Thomas Eliot’s paternal grandfather was not a native of Missouri. He moved there to establish a church, to spread the word of the Lord. His Lord, was a Christian Lord, but not Lord in the Anglican sense of a Lord; for William Greenleaf Eliot – a middle name of biblical proportions – was part of a Christian theological movement known as Unitarianism, a brood that shook its shaggy beard at mention of the Holy Trinity. There was no Holy Trinity; no Father, no Son and certainly no Holy Spirit. Unitarian Christians believe that God, is just one person. Jesus was inspired by God, but he was not God. The movement is somewhat analogous with the more po-faced monotheistic understandings of God in Judaism, perhaps even closer to the concept of God in Islam. Anyway, whatever which way old man Eliot wanted to slice his Godly pie, the fact was, he was no native of Missouri.
The Eliots were a Boston Brahmin family, an elite cut of upper society who make up the historic core of the East Coast establishment. These buttoned-up households, were rich, possibly a little bit snobby, and very keen to marry each other. Many were descended from wealthy landowners in England who saw it as their duty to behave impeccably, uphold standards and appear urbane and dignified, to the wider hoi poloi. Facial hair was encouraged, scandal and divorce were not. Family was at once an economic asset, and a handbrake on reckless behaviour. The house rules were clear: the parlour maid stayed in the parlour.
The term was coined by the physician Oliver Wendell Holmes who, perhaps having cupped many a wealthy pair of Boston plums – “and cough, please sir” – saw enough in their polished brogues and proper grammar, to call out similarities with the highest-ranking families in the traditional Hindu caste system, from where the term originated. Whilst the term exemplifies the erudite and exclusive air to the New England gentry, it has also been suggested it may refer to their interest in Eastern religions, possibly fostered by the writings of literary icons such as Walt Whitman. Whatever the reason, many of the Boston Brahmins or Boston elite were direct descendants of the early English colonials who landed in America on November 9th, 1620 after some grubby urchin tied to the top of the mast yelled ‘Land ahoy’, and Captain Christopher Jones folded up his map, turned to his boatswain and whispered: “thank **** for that”.
Captain Christopher Jones should need no introduction. Or perhaps he does. Born in Essex, twice married, and once accused of keeping hunting dogs – something only gentlemen could do – he was part owner and Captain of the Mayflower; the classic square rig that carried the first pilgrims from Plymouth to the New World. Having previously ferried wine and wool and scurvy across the Channel, this was the voyage that put him, and is rig, right on the map.
The Mayflower set sail in early September, a time when western gales made for a dangerous passage across the North Atlantic. Not even the gulls strayed too far from shore. After a couple of leaks had sprung, forcing Captain Jones to turn back to port, provisions, when they finally got going, were running low. So too morale. On board were there were about a hundred hardy pilgrims, all watery eyed, souped up with zeal to have a go at the New World; and about twenty-five salty seamen, long tattoos and mucky language, whose job it was to get them there. There were also a few dogs, some goats and quite a few chickens. The crossing was miserable. For all. Huge waves battered the deck, forcing those below to cling to posts and beams and wet dogs. One morning, a monster wave smashed a key structural support and then it was all hands-on deck, to help Joe The Carpenter secure the beam and stop its collapse. Jones sat on the poop deck looking at stars through his telescope and muttering over his map. Time was measured via the ancient method of an hourglass. When they finally arrived, they were exhausted, hungry and sick of Nine Men’s Morris, a popular board you probably know as cowboy checkers.
The land the little urchin had seen, was the present-day Cape Cod, a stretch of pristine coastline now littered with the gaudy mansions of rap artists and hedge fund managers. Much of the work of the writer Joseph Lincoln was set in a fictionalised Cape Cod, and you don’t have to stray too far in your speedos before clocking a Congressman or Supreme Court Judge, oiling up the Ambre Solaire. Back in 1620 though, it was a bit less ‘cocktails in the marina’, a bit more ‘do you think the locals will eat us’. It was cold though, very cold, too cold for BBQed pilgrim but not cold enough to stop an advance party who soon set out in an open shallop, including our flinty-eyed Captain Jones, to find a suitable settlement site. Leaning into the sleet they happened on a deserted settlement now known as Corn Hill in Truro. The modern writer Nathanial Philbrick claims the settlers, stole some corn and ran over a few graves which got the goat of some locals. Another account claims they only borrowed some corn and paid the locals back, albeit six months later. No one was eaten.
If the pilgrims thought they had done the hard yards making it across the North Atlantic, they were wrong. Gripped by a bitter New England winter, they were forced to stay on board. This was no good. Disease broke out and cleaned bowled half the pilgrims. It was said to be a contagious cocktail of scurvy, pneumonia and tuberculosis which was pretty much enough to do for even the Puritan Separatists. Come March then, they were gagging to get ashore. This they did, led by our Captain Jones, and they soon set up camp with a few prominently placed six iron canons to discourage the locals from popping by to borrow some sugar. Jones had planned on heading straight home but given his crew were largely bed ridden, he stayed, and stuck out another New England winter. The Mayflower finally set sail for home in April the following year; short of a boatswain, gunner, three quarter masters, a cook and half a dozen sailors. With a thick tailwind, she raced back, finally docking in London in less than half the time it had taken to sail to America.
Captain Jones finally rolled over in 1622 after picking something up on a trip to France, and the Mayflower then lay idle on the mud flats of the River Thames, where the local rats set up camp and high tide slowly started to see to the timbers. Many books describe a ‘rotting hulk’ and the ship was eventually broken up and sold. Many of its remaining timbers ended up with a Buckinghamshire farmer who built a new barn known, as you might hope, as the Mayflower barn and – for those with a lot of time on their hands – still stands to this day.
[The Mayflower barn stands alongside the graveyard where William Penn is buried. William Penn was the founder of the great state of Pennsylvania – famous for the Appalachian Mountains, the Battle of Gettysburg, salty snacks and Arnold Palmer – after Charles II gave him a big patch of native land to square some gambling debts he owed Pa Penn]
Hepburnsays 