The Secret of the Golden Rain

THE SECRET OF THE GOLDEN RAIN

The incredible life of Pilgrim’s daughter Elizabeth Blossom, ancestress of president Obama

By Chris Houtman

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© 2019 Karakter Uitgevers B.V., Uithoorn, The Netherlands © 2019 Chris Houtman Drawings by John Rabou Background map and photographs: Wikimedia For further information please contact Karakter Uitgevers B.V. – marketing@karakteruitgevers.nl All rights reserved. No part of this text may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

The Secret of the Golden Rain is a thrilling novel for children in the age 12+ based on the life and times of Elizabeth Blossom, a Pilgrim’s daughter who travelled from Leiden in the Netherlands to the promised land. Making her journey on the second Mayflower ship. She is considered to be the ancestress of thousands of Americans amongst whom president Obama

The story starts in New York, during the slave revolt of the 6th of April, 1712. While this tragic event takes place the 13-year-old Prudence FitzRandolph stays overnight with her great-grandmother, the 92-year-old Elizabeth FitzRandolph-Blossom who resides in Woodbridge, New Jersey.

She worries about her great-grandmother, whom she lovingly calls Omama, the old woman has become quite forgetful the last months and Prudence has a secret plan…

Woodbridge, New Jersey, the night of April 6 to April 7, 1712 The snoring was deafening. It was hard to imagine that such a frail woman could produce so much noise. They had gone to bed early, but until now, Prudence hadn’t slept a wink, and not just because of the sounds that escaped from Omama’s half-open mouth. Prudence had been considering an idea that occurred to her once she lay down on the bed. Two weeks ago, at school, she had read the collection of poems The Tenth Muse, Lately Sprung Up in America

by Anne Bradstreet, the first settler who got a book published in the New World. The work had greatly impressed her, not just because she liked the poems, but also because it was written by a female poet. Secretly, it had inspired her to start writing herself. She stared at her great-grandmother, who was snoring away in the dark. There lay the story she wanted to write.

Prudence thought about all the things she knew

of her great-grandmother, things that surely had to be mentioned in the book. People called her Omama or ‘Grandma Betsy’, but her full name was Elizabeth FitzRandolph. Her maiden name was Blossom. She was born ninety-two years ago, in Holland. Prudence calculated that that must have been in 1620, almost a century ago. Betsy had come to America when she was nine, together with her parents, who belonged to a group of extremely religious English ‘Separatists’; who had broken with the official, Anglican, Church of England. Nowadays, they were also called pilgrims.

Grandma Betsy was an exceptional woman, a pioneer, extremely adept at surviving in the toughest conditions. She didn’t have much choice, since she arrived in the New World at a time that there was only wilderness to be found. Her achievements during her long life were impressive. For instance, the house in Woodbridge where they all lived was built

by Grandpa Edward en Grandma Betsy, assisted by all the neighbors around them. Building was a communal activity, and everyone joined in. Not only had Grandma Betsy cut all the boards and rafters to size, but she also proved to be very skilled at thatching.

And showed a knack for cultivating the 37 acres of land that surrounded her house. By now, there were various pastures for the animals, but also an orchard with all kinds of fruit trees, and an impressive vegetable and herb garden.

Because Grandma Betsy possessed a phenomenal knowledge of the crops and medicinal herbs she grew, many locals visited her. Prudence had sometimes tried to find out how and from whom she had learned all these things, but without success.

‘It’s true, Grandma Betsy doesn’t talk about it much,’ her father had explained to her. ‘It has to do with events in the past, concerning the witch trials that took place in Massachusetts. In those days, women were accused for no other reason than just having specific herbs and medicines in their homes.’

Her father had sounded so ominous that Prudence didn’t dare to ask him more.

As for the rest, her great-grandmother was an awesome farmer. She had a nice selection of livestock: 3

about ten turkeys, thirty chickens, a mother-sow with nine piglets, two dairy cows, a dozen sheep, three dairy goats, and scores of ducks and geese.

She could also often be found by the river, where she fished for eel, salmon, lobster, and sturgeon, and caught beavers. Grandma Betsy had always plenty of food to offer.

The only real concern Prudence had, was the forgetfulness of her great-grandma. She had brought this up a few weeks ago, but Grandma Betsy had dismissed her great-granddaughter’s worries with a cheery smile.

‘Do you know what it is, Prudence? When I lived in Leiden, as a child, some older people were said to be selectively deaf. Which actually meant that these old folks only heard what they wanted to hear. Well, it is the same with me, but I’m not deaf, I’m selectively demented. That comes in very handy sometimes, with all the fuss around me.’

* The next day. Before she went to school in her hometown Piscataway, not far from Woodbridge, Prudence encountered a Dutch friend of her great-grandmother, who stopped by and seemed very tense. After school Prudence returned to her great grandmother …

Grandma Betsy was busy working in her kitchen.

She had just taken an enormous amount of onions, carrots, and parsnips out of the cellar; these were the ingredients for hutspot, a Dutch vegetable stew, and one of the favorites of the FitzRandolph family.

In spite of her age, she was still quick and nifty. The parsnips were peeled in no time, and the carrots and onions were cut into small pieces. Prudence knew that Omama had learned how to cook this dish when she was a young girl, in Leiden, in Holland.

She had also noticed that there was a jar of beef stew stored in the cellar; this would go beautifully with the hutspot! The only thing that puzzled her was the 4

amount of food her great-grandmother was cooking. ‘Omama, are we having dinner guests tonight?’

The old woman avoided looking at Prudence’s questioning face and stirred the pot. ‘No, but the Dutch gentleman you saw this morning has asked me to cook some extra food.’

‘How many times in your life have you made this stew?’

‘Oh, my Lord, I really wouldn’t know. But I do remember the first time I ate it…’

‘When was that?’

‘I can’t remember the exact year, but the date was October 3rd. I was still a little girl. Hutspot with brisket and herring with white bread.’

‘What a strange combination.’

Betsy laughed. ‘Yes, you’re right, but this was an old tradition in Leiden. On October 3rd, they always commemorate their liberation of the Spanish siege of their city that went on for months. Can you imagine: six thousand people starved during this ordeal!’

‘And why do they eat these particular dishes?’

‘When the Spaniards finally retreated, a town boy found a kettle with stew in one of their army camps.

And the liberators of the city brought herring and white bread for the starving population. That is where this tradition stems from.’

‘And they celebrate it every year?’

‘Yes, they do.’

‘It looks a bit like Thanksgiving to me. The Pilgrims almost starved during their first winter in Amerika, didn’t they?’

‘That’s right. That is why people say that Thanksgiving is one of the old customs we brought from Leiden.’

‘You say one of the old customs …’

‘Sure.’

‘What else?’

‘The stroopwafels, the syrup wafers that Francis loves so much.’

‘You mean Joe.’ ‘Oh my, do I have them mixed up again?’

‘Francis was your younger brother, wasn’t he?’

‘Yes, he was my sweet little brother.’ Now the old

In the museum East Jersey Olde Towne you can still find examples of houses built in the 17th Century.

Elizabeth must have lived in a similar house to the one shown there.

woman had a dreamy look on her face.

‘Can I ask you something, Omama?’

‘Of course.’

‘Would you let me write your biography?’

‘What’s that?’

‘Your biography…’

‘Where did you learn such fancy words?’ Grandma Betsy laughingly asked.

‘From Father. I discussed it with him this morning. Since I’m staying with you now, I thought: how nice would it be to write down your life story?’

Omama’s eyes wrinkled with pleasure, and she remarked ‘What a little smartass you are! Might this be the real reason you insisted on staying with me?’

Prudence nodded. She couldn’t help laughing, because her old granny had looked right through her.

‘Do you mind terribly?’

‘No…’ Grandma Betsy put the gigantic pot with parsnips, onions and carrots on the burning woodstove. ‘But I want to think about it first.’

‘So that’s not a straight out ‘no’.’ Prudence breathed a sigh of relief and figured that she had overcome the first obstacle, at least.

Omama walked to the cellar and brought back the beef stew. ‘Although… if I decide to go along with your plan, I have some conditions,’ she said sternly, while she put the delicious pulled beef on the stove as well.

‘Such as? ’ ‘Do you want the real story?’

‘Yes, of course,’ Prudence reacted.

‘I will only tell you that if you solemnly pledge not to let others read it while I’m still alive.’

This shocked Prudence and immediately all sorts 5

of dark thoughts swirled through her head, now her great-grandmother had suddenly brought up death.

It made her uneasy and restless; she absolutely didn’t want to think about it.

Grandma Betsy guessed her mind. ‘Honey, I’m ancient. At my age, you’re no longer afraid of dying, but don’t worry…’ – she chuckled while embracing and cuddling Prudence – ‘… I don’t intend to die any time soon.’

‘Pfft…’

‘Just let me explain why I don’t want anyone to read my story while I’m still alive.’

Prudence remained silent and nodded in awe.

‘I have seen and lived through a lot of terrible things in my life. And I have made a few mistakes myself, too: I’ve hurt people, or made them suffer …’

‘I can understand that you would prefer not to talk about that…’ ‘… but if I tell you my life story, I want to be completely honest and open about it. Do you know what it is, dear Pru? I have learned from my mistakes and I would be honored to share these experiences with you. But…. this means I would also have to explain how I came to be so wise and those mistakes are part of that tale.’

‘Do they bother you?’

‘Sometimes… yes’ ‘Would you feel better when you talk about it?’

‘I hope so.’

‘Why?’ Upon this, Grandma Betsy grasped Prudence’s hands. ‘I think the good Lord has let me live this long to give me a chance of making up for my mistakes, as much as possible. And that brings me to my second condition …’

‘Which is?’

Betsy didn’t immediately answer and squinted, as if she were considering something. Prudence held her breath. It took a while, but finally her great-grandmother made up her mind.

‘Actually, there is something you can really help me with.’

Prudence suspiciously pointed at the big stew pot.

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‘Is it something to do with this?’

‘Yes. But don’t be frightened, dear. Listen, I need to tell you something. You may have heard about the slave rebellion in New York, the other night?’

Prudence nodded; she had heard news of this rebellion at school.

‘Right now, they are hunting down a few slaves that are still on the run,’ Grandma Betsy continued.

‘They have already captured more than sixty rebels and sadly many people have died as well. This morning you saw Joris Vanderhoven, who is a good friend of mine. I’ve known his family for over seventy years.’

‘How come?’

‘When I was young, I used to translate a lot for the people in New Plymouth and the Dutch fur traders who passed by us. The Pilgrims lived in Leiden for almost eleven years, but many among them have never wanted to learn Dutch. Since I was born there and often played with the Dutch children, I spoke the language fluently. Joris’ father was also from Leiden and he was one of the fur traders. That’s how I met him.’ Grandma Betsy took a short break and sipped from her water. Then she stirred the pot and checked the stew. ‘But now comes the important part: Joris is a Friend.’

‘A Friend?’

‘Yes, that’s how they call themselves. Although nowadays, they are also called Quakers sometimes.

Their name doesn’t matter, but the main thing is that they believe that slavery is against the will of God and I totally agree.’

‘And why the stew?’ Prudence tentatively asked.

‘Well, last night, Joris has helped three slaves escape from New York.’

‘What?’ Prudence gasped for air.

‘They were about to be captured, but Joris happened to be nearby and has hidden them in his cart.’

‘So, the hutspot is for them?’

‘Yes.’ ‘Do we need to take the food to this mister Vanderhoven?’

‘No.’ ‘Is he coming to pick it up?’

‘Again, no.’ Betsy smiled mysteriously. ‘The refugees are hidden at the back of the barn. A couple of years ago, Joris has built a hidden compartment for me there, behind a fake wall.’

‘A what?’

‘A fake wall, where people can hide. Isn’t it wonderful? You have been in the barn dozens of times.

And you never noticed it! Joris and I have been helping refugee slaves and Indians for years on end.’

Prudence was red in the face, and quite shocked.

‘Isn’t that terribly dangerous?’

‘Of course,’ grinned Betsy. ‘That is why the shelter is at my place. I am not a Quaker, so they won’t suspect me, while they always think twice when there is a Quaker involved. I’m just a simple, old, forgetful woman. Selectively demented, you remember?’

‘What will happen if they find out you have helped slaves escape and have harbored them?’

‘We would probably go to prison,’ answered Grandma Betsy, still smiling. ‘But now I have a question for you, Pru. What is the real crime here? Keeping slaves or helping them become free again?’

Prudence understood Betsy’s meaning and looked outside, towards the barn. It was a strange sensation, to be aware of the refugees who were hidden there.

‘I will explain to you why I have tried to help slaves and Indians for so many years,’ Grandma Betsy continued. ‘It is to do with my life story, the one you want to write down. I think everybody has a right to be free, and slavery should not exist. Everyone should be equal under the law. No matter whether you’re from European descent, or from Africa or the Caribbean, or from here…’

Prudence could hardly take it all in; it was a bit too much. ‘But isn’t it forbidden to help runaway slaves?’

Grandma Betsy shook her head. ‘Have you ever seen what happens to these slaves, if they are captured?’

‘No…’ ‘They are punished in terrible ways, whipped or even worse. Families are torn apart and sold separately. Children may never see their parents again, even if they are only a few years old.’

Still, Prudence frowned a bit.

‘I can see you’re not completely convinced,’ noticed Betsy.

‘Yes, but only because I don’t want you getting into trouble.’

‘They won’t blame me, I’m old. Sometimes, I don’t even know what I’m doing.’ A mysterious smile appeared on her face. ‘I can just see what you are thinking. Yes, I am really confused at times. And yes, I’m starting to forget things. Moreover, this will become worse instead of better, I know that too.

But sometimes, I exaggerate a bit. As long as I’m not completely demented, I will fight for the good cause.

As I said before, I need to make a lot of amends for the things I’ve done wrong, and that is why I am doing this.’

* 7

On Manhattan Island, the slave hunt was still in full swing. Joris Vanderhoven just returned from his brother Jan’s brewery, on Magazine Street, just outside town. Everywhere he looked, he saw heavily armed militiaman with dogs searching the swamps and woods. Yesterday, Joris had managed to save three slaves, but today that would be impossible. You could sense a grim atmosphere in the city and at the surrounding plantations and farms. Since this morning Africans and Indians were forbidden to walk the streets in groups larger than two at a time. Suspicion and distrust ruled the town. Slaves who lingered or who didn’t follow orders at once, were immediately beaten, even the little black children. It seemed as if all the white people wanted to punish anyone who had a different skin color for the events that had taken place the previous night.

Joris Vanderhoven drove into town and to the slave market, down Wall Street. There they were publicly selling the family of one of the rebellious slaves who had died the previous night. It was heartbreaking to see how the members of the family were sold separately. Vanderhoven felt his blood run cold when he saw that a girl, who was barely ten years old, was forced from the arms of her mother and tied to the back of a cart by a white brute.

* Later that day Prudence started interviewing her great-grandmother, writing the story down in a special notebook.

‘What did your house in Leiden look like?’

It was tiny. We had a front room where the dining table stood and a cupboard with the bible laying on top. There was also a box bed where my parents slept. We had a back room with an open fire, where my mother cooked. In that space there were also box beds for the children; I had to share mine with Francis.

The house was part of an inner courtyard called The Green Gate, where the other Separatists had their houses 8

as well, tightly packed together. Not only did we live there, but many women also worked at home, for the cloth industry. It was fun playing in the courtyard in our spare time, but I preferred to venture out and wander through the city. In front of the entrance to The Green Gate stood a freestanding tower with beautiful bronze bells, and to the right was St. Peters Church. If you turned left and walked out of the Bell Alley, the Kloksteeg, you arrived at the University building on the Rapenburg. Behind it was the place I loved most in all the city of Leiden: the Hortus Botanicus, the University botanical garden. I passed it every night after work. Sometimes the gardeners let me help them water the plants, or pull weeds and rake the beds.

Prudence put down her quill and turned over the page. She smoothed out the new blank page, so she could continue writing. Before she posed the next question, she checked if the tip of the quill was still sharp enough.

‘Is that where your love of gardening started?’

‘Yes.’ Grandma’s face shone with pleasure. ‘Just imagine: I lived in a city of stone, with hardly any greenery. It was truly a blessing to live so close to the Hortus. Come here a second…’

She got up and walked to the porch, where it was getting dusky. ‘Do you see that tree?’ Betsy pointed at the Golden Rain, the laburnum that stood at the back of the garden, behind a wooden fence. ‘That tree is from Leiden.’

‘What?’

‘Just before we left for America, the boss of the Hortus, professor Adolphus Vorstius, gave me a big bag full of plant seeds, by way of thanking me for helping out every once in a while. One of the seeds turned into this golden shower.’

‘Unbelievable!’

‘It was one of the prettiest trees in the Hortus, although it’s actually not a tree, but a large shrub. It stood right by the entrance gate. I know that they had planted the tree there about nineteen years before I was born, so it was quite old when I got its seeds. When we arrived in New Plymouth, I planted my own Golden Rain child and fortunately, it caught on.’

‘But that must be a different tree from this one, or am I mistaken?’ Grandma smiled. ‘Yes and no. This is a cutting of the New Plymouth tree. A grandchild of the Golden Rain in Leiden, so to speak.’

‘It is magnificent,’ Prudence agreed. ‘I know how beautiful it blooms in spring!’

‘Yes indeed.’ Betsy FitzRandolph walked off the porch and ambled over to her favorite tree. She halted before the fence. ‘This tree is the only tangible thing that remains of my childhood. Of course, it is beautiful, but it can be treacherous too. That is its secret: beautiful but dangerous.’

‘Oh, why?’

‘It is poisonous. Especially the seeds. You won’t die right away, but the seeds can make you pretty ill.

That is why it is fenced in. I don’t want the animals to eat parts of the tree by accident.’

‘Did you already know it was poisonous when you lived in Leiden?’

‘Oh yes. The Hortus Botanicus was primarily kept as an herb garden for the medical students. So they wanted to know exactly which plants or trees were harmful or not, or could be used to make medicine.’

‘And the Golden Rain is just poisonous, or does it also cure any diseases?’

‘No, officially, it does not cure anything. But it has often helped me.’

‘With what?’

‘It mainly helped me cure my homesickness.’

* In the book you will find illustrated historical fragments, in which certain story elements are explained or additional background information is provided. Like the fragment below.

The botanical garden of Leiden, the Hortus Botanicus, is the oldest scientific garden in The Netherlands. It dates back to 1590 and still belongs to Leiden University. In the old days, the garden was managed by the faculty of medicine, because they carried out research in the Hortus regarding the medicinal properties of plants, shrubs, trees, flowers, seeds, roots and tubers. One of the oldest trees in the Hortus Botanicus in Leiden is indeed the Golden Rain. This tree was described in a catalogue of 1601. The tree is still there, more than 400 years old, right beside the entrance gate. Little Elizabeth will surely have seen this tree when she was young …

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A few days later. The effort to help the fugitive slaves escape to Pennsylvania proved to be a problem when the three Africans refused to come along without their relatives, who were still in slavery in New York. So Grandma Betsy, Joris Vanderhove and Prudence travelled to Manhattan, to see if anything could be done to free these enslaved family members. For starters: Prudence and Joris go on a reconnaissance mission…

From Manhattan, they had crossed the East River to Long Island, in a rowing boat. There they proceeded in the direction of the village of Brooklyn, which Joris Vanderhoven still called ‘Breukelen’, which was its old Dutch name. South of this village lay the Flatlands.

The house where they wanted to look around was a typical Dutch home, similar to those in New Jersey, an area that also once used to be a part of New Netherland. Behind the green-and-white painted main building, there was a workshop where wooden drums and barrels were made. Behind the workshop lay the orchard, with its apples, pears, and plum trees. Not only the fruit, but also the wood was used, for the cooperage, run by a certain Anthony Wanshaer.

Furthermore, there was a stretch of woodland with curved oak trees, used for shipbuilding. And indeed, hidden in the corner near an inlet by the golden yellow sands of Bergen Beach, were the slave huts.

Very close to the quay where the longboats would dock to take on board their cargo, and transport it to the larger ships that were anchored in deeper water.

Prudence looked at Joris Vanderhoven and with a mysterious expression on her face, she pointed at the enormous amount of wooden barrels that were piled up along the quay.

‘I think I know what you mean,’ he said, just as cryptic.

‘We only need four of those large barrels,’ she grinned.

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Joris grasped her plan right away. ‘Yes, but to divert Anthony Wanshaer’s attention we need to order many more barrels.’

They decided to look around a while longer. They didn’t want to be conspicuous by looking too closely at the paltry slave quarters, so Joris talked to one of the overseers and feigned to be interested in the cooperage, and said he wanted to buy thirty large barrels tomorrow. In the meantime, Prudence had a casual chat with one of Solomon Peters’ daughters, who was pulling weeds in the orchard.

‘Hi,’ said Prudence, approaching the girl cautiously. The slave barely reacted and kept on weeding, her eyes downcast.

‘I bring news of your father. He is safe.’

Solomon’s daughter stopped working for a very brief instant, but when she saw a big, fat man in the distance join the overseer and Joris, she quickly carried on with her work.

‘Is that Anthony Wanshaer, your master?’ asked Prudence.

The reply was a fearful nod.

‘Tomorrow, we’re going to try to get you out of here,’ she whispered. ‘Do you see that man over there? With the big brown hat?’ Prudence pointed out Joris Vanderhoven, who had begun bargaining with Anthony Wanshaer. They still bargained in the old-fashioned Dutch way, with hand slaps. ‘If you see the man with the hat here tomorrow, could you try to hang out somewhere near the beach, with your mother, sister, and your little brother?’

The slave girl understood the importance of the question and nodded, a hopeful gleam in her eyes.

Prudence grabbed her hand for a second. ‘We will make sure you will join Solomon again by tomorrow evening.’

In the book two storylines are intertwined. One is the tale of the slave rebellion in 1712 and how the old Betsy and Prudence are trying to help the fugitive slaves and their families.

The second story consists of the memories of Grandma Betsy, starting in Leiden up to her present situation.

Below an excerpt of her account of the voyage to the New World, in 1629, on board of the Mayflower II, the second ship with that name.

Elizabeth was nine when she made this incredible journey to New Plymouth in the Massachusetts Bay Colony…

I was very glad to have befriended Captain Pierce. He made my life on board much more pleasant. In the first place because he let me do all sorts of nice chores, such as taking care of the animals, or passing around pitchers of fresh water, which gave me the opportunity to get to know everyone and chat with other passengers. He also let me enter the stern, where he shared his seafaring secrets. He showed me all kinds of land and sea maps he needed, as well as the complicated equipment he used to measure the speed of our ship, or the depth of the ocean, or the compass with which he maintained the right course.

Sailing as part of a convoy offered some distraction too.

It helped to prevent unpleasant thoughts from creeping into our minds, such as the idea of being all alone on that enormous stretch of water for two months. Every now and then, we encountered another ship that wasn’t part of our fleet. Captain Pierce studied those ships through his binoculars from afar, and usually he could tell at a glance under which flag they sailed. Many were Dutch, but also a fair amount came from France, Spain or Portugal. After six weeks at sea, there was a sudden panic when we appeared to be chased by a ship that had no flag. ‘You see, that’s why we sail with six vessels,’ Captain Pierce explained. ‘I don’t know how much artillery they have on board, but we can sail in a formation that enables us to shoot at pirates with seventy-nine canons! If you would have sailed these waters alone, you would have been in a lot of trouble right now, for sure.’

The pirate followed us for about a day and a half, but then he gave up and chose a different course. Captain Pierce saw him disappear behind the horizon, with a giant smile on his face.

Did I like it on board of the Mayflower II? Yes and no.

Sometimes we were accompanied by a pod of dolphins, who loved swimming along the prow of the ship, which was great. The nearer we got to America, the more whales we spotted, and sometimes they jumped high out of the water, just like dolphins. When it was dark, you could occasionally see flying fish that landed on deck, because they jumped towards our oil lamps. Also, there was a strange, yellow-green glow to be seen in the water, now and then.

Captain Pierce explained to me that this was plankton, a kind of goo that was slurped up by the biggest whales, as if they were swimming through their own soup. However, what I loved most was the starry night. I could sit and watch it for hours, especially if one of the seamen joined me and told me about the path of the stars across the sky, and taught me their names, and how you could use them to determine the correct course.

Despite all this, the journey had its difficult moments as well, and a lot of them. After about four weeks, we ended up in a dreadful storm, which the Mayflower II barely survived, due to the sky-high waves. Everything on board was drenched, because the water gushed from the upper deck to the lower quarters of the ship. Even though all things were tightly fastened, some of the crates broke loose and started moving back and forth. One of our milk goats broke her leg when she was smashed against the ship’s hull by a sudden wave, and we had to put her down. I at that point completely understood what Captain Pierce meant when he told me about the constantly praying Separatists.

While everyone on board did their utmost best to save as much as possible from this raging storm by tying down the cargo, getting rid of the water on the lower decks, comforting the animals in steerage, and keeping the oil lamps lit, my father, as church elder, had summoned the other members of our congregation on one of the lowest decks. There they begged God to grant them a safe passage.

Another thing that I found difficult was the continuous rhythm of life on board: everything went on all the time, day and night. There were ongoing guard duties, every 11

four hours. The attention of the crew could not waver for a second, since there always was some sail that flapped in the wind, a rope that came loose and could hit you hard, or a spool lying about somewhere. There was a constant shouting of commands and pounding of waves, and sometimes, strange noises were heard from the bottom of the ocean. All this was complemented by the brawling of the crew, drunk or otherwise. There were hardly any calm or silent moments and this could drive you mad, although the pious look on my father’s face was the thing that got on my nerves the most. He saw the hand of the Lord in everything that took place. If anything good happened, we had earned a heavenly blessing; if anything bad occurred, it was the Lord’s punishment. He managed to make it look as if everything that happened on board could be traced back to some quote in the Bible. The real blessing though was the fact that during our journey on our ship the Mayflower II, nobody died of disease. After a few weeks, some of us had struggled with scurvy, but professor Vorstius had given my mother a bag of lemons from the Hortus and we squeezed them to drink as much juice as possible. His advice to use the lemons was a lifesaver. After we arrived in America, I heard that the passengers of the other ships in our convoy had had many problems with scurvy, and quite a few people had lost teeth and molars due to this terrible disease.

Nevertheless, one of the people in our convoy died: it was no other than the son of preacher Higginson on the Talbot, the flagship. Nobody knew exactly what happened, but two weeks before there was land in sight, the boy was seized by high fever and he died within a day. On the Mayflower II, we could see from a distance how his body found a sea man’s grave into the waves, accompanied by the sound of his fellow passengers singing psalms that slowly faded out over the ocean.

In spite of all the difficulties, I looked forward to my daily chat with Captain Pierce. I don’t know why, but he always found time to come and chat with me, no matter how busy he was. Which was great, since he encouraged me to ask as many questions as possible.

June 22, 1629 was the day everything changed. We had our first sighting of land, and after almost two months at sea 12

this was an unforgettable experience. We sailed along the shore, heading north, and I spent the whole day watching the ever-changing coastline with tears in my eyes. It looked more beautiful by the minute. I saw magnificent beaches, sky-high cliffs, and golden yellow dune crests that glittered in the sunshine. We sailed past dozens of small islands, coves, bays, estuaries, forests, and hills. The air I breathed was wonderful; it smelled of the sea, but sometimes I also scented a bit of the forests we passed by. The surf was teaming with life: more dolphins, humpback whales, orcas, seals, and all sorts of birds I had never seen before, such as majestic bald eagles, and happily chattering pelicans. In my mind, I had consistently loathed the New World, but now I had to admit that this land presented itself in a very attractive way. Captain Pierce stood next to me. ‘Enchanting, isn’t it?’

‘Oh yes, beautiful.’ There was no way of denying this.

‘And this is just the very edge of the country. We have no idea how big this New World actually is. There are some hunters who claim to have trekked several hundred miles into Indian territory, but I doubt it. Their stories just don’t ring true. They talk about endless grasslands with hundreds of thousands of buffaloes.’

‘Buffaloes?’

‘They also call them bison; it’s a kind of wild cows that exists here in America. They are huge and terribly strong.

The Indians hunt them, not only for their meat, but also for the hides and bones, which they use for all sorts of things.’

‘At least the coast is charming,’ I said.

‘It will only get more beautiful, I promise you. In two days, we will arrive at the Salem Bay, which is where we go ashore.’

‘Is that far from New Plymouth?’

‘About sixty miles, but don’t worry; the Massachusetts Bay Company has a couple of sailing boats ready for you in Salem. You won’t have to walk, they will take you and all your luggage to New Plymouth. It will be a big day, when you all arrive there. At last, you will be reunited with the other Separatists. What a special reunion!’

I had a funny feeling in my stomach, and Captain Pierce noticed at once that something was bothering me. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘You said, “reunited” …’

‘Yes, what’s wrong with that?’

‘I was born in 1620, one month after this first group of Separatists left Leiden. My parents know them from earlier times, but to me, they are all strangers …’

* Grandmother Betsy continues her memories by telling about the first difficult months in New Plymouth during which they stayed with other members of the congregation and had no privacy, which led to some tensions. But then matters changed for the better. The name Isaac de Forest that she mentions here below refers to a friend with whom she spent a lot of time in the Dutch city of Leiden.

was clearly an Indian trail. It had snowed that morning, so I could tell someone had passed there, because I saw footprints, probably members of the Wampanoag tribe, who lived nearby. Although we were at peace with them, we were warned never to trust our Indian neighbors. All of a sudden, I was scared. How could I have been so stupid, to skate so far into Wampanoag territory! I had enjoyed my outing so much that I didn’t notice how far I had gone.

Here, the Wampanoag ruled. Also, if these footprints were as fresh as they looked, the Indians could not be far away.

I decided to turn back and go home, but was startled to see three warriors on the other side of the river. What should I do? I had seen Indians in New Plymouth sometimes, when they came into town to sell their pelts, but I never had actually met them and didn’t speak their language. I got really scared when the biggest Indian came out on the ice and slid towards me. He pointed at the gliders on my feet and seemed very interested in them.

When fall approached, my parents finally became serious about building our own home. To be honest: the people in our village didn’t disappoint me when it came to helping us. The other Separatists had always been rather selfish regarding matters of food and drink, but when the actual building started, they all pitched in. The entire community came to help and it was a miracle to see our first very own home arise in no time at all. Granted, it was only a two-room house and we spent months after that adding a chimney, plugging all the draft holes and sealing all the cracks, but in the end, we were able to live in a reasonably warm house, just in time for winter. And what a winter it was! Much more severe and colder than in Holland. Here, there was snow for months on end and the lakes and rivers were frozen solid. I loved the ice the most. In Leiden, Isaac de Forest had taught me how to skate, on gliders made from bovine bones. Although the whole English community thought I had gone mad, I loved skating on the frozen waters. Since there was plenty of ice in Amerika, I put on my skates and toured over the Eel River that flows out into the Atlantic Ocean nearby New Plymouth. I had promised my parents to remain on the wider part of the river, but when I saw that even the rapids near Richard Warren’s house were frozen, I couldn’t resist skating a bit further.

After a couple of miles, I saw a hill to my left, with what 13

‘What are those?’ he asked in broken English. I was relieved to hear him speak English; at least I could communicate with him. He was a giant of a man. It was difficult to guess his age, but he was not very old. He wore buckskin trousers, a fur-lined shirt, and a coat of bearskin. On his belt, he wore an axe and a big dagger. He pointed at my skates again.

‘What are those? A new English invention’ ‘No, not at all. They are from Holland. They call them ‘glissen’. You can glide over the ice and go very fast.’

‘Glissen?’ he repeated, trying to imitate the typical Dutch pronunciation of the g. ‘And has Holland something to do with New Amsterdam?’

‘Yes!’ I was relieved to see how friendly this warrior was, in spite of his impressive appearance. ‘I am Betsy,’ I added. ‘What is your name’ The other two Wampanoag on the river bank burst out in laughter when they heard my question. I had no idea what was so funny and felt somewhat shamefaced.

‘I am Massasoit.’

Upon that, I was truly embarrassed! The man standing in front of me was none other than the great Massasoit, the legendary sachem of the Wampanoag confederation, consisting of various tribes. Here I was, talking to what was probably the most influential Indian in the whole of North America! I had heard all sorts of stories about him, but there was one thing I didn’t understand.

‘You speak English…’

‘Shhh… don’t tell anyone…’ he laughed.

I tried to remember the things I knew about Massasoit.

Thanks to him, the Separatists had survived their first winter in 1620. Out of gratitude, our people had invited the Wampanoag to take part in their Thanksgiving celebration, the next year. Later on tension between the settlers and the Indians arose because of the dealings of the Indian interpreter Squanto, who lived with the whites.

From the stories of William Bradford, I understood that in the beginning, Squanto was the official spokesman of the Wampanoag, because Massasoit didn’t speak English.

However, apparently things had changed.

‘After nine years, I have learned to speak your language a bit,’ the sachem told me, still looking at my gliders. ‘Although, when we have a powwow with your people, it is better to use an interpreter to speak for us. This will pre14

vent us from understanding things the wrong way, in case I don’t understand what is said. Or the other way round, in case your people don’t understand what I want to say in my rusty English. In the old days, Squanto used to be our interpreter, but now it is Samoset. And we also have a few youths who are learning your language.’

He dropped to his knees and took a closer look at my gliders. ‘Buffalo bone?’ he asked, while he studied the way the sharpened bones were tied to the loose, wooden sole under my shoes.

‘No, cows’ ribs.’

‘And with this you can easily glide over the ice? Without falling?’ he asked me, but didn’t really believe it.

‘Yes, sure.’

‘Show me…’

His request was not just a friendly question; it sounded a bit like a command as well. Anyhow, the tone was clear: contradiction would not be tolerated.

‘Right now?’

‘Yes, please.’

I nodded and took off. The men watching made me nervous and I didn’t skate as fluently as I could, but I didn’t fall.

‘Come on!’ Massasoit called out to his two companions.

‘I want to see if you are just as fast as she is.’

‘Do you want a contest?’ I asked, astonished.

‘Yes. All you white people are crazy, but sometimes you have some smart ideas. Maybe your glissen are smart too!’

He grinned when he again tried to pronounce the hard ‘g’ in the Dutch word for gliders. He leaned over to me and in a confidential tone, he said: ‘I was happy to learn English, but this Dutch of yours… this language hurts my throat, I don’t feel like learning it.’

We the held a short distance skating contest, which I won with flying colors, thanks to my gliders, the pair Isaac de Forest had once made me. The two warriors had fallen a few times, while I stayed on my feet without any effort.

‘Can I try them?’ Massasoit asked, and he pointed at my gliders. I looked at his feet, wrapped up in thick leather moccasins, filled with moss, because of the cold. I explained to him that he needed wooden soles to fasten the gliders on. ‘Otherwise you won’t be able to tie the gliders under your feet. You are welcome to borrow mine, but I’m afraid they are far too small.’

I put my left foot next to his right foot; mine was at least two inches smaller. Massasoit understood what I was saying and didn’t insist any further. Then he asked me where I was heading.

‘Nowhere. I was just skating along a bit, for fun.’

‘Oh? So you didn’t come here to make a sacrifice?’

‘Sacrifice?’ My heart skipped a beat, what was he talking about? I had heard stories about Indian tribes that made human sacrifices, but he didn’t seem to be such a person to me.

‘Follow me, I’ll show you.’

He led me to the riverbank. I hesitated for a moment, but the warriors left me no choice, I had to follow them. I skated to the side, untied my gliders and put them in the bag on my shoulders. We walked up the path I had previously seen, up to a majestic forest of giant oak trees. Eventually, we reached a rock that protruded from the ground.

Other Indians were busy with a kind of sacrificial ceremony, offering things to this giant stone that apparently had some sort of magical power.

‘Look, we are not alone.’ Massasoit’s fellow tribesmen retreated a few steps, to give their leader some space.

‘This is Sacrifice Rock. This stone harbors the power of Manitou Asseinah. Our people often come here to make sacrifices before they go on a trip. If all goes well, the spirit of Manitou will accompany and protect you.’ I looked at the offerings that were left by the rock. The most conspicuous gift to Manitou was a bead necklace, but there was also a feather headdress, a leather herb pouch, an amulet, a dish of dried fruit, a beautiful, shiny pink stone, a doll made of willow branches, and a beautifully woven piece of cloth.

‘Do you have something you could offer?’ Massasoit asked.

For an instant, I thought he was joking, but I was wrong, he was dead serious. Quickly, I thought about the things I had brought with me. Could I miss any of them? Not my fur hat, for sure, since it was freezing cold. My mittens? No, for the same reason. I had a leather water pouch, but my father would kill me if I ever give it away, since he had made it himself. There were no clothes I could leave behind, and the bag on my back contained some spare straps for my gliders, and a chunk of bread with a thick slice of ham … but no, I had already eaten the bread when I took a short break, after passing Richard Warren’s house.

‘I would like to see you get home safely, Betsy Gliswind.’

Once again, he pronounced the ‘g’ as hard as he could.

‘That is how we will call you from now on. On gliders, fast as the wind. Are you very attached to them?

‘To my gliders? Yes, a very good friend made them for me.’

‘So they are precious to you?’

‘Yes, very’.

‘Fine, so they will make a nice offering for Manitou.’

‘What do you mean?’ I panicked; I couldn’t believe that he wanted me to give away my gliders. ‘I will need my gliders to go back home,’ I mumbled.

He waved aside my objections and told me that Manitou would make sure that I got home safely. ‘That is why you are making this sacrifice…’

Meanwhile, all the other Indians had surrounded us and stared at me with curious eyes. There was no way out, so I just went along with it. During one of our many deep conversations on board, Captain Pierce had told me this: ‘In the New World, you will sometimes do things that go against your intuition or rational mind. You must be prepared to take risks and improvise, because at times, there is simply nobody around to help you. If your canoe has a leak, you must be able to repair it yourself.

You will taste food you have never eaten before, and see unbelievable landscapes. But the most important thing is: there will be times that you have to dare trust complete strangers.’

Was this such a situation? Could I trust these Wampanoag Indians? And why did Massasoit insist I should sacrifice my gliders to his god? It was pointless to keep wondering about it. Captain Pierce had also told me to be decisive, since there was no room for doubt in the New World. ‘If you are face-to-face with a hungry black bear, you should be certain about what to do. Doubt can be deadly. So I took my gliders out of my bag with a broad smile, and placed them between the other sacrificial offerings. Massasoit stretched out his hands to the heavens and started praying. Although it was more like a song with low tones, accompanied by slow, rhythmic stamping of feet, muted by the snow. I thought I heard the sachem of the Wampanoag call upon Manitou a few times.

At least, that’s what I could gather from this strange language that I didn’t yet speak at that time.

15

The young Betsy spends the night in the Wampanoag village and is brought back to New Plymouth the following day by Massasoit, his son and a female shaman of the tribe. The Indians are treated with respect by the Pilgrims, until they leave New Plymouth to go home…

The three Wampanoag were barely out of sight, or William Bradford and his military companion Myles Standish showed a totally different attitude. The respect for our Indian neighbors had completely vanished! It appeared that the friendly way in which they had received Massasoit and his warriors was a total deception; they had just put up an act. I saw my father conspire with William Bradford and Myles Standish, and then they summoned me to explain what happened yesterday with the Wampanoag, behaving in a superior manner.

‘First, I want to know what you were thinking when you agreed to take part in a pagan ritual by a rock that is said to harbor the spirit of an Indian idol!’ Bradford snarled. He spoke with the high-pitched voice he often used when he was very angry. ‘We are in the promised land here, Betsy Blossom! This is God’s country; here we live according to the Ten Commandments. And I presume you know the first commandment …’

‘Thou shalt have no other gods before me,’ I answered meekly.

‘Exactly! And that is why we keep our distance from that Indian mumbo jumbo, is that clear?’

I nodded obediently, but apparently, that was not enough.

‘I can’t hear you, Betsy Blossom! Speak up! I asked you if this was clear!’

‘Yes.’ ‘Yes what?’ he roared.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good. I also want to know what you have been whispering about with that old witch.’

‘What do you mean?’

Bradford’s voice went up a couple of notches. ‘You had a long conversation in the herb garden, and then you both disappeared into the drying shed,’ he screeched.

‘Tell me: what were you talking about?’

16

‘Nothing in particular. Oiguina is the healer of the Wampanoag tribe…’

That was all I got to say, because Bradford abruptly cut off my story. ‘That woman is a witch, Betsy! Do you hear me? A witch! She brews suspect potions and ointments, she casts spells and curses, and she consorts with the devil!’

Upon hearing the word ‘devil’, Bradford, my father, and Myles Standish all performed the sign of the cross.

By now, the governor’s voice sounded like a soprano. ‘We will not allow Satan to possess you, Betsy Blossom! Even if I have to drag you away from the gates of hell! So I ask you once more: what did that witch say to you?’

‘Nothing. We were just discussing various plants and their healing properties …’

The three men performed the sign of the cross again, and now I started to find them scary. It was best not to say anything that would frighten them even more.

‘What were you and that witch talking about?’

‘I invited her to come over next summer and look at our garden …’

‘And that is all?’ Bradford asked, his lips pinched together.

‘No, she offered to take me out into the wilderness sometime and show me which plants and tubers are edible or can be used for healing.’ ‘Demonic forces, you mean!’

‘No. I mean actual plants that are used in medical science and there is nothing demonic about them. In fact, at school we have a book on botany and the application of certain herbs for medical purposes.’

‘And you have been reading that book?’ Myles Standish asked.

‘Yes… well… parts of it’. I racked my brain: what could I say without making these men even angrier? My father cursed inwardly. Bradford looked at him, a question in his eyes.

‘What’s the matter, Blossom?’

‘In Leiden, Betsy used to wander about in the Hortus Botanicus a lot too. I think it gave her some weird ideas.’

Bradford nodded. ‘And we are going to put a stop to these erroneous thoughts for once and for all …’ He looked at me sternly. ‘Betsy Blossom, from now on you are forbidden to enter Samuel Fuller’s garden or be involved in the dark side of botany in any way whatsoever.

We also forbid you to have any contact with the Indians, since your behavior has made it clear that you cannot resist the temptations of Satan and all the evil spirits that reign here. No searching for herbs with that Indian witch, is that clear? We don’t want ant demonic plants here!’

I could no longer keep still: ‘Demonic plants?’

‘Betsy, behave!’ my father hissed.

I thought I was going crazy. ‘There are no such things as demonic plants!’ I exclaimed. ‘Genesis 1, verse 11.’

‘Watch it, young lady…’ Bradford growled.

‘Genesis 1, verse 11,’ I repeated. I knew this text by heart. ‘God said: Let the land produce vegetation: seed-bearing plants and trees on the land that bear fruit with seed in it …’

‘I warn you, Betsy Blossom. Do not abuse the word of the Lord!’

As far as I was concerned, Bradford could go to hell; I was not going to be silenced, and I continued quoting the Bible. ‘And it was so. The land produced vegetation: plants bearing seed according to their kinds and trees bearing fruit with seed in it. And God saw that it was good. And there was evening, and there was morning.

The third day…’

Probably I had not only irritated the honorable preacher by quoting the Bible at him, but also by my cheeky look, because the only answer he could think of, was slapping me in my face with his bare hand.

‘Matthew 5, verse 39!’ I yelled, and demonstratively turned my other cheek towards him. I did not care how much it hurt, I was going to show him! He wanted to slap me again, but was stopped by Myles Standish’s strong arm.

‘This is not the way, brother,’ he said, trying to pacify the preacher.

‘Get your daughter out of here, Blossom!’ Bradford ranted, with that weird, high-pitched voice of his. ‘Before I do something I might regret!’

My father grabbed me by the neck and dragged me outside. ‘Straight home with you! Little smartass! It is about time for you to learn how to behave properly!’

‘What is going on here?’ my mother scolded my father when I was literally pushed over the threshold. She saw

my swollen cheek and got angry.

‘Is this your doing, Thomas Blossom?’

‘No, Anne, this slap in the face was Governor Bradford’s work.’

‘Did you let him slap Betsy?’

‘She has brought all this upon herself, woman! And let this be a lesson for you too, because it is all due to your laxity in Leiden, where you let your daughter hang out in that blasted Hortus of Leiden!’

‘What?’

‘I’m eternally grateful that we left that awful city, before we had all lost our true faith,’ my father said, while grabbing his belt.

‘What are you up to?’

‘I am going to teach your daughter how to be a good Christian again!’

‘My daughter? So now she is my daughter all of a sudden?’

‘I’m going to teach her some manners and that’s it.’

‘How? By beating her?’

‘I’m beating her out of love, woman. It’s about time someone chased those inflammatory thoughts from her stubborn head. In this place, God’s word rules!’

‘Don’t you dare, Thomas…’ My mother was icy calm, and my father involuntarily let his hand and belt drop. ‘In this house there will be no beatings…’

‘She insulted our governor with her pagan stories!’

‘I just repeated a Bible text!’ I screeched. The hand with the belt was raised again, but by now my mother had had enough; she placed herself between me and my father, seething with rage.

‘Put that belt away, Thomas Blossom.’

Suddenly I saw my brothers, Thomas and Peter, crouch in the corner, afraid as they were. My mother pulled me to her and addressed my father in a dry, clear tone that left no room for doubt. ‘We followed you to this New World, because everything would be better here …

Beating your own daughter is not part of it …’ ‘Yes, but…’

‘Yes, but what?’

‘She needs to be punished.’ ‘I’m warning you Thomas Blossom… If you beat our Betsy, or either one of the other kids, I will take them back to Europe on the first ship that sails that way …’

17

Back to the 1712 storyline: a jump forward.

The relatives of the three fugitive slaves have been brought over to a prison in New York where they were held until they could be auctioned off. Betsy however brew a potion of Golden rain seeds which made the prisoners sick. A befriended doctor is part of the escape plan. He acts as if the poor slaves have caught a dangerous infectious disease and should be quarantined on a small island, a short distance from New York.

‘This should be enough…’

Doctor Alphonse Greenway was satisfied with the job he had just done. Using large dollops of red, yellow and white paint, he had painted the faces of the imprisoned slaves in Fort Anne, to make them look ‘sicker’.

Before they would leave for Bedloo’s Island, he had some final advice.

‘When we go outside in a minute, you should support each other while walking. You should look dead tired. Don’t worry about the guards and the mass of nosy New Yorkers standing outside the fort. I told everyone to keep their distance, due to the risk of infection. So, there is no way they will see that the spots and sores I have painted on your arms and legs are fake.’

No matter how comforting doctor Greenway’s words sounded, the slaves found it difficult to believe in a happy ending. They looked worried, and the children clung to their mother.

‘Let’s go, shall we?’ Alphonse Greenway put on his plague mask and buttoned up his black robe.

Afterwards, he pushed open the door of the dungeon and looked into the deserted hallways. As soon as the ‘sick’ slaves had been evacuated, the soldiers would fumigate the building, to get rid of the ‘disease’.

‘Only then can you safely use the building again,’ the doctor had explained.

They walked into the courtyard; there was no18

body there. They took a left turn, towards the quay, which they could reach through a side entrance. If everything went well, a sailing vessel would be waiting for them, with all the cargo they needed to take with them: three tents, sufficient blankets, six large baskets of dry wood and enough tinder boxes to start several fires. Furthermore, a dozen or so baskets of food, and several casks of fresh water. While the slaves went aboard the ship, Greenway took his time to watch the crowd of thrill-seekers further along the road. They kept their distance and even backed down a bit, when the doctor took a few steps in their direction. Fine with me, he thought to himself, they are truly afraid. The more scared they are the better chances we have of succeeding.

In the meantime, Grandma Betsy shares the story with Prudence about a visit to New York, that she made as a middle-aged woman, shortly before the

family moved from Massachusetts to New Jersey.

By the way: in those days New York was still called Nieuw Amsterdam, for it was a Dutch colony.

‘In those days, New Amsterdam was by far not as big as New York is now. It was more of an extended village, with the mill and Fort Amsterdam as landmarks, clearly visible for seafarers. It was a special experience, because from the moment I set foot ashore, I felt at home. It was absolutely different from Leiden, but still, all sorts of memories surfaced. I arrived too late in the afternoon to travel on to Shelter Island, so I hoped to find a sleeping pace in the town inn. But where was it? I had come ashore nearby the Schreijers Hoek. From there I walked to the Marcktvelt, right in front of the fort. This would be a logical place for an inn, I thought, so I looked around for a signboard. And then, a stranger came walking towards me …

Oma Betsy interrupted her own story. She went to her pot of posset on the stove and tasted it. ‘Do you believe in coincidence, Prudence?

‘Sometimes, I guess. How come?’

‘Because there on the Marcktvelt in New Amsterdam something happened that I couldn’t have imagined in my wildest dreams …’

‘Betsy Blossom?’

The man’s voice sounded familiar. His beard prevented me from recognizing him at once, but when he smiled, I recognized him immediately. ‘Isaac!’

We embraced each other.

‘Isaac de Forest! What are you doing here in the New World, of all places! Thirty years ago, you told me you never wanted to go back to America!’

He looked at me with a twinkle in his eyes. ‘Thirty years ago, we both said some weird things, I seem to remember. According to me, you even spent two days hiding in our attic, because you didn’t want to go to the New World.’

I had to pinch myself, because I still couldn’t believe meeting my very best childhood friend, here in America.

How different he looked! Not only older, but with a very different style of clothes than I was used to. He looked a bit like a French seigneur, with his lavishly decorated dou-

blet and his flappy cuffs.

‘How did you end up here? How long ago?’

Isaac looked gave me a stern look. ‘I will tell you all this in a minute, but first I want to know why you have never written to me. You promised me!’

‘But I did!’

‘I never heard another word from you, and after you had left Leiden, we had barely any contact with the people in New Plymouth.’

‘I sent a letter with a ship that returned to Holland at the beginning of 1630.’

‘Do you still know its name?’

‘Yes, of course, it was De Meeuwken. Owned by the Amsterdam WIC.’ Isaac frowned and thought for a while. ‘De Meeuwken, are you sure?’

‘Yes.’ ‘Now I understand why I never got your letter, because I think this ship perished off the coast of Nova Scotia…’

Even though it had happened thirty years ago, it was still a shocker, as always when I heard about a shipwreck.

I have never gotten used to it.

‘Well, then that is cleared up. But Betsy, what brings you to New Amsterdam? I thought you lived in New Plymouth?’

‘Not anymore. My husband and I live somewhat more to the east, in a small village called Barnstable.’

‘So you are married?’

‘Yes indeed.’

‘Kids?’

‘Six, by now. And you?’

‘Me too. Not six, but four children. By the way, I live and work here, just around the corner, in the Brouwersstraat. We brew the best beer in New Netherland!’

He took my arm. ‘Come on, let’s go to my place, it’s a lot cozier there than on this windswept market place.’

I melted away: the word ‘gezellig’ was so typically Dutch that the English ‘cozy’ seemed to be the best, yet inadequate translation. Walking the street side by side with Isaac felt as if the clock was set back thirty years.

Isaac’s house was a typical Dutch home: the lower part made of bricks, with a wooden upper part, painted green.

Judging by the impressive size of his premises, Isaac had done well for himself. When I entered the opulent living 19

room a little dog greeted me, wagging its tail and happily jumping up to me. A vase with dried flowers stood on the table and from the kitchen came the most wonderful smells. Candles burned in holders attached to the walls.

In the corner, I saw children’s toys: a few spinning tops, a bullroarer, a leather ball, a hoop, and a box of dibs. In the back room, I could hear children’s voices.

‘Gezellig’.

‘I’m not sure what Sarah, my lovely wife, is cooking right now,’ Isaac said, but by the smell I should say pancakes or waffles. Come on, I’ll introduce you.’

Sarah was a dignified lady and far from common. She wore a wide dress with a beautiful bodice with colorful embroidery and lots of lace. Later on, I heard that she was one of the De Trieux family, one of the first Walloon immigrant families that had made their fortune in New Amsterdam. She didn’t do the cooking herself, but supervised a dark-skinned servant bake the waffles, while two other maids looked after the children.

‘Will you join us for dinner?’ Isaac asked. Before I could answer, Isaac had already drawn his conclusion.

‘Of course you’ll stay for dinner! Where are you sleeping?’

‘I was just looking for an inn when we met.’

‘Nonsense! I will not have you spending the night among drunkards and tramps. We have a bed for you right here.’ He clapped his hands, and one of the maids came running. ‘Is the guest room ready?’

‘Yes, master,’ she answered meekly. Now I saw her up close, I noticed the slave collar around her neck. She spoke with an accent that I couldn’t quite place. I wanted to ask her about it, but didn’t dare to. It felt uncomfortable, and I didn’t want to cloud my joy in meeting Isaac again.

erty in the countryside, and concentrated on his brewery and the construction of new houses in the town.

‘By now, I’ve become a well-respected citizen of New Amsterdam,’ Isaac proudly told me. ‘Something I would never have achieved in Leiden, being a Walloon immigrant. It is indeed the beauty of America that everyone starts out with equal opportunities.’

‘Except if you happen to be an Indian who already lived here, or a slave who was brought in from Africa,’ I argued. ‘In that case, you don’t have much say in the matter, and can only be glad to be treated reasonably well.’

My old friend from Leiden looked at me, a bit drowsy since he not only brewed the beer, but liked to drink it as well. Was he drunk?

‘Nonsense, Blossom!’ he blustered, slurring his words.

‘I treat my slaves very well!’

The cold, bragging tone startled me; this was not the Isaac I remembered. Or was this only because he had drunk too much? Whatever the case, I didn’t want to argue with him in front of his kids.

He got up and grabbed my arm. ‘Come on, Betsy, I want to show you my brewery before it gets too dark.’

I must admit: Isaac had built a fine company. In the workshop stood some enormous cauldrons and hundreds of barrels of beer were stacked up to the ceiling. But it bothered me enormously that all the work was done by slaves. They looked healthy enough and not at all shabby, but they all wore a metal collar, just like the slaves in the house. I hated to see those iron bands. Isaac didn’t even notice how much this upset me: he opened a barrel of beer and served himself another glass.

It turned out to be an informative dinner with wonderful Dutch waffles. I met all the children and Isaac told me how he had sailed to New Amsterdam in 1636, together with his elder brother Henry. They had crossed the ocean in the Rensselaerwijck, a ship named after the filthy rich Kilian van Rensselaer, who owned enormous stretches of land in the backwoods of New Netherland, where he had founded his own colony. Isaac had prospered in the New World, in spite of some setbacks. His brother had died a year after his arrival; together they had run a plantation on Long Island. But a couple of years ago, he had sold all his prop-

Another memory that Grandma Betsy shares with Prudence is the persecution of witches and heretics that took place in Massachusetts by order of the Puritans and the Pilgrims. Especially the hanging of her friend, the Quaker heroine Mary Dyer was something that Betsy could never forget…

20

I heard the tragic news two days after the event, and I was devastated for weeks. On June 1st, at 9.00 a.m., Mary

Dyer was hanged in Boston, in spite of all the protests.

She had gone there a few weeks earlier to protest the ongoing persecution of the Quakers in that city. Because she had broken the rules of her exile by visiting the city, an extensive trial was not deemed necessary. By simply being in Boston, she was already found guilty. Governor Endecott thought this was a good enough reason to sentence her to death.

The terror that was unleashed in those days was not only directed against the Quakers, but also against all others who adhered to other varieties of the Christian faith like Mennonites, Lutherans and Catholics. They all went through very hard times. In the colonies at Massachusetts Bay, New Plymouth and Connecticut, only one religious belief was tolerated, that is to say: The Puritan religion and that of their co-believers, the Pilgrims. Their rules applied to everyone and became more stringent with every passing day.

Grandma Betsy stood up and walked to the cupboard. She opened a drawer with all kinds of papers.

‘I want to show you something.’ She picked up a large sheet of paper and unfolded it. ‘Look, this is an official proclamation that was put-up all-over Massachusetts in 1659.’ Prudence looked at the poster. The text was crystal clear:

Public Announcement Since Christmas is considered to be a form of blasphemy, bearing gifts, extending good wishes, dressing up in fine clothes, and having parties and other satanic activities are FORBIDDEN, under penalty of five shillings.

These announcements drove you mad! Edward and I hoped to be troubled less by them in the middle of nowhere, in a village like Barnstable, but that wasn’t the case. The Puritans emigrated from England in large masses and more were coming in every year. They were in the majority in

each settlement so they could determine the laws and regulations. At the very beginning, when the Pilgrims had just arrived in the New World, they had been compelled to cooperate with other colonists who weren’t religious. The agreement to keep church and government separate dated from those times, but this principle had been abandoned for a while now. The fanatic preachers decided what was or was not permitted, and they became ever more extremist. They labeled anyone who had a different religious belief, a dangerous heretic. Women were at risk of being accused of witchcraft for no reason at all. I remember well that Edward came home one morning, totally upset.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘We are leaving this place.’ He was pale as a ghost.

‘Why?’ ‘There are rumors about you.’

‘About me?’

‘Yes. All of a sudden, certain people find it suspicious that you spend so much time in your herb garden, and that you make up all kinds of healing potions and ointments. Last week, at the Cobb widow’s farm, a dead calf was born. They tried to extract the rennet, but apparently, it was cursed, because when the Hinkleys tried to make cheese out of it, it would not curdle. And they blame you for this. Only because they overheard you tell people on the bleaching field that you have learned so much about all the local plants from an Indian female healer. Now they think she taught you all kinds of Indian curses as well.’

I wanted to argue, but the panicked look in Edward’s eyes stopped me. He was truly scared. We were in danger and not just us: our children too, who often helped me in the garden and to whom I was passing on my knowledge of nature. Nevertheless, I did not intend to let them chase me away.

‘Is there nothing we can do? Maybe there are still some sensible people left who can help us?’

Edward took my hand and led me outside, to the back of our yard, where we had a quiet corner, we often frequented when we wanted to talk without eavesdropping children.

‘It will only become worse,’ said Edward. ‘There will be more colonists coming soon, with their heads full of creepy Puritan thoughts. They look upon our colony as the Promised Land, and nothing will stop them …’

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‘But where do you want to go?’

‘I can only think of one place.’

‘Which is?’

‘New Jersey.’

‘The old New Netherland?’

‘Yes, since it’s more than five years ago that the English have conquered our colony, but there are still a lot of Dutch people living there, who are absolutely not attracted to the puritan or pilgrim faith. They say a lot of Mennonites go there too, because there is religious freedom by law.

Even Quakers, Catholics, and Jews are welcome there.’

‘But we would have to start all over again … In the wilderness over there, there will be no ready-made house waiting for us …’

Edward nodded and started grinning, much to my surprise. ‘You know what, Betsy? Do you still remember how many mistakes we made when we built our first home in Scituate? The way we designed the garden was absolutely wrong and the roof kept leaking, even though I fixed it three times, you know?’

His laugh was infectious and I had to admit he was right.

‘Yes, Edward FitzRandolph. And here in Barnstable too, we made a lot of beginner’s mistakes.’

‘So, we already have that advantage, because now we know how to go about it this time,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Another advantage is that we can get a much bigger plot of land over there than we have here. We’ve got a bunch of kids that will all need their own piece of land in future…’

I gave him a big kiss. ‘All right, you have a deal…’

‘Sold!’ He lifted me and spun me around like a little kid. ‘Let’s head for New Jersey, darling!’

Grandma Betsy’s last memories were so fragmentary, that Prudence composed a narrative in her name, as if the old woman had written it herself, as a kind of farewell to the world…

The mist in my head is ever increasing and I know that my short-term memory is deteriorating. I have fought it for years, but now I am ninety-three years old and have given up the fight where my memory is concerned. I remember a 22

lot more from the old days than from things that have just happened.

When I close my eyes, I see myself walk the streets of Leiden. I can smell the water in the ditches, the Stinksloot and the Huisvuilgracht, and my hands are red again, from scrubbing and wringing the wool in the dirty water of the Voldersgracht, but it still feels like home. Of all my family, I am the only one who has remained a little bit Dutch. My parents were too old to learn the Dutch language properly, and my brothers were too young. Everyone was welcome in Leiden, no matter what their origins were. In that respect, it was a bit like New Amsterdam, or New York, as they now call it. Except for that horrible slave trade, which is a true disgrace! Moreover, the Dutch people took part in it as well!

Sometimes, I think that in a certain sense, Leiden was a New World to many people as well. If you were persecuted in your own country, you could always go there: you were welcomed with open arms. You had the chance of building a new life. I also wonder what has become of the Separatists that stayed behind in Leiden, like the Fletcher family.

How did they fare? Would their children and grandchildren still know that they descend from a group of people that moved to America between 1620 and 1629? Are they still in contact with the Pilgrims in New Plymouth? And what has become of the Hortus? Is the Golden Rain still there? I imagine that Professor Vorstius will have died by now, but maybe one of his children has followed in his footsteps, just as he did himself, by succeeding his father at the university.

It is not just the past where I wander around, sometimes I believe that I also see glimpses of the future. I can see that New York is almost as big as Leiden, and maybe even bigger and at least as international. The other day, I even dreamed of a country where all people have equal rights, exactly as described in the Germantown Quaker Petition of 1688. Could this ever become real? Furthermore, I daydream of my offspring’s future. None of them regard themselves as Pilgrims anymore, and they all have adopted other religions. But at least they had a choice. I wonder how everything will be in a couple of hundred years. Will they all still have red hair and freckles, or will one of them

have married an Indian, or even an African?

Oh, Leiden… Once again, I hear the sounds of my childhood; the ringing of the bells in the tower opposite the Pieterskerk, the market vendors selling their goods, the children playing, the infectious laughter of Isaac de Forest, the beautiful deep voice of professor Vorstius, and my little brother Francis humming a tune while playing hopscotch in the courtyard of De Groene Poort…

Prudence put down the book and went to the kitchen. Her mother was tending to the turkey on the spit. Even Samuel helped prepare the meal. All the FitzRandolph offspring of Grandma Betsy were there, dressed up for a party. In the living room stood a Christmas tree, beautifully decorated by Prudence, with colorful streamers cut out of paper.

She went outside, on to the porch, where Joris Vanderhoven was enjoying his pipe, as always. Some Dutch musician friends of his had joined him.

‘Are you ready?’ Prudence asked. The men nodded. Prudence surveyed the battlefield as if she were some sort of general. In the past few weeks, she had to organize so many things for this special day.

She thought back to the moment she decided to organize this feast, three months ago. While she was writing her great-grandmother’s biography, it had become clear to her that Grandma Betsy’s memory had much deteriorated, but strangely, the memories of her early childhood in Leiden remained present in her head the longest. Her most important memory was the story of Christmas Eve 1628, which she kept repeating. On that day, she didn’t return home at once from her work at the Voldersgracht, but had wandered around the city centre of Leiden. Peering through the windows of other homes, she had at least caught a whiff of the Christmas celebrations, strictly forbidden to the Pilgrims. In one of her lucid moments, she told Pru: ‘There will come a time that I shall celebrate Christmas, Pru! Be it in heaven, but I shall celebrate it! During my whole life, people told me it wasn’t possible, but now I say: yes, we can!’

for Christmas celebrations this year. She had invited some Dutch musicians, who would play Christmas tunes that Grandma Betsy would surely remember from her days as a little girl in Leiden. She was sure about two songs: ‘Nu zijt wellekome’ and ‘Hoe leit dit kindeke’. These songs were sung in every Dutch home.

Pru had also made all kinds of snacks and pastries that would remind her Grandma Betsy of Leiden: waffles with syrup, pancakes, cheese, hutspot stew with pork, and also a turkey, for a touch of American culture.

And then the feast began. Grandma Betsy was still slumbering in her box bed, but when she heard the hurdy-gurdy play ‘Hoe leit dit kindeke’, she woke up and perked up. Her eyes sparkled and her fingers drummed along to the rhythm of the music. Prudence helped her get up. With childlike amazement, Grandma Betsy looked at all the beautifully dressed, festive people; she couldn’t even remember some of their names but they all seemed familiar and they all seemed very sweet, which was the only thing that mattered.

‘Look, Omama! It is Christmas time! Finally!’

All the family members surrounded their ancestress to wish her a merry Christmas and Grandma Betsy glowed with happiness.

Samuel FitzRandolph pulled his daughter aside; he appeared to be a bit anxious. ‘Would she really not know that today is November 15, and that we are actually celebrating Thanksgiving?’

‘Don’t worry Dad. She no longer lives in the present, she hardly any concept of time. But her desire to celebrate Christmas is rooted so very deep in her mind that this feast is real to her and she enjoys it.

Just look at her: she is absolutely radiant! She might even think she has already arrived in Heaven …’

*

And now that moment was there. Prudence had worked extremely hard to get everyone to join them 23

EPILOGUE On November 21, 1713, Betsy FitzRandolph-Blossom passed away. The burial records of the Mennonite church in Piscataway indicate that she was buried next to her beloved Edward, in the little cemetery surrounding the church.

The records are not clear about the exact number of children Betsy and Edward had, but at least nine of them survived to adulthood. Most of them had large families

in their turn, so Grandma Betsy became the ancestress of thousands of descendants, among which president Obama. Through the offspring of her brother Peter, she is also related to both the presidents Bush.

It has taken Betsy FitzRandolph-Blossom many years to detach herself from the Pilgrims’ beliefs; moving to New Jersey has certainly been a great influence in that respect. Among her children and grandchildren, you will find Quakers and Mennonites, but no Pilgrims, that’s for sure…

Although the headstone has gone, Betsy and Edward are buried near this church of Piscataway

For further information please contact Karakter Uitgevers B.V. – marketing@karakteruitgevers.nl

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