Category Archives: The Kingsland Series
Once Elijah has courted Molly on the beach and in Mrs. Warden’s garden, they become engaged and proceed to the next required step: meeting Mother. Formidable for any prospective daughter in law, but as we know, Mother Merrick is opposed to the marriage even before she meets Molly. Advised by Elijah to be tactfully high-handed, Molly practices at Rockford’s mill stream, where the happy couple refreshes themselves on the way to the Merrick homestead.
“Ah!” she exclaimed, with an artificial song in her voice. “I see my dear friends, the Gurgles. Pray, my dear Elijah, let me introduce you.” She led him close to the stream where a rock impeded the flow of water. “Mistress Gurgle, I should like you to meet my friend Captain Merrick. He has recently returned from Timbucktoo. Captain, this is Goodwife Merrily Gurgle.”
He bowed, and the brook babbled on in acknowledgement.
Here’s the mill:
The building standing there now replaces one that burned down some years ago (there were several fires). It’s pretty old, and the Mill Sites Committee operates it on certain days in the summer so that you, too, may purchase authentically ground corn meal and get your teeth ground down at the same time (I read that by the time they were old, colonists didn’t have any teeth left, only roots, since there was mill stone dust mixed in with the meal).
Then, of course, the stream itself:
The above photo is downstream from the mill. The herring “ladders” (openings in the cement steps) facilitate the spring migration of alewives. In the early ‘70’s, when the author’s family lived in Brewster, netting herring was a wonderful “sport” and everyone did it, though herring are too bony to eat. Not so the roe! Out of season it really is a peaceful place with almost no one around. During the run, though, the gulls flock there (as you can see), making a huge racket while they somehow swallow those fish whole (alewives aren’t small). Doesn’t seem fair, somehow, that these poor anphibs full of eggs have to jump up waterfalls three and four times their height – some even more – and dodge the gulls and nets at the same time. C’est la vie. Not all of them make it, by any stretch of the imagination, but enough have always done so that the supply has been kept going from ancient times until now, when the numbers have suddenly dropped.
The newly-hatched alewives produced in one summer don’t return for five years. No one knows where they go to grow up, but five years after they’ve left, they’re back sometime in March. Each herring run is revisited by the fish that hatched there (rather than some other run) and the New England coastline sported countless streams to the sea, fed by ponds large enough to permit spawning. Most likely it isn’t necessary to remind anyone that it was these self-same alewives that Squanto showed the Pilgrims how to use for fertilizer. And once they were dried, their bones became small enough that they could be consumed, like jerky. And then, as mentioned before, there was the roe, pan-fried in butter and seasoned just so. I think it’s still legal to take herring in season, and it would be worth going down there next spring, just for a tiny taste of roe.
Chapter two of This is the House introduces us to Elijah, brought up on a neighbor’s farm after his father was lost at sea and his mother had more children at home than she could feed. In this chapter we learn that to be the master of a brig was the dream of every boy. The alternative was farming – a back-breaking job done almost entirely by hand. Do you remember in Cold Mountain, when the girls were plowing the field? One of them took the place of the horse, dragging the plow, the other steering and keeping the blade in a straight line. If you didn’t have a horse, that’s what you would have to do. Fortunately for Elijah, Farmer Crosby did have a horse – which eventually dragged the injured boy home on a sledge.
And, let’s not forget the modern day sledge:
Of course, you could be a fisherman. There was a cash market for fish, but the war had ruined the fleet, the boats of which had been pulled out of the water for the duration. Besides, Cape Cod’s North Shore boys weren’t interested in fishing; they had their eyes on Boston, right across the bay:
Previous to the revolution, mariners sailed for the Crown, on ships that belonged to the king. New ones had to be built, but this was not a problem; the colonies had built ships from the get-go, there being lots of timber around.
Brigs were about 100’ long, shaped like a bathtub, and had carried the world’s commerce up to then. They had two masts (that’s how I recognize them) and a lot of room for trading goods. Mastering one blows my mind – but they went everywhere (Captain Warden traded on the west coast, so obviously he sailed around the horn). I “made” one as a display item when I’d be selling copies of This is the House at bookstores. My camera work is usually blurry because I use my cell phone and unless I have a place to prop my arms, that’s the best I can do.
Having ascertained in the last blog that Elizabeth Warden did have a two-chimney house such that Molly knew all about them, now we are at the point of being able to establish that yes, Elijah did go to district school #3, and the Warden’s had sent John there too, so that he’d have the “common touch” and, living in Yarmouth, were in a position to do so. Remembering that the eastern reaches of Yarmouth, in the early days, overlapped the western boundaries of Harwich before Harwich was established, and considering that Rockford has been created and lies in between them, it’s perfectly plausible that John could walk east to get to school and Elijah would walk west, and they’d meet. (Dennis didn’t exist then. It was still part of Yarmouth, and for all I know, the Wardens lived where Dennis is today. Here’s the map, in case you need to be reminded). So presto! It is accomplished. It’s perfectly plausible that John and Elijah would meet at school.
And important, because Elijah’s friendship with the Wardens was the occasion for his meeting Molly in the first place.
Now that we’ve figured out how the Wardens came to be in Yarmouth, and have decided they did live in a house with double chimneys, giving Molly a good idea of the kind of house she wanted, we might ask: how did this kind of building make a new life-style possible? Two story houses had been built for years, of course, even on Cape Cod, They sported a single centered chimney like the one on the Yarmouth Inn.
The central chimney provided plenty of warmth, since the open hearth was the site of heat, cooking, and hot water. Yet, if you’ve ever done any winter camping, you know that the campfire will keep only one side of you warm at a time. You have to keep turning, like a turkey on a spit. Half of you is too warm and half of you is too cold. At home, or at the Inn, in wintertime you were a turkey. And if you slept upstairs, which you would certainly do if you were staying at the Inn, there’d be no heat at all — only what came up from below through the floorboards, or emanated from the body of the person in bed with you, whom you might — or might not know.
Now, with a chimney at either end, the keeping room, at back of the house, would have two open hearths instead of one. That’s got to be easier on the hired help! Since a flue can serve more than one fireplace, one of the double chimneys could also be used by a hearth in the front room adjacent to it, perhaps the parlor. The other keeping room chimney can share its flue with its adjacent front room – perhaps the dining room. Both the parlor and the diningroom could be heated at will, of course – but that’s not all. The dining room and the parlor were separated by the stairs going up, and depending on where the stairs started, there could be plenty of space for a decent entry – a vestibule, which could hold quite a few people all by itself.
This beautiful staircase may be found at the Candleberry Inn, in Brewster MA. The Innkeepers, Charlotte and Stuart Phyfe, opened their home to a walking tour of Molly’s World in 2012, because their house lies on the site of a family mentioned in This is the House. While we were there, I saw this lovely staircase and knew it was just the one I envisioned for Molly’s house. She used it as an extra room when the Merricks were entertaining, and it is here (well, not HERE, but in a setting much like it) that Isaac Warden enters her life again. And, yes, the Candleberry Inn is a two chimney house:
Upstairs, the two chimneys also carried flues for all the bedrooms. Each could be separately heated at will. While the New Englander of old wouldn’t have wasted fuel heating a room he or she wasn’t going to be awake to enjoy, the Wardens entertained guests from all over the seaboard, and had servants. These could lay a fire ready for use and carry away the ashes, so over-night guests could use their assigned room as they wished, maybe linger to write letters or keep a journal up to date, even in winter. They’d want warmth, and due to the new style, they’d get it.
And so a new style of living was possible, too, and Elizabeth and Abel Warden, though Plain people, could provide a gathering place not only for the Quaker community of Yarmouth but also for out-of-town merchant visitors, relatives from Philadelphia, and, as we know, family friends like Elijah Merrick, stopping by when he came home from sea.
By page 10 of This is the House, the mother of my main female character enters Barnstable as a “housekeeper” to a man returning from the war. Which brings us to Sandwich, through which they must have passed on the way. The people who settled Sandwich were an interesting group, worthy of an historical digression, and rather than move directly on to further discussion of This is the House, I’m diverting right now to the earlier days of the little Pilgrim foothold in Plymouth and its decision to expand its “plantation”.
Before I start, let me answer the obvious question: you are telling us about Sandwich because….?
Because of Elizabeth Warden, Molly’s mistress and mentor, a lovely woman whom all readers I have spoken with love and admire. A Quaker. I refer to her Quaker faith quite often, and it’s only natural (I think) to wonder how this sect came to be in Yarmouth, since in the days these towns were founded, Plain people were very much discriminated against. It started with the founding of Sandwich.
The primary reference for the history of Cape Cod is a tome compiled by Simeon Deyo, and in it we learn that early on, Sandwich was having a lot of trouble with its church. In fact, one of the first ministers left and the pulpit was vacant for a year or two. This was definitely not OK. The Plymouth Court seems to have remonstrated about this situation, but no one seemed to be in a hurry to do much about it. The other early towns were nothing like this. Everyone knew that a town had to have a church, the membership of which would run the place. Who, pray tell, was running Sandwich?
We must back up. Boston was settled by Puritans in 1630. Led by John Winthrop, a fairly wealthy gentleman, five ships landed and built fortresses and churches on the Boston peninsula and the surrounding spots nearby in order to present less of a target for Native Americans who might be unhappy, and because there wasn’t room for them all in just one place. More and more boatloads of people arrived, running from the harsh treatment of Separatists in England – ten thousand of them. That’s a lot of people, and needless to say, not all of them were there to purify the Anglican Church. But Winthrop and his brand of separatism prevailed (after all, he had led the expedition and financed it). Here’s his fleet, as depicted in Wikipedia.
In 1632, two years after the arrival of Winthrop, a boatload of newcomers led by one Stephen Bechelder was allowed to settle in Saugus (today’s Lynn). But unknown to Winthrop, (at least I assume he didn’t know) they were of a mystic separatist sect called Familists. (I’ve never heard of these. Have you?) They believed that a part of God is in every person. They denied the Trinity, and repudiated infant baptism. They held that no man should be put to death for his opinions, and objected to the carrying of arms and to swearing an oath. They were quite impartial in their repudiation of all other churches and sects. In fact, they were Quakers waiting to happen.
Part of Bechelder’s church applied to Winthrop for permission to settle elsewhere. Granted. They applied to the Plymouth Church for permission to settle on Cape Cod. Granted. These were the “ten men of Saugus” who get credit for it:
Not only were they given permission to start a town, but they were also given space to expand up to 3 score of families, and very quickly a whole lot more settlers followed. I don’t know if they were all Familist sympathizers or not, but I’m a little suspicious…
Now comes the part I can’t quite figure out, but a few guesses here and there fill the gaps. As we know, in the settling of any town, a meeting house complete with minister, was required. Most certainly Plymouth believed that the ten men of Saugus were proper puritans; they’d come from Winthrop’s jurisdiction, after all, and those that followed them were most likely believed to be regulation Puritans too. A meeting house was built, but this congregation, as one might expect, was pretty slow to take orders from Plymouth, and when a proselytizing Quaker arrived soon thereafter, clearly the whole church, Familists one and all, converted. They were so close to Quaker thought anyway that it’s hard, from this distance, to see the difference between them. But they couldn’t say so! In fact, most of them became closet Quakers, and continued on with the running of the town according to the laws of the time. After all, Plymouth would have been perfectly within its rights to make them leave if they were found out. But they had trouble keeping a minister, as we might expect, because a regulation Reverend would have found this flock apathetic in response to his preaching.
In the minimal record left to us, we find reference to the church being censured for one breach of conduct or another by Plymouth, including failure to install a whipping post and stocks. While not as stringent as the Puritans in Boston, the Plymouth Court was zealous in its defense of the Standing Order, and meted out a variety of punishments for anyone in the Sandwich Church who affirmed Quakerism and imposed fines on self-declared Friends that kept them impoverished.
Barnstable (where Hannah lived) was created in 1639 on the east side of Sandwich, and then Yarmouth, further east, where at last we meet Elizabeth Warden with a strong Quaker heritage behind her. And that, as I recall, is why we explored the settling of Sandwich in the first place.
We have left Kingsley receiving the balance from Grandfather and setting off to Boston to live with his uncle. In the next chapter, having run away from Uncle ‘ Lije, finding work where his heart is — with horses and coaches, he is disembarking from the Yarmouth packet, on his way to seek a loan.
“The Yarmouth wharf was a scramble of luggage, wares and people, but Kingsley was well dressed and top-hatted, carrying a gold-knobbed cane which he could barely afford. However, it was a passport of sorts, and he had no trouble securing a boy to take his valise and the presents he had brought his cousins. The youngster, no doubt expecting a good tip, cheerfully led him through the mob, elbowing an opening when necessary, to the center of town and the Inn.”
And it’s still there. standing straight and tall,looking great. It’s used as a restaurant and tavern now, and appears to do a thriving business. However, it’s nowhere near the waterfront, and I can’t figure out where the wharf would have been. The way I pictured it, as you can see from the above quote, the town itself was hustling and bustling, and the road leading to the Inn congested.
Now comes the joy of being an author. Of course I don’t know what the scene would have been like, in those days, and when I was writing The House of Kingsley Merrick, I hadn’t even seen the Inn. Sometimes it’s a good idea not to verify the details that don’t much matter. It slows you down. It’s bad enough getting the history right!
So, why not invent a little more? The Inn needs to be placed in a context more like the one I describe. So, taking great liberties, I’ve added a few buildings and a road running down to the harbor. The stage coach would have used the High Road that runs in front of the Inn, presently Route 6A. Here’s my rendition: A little Grandma Moses-like but I’m satisfied, even though I can’t create hustle and bustle!
At about the time Elijah Merrick was agitating for a new church that proclaimed salvation for everyone (not just a select few chosen right from the beginning) the young nation was recovering from the financial panic that made 1819 a nasty year for everyone. Such recessions usually occur in the aftermath of war, but America hadn’t had a war before (the Revolution doesn’t count, since no one had any money to lose) and there were huge sectional rifts too, that polarized the country.
New England saw the Federalist party torn to shreds after the Hartford Convention. James Monroe, another Virginian, was elected president, to the despair of the mercantile community. Would tariffs be imposed to their detriment? Would commerce no longer have protection?
But Monroe was a statesmen, causing a Boston newspaper to coin the term “Era of Good Feelings” in describing his presidency. Up until then, no one in New England was feeling good at all, and the country was divided into opposing factions, with the south and the west pitting themselves against the north. But Monroe went on a national tour to help bind the nation into a unified whole, and arrived in Boston dressed up as a Revolutionary War soldier. The citizenry loved it. He came as a head of state, rather than the leader of a triumphant political party. In fact, he ran his presidency without the help of political parties at all, and won election a second time with only one dissenting vote in the electoral college. There! It was the “Era of Good Feelings”. The vote proved it!
But, did everyone really feel good?
No, not everyone. While Monroe hoped that the country could be run by statesmanship rather than politics, the politicians didn’t think much of that idea, and got rid of it as soon as they could. Their man was Andrew Jackson, hero of the Battle of New Orleans – the last confrontation of the War of 1812 that in fact occurred when the peace treaty had already been signed. Of course, neither side knew about that detail, communication being what it was in those days.
Jackson was a westerner (from Tennessee) and championed the rights of mechanics, small farmers, and shopkeepers. Aside from being a war hero, he was even more loved because of his elevation of “the common man”. He proved it by inviting the public to celebrate his inauguration. Everybody came, like, EVERYBODY. Vats of alcoholic beverages were set up on the White House lawn, since there wasn’t room enough inside for all the guests in their muddy boots and coonskin caps. It must have been quite a party. At that point, everyone did feel good, thanks to good ol’ Andy.
Elijah Merrick’s championing the common man certainly was in keeping with Jackson’s vision. If you’re going to take a fall from grandeur, that was a good time to do it.
Let’s shift attention to the second book in the Kingsland Series. There’s a lot more we’ll say about This is the House, but my plan was to drift from one category to the other, mainly so I don’t get stuck on just one. (Easy to do. There’s so much background that has gone into the making of the Series that it’s sometimes hard to know when to stop.)
As The House of Kingsley Merrick opens, we are reminded that Elijah Merrick’s ship, (Sweet Charity) was lost when the Boston Port Authority scuttled it, fearing the plague that had decimated Merrick’s crew was still lingering in the timbers and sails and God-know-what-else. (The ancestor on whom Elijah Merrick is based, and did lose his ship, Seven Brothers, in just this way.)
When Captain Merrick returned, he came back ruined. He vowed to serve the common man, since now he was one, and became an ordinary citizen – a farmer – except for his interest in the Universalist Church. “Grandfather” was a political renegade (a Jacksonian democrat) in a Federalist town. (The party had disappeared by then, but its interests were still represented by Jackson’s opponents.) This, however, was not the reason the children at the Academy disliked Kingsley, Captain Merrick’s grandson. Due to mistakes of his father, the boy was from the wrong side of the tracks, and within the first five pages of Chapter One was in trouble at school because of it. The result – banishment to Boston relatives – was a terrible blow to both Kingsley and Grandfather.
When Kingsley was forced to leave Waterford, Grandfather gave him a gift which has special significance for me. By way of reminder, let me quote from the last pages of chapter one:
Grandfather took a small case out of his pocket and opened it, revealing a tiny scale with miniature weights in graded sizes. “This is called a balance. I used it in Africa,” he said, “to weigh gold dust.” He closed it and pressed it into Kingsley’s hand. “Keep it, lad. I hope it’ll remind you to weigh your choices more carefully, next time, and balance your gains against your losses.”
Here it is:
It’s one of our family’s most treasured possessions. There are several references to it here and there in Kingsley Merrick, but by the time The Heir comes along, I don’t find it mentioned at all. I’m sorry about that, because it’s such a cool device and, in fact, beautifully illustrates The Heir’s Epilogue.
My first foray into the world of writing was described in my April 2 post. To continue:
Like most writers, I have always been an avid reader. First came Thornton Burgess’s books:
My father had a whole set of these from his childhood, and I plowed through them all, more than once. But eventually I wanted something with a more human perspective, so the Bobbsey Twins came into my life.
I might not have loved them if I’d seen this cover – in fact, none of the books in my little library had dust jackets. This one is so sweet and sickening I’d have probably scorned it if I’d known. But I didn’t, and there were many books in the set. I read every one I could get a hand on until I met Nancy Drew, girl detective.
Nancy was a great favorite among us girls, and when I was in the fifth grade, a friend and I decided we’d write a mystery novel with a heroine like Nancy. We thought that making up a girl like her, smart, able to solve mysteries that adults couldn’t – shouldn’t be too hard.
(In case there’s anyone who doesn’t know, Nancy’s the 1940’s equivalent of Harry Potter.)
So, my friend and I asked our teacher if we could confer in the cloak room on rainy days during recess. Mrs. Clark agreed nearly instantly, after extracting certain promises about behavior when we were in there. I don’t think she believed we had talent (a little young to judge that, in any case,) but I do believe she hoped this would be a way to keep me out of trouble. In fact, I was a pain in the neck, even when I didn’t mean to be, and I was very lucky that she was willing to go the extra mile instead of banishing me to the principal’s office when it was indoor recess time.
So there we were, my friend and I, now able to take chairs and a table into the cloak room on rainy cold days that winter when the kids couldn’t go out. Our exclusivity was very exciting, but unfortunately we couldn’t agree on a name for our heroine. After several recesses, we decided that each of us would write her own book, though we continued to use the cloakroom whenever possible to avoid the bedlam of indoor recess. But my friend lost interest in this project, and by then it was spring. The playground called.
I didn’t think more about it until the following year when again, indoor recess became a reality. I explained to my sainted 6th grade teacher, Ruth Smith, that I’d been given permission to use the cloak room on rainy days the year before, and could I use it again? She not only gave me permission, but also suggested I read what I wrote to the class. I agreed, though a little reluctant to actually stand up there in front of God and everybody and show what I was made of. But I did, for there were my classmates, who would be given a reprieve from schoolwork while listening to me. But would the kids like what I wrote? Since they’d be getting out of work, I didn’t think the quality of my writing would be a problem for them. I knew no one would make fun of me, but much worse would be their boredom. I could just picture it:
There’s always one person, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, following each word. As for the others…I tried to forget about them. After a few chapters were complete, I DID IT. I told Mrs. Smith that I had enough. She waited until 2:00 that Friday and had everyone clear their desks and fold their hands, with the admonition to listen.
And they did! They listened well. No noise at all. Just me, droning on and on. This would never do! I began to get dramatic, so they wouldn’t fall asleep, and they didn’t! They clapped when I was done, and although I probably hadn’t read for more than 15 minutes, because I didn’t have more than that written. Since our books had been put away, Mrs. Smith gave us the rest of the afternoon to read or draw or even talk (quietly) to each other. Needless to say, I became very popular very fast. And began to write fast, too, because the kids were expecting more the following Friday. In fact, I read every Friday for the rest of the year, about a girl named Peggy who was much like me, always getting herself into some sort of fix that she’d have to figure her way out of. I was savvy enough to always stop just before the resolution of whatever trouble Peggy was in, so the kids would remain interested. I was able to rescue us all from the tedium of having to study late Friday afternoon, but by the end of the school year I was definitely running low on ideas, and was glad when school let out for the summer.
And that was my second foray into writing.
I’m often asked when I began writing, and I answer (somewhat smugly, I’ll admit) “I was eleven years old”. But this is not true. My career actually began a few years before, with the publication of The Bugle. (I apologize for the awkward placement of inserts. Maybe WordPress will help me wrap text around later.)
Now, The Bugle would have disappeared into oblivion (where it belongs) were it not for my mother, who saved each issue. I discovered them when going through her things, and took a few to remind myself of my first writing experience which, until then, I’d forgotten.
I was nine years old, my sister 13, and we were stuck for something to do on a rainy winter’s weekend. My mother had always encouraged creative endeavor of any kind, so we set about being creative, and published a family newspaper. My sister’s printing was nice and neat, as you can see:
But the day arrived, rather soon, when Marcia was no longer interested in printing The Bugle. Undaunted, I forged on by myself:
We had moved to Ohio from the Boston area, and Mrs. Newman was a family friend from our former life. I don’t know what the circled “3” meant – maybe third edition. Please note the weather has been faithfully recorded. There were, of course, other stories of interest:
But the reporter/printer eventually ran out of steam, and so The Bugle was shut down and, the weather no doubt improving, its publisher went out to play.
The problem of unrepentant heirs led the Puritans – some of some – to support the “Half-Way Covenant”. Under the covenant, the second generation could be accepted provisionally. They could be baptized, and when at last conversion happened, they could be admitted to membership and communion. The Covenant allowed for baptism of their children, too, but increasingly there was pressure to allow all godly men to participate in the sacraments. Otherwise the secular community, becoming more wealthy and more powerful as the years went on, would take over government, eliminating forever the Puritan Way.
But the half-way covenant was controversial. Not all congregations accepted it. The General Court (legislature) called for a meeting of ministers and magistrates to resolve the issue. Though it isn’t mentioned in many articles concerning this meeting, The Cambridge Platform shifted the responsibility of remuneration for the minister from the congregation he served to the community at large. Thus, all citizens were required to attend church services and pay taxes to support their local minister whether they had been converted (and thus were members) or not.
Reinforced under the Royal charter of 1692 and further action by the legislature, the ministers became even more secure when Massachusetts took over their remuneration, a practice that was continued under the state constitution of 1790. (For an excellent and very clear description of the whole thing, see The Crisis of the Standing Order by Peter S. Field.)
There you have it. The Standing Order, influencing and controlling church, state, culture, community and wealth right from the beginning and becoming more and more powerful as time went on.
Definitely, back on its feet.
Thus Molly, in 1794, was required by the Standing Order to confess her sins in order to be baptized, and only a bribe saved her. (This is the House, p.274-276)