Patum Peperium

Mayflower Screwballs XI

Poet’s Coroner
Mr. Peperium

Part I, II, III, IV, V, VI, VII, VIII,IXX Part XI (The Conclusion)

“Hold the candle still, d--n you” snarled Sir Basil, petulantly. “You just dripped wax on my doublet. Have you mistaken me for a letter?”

“I beg your forgiveness,” said Lord Peperium in a hushed voice, “but I also beg haste. We hath not a moment to lose.”

“We what?” asked Basil, his wrath overcome with curiosity.

“We hath not a moment to lose.”

“Do you talk like that all the time, or just on special occasions? How about when you’re at the helm of the old four-poster with her Ladyship as first mate?”

“Never mind about the old four-poster and her Ladyship.” Lord Peperium snarled in turn. “We’ve got to look slippy.”

“That’s better,” said Sir Basil with a fatherly approval. “You were beginning to sound like you were in a play.” Then, recollecting himself to the task at hand, “Of course. Yes. A hurry. I daresay.”

It became apparent to Lord P that Sir B was in an advanced state of intoxication. Perhaps it had escaped his lordship’s notice earlier because he, too, in order to steel himself for the present enterprise, had taken perhaps a noggin’s worth too much of the Old Familiar Juice. And now they were standing in the captain’s cabin, up to a bit of No Good. Hot wax dripped on the index finger of his unsteady right hand, inducing a sort of temporary false-sobriety that helped him hold the candle more surely. As he did so Sir Basil rummaged through assorted papers in its uncertain light.

“New Hibernia…New Spain…New Foundland…New Gaul…New Portugal…New Caledonia…”

“These maps appear to not be in quite alphabetical order,” observed his lordship somewhat elliptically. “Let me try.”

And with that odd serendipity that often attends maiden efforts, especially when under the influence of something squeezed and put up in barrels, Lord P’s hand alighted on the very document they were searching for.

“There you are, Sir B” he said, as if he had meant to do what he had just done. “New World.”

“Fine” said Sir Basil, spreading the paper out on the captain’s table. “Now, where in Satan’s low-slung trousers is Virginia?”

Upon receipt of the news that the lovely Miss de Vannier had taken a private vow before Father M to join a nunnery posthaste, Sir Basil and Lord Peperium had wracked their brains trying to concoct a scheme that would foil the captain’s set intentions of depositing his passengers at Jamestown in the colony of Virginia. Besides the obvious difficulty that there were no convents in Virginia, they had also foreseen a somewhat frosty reception for their rosaries, chalices, crucifixes, Roman collars and other pious impedimenta. The obvious choice was French, Catholic Canada.

Trying to talk the captain round with tales of the balmy north country they rejected almost at once. Every day the wind in the rigging sang a little more sharply, the spray that arced over the gunnels stung a little more coldly. No, the captain may have been a heretical,
sacrament-denying dog fit for one of the less swanky addresses in hell, but he could still tell a dumb suggestion when he heard one. They would have to be more devious.

“Here it is” said Sir B with mild triumph. “Virginia. Now,” he went on, holding the map flat with both hands. “What was that idea of yours?”

“Simple” said Lord P. “You will notice that this map gives one only the vaguest idea of what Virginia is like.”

“Yes” agreed the unsteady knight. “If I am to take this map at its word, Virginia would seem to be all coast and no interior. Kind of like what Euclid said about a straight line.”

Lord P, having been not much of a scholar when it came to things geometrical, nodded quickly and went on. “That vast expanse of blank interior is going to get us to Canada!”

Seeing Sir B struggling to make sense of his last remark, Lord P said, “Give me a pen and I’ll show you.”

Sir B dipped the pen in its pot and handed the instrument over. He then bent over Lord P’s shoulder as the other, holding his breath and concentrating, started drawing something a few miles inland from Virginia’s undulant coast.

“There” he finally said with satisfaction.

“What is it?”

“What is it?” asked Lord P, hurt. “Why, it’s a hippogriff, of course.”

“A hipp-a-who?”

“Hippogriff. Mythical beast. Head of an eagle. Body of a lion. Tongue of an estate agent.”

“I admit,” said Sir B, who had never really listened to fairy stories in the nursery unless they involved fair princesses or damsels in distress, “that you’ve done a tolerable job of rendering the eyesore. But to what end?”

“You admit no one really knows what’s in Virginia, right?”

“Right.”

“And you also admit that these wack-job religious literalists we’ve been cooped up with for weeks on end only believe something if they see it on paper, right?”

“Right” said Sir B more slowly, wondering where this conversation was headed.

“So, if they see hippogriffs on the map of Virginia…”

There was a long pause as the sheer brilliant simplicity of idea dawned on Sir Basil.

Lord P took Sir B by the sleeve. “Make sure tomorrow to start planting the good seed. Go about on deck saying things like, ‘My, I hope there aren’t too many hippogriffs when we land’ and ‘Does anybody know how to make hippogriff chowder?’”

“I see,” said Sir B. “But we musn’t leave anything to chance.” He dipped the pen once again, bent over the map then straightened himself.

“There” he said, a smug smile wreathing his face.

Lord P bent close to see what had been added to the desolate white plains of Virginia. There he found six more hippogriffs, all sporting miters and wielding crosiers. The seven monsters were perched upon seven hills surrounding what looked to be a very naughty city.

“Oh, Canada” sighed Lord P, “here we come. Now Sir B. about that lute...”

And so, deare reader, thou hast hereby learned the True and remarkable historie of the Catholiques Pilgrims and howe they came to Canada. It remains but to add that, upon the way they did diposit theyr dour companions upon a Rocke, luring said companions upon it by means of obvious references to and learned explications of the Holy Scriptures and then very quickly taking in the gangplank againe. Miss de Vennier did become prioress of her convent. The goode Father M went weste saving soules along the way and may for all we know be still so employed. Lord and Lady Peperium had 12 children, each named after a tribe of Israel. And Sir Basil, upon encountering Canadians set about trying to make whiskey of them.

Mayflower Screwballs X

Le Petit Grignotage
Christine

Part I, II, III, IV, V, VI, VII, VIII,IX Part X

To drink like a Capuchin is to drink poorly,
To drink like a Benedictine is to drink deeply,
To drink like a Dominican is pot after pot,
But to drink like a Jesuit
Is to drink the cellar dry!
-Adapted from an old French drinking song

Just having returned from Mass, Christine stood before the mirror arranging her gold headdress, putting in the last of the pearl-studded pins. As it was the tenth anniversary of Fr. M’s ordination at Douay, as well as the Feast of Our Lady of the Most Holy Rosary, instituted by Pope Pius V of blessed memory to commemorate the vanquishing of the Turks at Lepanto (true enough, the feast had not yet been applied to the Universal Church, but Fr. M held a special love for Our Lady and her Rosary, and celebrated the day in her honor), she chose to wear to the celebratory meal her crimson gown with gold bodice and cream silk kirtle, white hose, and black shoes with gold buckles.

A rap came on the door. When she went to open it, Sir Basil gave a gentlemanly bow. “May I escort you to dinner, Miss de Vannier?” He stood in his red coat with blue doublet beneath, blue sleeves, and white hose, the silver buckles shining on his leather shoes, and his blue cap stuck with a single white feather. She observed no alcohol on the breath, unsteady gait, or slurred speech. Indeed, it was true: he was quite sober, and so in control of his faculties he was able to retain custody of his eyes, which avoided, miraculously enough, her corset. “Vous êtes très gentil,” she responded warmly. She took his proffered elbow and let him lead her down the hall toward the dining room.

Lord and Lady P were seated at a round table in the corner chatting gaily with Fr. M and four other stout men, who were taking generous sips of barley ale from pewter tankards. Upon Sir Basil and Christine's arrival, Fr. M stood and introduced one Count Crackie, one Earl Sullivan, and one fellow who went by the moniker “Old Dominion Tory”, and a gentleman who, strangely enough, insisted on being addressed as "Sir Robbo the Llamabutcher." Fr. M, always working quietly and efficiently behind the scenes, had helped convert these souls from their Calvinist heterodoxy.

The chef (a closet Catholic, as was obvious from his sumptuous cooking) had arranged a special meal for the occasion: to start, savoury pottage, followed by a main course of sturgeon cooked in parsley and vinegar, covered with powdered ginger, and a civet of hare. The silver goblets had been brought out, into which was poured the Mayflower’s finest mead. In the middle of the repast, Sir Basil stood and raised his draught to Fr. M, “the least Jesuitical Jesuit I’ve ever known,” to which the rest replied with a hearty, “Hear, hear!” and a generous quaff. The dessert, a frothy syllabub, was brought out with a flask of some clear libation, which Sir Basil first poured into Christine’s cup. Upon tasting it, she cried, “Apple wine! Why, Sir Basil, how did you manage it?”

“A gentleman never reveals how he procures his alcohol, my lady,” he replied. “True enough,” Lord P added, and he, Fr. M, and the rest of the coterie drank deeply from their goblets.

Now if the reader has been paying the slightest attention, he will notice that three different types of spirits had been served throughout the course of the meal, and that the participants--in particular the male participants--had imbibed the most generously. It is thus not unfair to say that Sir Basil, Lord P, Count Crackie, Old Dominion Tory, Sir Robbo, Earl Sullivan and yes, dare one say it, even Fr. M, were by this point, as the popular Elizabethan phrase goes, three sheets to the wind.

It was then the ponderous Miss Quackenboss entered with an entourage of equally ponderous black-clad spinsters and sat at the table immediately adjacent. Seeing our hearty repast, she asked the servant, in a loud tone, to “bring the flagon of water and the plate of herbs, and a small morsel of bread.” Sir Basil stood and gave Miss Q an unnecessarily low bow, and seated himself back at the table.

Sensing imminent trouble, Christine offered a quick prayer under her breath: Je vous salut, Marie, pleine de grace…, and attempted to distract Sir Basil by hinting at a turn on the dance floor. “But there is no music, Miss de Vannier,” he objected. “Lord P, won’t you fetch your lute and play a tune for us?” Christine suggested. “You play so finely.” Lord P, flattered, went to his stateroom and returned with the instrument, whereupon he proceeded to perform an excruciating version of “O Thou Silver Thames.” Christine immediately regretted her suggestion. Despite the melody’s less than satisfactory rendering, Miss Quackenboss was allayed, as it reminded her of her beloved England, and she gently nodded her head to the lilting melody. But when Lord P, not quite at his full wits, followed with "Ale and Tobacco," belting out the lyrics at piercing volume, it was then that, as another popular medieval phrase goes, all hell broke loose.

Miss Quackenboss’s group let out a collective gasp, while the matriarch began loudly berating the Catholics for their “shameful intemperateness.” Never one to take an insult lying down, Sir Basil grabbed the lute from Lord P and, standing before Miss Q, one leg perched upon a chair, proceeded to play "The Buzzeinge Bee’s Complaynt." Miss Q, nearly at the end of her tether, gathered up her stout self and began to shake her finger in his face. Meanwhile, Lady P was holding back his Lordship, who was attempting to reclaim his instrument, while Fr. M remained seated in his chair wearing a curious grin, and the other gentlemen banged their tankards upon the table with the intent of approximating the percussion section, but only succeeding to heighten the cacophony. Christine busied herself doing her best to pacify the agitated Miss Q, quoting Scripture verses about love of neighbor and the Golden Rule. But when Sir Basil knelt and intoned a lusty "Come Live with Me and Be My Love,", all her work was undone. The stern-faced drones, now all on their feet, started clamoring for blood, and the Catholics saw themselves surrounded on all sides by the pilgrim mob. In short, it was pandemonium.

Sir Basil, quite unaware of the gravity of the situation, sang more boisterously than ever. Before he knew it, the lute had been smashed on top of his head, perching there hat-like, his doublet torn in two, and his hose shredded around the ankles. A free-for-all ensued; chairs were thrown, tables were overturned, glasses were smashed, bottles were broken. Even Miss Quackenboss herself joined in the fisticuffs, succeeding to bloody not a few noses.

With a loud rain of expletives, Sir Basil realized he had left his sword in his cabin, and thus had no means of defense. The pack pressed in on him, Lord P among them, furious at him over his beloved and mangled lute, while Count Crackie and Earl Sullivan had joined the fray, throwing off the extremists left and right. Old Dominion Tory, for some inexplicable reason, was crawling about on the floor, while her Ladyship ran about hither and thither with arms raised, Fr. M trying to pull the fanatics off the beleaguered Basil. Sir Robbo, besotted with mead and oblivious, thought the throng to be taking part in a festive and chaotic dance, and swung his mug ever the more gleefully.

It was now Christine’s part to turn heroine to Sir Basil. She let out an unearthly shriek and pretended to faint, falling lightly to the floor. A young puritan ran over to her, yelling for help, while others followed to see what was the matter. The horde’s attention momentarily diverted, Sir Basil leapt to his feet and ran to the door as fast as his hose-clad legs could carry him, his coat flapping wildly behind him. The three converts dragged the still-grinning Sir Robbo from his chair and forced him out the exit, while Lady P chased after his lordship, who was fast on the heels of Sir Basil and still cursing about his lute. Fr. M pushed his way calmly through the hovering crowd, his stern gaze bringing the masses to abrupt silence. He lifted Christine, she still feigning unconsciousness and hanging limply in his arms, and proceeded out of the dining room.

Once beyond the exit, both dashed back to Lord and Lady P’s stateroom. Inside the door, panting and out of breath, she was met with the shock of a bounding and kneeling Sir Basil, still in tattered doublet, asking in the loudest voice, “Will you marry me?” Christine, speechless, not quite recovered from the melée of just a few moments before, stood there aghast. “You saved my life, dear young lady. I shall never be able to repay you. Say you’ll marry me!”

“But, but,” she stammered, “marry you?!”

“Yes, marry me, Miss de Vannier! Be my wife!”

“But I, but,” she looked confusedly around the room. Lord P was splayed out on an armchair, grumbling, Lady P was seated at her table dabbing her forehead with a silk hankerchief, and Fr. M was splashing his face with water from the basin. The others were nowhere in sight.

“During your convalescence, it seemed clear to me you had conceived an affection for me. Am I wrong to assume that my reading had not been a comfort to you?” Sir Basil waited.

“Oh no, not at all! I was most grateful for your company in those hours.”

“What say you then, miss? Shall we not be merry together the rest of our days?”

“I bore an affection for you, that is true,” Christine replied, “but I assure you it was a sisterly one, and, though I be twice your junior, even a tender motherly one, caring for nothing greater than the welfare of your soul. Besides,” she continued, “even if the affection had denoted anything more, it is impossible.”

“Impossible?” Sir Basil looked perplexed.

“Yes, my dear Basil,” she continued, “I cannot marry you.”

“You can’t?!” Lady P leaned forward in her chair.

“You can’t?!?” Lord P sat bolt upright.

“You can’t?!?!” Sir Basil cocked his head.

“She can’t,” Fr. M pronounced from across the room. All looked at the tall priest, then back at Christine, her face blushing under the weight of their stares. “But why on earth not?” insisted Lady P.

“Because I am betrothed to another.” Sir Basil sank to the floor with a look of amazement. “Betrothed to another?” Lady P asked, bewildered. “Why, who is this man? Why have we heard nothing of him??” All gazed intently at Christine. “He is,” she answered unsteadily, looking around the room, “He is the—the Man; the Man of Sorrows. The God-Man.” Sir Basil’s face showed a lack of comprehension. Fr. M thus added, “The young miss has taken private vows.” A long silence ensued as the words were digested. Sir Basil remained there on the floor, Lord P looked pensively into space, and Fr. M stood wiping his hands with a towel. “After my heartbreak with Charles," she explained, "I realized the only love that could satisfy me was that of the Divine Spouse. Indeed, Fr. M had counseled me on the matter, and, after much prayer and thought, I took private vows a month before embarkation. I am sorry to have led anyone here to believe I was otherwise free…”

“My dear girl,” Lady P’s laughter broke the hush, “there is no need for apology. I should do well to obey his Lordship in the future, who has more than once forbidden me to play matchmaker—and, as we see, with good reason.” She walked towards Christine and put her arms around her shoulders, leading her to a chair. “You have chosen the noblest vocation, Miss de Vannier, and we are all immensely glad for you.”

Sir Basil got back up onto his feet, gathered himself as best he could, and gave a bow. “I am indeed gladdened to hear the news, Miss de Vannier. In no wise pity me; if I am to make an ass of myself, I would rather it be here before you than before any other lady. I shan’t forget you. I only ask that, once we have gone our separate ways in the New World, you not forget me in your prayers, as prayers are most needed for this incorrigible mischief-maker.”

“I shall always remember you in my prayers,” Christine confirmed warmly.

“My thanks. And with that,” Sir Basil looked about the room, “I must be off to change out of this ragged habit.” He gave a last bow, then slipped out the door.

To be continued...

Mayflower Screwballs IX

Madame's Nightshirt
Mrs. Peperium

Part I, II, III, IV, V, VI, VII, VIII Part IX

At Sea
Day 38

Goodness what a fortnight we've had. I shall try with due diligence to capture all that has happened in this space.

Shortly after my last entry we hit a rough spate of weather. The seas were up and the sky grew quite grey and stormy. Christine thought it reminded her of her beloved Brittany and took to walking about the decks unaccompanied. I implored her not to do this. But she's a most headstrong girl in some ways because she has the soul of a romantic. It appears one afternoon while Christine was walking about and thinking of her homeland and probably her lost love, the boat took a great lurch causing her to slip and fall. When she fell, her head hit the deck very hard bringing her nearly to the point of unconsciousness. At the same time, about 8 barrels of Basil's rum the crew had lashed down due to the rough seas broke from their moorings and headed straight for her, rolling and bouncing with great fervor. Christine, in her daze did see the barrels' approach but could not move. Her ankle had been injured most dreadfully and could not bear her weight. She did attempt to stand but soon sunk to her knees. She feared this was her end. She gave a swift prayer to our Lord commending her soul to His most loving of hands and closed her eyes hoping Death would be gentle. The next thing she knew she was in very strong arms and being carried down below to safety. She did not know who her saviour was. There had been no one anywhere on deck during her walk. She was quite certain her saviour was the Archangel Michael. She refused to open her eyes fearing what would happen if her eyes gazed upon his most heavenly of faces. Then she slipped from consciousness.

Father M. was in my suite sharing a pot of tea when the door burst open. There stood Basil with a motionless Christine in his arms. Father M and I sprung to our feet. I asked Basil if Christine were dead. He said no but that she had had a terrible fright and her ankle was injured. I led him into our bedroom where he most gently placed Christine upon our bed. She looked very pale and remained unconscious. Basil straightened himself up and said he would call on us all when she had regained her senses and was ready to receive visitors. Then he departed as quickly and silently as he had appeared. Father M. and I looked at each other and were quite speechless. Christine began making sounds as if she were coming around and our attentions were diverted to aiding her. We quickly determined that in Christine's fall she had sprained her ankle so terribly, it was nearly broken it in two. Father M decided it was best to not move her so that I could nurse her closely. This meant we needed to find accommodations for my Lordship. Father M. thought Basil would share his quarters as he is rarely ever there. Which I'm sure Basil would have. But my concern over leaving my Lordship unattended with Basil's extensive collection of naughty parchments at his fingertips and the long nights at sea caused me to ask Father M. if my Lordship could stay with him instead. He said he could. Father M. left to alert my Lordship that he needed to bunk up with him for at least two weeks. My maid quickly made our bedroom over for Christine's convalescence. After Christine awoke, we cleaned her up, put her in one of my best frocks and did her hair in a most pleasing arrangement. My Lordship arrived just in time to settle her on one of the sofas in the sitting room. And happily, such niceties of attentions did restore Chrisitne to us. As she was enjoying a cup of tea I had laced with brandy for medicinal purposes, I informed her who it was who had saved her. She said nothing.

That evening our cabin was graced not only with the presence of my Lordship and Father M but of Basil as well. At dinner, he had inquired of Father M. if Christine was ready to receive visitors and was told yes. So at about 9 o'clock he came around. Christine kept her eyes downcast while he paid his respects to her and as well as the entire time he visited with us. The next evening Basil again appeared to visit the patient. He was a again greeted with downcast eyes. It was after that visit I realized what had occurred. Basil, when he had rescued Christine from certain death, had captured her imagination. She does have the soul of a romantic. And it appeared by his change of behavior, that Christine had stirred something deep within Basil. Something that had been lost to Basil after his dear wife's early death. He is a most carnal man now. Christine is a most devout young lady. They are a most unlikely pairing had one not known Basil when he was married to my dear Caroline. Basil was a devoted husband then. But, one would not think that now. Can Basil return to what he once was? I do not know. Surely the Church teaches that he can. But will he?

That evening as Christine rested, I decided that Caroline's deathbed request of finding Basil a suitable wife must be given over to God. If I made a mess with Basil and Christine then I would be making a mess of our new life in the New World. I like them both far too much to do that. Besides, my Lordship would kill me. So for the greater good of all of our happiness, if Christine never lifted her eyes to meet Basil's, I swore to God I would let it be. In the morning over breakfast, I told Father M and my Lordship my decision. They were both in agreement. We all politely did not notice the changing in behavior in the Basil and Christine. As the merry evenings of Christine's convalescence passed with all of us gathered together in our suite, my Lordship took to reading aloud, first from The Amoretti by Spenser. Christine is most fond of poetry and Spenser's love sonnets have no equal. She did enjoy them though she never lifted her eyes. Then my Lordship moved onto Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. While Sir Gawain had Christine on the edge of her sofa, her eyes remained steadfastedly downcast the entire time. Only lifting in repsonse to whether she would like more wine or cake. The evening after finishing Sir Gawain, Basil appeared with a copy of Hamlet from his own library of books. Christine adores the plays and sonnets of Shakespeare. Under Basil's care, the Prince of Denmark came to life. Basil has always had a most dramatic flair and his reading aloud is especially good. I was seated next to Father M. when it happened. I gave him a gentle nudge to look in Christine's general direction. Basil, so caught up with own his reading, never saw it. His excellent reading had caused Christine to forget herself. She lifted her eyes to his. But, because he was so occupied, Basil's eyes never met hers in return. Basil has read aloud every evening since. He is still unaware (I think) that he has a most attentive audience in Christine.

This morning we determined Christine to be fully recovered from her fall. She has returned to her rooms and has the constant use of my maid. We are all back as we were before the injury. Almost.

To be continued....

Mayflower Screwballs VIII

Le Petit Grignotage
Christine

Part I, II, III, IV, V, VI, VII Part VIII

Why do I use my paper, ink and pen,
And call my wits to counsel what to say?
Such memories were made for mortal men;
I speak of Saints whose names cannot decay.
An Angel's trump were fitter for to sound
Their glorious death if such on earth were found.
St. Henry Walpole

“Lord P tells me you once met Father Walpole. Is it true?” Christine, arm linked in Fr. M’s, was taking a post-prandial stroll along the deck, Lord and Lady P trailing behind, and Sir Basil, who had disappeared after the repast, nowhere in sight. “Indeed it is. In fact, I credit him with my conversion.”

“Oh, do tell me about it!” she brightened.

“I was a young man in the employ of my uncle, a wealthy merchant. I was given charge of overseeing his merchandise delivered to and from London , and spent much time in the city. He generally remained at his manse in Hastings . A recusant, he had secretly sheltered priests there, and even once had Mass said by the great Campion himself.

“He was on good terms with the Queen; he paid his recusancy fines faithfully and without complaint, and one of his nieces was a member of the Queen’s court. Of course, his secret Masses had never been discovered. Thus, when he arranged to have victuals brought now and again to Fr. Walpole in the Tower, no suspicions were raised, and the guards—sweetened with bisket cakes, comfits, or a flask of apple wine—were tolerant enough."

"Apple wine!" Christine interjected. "Oh I do miss the taste of it. Can't get it anywhere amongst these puritans."

“A most drinkable tonic," Fr. M agreed. "Although my uncle normally brought the food himself, on one occasion, when he was ordered to rest for an imbalance of humours, he had asked if I wouldn’t take the parcel to Fr. Walpole. I obliged him. It was a Sunday that I went, in the fourth year of the priest’s imprisonment.

“The guard had searched the basket before letting me pass, taking for himself the gooseberry fool and mead. On entering the cell, I saw a gaunt man lying on a mat in the far corner, who stood with the greatest difficulty to welcome me. I learned he’d been racked three days previous (they bore him no mercy there, and subjected him to such tortures throughout his stay). I explained the reason for my visit. Though his face was terribly wan and his frame trembled as he moved, he still managed a weak smile, voicing his gratitude and inviting me to sit.

“There was a lone chair beside a table, with a few books and a candle. I saw rosary beads there, and on the wall, a meager crucifix made of crossed sticks, and nothing more. The cell was cold, damp, and it stank—but it seemed to me then the very den of Heaven! Truly, it was suffused with the sacred; it seemed a holy place. I sat and, the guard full of mead and generous, was allowed to remain a full hour. I shall never forget that hour as long as I live.”

Fr. M’s eyes scanned the sea, calm and grey beneath a lucid sky, and leaned gently against the rail. Christine remained silent, listening. “He told me himself of Fr. Campion’s death, how bravely he had borne himself in his final moments, and how that martyr’s blood, splattering his white doublet, had done its work to convert his soul. He recounted his studies in France and Rome , his imprisonment in the Netherlands , and his travels through Brussels , Tournai, Bruges , and Spain . It was immediately on landing at Flamborough that he was taken by the English and, ever since that day, kept in the Tower awaiting the day of his execution. They haven’t pronounced the sentence, but I know well my fate, he had said to me. I shall die the same death as my father Campion and, God willing, with the same meekness and equanimity. As he spoke, he took gentle sips from the mead I offered him. His hands were unsteady from trembling, so I had to feed him morsels of pasty myself.

On the darkest nights, and at my weakest, I have often wondered why it is God would convert me, call me to the priesthood, and fill me with missionary zeal for my country, only to have me taken upon landing and imprisoned, without having ministered to a single English soul. I, of course, could respond with nothing, suppressing my keenly felt pity for the man. But, he had continued, then I recall Our Lord’s words: ‘Unless a grain of wheat fall to the ground and die, it remains just a grain of wheat. But if it dies, it produces much fruit.’

Our Lord toiled His whole life long, and saw but little fruit. He spent His last hours in desolation, and died a criminal’s death, alone. But what fruit that sacred death bore for the world! How many peoples, nations, continents have been converted because of His holy agony! And so it was with so many saints, who laboured years and years, often only to see their work undone and come to nothing, and they at last meeting cruel ends. It was only once in Heaven they witnessed the results of their travails. They were, in short, called to walk the same blessed path as our Master.



And so it shall be with me, he had continued with resignation. That is the fate our Lord has marked out for me, foreordained from all eternity, the purpose for which I was born. I shall die. I shall die a cruel death, but for a great end: to bring truth back to these beloved shores, where the faith will once again flourish, and our Lord will once more be adored and consumed at altars all over the isle. My blood will mingle with those of my Jesuit fathers and brothers, and together, by the grace of God, we shall bring the faith back to England. Though his face was and worn, his eyes shone luminously.

I was left speechless. I had come expecting to find a man broken, fearful, on the verge of recanting his faith. Instead, I met a soldier, nay, a prince. Nay, it was Christ Himself I encountered, appearing in the form of this humble priest. I left there a changed man. When, some months later, I heard he had been hanged, drawn, and quartered at York , I began seriously to contemplate a vocation to the priesthood.”

“And here you stand, a priest of God!” Christine exclaimed.

“By the grace of God, yes.”

Just then, we heard Lord P's raised voice. “We shall walk where we please, Miss Quackenboss. We’ve paid the fare just as you have.” The spinster, dressed in black and bible in hand, looked at the lot of them and, brows furrowed, scolded, “You papists will bring a curse upon this ship! Back in England you wouldn’t have dared stroll about in broad daylight, and especially with that, that, that priest!” She spat out the last word. “No, madame,” Lord P replied, “but we shall soon be touching upon the ground of the New World, where we shall drink our wine freely, attend our dramas often, and have our Masses said openly.” With that, Lord P gave a curt bow and walked on, Lady P suppressing a giggle.

To be continued....

Mayflower Screwballs VII

Madame's Nightshirt
Mrs. Peperium

Part I, II, III, IV, V VI Part VII

At Sea
Day 15

Dearest Diary,

I have been most remiss with my correspondence as of late. But once I fill you in you will understand why.

The last sighting of land, our once beloved England, was more than 8 days ago. The next sighting of land shall be Virginia, our new and, with great hope, beloved home. The ship we are traveling on is not the one we had hoped to travel on but our accomodations are more than suitable. Since the Prince of Wales was not counted among our traveling party, Lord P was able to secure the stateroom usually reserved for him. The chef is much better than expected. His cucumber sandwiches are a thin as a whisper and Father M. has grown very fond of them. He and I have tea every afternoon in our suite with the lovely Miss de Vannier, or Christine. Our friendship has progressed so quickly that we already employ Christian names. She is very beautiful. And very good and devout girl, though French. She did have a romantic entanglement with a man very unworthy of her, and most other women as well. This is why she is with us : She wants to forget him and find a new life in the New World. Father M. convinced her to join us. I am so glad he did.

It is my great hope that Miss de Vannier will help in fulfilling the deathbed promise I made to my dearest friend from convent school days, dear sweet Caroline. Caroline, as you recall was Sir Basil Trelawny Seal's beloved first wife. Caroline loved Basil deeply but her love did not blind her to what a weak man he was. She understood without her firm but loving hand to guide him here on this earth Basil would fall into great wickedness. While in the grasp of Death's hand, she made me promise her that I would find him a suitable wife and if I could not, get him into the nearest monastary. Basil has gone on to do exactly what Caroline believed he would do. A few years back, he was nearly killed by James I's own guards when he was discovered to be Lady Glamis' gentleman of the Bedchamber. Thankfully, Lady Glamis was very fond of Basil and she was a most excellent liar. She persuaded the King it was not Basil who visited her in her bedchamber but Sir Walter Raleigh. Raleigh, a consummate gentleman who understood the Spanish wanted him dead, allowed his head to fall into the executioner's basket marked for Basil. Basil did not learn from that most near of escapes. He moved on to of all women, Lady Katherine Manners. She, who was already bethrothed to the Marquess of Buckingham. Goodness, how my Lord P tried to talk him sense into him. But to no avail. Basil was too caught up in Lady Manners' charms to see what danger he had placed himself in. When the Marquess of Buckingham, on his wedding night no less, had to endure the great embarassment of witnessing his bride withdraw from his touch, break down in a fit of uncontrollable tears, confess that her bedchamber had been visited almost nightly for the preceeding 2 years by Basil and that she could never love another man but him, it was curtains again for Basil. Basil has been hiding behind ours ever since. It was the very real threat of discovery by the Marquess that finally induced Basil to go along with us to the New World as our protector. My, how God does work in the most mysterious of manners, (no pun intended).

I'm quite convinced that Basil is not a suitable candidate for the monastary way of life as our late evening stroll on deck one of the first nights at sea proved. My Lordship and I were enjoying the beauty of a starry night and the calm seas when we passed by the cabin of a very pretty pilgrim girl who is making this voyage with us. Such strange sounds were coming from within that I asked my Lordship if we should offer the girl some assistance. He listened at her door and said, no that she was just suffering from mal de mer. Then he pointed out the oddest bird I've ever seen sitting on the rail of the ship. He said it was called a dodo bird. As he was taking me over for a closer examination of this most crazy of feathered creatures, suddenly, it seemed the pilgrim girl's illness took the most sudden of violent turns. She made great screams of agony. My Lordship tried to move me down the deck and away from her cabin but I was resolute in trying to offer the poor thing assistance. Then, she went quiet and I believed Death had carried her off. The cabin door opened and out popped Basil, slightly untucked. He said nothing. My Lordship asked "Are the rough seas having an affect?" Basil, said, "Yes." And immediately headed off in the opposite direction towards the ship's infimary to get her a sleeping powder my Lordship surmised. I must admit surprise that the Pilgrim girl's strict Protestant upbringing has given her such little fortitude.

Basil needs a wife. And I believe Miss de Vannier would make him a lovely one. Yesterday, under the pretense of hanging embroidered curtains in Basil's room --he thought me quite mad when I asked if I may-- I checked all of his effects for any traces of Lady Manners. Not one letter, lock of hair, or scented hankerchief of hers have followed him into the New World. His heart is not engaged. I do hope we have a shipboard wedding. I've consulted with chef and there are enough carrots and marzipan in the larder for a proper cake. The wines will be taken from my own Lordship's private reserve I had my maids hide in the hollowed-out posters of the beds brought along for our new home. We shall give them one of those beds too and some of the other furniture as well. The brandy can come from the stores in the two grandfather clocks. As for Christine's trousseau, she may take from my chests whatever she wishes.

To be continued...

Mayflower Screwballs VI

Man About Mayfair
Sir Basil Seal

Part I, II, III, IV, V Part VI

Sept. 1620
Mayflower at sea

Dear Uncle,

As you know, I am off on this infernal tub, heading to the new world and leaving England for reasons you are well aware of. As you suggested, I accepted the offer made to me by my Lord P and Lady P to act as guide and protector to their group of the faithful. We sailed in company with the Speedwell, but my Lord P's agents did their job and we were able to leave her standing at Dartmouth, thus removing some of these damned separatists....And I am quite sure that for my sins I have been doomed to be cooped up with these heathen hypocrites on this voyage.

By gad, I have never yet beheld such slatterns and grass combing buggers in my life...I keep thinking I see my horses and hounds on deck and realize it's a group of those separatist wenches...Although my horses and hounds are the more fetching. Only one or two a man could cock a leg over outside a very dark room. I have kept to myself and kept an eye out for any trouble. Jones, the captain is an ass and couldn't navigate his way across a dew pond. God alone knows where we will end up. I doubt he'll hit where he's aiming...We do have a Miss de Vannier with us, and a fine piece of French pastry it is by Gad. You would certainly like to bite that in the bum, develop lockjaw and get drug to death...But she is under the protection of my Lord P and Father M, and under my writ to protect as well, so I must steer clear of her...It has been mostly quiet so far, except that one heathen dog laid hands on Father M and cuffed him on the ear...How this came about I am not sure, but I made for the dog's cabin to slice him from stem to stern...I was pounding down the door when I realized that it was the cabin of one of the little separatist wenches I had been mounting the night before and left all standing that morning and looking over my shoulder, there was Father M and Miss de Vannier standing right behind me...Miss de Vannier stood with eyes like saucers and with what the poets politely call an "agitated bosom"...By Gad, if they would have seen hers they would have to come up with some other description...I turned to Father M in order to keep him from turning about and seeing such a sight, the man had a head wound and no telling what effect it would have had on him. I was trying to shoo them both away when the door flew open, and I'll be damned if the little vixen didn't slap me in the face and slam the door again...She must like me...Well, I decided I would deal with the scoundrel later and herded the both of them back to Lady P. After I got them settled with Lady P clucking about, I conversed with my Lord P and went out to check on a few things.

By strange coincidence, the cowardly dog that struck Father M must have fallen overboard that very night while at the head. When I went to search for him the next day he could not be found. Must have slipped in the dark and bumped his head, unable to call out you know, and was lost at sea. Well, serve him right is what I say. But Lady P, Father M and Miss de Vannier had to say Mass for him and pray for his heretical soul and were very upset. I just nodded at my Lord P and applied myself to the brandy...We probably won't have any more trouble I don't think.

My brandy and port are holding out all right and I did get to dance with the delightful Miss de Vannier which makes the voyage worth the trouble. How I'm going to keep this group alive once we land I have no idea, especially if the drink runs out...I will try and keep you abreast of developments. Lady P is at this moment trying to decorate my cabin and hang curtains or some such and is decrying the state of my linen...I don't think she realizes where we are yet, God bless her.

Your obedient, etc.
Sir Basil Trelawny Seal

To be continued...

Mayflower Screwballs V

Le Petit Grignotage
Christine

Part I, II, III, IV Part V

On the sixth of September 1620, one Mademoiselle Christine-Marie Elisabeth de Vannier boarded the Mayflower for the New World. She had told her paramour Charles, upon learning of his child born to Miss Brydges, that their love affair was over. She had thus left him heartbroken in London two months previous, and looked for a fresh beginning on farther shores.

She had arrived from France only two years earlier after she had had a falling out with her Huguenot parents upon her conversion to the Catholic faith; although England was no kinder to Catholics, she had been invited to King James’s court by a Catholic cousin, lady-in-waiting to Queen Anne of Denmark. She would be generously provided for, and, once there, fell sway to the charms of James’s son. All this ended, of course, upon the secret birth of Charles’s daughter Joanna. It was in London that she had met Lord and Lady Peperium at a secret Mass held at their manse, celebrated by Jesuit priest-in-hiding Father M. The good father had been commissioned by his superior to go forth and convert the savages in the New World, so together they boarded the Mayflower, the only Catholics amongst a sour-faced horde of Dutch Puritans (a fair number of them the very Huguenots that had tarnished her fair and beloved kingdom of the lily). There was, of course, Sir Basil Trelawny Seal, the other Catholic on board, who kept mostly to himself when he wasn’t sauntering about the poop deck with a bottle of brandy in hand, his smile disarming and scandalizing not a few female pilgrims. On the occasion of Christine’s first meeting, he was, in fact, not quite sober. Lady Peperium and Christine were in the middle of high tea when a rap came on the door. Before Lady P had a chance to utter, “Come,” a distinguished and comely gentleman burst through with a brawny, “What ho! Have you any port?” Sallying up to the table, he settled down rather unsteadily. His eyes then fell upon the French lady and he took her in, his gaze resting a moment too long on her bust line (perfectly modest by 17th-century standards). “I say,” he brightened, “who’s this?” Lady P laughed. “Christine, don’t mind Sir Basil; he’s harmless.” Sir Basil shot a glance at Lady P. “Perhaps harmless isn’t the right word. He’s a Catholic, and a gentleman—when he isn’t full of brandy. Sir Basil Trelawny Seal, I present to you Mademoiselle Christine-Marie Elisabeth de Vannier, recently of the court of our king.” Christine gave a gentle nod, and Sir Basil stood and bowed. “Enchanté, mademoiselle.” Christine recalled that it was just such wit and wiles that had swept her off her feet with the young Charles; Sir Basil, she resolved, was a temptation best resisted.

Just then, the Jesuit priest walked in, his Roman collar and soutane silhouetted darkly against the backdrop of sun. At that moment he looked very much like a knight. “Dear Father M!” she leapt to her feet. “Come and have some tea.” Before he could sit, she knelt and kissed his hands, as was her wont with all priests, to express gratitude for the hands that daily held the Sacred Host. He had been her confessor in England and had often given her wise counsel on her relations at court, her obedience to the Protestant King, and other personal matters. As he sat, she noticed a cut below his ear and a slight bruising. “Why, Father, what happened?” “The Mayflower may not be England and they can’t draw and quarter me, but the Calvinists can still cuff a priest without shame.” Lady P gasped. Sir Basil jumped to his feet. “What’s this? Boxed by a heretic? Where is the scoundrel? Tell me his name!” “But what did you do?” Christine asked. “Minister Lewes saw the collar, and that’s all it took. I did nothing, of course, after the knock.” “No, but I shall!” Sir Basil, sword drawn, sprinted out the door, Lady P in tow and Father M attempting to call him back. Christine held up the rear.

Fairly soon there was a deafening commotion as Sir Basil began hammering the minister’s cabin door with the hilt of his sword. “Out, you accursed scoundrel, and receive your due! If I wasn’t afraid to smash up Parliament, I’m certainly not afraid to cut a recreant like you to pieces!”

To be continued…

Mayflower Screwballs IV

Man About Mayfair
Sir Basil Seal

Part I, II, III

Part IV

Remember, remember the fifth of November,
The gunpowder, treason and plot,
I know of no reason why the gunpowder treason
Should ever be forgot.

What is little known, and rarely touched on in historical studies of the Gunpowder Plot, is the fate of the 9th recusant conspirator, Sir Basil Trelawny Seal, Bart. Sir Basil, who was a member of the recusant family Beauchamp-Cholmondeley, was the man sent to kidnap the Princess Elizabeth from Coombe Abbey. On the way, Sir Basil had stopped by his tailor and then, for some, uh, refreshment, at the home of a close friend, and was therefore able to make good his escape when the plot was exposed. To his credit, Fawkes, under torture, never revealed the name of the 9th conspirator, and Sir Basil was able to lie low with the help of Lady Peperium. Sir Basil, a soldier, had returned to England after service with his Catholic Majesty of Spain in the Eighty Years War, where he had, some say, met Fawkes, Owen, Catesby, Stanley and Winter whilst drinking and whoring in the Low Countries, but this is only hearsay. It is through his relationship with Lord and Lady Peperium that Sir Basil was recruited into the Mayflower Plot. Obviously, this group of recusant Catholics, planning on sailing to the New World by posing as 'colonists', would need the services of such an intrepid man of action like Sir Basil. Although reluctant to go at first, Lady Peperium was able to enlist his help with tales of the native women strutting about in the all together in the New World. This was quite enough to induce Sir Basil to join the cause. Once committed to the cause, Sir Basil began preparations to ensure that his wardrobe, weapons, horses and drink were all ready to make the trip. He also saw to it that his dagger was sharp and well oiled, he was, after all, going to be living in close proximity to protestants for some time...

To be continued...

Mayflower Screwballs III

Poet's Coroner
Mr. Peperium

Part I,II Part III

"Why the d---l did they send me to handle the business end of things?" mused Lord Peperium as he jostled--and was jostled by--the crowds of sailors, merchants and ne'er-do- wells that infested the Plymouth docks. "My Lady knows full well I am the man who, when last sent to negotiate new terms with our tenentry, stood them all ales and was voted Most-Likely-To-Be-Taken-In-By-A-Few-Implausible-Hard-Luck-Stories." He remembered the incident vividly, mostly because he still had the handsome mahogany plaque and faux-parchment certificate suitable for framing. Lord Peperium took comfort in knowing that that, at least, could never happen again. If his mission went as he hoped it would, his tenentry would have to deal with some sacrament-denying baboon who thought King James had written the Bible.

For he had been commissioned by his circle of recusant friends to hire the vessel that was to take them to the new world where, they hoped, they would succeed in planting the Old Faith. As he scanned the ornate sterns of the vessels that swayed almost imperceptibly at their moorings on the ebbing tide, he was not encouraged.

There was the three-masted Pope-Shredder, a likely craft with the severed head of Leo X for a figurehead. Then he spied the Consubstantiation, a tub of a vessel equipped with what looked like two sterns; a ship that, if it ever left the dock, would succeed in going absolutely nowhere. Last in line there stood the Sola Scriptura. A notice was posted by the gangplank that read:

"To all who intend to board the said Sola Scriptura, be it known: That the master of said vessel intends in no wise to venture forth to any country, territory or continent that hath not been verily ascertained to exist by the certain testimony of the infallible Holy Scriptures. Amen."

Lord P moved on, a goose-fleshy feeling running up and down underneath his doublet. He was about to give it up as a bad job. Indeed, he had even begun to concoct a likely story to tell her ladyship--perhaps something involving having to stand people ales--when the stern of the last vessel at the dock caught his eye: the Mayflower.

The web of associations that make up the Catholic mind began to vibrate gently in Lord P's head. May was the month of the Blessed Virgin. Her flower was the lily. Certainly heaven, which until now had been throwing him curve balls and fast sliders, had decided to lob a soft ball his way. And not just any soft ball, but a big, fat slow one.

"Excuse me" he said to the man who lounged by the gangway. "Would you, by any chance, be the agent for this vessel?"

"Aye" said the man, spitting in a nonchallant sort of way.

"And might you be..." Lord P paused, knowing full well the peril to which he was exposing his head (along with various other extremities he did not like to think of), "...one of US?"

He put a good deal of topspin on the last word, packing into it a wealth of meaning. So much meaning, in fact, that the man had to take a few moments to unpack it. Then his eyes brightened with the light of full comprehension.

"Aye" he said slowly, "but don't tell a soul."

"I shan't" promised Lord P. "After all, we have to be so careful these days."

"We certainly do" averred the agent. "Why, just last week I was picked up for questioning."

"My word" gasped Lord P, "Really? Did they give you the rack?"

"No such luck" the agent sighed. "But I give you my honest word. Questions and inuendoes and all sorts of fuss, just because I happened to be hanging 'round a grammar school."

Lord P paused again. Obviously, in a crowd of sailors, merchants and ne'er-do-wells, he had picked one of the latter as a partner in conversation.

"I see" he said slowly. "And where is this fair ship headed?"

"To the new world, mate.".

"Don't call me that"

"Pardon?"

"Nothing. Please, do go on."

"Like I was saying, this ship, along with the Speedwell, is going to the New World, to Virginia, where I hope to establish a new system of grammar schools." The man smirked horribly. "Just see 'em try to pick me up for questioning then."

"I see. Just a young man with a dream. Good for you." said Lord P hurriedly. "So you say this ship and the Speedwell are on their way to Virginia?"

"Verily."

"Might I, um, book pasasage for a few...er...friends?" Lord P hoped the man wouldn't wink luridly.

"Well, well, well" said the man, winking luridly. "Of course of course of course."

"Quite."

"I can't recommend the company, though."

"No?"

"Naw. A bunch of starchy black-and-white chapel folk. Not like US at all. The last thing they're thinking about" he added morosely, "is grammar schools, if you know what I mean."

Lord P relaxed inwardly. Obviously the prurient interest in lower education would be limited to the fo'c'stle.

"Very well" he said, producing a purse of gold from the inner recesses of his hose. "Take this as surety for our passage."

The man hefted it gratefully.

"Is that enough?" asked Lord P anxiously.

"Enough?" laughed the agent. "Why, I might even expand.".

"Expand?"

"Middle school" said the agent, a soft light in his eye.

"Tell me, " said Lord P, are there any more of you--I mean US--on this voyage?"

"Have no fear" said the man, "we are everywhere. But mostly of US" whispered the agent confidentially, " are taking passage on the Speedwell."

"Right" said Lord P over his shoulder. He had other business on his mind now.

1) To locate the Speedwell.

2) To locate a likely set of goons or ne'er-do-wells (he wasn't choosy)

3) Lend them every mallet, chisel and crowbar at his disposal.

4) Give them a rudimentary course in how to open seams.

To be continued...

Mayflower Screwballs II

Madame's Nightshirt
Mrs. Peperium

Part I Part II

In 1822, as the debate over Catholic Emancipation filled both the back and front benches of Parliament, the poet William Wordsworth, a strong opponent of such a measure, set about writing a series of Ecclesiastical sonnets to make the history of The Church of England appear much nicer than it ever really was. "The Pilgrim Fathers" was one of his 132 attempts at perfuming the historical record:

WELL worthy to be magnified are they
Who, with sad hearts, of friends and country took
A last farewell, their loved abodes forsook,
And hallowed ground in which their fathers lay;
Then to the new-found World explored their way,
That so a Church, unforced, uncalled to brook
Ritual restraints, within some sheltering nook
Her Lord might worship and his word obey
In freedom. Men they were who could not bend;
Blest Pilgrims, surely, as they took for guide
A will by sovereign Conscience sanctified;
Blest while their Spirits from the woods ascend
Along a Galaxy that knows no end,
But in His glory who for Sinners died.

The sonnet, while perfectly lovely, is just like the Church of England; fatally flawed. Like everyone else, Wordsworth drunk the Koolaid that the Pilgrim Fathers were just a group of religious separatists bent on separating themselves from the Church of England. For they believed the C of E had not done enough to separate itself from the Catholic Church back when it invented itself out of stolen cloth. One would think that substituting a king for a pope, declaring transubstantiation null and void, purgatory to be repugnant to the word of God, smashing stain glass windows, destroying relics, burning whole libraries of great works, stealing universities, trashing monastaries, and convents, murdering priests, nuns, bishops, Sir Thomas More, John Fisher and any other papist pest they could lay their axes upon, as well as dispensing all of the church's best lands, horses, and cellars to the most faithful servants (crooks) of the Crowne would have been considered enough separation for most people. And for most people it was. But not for the small band of religious separatists known as the Pligrims. Talk about one hard to please crowd. The Pilgrims, most unwisely, made their dissatisfaction with the C of E known at the monthly vestry meeting of their local Anglican parish. The vicar there, filled with the zeitgeist of the times, quickly saw how he could work this to his advantage. He placed himself on the fast-track for preferment to a bishopric with full voting rights in Parliament by informing his bishop of the Pilgrims' problem. His bishop told Lambeth Palace. Lambeth Palace told the King. The King informed his toadys in Parliament. And in no time, the state-run Church of England and the Church-run State of England made the Pilgrims' lives a living Hell. Quickly understanding when you're up against a bunch of religious people without the finer feeling, you've had it, the Pilgrims picked up their skirts and fled to Holland on the next boat departing from Southampton.

Once ensconced in Holland, safe among the rich, cosmopolitan, and completely tolerant Dutch, the Pilgrims were allowed to worshiped God the way they wanted. Plain and simple. It was a lovely time for them in the early years there. But gradually their dismay grew as they witnessed their children slowly be corrupted by the lax Dutch morality, the totally un-English social graces, and the all-too-ready-made French fashions of the day. Finally, on one cold mid-November night, life among the Dutch came to a head. The Pilgrim children of teenage years announced to their parents they were going out into the streets to proclaim the good news, "Le Beaujolais Nouveau est arrivé!" That was the night the Pilgrims had to face the ugly truth they had but two options left to them in this cruel world : Mass suicide or emigrate to the New World.

Thankfully, the Pilgrims chose to emigrate to the New World. Emigrating to the New World was not the simple cakewalk across the southern border it is today. One needed a ship as well money. The Pilgrims had neither. Then, the Pilgrims needed land to work once they had arrived. Through old family connections in London, the Pilgrims contracted with The Virginia Company to settle on the northern part of the already established Jamestown plantation. A London iron merchant, Thomas Weston, loaned them the money needed to pay for their trip across the pond. Like all good venture capitalists, Weston placed conditions on his loan. One was to take "hired help" along with them to the New World to help make their endeavor profitable to him. The second condition was, they had to take a few "colonists' of no profession at all. Since the Pilgrims trusted neither the "hired help" nor the "colonists", they took to calling the entire lot of them "strangers". Which was wise because a handful of the strangers were really much stranger than all of the other strangers.

Now that the English monarchy has devolved into the quaintest roadside organic vegetable stand in all of England, and the C of E has devolved into the most elite same-sex dating service for the religiously inclined outside of the quads at Oxford, Cambridge, Yale and Harvard combined, the true story of those who sailed on the Mayflower can safely be told.

To be continued...