise.

It wasn't long after college graduation that he announced he was enlisting in the military. Lila was scared. She remembered what George had gone through in Korea and how she lost her only son to war in Viet Nam.

"Oh Chris. Are you certain of this?" she asked.

"Grandmother, don't worry. I'll be okay. The military desperately needs good engineers. Besides, with experience in the military, I can do my tour of duty and then get my Masters degree. I'll be safe. I won't be on active duty," he said.

In the days before he was to leave for his tour of duty, Lila prayed hard for his safety. He looked so grand in his uniform.

"I'll write you every day, Grandmother. I'll be home before you know it," he said, as he boarded the transit bus.

Chris was in the military two years. He came home only twice before he was to return. Lila kept hearing the word "Iraq," over and over on TV and in the news.

She tried to remember where exactly it was. She even located it on the desktop globe in Ashton's room.

The phone rang in August of 2003.

"Grandmother? It's your wandering grandson? Your ONLY grandson?" Chris said.

"Oh goodness, Chris? Is it really you?" Lila said.

"Tis I in the flesh," he joked.

"Are you finished your time in the military?" Lila asked.

"That's why I called you. I am attached to a group headed for Iraq," Chris said, calm as ever.

"Iraq! Oh no! Chris, please...not Iraq!"

"Grandmother, I'll be just fine. I know the ghosts of Grandfather and Uncle Ash's military experiences haunt you. But, this is a different day and age. Wars aren't fought like they were in their day," Chris said.

"Well, I am sure you know what you are doing. Will I see you before you leave?" Lila asked.

"No, Grandmother. But, I am sending you my Christmas present a little early. I hope you like it and as Grandfather would say, "Do Not Open Until Christmas! I'll see you in due time," Chris said and rang off.

The house seemed so empty then. Lila kept busy by volunteering at the local military hospital. She'd done a bit of nursing before she married and thought she might help out a little.

When Christmas finally came that year, the phone rang and it was Chris. He called on Christmas morning to say "You can open your present from me now."

With Chris in earshot on the phone, she quickly unwrapped the gift. It was a Christmas ornament! It was a round medallion in cast pewter with all of their family names on it.

"Oh Chris, it's wonderful. Did you get my present? I sent it nearly a month ago."

"Not yet. Don't worry Grandmother, it takes a while to get anything through the military these days. Anyway, Merry Christmas and have a cup of hot cider for me. I'll be home before the next Christmas to get a cup of that wonderful cider," he said, ringing off.

The day after New Year's, Lila was in the kitchen reading the newspapers and having a cup of coffee. She heard a knock on the front door.

Who can that be? she wondered.

"Ooooh...Maybe it's Chris come to surprise me!" she said.

When she opened the door, she saw a tall man in a military uniform.

"Oh no...please God...Oh no...It can't be," she said.

"I'm so sorry to have to inform you, ma'am. Christian Connolly was killed two days ago. He was traveling with several others when their truck was hit by fire," the man said.

Lila fell over in a faint. When she came to, the young man was gone and two men from emergency services were tending her.

"I'm fine. I'm fine! Leave me be!" she screamed.

"Ma'am you should let us take you to the hospital," one of the EMTs said.

"I don't need a doctor," Lila said.

"Is there someone we can call for you?" he asked.

Lila barely managed to answer. Now, she was really all alone.

"No. No one. My last living relative was killed in some godforsaken wasteland. I just need rest," she said.

Lila remembered that day too.

Now, the fire was slowly dying. Lila felt a strong pain in her chest. She knew what it was. She knew this was her last Christmas. No. She wouldn't call for help. Too many Christmases alone with Christmas ghosts was more than one heart could bear. She closed her eyes and waited. The throbbing in her chest grew slower and slower. She opened her eyes for a single moment to see the golden star at the top of the tree shining as it never had before. It was the medal she received for being a Gold Star Mother when Ashton died. The light from the star was so bright that she closed her eyes again...for the last time.

Winter Star of Suceava

Wars have come and gone in the region of Bukovina. Men shed their blood for centuries to preserve their heritage and treasured traditions. Few remain today who know the legend of the Winter Star of Suceava.

When cold Carpathian winds rushed across the Suceava River, citizens in this ancient city, named for the river, steel themselves for long, dark, cold days ahead. Always they are reassured that without fail spring always comes, bright, colorful and warm.

In winter, night falls quickly in Brodina, a tiny village along the river. Women scurry about preparing meals and tending children, while men strive to keep their families warm against the biting mountain cold.

Children of Brodina wait with great anticipation for Christmas, with all its brightest colors and special treats to come. Swags and garlands of long needle pines, dotted with coiled pine cones and holly berries are hung indoors and out. Such festivities brighten an otherwise dark winter season.

Each family has its special traditions. Yet, they are united by the same Christmas rituals and rites handed down by their ancestors.

The flickering glow of candlelight in a window is a reminder of welcome to ancestral spirits who have gone on to glorious eternity.

As snow falls gently on Brodina, mountain winds roam down into the peaceful town, swirling about like a mystical genie. Now and then, curling winds rattle doors and windows like hallowed ghosts wishing to enter and perhaps, be warmed by the firelight within.

Anastasie Crimca was born in 1550. He was a serious, thoughtful young man who always felt a deep need to search for answers. He believed aligning himself closely to tradition was the path to a higher relationship with the Almighty.

To sate his need for deep thought, he joined a community of Moldavian monks. Quickly, his solitary, meditative nature elevated him among the other monks.

In the solitude of the monastery's scriptorium, Anastasie worked dutifully for twenty years producing codex of text with such impeccable genius, it was naturally attributed to the "holiness" he possessed in his soul.

Tall and lanky, the typical stature of men of Sucidava, Anastasie devoted his life to his writings. He rose to become Metropolitan of Moldavia in 1608. One year later, he founded the Dragomirna Monastery, a sprawling fortress-like enclave with a central bell tower over the church that rises high above the monastery's stone walls.

In those days, monasteries across the entire European continent were safe havens from enemies within and those from alien lands.

For many centuries Ottomans rampaged in massive armies throughout Moldavia and regions of Bukovina. Great leaders, most courageous, rose from humble beginnings in Moldavia and Wallachia and forced back Ottoman invaders. Many of these heroes are venerated to this very day.

Brodina lies at the border of Romania. In its history, this tiny village keeps its ways as it always has. Knowing well their daily duties and following a symbionic obligation to tradition, life here is ordered and tranquil.

In its early days, Brodina had much to fear. Not even the mountains surrounding Brodina were protection from the evil put upon these people, who so highly prize peace and tranquility.

As if tradition was a shield villagers wore for protection when threatened, this tightly knit community stood as tall as the stately, centuries old trees that dot the landscape. Their defensive strategies, simple and uncomplicated, might awe the most decorated defenders.

In the winter of 1655, the harvest rested safely in store houses near cottage homes of villagers. At harvest time, men labored to gather in coal, lumber from fallen trees and reeds, to secure buildings and roofs against the elements.

Women tended to their gardens, pickling, canning fruits and vegetables and making sure an ample supply of winter grains were threshed to provide flour for bread. They made their own cheeses and tended small flocks of chickens, goats and geese. What they couldn't grow, their men hunted in forests surrounding the village.

January 1656 was perhaps the cruelest, most frigid winter the people in Brodina ever endured. Tall pines were laden with thick blankets of snow piled so high, not even harsh winds could shake the snow loose from pine boughs. When sky could be seen at all in daylight, it was a relief to see the deep blue and white clouds overhead.

When snows came, nothing in this rural region stirred. Not a single human footprint marred the knee-deep snow drifts. Inside their cottages, families kept busy. Each day, water needed to be drawn from frozen ice and thawed near fireside hearths. When firewood or coal ran low, men ventured only as far as deep snow allowed...usually the cottage door.

Children spent their time reading or playing games, like working puzzles, given to them as Christmas gifts.

On the night of January 7, 1656, the traditional celebration of Christmas began with lighting of candles on every  table. A thick, hot, sour, soup dotted with tiny dumplings, bits of meat and dried mushrooms was placed in a large tureen in the center of the table.

The family Tomas prayed upon their feast for blessings for the good harvest and comfort of home and hearth.

Elisabet Tomas, the family matriarch, ladled steaming soup into bowls for each of her four children, Geza, Anca, Ioana and Stefan. With a nod from her husband, Valeriou, the children hungrily devoured their soup.

Elisabet blessed herself before passing the basket of bread around the table. She rose again and brought a platter of roasted meat and rolls of meat-stuffed cabbage to the table next. Plates of cheeses and Elisabet's own wine made from Tokay grapes was the next course.

The children were so full, they felt they'd fairly burst. Still, they had room for their favorite part of the Christmas meal: ginger cookies and delectable pastries.

The family would not attend Christmas Mass this night. Travel would be impossible with snow piled so high. There would be the usual stalwart villagers who visited from one neighboring door to the next and leave behind a hand made gift for the family or a freshly baked sweet.

This night, snow fell lightly on top of the snows that fell for three days and nights before. It was no longer possible to see the forest path that lead out of the village, so dense was the snow.

Valeriou, as head of his family, led his wife and children to the home of their neighbor Istvan Gabor, as was the Christmas night custom.

He held tight to Elisabet's hand while their children pranced on gleefully ahead, ignoring the depths of the snow beneath their feet.

Valeriou was a man who possessed an unusual sense of hearing. Some in the village were certain he could hear birds singing twenty miles away. Each cottage kept lanterns lit on this night to light the paths to their homes for celebration.

He stopped for a moment.

"Valeriou, what is it? Why you do pause?" Elisabet asked.

"Horses. In such deep snow?" he muttered.

"Pshaw! How could there be?" Elisabet asked.

"Be silent, woman. I hear them. I am certain."

Elisabet wondered if her spouse's hearing was becoming less accurate. The wide clearing that led to the path into the village was knee-deep in snow. Yet, she knew Valeriou's strange ability to "hear" the least audible sounds from such far distances was always correct.

"Elisabet, go to Istvan's home. Tell them horses are coming. We must pass the word among the people," Valeriou said.

"But, Valeriou, it is Christmas and the snows are deep. Are you certain you hear horses?" she asked.

"Do not question. There can be only one reason men would be upon their mounts at such a time," Valeriou said.

Elisabet did as Valeriou asked. Quickly word spread among the other villagers outside in the night visiting for Christmas celebration. One by one, their lanterns went dark.

The Tomas family hurried back to their own cottage and doused the lantern light. Iona and Anca peered out the window. They saw the lights in cottages go dark.

"Papa? Who is it who would be out in such weather?" Geza asked.

"Son, when an enemy strikes, it is always at times when villagers are too sure of their safety," Valeriou said.

"But, Papa...in such darkness, how will we see our enemy?" Stefan asked.

"Will we be attacked? On Christmas?" Geza asked.

Valeriou didn't answer. Deep within the blood in his veins, he sensed marauders, perhaps lost, wandered through the foothills of the mountains, looking for food and shelter. They may be bereft of provisions and water. He hoped they would be sated by whatever the villagers could offer them.

But, Valeriou knew better. In his own childhood, he remembered hiding away with villagers at the monastery when an Ottoman attack was upon the entire region.

"We have been too sure of our safety. Even on this night of nights, we cannot do that," he said.

"Are you so certain it is an enemy about to spring upon our village?" Elisabet asked.

"I am certain that who ever is out there on a such a night is cold, hungry and unwilling to trade only for food," Valeriou said.

Wind gusts swirled snow, while villagers waited for the horsemen to appear. The only lights inside cottages were those in fireplaces. Women pulled their shawls about them tighter, while children waited wide-eyed for the horsemen.

Defense strategies ran through the minds of village men. They defended their community before and if needs must, they would again.

As clocks struck the eighth hour, the sound of horses grew louder.

"There are three horsemen," Valeriou said.

"You are certain? Only three?" Elisabet asked.

Geza made his way to the cottage window. He peered from behind the cloth curtains, straining his eyes to see the enemy.

"Papa, it is not possible to see the enemy. The sky is heavy, even as snow falls," Geza said.

Anca and Ioana sat on the braided rug beside their mother. She read the Christmas Nativity story from the Bible. Her hands shook noticeably as she turned each page.

The two girls knew their mother's fear as if it was their own.

"Geza, keep watch at the window. I will load powder into the musket," Valeriou said.

"Papa, I see them! I see them! There are three strange looking men on large horses, much larger than our team of horses," Geza said.

"How do you see them so clearly now, when before you could not?" Valeriou asked.

"They come with a bright star over their heads!" Geza said.

Valeriou thought his son was imagining such a thing.

Geza stepped aside so his father might see the star in the sky over the clearing.

"It is so. I have never seen such a star amid a sky laden with snow," Valeriou said.

Elisabet looked up from her reading. Anca and Ioana looked at their Papa.

It was a Geza had seen. There were three very tall men on horses as large as bull elephants. As the three men entered the village, the star over their heads followed them. Villagers peering out of their darkened cottages were afraid.

Had these men come to kill them? It had been a long time since villagers worried about foreign marauders.

Nervously, Valeriou kept his eyes on the three men from behind the window curtain. They dismounted their horses and tethered them to a wooden pole.

Suddenly, there was a heavy knock on the Tomas cottage door.

Valeriou motioned to the women to hide themselves away.

"Papa? What should we do? Should we prepare the muskets?" Geza asked.

"Papa, I'm afraid," Stefan whispered.

"First, we will see what these strangers want. They are do not appear to be armed with weapons. That's a good sign."

Valeriou knew it rested with him to open the door to what might be three murderers.

"Geza, be keen about their presence. It will be you who must warn the others in the village, if these men mean us harm," Valeriou said.

"Yes, Papa. I understand," Geza said.

Another knock on the door. This time a little louder.

"Is anyone about?" the man's voice said.

Valeriou opened the door very slowly and cautiously.

"I am Valeriou Tomas. What is your business on this hallowed night?" he asked.

"We have traveled a long, long way. I am Gaspar. My companions are Melchior and Baltazar. We are cold and hungry. Might we come inside, ere we freeze to our deaths?" Gaspar said.

Valeriou bid them enter. They stood at the door shaking mounds of snow and ice from their great coats and boots. These, they removed.

"Geza, candles please. Elisabet, Anca, Ioana set the table with hot food before these men," Valeriou commanded.

He eyed the three men cautiously.

"Where are your arms in such dangerous woods?" Valeriou asked.

"We have no need of arms. We bring only good tidings and lowly gifts such as we possess," Gaspar said.

Melchior and Baltazar sat silently as Elisabet placed steaming bowls of soup in front of them.

"From whence have you come?" Valeriou said.

"We are men of the East. Ours is an ancient land filled with riches and...filled with many evils," Gaspar said.

"You are men of God then?" Valeriou asked.

"We are messengers. Not more," Melchior said.

"What message have you for the people of our little village?" Valeriou asked.

The three men glanced at each other.

"Your good wife has warmed our bellies and our hearts," Baltazar said.

Elisabet looked at the three strange men. Suddenly, she remembered from the Bible names like theirs in the days of  the birth of Christ.

"Is it possible? Can it be, Papa? These are the three wise men of old?" Elisabet asked.

"We are not those of whom you speak. They are long gone. We are named for them because in our land, we honor and celebrate their wisdom," Gaspar said.

"How come you to such holy names?" Valeriou asked.

"As your village has traditions, so ours does. It is our tradition to keep alive the peace of the three men of wisdom, so it may never be forgotten that peace, not war, is the true gift from the wisest among us" Melchior said.

"Papa, do you hear? Villagers are massing outside," Geza said.

It was true. Villagers emerged from their cottages curious to see the three men. Some of the men carried large torches and their muskets. Their voices grew louder as they neared the door of the Tomas cottage.

"Valeriou, you must warn the villagers these men come in peace. They believe we are all in danger. Say to them it is not so," Elisabet said.

"We must move on very soon. We do not want to inflame your villagers with the belief we are here to harm them," Gaspar said.

"I will speak to my fellow village men. I will assure them you come in peace," Valeriou said.

The elderman, Sergui, pounded on Valeriou's door. With the entire village at his back, he stood tall and stiffened, knowing the Tomas family could be dead, murdered, perhaps, by the three marauders.

Valeriou slowly opened the door. He was shocked by the number of the throng standing behind Sergui.

"Valeriou Tomas, are you and your family safe?" Sergui asked.

"We are. The three men within mean our village no harm. They come bringing tidings of peace as their ancestors tradition taught them," Valeriou said.

Gaspar, Melchior and Baltazar joined their host at the opened door.

"See for yourselves," Valeriou said.

He stepped aside to allow the villagers to see the faces of the three men.

Gaspar was first to speak.

"I am Gaspar. I come with my countrymen, Melchior and Baltazar. We lost our way. See the star overhead? It guided us to safety within your village," he said.

All in the crowd looked up at the star shining overhead, even as snow fell. As one, the village crowd, sighed loudly: "Ahhhhh!" at the sight of this most unusual star.

"These are the wise men of the East of which the Bible speaks!" Sergiu said.

"Nay. We are merely their ancestors come to honor and celebrate the peace and gifts they brought to the Christ Child so very long ago," Baltazar said.

"We bring your village three gifts we carry with us," Melchior said.

Gaspar stepped past the door of Valeriou's cottage toward his horse. The crowd stared in awe as he drew a large cloth bag from his saddle. Melchior and Baltazar joined him at his side and did the same. The crowd gathered around the three men.

"I bring you the gift of light," Gaspar said.

The crowd stood breathless as Gaspar withdrew a large, long white taper from his bag. He presented it to Sergiu.

"This taper will provide light for the long winter for the entire village. It is made from a special wax found in caves. It burns far longer than all others," Gaspar said.

"I bring you the gift of peace," Melchior said.

He drew from his bag a small metal urn filled with oil that emitted a strangely calming scent.

"The oil within this urn brings peace when the oil is placed in your lamps. It runs freely in the caves from which the wax is drawn. This scented oil calms the senses and brings great peace," Melchior said.

"I bring you the gift of wisdom which our ancestors knew and honored as their most cherished possession," Baltazar said.

From his bag, he withdraw a large, round crystal of such size as the head of a small child. The light from the star overhead made the crystal prisms dance in different colors.

"This crystal was drawn from the same caves as the special wax and oil. Study each of the colors slowly and carefully. Within each prism is an inspiration that brings wisdom."

The crowd of villagers were overcome with joy. Simple gifts from three men who traveled far.

A small child began to sing the traditional Christmas song known as the "Carol of the Star."

His pure, sweet little voice sang out, "The star has appeared on high. Like a big secret in the sky. The star is bright. May all your wishes turn out right."

In Brodina, villagers love to sing. They joined in the little boy's song as Sergiu lit the big village candle again. As if by magic, the snow stopped and a sapphire sky appeared overhead with one star shining over the village.

"It is time for us to take our leave," Baltazar said, to his two companions.

"Our duty is done," Gaspar added.

"Our blessings upon all in your village," Melchior said.

The three men mounted their horses and left by way of the large clearing with the sound of the villagers singing, "O ce veste minunata" ..."Oh Wondrous Tidings" and Trei Crai de la rasarit"..."Three Wise Men Coming from the East," ringing in their ears.

Craciun Fericit...Merry Christmas!

The Pilgrim Pauper

The year was 1620. The town of Plymouth in Devon County, England survived as a port city through the Hundred Years War and the religious edicts of King Henry VIII and Elizabeth I.

Life in Plymouth for loyalists was relatively peaceful. For the visionaries, restless and eager to return to the Christian religion of old and their growing discontent with religious changes, life seemed intolerable. As summer turned to autumn, a group of like minds were lured by tales of the "New World."

Christopher Jones, a widower, lost his wife, Sara Twitt, when she was twenty-seven years old. She was the daughter of a wealthy shipping investor. They married when Sara was just seventeen and had a son, Thomas, before their first wedding anniversary.

The sea and sailing was in Christopher Jones' blood. His father was an experienced mariner and ship owner. After Sara's death, Christopher Jones remarried to his second wife, Josian. They had much in common. Her father was also a mariner and ship owner.

Josian was previously married to Richard Gray, also a seafaring mariner with numerous captains among his friends. She married her second husband, Thomas Bartlemore. Like her first husband, Thomas died.

Josian inherited her husband's estate before marrying Christopher Jones and bearing eight children.

The sea had an impact on many families in those days. The loss of a husband to the sea was accepted as their fate for their long-standing love of sailing. Sailors shipped out knowing they may be leaving wives and children behind forever. When ships returned, wives and loved ones stood dockside hoping to see their sailor's face again. Often as not, rough seas took lives of a third of  most crews.

The English logs of sailing vessels show that the Mayflower, an aging ship, had sailed the Thames to London on several occasions. It's most famous trip was yet to come. Captain Jones would take 160 men, women and children aboard the Mayflower that Sept. 6 day in 1620.

It would cross the Atlantic in hopes of setting anchor in Virginia, an English Colony, and to establish their freedom to practice their Puritan religion without reprisals from the English government. The great, gnarly Atlantic Ocean would prove distance enough from English rule and might well insulate new settlers from further religious dominance.

The day was cold and clear as the crew and the 160 passengers boarded the Mayflower. Among the passengers were indentured slaves from the Leiden, Holland congregation, four of which were children. Without realizing the magnitude of their undertaking to sail across the Atlantic Ocean to the New World, many would die before the Mayflower dropped anchor on Cape Cod.

The first days at sea began with bright, sunny dawns that progressed into endless hours of rolling waves. When the first storms arose, passengers aboard the Mayflower took to safety below deck.

Crossing the hard, cold Atlantic Ocean in early September was treacherous enough. Coping with inevitable illnesses of passengers added to their torment. The transference of ownership of indentured slaves created a level of shipboard classification that made prominent the fact of their endless poverty. Yet, the harsh ocean sailing would level the classes with the swiftness of a knife's blade.

One of the indentured slaves hid a secret before she left London. Crowded into a small room while waiting to board the Mayflower, Charity Hawkins, age fifteen, felt her stomach roiling. It wasn't from hunger, which was a rampant symptom of a society that preferred to ignore starvation among the poor.

She wondered how she would endure weeks and weeks aboard the Mayflower. She hoped for a miracle that would never come.

The stench of illness and onset of death among the passengers made Charity's situation worse. Finally, the thirty-odd crew uproariously announced they sighted land ahead.

"Land ho!" the ship's mate bellowed.

The remaining passengers all hurried to the upper deck. Charity was weak and barely able to climb the steps to the deck. Nearly two months to the day the ship set sail in England, the November 9th winds met Charity's face with an icy blast.

The ship would anchor on the hook of the colony of Massachusetts known as Provincetown Harbor. To Charity, the strange new land seemed barren and yet, peculiarly fresh and vast.

Captain Jones sent out an expedition to survey the area. The expedition returned to detail the possibilities of settlers making their way to Truro and a village there called "Corn Hill." When it was time to disembark, passengers realized they had not prepared adequately for the bitter Massachusetts winter that rattled their bones.

"Get on with ye, me girl," a crewman said, as passengers disembarked.

He gave Charity a rough push down the plank. Others followed. The men among the group led the way to the village the expedition had found. The sea-torn passengers were near starvation and struggled to find whatever food they could. This was mostly dried corn and beans. They traded locals for more provisions, to set up a store to avert death from starvation.

By January 1621, what remained of the Pilgrims and indentured slaves was a huddle of half-starved, half dead settlers who tried desperately to hold on. Charity Hawkins, like others, lived in daily terror of Indian attacks. Yet, she felt a common bond with these natives. She was impressed with their ability to survive long, dreadful winters without the kinds of illnesses that had taken so many lives on board the Mayflower.

The Mayflower, still docked at Provincetown port, seemed like a long-ago nightmare. Charity tended to her duties to her new owner. She held no hope she would ever be a free woman. Nor, would she live in the kind of luxury her owner's wife enjoyed.

She reconciled herself to life as a pauper. Deep within her soul, she long to run away. In such a strange new place, she knew that was impossible. The only familiarity in her life were her scullery duties to the family Tilton who possessed the certificate declaring ownership of indentured slaves like her.

Charity could neither read, nor write. From her mother, Letitia, she learned all the skills she would need to be a fitting servant. She was an excellent seamstress and cook and knew how to maintain a household in good order.

The religion of the Pilgrims was fairly alien to members of the Church of England of which her mother was observant. Pilgrims believed in pre-destiny ordained by God long before mankind existed. They believed in sacraments ordained only by their beliefs: baptism and the Lord's Supper.

In the first days of her installment in the household of the family Tilton, Charity kept her secret hidden under ragged, loose fitting smocks. She knew very soon though, she would not be able to rely on smocks to keep her secret. She lived in terror of the family Tilton finding out. It would mean being cast out and shunned by the religious in the village.

The family Tilton had several other slaves who assisted with household duties. She thought it odd that the family Tilton had taken on a new form of language. Free wives were referred to as "Goody" by those well acquainted and "Goodwife" by passing acquaintances, instead of the very English "my lady." Men of position in the village were referred to as "lords," while other men were always called by both first and surname, or the common "Sire."

Always, the single influence in the village was religion and observant religious were led by a Pilgrim vicar. Life in the village was lived fairly uniformly as religion dictated.

Charity saw very little difference between this and the country she left behind. She busied herself to erase all of these thoughts that might be considered objectionable to the Pilgrim community.

By March 1621, Charity Hawkins had grown noticeably bigger in girth.

Goody Tilton took notice of this.

"Charity Hawkins, be ye ill of health?" Goody Tilton asked.

"No mum," Charity answered.

"Pray then, why does your girth grow so?" Goody Tilton persisted.

Charity gave no answer.

"We shall consult with Vicar Adams upon your plight," Goody Tilton said.

"Goodwife Tilton, I pray you, know that I am well of spirit and body," Charity said.

Even as Goody Tilton stared at Charity's growing body, Charity felt life making itself known within her.

The second scullery maid, Honor Welling, glanced sidelong at the two women. She was sure Charity Hawkins was with child. She recalled aboard ship how the young girl retched for days and days. When questioned by Honor about this, Charity claimed it sickness of the sea air.

The household slaves of the family Tilton were put up in attic rooms of their large, two story, salt box home. Several nights after Goody Tilton questioned Charity about her "health," Charity felt strange pain in her belly.

It was too soon for her delivery. She made a mental note. What if this child was born deformed or dead? With the illnesses endured aboard ship and harsh winter that followed, she worried an infant born too soon would mean banishment from the village. It would be viewed as "devil's work."

Honor Welling heard Charity's soft moans.

"My girl. Thy "time" is near," Honor said.

"I am ailing poorly," Charity said.

"I know thy secret," Honor said.

"My secret?" Charity replied.

"Ye be with child. Who be the sire?"

"It would serve none to say," Charity said.

"Ye must know what consequence are before thee." Honor said.

Charity knew well what lay before her. In the moment of now, her pain was dire. In this new world, she had no one and nothing. The debt she still owed and must pay to the family Tilton, would make her plight all the more difficult. The Pilgrim religion she must now accept as her own, would not approve of a child born out of wedlock. She hoped that those terrible days aboard ship would cause her body to reject the life she carried within.

"Charity, know thou that I will not reveal your secret. If needs must, I will do what I am able to hide the babe thou art about to birth," Honor said.

"Hide? How can thou hide a babe in the household of the family Tilton?" Charity asked, wincing in pain.

"There are ways, my girl. There are ways. God would rain hell's fire and damnation upon thee for an act of abandonment of a helpless babe," Honor said.

By morning, Charity was in agony. There was a knock on their door. Honor opened it carefully. It was the housekeeper, Hester Danch.

"Wake thee. It is five o'clock," Hester said, through the door.

"Goodwoman Danch, Charity has taken ill. May we not keep her to her bed?" Honor asked, glancing briefly over at Charity.

"No! Thou may not! Now rise ye and be ready for work!" Hester snarled.

"But Goodwoman, Charity may spread her illness among the Family Tilton," Honor pleaded.

Hester remained silent for a few seconds, pausing to consider this possibility.

"Charity Hawkins! Ye shall remain abed until thou hast recovered," Hester said.

Hester Danch hurried off to her duties while Honor attended Charity.

"I cannot stay with thee much longer," Honor said.

The look in Charity Hawkins' brown eyes told Honor the younger woman was about to give birth.

"I will attend thee now," Honor said.

"But, thy work? Goodwoman Danch will report thy absence," Charity said.

"I shall make my appearance in the kitchen. Then, I shall return to tend to thee," Honor said.

Honor hurried down to the kitchen and searched for several things she would need to deliver Charity's child. One of the kitchen maids inquired about the basin and rags Honor removed from behind the scullery door.

"Goodwoman Hawkins is ailing. She requested these," Honor said, when questioned.

Honor hurried back up the stairs to their attic room. She saw that Charity's color had turned as white as a specter. Honor knew the young woman could die. Many women died in childbirth, leaving an orphan behind.

"Goodwoman Hawkins, I bring these for our needs. Thy labor is upon thee," Honor said.

Charity Hawkins gave birth to a tiny, shriveled, beet-colored infant. Honor used the rags and basin water to clean the infant. Charity's pain was great; but, she held the tiny form in her arms and prepared to feed it instinctively.

"Thy babe...it makes no cry as babes must do when first breath is drawn," Honor said.

"Is that a bad omen?" Charity asked.

"Thou must keep thy babe and thyself warm. I shall return with sustenance for thee," Honor said.

Honor was correct. The tiny infant made no cry at the moment of birth. Nor, did it make any cry after it fed upon its mother's milk.

Honor Welling and Charity Hawkins kept the babe in a small wooden crate outfitted with soft, clean rags. They swaddled the baby in an old, raggedy apron Honor found hanging on the scullery door.

As spring changed into summer, the baby thrived and yet, still remained virtually silent. Charity went about her daily chores without enduring suspicion from Hester Danch or Goody Tilton.

She knew though very soon, the child would grow and need fresh air and sunshine. The Pilgrim village was strictest with young, unmarried free women. Young indentured females were as strictly observed as their free counterparts.

Charity Hawkins was aware of the attentions of a stable boy named Joshua Creet. Joshua always smiled at her whenever she passed him by. Charity was not shy. She was cautious. Very cautious. Her greatest fear was being found out as the mother of an illegitimate son. Even more dire was the secret she kept about the man who sired her son.

She named the tiny baby boy Francis Hawkins. Francis was the first name of her owner, Sire Francis Tilton. Charity hoped by giving him the name of a free man, her son would one day be free.

"Thy babe should be baptized," Honor said.

"That is not possible, Goodwoman Honor. Thou knowest it would reveal my son to the village. We should then be cast out and shunned," Charity said.

"He must be baptized to be a child of God," Honor insisted.

"How shall we accomplished such a miracle?" Charity asked.

"Leave this dilemma to me. I shall stand as his godmother," Honor said.

"As it should be, Goodwoman. No finer a woman could stand in my place than thee," Charity said.

"When I am sent to the village shop to fetch goods for the family Tilton's store, there is a vicar who passes through Truro to aid the St. George vicarage. He is a kind man with no reason to judge thee," Honor said.

"How dost thou know this?" Charity asked.

"I have asked him for special prayers. One of my prayers was answered. I am to be freed when my spouse arrives. He has been released from the workhouse in London. His debt is paid. He will arrive in a fortnight," Honor said.

"Goodwoman, this is joyous news," Charity said.

Without first consideration for propriety, Charity embraced Goodwoman Honor. Her affection toward the older woman startled Honor.

"My girl, let not thy joy for me be seen in the light of day in such grand display," Honor said.

"Aye. The Pilgrim religion," Charity said, with a wide grin.

"Now, as to thee. I make this proposal to thee," Honor said.

"When my spouse finds living quarters, I take leave of the family Tilton. Thou wilt place thy son in a basket, cover it with linen. I shall take him to the vicar for his baptism. He shall then return to our living quarters with my spouse and I. My George is a good man with a heart worth more than gold," Honor said.

Charity couldn't believe what she was hearing. Hand over her child to Honor and her spouse? Never to see him again? She stared down at the tiny child as he slept peacefully in the wooden crate.

"But...my son? When shall I see him?" Charity asked.

"Thou wilt see thy babe on holidays. The family Tilton should not object to taking a holiday meal with my George and me," Honor said.

Honor was as good as her word.

When the day of Honor Welling's freedom arrived, Sire Francis Tilton and his spouse and six children stood silently, as George Welling handed him the declaration of debt paid in "full and final satisfaction."

Goodwife Tilton summoned Hester to collect Honor and all her belongings.

Hester hastened to the kitchen scullery.

"Thy time has come to leave. Collect thy possessions and wait outside the scullery door for thy spouse. He has come to claim thy freedom," Hester said.

Charity looked up from her work. She had done as Honor said. She placed the infant in a covered basket and set it a few feet from herself while she worked.

"What is this basket?" one of the kitchen maids asked, upon entering the scullery.

"It is a parting token for Goodwoman Welling, an act of charity I wish to extend," Charity said.

"Hast thou received approval from Goodwoman Danch?" the kitchen maid asked.

Charity knew lying was wrong. But, seeing no alternative, she knew lying was the only way to set her child free. Francis would be a free child under the patronage of his godmother and godfather, the Wellings.

"Yes," was the brief answer Charity gave in response.

When Goodwoman Welling returned to the kitchen, her expression, though properly stoic was belied by the joy she felt. She hurried to the scullery door to await her spouse. He would bring a wagon around to collect her.

"Goodwoman Welling, I prepared this basket for thee and thy spouse as a token of good wishes and my charity," Charity Hawkins said, glancing at the others present.

"I thank thee, Goodwoman Hawkins. Wilt thou take a meal at our humble abode at holidays?" Honor asked.

"I shall with permission of the family Tilton," Charity responded.

She handed the basket to Honor, holding back tears for the son she might never see again. Honor raised her dark eyebrows in warning to Charity.

She watched as Sire George Welling appeared in his wagon and Honor climbed aboard. She turned away quickly with her heart heavy.

"Dost thou ail, Goodwoman Charity?" Hester Danch asked, upon seeing Charity's detached air.

"No, Goodwoman Danch. I am hale," Charity said.

Eventually, a younger woman replaced Honor Welling. She was the daughter of one of the indentured slaves who had been aboard the Mayflower. She was barely fourteen years of age.

The family Tilton are taking on younger and younger indentured workers, Charity thought. She knew this meant that many of the original slaves aboard the ship moved on or were sold to other owners. She also noticed several of the newer slaves had not been aboard the Mayflower.

These were African slaves being bought by landowners to work the farms. More and more of the white indentured slave men ran off in the night. This was costly to village landowners and farmers who relied heavily on free labor to tend their crops for sale at market.

Charity thought about her son Francis every day. She wondered if he was toddling about and if he was happy. Without the worry about hiding her child, Charity felt strangely free.

St. George Vicarage was a large, wooden salt box building located in the direct center of the village. As summer melted into a brilliant, cold autumn, villagers planned for their bountiful, community meal. When all of the grain was stored, meats salted and fruits and vegetables "put by," it was time to be thankful.

On the anniversary of their arrival in Truro, all villagers gathered for "Harvest Home" to share the abundance their hard work produced.

Houseworkers, maids, stable boys and farm help were all allowed to take part in this feast after their duties to service was done. Even some friendly natives were given sanction to attend. Villager elders believed this engendered good will between settlers and natives and might quell Indian attacks. Although in Truro, Indian attacks occurred now with such rarity as to be nearly non-existent, save for a few thefts of grain or horses.

Pilgrim elders set forth a tablet of laws all must follow. Natives ignored the stone tablet on the exterior wall of St. George Vicarage. White men's laws were not their laws. Nor, would they ever be. Thus, theft of horse by natives was viewed by the tribal leaders as recouping what settlers had stolen from them.

With the Harvest Home feast ended, Pilgrim villagers awaited Yuletide. The vicarage was bedecked with long pine garlands that gave off a scent that excited the senses.

In the settlers kitchens, finest breads and meats would be prepared in advance of the holiday. Snow fell lightly as it had that very first winter in Truro, until the snowfall grew heavy and unyielding. Horses and cattle were confined to barns and stables. Smoke poured from chimney stacks of village homes.

In time, Charity Hawkins had the good fortune of moving from her position as scullery maid to kitchen maid. Now, she assisted cooks who prepared family meals. Her cooking talents grew with each passing day. She knew what she wanted to do if ever she was a free woman. She would move closer to the sea and cook and bake for the seamen who came ashore, aching with hunger for home cooked meals.

"If ever she was free" was a relatively new thought she refused to banish from her mind. She would collect her son, Francis. Together, they would eke out a living somewhere, somehow, some way.

When she was allowed free time the day after Christmas, she rode the wagon driven by Joshua Creet that took her into the village to see her son. Joshua was a driver now, having been honored as such by Sire Tilton. It was the first time in the new world Charity had been away from the family Tilton's large farm.

"Where art thou going in the village?" Joshua asked.

"I am a guest of Goody Welling and her spouse," Charity said.

"Wilt thou return on foot?" Joshua asked.

"Yes."

"But, the snow on the ground...is it not too deep?" Joshua asked.

Charity felt perplexed by so many questions. She preferred the reverie of knowing soon she would see her little son.

"No."

Joshua observed the short, churlish responses. He genuinely liked Charity Hawkins. There was something elusive and indifferent about her. He'd often spoken amicably with other of household's workers. Only Charity Hawkins limited her cordiality to him. Why? he wondered.

She was certainly a pleasant woman to behold.

Like Charity, Joshua also had hopes and dreams of one day being a free man. Unlike other Irishmen who came to the new world with their owners, Joshua was unwilling to be chained to slavery for life. He saw how hard African slaves were worked. There were whispers that more African slaves than white indenture slaves were now working farms along the most settled areas of this new country.

Joshua wished Charity "good tidings" when he delivered her to the village square. From there, she walked along the main road to the home of Goody Welling. As she passed the small shops, she saw a name she kew well: Welling Lumber Mercantile.

Could this be Goody Welling's spouse? Charity wondered.

As shops began to disappear on her route, she saw that homes that appeared soon after the shops were typically large, two-story salt boxes. She stopped in awe when she came to the post box with the name, "Welling," boldly imprinted upon it.

She padded gently up the path to the front steps. She glanced upward at the size of Goody Welling's home. When she looked down again, a woman was standing at the opened front door.

"Goodwoman Hawkins?" the young parlor maid asked.

"Tis I," Charity responded.

"This way, please," the parlor maid said.

"Goody Welling wishes thou to join her in the dayroom."

Charity was ushered into a spacious room. A little boy sat playing on the braided carpet. She rushed to his side.

"Goodwoman Hawkins. How good of thee to visit," Goody Welling said.

"Tea please, Letitia," Goody Welling said to the parlor maid.

"Yes m'am," Letitia answered, with a slight bow.

"What news have you from the family Tilton?" Goody Welling asked.

Charity knelt down at her son's side, ignoring the question. Goody Welling smirked.

"Goodwoman Hawkins, thou should be seated upon the divan," Goody Welling said, sternly.

"Goody Welling, thou hast done as thee vowed. My son is hale and cared for," Charity said.

"Goodwoman Hawkins, let us speak of this," Goody Welling said.

"What sayest thou of this?" Charity asked.

"My spouse and I adopted Francis, according to good faith" Goody Welling said.

Charity wasn't sure she understood.

"Thou hast adopted my child?" Charity said.

"Yes. The tale is rather long. When we brought Francis to our home, he was baptized..with my spouse's second name. He now be the son of George Welling. My spouse has done well as thou observes.

He had a bit of money put by when he decided to invest it in lumber. There is a very large demand for lumber in Truro. With buildings and construction growing so, George knew lumber had great possibilities.

The boy shall be properly raised and educated as the son of a Truro businessman, not the son of a pauper scullery slave," Goody Welling said.

"But, Francis is my son!" Charity wailed.

"Goodwoman Hawkins, the child is registered and baptized at St. George Vicarage as the son of George and Goodwife Welling," Honor insisted.

"Then, we have nothing more to say. I will take my son and...and..." Charity began, tears welling in her eyes.

"Goodwoman Hawkins, and what, pray tell?" Honor Welling said.

Charity knew there was nothing she could do. She wanted to scoop her son from the floor and run off into the street with him. She knew Goody Welling was correct. A kitchen maid had no means to provide a home or food for a young child.

Charity had never felt so bereft of a soul as at this very moment. She left the Welling home in tears, vowing one day she would come back and retrieve her son.

Francis grew from toddler to a young boy without Charity ever visiting him again. She knew a Pilgrim pauper such like herself and owned still by the family Tilton, would never have resources to retrieve her son.

She suddenly felt an inner rage and loathing for the religion of the Pilgrims. Had coming to this new country been a mistake? The debt owed by her to the family Tilton was not really her debt at all.

When her father abandoned her, her mother, sister and young brother, he left behind a trail of debts.

Her mother, Mary Hawkins, tried in vain to work off the debt. Then, she was sent to the poor house and Charity became a slave owned by the family Haverford.

Her sister, Emily, was five years younger than Charity and at age eight, too young to be useful in a household. Her brother, Charles, age four, was sent to an orphanage.

Charity hadn't thought about her mother, Emily or Charles in a long time. Now, with the lost of her own son added to these first losses, she wondered if her mother, sister and brother were still among the living.

Her mother, a strong woman in her youth, aged rapidly and her health was debilitated by constant pain in her bones from years and years of hard labor before the family fell into debt. Through it all, her mother remained faithful to the Church of England and the royals.

For certain, her family had no knowledge of Charity having been sold by the family Haverford to the family Tilton, who brought her to the new world.

The years passed slowly, it seemed to Charity. She knew deep within her soul the loss of her son carved a huge chasm in her heart. Such a gaping wound could never heal. She was the last of the slaves of the Mayflower in the kitchen of the family Tilton. Some had run off and others died.

The family Tilton buried their dead, indentured slaves in the cemetery of St. George Vicarage. Joshua Creet's position grew to the place where his master Sire Tilton trusted him to purchase horses and cattle at the Truro auctions. His fascination for Charity Hawkins had never waned.

Charity was elevated to first cook in the kitchen, a position disdained by Hester Danch.

Hester Danch was not the woman Charity would ever trust. She knew not why Hester held such animosity toward her. In her position as chief cook in the household, she was aware, Hester as housekeeper, felt threatened. The next step for Charity was either maid or housekeeper. She had no training in service as a maid.

She was allowed free time to go to the village. The village changed much over the past fifteen years. Shops grew larger. The prominence of Welling Lumber Mercantile was unequaled by other Truro businesses.

Each time Charity visited the village, she hoped for a tiny glimpse of her son. He was a young master now. He would not even know his mother. Whenever Charity walked back to the family Tilton's home, she did so with tears streaming down her face.

To be so close to my own blood and not see him is more than I can bear, she thought.

Joshua Creet was aware Charity Hawkins was unusually attentive as the carriage passed the large home of George Welling and his good wife.

"Thou hast not visited Goody Welling of late," he said, as they drove into the village.

Charity remained silent. She considered Joshua Creet too interested in her affairs. Such intimate knowing, she would not allow.

She glanced sideways at Joshua's figure in the driver seat of the wagon. His black beard was neatly trimmed and his clothes were always starched and clean. In the religion of the Pilgrims, an unmarried woman could only be in the company of an unmarried man, if they were not free and were in the employ of their owners.

As if my riding alongside Joshua Creet would bring on fire and damnation, she mused.

The longer she remained in Truro, the more she loathed the Pilgrim religion. Everything was in such perfect order that it served to shine a light on the smallest grievances. The smallest grievances became larger in the eyes of the religious.

Charity believed the use of public stocks to be another strange form of punishment. Vicar Adams preached from the pulpit of the "good" examples set by those shunned and placed in stocks.

How peculiar was it to suffer public humiliation for sin and be yet at once, an example of holiness, she thought

Tales of strange, pagan acts by African slaves were condemned by Vicar Adams. Claims of animal sacrifice and frenzied music, dancing and chanting among these peoples was considered damnation. To even look upon the goings on in their "quarter" was to invite immediate shunning and casting out of the church.

African slaves were not allowed to live near the family home. They were provided with roughly hewn, one-room wooden shacks at the far end of the farm. They were allowed a specified portion of the farm's produce for their sustenance, no more.

White slaves were forced to attend religious services whether or not they were Pilgrims. Their places in the church meeting room were located at the rear nearest the doors.

Their owners and their families sat according to their position in the village. This meant Charity had to endure seeing Sire Welling and his good wife and son pass from the back of the room to the front.

Charity unwillingly attended services only because the Vicarage provided an opportunity to catch sight of her son. Once, Charity attempted to walk toward where the young child was frolicking after services. Immediately, Goody Welling hastened to her side and pulled the boy away.

"Goodwoman Hawkins, I need not warn thee to keep thyself afar from my son," Honor Welling said.

"He is not thy son. He is mine and thou canst do no harm to change that," Charity said, hissing quietly.

"Thou hast become brazen. Perhaps, a word with Goody Tilton will cool thy fervor?" Honor threatened.

Charity needed that one threat only to prevent any further attempts to speak to her son. From that day forward, she sated herself with viewing Francis from her place in the church room.

Joshua Creet was not unaware of the attention Charity Hawkins seemed to afford the family Welling's only child.

"Is it not strange Sire Welling has but one child?" Joshua asked.

"That is not a subject thou should speak of to a good woman," Charity said.

Charity tried to change the subject.

"Joshua Creet, where art thy people?" she asked.

"I cannot say. And where art thy people?" he answered.

"My people? I know not if they remain alive," she replied.

"Dost thou yearn for thy homeland?" Joshua asked.

"I yearn not for that which cannot be," she answered.

"Ships brought us here and ships can return us," Joshua said.

"Why would ships return us when our debts can never be repaid?" she asked.

"Perhaps, that is the reason for our return...debts that can never be repaid," Joshua said.

Charity Hawkins had not considered this possibility. As the wagon bumped along the road and passed the home of Goody Welling, Charity was struck by the thought that if the family Tilton returned her to London, she would never see her son again. She would die without having a chance to speak to him.

Joshua took notice of Charity's long silence and her lingering glance at Goody Welling's home.

"All good fortune came to Sire Welling. He did well to put by his shillings. That was his path to good fortune," Joshua mused.

Charity heard the comment and shook her head slowly in agreement. They had arrived at the family Tilton's property.

"The Africans are having a summer nocturne festival this evening, Goodwoman Hawkins. Perhaps, thou would join me to observe their feasting?" Joshua said.

"Thou knowest that is forbidden. How did thou come to this news?" Charity asked.

"Some stable boys are not so very religious," Joshua said, with a sly grin.

"Thou wouldst jeopardize thy position with Sire Tilton, Joshua Creet, as well as risk shunning," Charity warned.

"I pray thee do not reveal my secret then, Goodwoman Hawkins," Joshua said.

Charity shook her head at Joshua, as he helped her dismount from the wagon. Lately, Joshua Creet seemed all to prominent in her path and she had to admit, too frequent in her mind.

Mirrors were not allowed in Pilgrim homes. The only reflection of her countenance came in a split second when she had saw her image in shiny pots and pans or crystal glasses.

Pilgrim homes were intended to be without decoration or unnecessary excesses, considered a serious religious offense.

She dressed in the dull, gray cotton for women in chattel. By 1632, Pilgrims returned to more conservative colors in serge fabrics. Charity loathed the toned down colors of Pilgrim clothing and stiff, starched collars even more.

All women wore dark stockings beneath their dresses and ankle-length skirts, as was church rule.

Charity's auburn tresses were hidden under an immaculate, starched white cap. Red hair was viewed by the Pilgrim religion as devil's work even though many of the indentured slaves originated from countries where this hair color was quite prevalent.

Charity's red tresses were the gift of her father, a wiry half English, half-Scottish native with a gift for amassing debt. Her skin was pale, a result of rarely being outdoors. Her picture perfect nose and chin completed her photogenic image. Though she was no longer the emaciated waif she'd been when she arrived in the new world, she had an enviable figure hidden beneath a large apron worn over her dresses and skirts.

The interest she had in Joshua Creet was related more to his subtle bohemian ways. Surely, this was not due to his European culture, she thought.

She mused how he had been a skinny, bony boy when first they met. Now, he looked the fully grown man with his more muscular appearance. Young scullery maids hired by the family Tilton often whispered quietly among themselves about Joshua. One in particular, Liza Worren, seemed most enchanted by him.

With stars in her eyes, she might be fated with a son she shall never see, Charity thought, reflecting on her own plight.

But, it was true. Joshua did present quite a strong image upon horseback. He was commissioned by Sire Tilton to train horses. He seemed quite skilled at this new duty. So much, that Sire Tilton was able to sell the trained wild horses, broken by Joshua Creet. Yet, Charity saw that Joshua believed wholly in his fate as a slave, whose debt would never be paid.

It seemed Joshua accepted that British rule was not about to change life in the "colonies," even as the new year 1633 began.

Already, the entire of Chesapeake Bay was under the rule of British Lord Baltimore. More African slaves were bought and sold in markets and more indentured slaves began to run away from their owners. Many fled populated areas of the colonies and headed west for remote areas where they could settle on land without colonial government interference. The price of that was fending off Indian attacks.

Charity had never accepted the unfairness of being indentured as a result of her father's debts. This was a new world. Ever in her mind was the idea that somehow she would collect her son and set herself up in a small shop.

When she mentioned to Joshua Creet, the idea that she might escape to freedom as others of their class had done, he roared with laughter.

"A kitchen maid still in chattel? Pray thee, tell how wilt thee escape further than the village?" Joshua mocked.

"Thou may mock, Joshua Creet. This is a new world. What thou know of the old world, need not be my fate," Charity insisted.

"Thy fate? Surely, thou art not considering such a thing?" Joshua asked.

Charity remained silent. She didn't know how she would make her dream real. She only knew that she would.

"Hast thou heard news of Goody Welling?" Joshua asked, seemingly impetuous.

"No. I have not. Thou knowest Goody Welling is no longer a scullery maid...but a free woman. What store would I have with any free woman?" Charity asked.

"Goodwife Welling is to be honored by the Vicar for her works of charity," Joshua said.

Charity knew if she waited long enough, Joshua would not fail to complete his thoughts.

"It seems Goody Welling set up a monetary fund for new Pilgrim settlers coming ashore in Truro," Joshua said.

"How good of Goodwife Welling," Charity said.

Her curt response spoke volumes to Joshua of Charity's hidden feelings for Goody Welling.

"Aye. Her son even now takes apprenticeship at his father's lumber mill. He shall be in the charge of imports and exports of lumber goods," Joshua said.

Charity's eyes widened.

"Dost thou agree this is Master Lydon Welling's best suit for his future?" Joshua asked.

"Master Lydon? Is that his given name?" Charity asked.

"I am certain of it," Joshua said.

So, Goody Welling not only adopted Charity's son without her approval, she also baptized him with the name "Lydon." Charity had never felt such rage.

"Art thou ill of health, Goodwoman Hawkins?" Joshua asked.

Joshua did not know the reason Charity Hawkins held Goody Welling in such contempt. For certain, Charity would never openly reveal it.

Yet, Joshua had a sense of this contempt whenever Charity went into the village or to church meetings. He saw clearly the expression on her face whenever Goody Welling passed by.

"Joshua Creet, I query thee. How should our debt to the family Tilton be known to us?" Charity asked.

"What a strange question, Goodwoman Hawkins," Joshua said.

"Not strange at all. There must be documents stating the sum of our debt," Charity said.

"Should there ever be such documents, it would be in the magistrate's purveyance from whence thou came," Joshua said.

"London? The London Magistrate?" Charity asked.

"That be so," Joshua replied.

Charity wondered if there was a way to take possession of those records. Without realizing it, she was already forming a plan of escape. Being a Christian woman, she was obligated to pay debts owed by her father. Until she knew for certain what the sum of that debt was, she could never know if it was paid. Her freedom depended on knowing this.

"Joshua, canst thou read and write?" Charity asked.

"Thou knowest I cannot. School and books for slaves and chattel are forbidden by the vicar. Thou knowest of his belief that educating slaves is the devil's due," Joshua said.

Charity was also illiterate. Although, the first family who owned her father's debt, minded not that their young daughter was amused Charity could neither read nor write. The child often brought Charity primers to teach her these skills.

Charity saw no store in learning them and gave the child minimal attention. She could write her name and read fewer than a dozen words as a result. Besides, books and journals of the day were not allowed for chattel, even when free men kept libraries of books in their homes.

For some inexplicable reason, she sensed her life was about to change. She was overwhelmed by the feeling that as her twentieth year drew near, she was fast approaching changes to her life. She didn't understand these intuitive feelings, nor did she speak of them to anyone.

The family Tilton counted among them six children, four sons, Edwin, Charles, Francis and James and two daughters, Sarah and Arabella, in order of birth. Charity saw them at church meetings or as they boarded their wagon when traveling away from the family farm.

The children were aged from six to fourteen when Charity was taken aboard the Mayflower and sent to live in the new world. Now, they were young adults on the threshold of their own lives. All were observant in the Pilgrim religion. All…but the youngest, Arabella. Her brothers referred to her by a name of endearment: "Belle."

As a child, Arabella was constantly reprimanded and reminded of herself. At church meetings, Vicar Adams always called her out to congregants as an “unruly child.”

Sire Tilton was displeased that a daughter of his should be so obvious in ill-bred behavior. Yet, he was reluctant to punish her as he did his sons or Sarah, who rarely required so much as a raised eyebrow.

Sarah was always quiet and obedient compared to her younger sibling, who seemed to delight in breaking all the rules of religious convention.

Arabella felt more at home in the kitchen with kitchen maids and cooks, than in the presence of her family. Goody Tilton feared for the girl’s future and wondered often whether she would make a good wife to any man.

Charity grew accustomed to the sight of the youngest Tilton daughter lolling about the kitchen. She often pleasured the child with biscuits or scones and allowed that the child should spread as much wild strawberry preserves and hot butter on them as she liked. The other kitchen help frowned upon these excesses and reminded Charity to "spare the rod and spoil the child" could mean certain evil upon Charity and Arabella.

Arabella felt no superiority toward Charity, a dangerous thing in such a religious community and family household.

“Goodwoman Charity, dost thou have family as I have family?” Arabella asked, brazenly.

“A question put to me I cannot and should not answer,” Charity responded.

“Even if I promise never to tell a soul?” Arabella answered.

“Even then,” Charity answered.

She busied herself with kneading the day’s breads and hoped the girl would find another distraction.

The other kitchen maids ignored the child. But, Charity knew the child’s unruly reputation was not unlike her own as a child in London.

“I wish thou take care of the hot oven, child,” Charity cautioned.

“Why is the oven so hot?” the girl asked.

“It feeds upon wood. Now, child, do go about thy business before Goody Tilton finds thee here,” Charity answered.

“Why dost thou hate me?” Arabella asked.

“Hate thee? None of it, for certain,” Charity said.

“Thou dost have a care of me then?” Arabella asked.

“I care thou wilt end up with a reprimand from thy Sire if thou dost not busy thyself elsewhere abouts,” Charity said.

“Oh tosh! Sire Tilton is away. I have no care of reprimand,” Arabella said.

“As I see,” Charity said, with a grin.

“May I call thee by thy birth name?” the girl asked.

“Yes. But, only in this room. Thou knowest the rules of the household,” Charity said.

“Charity? Can we read stories together?” Arabella asked, sweetly.

“Thou knowest I cannot read,” Charity said.

“Cannot read? Why, that cannot be true! Everyone can read,” Arabella said.

“Not “everyone,” my girl,” Charity said.

That was how it began. The little girl brought her primers down to the kitchen and read Charity stories and lessons from her church missal. Charity went about her work, listening to the tales, as the child read on and on for an hour or more. Sometimes, the other maids peered over the girl’s shoulder to have a look at the pictures in her primer.

Arabella simply could not conceive of the idea Charity couldn’t read of her own will. They played a game where the child would spell words and make them rhyme. Soon, Charity realized she was learning more words.

The relationship between Arabella Tilton and Charity Hawkins grew over the years.

By the time Arabella was fourteen, the age at which Charity was already in chattel, the girl was proud of her accomplishment: she taught a kitchen maid how to read.

“Pride goeth before a fall,” Charity reminded the young girl.

"And how dost thou plan to come to terms with Vicar Adams about this?” Charity added.

“I have done an act of charity for our kitchen maid, Charity,” Arabella said, arrogantly attempting to justify her sin.

Charity shook her head slowly at the girl. Arabella was a beautiful girl and very different in countenance and features than Sarah. Where Sarah was fair and blue-eyed, Arabella was dark and exotic. She possessed none of the severe features of Goody Tilton either. Her brothers teased her she was the Hagar of the Tilton family, disobedient, dark and unruly.

Compared to the effervescent Arabella, Charity felt like an old, worn out woman. Looking at the child's easy airs, Charity realized how many years had been stolen from her by debt.

Charity noticed Arabella began to take an interest in one of Joshua Creet’s new stable boys, Enoch Claston.

Enoch was the son of a free man who believed mightily in the Pilgrim work ethic. So it was, Enoch’s father begged a position from Sire Tilton for his son.

On sunny days, Arabella walked through the kitchen and out the scullery door to meet Enoch. Charity knew this was not a good thing for the young girl. It was fact enough Enoch would catch the eye of a naïve girl like Arabella.

Each time Arabella returned through the kitchen, Charity tried to warn her of the consequences of such a liaison. The girl was having none of it…until Sire Tilton was advised of the situation by Joshua Creet.

At once, Arabella was not allowed to spend time in the kitchen and was to prepare for church work to atone for the errors of her ways. She was to help Vicar Adams ready the church meeting hall for Sunday meetings.

Arabella stole into the kitchen to beg sympathy from Charity.

“My girl, what solace can I offer thee? I am a cook,” Charity said.

The girl bent over the long wooden kitchen table and wailed.

“Be silent. Thy mother and father wilt find thee here against their wishes,” Charity said.

“I want to run away. Enoch said we should run away and marry,” Arabella wailed, tears streaming down her face.

“Charity, wilt thou help me escape?” she asked.

“No. That is not possible. I would be cast out without provisions or care for my life,” Charity said.

“Well, I am going to run away. I love Enoch,” Arabella wailed.

“It is well enough thou hast disobeyed. To consider matrimony against thy parents wishes…that be…well…it be certain damnation,” Charity said.

Arabella heard what Charity said. But, as usual, she chose not to listen. The girl refused to believe in the Pilgrim tenets of faith that taught mostly hellfire and damnation.

After a fortnight, Charity lay in her bed thinking of her own escape. She heard a commotion outside the attic window where she slept.

“What is it Goodwoman Hawkins?” Belinda Wilkin asked.

Belinda Wilkin shared the attic room with Charity for nearly half a decade, since she was hired by the family Tilton to replace Goodwoman Honor Welling.

“I am not certain. Joshua Creet and several stable boys are mounted upon horses,” she said, peering out the window.

Belinda rose to join Charity at the window.

“Sire Tilton is also mounted upon his horse. This must be most dire,” Belinda said.

Charity returned to her bed. Belinda remained for a few minutes at the window.

“We shall know in the morning what transpires, no doubt,” Charity said.

When the morning sun rose, Goody Tilton was heard by one of the house maids to be wailing and beside herself. The kitchen was abuzz with whispers. Charity was uninterested with gossip.

As religious women, Pilgrims attached no connection to gossip as evil and sin, Charity Hawkins thought.

As she went about her duties, she glanced briefly out the kitchen window. Joshua Creet returned with the others…with Arabella riding side saddle on her father’s mount and Enoch Claston riding on Joshua’s mount, looking worse for his predicament.

Charity didn’t need an explanation of the situation. Arabella, that foolish child attempted to run off with Enoch, as she insisted she would.

Sire Tilton addressed the kitchen help that very afternoon with the warning no one should discuss any evil words spread by others, under penalty of a lashing.

Charity knew Arabella would not be free to leave the confines of her room for a very long time.

Joshua Creet drove the wagon into the village for church services a few weeks later.

“Goodwoman Hawkins, what say ye now of Sire Tilton’s youngest daughter?” Joshua taunted.

It was obvious he knew of Charity’s liaisons with Arabella.

“Sire Tilton warned of such evil talk, has he not?” Charity responded.

“Do ye not consider? Enoch Claston was soundly thrashed and sold to another free man. Two lovers will never see the other, nor speak again,” Joshua said.

“They be foolish young people, then,” Charity said.

“Aye. Youth be always foolish, Goodwoman Hawkins,” he said.

Charity knew there was something more to Joshua’s talk. She knew if she waited upon his time, he would come around to the purpose of his talk.

Their slave wagon passed the Welling home, as Sire Welling and his good wife were driven by a footman to the Vicarage. There was no sign of Charity’s son. She felt as if her innards were hollowed out.

“Goodwoman Hawkins has not heard Master Welling has been sent abroad to study?”

“Abroad?” Charity said.

“Aye. To one of the finest schools in all of London from word in the village,” Joshua said.

Such irony! Francis Hawkins, Lydon Welling of late, would return to the very place from whence his own mother had come, Charity thought

“Hast thou not heard what I told thee?” Joshua asked.

Charity heard. But, she was deep in thought: London.

Her son would be in London. Francis was a young man who, Charity had to admit, had opportunity she could never provide.

If only there was a way to escape the debt her father owed and she was charged to repay. How should an escape ever happen? As easily as Arabella was retrieved from her escape with Enoch Claston, capturing a slave would be easier.

In this part of the new world, black slaves tried to escape, only to be soundly beaten near as soon as captured.

The thought of returning to London grew in Charity’s mind. How should that happen? Overseers on the family Tilton’s acreage relied upon dogs to prevent slaves from escaping.

As she spent her days stirring and baking, her mind was in London. The trip aboard the Mayflower was a nightmare. How then would she endure a return trip to England? Then, she was with child. She should be more tolerant of storms at sea presently. She would plan her escape and make her way aboard a ship bound for London.

The opportunity to escape seemed, at first, impossible. The more she pondered her options, the more thoughts formed a pattern in her mind. She first had to make her way to Provincetown.

She had no provisions to sell, other than a cameo pendant that belonged to her mother. It was the last of her mother’s possessions not sold to pay her father’s debt.

Her mother hid it in the hem of her petticoat and passed it to Charity, as she was led from their home and removed to Marshallsea debtors’ prison.

All of the family Tilton’s slaves were allowed a half-day free time before a holiday and a half-day after. Charity knew the Pascal holiday was still two months from arriving. Those half days would be her only chance to escape.

Still, she knew, with the increasing number of slaves escaping, the family Tilton’s slaves were under far stricter vigilance than ever before. They were driven by Joshua Creet’s wagon to church meetings. Joshua was expected to act as overseer and take head counts upon leaving the Tilton homesite and arriving at the Vicarage.

Women were never allowed to travel alone, Charity reasoned. That left her with but one choice: a disguise.

She sat beside Joshua Creet, as he was wont to do during church meetings. She glanced at his attire, memorizing how men of his age dressed themselves.

She saw she would need trousers, a shirt and a wide brimmed hat. She knew exactly where she would find trousers and a wide brimmed hat: scarecrows in the fields. She would fashion old rags into a shirt and a man’s vest.

Truro was lovely in spring. Wild flowers blossomed profusely in a rainbow of colors and trees began to sprout lime colored leaves.

Charity prepared for her escape. She made a mental note of taking her few belongings in a sack. She shouldn’t appear too poor or ragged. She made sure the trousers and wide brimmed hat she "borrowed" from the scarecrow in the dark of night was not too badly worn.

She would dress in the outhouse to avoid Belinda Wilkin’s inquiries. She would walk the mile into the village and from there, travel by whichever wagon she could beg a ride from. At all costs, she must avoid villagers who owned slaves and were sure to question her travels.

A sense of fear overcame her at this thought. She could end up dead at the hands of an unscrupulous villain. Still, she knew there was none but escape for her.

The evening of her half day off she had good fortune. The sun set soon after supper hour. A sudden, thick fog from the sea rolled in. Charity Hawkins felt this was a sign of assurance of her escape. In such a thick fog, she could move about without notice.

That morning, she placed her travel bag near the cook stove in the kitchen.

When Belinda Wilkin’s asked about it, Charity explained it was a sack of old rags to clean the cook stove. That seemed to satisfy Belinda.

She tucked the small sack under her petticoats, as she planned her escape. She made her way to the outhouse, removed the clothes from the sack, changed her clothing, tucked stray hairs under the wide brimmed cap and stole out toward the dirt road ahead. Should a pass wagon by in the night, she would tuck herself into the copse of woods along the road.

Charity made her way round the village’s main street. Soon, she heard the sound of horses’ hooves. She felt panic grow when the wagon stopped and looked for a wooded spot to hide. The wagon slowed to a stop.

“Where art thou bound, young man?” the man’s voice asked.

Charity pulled the brim of the hat down over her head tighter.

“Provincetown,” she said, quickly.

“Provincetown is where I am bound. Wouldst thou wish to accompany me?” the voice asked.

Charity climbed aboard, avoiding the glance of the driver.

“Ye be a young man traveling alone?” the driver asked.

“Aye.” She answered.

“What be thy business in Provincetown?” he asked.

“A position...in family business,” Charity said.

“What business be that?” he asked.

“Tanning of hides,” she answered.

She’d heard Joshua Creet say Provincetown had a tanning shop that took in hides to make shoes and other clothing.

Provincetown was nearly a half day from Truro by wagon. She knew the wagon in which she was riding would not arrive in Provincetown until the early morning hours given the state of the fog.

She fell asleep for part of the ride and only the occasional rock in the horses’ path jarred her awake. The wagon driver kept his eyes steadfast on the road ahead.

As morning light began to grow, Charity felt relieved her escape had not been prevented as she feared.

What lay ahead in Provincetown remained to be seen.

“I pray thee, young man, where shall ye depart?” the driver asked.

Charity wondered if he was asking a question to force more answers from her.

“At the main road in the center of Provincetown. I wish to visit family first before I begin work,” she said.

Provincetown was larger than Truro and far more populated. As Charity dismounted the wagon, she tried not to appear surprised by her new surroundings.

Charity liked the town already. Townspeople rose at first light and vendors and shopkeepers were readying their business for the day ahead.

Charity felt pangs of hunger. She brought with her a few scraps of food. She found a bench near a shop and pulled off a slice of bread and a single slice of cheese. She walked to a public water spout to drink.

She used her keen sense of smell to direct her to the port. In Provincetown, many ships were in port or leaving with their catches of cod and whale oil loaded aboard.

A sailor stood on the dock and called for crewmen ready to sail. Charity considered this. Then, realized she had no sailing skills.

“You there! Young buck, would ye want to labor aboard Provincetown’s biggest fishing vessel?” he called to Charity.

“I have no fishing skills,” she called back.

“Can ye gut fish? That be all the skills ye need,” he answered.

Charity gutted fish in the kitchen of the family Tilton on numerous occasions.

“Art thou certain?” she asked.

“Certain as the waves in the rolling sea!” the seaman called.

“Where be the ship’s destination?” she asked.

“Why, London, of course...storms at sea be kind to seamen,” he said, blessing himself.

Before she knew it, she was aboard ship and plopped in front of a mess of fish in large kettles.

Charity spent the next weeks gutting fish.

Meals aboard ship were not digestible. Charity went down to the galley. The ship had no appointed cook. Out of desperation to avert intestinal problems, she began to prepare some of the ship’s meals. She did this so well, Captain Malachy Dysson begged her prepare all their meals, including his.

“Young sailor, how should thee be such a proficient with a stove?” Captain Dysson asked.

Charity shrugged her shoulders absently and feigned shyness.

“It is well for our crew thy knowledge of preparing meals. Twill keep peace among the men. Fed on thy prepared meals, the crew remains strong and hardy for their long days at sea,” the Captain said.

Charity slept in the same quarters as the crew. Yet, the crew seemed to hold their youngest crew member in high esteem.

This amused her.

Feed a crew properly and they grant much levity, only to protect their growling stomachs, she thought.

Her days aboard ship were filled with gutting fish and preparing meals. As the dock in London drew nearer, Charity was filled with a new hope. She was long gone from Truro and would never return.

This she firmly believed. But, this was not to be.

The pay she earned aboard ship was more than enough to sustain needs for a room and daily meals. She’d never had money to spend freely before. Nor, had she the opportunity to spend it, other than at church meetings for tithing.

Given her father was the cause of her service in chattel, Charity guarded each pence she spent.

In London, she was a free woman, albeit in a young man’s disguise.

Feeling safer, she discarded her disguise and quickly found work in a small dockside pub, where she prepared food as she’d done aboard ship and prior to that in the family Tilton’s kitchen. She earned enough to keep a single, shabby room on the dock near the pub. She was thankful for her freedom. Her wretched accommodations meant little in full light of all she had now gained.

Ships came and went and sailors and men of the sea converged on the pub, hungry and thirsty.

At night, these men got into squabbles at the bar. Charity was shocked at their angry, violent natures. It reminded her of the raging storms at sea she endured on her way to the new world.

That new world seemed far, far away now. She was tucked safely in the kitchen day and night and protected from sudsy tankards flying about in the barroom.

At night, she retired to her room with the sounds of fog horns and waves lapping against the dock.

Her legs ached from long hours in the kitchen. Each morning before her work, she brewed a cup of tea and ate a single slice of bread, mostly from scraps retrieved from the pub kitchen's bin.

That was one of the blessings of working in a pub. She had plenty of food scraps for meals. Now and then, a sailor might leave behind a bowl of soup or a chunk of cheese. She stored the soup in a glass jar atop the cook stove and gently wrapped the cheese in a linen towel.

The kitchen where she toiled daily was shuttered by two doors that swung wildly behind her, whenever she placed prepared meals on the table behind the bar. She was glad it was not left to her to be waiting on these rough and tumble men.

One evening several months into her work at the pub, Charity Hawkins caught sight of a man she believed she knew. He was a bit older than she remembered. His clothes were worn and his pate thinner and whiter. He looked more common than once he might have.

She hurried back toward the stove to avoid his glance. It’s was too late.

“Charity Hawkins!” the barkeep called to her.

“Aye, sire?” she answered.

“This man says he must have a word. Do ye know him?”

Charity hesitated.

“Aye, sire. Tis my brother, Charles,” she answered.

"Do ye wish to have a word or not?”

“If it pleases ye sire,” Charity answered, cautiously.

The man walked toward her with a slight limp.

“Do my eyes play tricks?” Charles said.

“Charles Hawkins, I believe?” Charity said.

“Tis I and no other, if you please,” Charles answered.

“Charity, where have ye been? The last news of ye was not clear,” Charles said.

“I was bought by the family Haverford and later, the family Tilton. I lived in the new world, lo the last decade. What news of mother and Emily?” she asked.

“Mother is no more. Her tender heart failed her in her fifty-first year. As to our Emily, it is a sadder tale than waning light falling at twilight.

The price of father’s debt was thus polluted upon her, as it was you. She was sold to a Yorkshire family. No news of her have I been privy to since,” Charles said.

"Charity, are ye a free woman?” Charles asked.

“Yes.”

Charity lied to insure she would never again be sold as chattel. Nor, did she want anyone to know the circumstances upon which she had come to London.

“Father’s debt? Has it been paid?” she asked.

“It has not. I roam about avoiding the workhouse as best I can,” Charles said.

Feeling sympathy for her brother's plight, Charity's heart softened.

“Charles, I have a room. Ye are welcome to my accommodation. I must get on with my work now. Return at the time of closing this evening,” she said.

Charity continue to prepare food in the kitchen with Charles ever on her mind.

When her work was through for the day, Charles did return as she asked. They hastened to her room. 

She prepared hot tea for both of them. She cradled her cup of tea in her hands, warming them.

“Charles, father’s debt…Do ye know of its price?” she asked.

“I do not.”

"Pray thee, tell what know ye of father? Is he living still?” she asked.

“Charity, father lives still. I have seen him...in London. He is a pensioner now; though he lives in poverty in the East End.”

“Then, his debt surely is paid if he is a pensioner,” Charity said.

“Mind, sister dear, his debt is ours...mine, yours and Emily’s,” Charles answered.

Charity stirred hot soup and poured it into two bowls. She handed one to Charles and placed the other at her chair. Then, she placed bread on the table. She could tell he was ravenous and had not eaten for some days.

“Such bounty as I have not seen, Charity Hawkins. How comes by these provisions?” he asked.

“By the grace of God and scraps from the pub kitchen,” Charity said, with a smile.

“Much time has passed between us. What news of the new world?” he asked.

“I was aboard the Mayflower with the family to which father’s debt was owed. The new world is strange, hard and cold. Some settlers were sent ashore to a village called Truro,” she said.

"Sailors tell tales of wild, savage men in the new world,” he said.

“Aye. Tis so. The Truro settlement was attacked several times and horses and food were stolen,” she said.

“Sister mine, I tried to stow away aboard a ship bound for the new world with no success. Each time I tried, I was found out and cast ashore before the ship set sail,” Charles said.

“The trip across the wide sea is a terrible one...at most times of the year,” she said.

“I hoped maybe I’d be found out and set aboard ship and be worked to pay father’s debt,” he said.

“Charles, let us away to visit our father. We must end this cruel chattel for his debt. We should resolve his debt. I have some funds put by. Until we know what the sum of his true debt is, we shall always hide in secret from his creditors,” she said.

“Ye know debt in England is life long and cannot be paid in full; nay, not even with funds ye put by,” he said.

Charity was resolute. She might lose her entire life savings, what care should she take, if that was the point upon which she must end her state of chattel?

“Sister, what are ye thinking? Father's debt is owed for decades. Interest on that debt would be fearsome at present,” he said.

Charles remembered his sister always had a persistent element to her nature. Even though he was only four years old when he was sent to the orphanage, he’d clung to his memories of his mother and two sisters. If he held any resentment of his family’s predicaments, it was his family was torn apart by the debt of his father.

“Brother, will ye be of assistance and find our father?” Charity asked, pointedly.

“Aye, if that be your wish,” Charles said.

“Where shall we begin a search, then?” she asked.

“It is so he is a pensioner on public dole. He should thus be found somewhere in London’s common housing,” Charles said.

“And where might that be?” she said.

“I shall spend the morrow searching every nook and cranny until he is located. But, sister, what if he has since died?”

“If this it so, hopes of repaying his debt may be for naught. Pray he remains among the living” she said.

Finding Charles Hawkins, the Elder, was not going to be an easy task. In addition to the original debt owed, he would now likely owe the British government for the dole upon which he exists.

Charity Hawkins went about her regular duties hoping for news from her sibling. With nary a word for nearly a fortnight, she wondered if her brother had given up his search.

To her surprise, Charles walked into the pub with a man she barely recognized. His body seemed shrunken to half the size she recalled. Yet, she knew instinctively the face to be that of her father.

When it was time for her to close the kitchen for the night, Charity bid Charles and their father wait for her in her room.

She hastened home with wings on her feet. She opened the door to her room with trepidation. 

Her father sat beside the hearth, sipping tea from an old, chipped beaker. Her brother sat on a tri-legged stool warming his hands from the damp that pervaded every part of the dockside.

“Charles, ye found our father,” she said.

“Aye...in a poorhouse as expected,” Charles said.

Charity saw Charles the Elder hunkered over his tea. Suddenly, memories of her childhood rushed back. Memories she hoped would never rise to the surface of her mind were as clear as daylight.

So, this was the man who caused her mother’s death, her sister’s, hers and Charles lives' such misery?

“Father, what of your indebtedness?” she asked, bluntly.

"Who be this woman?” Charles the Elder asked.

“Father, this be your eldest. I, your youngest. Do ye have no recollection of your own flesh and blood?” Charles snarled.

“Charles, his mind is gone,” Charity said.

“Nay. He pretends his mind is gone. He knows of us, surely,” Charles said.

“Father? What be this year of the Lord?” Charity asked.

The old man didn’t answer. He shook his head from side to side slowly. Withered hands that held onto the beaker shook violently.

“ Letitia! Be it ye?” the old man called, staring off into space.

“He thinks ye are our mother,” Charles said.

“If that is the only way to find out what debt he owes, I shall be our mother!” Charity said.

“Charles! What have ye done with all your money?” Charity asked, mimicking her mother’s voice.

“Letitia! Be warned. We are destitute and shall end as paupers. It could not be helped,” Charles the Elder said.

“Where is our money?” Charity said, more sternly than before.

“It is lost to a gambling man named Ashton. Ashton reported my debt to the constabulary. They will be upon us all in short order to collect,” Charles the Elder said.

Charity knew who Leeds Ashton was. She blotted the memory of Ashton out of her mind deliberately.

Leeds Ashton was then the son of a Devon landowner.

“Letitia! We are damned for all eternity for my bargain with Ashton,” Charles the Elder said, as if in a fog.

“Charity, he is rambling. Do ye know Leeds Ashton?” her brother asked.

Charity knew Ashton. Too well. She didn’t want her brother to know details of her acquaintance with Ashton.

“Leeds Ashton was the son of a Devin landowner. He was a wealthy neer-do-well. He frequented local pubs, bilking working class men of their money. T'was to pay his gambling debts owed,” Charity explained.

Charity realized the magnitude of Leeds Ashton and such misery as he caused her family. She had more reason than a simple gambling debt to exact revenge on Ashton.

He was surely an old man now.

“Charles, return our father from whence ye found him. Ye and I have business with Ashton on the morrow. I will finish at the pub early. We will ride to Devon and…”

“But, Charity. Ashton is a rich and powerful man, if he is as ye say. He will have both of us thrown into prison.”

“No, Charles. I know of Ashton better than Ashton wishes. I were too young when I were placed in chattel to realize why Ashton sold me to the family Haverford.

He must surely have owed Sire Haverford a great debt at that time. He schemed to force our father into debt. So great was his need to put mother and all of us into chattel. Father sold me to the family Haverford to pay Ashton’s debt,” Charity said.

“How do ye come to know this?” Charles asked.

“When I was a scullery maid in the family Haverford’s employ, Sire Haverford refused to allow me to attend church meetings with his family and his other indentured slaves,” Charity said.

“But why? What had ye done?”

“I did nothing wrong. I was not going to tell this tale. I tried, in vain, to put it out of my mind.

Leeds Ashton had his way with me when I was just a girl. Ashton must have told Sire Haverford of my “indiscretion.”  Sire Haverford therefore, refused me entry into their church. I was a ruined girl, Charles.”

“Ye have no proof. It is your word against a wealthy powerful man,” Charles said.

“Nay. Not so. When I was sold to the family Tilton, I was with child. I tell ye this brother dear. Ye must never speak of it again. Do ye swear an oath?” Charity said.

“With certainty, I shall. But, of what use is this now?” Charles asked.

“The child I bore in the new world is not a British citizen, not by all rights of the settlers of the new world. They call themselves “colonials” by name. But, “Americans by birth. Do ye see?”

Charles didn’t see where Charity’s thoughts were leading.

“Charles, listen to me very carefully. What I am about to tell ye is payment for years of a terrible misjudgment of debt.

The child I bore was claimed to be adopted by a free man and his wife, George Welling. They baptized my Francis with the name Lydon Welling. George Welling, in the new world, is a wealthy man and owner of a lumber mercantile.

His wife, Goody Welling had been a scullery maid in the Tilton household, as I had been. When George Welling left England, he paid his debt and came to the new world to retrieve his wife, Good Wife Honor Welling.”

Charles still didn’t see where all of this was leading to repayment of their father’s debt.

“Do ye not see, Charles? Lydon Welling is studying in a private school in London. That be why I returned. We found our father. Now, we will find my son, Francis. Before we do, we will find Francis’s father, Leeds Ashton. We will threaten to expose him to the family Tilton and Sire Welling as the man who sired their son,” Charity said.

“Ye intend to threaten him so he will erase father’s debt?”

“Father paid part of that debt,” Charity said.

“I don’t understand,” Charles said.

“Father agreed to Ashton’s taking of me when I was fourteen,” Charity said.

Charles shuddered at the revelation. He stood erect and glanced at the slow flames in the fireplace.

“Oh, my dear sister. That is a very serious accusation. Ashton could go to prison for such a crime,” Charles said.

“He needn’t go to prison. He only need erase father’s debt and repay the debt he owes to me, Emily and ye.”

“But sister, that is .is…” Charles refrained from saying the words.

“Yea, it tis. What care I, if a threat bring freedom?”

Charles was seeing his sister as a harder, colder woman than he ever imagined possible. He knew she planned this for a very long time.

“Charity. Speak truthfully. Ye ran away from the family to who father’s debt was transferred. Is that not so?”

“What matters that, if Ashton erases the debt? I will return with my son, a free woman. With ye and Emily, as well if that be your wishes,” she said.

“Ye would return to the new world? Ye say it is a wild, savage place,” Charles said.

“With a wide sea between us and Ashton, there will be no chance of another of Ashton’s schemes,” she said.

Charles returned their father to his hovel in the poor house.

“Charity? Will ye sail the ocean with our father in tow?” Charles asked.

“Nay. It was father who agreed to give me to Ashton. I cannot forgive that. He has very little time left. It is better he serves his punishment now, than in his eternal rest,” Charity said.

Charity and Charles rode the very next day to Devon to Ashton Manor. It was an estate that had been in family ownership since the last century. As their carriage approached the estate, they saw the manor house in the distance. It looked grand. As the carriage approached the house, it was clear the Elizabethan home had begun to be in need of care.

This worried Charity. What if Ashton had no money and had spent it gambling?

No matter. Charles carried the documents expunging all records of the debt of Charles the Elder. Using Charity's free state, the documents were thus drawn by the London magistrate. Now, they carried it to Devon with him.

As the carriage pulled to a stop, Charles squeezed his sister’s hand tightly.

“Charles, this day we become free,” Charity said.

They were met at the gate by a gateman.

“Sire Ashton is busy. Ye should return a ‘morrow,” the gateman said.

“Nay. I must see Sire Ashton. Please tell him it is a matter of debt owed him,” Charity said.

Charles was impressed by his sister’s cunning skills. Charity knew Ashton as a gambler who would always have need of money…especially money owed him.

The gateman returned and allowed them entrance. Charles was impressed that two indentured slaves were given entry through the front door. From here, the butler sequestered them in a small morning room off the main hall entrance.

“Charity, are ye certain of what ye be doing?” Charles whispered.

“Charles, I have never been more certain. And do not bow to Ashton when he comes into the room. He deserves naught” Charity answered.

Ashton opened the double wide doors to the room and paused for a few moments.

“Does Sire Ashton not recall my face?” Charity asked.

“Who are ye? And what debt am I owed?” Ashton asked, impatiently.

“The debt of gratitude I shall choose...to not expose ye for the scoundrel ye be,” Charity responded.

“Now, look here. Two slapdash paupers ere ye, owing debt and ye take such a tone with a free man far above your station?” Ashton said.

“I am Charity Hawkins…daughter of Charles Hawkins, the Elder, who owed ye a bit of a sum for gambling debt some eighteen years prior?” Charity said.

“Ah yes. Now, I do recall that unfortunate man playing out his hand in a card game he could not have won for his lack of any card skills,” Ashton said.

“Pray thee, Sire. What was the amount owed ye by our father?” Charity asked, coyly.

“A bit of one thousand pounds, if memory serves,” Ashton said.

“Does that include “debt” amount paid by me?” Charity asked.

Charles nearly laughed aloud when Ashton shifted in his silks uncomfortably.

“I have no recollection of such a payment by ye,” Ashton said.

“Perhaps, ye might wish to know of the additional payment of the son ye sired of me?” Charity asked.

“That is of no consequence to me,” Ashton said, indignantly.

“Aye. No consequence to ye that ye have knowledge of,” Charity said.

Ashton’s face began to grow purple with anger. His white knuckled fists grew tighter and tighter.

“Sire Ashton, may it benefit ye to know your son, Lydon Welling, is, at present, taking education in London?” Charity added.

“What does a male named Lydon Welling have to do with me?” Ashton said.

“Tis a very wicked deed ye have done taking a young girl as part of a gambling debt. Tis wickedness that the young girl bore a son to ye in the new world upon her arrival, having survived at terrible storm at sea.

Tis most wicked this son should be adopted by a free man, George Welling, presently a wealthy lumber mercantile owner with status in Truro. But most wicked of all? The scandal the house of Ashton would bring upon the families, Haverford, Tilton and Welling, should it become known the son of a respected business man was produced of an indentured slave girl, sold for a gambling debt of your due,” Charity said.

There was a great silence for more than five minutes. Leeds Ashton was speechless.

“I have no money if that is what ye seek,” Ashton blurted out.

“What I seek is your signature upon this document that erases our father’s debt. Then, I shall see if “your” debt has been fully repaid to me and my family,” Charity said.

“MY DEBT!!” Ashton bellowed.

The aging man with the grayed temples and brown eyes looked shaken. Charity felt as if she’d captured an erstwhile fly in her spider’s nest. Charles had to admit he was impressed with his sister’s deft handling of this wealthy man.

“Aye. Your debt. British law has not changed regarding forcing oneself upon a girl under the age of fifteen. If ye need more proof, I can arrange for ye to meet the child ye sired. He is of legal age and would love nothing more than to be your heir apparent to the Ashton fortune,” Charity said, empowering her threat all the more.”

Charles wondered how Charity planned to arrange a meeting with a son who barely knew her as his mother. But, he would not protest this in the presence of Ashton.

Ashton hurriedly signed the papers releasing Charles Hawkins, the Elder’s debt for all time. He agreed, at Charity's urging, to a large annual stipend to provide for Charity needs.

In a few months, Charles and Charity located their sister. She left the Yorkshire manor house where she had been held as a slave, with her brother and sister.

Only one thing remained unsettled in Charity’s mind. This, she must do entirely alone.

She sought the services of a private investigator to locate her son. She knew instinctively she couldn’t just walk up to the young man and make such an announcement. The investigator discovered Lydon Welling’s daily routine. He was studying to be a solicitor. As such, he attended many school events related to British laws.

Charity discovered him at a library near the school. Absently, she pulled a book from the nearby shelf. Then, she sat down at a long library table feigning interest in the book.

Lydon looked up from the notes he was writing.

“That book ye be studying. Are ye in law class in this school?” he asked.

Charity looked into the face of the son she had not seen in nearly half a decade. He was a handsome young man and resembled her brother Charles.

“Nay. I am just looking to resolve an issue related to my estate,” she answered quickly.

“Perhaps, I can help? I am apprenticing at law in the law school nearby,” he said.

Charity remained silent.

"My name is Lydon Welling,” he said.

“My name is Charity Hawkins,” she answered.

“I have heard that name before. My own mother has mentioned a woman named Hawkins to my father many times,” he said.

Charity gave no response.

“Have ye family in the new world?” he asked.

“Nay. Not a one.”

“Strange, I feel as if I know ye,” he said.

Charity’s silence spoke volumes to the young man. He realized now her presence was more than a passing coincidence.

“Ye know of me?” he asked.

“Aye. Let us not discuss the matter here,” she said.

They walked together to a café located on the school quadrant. Lydon ordered two cups of tea.

“Pray tell me, how do ye know me?” he asked.

“Your mother is Honor Welling and your father, Sire George Welling, a respected Truro business man,” Charity said.

“How are ye acquainted with them?” he asked.

“Your father came to the new world in 1621 and retrieved his wife, Goodwoman Honor when his debt was repaid. Did he not speak of this to ye?” Charity asked.

“I believe he may have when I was very young,” Lydon said.

“Did Goody Welling tell ye how ye came to be her son?”

“Nay.”

“Good Welling worked in the household of the family Tilton, as I did, in the scullery…until such time as Sire Welling paid his debt owed. 

While in the debt of the family Tilton, I was with child. The child was kept hidden by myself and Goody Welling for fear I would be shunned by Pilgrim villagers and cast out among the savages who attacked Truro.

Goody Welling left the family Tilton in the summer of 1621 when the child I bore, without benefit of a husband, was six months old. She offered to take the child with her into her household. I was to find during the Christmas holiday season while visiting her household, she adopted my son and gave him the name Lydon Welling. I hoped to some day pay off my father’s debt and become a free woman. 

I was elevated in the household to cook. Over years, I came to the realization I was never to be free. I saw my son at church meetings many times. Goody Welling threatened to reveal my secret birth to the family Tilton. Sadly, I saw no path to freedom, nor to my son,” Charity said.

“That is quite a story! I am your son?” he asked, shocked by the woman's revelations.

“Aye.”

“Then pray, who sired me?” he asked quickly.

"My father issued me in payment of his debt to a wealthy Devon landowner…Leeds Ashton. Ashton was a gambler who often scoured London for working class men like my father. He cheated these men at cards. 

My father owed him one thousand pounds he could not pay. I was part of that payment. When Ashton had his way with me, I was fourteen years old. I was sold to the family Haverford to repay a gambling debt Ashton owed Sire Haverford. 

My father’s debt was thence transferred to the family Tilton, who left England for the new world in 1620. They were Separatists and those religious of the Pilgrim faith.”

“What name had I when I was hidden in that attic as a babe?” Lydon asked.

“Francis. I named ye Francis in honor of Sire Francis Tilton, a kind man who treated all of his slaves, white or black, fairly,” Charity said.

“I believe ye. Shall I tell ye why?” Lydon asked.

“Aye.”

“Mother…Goody Welling was fearful of ye. I was a little boy when first I heard her mention ye to Sire Welling. My sense always was that there was some part of my life they erased. I was too young to ask more questions. What of your family debt?” he asked.

“I met some months ago with Sire Ashton. Our family debt has been erased. Sire Ashton knows of your birth. What ye choose to do about your right of inheritance to the Ashton fortune and Devon Manor house, I leave to ye,” Charity said.

“Devon ye say?” Lydon asked.

“Aye. Ashton Manor is a grand manor house of brick and stone in the Elizabethan style; although, at present it is in need of much refurbishing. Be warned. Sire Ashton lays claim he is without funds, as gamblers are wont to claim,” Charity said.

“Are ye well set with the funds provided ye now?” Lydon asked.

“Aye, my brother Charles and sister, Emily are well set,” Charity said.

“Will ye return to the new world?” he asked.

“For a time, there are several people with whom I must settle differences,” she said.

“Sire and Goody Welling?” he asked.

“Among a few,” she answered.

Charity Hawkins did return to the new world…a free woman who owed no debts. Charles and Emily traveled with her and were shocked by the wonders of the new world they saw.

Joshua Creet, once so enamored of Charity, was clearly smitten by Emily.

Lydon Welling met once only with his parents, as the new English landowner of Ashton Manor, Sire Francis Hawkins. Emily remained behind in Truro long enough to wed Joshua Creet and with Francis financial help, built a small horse business. This became a trans-Atlantic enterprise that supplied many horse breeders in England.

Charity and her brother crossed the Atlantic several more times as Francis’s business associates. Sire Leeds Ashton was banished to a small manor house along the Yorkshire moors. Ashton Manor grew grander than it had ever been under Charity’s guidance as a lady of the court...a Pilgrim pauper no more.