The Pilgrim Conspiracy

Chapter 2

Earlier that day

Despite being turned up to full blast, the space heater didn’t give off much heat. By the time Peter had managed to warm up one side of his body, the opposite side had already cooled down, and he had to twist around to warm it up again. And so he sat, uncomfortably turning this way and that while he tried to read a copy of Mayflower, Christopher Hilton’s comprehensive history of the Pilgrims. The situation hardly lent itself to quiet study, but Leiden’s American Pilgrim Museum was far from busy that afternoon, and there wasn’t much else for him to do.

Peter had met the museum’s director Jeffrey Banks some time back, an American with a dark sense of humour and a slightly wry smile that seemed to play permanently on his lips. This veritable walking encyclopaedia had originally been an art historian, but now he delighted in showing visitors around the little museum that was really just two rooms: the ‘living room’ and the ‘kitchen’.

In anticipation of the upcoming four-hundredth anniversary of the English Pilgrims’ journey from Leiden to America, Jeffrey wanted to expand the museum’s opening hours beyond its current limited schedule of 1 p.m. to 5 p.m. on Wednesday and Saturday afternoons. Peter had volunteered to cover two afternoons a month, and that was why he now found himself sitting here, surrounded by original seventeenth-century furniture and other objects in the museum’s living room. Visitors to the modest little museum could almost literally step back into the 1600s – with the obvious exception of the space heater, of course.

The only entrance to the living room was via a stable door that opened onto the street. The top half could be opened independently if someone rang the bell or knocked on the window.

The room had a terracotta flagstone floor and was dominated by a large table covered in history books about the American Pilgrims. Several wicker chairs, all from the seventeenth century, were arranged around the table.

In front of the window was another table stacked with more books, one of which had been left open. A chair had been pushed back from the table at an angle, making it look as though the book’s reader had just popped out on an errand and would be back at any moment.

The sturdy, thick wooden beams on the ceiling and the original tiles that decorated the wall and box-bed all added to the rustic ambience.

There were moments when Peter imagined that he really had travelled back in time here, especially at the end of the afternoons when the daylight faded. Then he could sit in complete silence and let his eyes wander around the dim room that was lit by three large candles.

There had been a noticeable increase in the number of tourists streaming through the museum lately, more than half of them from the United States, the New World that the Pilgrims had set out for in 1620 after an eleven-year stay in Leiden.

But there were very few of them in today.

Peter de Haan, fifty-eight years old, lecturer in Archaeology and History, had – if you counted his time as a student – been at the University of Leiden for exactly forty years. Two years ago, he had missed out on a professorship after the sudden death of his boss, Arnold van Tiegem. The board had chosen another candidate over Peter, just as they had done years earlier when his old mentor Pieter Hoogers had retired. He knew that some people looked on him with a certain amount of pity because of this, but he had never actually been very interested in a professorship at all.

However, after the snub, Peter had decided to work one day a week less, which gave him more time for volunteering, and, more importantly, time for the great love of his life.

Fay Spežamor.

He and Fay had met in the National Museum of Antiquities. Fay complemented her work as a lecturer in Greek and Latin Language and Culture at the university with the post of Curator of Roman and Etruscan Art at the museum. They had formed a friendship which, to their mutual surprise, had blossomed into romance.

Fay had been widowed when her husband had died of cancer shortly after the birth of their daughter, Agapé. She was an extraordinarily vivacious woman in her early fifties who had an inexhaustible fascination for everything related to the classical era. Her shoulder-length hair was more grey than black, and she had a petite frame and unmistakably Slavic features with a narrow face and eyes that blazed fiercely whenever she was trying to make a point. Those same eyes could smoulder with love when she looked at Peter, a love that neither of them, after so many years of being alone, had ever expected to find.

Peter shivered.

Although spring had officially arrived almost a month ago, it was still cold, especially in this old building with its single-pane windows where the sun’s rays never quite reached.

There was a knock on the window.

Peter turned the heater down, tucked the ribbon marker into his book and put it aside. He stood up, and a twinge of pain in his shoulders made him realise how awkwardly he had been sitting in the wicker chair for the last hour. He hobbled stiffly over to the door and opened the top half.

Willem Hogendoorn’s cheerful face beamed back at him.

‘A very good afternoon to you, Peter,’ he said.

A small group of people was waiting behind him.

Peter had got to know Willem quite well. He was a tall man, almost entirely bald except for a wispy ring of hair around his skull. His open face had the healthy glow of someone who spent much of his life outdoors. After his retirement, the former detective had devoted his time to providing guided walks around the city, and he regularly called in at the museum with his tour groups. He had devised the walks himself, and they covered a wide variety of themes. The Pilgrims tour started at the museum, and it was enjoying an increasing popularity.

‘Come on in,’ said Peter, opening the bottom half of the door.

The visitors each paid the five-euro entrance fee, and Peter dropped the money into a tin on the table.

The group of eight, including Peter and Willem, was really the maximum number of people that the tiny museum could accommodate – in such a small space, visitors soon found themselves bumping into each other.

‘This house, ladies and gentlemen,’ Willem said, launching straight into his talk, ‘is furnished as it would have been in the time of the Pilgrims. The building itself is from the fourteenth century and was built between 1365 and 1370. It’s been rebuilt and remodelled over the years, but everything you see here is authentic. Every chair, table and cabinet dates from the seventeenth century.’

Willem took a couple of steps away from the group and stood next to the historical map of Leiden that was hanging on the wall above the desk.

‘In the sixteenth century, there were various Puritan groups in England who thought that the Anglican Church hadn’t taken the Reformation far enough. To put it simply, they felt that England wasn’t Protestant enough. The whole hierarchical system of bishops and archbishops was still in place with all its incense and robes and so on. So they wanted to separate themselves from all of that, become their own, autonomous religious community.’

‘That was in the time of King James, wasn’t it?’ one of the tourists asked.

The slightly mousy woman spoke Dutch, but she had the typical accent of someone who had lived in an English-speaking country for a long time.

In response to her question, the man next to her began to nod enthusiastically. He had a full, grey beard and an enormous belly upon which rested an expensive-looking camera that was hanging from a strap around his neck.

‘Exactly,’ Willem confirmed. ‘That was in the time of King James I. Or Koning Jacobus, as we called him in Dutch. Jacobus de Eerste, to be precise. After his accession to the throne in 1603, the situation in England became unbearable for the Puritans. King James was very much against the separation, and he began to persecute them.’

‘Puritans,’ the fat man said with a smile. ‘Music to my ears, that word.’

Peter raised his eyebrows slightly, but Willem ignored the man’s comment and continued.

‘It became difficult for them to find work,’ he said. ‘Travel was forbidden unless you had official permission, and it was quite common for people to be accused of crimes they hadn’t committed. In 1608, a group of Puritans from Scrooby in Nottinghamshire decided to leave England. These people, who later became known as the Pilgrims or Pilgrim Fathers, fled in secret and went to Amsterdam. The Netherlands was a land of religious tolerance, and it was also increasingly prosperous. Above all, there had been a truce between the Spanish and the Dutch for twelve years, so it was a peaceful country too. After a short while …’ Willem tapped the old city map with his right hand ‘… the group’s religious leader, John Robinson, decided they should move from Amsterdam to Leiden. There was a lot of work available in the textile industry here, and you could get a job even if you had no previous experience. All you needed was physical strength. They lived here …’ he circled his hand over the map ‘… around the Pieterskerk, including the area where the Pesijnhofje is now. It’s a little courtyard with almshouses around it. We’ll be visiting that later.’

The tourists, who had arranged themselves in a semi-circle around the table, were spellbound.

‘They stayed here for eleven years. During those eleven years, they worked hard and saved hard. Then, part of the group decided to go to America. Most of the group stayed here, so in Leiden, you’ll still meet people who are descended from those Pilgrims in one way or another. They have typical Leiden names like Cooke, Cooper and Turner.’

‘Are we allowed to take photos?’ someone asked Peter, who nodded in reply.

Evidently, this was the moment the visitors had been waiting for; they immediately took out their cameras and were soon busily absorbed in taking photographs. In such a small museum, it was almost impossible to take pictures with no other people on them, so a complicated choreography of stepping aside and squashing together had to be performed to give everyone room.

‘The kitchen is next door,’ Willem said. ‘We’ll have to go outside to get there because there’s no connecting door between the two rooms.’

He nodded at Peter, who took some keys from a drawer and handed them to Willem.

‘Follow me,’ said Willem.

‘So what made them leave Leiden?’ Peter heard another woman ask when they were outside.

Peter smiled.

They always asked the same questions. It was understandable, of course. He could probably have given a guided tour himself by now, just based on everything he’d picked up from Willem’s answers.

‘That’s an excellent question,’ Willem said to the woman, whose face lit up at the compliment. ‘There were lots of reasons. It was clear that the English king would punish them for leaving England, so there was a fear that they would be prosecuted, even here. In addition to that, the truce with Spain was coming to an end, and there was already growing unrest in the Netherlands. What else might have played a role is that some members of the group didn’t want to integrate into Dutch society. They wanted to stay pure, not mix. There were religious disputes, too complicated to go into now, but they didn’t want to get involved in them. All sorts of things played a role, actually. Many of the Pilgrims just wanted to make a fresh start in a new country without any interference from others, so that they could practise their religion the way they thought was right.’

‘Very good,’ the fat man butted in again. ‘That’s why apartheid was a great system for us,’ he said, his words a jumble of Dutch and Afrikaans. ‘It’s a great pity that this is over. You see, South Africa is a mess now.’

An awkward silence fell over the group.

His wife looked around the room, her face grim, like she was preparing herself for a discussion that she’d had many times before.

‘If you’d all like to come with me,’ Willem said, breaking the impasse.

With apparent relief, the others followed their guide to the second entrance on the corner of the street.

‘Am I right in thinking that you’re from South Africa?’ Peter asked the couple, who had now dropped to the back of the group. They looked like they weren’t sure if they wanted to go on with the tour.

‘Yes, of course, we’re from South Africa. At home, we speak Afrikaans, but I’ve always spoken Hollands too. This is very important.’

‘Your ancestors—’ Peter began to ask, but the man didn’t allow him to finish the question.

‘More than a hundred and fifty years ago, my own ancestors went to South Africa. They were Huguenots. That is why we’re here, to find our roots. They were Voortrekkers, pioneers. My oupa’s oupa was one of the founders of the Orange Free State. They left the Cape Colony with the other Boers when the English came. That was the Great Trek. They were also like Pilgrims.’

Peter nodded. Although the man’s earlier comment had made him feel uncomfortable, as a historian, he always found it interesting to talk to people whose ideas were radically different from his own.

‘That’s why we live in Orania now. It’s independent and slegs vir blankes, whites only,’ the man said, unabashed. ‘We have made our own free state, like my oupa’s oupa. We have our own money, our own school, our own judges. Nobody tells us what to do. We also want to stay pure.’

‘It’s …’ Peter began and then realised that he didn’t have a clue how he should react to this last statement.

‘Just like those Pilgrims,’ the man continued. ‘They also wanted to stay pure. They also left and went to a new land, a land full of savages, to make a fresh start as true Christians. But they did this better than us. They got rid of the natives, like Joshua in the promised land.’

‘I don’t think we …’ Peter began hesitantly. ‘In the Netherlands, we see that differently. We think …’

The man stared at him. He tilted his head upwards and stuck out his bottom lip as if he had already formulated an answer to what Peter was about to say.

‘Come on, let’s join the others,’ Peter said, cutting the conversation short.

They would only find themselves mired in a pointless argument if he responded to the man’s comments – although now he felt like he had merely chosen the path of least resistance.

‘Yes, good,’ the woman said.

The man looked like it had just dawned on him that the conversation – on this particular topic at least – was over.

Peter and the two South African tourists joined the rest of the group who were already in the other side of the museum. They entered a narrow hallway where a set of stone steps led to the kitchen about a metre and a half below street level. An assortment of items like tools and kitchen utensils had been laid out on a long, rough wooden table. Next to them was a large, antique Bible with decorative metalwork corners and clasps.

There were logs and large turves of peat stacked in the corner of the kitchen and in the hearth. Hanging over the ashes in the fireplace was an old cooking pot. It was empty, but it looked like it was still perfectly usable.

‘The English colonies,’ they heard Willem explaining to the group, ‘had very high mortality rates caused by hunger and disease, and there weren’t enough new people arriving to replace those who died. So the Pilgrims were more than welcome in America. As I said, not all the Pilgrims left Leiden – only those who were brave enough and healthy enough, and who had enough money for the journey. They had one last meal together in the home of their leader, Pastor John Robinson. Then, on July 21st, 1620, they travelled to Delfshaven, where a small ship, the Speedwell, was waiting for them in the harbour. The men, women and children sailed to Plymouth in England, and from there, they started the long crossing to America with the Mayflower.’

Peter walked over to the fireplace.

‘This is clever,’ he said, putting his hand on the hook that the cooking pot was hanging from. ‘You can hang a pot on this pothook by its handle on these things sticking out here. Then you can raise it and lower it. As you might imagine, metal hanging above a fire would get extremely hot. So hot that you wouldn’t be able to touch it. So, in Dutch, we say something is a heet hangijzer – a “hot pothook” – when it’s a sensitive issue, like the Dutch slave trade or war crimes in Indonesia … or apartheid in South Africa.’

The South African couple’s expressions remained blank, but the other members of the group smiled at the sly jibe.

‘Anyway,’ Willem said. ‘As I was saying, on September the 6th, 1620, the Mayflower left England with fifty-seven people from Leiden on board. The journey was beset by problems, and it was only two months later, on November the 6th, that the passengers saw land again. On November the 11th, after a few reconnaissance expeditions, the Pilgrims found a suitable area for their settlement in New England. They called their new home Plymouth Colony. It would become the first permanently inhabited colony in America.’

‘True pioneers,’ said the South African man.

‘Indeed,’ Peter agreed, ‘but without help from the natives, they would all have died within the first few weeks. It was winter when they arrived, and they couldn’t find enough food. The severe frost and snow made it impossible for them to build houses. In those conditions, the weaker and younger ones were especially vulnerable, and half of the passengers and crew died. But their fortunes changed when the Wampanoag tribe helped them. They brought the Pilgrims food and tools and showed them which plants could be cultivated and where they could catch fish. But we all know how the colonists repaid those Native Americans for their help because—’

‘Right,’ said the South African man, who had now clearly had enough. ‘We’ll be off now. Thanks, that was very interesting.’ He extended his shovel-sized palm and shook Willem’s hand. Then he pumped Peter’s, hand squeezing much harder and longer than was necessary.

Peter tried to hide his annoyance, but he was deeply irritated by the way the visitor seemed to be trying to exact some sort of revenge.

‘Baie dankie, seun,’ the man said with a grin. ‘Thank you very much.’

‘Baie dankie,’ said his wife, avoiding shaking Peter’s hand.

Without waiting for a reply or saying goodbye, they went up the steps and left the building.

As soon as the door was closed behind them, a few of the visitors let out audible sighs.

‘Goodness, what horrible people. I’m glad they’ve gone,’ said the woman who had asked a question earlier. The rest of the group nodded in agreement.

Willem gave them another opportunity to take photos, which they all gratefully made use of.

After the group had left, Peter returned to the living room and reinstalled himself next to the space heater, turning up the heat as far as it would go.

He rubbed the sore spot on his right hand.

They also wanted to stay pure. Peter mulled over the South African man’s words. But they did this better than us …