Jan placed his hand on hers softly and took over. “We received word from England. Bishop Laud had published a sermon blaming our parents for their own disappearance. He said it was God’s punishment that had made the Brownist congregation lose their way in the ocean. We held dozens of discussions about that sermon; we didn’t know what to think, we didn’t know what God wanted from us, and we didn’t want to agree with Laud, but from then on none of us wanted to risk another trip.” While he spoke, he noticed battling emotions on Fulla’s face. “I don’t know you, but somehow this matters to you too.”
“A bunch of dead people? Why would it matter to me? Or to you?”
Incensed, Brigitte replied, “Our parents dreamed of a place where they could practice the true worship. But we…” She pushed against years of shame. “We stopped believing in that dream. We resigned ourselves to the worldly life of the Dutch. We stayed. We stayed, and all these years we’ve been trying to forget.”
“That’s what you should’ve done.”
“We can’t anymore. We read the play you wrote, and we wanted to hope again. In that play you speak of the congregation, of the settlement plan, of the persecution under King James; those parts anyone could have researched, but you also speak of the ship’s journey.” She could see that Fulla was making as much effort to hold back tears as she was. “I don’t want to think you made it up. You wouldn’t have been able to write about the ship if you didn’t know what happened to it. We need to know where you learned that story. We spent all our money coming here to ask you.”
A very old weight seemed to have fallen on Fulla. “All this for an opera play.”
“We saw a version in German,” said Jan.
“How can that exist?” Fulla’s eyes narrowed.
“I work with the Elzevirs at their printing shop; they found your play and started making copies.”
“They’re selling a translation? And I’m not getting paid?”
“Please,” urged Brigitte. “You have to tell us how our parents’ story reached you. Where did you hear it?”
Fulla looked at his plate for a long minute. Then, as if he knew he was making the wrong decision, but wasn’t capable of making any other, he said, “After the failure of my first play, my name as a composer is still worthless. The only reason Italians like this play is because it doesn’t end well for the Protestants. Did you read how it ends?”
“Even with our Dutch, our German isn’t that good,” admitted Jan. “We came here not knowing the end of the Elzevir version. Last night, at the theatre, we tried our best to follow the plot again, but sung Venetian is even harder.”
Fulla nodded. “I’m sorry that the truth has been so costly to you. I titled the play Moorflower because that’s what happened to the ship: it had been at sea for barely a week when it met with pirates from the Barbary coast.”
“What day was that?” asked Brigitte. Fulla gave her a questioning look, and she explained, “I need to know my father’s date of death.”
“Oh, they didn’t die on that day,” he said. “All occupants of the ship were taken as slaves, and some lived for many years. But if you must know, captain Sulayman took the Mayflower on the sixth day of its journey.” He closed his eyes, calculating. “I nearly forgot the English pay no mind to old Gregory. It must have been the eleventh day of September, by the old calendar, when the Mayflower was turned into a pirate ship.” The shock on his guests’ faces made him pause, but they had forced open a room in his memory that couldn’t be closed back. “That’s its ultimate fate. That’s the legacy it became known for. The 1620 raid of Iceland was made with the Mayflower.”
Making a visible effort to not burst in rage, Jan asked, “Do you know what became of either of our fathers?”
“Let me think. If you’re using the Dutch version of your name, you must be John, son of William. So you’re John Bradford, if I’m not wrong.”
John Bradford sighed in sad relief. “We stopped using our English names when we stopped waiting for our parents. My wife’s name used to be Bridget.”
With a sudden air of suspicion, she asked, “How did you know that must be his name?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” retorted Fulla. “How do you think I became the Sultan’s captive? How do you think I can speak Dutch? I was one of your congregation; I was with your parents on that ship, and I’m almost certainly your cousin, Bridget. My real name is Samuel Fuller. I’m the last survivor of the Mayflower.”
All fell silent. They stared at one another uncomfortably, sensing the pull of a new and undefined set of mutual obligations. John could hear his wife’s breath rise in pitch, like a badly tuned whistle, her fingers clenching her fork, until she burst out, “And now you dress like a degenerate, and even sing for those Popish heathens!”
“I see,” said Samuel, unfazed. “You didn’t seem to mind my life choices so much when you didn’t know we were related.”
Bridget stood up, and John whispered in an urgent tone, “We still need to hear what he knows.”
“Don’t you see what he’s done to our parents?”
“Done?” Samuel chuckled, between amusement and annoyance. “My dear lady, I’ve had things done to me, things whose mention would haunt your soul forever—”
“You soil everything our parents stood for. They gave their lives so you wouldn’t have to kiss any bishop’s behind.”
“Actually, they’re more often the ones who kiss mine.”
She slapped his face, before realizing her hand was still holding the fork. Samuel took a napkin and pressed it against his cheek.
“Bridget,” begged John. “This is unlike you.”
Surprised at herself, she dropped the bloodied utensil and fell back on her chair, caught in the incongruity of feeling too ashamed to deny what she’d done to Samuel’s face and too proud to offer an apology. She didn’t speak.
John said to Samuel, “We didn’t come to have an argument. We’re just desperate.”
Samuel removed the napkin from his cheek and inspected it. A red well had formed under his eye. The cut was shallow, and the bleeding was stopping, but the shock of the hit and the sight of the reddened cloth rekindled feelings he’d thought were buried.
John looked at his folded hands, weighing his next words. “You know better than anyone how much the trip meant to our parents.”
Brought back from an unwanted memory, Samuel was only able to mutter, “I do.” He pressed the napkin again to his cheek, holding it in place with two fingers.
The three of them were silent for a moment, then John tried again, “They must have been devastated to see their dream come to nothing.”
Samuel dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand. “I wish they had been devastated. That would’ve lightened their plight. But they were too hardheaded. Even after the pirates forced us to watch as they pillaged Iceland, even after we were taken to the slave market at Tripoli, even after each of us was sold and every foundation of our faith was crushed, even then our parents maintained the hope that one day God would save them, all the while our masters thanked the same God for granting them good lives and wealth. That’s what became of the Brownists. Sorry to disappoint you.”