The Landing of the Pilgrims (4 page)

Captain John Smith of Virginia fame had sent a message to them offering his services. They had already hired Captain Miles Standish, a veteran of the lowland wars, to be their military commander.

Captain Standish was aboard ship now. He was a short, broad man with his long rapier hung at his side. He was seeing that the muskets and ammunition were properly stored in the ship’s gun room.

Among the Londoners, Stephen Hopkins was helping stow the baggage between decks. His wife and two children were chatting with the Mullins family.

Young Priscilla Mullins and her little brother were talking to a young London cooper named John Alden. “Is it really true that the savages broil and eat English children?” asked Priscilla.

Like the rest of the Pilgrims, John had heard fearful tales about the Indians. He didn’t know if they were true or not, but he spoke bravely and did his best to comfort Priscilla.

A rough-looking Mr. Billington and his wife were warning their two mischievous boys not to touch the muskets.

When all was ready for the departure, Mr. Brewster called the congregation together and read them Mr. Robinson’s letter of counsel and farewell. Then with full hearts and brave hopes they knelt and prayed:

As the
Speedwell
and the
Mayflower
moved seaward, Bradford felt deeply relieved. He had watched anxiously each day. He feared lest the King’s soldiers and the Bishops’ spies might at the last minute appear and drag them off to jail.

As the shores of England dropped under the horizon, he remembered his boyhood dreams of sea voyaging. Now he was outward bound for freedom. The
Mayflower
was nosing westward into the green Atlantic.

Suddenly the mate called to Captain Jones, who was talking with Elder Brewster at the half-deck rail. “The lookout reports the
Speedwell
has put out distress signals, sir,” the mate warned.

At once the
Mayflower
shortened sail and the
Speedwell
overtook her. Master Reynolds of the
Speedwell
reported that his ship was leaking badly. There was nothing to do but make for the nearest
port. At Dartmouth, the
Speedwell
was overhauled from stem to stern and all leaks mended.

Again a fair wind filled their sails. The two ships steadily drove westward for some three hundred miles. Again the
Speedwell
signaled distress. Master Reynolds reported that she was taking on water so fast that the pumps could barely keep her afloat. The two ships put back to Plymouth. No leaks were found in the
Speedwell
but the captains concluded she was overmasted and unseaworthy.

It was suspected that Reynolds had done this deliberately because he and the crew did not really want to go to America. Afterward, when she was properly fitted, the
Speedwell
proved to be a good ship. Again the harassed Pilgrims changed their plans. They would send the
Speedwell
back to London and go on in the
Mayflower
with what passengers and supplies they could take on from the smaller ship.

Mr. Cushman, the agent, and some twenty of the most disheartened of the passengers returned to London. Precious time and money had been lost. Provisions had been used up, and it seemed that every possible trouble and discouragement had arisen to block their way. September had arrived. Worst of all, winter would be upon them by the time they reached the shores of Virginia.

Dorothy Bradford was discouraged to the point of tears, but William put his arm around her shoulder and said, quoting Master Brewster’s
words: “It is not with us as with other men whom small things can discourage, or small discontentments cause to wish themselves at home again.”

These would be good words for him to recall in the dark times that might come. They had a comforting sound for men plowing westward through perilous seas toward unknown shores. The phrases had a rhythm for swinging axes and feet marching through mountain passes and across thirsty plains in unknown lands. The words had a lift of heart for idealists seeking liberty, justice, and brotherhood in the heart of darkness.

(September–November 1620)

Up came the dripping anchor as the sailors spun the capstan to the rhythm of a rousing chanty.

The
Mayflower
slowly swung about, and her sails filled with the light breeze. There was a waving of hats and scarfs. The rugged shore line faded into a blue smudge on the horizon. The ship dipped and rose as her brown sails tugged and billowed in the spanking breeze.

Hungry-eyed, the
Mayflower
’s passengers lingered at the rail, feeding on the last sight of old England. One by one with tear-wet cheeks they turned away to the immediate crowded life and routine of shipboard.

Exploring youngsters were hauled out of the rigging and warned away from the ship’s rails by scolding mothers. Sleeping quarters were assigned below decks and in the after cabins, and the
routine of feeding a hundred passengers three times a day began. Seasick landlubbers gradually got their sea legs to navigate the rhythmic rise and fall of the ship’s decks.

Each morning and evening the Pilgrims knelt together and fervently prayed, thanking God for his goodness and blessing. Devoutly they listened to the Bible reading of the Lord’s Providence for his people on perilous seas, of Israel’s crossing of the Red Sea, of Noah, of Jonah, and of Paul, and of how these passed safely through troubled waters.

Each day they watched the ever-changing sky and the mysterious sea, always from the exact center of the great circle where the two met on the horizon. Alongside, the porpoises played in gay parades, and sometimes the glistening backs and misty spoutings of a school of sperm whales could be seen. The foam broke in white plumes from the bluff bows of the
Mayflower
as she dipped her blunt nose into the mid-Atlantic swells, ever pushing into the west. In her wake a lacy green foam track stretched back toward England. From her mainmast the jaunty British merchant flag, with its crosses of St. George and St. Andrew, flashed in the sunlight.

Then the weather changed and worsened. The skies lowered and the wind rose into the wild autumn gales of the North Atlantic, blowing out of the west. The ship lifted like a cork riding the heavy seas and plunged down vast mountainsides
of water. She staggered under the blows of waves that washed over her decks. Beneath her keel and pushing back against her bows flowed the current of the then unknown Gulf Stream, moving eastward through the ocean.

The Leyden congregation was made up of devout Christians. If they prayed and often spoke the name of God, it was with deep reverence and gratitude. But the crew of the
Mayflower
were tough British sailors, hardened by the brutal seafaring life of the time. They delighted in cursing the pious, blaspheming the name of God, and shouting foul language in the presence of the passengers till the women held their hands to their ears and the Pilgrim Elders shuddered. The best and the worst companioned on the heaving decks of the little ship on a long, strange voyage.

A proud and very profane young seaman, the bitterest against the Pilgrims of all the wild crew, had mockingly said he hoped to help cast half of them overboard before they reached land. Soon after, he was smitten with a grievous malady and shortly died. As they solemnly consigned his body to the sea, both passengers and crew stood awed, believing that this was none other than the just hand of God upon his wickedness.

As the weather worsened, Master Jones ordered that in heavy seas all passengers must remain below decks. In spite of orders, young John Howland ventured out on the main deck in the
midst of a violent gale. A great wave struck the ship and pitched him into the raging sea.

“Man overboard!” The shout was lost in the roar of the storm as the yellow head of John Howland disappeared in the furious waters. And then the incredible happened. As Howland went down, his hand grasped the end of a rope that trailed over the ship’s side. When the ship rose on the next wave, Howland, clinging desperately, was swung against the ship’s side. In a moment a boat hook had been thrust through his leather jacket, and he was hauled over the rail to safety. It was the hand of God that reached out and saved him, said every Pilgrim on the
Mayflower
.

Day after day the staunch little ship held on—a speck in the violence of wind and water.

“The main beam has buckled, sir!” shouted the first mate to the skipper standing at the half-deck rail.

Below decks they found where the cracked beam sagged under the weight of the main deck. A hurried council debated what to do. Another terrible blow from the seas might break the back of the ship.

“Better turn back,” said the faint-hearted, “before she breaks up and goes to the bottom.”

The passengers hauled out a great iron jack-screw which they had brought from Leyden, found a firm footing, and slowly turned the screw until it bit into the oaken beam and slowly lifted it
back to its proper place. A strong post set firm on the lower deck was put under it, and the huge beam was as stout as ever. Master Jones knew that his ship was strong and firm below the waterline. The upper works could be caulked well enough to keep out any dangerous amount of water. “So they committed themselves to the will of God and resolved to procede.”

In the lull of the wind a shrill small crying could be heard from the women’s cabin. A Pilgrim baby had been born in the fury of the storm.

“We’ll call him Oceanus,” said the father, Stephen Hopkins. “He’s a drop of the ocean, a sea pearl, a water baby—the youngest Pilgrim.” Everyone thought it was a wonderful name.

Samuel Fuller, their surgeon from Leyden, had brought with him as a servant a lad named William Butten. As the journey drew toward its end the boy sickened and, in spite of his master’s profession, died. He was the only one of the passengers to do so on the crossing.

Land could not be far off. Master Jones had followed the forty-second parallel scrupulously. It was not possible to miss a whole continent. They must soon sight land after nine weeks at sea, he figured. Among the passengers there was a sense of excitement and anticipation. This was not an ordinary landing after a long voyage. There was a deep and strong feeling among them of something immense and heroic and biblical, beyond the
personal happenings of their individual lives. They did not know what the ordeal might be ahead, only that they would never turn back. Something was being left behind forever. Something new and bright and glorious was beginning. They were ready to face untold hardship. They were confident of wide new freedom. Vague, deep thoughts that could find no words drew them together in purpose and high resolve.

Christopher Jones was a shipmaster who ruled his crew with an iron hand, but he knew a man when he saw one, and he had learned to respect his strange passengers and their faith. A master craftsman of the sea, he had hunted whales in the Baltic, and had for years taken his ship across the Bay of Biscay laden deep with fragrant casks of Spanish wine. This was his first trip across the Atlantic, but with his compass and cross staff he could take his ship to any known destination across the seven seas. He had brought his ship safely across the vast North Atlantic, and he was relieved to think that he would soon disembark his hundred English passengers on the American continent and, he hoped, soon be on his way home to merry England.

(November 1620)