Free The Hearth and Eagle by Anya Seton Page A

farther to the great fishing banks from there than it was from any part of this unwelcoming wilderness.
    “I shall speak to Mr. Johnson,” said Arbella with decision. She said nothing more but she was thinking. She would use her influence to settle the Honeywoods in Shawmut, or Boston as Isaac proposed to call it from their own shire town.
    “When the Governor leaves again,” she said, “he’ll bear a letter to my husband. I shall request that he find your Mark and take interest in him.”
    Phebe gratefully acquiesced, nor voiced her doubts of Mark’s reception of this affectionate and natural patronage.
    That was the first of many visits. As the days passed and the heat wave lessened, Arbella grew stronger, and together Phebe and she stood on the bank by the landing place and watched the ship
Arbella
sail down the river, bound southward to the new plantations with two hundred aboard her.
    Except for the few like Phebe and Arbella who remained to wait for their men to fetch them, and the very few who desired to settle there, Salem reverted to its earlier population. In the North Village there lived a handful of the first planters who had not followed Roger Conant across the river to Beverley; and in the south or main village, lived those who still survived from the companies which had come with Endicott or the two ministers. True, throughout June and July many ships touched at Salem, as the rest of Winthrop’s fleet straggled into port. But the passengers were not disembarked. All sailed again at once for Charlestown to join the others.
    On July 3, Phebe, asleep in her wigwam, was wakened by the now familiar shouts and creakings and bustle which meant the arrival of another ship. She dressed hastily and opening her door was delighted to see that it was the
Hopewell
which had in England been destined for freight. Mooings and cracklings and bleatings echoed in the early morning air, and the inhabitants of Salem crowding down to the dock let out a cheer. Most of them were disappointed. The livestock must go on to Charlestown, where already there was famine. But Phebe, finding courage to board and seek out the master herself, discovered that her milch-cow had survived the trip, and demanded that it be landed.
    In this she would not have succeeded, between the Captain’s haste to be on to Charlestown and finish this tedious trip, and her lack of the necessary papers, had not Arbella, hastily summoned by Phebe, come down to the boat and straightened the matter.
    Phebe coaxed and tugged the terrified cow down the gangplank; and when her prize was safely on shore could not resist kissing the soft fawn-colored muzzle. Betsey was living link with home. Phebe had last seen her standing in the Edmunds’ barn, her new calf beside her and placidly munching while the younger children decorated her with a wreath of early primroses, “because Betsey was a cow princess and going to America with sister Phebe.”
    Phebe soothed the cow with soft whispers—“So-o-o-o, Betsey—Hush, Betsey, it’s on land again you are. Ah poor beast, you’re nearly dry. Didn’t they milk you right or was it the seasickness?”
    The cow looked at her mournfully, and Phebe threw her arm around the warm furry neck.
    The Lady Arbella had been watching with some amusement. “Aren’t you afraid of its horns?” she asked. “I’ve never seen a cow so close before.”
    Phebe looked from the cow to her friend. Friend, yes, the only one in Salem, and they seemed to share much together. But in truth they did not. The lady’s fine white hands had never labored with anything rougher than the embroidery needle. A spasm of homesickness overpowered Phebe. For her father’s hearty laugh and broad speech, for her mother’s kindly bustle. “Phebe, child, do you finish the milking, the dairy maids are at the churns.” For the fresh voices of the younger children singing “Oh Lavendar’s green, dilly, dilly—” and tumbling about the grassy courtyard,