The Landing of the Pilgrims (7 page)

“So help me, I’ve never seen this place before,” he muttered. “Run her ashore before the wind,” he called to the mate.

The shallop now was rapidly drifting toward where the booming surf broke on the rocks. But the sailors at the steering oars brought her about and someone shouted, “If you are men, row lustily, or we are lost.”

The men bent to the oars and the shallop slowly pulled up into the wind and out of the churning surf toward the open water. Rowing on through the dark and the rain in the teeth of a northeaster, presently they pulled in under a dark mass of rock that sheltered them from the bitter winds. Here they anchored for the night.

At midnight the wind changed, and it turned much colder. The men in the shallop shivered through the long night. In the gray of dawn three or four men went ashore with the cold in their bones, to build a fire. With much coaxing, the damp wood at last took fire, and soon the storm-tossed
discoverers were warming their hands around a driftwood fire.

After prayers of thanks for deliverance, and breakfast, they explored the wooded island all day and found they were safe from the Indians.

The next morning the sun rose brilliantly out of the Bay in a clear sky. The men dried the sea water out of their shirts, put their guns in order, and rested from the wildness of the sea.

It being Sunday, December 20th, the Pilgrims kept the Sabbath in prayer and in listening to Mr. Brewster’s discourse, but the sea-weary sailors snored godlessly around the fire.

The Third Discovery had brought back encouraging news of the good harbor at Plymouth. But tragic news awaited Bradford on the
Mayflower
.
In his absence his beloved wife, Dorothy, had been drowned. She had fallen overboard in the storm on the day after he had left. He remembered how she had waved him a brave farewell. He had never guessed what fears had filled her heart as she had gazed at the bleak coast to which they had so perilously come. They had hoped and planned for a new life together in the wilderness, but now he must go on alone. In time William turned from his dark thoughts and threw himself into the days of toil and danger that lay ahead.

New life as well as death had come aboard the
Mayflower
. A fine baby boy had been born to Mistress Susanna White. He was the first English baby born in New England. They gave him the name of Peregrine, or the Wanderer. In spite of his name, he spent the eighty-odd years of a hardworking life without ever leaving New England.

(December 1620)

It was mid-December when the
Mayflower
weighed anchor and sailed across Cape Cod Bay. When she came within six miles of the mainland, the wind changed and she had to beat out to sea again.

Next day, the wind being fair, she came into Plymouth Harbor and anchored about a mile and a half off shore. Because of the shallow water, she could get no nearer. The passengers had to ferry from ship to shore through the stormy waters all winter long.

“This Bay is a most hopeful place,” said Mr. Winslow as they came ashore in the shallop to seek a “situation,” or place to settle. As they explored inland they studied the lay of the land, sampled the soil, carefully noted the positions of springs and brooks, and considered the possibilities of Indian attack from the surrounding forest.

From the hilltop above the Harbor they could look to the seaward horizon and landward across the wooded hills to the sunset. It would be an excellent place for a fort protecting the seaward slope. On this slope they planned to build their houses. A brook of sweet water ran down beside it, and south of it were old Indian cornfields.

They made their decision to settle in this place by vote in the democratic English way. Here by the abundant Bay, at long last they would build. This would be their home and haven of rest after many storm-blown wanderings.

Between the sinister forests and the Bay they would build a New England with their naked hands and a few tools, with sweat and tears and heartache.

Before starting to build, they planned well. The congregation was separated into nineteen families. Then along a street that led from the hill to the water’s edge, the hill slope was divided into plots. The families drew lots for their location. John Carver, who had been their leader aboard the
Mayflower
, was confirmed as Governor for the coming year. This settlement was later known as the Plantation.

Twenty men remained ashore in a barricaded camp and began cutting timber for building. The rest lived on the
Mayflower
and went back and forth from the ship to their day’s work ashore.

On Christmas Day they worked on the common house, or shelter, which was for storing provisions, ammunition, and clothing. All that day the axes swung. At night the weary builders went back to the ship, leaving twenty men ashore. Between decks on the
Mayflower
they ate a meager dinner with British cheer. Then they sang the old carols, with their hearts back again in merry England, as a storm lashed through the rigging of the
Mayflower
in Plymouth Harbor.

As the winter wore on, hacking coughs and fever and scurvy began to take their toll among the passengers. But whenever the rain and sleet died down, the men who could walk at all went ashore to work on the common house. They began the platform of the fort and the family dwellings along the new street.

When the common house was thatched, provisions and ammunition were brought ashore and stored in it. In the remaining space, the sick beds lay end to end. Here among the stricken lay Bradford and Carver.

One day a spark caught in the dry thatch of the common house, and its roof took fire. At the cries of alarm, the workmen rushed to the burning building and carried out the sick. Before the fire was checked, food and precious stores were damaged, but by the grace of God no lives were lost.

From the top of the mount, Miles Standish
gazed grimly across the pine-clad hills in the west to where columns of smoke rose against the gray sky from Indian signal fires.

For this thing called freedom, Standish now well knew, there was a price to pay. Below him in the village, death had taken nearly half of the people. Rose Standish, his wife, was among the first who had died. He had knelt at her side at the last hour. He would rather have taken an arrow through his heart. Fourteen of the eighteen Pilgrim wives had died. They had been buried at night in unmarked graves, so that the Indians would not know how few remained. Sometimes there were two or three deaths in a day.

He and a half-dozen others still had strength enough to feed the thin soup to the sick, to cheer the wasted forms in the crude beds, to hew wood and carry water so that Plymouth might live.

Bradford from his sick bed had watched the stocky man of war, day and night on his rounds, tending the sick with a woman’s tenderness. Years later, rugged old Governor Bradford remembered and wrote tribute in his blunt prose.

Death had come aboard the
Mayflower
. One by one the sickness took the riotous crew who brutally ignored their comrades dying miserably in their bunks. To these men who had cursed and tormented them, the women aboard the ship brought what care and comfort they could with a Christlike compassion.

In the fires and ice of that first winter, their spirits were steel-tempered to build a nation of men and women who would never turn back in quest of freedom and justice and brotherhood.

(January 1621)

To those city dwellers from Leyden who for years had lived sheltered indoor lives, this rugged existence on the bleak New England hillside was utterly new and strange. Around and enclosing them stretched the mysterious forest. As they wandered into it in search of food or wood, unforeseen adventures suddenly beset them. Terrifying situations for which they were utterly unprepared overtook them.

To men who had spent drab and colorless years at the looms of Leyden, each day in this strange world brought dangers, violent actions, and sudden challenges.

One day at noon four thatch cutters stopped work and got out their biscuits and cheese for dinner. After they had finished their simple meal, Peter Browne and John Goodman decided to walk
in the woods toward the lakes with their two dogs.

When Peter and John did not return, their companions searched the woods calling and hallooing, but no trace of the men or dogs was to be found. Maybe Peter and John had walked into an Indian ambush. The two searchers hurried back to the Plantation with the news. All that afternoon a search party scoured the woods, but found no trace of the two men. Next day a dozen musketeers ranged as far as they dared into the forest, but they had no success.

The truth of the matter was that Peter and John had walked deep into the forest. Their two dogs, a little spaniel and a mastiff, had run ahead, sniffing among the leaves. Suddenly the dogs made a dash through the thicket toward the lake shore, and a great buck leaped lightly up and away. The chase was on. Peter and John ran excitedly after the dogs. This was a rare chance for venison for hungry Plymouth.

The deer had vanished as if it had been on wings, but the dogs went rushing noisily through the brush. After an hour’s chase the two men became winded, and called back their animals. As Peter and John tramped back among the bare tree trunks, they became bewildered and called and called until they were hoarse. They were lost; even the dogs could not pick up their trail back. As the early winter twilight came on, it began to rain. The men were exhausted and very hungry. Soon
the wind blew cold and snow began to fall. Utterly confused, they staggered on. Through the darkness a long and dismal howl rose and then another. It seemed to follow them.

“It must be lions,” said Peter, who knew very little about animals.

The two men found a tree that they could easily climb. Very near them another long howl wavered through the night.

“It
is
a lion,” said John, who knew even less about zoology.

The spaniel whimpered and the mastiff strained at her leash as the hair on her neck bristled, but the men held her back. When “the lions” came, Peter and John planned to let her go while they themselves took to the tree. All that night they paced up and down in the snow and freezing cold, numb and unspeakably miserable.

Dawn came and the howling ceased. They marched on through the snow. All morning they dragged on. That afternoon, after they crossed a five-mile plain that had been burnt off by the Indians, they came to a hill. From its top they caught a gleam of light on water. It was Plymouth Harbor! They could make out the island and the long fish-hook peninsula. They staggered into the Plantation half-frozen and exhausted, but still alive.

A week later John Goodman hobbled out for a walk on his lame feet, with the little spaniel for a
companion. Two gray wolves leaped from a thicket and ran for the spaniel. The little dog dashed back to safety between John Goodman’s legs.