The Hearth and Eagle by Anya Seton Page A

wait to land,” she said, smiling that their characters should be thus reversed, she chafing at delay and he counseling patience.
    “See—” he said, pointing to the
Arbella,
“they’re manning their skiff. They mean to waft us in, though being so much larger they must wait themselves for high water and a fair wind.”
    At five o’clock of the soft June afternoon the
]ewell
reached Naumkeag at last, and dropped anchor in the South Harbor. The low wooded shore was dotted with people waving, and the Huzzahs came now from their throats, not from those on the ship. These pressed together silently gazing at journey’s end. Master Wenn raised his voice in a prayer of Thanksgiving, and Phebe, caught like the rest of them by the solemnity of the moment, bowed her head while the tears started to her eyes.
    Mark was busy helping to lower the long boat, and she was in the first load to leave the
Jewell.
As he lifted her down from the ladder, she was astonished to feel a sharp nostalgia. The battered little ship which she had so much detested was now friend and home. She looked back at it with misted eyes, and the faces of those still on board, even that of Mrs. Bagby, seemed transfigured and lovable.
    But it was good to set foot on the land though it seemed to sway and heave beneath her like the ship’s deck. Delicious to refresh the eyes with the brown of earth and the brilliant green of the trees, loftier than any at home.
    A score of men and three or four women had gathered at the landing place to greet them, but they held back in respect for the two ministers. Mr. Higginson and Mr. Skelton, tall and solemn in their flowing black prunella robes, bowed to each arrival saying “Welcome to Salem.” It seemed that the Indian name “Naumkeag” had been replaced by the Hebrew word for “Peace.”
    Phebe held back a little, shy of these strange faces and waiting for Mark to discover what was expected of them, and as she watched, her joyous excitement dwindled. They looked haggard and ill, these people who had already been settled for a year in the land of promise. Mr. Higginson, though only forty-six, seemed like an old man. She noted the trembling of his hands, the eyes sunk back into the sockets, the unwholesome red on his cheekbones. Nor did his fellow minister, Mr. Skelton, look much stronger. They were all thin, ill-clothed, and hollow-eyed, these men and women of Salem, and after the first cheer they fell silent, drawing together on the bank and watching withsomber looks while boatloads of passengers disembarked from the
Jewell.
    “Come—” said Mark, returning to Phebe. “We go to Governor Endicott’s.” They and the others moved along behind the ministers up a trampled path.
    Phebe stared around her curiously, noting some rough earth dugouts roofed with bark, and tiny log huts beneath the trees, and thought with a thrill that these must be Indian dwellings. “I wonder how far it is to town?” she said to Mark. But Mr. Higginson overheard her, and to her mortification stopped and turned looking down at her. "
This
is the town, mistress—” he said; his burning eyes showed reproof and a faint amusement. “This the highway—” He pointed down the path, “and these our houses—” His long thin hand pointed to the bark dugouts.
    “Oh to be sure, sir—” she stammered, turning scarlet. The minister nodded and continued to walk. Phebe followed silently, striving against dismay. On her father’s land these dwellings would not have been thought fit to house the swine.
    They came to a clearing of uneven grassy ground and near this clearing there were three wooden houses. The largest was two stories high and fairly built with windows and gables, almost like those at home. It was the Governor’s house.
    John Endicott met them on his stone doorstep and spoke a few gruff words of welcome, but he seemed out of temper, a sharp frown between his bushy brows, his pointed beard waggled irritably. For he was Governor