Virgin Earth

Spring 1653

They could not easily recover. No family can ever fully recover from the loss of a child, and this was a child who had survived infancy during plague years, a childhood during the king’s wars, two dangerous battles, and then died when the country was at peace. For a little while they were like lost people, they greeted each other at mealtimes and they went to church together, past the beautifully carved tombstone for John’s father and the little crosses which marked Johnnie’s and his mother’s graves, and they spoke hardly at all.

The meetings of the philosophers and scientists which had made the Ark the center of intellectual life were broken up and moved elsewhere. John found he could not concentrate on any argument for more than a few moments, and anyway everything seemed meaningless.

Even the uproar which greeted the end of the long Parliament and Cromwell’s sudden decision to make a parliament of saints, nominated good men of recognized opinions and sanctity, who would bring about the changes which the country so badly needed, failed to raise John from his passive dreaming.

Lord Lambert came to order new tulips in the spring and told John that a new day was dawning for England where there would be the right of every man to vote for his parliament, the legal system would be reformed to make it more just, the poor would be supported and no more landlords would be allowed to enclose the commons and drive squatters and poor people onto the streets. He broke off in the middle of his explanation and said: “Forgive me, Mr. Tradescant. Are you ill?”

“I have lost my son,” John said quietly. “And nothing matters to me anymore. Not even the new Parliament.”

Lord Lambert was stunned for a moment. “Johnnie? I did not know! What happened?”

“He drowned in our little lake,” John said, speaking the words for what seemed like the thousandth time. “It was the night you came to dinner.”

Lambert checked. “When he was so distressed that I had bought Wimbledon?”

John nodded. “It was that night.”

John Lambert looked stricken. “Not because of what he said! He didn’t drown because of that?”

John shook his head. “Because he knew his cause was lost. If it had not been that night it would have been another. He couldn’t see a way to live in the world that Cromwell and you and I have made. He wanted to be a king’s gardener, he could not hear that kings are no good. Johnnie couldn’t see it. And I failed to teach him.” John paused for a moment at the pointlessness of regrets. “I have always been a man of few certainties. So when my son was convinced of a mistake I couldn’t correct him. He put his faith in the most foolish prince, the son of a most foolish king. And I couldn’t tell him that when you are in the service of a king one of the first things you learn is to not take him too seriously, not to love him too dearly. Johnnie was too close to the king’s service, and yet not close enough to see it for what it was.”

He glanced at Lambert. The general was listening intently. He managed a little smile. “These are private griefs,” he said. “I don’t mean to burden you with them, my lord. Do look around the garden, and anything you desire you can order. Joseph will take the order, my wife is not in the house today.”

“Will you tell her how sorry I am?” Lambert asked, going toward the door to the garden. “Tell her I am deeply, deeply sorry for your loss. He was a fine young man. He deserved a better cause.”

“He was, wasn’t he?” John said, his expression lightening for a moment.

Lambert nodded and went quietly out to the garden to look around at the avenue of horse chestnuts and the beds of exquisite tulips and wondered if they would ever give John any joy ever again, now there was no Tradescant to follow him in the garden.