​If you have French-Canadian ancestry, you most likely descend from one or more of a thousand “Mothers of New France’ – Filles à Marier and Filles du Roi. These incredible young women left a civilized, seventeenth-century France, endured a treacherous trans-Atlantic crossing with some dying while on route, and arrived malnourished and disoriented to a harsh wilderness manned by soldiers, fur trappers, and priests. They stayed with nuns to recuperate and be counseled on marriage and life ahead of them. They could be selective since the ratio of men to women was decidedly in their favor. The omnipresent Catholic Church was the only common denominator connecting these different worlds. Above is Sister Marguerite Bourgeoys leading arriving filles to the convent at Maison Saint-Gabriel

​Les Filles à Marier, marriageable girls, arrived in Québec between 1634 and September 1663. These Mademoiselles arrived without the King’s auspices and traveled alone or with a few others in hopes of a new life. Why did they undertake this perilous journey? Was it on their volition? Did second thoughts ensue while on route or while enduring more severe winters than they had before? Did they long for a community of women like in the world they left? Pierre J. Gagné has written a brief biography of each of the 262 filles. Mon Fille à Marier is Marie Deligny, my eight-greats grandmother.
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Marie was born about 1635 in the diocese of Meaux in the Brie region of Champagne. After her father’s death, she left for New France and eventually married Louis Jobidon in Québec City in the home of Guillaume Thibaut. No written marriage contract has been found possibly since neither spouse could sign their name. Marie and Louis had eleven children over a period of twenty years. Several were born in primitive quarters during the harsh Québec winters, three died young, and one was mentally challenged. Louis died in Château-Richer in 1677, a year after the baptism of his eleventh child. Marie raised the children as a widow until she married Julien Allard. He had been widowed years earlier and left for New France in 1665 alone. He and Marie had no children. Marie died 24 December 1696 and was buried at Château-Richer.

The Filles à Marier represent more than a quarter of the thousand or so female settlers to New France over a twenty-year period. Still, the growth of France’s new world outpost paled in comparison to New England’s, which had over twenty thousand settlers arrive there primarily in family groups between 1629 and 1640.  King Louis XIV was at risk of losing his claim on the new world to his arch-enemy England. On advice from the Intendant of New France, Jean Talon (shown below), King Louis instituted a program to encourage women to leave for New France, marry, and bear children. Women primarily ages twelve to twenty-five and with a reference letter from their parish priest petitioned to become a King’s daughter, a Fille du Roi. Once accepted, King Louis paid on each daughter’s behalf a hundred livres to the French East India Company for her crossing and trousseau and a dowry of four hundred livres to encourage males to marry. As time went on, the dowry lessened and often was paid in kind. His daughters were held to a high moral standard and had to be physically fit to survive the crossing, the rigorous work that would ensue, and of course, child birthing.

​The majority of the filles came from Paris, Normandy, and the western regions of France. Their social backgrounds differed, yet all were poor. Many were orphans with low literacy levels. Some came from noble families that had lost their fortunes, and others from large families with a daughter to ‘spare’. The filles disembarked at Québec City, Trois-Rivières, and Montreal. Most often the couples were engaged in a church with their priests as their witnesses. A marriage contract was signed and notarized to protect the women giving them financial security if anything happened to them or their husbands and the freedom to annul the contract should the husband prove incompatible. Some eight hundred filles arrived from 1663 to 1673, and Pierre J. Gagné has written a brief biography of each. Mon Fille du Roi is Élisabeth Salé, my seven-greats grandmother.

​Élisabeth was born about 1651 in Saint-Médard parish, Paris. Her father was a merchant-ironmonger to the palace. She arrived at Trois-Rivières at age nineteen with an estimated dowry of two hundred livres and married Jacques Marcot on 9 September 1670. Jacques signed the marriage contract and Élisabeth made a large É to acknowledge her King’s gift of a hundred livres. Jacques had been baptized 7 October 1644 in the parish of Saint-Léger, Fècamp, Normandy. He had arrived in New France along with his brother Nicolas in 1667. Nicolas had married the Fille à Marier Martine Taurey earlier.
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Jacques and Élisabeth resided first at Trois-Rivières where their first two sons were baptized before settling at Neuville/Les Écureuils. Later, the family moved to Cap-Santé and settled on lot hundred and five of the new division. They would have fourteen children with many reaching adulthood. They had done their small part for their king, populate New France. Jacques died about 1718. Élisabeth died on 31 December 1722 and was buried at Cap-Santé

​On 19 August 2017, the Association de Famille Marcotte celebrated the 350th anniversary of the Marcotte families in North America. Virtually every Marcotte in Canada and the United States descend from either Jacques or Nicolas and their remarkable spouses Fille du Roi Èlisabeth Salé and Fille à Marier Martine Taurey, respectively; and I am one of those descendants.

Sources for this blog were extracted in part from The American-French Genealogical Society www.afgs.org, The Association des familles Marcotte www.famillesmarcotte.com, and Denis Thieven's 17 February 2109 article "The Filles du Roi: How Historical Revisionists and Feminists Have Slandered My Ancestors" publish on www.eurocanadian.ca  

​I spent the first week in June with my eldest son Justin, who works for EF Educational Tours -- a first-class organization. My father turned twenty-two on 6 May 1944 and spent that spring and summer in a B-24, the “Belle of the Brawl”, on thirty missions over the European continent. On my flight to France, I read Stephen Ambrose’s “The Wild Blue”, which opened my eyes further to what my father endured. Now, I have more questions for him, but he died five days after my 21st birthday. As long as I remain in the here and now, they will remain unanswered – perhaps answers come later. My son peppered me with questions about his grandfather he never met, which I answered as best I could. We still have his bomber jacket, which was part of his company’s exhibit. Below is my father holding me when I was thirteen days old and my son while in Caen this month. 

​On Monday the 3rd, we drove to Mont Saint Michel in Lower Normandy, a magical place. The serene countryside with wheat fields, grazing livestock, and an occasional village with a church clustered among small low-lying buildings appeared like self-sustaining communities removed from today’s hubbub. Several miles from our destination, Le Mont rose out of the low-lying marsh to float seemingly on the horizon. The weary walk to the top was rewarded with a commanding view. 

​Tuesday, we visited Bayeux that was spared the devastating bombings, unlike Caen. Our first stop was Musee de la Tapisserie de Bayeux, a must for this history lover. The museum has excellent accompanying audio that explains the sixty or so depicted scenes as you move along the seventy-meter tapestry. My son seemed enthused, and so I regaled him with more about the bastard Duke William, Matilda his queen of nobler rank than him, Edward the Confessor, the misfortunate Harold Godwinson, Tostig and the Battle of Stamford Bridge, and particular to our Woollacott North Devon roots, Britric. 

​We visited Cathedral Notre Dame, and fortuitously, a rehearsing orchestra added to our experience as we moved about the magnificence. Across the road from the British Cemetery is a memorial honoring William the Conqueror with a Latin inscription on its frieze that translates into, “We, once conquered by William, have now set free the Conqueror’s native land.” Rosebushes, irises, and other plantings were in front of the gravestones. Each row had different plantings and together you sensed you were in a perfectly maintained British garden. I paused at some gravestones to read the epitaphs as my eyes welled; for the unknown, a simple passage ‘Known only to God’. I noticed each age and after a while, I thought, “How young, how very young.” 

​On Wednesday my son needed to prepare for upcoming events, so I went alone to Saint Mere Eglise, the first village liberated after the allied landing. Sounds of engines backfiring until they achieved a smooth constant rumble greeted me. Tanks, deuce and a half trucks, jeeps, and ambulances queued to parade through the village. I visited the museum, watched grainy black and white documentaries, and meandered about the village. A parachute with a mannequin attached dangled from the church just as John Steele did seventy-five years earlier. Men wore uniforms of the times. The 101st Airborne arm patch being most prevalent -- a screaming eagle with talons extended intent on grabbing its prey. Women wore dresses, some with Red Cross armbands, their hair coiffed 1940s style, and bright red lipstick. The air was filled with Glenn Miller and the Andrews Sisters. I was in 1944 and thought often of my paratrooper friend who had died two months earlier. “What was his day like seventy-five years ago?”

​Main roads were closed on the 6th, except to buses transporting people to Omaha Beach. Traveling early that morning and absent heavy traffic, the countryside seemed more serene than a few days ago. I wondered if it was just as serene before all hell broke loose. At the memorial service, President Macron spoke in French except when we faced the veterans and thanked them in English for their sacrifice. The veterans seemed as moved as I was. President Trump, not an adept speaker, gave a few touching vignettes that caused me to well-up. The band sounded triumphant and the ballads sweet and touching to add to the solemn occasion. Sitting near shade trees, I heard approaching jets before I saw them. Their roar intensified and climaxed as they emerged from the tree cover. Several streams of red, white, and blue – bleu, blanc, et rouge -- billowed behind; minutes later, more jets, a deafening roar, and more color. The cemetery is unassuming with only white crosses or Stars of David and absent plantings like the British Cemetery at Bayeux. Perfectly aligned, the over nine thousand grave markers seemed to stretch to eternity. The enormity is overwhelming.

​On Friday, EF Educational Tours hosted over two thousand people at their Utah Beach pavilion, many were high school students. The Company had made a ‘baseball card’ for each invited veteran with his image in 1944 and in 2019 on it. The students grabbed cards from the available stack, queued, and waited until the veteran was available to sign his card. Awestruck, they hung on words from men eighty years or so their senior. Any teacher would long to captivate their students as these veterans did. Padlocks were available to sign and attach to the Remembrance Wall that the EF Tours had constructed outside the Utah Beach Museum. Navy Seals reenacted the landing and bounced in  challenging surf, not nearly as challenging as waves I had recently seen in the D-Day landing documentaries.

Research gives you only facts. Visiting where history occurred gives facts a life. Quite special to this trip was being alone with my son for a week, more time alone than I have ever spent with any of my children. Experiencing the 75th anniversary of D-Day was emotional, thought-provoking, and rewarding.

​

​Naamah continues the planned trilogy albeit chronologically out of order since her story had to be told. She and her four-greats grandfather John Law my first novel’s protagonist faced similar challenges. Both held shunned Christian beliefs, were forced from their homeland, endured tragic losses, and persevered against prejudice and hostility. In “The Believers in the Crucible Nauvoo” Naamah symbolized the pioneering women of the early LDS church, just as John Law exemplified the Scottish Prisoners of Wars struggles in the Puritan Theocracy of Colonial America. Carol Cornwell Madsen’s book “In Their Own Words” enriI wantede to tell. Delving further, I found some of Joseph Smith’s discourses not dissimilar to my Episcopalian beliefs and broadened my Christian foundation. However, the plural wives' principle was an anathema that I had dismissed as justification to institutionalize man’s polygamous tendencies. Yet I continued wondering about Naamah’s perspective. Laurel Thatcher Ulrich’s book “A House Full of Females” provided further insight. Each relationship was unique and multi-faceted as was Naamah’s with Brigham

​What is the mood or tone Naamah portrays and how does this affect the story?

Naamah is a strong, resilient woman of deep faith. She is six-years-old when we first meet her placing flowers on her father’s grave site in remembrance of his birthday. Her unique name honors her aunt, Naamah Kendall Jenkins, who had died three weeks before her birth. Early in life, Naamah connected to family residing in heaven. Her mother’s death several years later tightened those heavenly bonds. In a larger sense, the Calvinist doctrine of the First Awakening had formed her Christian beliefs and had grown stale. Something was lacking. Joseph Smith’s teachings offered refreshment and a romanticized view of principles she held dear. This Second Awakening gave an offer of hope, salvation, and glory to those who had believed their lives were pre-determined to be ‘sinners in the hand of an angry God'. Many still clung to past and persecuted those who followed the teachings of these ‘false prophets’.

What are Naamah’s role in her family and some emotions triggered by it?

Naamah lost her father early and her mother several years later. Being the eldest of three sisters, she assumed a surrogate mother role for her ‘baby sister’ Susan, protecting her from the acid-tongued, narrow-minded, middle sister Betsey. Susan’s relationship with Naamah changed as she matured while Naamah’s did not. Her baby Susan still needed care; she had to stay in Peterborough and not leave with the Saints for Nauvoo. Eventually, she realized that Susan had become her crutch, which caused her to doubt the depth of her faith. Soon after arriving in Nauvoo, she marries, only to lose her husband a few months later. A month later her beloved Aunt Susan dies and compounds her sense of loss. Now virtually alone and feeling isolated, she longed to return to Peterborough. Her emotions overwhelmed and paralyzed her until two Sisters rekindled her belief in eternal life giving her a path out of her nadir.

x“. . . And fired the shot heard round the world.” -- Ralph Waldo Emerson (1836).

It wasn’t “the shot” that killed Captain Isaac Davis on the morning of 19 April 1775, but one among a disorganized, British volley that felled him and changed the world for eternity.
​
Isaac Davis was born in Acton 23 February 1745 to Ezekiel and Mary Davis – a rugged son to rugged pioneers. Isaac descends from Dolor Davis who along with Simon Willard, the Reverend Peter Bulkeley, and others were given in 1635 a grant for ‘six myles of square land’ that would become the village of Concord. On 24 October 1764, he married Hannah Brown, and they would have two boys and two girls.
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In response to the Massachusetts Provincial Congress’s recommendation, Acton established its militia in the autumn of 1774 to be ready at a minute’s notice should Regulars housed in Boston undertake warlike movements. Private Reuben Law enlisted along with kin, friends, elders, and town leaders. Rank usually coincided with one’s stature within the town, except for Davis who was elected Captain. A gunsmith, Davis insisted his men be well equipped and made rifles for them. They met twice weekly to practice their marksmanship. The camaraderie strengthened under Davis’s discipline. No militia was better prepared than Acton’s when they assembled at his home on 19 April for what fate would deliver three hours later.​

Around seven AM, Davis moved out only to pause after several rods to return to Hanna standing in the front door. Their children stood nearby and were rumored to have ‘crank rash’. Noticing their blotchy skin and runny noses, Davis turned to Hannah and said, “Take good care of the children.” As they locked eyes, we wonder if Hannah’s countenance was as stoic as her husband’s, even though he had received an omen that foretold his death in battle.

Heading toward Concord, the fifer and drummer played "The White Cockade", which tradition holds was Davis’s favorite marching tune. The title refers to the white ribbons worn by Scottish Revolutionaries during the 1745 rebellion of Bonnie Prince Charles. The rousing melody may have appealed to Reuben Law’s Scottish lineage as he took a few jig-steps, ironically, beginning another rebellion against the English thirty years later.

Around nine AM, the Acton Militia reached the Old North Bridge. Over five hundred men from area militia had gather on a hill overlooking the bridge with a hundred or so Regulars occupying it. Meanwhile, in Concord center, British forces were burning wooden gun carriages they had found when they had rummage the town early. Seeing the black plume on the eastern horizon, the colonists believed Concord was being put to the torch. While higher ranking officers dithered amid the pandemonium, Acton’s Captain stepped forward. “I have not a man that is afraid to go.” He led his men two abreast to the western edge of the Bridge. ​

Private Reuben Law was part of Davis’s company on that day. In the latest draft of “The Patriot”, here is what transpired:
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Quiet ensued, except for the meandering river oblivious to its surrounding at this wisp of time in its eternity. The easy flow with a few cherry blossoms afloat was interrupted to swirl around clumps wedged into the bridge supports. The resultant eddy gurgled, distracting Reuben. Its vortex mesmerized him until it became a quiet flow downstream. With a deep breath, Reuben relaxed. The breeze brought a pleasing hint of cherries.

Then, a thunderous volley ripped through Reuben’s inner peace, jolting him into reality. He flinched and shook his head in disbelief. White puffs across from him swirled above muskets; cherry blossom scents had been tinged with a pungent odor of gunpowder. When another roar came from the east, he clutched his firelock.

“My head has been creased,” screamed the young fifer, Luther Blanchard. The boy grabbed his head and slumped. Agape, Reuben riveted on the thrashing, still screaming Luther.

“Fire, fellow soldiers. For god’s sake, fire,” said Concord’s Major John Buttrick.

Reuben turned to the voice. On cue, Captain Davis took aim. He’ll avenge Luther, he thought. With another roar from the east, Captain Davis collapsed; and with another, Abner Hosmer staggered.

“Fire on that bloody bastard who shot Captain Davis,” said Philip.

 “Where?”

Pointing, Philip said, “There, at the smoke above the bearskin cap.”

The volleying continued as men yelled. Firelocks hissed and exploded. Smoky puffs had vaporized into a haze. Bucolic fragrances had given way to a bitterness that stung the lungs. A serene spring morning was lost amid chaos at a tiny bridge on 19 April 1775.

Amid the haze, Reuben had no distinct target until a bearskin cap emerged. Set against a blue sky, the black fur was an ideal target. “Just below that cap, square on his forehead. God, let this shot find the bastard’s skull for Captain Davis.” A deafening roar came as his gun butt slammed his shoulder.

 “Did you get him?”

The smoke blurred his vision. “I don’t know, Philip.”

The Regulars pulled back toward Concord Center, and the volleying ceased. Confusion abounded, particularly with the Acton men who had been at the front and, now, their Captain lay motionless. Drummer Abner Hosmer was dead, and Fifer Blanchard’s head was being bandaged. “The White Cockade” would not be played to rally the troops. Some pursued the retreating Regulars in a pell-mell manner.

Still stunned, Reuben jockeyed among the chaos toward his Captain. As he neared, Davis lay still. His body had been little altered, still conveying a virility. His determined face appeared as it had when he had said, “I have not a man who is afraid to go.”

Reuben hoped his Captain’s wounds weren’t fatal. But with another step, he saw a wine-colored spot the size of a musket ball that expanded to a watery crimson with clumps of innards. Captain Davis had been squarely hit in the chest; he was dead.

Reuben wanted to weep, but he knew if he did, he would have disappointed his Captain. Besides, he was too numb to cry. He thought about Davis’s earlier words when he had rebuked two men for boasting about a chance to kill ‘old General Gage’, the British commander.

“This is a most eventful crisis for the Colonies. Blood will be spilt, that is for certain; a crimsoned fountain would be opened. None can tell when it would close nor with whose blood it would overflow. Let every man gird himself for battle, and not be afraid. God is on our side. It is my great hope that this country be free.”
​
Captain Davis had foreseen it all, Reuben thought. He wondered if his Captain had been prescient enough to foresee his own death, too. When will this crimson fountain of death cease to flow, he wondered?

When I read a recent post about Christian Di Spagna’s book “Founding Martyr”, it reminded me of my intention to blog about Dr. Joseph Warren. In researching various historical figures for my current novel in progress, “The Patriot”, Warren’s life was so compelling I had to weave him into the novel. He was closely linked with those early disciples of the cause for independence -- John Hancock, Paul Revere, Samuel Adams, and others from the Sons of Liberty – and its first martyr.​

He was born 11 June 1741 in Roxbury to Joseph and Mary (Stevens) Warren and attended the Roxbury Latin School, which was founded by Reverend John Eliot in 1645. Today, a statue of Warren's stands prominent on the School's grounds; the school is the oldest in continuous in North America. Obviously blessed with intellect, he enrolled in Harvard College where he studied medicine. At age 23, he married the heiress 18-year-old Elizabeth Hooten who bore him five children, four of whom lived before her death in 1772. In 1769, he became the Master of the Scottish Rite Freemasonry with Paul Revere being its Secretary; John Hancock succeeded Warren upon his death. No doubt, politics must have been discussed often while at the Freemason’s Lodge.​

While researching for “The Believers in the Crucible Nauvoo”, the magnitude of the number of Peterborough residents who converted to Mormonism fascinated me. The more I delved, I realized that the young charismatic apostle Elder Eli P. Maginn was the major factor for the fledgling religion’s growth.

​Maginn was born in 1818 and was residing with his family in Scarborough Township, Upper Canada, just east of Toronto. He was eighteen when Parley P. Pratt, a Mormon since 1830, arrived in the spring of 1836 to first expose him to Joseph Smith’s prophecy. Prior to Pratt’s arrival, French Catholics, Presbyterians, Dutch Reformed, Anglicans/Episcopalians, and Methodists had influenced Scarborough’s residents.  Joseph Smith, seeking a temporary retreat from the turmoil in Ohio and Missouri, visited Upper Canada a year later. No doubt, hearing directly from the Prophet inspired the resolute, teenaged Maginn further.​​

Maginn began his ministry moving among the significant Mormon communities in the west. He was in Missouri when Governor Lillian Boggs ordered the ‘extermination of all Mormons within the state’, which led to the 30 October 1838 Mormon Massacre. Maginn left Missouri to be among the faithful residing along the Mississippi before returning to Upper Canada. In 1840, he moved to Lake Ontario’s southern side where he proselytized and baptized in Oswego and Onondaga.
Soon after, he entered New England, a region where earlier missionaries had established several areas with encouraging followings. He traveled the New Hampshire/Massachusetts circuit while working with other missionaries. In July 1841, Maginn visited Peterborough, New Hampshire for the first time. He was well received, and Magin centered his ministry in the town. By Christmas, twenty had been baptized into the faith.

His flock continued to grow inspired by the Prophet’s message and Maginn’s delivery of it. A Boston newspaper described the twenty-two-year-old Maginn as appearing as ‘a man farther advanced in years.’ Further, illuminating his frame of ‘six feet in height, and a rather commanding appearance’ was ‘an honest, happy smile’. In 1925, a local historian reflected and stated that Maginn ‘was a lively, ready speaker and had a bible at his tongue’s end, being everywhere ready to meet clergymen and laymen in religious controversy’. As the local clergy’s following diminished, they closed their churches to Maginn’s preaching, forcing the Mormons to meet in a hall in Peterborough’s Goodridge Block. On April 27, 1844, Maginn died of consumption in Lowell, Massachusetts at the age of twenty-six. He had spent but a few years on earth, yet he had an effective ministry.

(For more on Elder Eli P. Maginn, I refer you to “. . . The Forgotten Eli P. Maginn” by Ronald O. Barney, the primary source for the the above.)
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In “The Believers”, Naamah meets her Aunt Susan to attend her first meeting of the Saints and meets Elder Maginn. Here is a portion of that scene:
​
Naamah reached Main Street and ceased reflecting. Several blocks ahead, people clustered near the tavern. She was leery as she neared until she spotted Aunt Susan. She called to her, and when Aunt Susan turned around, she waved.
Aunt Susan hurried to Naamah. “I feared you might not come.”
“Forgive me, I’m late.” Naamah eyes darted to the tavern’s large oaken door. “There’s something devilish about a preacher and a tavern.”
“I waited away from the others to be easily seen.” She pointed to a nearby building and said, “We’re meeting there.”
 As they moved toward the building, Naamah asked, “Where are Uncle Washington and Cousin George?”
“Inside. The hall fills up fast. Oliver is here, too.”
“And cousins Albert and Samuel?”
“No, they’re home.” Susanna tightened her lips and glanced away. “Perhaps someday.” She forced a smile and turned to the crowd near the hall. “Oh, that’s him.” She rose on her tiptoes and said, “Elder Eli Maginn.”
A tall, angular man with a welcoming smile approached. Several rushed toward him, and he paused to greet them. He spoke to each as he moved with a confident, comfortable stride. His following, intent on listening, took occasional stutter-steps to avoid bumping one another.
“Let’s wait,” said Susanna. “I’ll introduce you.”
 “So young. Not like I imagined.”
Susanna was as transfixed as those in the entourage and didn’t respond. Naamah sensed the building enthusiasm, and hers built, too.
When Maginn reached them, he stopped and said, “Sister Susanna, isn’t it?” His English accent added importance to a simple greeting. As he took Susanna’s hand with both of his, her cheeks flushed. He released a hand to stroke her forearm. “And where are your husband and son?”
“Inside,” said Susanna. “And another son has joined us.”
“Splendid.” Maginn turned to Naamah and asked, “And who do we have here?”
“My niece, Naamah, who I told you about.”
“A remarkable name.” He clasped Naamah’s hand similar to the way he had held Susanna’s.
Naamah arched her neck to look into his eyes that glowed as warm as his hands felt, and with his unique accent, she felt an immediate bond. “I was named for my aunt,” she said.
“Two Naamahs -- even more notable.”
“She died before I was born.”
“And now she resides in heaven, waiting to be reunited in the flesh with her namesake. Naamah, wife of Noah, meaning pleasant, because Naamah’s conduct was pleasing to God. Am I right?”
“You certainly know your Bible,” said Naamah.
“God’s ways are never truly known. I’m sure your aunt’s death inspired your name. And quite apt, as you seem to possess an agreeable demeanor. Indeed, so pleasing it doth draw one near.”
Naamah’s cheeks flushed, and she and Maginn remained enrapt for what seemed like an eternity to her.
He broke his grasp and offered a gesturing hand. “Shall we go inside?”
As they moved, a voice came from the gathering tavern crowd. “Blasphemer.”
Naamah turned and recognized several among the crowd; a few were her fellow churchgoers. She curled her shoulders and lowered her eyes. Maginn stood erect, projecting a dignity. A strong, yet gentleman, she thought. She sidled to her aunt, who by instinct put her arm around her.
“My brother, come, join us,” said Maginn as he gestured to the hall.
“I’m not yer brother.”
“Are we not all God’s children, my brother?”
“You’re guided by a false prophet.”
“We’re guided by God as he speaks through the prophets. Come, hear for yourself.”
“Never.”
“Very well, perhaps later.” 
Maginn turned from the tavern crowd and, with arms extended, shepherded Naamah and Susanna forward. Others joined and nestled close. Naamah sensed a fellowship and felt protected until one bellowed.
“Never, Maginn. Do you hear me, you blasphemer?”​

​Bulkeley was born 13 January 1583 in Odell, Bedfordshire, England. Obviously precocious, he was admitted to St. John's College at the age of sixteen where he received several degrees. He succeeded his father as rector of Odell’s All Saints Church. Like his father, he was a non-conformist who veered from Anglican Church requirements. In 1634, he refused to use the Sign of the Cross at Archbishop William Laud’s visitation and was removed from his parish.
​
Apparently, Bulkeley had had enough. Within a year, he boarded the Susan and Ellen for the Colonies as part of The Great Migration (1630 – 1640). Soon after arriving, he and Major Simon Willard negotiated with a local tribe the purchase of Musketaquid, which lay on the western fringe.  In the spring of 1637, he led a party into the wilderness and settled at Musketaquid, which he later renamed Concord in gratitude for its peaceful acquisition.

​He was influential throughout the fast-growing Colony. He served on the council for Anne Hutchinson’s trial that resulted in her banishment to Rhode Island and as moderator for the Synod called for Anne's ‘errors’. In 1646, he published his sermons, The Gospel Covenant, or the Covenant of Grace Opened., which appealed to the Puritans that they might labor to shine forth in holiness above all others. Historian Moses Coit Tyler said, “This monumental book ... stands for the intellectual robustness of New England in the first age.”

He died 9 March 1659 in Concord, but his reputation continued. During King Philip’s War, an Indian council deferred attacking Concord because ‘Bulkeley is there, the man of the big pray.’
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(Bulkeley first appears in “The Immigrant” at a meeting with two managers from the Saugus Iron Works.)

John Gifford and William Awbrey entered the Concord meetinghouse. They brushed the dust from their clothing as Goodman Robert Blood and Captain Simon Willard, two Concordians who had requested the meeting, led them down the aisle. Awbrey and Gifford straddled two benches with their hosts sitting across from them.

“We appreciate thy efforts to endure such an arduous journey,” said Blood.

“So far from the coast and near Indian country, are we safe?” asked Gifford.

Blood turned to Captain Simon, who spoke. “Indians reside across the river, but they bear no malice.”

Blood turned back to Gifford. “Captain Willard first trekked here in 1636. There was no Bay Road then, like ye road thou just traveled. He had to hack briars and avoid the marshlands. With the grace of God he arrived at Musketaquid. He still remains adventurous, resides across the river and thus encounters Indians. He may say they bear no malice, but many of Concord’s good men believe to the contrary. However, it is the Captain’s discovery along the river that hath given rise for this meeting.”

Blood gestured to Willard who spoke. “Soil near the riverbank hath intriguing colors and unusual odors. Not ideal for farming but, perchance, ideal for mining. Iron ore, or even copper may bless ye soil.”

Gifford’s eyes widened as Blood added, “We want not for investors.” Blood smiled at Willard and continued. “We want men possessed with great wisdom who can assay the bog and turn its ore into metal.” Blood eased back onto the bench. “We have many queries.”

Gifford inhaled deeply and expounded. Blood and Willard listened while Awbrey remained quiet, occasionally brushing the dust from his clothing. Gifford regaled his interested audience with his knowledge of ironworks operations until the meetinghouse door opened and light filled the room. Blood and Willard arose, and Gifford followed their lead. Awbrey eventually rose, too. A man, dressed in drab olive green, stood at the door. A rectangle of finely-meshed white lace, which lay beneath his chin, was the only hint of gaiety. The door creaked as he shut it, and his boots clacked the floor as he moved down the aisle.

“Concord’s esteemed Reverend Peter Bulkeley,” said Blood. “To what do we owe this great honor?”

The clack continued until The Reverend stood among the four. “I prayed for Goodman John Abbot’s justice,” said The Reverend. “But justice hath not been rendered, and with God’s providence, I now speak.”
​
He turned to the visitors, and Awbrey straightened his slouch. The Reverend’s left eyebrow had a distinct arch, a wise horned owl, alert and ever skeptical to what was about him. “A Concord Ironworks holds great promise. But only Englishmen will toil for it. When we arrived at Musketaquid, we chased depravity to the wilderness. We shall not import more depravity from the east.”

Gifford nodded, but Awbrey remained uneasy.

“Goodman John Abbot and his Goodwife, Rebecca, arrived with me on the Susan and Ellen. Their son, John the junior, was a boy at the time. They did not leave England to still suffer the rage of a Scottish heathen.” The Reverend’s eye latched onto Gifford and he asked, “Dost thou have a John MacLawson in thy servitude?” His eyebrow didn’t flinch as he awaited an answer.

 Gifford turned to Awbrey, who shrugged.

“Thou must,” said The Reverend. “It was only through Lord Cromwell’s benevolence that Scottish men were shipped hither.”

The Reverend placed his hands behind his back and paced. “Ah Cromwell, had thy success arrived earlier, my confrontation with Archbishop Laud never would have occurred. I would still be preaching in my blessed Odell. If only God’s providence had . . .” The clack echoed as The Reverend continued to pace and pondered. He spun back and said, “Evildoers seep into our New World. I leave the MacLawson matter with thee. Justice must be rendered.”

Gifford bobbed his head until the owl’s eye blinked. The boots echoed away, and Gifford turned to Blood and said, “Truly, I do not know a John MacLawson.”

“No matter,” said Blood. “When I journeyed with Goodman Abbot several weeks past, his concern was with his loss of income, not with threats from a Scottish dog.”

“Our account books have an entry for a Goodman Abbot,” said Awbrey. “Substantial as I reckon.”

Gifford turned to Blood. “If we employ Goodman Abbot again, would Reverend Bulkeley deem it just?”

“I can’t answer for The Reverend,” he said. “But Goodman Abbot would find it just.”

“Then Awbrey, do it forthwith.”

“I would wait until the weather cools,” said Blood. “Felling trees in summer is, indeed, unjust.”

“Surely, even dogs rest in such heat,” said Gifford.

The meeting adjourned, and Gifford and Awbrey followed their hosts out of the meetinghouse. The hosts headed to The Reverend’s manse where he and others were waiting outside. Awbrey paused at the cart while Gifford climbed aboard it. The Reverend looked toward Awbrey, several times, as he conversed with Blood and Willard. After a few minutes, the group went inside the manse.

Awbrey climbed into the cart and sat next to Gifford. “I suspect the meeting of the investors is now commencing inside the manse,” said Awbrey as he snapped the reins.

“I believe I impressed Goodman Blood and Captain Willard with my knowledge.”

“They have their investors,” said Awbrey, “and thou hast given them thy knowledge. They have no need for us any longer.”

“But we would be partners,” said Gifford.

Awbrey sensed Gifford’s naiveté, and trying to explain the obvious any further seemed pointless. Awbrey remained silent, focusing on the road as he held the reins. After a few minutes, Gifford spoke. “Art thou sure John MacLawson is not one of ours?”

“MacLawson is probably John Law,” said Awbrey. “The names sound similar, particularly when muttered in a Scottish tongue.”

“Then we must give John Law to the constable.”

“If we do, there would be fines. And The Ironworks doth not need another black stain.”

“Alas another black stain,” said Gifford as he frowned. “That wretch MacGoon gave us good one not long ago, fornicating in public.” Gifford grimaced. He pondered a while and asked, “What is less dear to the Ironworks, paying Goodman Abbot a steep wage, or paying John Law’s court fines?”

Awbrey didn’t answer.

Gifford sighed. “Yet another dilemma these Scots create for the Ironworks.” He turned to Awbrey and said, “I believe Becx spoke with a deceptive tongue. Perhaps, I trusted him too much.”

The cart hit a rock and jostled the two. Awbrey concentrated on the road ahead and didn’t respond to Gifford’s newly found insight.

​Still cautious of left-side-of-the-road driving, I girded for a day trip to Durham and back. My nerves calmed once Garmin had navigated me through traffic, numerous roundabouts, and onto the motorway. Soon, a Dunbar road sign stirred me anew. Others aroused me further: Doon Hill, the novel’s opening scene; the Cocksburnpath, Cromwell’s potential break-out route south; and Morpeth, where foraging prisoners ate raw cabbage that poisoned their starved bodies. We were traveling the route my protagonist had traveled. We cruised in comfort; he had trekked the infamous “death march”.
​
We arrived at Durham weary. Couldn’t imagine the prisoners’ exhaustion. Perhaps the fortunate ones were the fifteen hundred who died along the way. The Cathedral's towers pierced the ominous-looking, grey sky, appearing like a beacon to guide me. One canvas-wrapped tower was under repair. Inside, more repairs were occurring. Having stood for a near millennium, the Cathedral was worn, tired-looking, yet still magnificent. A sense of relief came while admiring its past glory. I had depicted it near-perfectly.

​On our return, I saw the Doon Hill sign again and veered onto a rough-paved road, which turned into a cart path between open fields. We ascended, traveling on worn ruts while the centered grassy mound brushed and scraped the undercarriage, I was thankful when we finally plateaued. Dunbar lay below, undaunting, a seeming miniature village separating the North Sea from us. Winds blustered, but not as cold as they had been on 2 September 1650. I nodded my pleasure. The opening scene in “The Immigrant” had been described near-perfectly, too

​“A fourteen-year-old John Law surveyed the hoof prints in the soggy ground and resumed his ascent of Doon Hill, the easternmost summit of Scotland’s Lammermuir Hills. He avoided the clumps and divots kicked up by the cavalry and reached a plateau. There, he stood among other pikemen while holding his pike erect. He looked down the slope and followed the Brox Burn as it slashed through the wooded glen and emptied into the Firth of Forth. On a sliver of flat land between the Doon Hill and the Firth was a salt-laden golf course, which was now occupied by Cromwell’s English Parliamentarian army. Behind the army, the Firth flowed into the seemingly endless North Sea. The masts of the English ships, which bobbed in a stiff breeze, were as tight as a comb’s teeth. John was initially frightened at the sight until he realized he was out of range of their cannons. As he thought further, he realized the English forces were a mile and a half away and had their backs to the sea. He was out of range of their cannons, too, and Cromwell’s options for movement were severely limited, which his young mind sensed was an advantage for the Scots.

He shifted his eyes further east and followed the Cocksburnpath, the main road south out of Dunbar to Berwick, England. The Scottish Royal troops were amassed on high ground, close to the road. East of the Coxsburnpath was a beach with Scottish forces on it and beyond them, the North Sea. An English retreat south seemed effectively blocked. In front of the road and nearer to John stood a few clusters of corn stalks on barren fields. John had heard the Scots had stripped the countryside bare ahead of the advancing English to limit their food supply. Now, he saw the effect of their destruction.

John rubbed his pale blues to ease the sting caused by salty mist being constantly driven into them. A gust fluttered his salt laden cheek fuzz, and he brushed at the tingle it created. Annoyed, he turned out of the wind, and his red locks flew from his neck and fluttered until the gust subsided. He surveyed his more immediate surroundings as the cold wind drove into his back. He was among Scottish cavalrymen, pikemen, musketeers, and a few dozen short-range cannons, which covered the hillside. He was heartened by the display of force. Scottish officers, a few garbed in black, many in scarlet with white-laced collars and cuffs trimmed with gold or silver laces, bounced in unison with their horses’ prance. Some wore blue woolen brimmed hats, and others donned steel helmets imported from the Continent. Their shoulder length hair flowed in the breeze. The officers were a spectacle of wealth that impressed John and increased his confidence.
​
John turned back toward the North Sea to face an endless gale. He tried to braid his hair, but it was useless. As he endured a lashing from snapping tresses, his mood soured. Me have failed me father so. He continued to dwell on his failure until the sun broke through the clouds and reflected off his pike. As the clouds pulled back, the endless wave of pikes, held erect by numb hands, created a rolling wave of brilliance that lit up Doon Hill. John’s mood brightened. He hoped the shock of radiance would blind the enemy below and terrify them into surrendering. But the clouds rolled back quickly, and a squall ensued. John wrapped his arms while struggling to hold his pike. He quivered until the rumble from a large blue flag with a white cross distracted him. ‘COVENANT for Religion Croune and Countrie’ rippled in the breeze, important words to the Covenanters, but still meaningless to John.”

Soon after leaving Kirkland in 1839, the Lord commanded the Saints to “build a house to my name, for the Most High to dwell therein.” Obeying the command, Joseph Smith engaged William Weeks to design the Lord's house. With a 128 by 88 foot floor plan and towering 165 feet, the Nauvoo temple would be 60% larger than Kirkland’s. Weeks designed a Greek revival style building and under Smith’s direction incorporated motifs of Sunstones, Moonstones, and Starstones. The motifs represented the Church, the bride, and the lamb's wife as described in Revelation 12:1 "a woman clothed with the sun, and the moon under her feet, and upon her head a crown of twelve stars.”

William Weeks was born 13 March 1813 on Martha’s Vineyard. He learned his building and architectural skills from his father who was a builder, too. Weeks left the island as a young adult and converted from Quakerism to Mormonism while in the southeast. He was in Missouri and driven east in the winter 1838. On 11 June 1839 in Quincy, Illinois, he married Caroline Matilda Allen and eventually traveled to Nauvoo to begin his design. On 6 April 1841, Joseph Smith laid the cornerstone for the temple.
​The temple had a full basement, which was used as the baptistery. The arched stone pillars supported the floor above and formed six rooms on either side. The flooring was herringbone-patterned in brick and sloped toward the center for drainage. The fire red flooring and the angel white walls created a dramatic contrast to the cavernous room. Dominating the center was a sixteen by twelve foot limestone baptismal font supported by twelve life-size oxen crafted from pine. A staircase, centered between the oxen, rose seven feet to the font’s rim.

​The temple was half completed when Joseph Smith was assassinated in a Carthage jail cell on 27 June 1844. The Saints survived the succession crisis that ensued until Brigham Young was chosen to lead them. As mob violence increased around Nauvoo, Brigham urged the Saints to complete the temple while still planning the exodus west. In October 1845, Brigham dedicated the nearly completed temple. Soon after, the Saints began receiving their ordinances. Brigham wrote in his diary in January 1846 that he worked twenty hours a day for a fortnight rendering endowments and marriage sealings. On 15 February 1846, he left Nauvoo; the exodus was underway. A once teeming city would soon become a shadow of its former self.

On 9 October 1848, a fire destroyed much of the temple. Two years later, a tornado flattened two of the standing walls, and by 1857, the temple was completely razed. Joseph Smith’s beacon of hope was now open land on a promontory overlooking the Mississippi, seemingly lost to the ages. But in 1999, The Church announced plans to rebuild the temple on its original footprint. Two years later it was dedicated and today, especially at nightfall, it is a beacon to be witness for miles around.  ​

In The Believers, Naamah attended the Temple’s dedication in October 1845. Below is a portion her day.
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Inside and amazed by the temple’s magnitude, Naamah moved with head up, feeling dwarfed. She stepped from the propelling crowd to turn slowly and take in more. Light streamed in to enchant her and to create a warm ambiance. She inhaled, and her awe gave way to admiration. Joseph’s vision has finally come to pass.

Four years earlier, Joseph broke ground for the temple. As Prophet, he decreed neither sacred endowments nor general conferences would occur until the temple was completed. While finishing details were still needed, the windows were in place, the flooring had been laid, and seating was adequate to accommodate the congregation.

Naamah sat next to Amelia and among sisters, many of whom were from Peterborough. As usual recently, Aunt Susan was not near, so Naamah scanned hoping to spot her. She ceased when President Young arose and the clamor quieted.

He moved like a lion surveying his domain. When Naamah clutched Amelia’s forearm, she twitched and turned to Naamah with a quizzical look. Naamah forced a meek smile and released her grip. A hush came.

Brigham bowed his head and uttered inaudible words before slowly raising it while tightening his podium grip. With a roar powerful enough to rattle the windows he said, “Lord, today we dedicate this house.” He flung his arms toward the heavens, “We dedicate this monument of the Saints, and we dedicate ourselves unto thee.” He paused as amen followed.

As he continued, Naamah was riveted. When he paused for a moment, she surveyed the sisters around her. They were captivated, too. She turned to the podium and thought, Such a powerful man, and a mere step from the Prophet. She glanced at Amelia and thought of her earlier comment. Being near him, like Sister Emily, does have advantages, she thought.

Brigham opened his arms and raised them skyward “On this Sabbath, I hereby decree the temple’s motto for eternity to be,” and he paused before roaring, “holiness unto the Lord.”

As he strode from the podium, Naamah sensed her cheeks had flushed. She placed her right hand near her bosom, an instinctive effort to quell a fluttering heart. Amen, President Young, amen.  She was unsure if she said it aloud or whether it arose out of her soul.

Others speakers followed, but lacking Brigham’s vigor, Naamah’s attention waned. Her eyes drifted, hoping to spot Aunt Susan. Her search became methodical as her hopes faded into worry. I pray the killing frost kills her ague, too.

Elder John Taylor, still with the musket ball in his left knee that he received during the martyrdom fifteen months earlier, limped toward the podium. He appeared sage-like with a thick mane of greying, unruly hair that extended into his sideburns to mask his ears. He clutched the podium, but unlike President Young, to steady himself. As he talked about the Saints completing the temple and leaving in the spring, Naamah thought, I pray Aunt Susan will be among us. She continued to wonder about the exodus until Taylor elevated his voice and stood erect.

With fists clenched and renewed vigor, Taylor said, “I shall rejoice on the day we are beyond the bounds of these so-called Christians.” He patted the lump in his coat pocket and smiled broadly as his eyes opened farther, seemingly in delight. “For then, I will need not my six-shooter to fend against those blood suckers who tried in vain to drain life from me in that Carthage Jail.”
​
“Amen,” roared the crowd in unison.