CHAPTER XX.
BETTY’S JOURNEY AND THE GARRETT WRECK.
“Betty, child, thou’rt not well. Thy little face is so peaked and pined I hardly know my winsome lassie. What is’t, maiden?”
“Oh, father, I don’t know”—
“Nay, don’t cry, my poppet! Come here and tell daddy all the trouble.”
“Well, father, I’m so tired of seeing our neighbors carried up the hill, and I’m looking for them to carry us too.”
“What! Here, mother, come and tell me what our little maid may mean. She says she’s tired of seeing our neighbors going up the hill, and she cries as if her little heart would break.”
The mother did not at once reply, but, laying her hand upon the child’s head as it nestled upon her father’s breast, she looked sadly out of the window, and said, “We had better have stayed over at Duxbury another month, John.”
“Why, so we would have done, wife, and indeed ’tis a loss to come back to the town so early; but you know the governor desired it, because in so much sickness our good doctor could not go far afield, and when Jo was taken down he bade me bring you all in. Another year, if God will, I mean to establish our home for winter as well as summer by the Bluefish. But what about the hill, Betty?” persisted the father. “Why does it daunt thee to see the folk go up the hill?”
“Because they’re dead, father, and they carry them up to bury them!” cried Betty in a wild burst of sobs; and Priscilla, nodding, pointed out of the window to a little procession just passing the house, where four men bore upon a rude hand-bier a coffin covered with a black pall, the corners held by four younger men. Behind walked a score or so of mourners, all men, with long crape scarfs tied around their hats. No clergyman attended, for religious solemnities at funerals were studiously avoided by the Separatists, lest haply they might seem to infringe upon the hidden councils of the Almighty in regard to souls withdrawn from the sphere of human influence. A gloomy and a hopeless affair they made of death, those men who dreaded popery as they did Satan, and loved John Calvin, recently gone to test his own sunless theories.
“Betty, dear,” exclaimed the mother suddenly, “there’s little Molly crying in her cradle! Run, dear, and hush her, and sit by the cradle till I come.”
The obedient child sprang to obey, and so soon as she was gone Priscilla softly said,—
“’Tis all these buryings, John, that work on the child’s tender heart, and she heard us talking last night of poor Fear Allerton’s passing. ’Tis she that’s going up the hill now; and see! they’ve got Thomas Prence and Philip De la Noye and Thomas Cushman and John Faunce for pall-bearers, and Isaac Allerton and the Elder are chief mourners. You should have been there, John, for Allerton was ship-fellow with us in the Mayflower, and she was a dear gossip of mine always.”
“And so I would have been but for that spike running into my foot and making a cripple of me,” replied Alden with a rueful look at his bandaged foot.
“Shouldst not have left thy harrow lying on ’s back with its teeth grinning up to the sky,” suggested Priscilla absently, and then taking from the mantelshelf a bit of stick and a sheath knife she cut a notch at the end of a long line, and counting said,—“Eleven on my tally-stick already, and some of the best, alas! Peter Browne,—mind you, John, how he and Goodman roosted in a tree all night for fear of the ‘lions,’ and ne’er a one here? And Francis Eaton, he’s gone, and left Christian Penn a widow. I’ll warrant me she’ll go back to the governor’s kitchen. Then there’s the captain’s two little boys. Poor Barbara! Truly I believe, John, of the hundred Mayflowers that came ashore there’s not a score left.”
“There’s two and twenty of us, counting them who were children, like Henry Samson and Peregrine White,” said John sadly.
“Ah, you’ve kept the tally in your head better than I with my stick,” said Priscilla, laying it aside. “And to think of Pris Carpenter, widowed almost as soon as she’s wed. William Wright has left her all that he had, Alice Bradford says.”
“Ay; and glad am I that Sir Christopher Gardiner hath gone back to his two wives in England before she came into her fair estate.”
“Nay, Pris would not have looked crosswise at him after she heard the story Captain Pierce gave the governor. She was too sound a maid to listen to any such golightly cavaliers as this man proved himself. But, John, did you hear of the will that Widow Ring has made, and tied up everything on her boy Andrew? And there’s Susanna Clark and Betsey Deane been the best of daughters, and tended her hand and foot, and she as full of whims as an egg is of meat; and when she’d for very shame’ sake given Susan a pair of pillows, she had to tuck in that Andrew was to have the feathers out of ’em. Think of that for a mother! And Susan Clark, she’s to have the making of a baby’s bearing-cloth out of a piece of red cloth the widow had laid up, and Betsey Deane’s child, she’s to have the rest on’t. And who’s to have the widow’s three say gowns, one of green and two of black, I mind not, but all Betty told me of getting was one ruffle that her mother bought of Goodman Gyles, who had it out of England in a present, and she gave him four shillings for it, but”—
“But what’s to be done with our Betty?” calmly inquired John, stemming the tide of his wife’s eloquence, apparently all unconsciously.
She, standing open-mouthed for a moment, looked at him, colored a little, then laughed, and nipping his arm retorted,—
“What’s to be done with our goodman, that’s lost his wits as well as lamed his foot? Didst not know that I was discoursing of Widow Ring’s will?”
“But she’s left naught to us that I’ve heard, nor are we even called to distribute her goods as I can hear, so were it not the part of wisdom to attend to our own concerns instead of hers, good wife?”
“Well, as for Betty, the child’s growing too fast, and mayhap has been a little too straitly tied at home, what with little Molly’s coming, and Jo’s fever, and the rest. So now that you’re laid up from work, John, why don’t you take her up to Boston in the governor’s boat that’s set to go two days from now, and tarry the night at Parson Wilson’s, as he so kindly asked you when he was down here with Governor Winthrop and his folk? Marry come up, ’twas a good supper I set before their high mightinesses that night, and our own governor did thank me kindly for so pleasantly entertaining the guests of the colony. ’Twas a better supper than they had at the Winslows’ or the Howlands’ or the Allertons’, for I know all about it. As for the Standishes, I was helping Barbara all day, and the merit of that feast lay between us, but”—
“And dost think Mistress Wilson would welcome our little maid?”
“Surely she would, and why not? You’ll not find our Betty’s marrow among the pick of the Bay maidens, not forgetting Master Winthrop’s own; no, nor Simon Bradstreet’s Anne that you were so taken with when we went up to see Mistress Winthrop.”
“Then if you’ll make her packet ready I’ll see the governor about the boat,” concluded John, carefully putting his wounded foot to the ground, taking a cane in each hand, and hobbling out of the room, just as the roll of a muffled drum announced the death of Samuel Fuller, the much-prized and well-beloved physician of Plymouth, deacon of her church, brother by marriage to Bradford and Wright; the constant friend of his townsmen, and valued by many an one in the new settlements about Boston Bay. Faithful to the last, he had attended the sick-beds of those who were only a trifle worse than himself, until of a sudden he succumbed, and died almost before his friends knew that he was ill. Few deaths could have been more deeply felt in that little colony, and few were noted in William Bradford’s diary with more solemn and affectionate feeling.
But before the doctor was laid to rest in his nameless grave on Burying Hill, Betty Alden, full of delight, and yet soberly attentive to her mother’s last charges, both as to her own conduct and her care of her father’s foot, was on her way to Boston, where she saw many new faces and made many new friends. Of one of these, a girl of her own age named Christian Garrett, there is more to tell, for so close was the friendship springing up between herself and Betty, and so good and commendable a little maid did Christian prove herself, that John Alden, on parting with Richard Garrett, the father, cordially invited him to visit Plymouth at some near date and bring his little girl to visit Betty, and this he promised to do.
Why the luckless man should have selected mid-winter for this expedition no man now can say, but so he did, and in spite of urgent warnings sailed from what is now Long Wharf upon a bitter-cold morning, with a north wind catching the crests off the waves, and hurling them in needlepoints of ice in the teeth of the doomed company whom Richard Garrett had persuaded to accompany him. One of these, named Henry Harwood, was a passenger, and the other three were Garrett’s hired servants. As the day wore on, the wind freshened, working round to the northwest, so that arriving toward night off the Gurnet the exhausted men thought best to anchor until morning. The killock, a rude anchor consisting simply of a stone bound in a network of rope, was thrown over in twenty fathoms of water, and not resting upon the bottom the stone soon worked out of the rope, and left the boat to drive. No lighthouse upon the Gurnet, no beacon upon the beach, then protected the mariner of Plymouth Bay, and as the horror of thick darkness fell upon the scene, and the boat flew before the wind which now came laden with sleet, freezing as it fell, Garrett exclaimed,—
“Now may the Lord have mercy upon our sinful souls, and forgive me that has brought my motherless child here to die!”
“And more than that, Richard Garrett, you that have involved us in the same disaster,” replied Harwood angrily. “Do you suppose, man, I would have adventured with you and paid my two shilling for a passage, had I known what manner of shallop this is, and nothing but a stone and a rope for killock?”
“Peace, man!” retorted Garrett sternly. “How dare you go before your Judge with revilings in your mouth! Get you to your prayers, or be silent.”
“Father, the water freezes around my feet!” moaned Christian, nestling close to his side in the darkness.
“My poor little maid! Here, sit on my knees and I’ll lap thee in my cloak!”
“Nay, thou’lt take it from thyself, daddy,” remonstrated the child; but the father had his way, and all through that cruel night sheltered the little maid upon his knees and under his cloak, while his own feet first ached bitterly, and then grew numb, and then died.
“Let us pray!” cried a voice from the forward part of the boat, and, mingled with the howling of the storm, the hissing of the brine as it rushed savagely past the wreck, and the rattling of the frozen rigging, there rose upon the midnight air one of those stern, strong, abject yet self-assertive prayers that the Puritans were wont to address to their vindictive and implacable Deity; confessing their own enormity of sin, yet beseeching Him to forego his rightful vengeance and to lift his scourge from their backs because his Son had already borne the penalty of their sins, and suffered to appease the Father’s annihilating wrath.
The prayer was strong and eloquent after its own rugged fashion, and as the hearers breathed “A-men” they felt that their chances were better than before, and were not surprised when, as morning broke, the low line of Cape Cod lay before them, and the sail, partially blown from the gaskets, filled just enough to carry them gently upon the shallow beach.
“We are saved!” exclaimed Harwood, staggering to his feet and clinging to the mast. “Come, men, tumble over and wade ashore! We can be no wetter than we are.”
As he spoke he stepped over the gunwale into water almost up to his middle and turned shoreward, but Garrett cried to him,—
“Hold, man, if you have a heart of flesh and not of stone! Take my child out of my arms and carry her ashore, for I am utterly spent. I shall never reach that land.”
“Give her to me, then, some of you,” replied Harwood grudgingly. “I know not if I can hold her in my numbed arms, but I’ll try it, though she never should have been here.”
“Tut! Prut! Master Harwood!” retorted Joseph Pierce, Garrett’s foreman. “None but a sour temper would flout the master with his misfortunes just now! I’d carry little mistress myself and spare you the trouble, but my feet are froze fast into the wash at the bottom of the boat.”
“And so are mine!” exclaimed another, making ineffectual efforts to release himself from his icy bonds.
“And I know not if I have feet or not,” added Garrett drowsily. “But I beseech you, men, to care for my little maid.”
“Be sure we will, master,” replied Pierce cheerily. “Here, Brastow, give me that hatchet to cut away the ice from my feet; but no, first help Mistress Christian over the side. Now, then, Harwood, take her, and God’s blessing if you get her safe ashore. Have you a hold? Put your arms round his neck, there’s a brave maid. Now hold fast.”
No sooner was Harwood off than the others began to move, and although Garrett himself only reached the shore by the help of two men, and at once fell down never to rise again, all at length stood upon the barren and shelterless sand-bank, at that point running down from the scrub forest to the water, and looked around them in dismay. Garrett, the leader of the expedition, was evidently dying, and one of his men was in scarce better case. Harwood and Pierce, the strongest of those who remained, yet hardly able to bestir themselves, gathered some sticks and lighted a fire, but for want of a hatchet could not cut any substantial fuel. “We must e’en wade it again to the boat, and fetch off some victual, the hatchet, and some rugs, if nothing more,” declared Pierce, when the fire had a little revived his chilled frame and flagging spirit; and Harwood gloomily acquiescing, the two once more made their perilous journey, and so loaded themselves that the hatchet, most precious item of all he carried, dropped from Pierce’s numbed fingers and fell somewhere among the rocks upon which the boat had now drifted. To find it was impossible, and to stay longer in the freezing and rising water was as impossible, so the two were fain to stagger ashore, and fall with their burdens upon their backs beside the fire, where their companions lay mutely regarding them with the apathy of dying men.
The day passed, and the night, those who survived could never quite tell how, but in the morning Joseph Pierce and Thomas Barstow set out to walk toward Plymouth, lying as they supposed some six or seven miles to the westward, but in reality about fifty. Several miles on their journey these two encountered two Indian women, who ran away from them, but carried intelligence of the encounter to their husbands, encamped near at hand.
And now Plymouth’s just and generous policy toward the Indians bore fruit. The savages both loved and feared the white men of the Old Colony; they knew that kindness would be rewarded, and offenses surely punished; so acting accordingly, they hastened to overtake the footsore wanderers, and discovering whither they would go, one of the Indians went forward as their guide, while the other turned back to the camp, where beside the last embers of a fire lay the lifeless body of Garrett, his child crouching beside him, dazed and dumb with cold and terror. At the other side of the exhausted fire lay Harwood and the other man, only half conscious, and quite unable to move or to help themselves. The Indian, making the most of his few words of English, stopped only to promise help and to assure the sufferers that their comrades were safe, and then sped away to his wigwam, whence he presently returned laden with rugs, a hatchet, and some sort of reviving draught which he heated over the renewed fire, and administered to each in turn. Then, covering them warmly, he cut saplings, pointed them, and built a hut over the prostrate bodies of the sufferers. Last of all he hewed a grave in the frozen soil with his hatchet, and respectfully raising Richard Garrett’s dead body in his arms laid it to rest, carefully crumbling the soil to cover it, and raising a cairn of stones and brushwood to protect it from the beasts of prey then prowling up and down the waste of Cape Cod.
As the warmth increased, however, the apathy of the frozen men turned to anguish and torture, and Harwood, dragging himself out of the hut, had the resolution to thaw his feet in the water of a neighboring pool, and so kept life in them; but his companion, too far gone, remained by the fire, and when the pain was eased died, so that Harwood and the little girl remained alone with the Indian.
The two men who had gone toward Plymouth were no more fortunate. One died upon the road; the other so soon as he had told his piteous story to Bradford and the rest who ministered to him so tenderly, yet could do nothing to detain him. Within the hour a boat well manned, and carrying the Indian for guide, was on its way to the scene of the disaster, and the next day returned, bringing Christian Garrett, Henry Harwood, the body of their comrade, and the Indian who had so faithfully cared for them, and whom Bradford liberally rewarded and praised for his benevolence.
Harwood was billeted upon Stephen Hopkins, but Betty Alden pleaded with her parents that Christian Garrett might come to their house and be her own especial charge; and this boon being easily granted, the spare-room where Sir Christopher Gardiner had wearied and plotted became the happy abiding-place of these two innocent young creatures, the one so active and helpful, the other so languid and so sorrowful, and yet both of them the happier and the better for their companionship.
When the spring had come, Harwood, with a good crew of Plymouth men to help him, attempted to sail Garrett’s boat up to Boston, but caught in a wild spring storm was nearly wrecked again; and with some strange gloomy idea of having suffered from his association with Garrett he sued his estate for damages, and actually recovered twenty nobles, or about thirty-three dollars, which was duly paid to him out of the pittance left to Christian, who, although she went back to Boston and the care of an aunt, never ceased to be one of Betty’s dearest and most intimate friends.