CHAPTER XVIII.
THE LITTLE BOOK.
An uneasy and difficult week passed over Plymouth, its shadow resting especially upon John Alden’s house, when one fine sunshining morning Jo, the second boy, rushed into the house, with the news,—
“Mother, there’s a big boat down from the Bay, and a captain in it, bigger than our captain, and the governor’s son, and a mort more of men come to get the man in our fore-room.”
“And where’s thy father, Jo?”
“Oh, he’s down there at the waterside, and all the other men, talking with the Bay folk, and I ran off to tell you, mother.”
“That’s my brave boy! He doesn’t forget mother, does he?” And Priscilla turned to look fondly at her second-born, a fine, manly little fellow, with a marvelous likeness to his uncle Joseph Molines, victim of the first winter’s pestilence, the brother whom Priscilla had so fondly loved, so deeply mourned.
“Well, poor man, if he’s to be carried away prisoner by so many warders, I’ll e’en toss him up a dainty dish for his last dinner with us,” continued she busily. “Jo, my man, run down and ask father if any of the Indians have brought in oysters to-day, and if not, to get some clams or a lobster; and be quick, my boy, for it’s hard on noon. And, Betty, see if there are some fresh eggs in the hen roost,—I’ll make an omelet with herbs; and there’s a fine salmon to serve with cream sauce and a sallet”—
“We might kill a chicken, mother,” suggested John, the grave first-born, so like his father in everything.
“Nay, not to-day, Johnny,” replied Priscilla, somewhat embarrassed, for her mind reverted to a little discovery of her own, and her eyes glanced toward the high mantel where lay a small brown-covered notebook much worn at the edges, and although apparently of trifling value, just then a greater weight upon the mind of the mistress than even her silver cup, or her six teaspoons.
It was but the day before that Betty had picked up this book just outside the house, and bringing it to her mother said she thought the gentleman had dropped it out of his pocket, for she had seen it in his room upon the table. Opening it at random, Priscilla read a few words only, but those so strange that, instead of at once restoring the book, she laid it aside until she should have time to consider her duty in the matter. On one side lay hospitality and honor, but on the other was the obligation to justice and to the common weal, which to those early settlers was a matter far more vital than to us, for it included not only their own interests, but perhaps the very lives of all belonging to them. If here indeed was “a snake in the tender grass,” had she a right to let him wind his beautiful deadly way out of reach of justice? But on the other hand, was the danger deadly enough to warrant her in betraying the man who had eaten her salt? This controversy of mind, sufficiently perplexing to a woman of Priscilla’s day and training, was suddenly resolved by the news brought home by John Alden that the Boston boat would return directly after noon-meat, and that Sir Christopher Gardiner would return with her.
“Then come you in here a moment, John,” said Priscilla, rising from her almost untasted dinner, and leading the way to her bedroom.
John ruefully rose, his eyes upon his plate, where lay a huge segment of suet pudding which he had just begun to absorb in his own slow and methodical fashion. Betty’s quick eyes saw the whole.
“I’ll turn a basin over it, father, and set it by the fire till you’re ready for it,” said she with a flashing smile; and her father, smiling also, replied,—
“Thou’rt ever a good little wench, Betty!”
“See here, John! See this little book!” exclaimed Priscilla, shutting the door so promptly as nearly to catch her husband’s last foot in the crack. “’Tis the man’s, and mayhap the governor ought to know he’s a Catholic for one thing. See, see! Isn’t that what this page meaneth?”
“Ay, he was reconciled, as they call it, on such a day and”— But as Alden pored over the scribbled entry, murmuring vaguely such words as more clearly presented themselves, his impetuous wife interrupted him:—
“I gave him fish for his dinner to-day, sith I would not have a dog lack meat to his mind in mine own house, but still I remember how those fiends of Catholics murdered my grandsire in cold blood, and his wife after him, for naught but that they were Huguenots, as we are, and I must hate Catholics forevermore.”
“Nay, wife, not hate them,—not hate whom God has made and still spares for repentance,” suggested John; but Priscilla impatiently tossed her head.
“God is God, and I’m but poor Priscilla, his creature. I cannot love and hate all in one breath the same thing.”
“Nay, wife, but thou didst give the man what meat his conscience called for on a Friday?”
“Yes, of course I did.”
“And now will deliver him to death, if so it be?”
“Oh, I cannot tell; but I hate Catholics; my father bade me do so.”
“And yet thou dost feed them, and I’ll be bound thou’lt see that this man’s tender wounds are well covered from the cold before he goes aboard.”
“There, now, I’m glad you spoke on’t, John! I’ll lap his arms with a good woolen bandage, and you must lend him your old horseman’s cloak to wrap himself withal. The governor’ll fetch it some day when he goes up to visit the Bay governor again.”
“Nay, wife, I don’t see but thou dost humbly follow thy God, and love the sinner while thou dost hate the sin.” And John slowly and fondly smiled down upon the petulant brown face of the wife he still loved as well as when first he wooed her.
“Oh, I know not how that may be, my Jeannot,” replied Priscilla, laughing and blushing a little as she saw herself trapped. “But here’s the little book.”
“Ay, here’s the little book, and to my mind the best thing is for me to carry it straight to the governor and let him do with it as he lists. ’Tis a matter too weighty for us to handle alone.”
“Doubtless you’re right, John, and here it is,” and Priscilla, with a little sigh of vague regret, handed the book to her husband, and watched him as he at once left the house to carry it to the governor.
But Betty kept the pudding warm for his supper.
That afternoon Sir Christopher Gardiner, formally made over to the custody of Captain John Underhill and Lieutenant Dudley, son of the deputy-governor, sailed out of Plymouth wearing John Alden’s cloak, in which he sullenly muffled the lower part of his face, while a slouched hat nearly covered the upper.
“Are you sick?” bluntly demanded Underhill, who had orders to treat his prisoner honorably and kindly.
“Nay, I’m sorry,” retorted the knight.
“Fortune of war, comrade,” returned the Puritan captain not unkindly, “and there’s no very sharp measure laid up for you, as I take it. Our governor bade me have a care for your comfort, and the Plymouth governor hath writ a long letter to Master Winthrop, all in your favor, as I know from what he was saying to Alden.”
“‘Have no fear,’ says he, ‘it shall do him no harm;’ and t’other returns, ‘We did but our duty, and yet would be right loath to hurt the man.’ Now what make you of that, man?”
“Read the governor’s letter and you’ll know more than I do,” replied Sir Christopher gloomily.
“Read it! Nay, that’s not my business. But ’tis a hugeous letter.”
And from the pocket of his doublet Underwood drew forth a little packet carefully sealed and superscribed,—
MASTER JOHN WINTHROP,
Honourable Governor of the Massachusetts Bay Colony these:
As he turned the package over and over in his hands, the knight, who at first had glanced at it in moody indifference, roused to intense attention, and finally, while a streak of dusky red animated his sallow cheek, extended his hand, saying as carelessly as he could,—
“Let me look at the governor’s seal, captain. Has it an heraldic device?”
“Nay, I know naught of such follies,” returned Underhill, holding out the packet; but even as his fingers touched those of the knight, trembling with impatience, a glance at his face, or perhaps only the soldier’s instinct of peril at hand, suddenly diverted his attention, and snatching back the dispatch, he began to replace it in his doublet, saying gruffly,—
“Marry, ’tis no business of mine or thine what these governors say to one another.”
“Nay, but I’m sick—make way, man, make way”—and throwing himself across Underhill, as if to reach the side of the boat, Sir Christopher, what with his long arms flying all abroad, and what with the great cloak that swept across Underhill’s face and breast, came very near knocking the packet out of his hand and sweeping it overboard.
“Have a care, man! Have a care!” cried the captain angrily. “Though you’re squalmish all of a sudden, you needn’t fling yourself nor me overboard.” And thrusting the inclosure containing Sir Christopher’s notebook and the kind and gentle letter accompanying it deep into his pocket, the future slayer of “Pequods” recovered his equilibrium and made room for Sir Christopher, who, leaning his head upon the gunwale of the boat, effectually hid his face from view, and made no reply to further efforts at conversation.
A week or so later another Boston boat came down to Plymouth, and brought John Alden’s cloak and a letter to Bradford from Governor Winthrop. It tells its own story in its own quaint phraseology:—
SR.: It hath pleased God to bring Sr. Christopher Gardener safe to us with thos that came with him. And howsoever I never intended any hard measure to him, but to respecte and use him according to his qualitie, yet I let him know your care of him, and yt he shall speed ye better for your mediation. It was a spetiall providence of God to bring those notes of his to our hands; I desire yt you will please to speake to all yt are privie to them not to discover them to any one for yt may frustrate ye means of any farder use to be made of them. The good Lord our God who hath allways ordered things for ye good of his poore churches here directe us in this arighte, and dispose it to a good issue. I am sorie we put you to so much trouble about this gentleman, espetialy at this time of greate imploymente, but I know not how to avoyed it. I must again intreate you to let me know what charge & troble any of your people have been at aboute him, yt may be recompenced. So with the trew affection of a frind desiring all happines to your selfe & yours, and to all my worthy friends with you (whome I love in ye Lord) I comende you to his grace & good providence & rest
your most assured friend
JOHN WINTHROP[4]
BOSTON May 5, 1631