The Pilgrim (22 page)

Rigdale said, “Come, weep not! You have my word.”

I removed the flint and steel, the burning glass, the needle and thread, the awl, the compass, and the horn cup from the knapsack. Rigdale dropped the six-and-twenty brass bells therein and put it upon his back.

I said, “Butts stole some Indian corn hidden in an earthen mound in the eastern part of the village, under an oak tree. I would search there first.”

Rigdale said, “I will.”

Then we fell upon our knees and prayed that God would forgive Rigdale for the sin of stealing.

• • •

He departed for the Indian village on the morrow before sunrising. An Indian woman and a crippled little Indian maiden emerged from their little house in the glade and watched him walk towards the forest. The girl was about seven years of age. Halting upon her left leg, she scrabbled in the mud for a ground nut or acorn. Just then, an Indian man with a livid scar on his left cheek came up to them and gave the little girl five or six dried shellfish on a long string. She gobbled them up and went back to scrabbling in the mud. She was likely one of the children from whom Rigdale might be presently stealing some of next year's corn.

Rigdale did not return that night. I could not sleep. At about four of the clock in the morning, our stockade was surrounded by thirty or forty savages, armed with bows and arrows. Many of them carried lighted reed torches. I watched them through a knot hole near the post of the south gate. In the flickering firelight, their red, black, and yellow painted faces made them look demonical. Some of them were dancing in a big circle. The brass bells on their leggings jangled together at the same time.

The sounds awakened the rest of the men asleep in the stockade. There were forty-seven of us in all; two were sick abed. We gathered in a noisy bunch in front of the store-house shed. Only about half were armed. Captain Green stood upon a chopping block and tried to address us. The men shouted him down.

Afterwards he said to me, “I am the master of men only at sea. I am, so to speak, at sea on land. At sea, I am a gallant leader of men, but God preserve me, I know not how to fight savages in a dark forest midst these soaring New English trees. Trees, trees, trees! I am weary of trees!”

I said, “You might at least post armed sentinels along the walls of the stockade.”

“The men do not obey me, Master Wentworth. They obey only the demands of their empty stomachs. We are undone by hunger.”

“Take them in hand, Captain Green. Stand up to 'em! The basest and worst men, trained up in severe discipline and under harsh laws, a hard life, and much labor, prove good members of a community.”

He said, “I have come to believe that man is sinful and by nature an enemy of God, a rebel, and a traitor. Only we few enlightened elect are capable of fighting against the sins and corruptions of the mass of humanity.”

Of a sudden, the Indians without the stockade fell silent, and I heard Rigdale shout, “Captain Green, pray, open the south gate and allow me and my two captors, Memsowit and Wittuwamat, to enter the stockade. Last night, whilst I was sneaking out of the Indian village, Memsowit caught me with their stolen seed corn in my knapsack. Wittuwamat means to kill me.”

Green cried out, “Open the gate.”

Memsowit led Rigdale into the stockade by a long leathern thong tied about his wrists. Wittuwamat carried my knapsack. Ten savages followed him into the stockade. Their arrows were strung on their bows. The other savages silently skulked without the south gate. The sun was up and shining on Memsowit's long, greasy black hair.

He said, “This thief stole almost two basketfuls of our seed corn. Whipping him is not punishment enough. His punishment is death. You Englishmen must hang him. Otherwise, my men will kill all of you and burn down your village.”

Rigdale said, “I've never seen a hanging. Is it quick?”

Captain Green said to Memsowit, ”I must call a parliament of all my people, save those that are sick. They must consult upon this huge complaint and determine whether to hang Mr. Rigdale.”

Green called a parliament of us all. We crowded around him standing upon the chopping block. He then addressed Rigdale, saying, “Zachariah Rigdale, dost thou admit to stealing a large quantity of seed corn from these savages?”

Rigdale said, “I do, sir. Hunger drove me to it. I stole the corn from a buried barn near the
sachem's
house, having been previously informed of its whereabouts. I have not eaten in two days. Friends, please be so kind as to give me something to eat, so that I will have the strength to pray with fervor.”

Green bade one of the sailors fetch Rigdale a bowl of shellfish soup. Rigdale drank it in two swallows and said, “Thank you.”

Then he got down on his knees and prayed aloud, “Though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him.”

Green said, “Master Rigdale committed a felony, and by the laws of England, 'tis to be punished with death by hanging. And this execution must be put for an example and likewise to appease the savages, who have threatened us all with destruction.

“What say you in your defense, Master Rigdale?”

“I plead guilty to stealing the corn. But hanging me will not appease the savages. Instead, seize those who enter the stockade. Wittuwamat is sure to be amongst them. Shut all the gates, and declare to those savages without that if they attack us, we will hang Wittuwamat and put his companions to death. Wittuwamat is a much prized
sachem
amongst the savages. They will exchange him for me. You may be sure of it.”

Captain Standish said, “But what happens then? The savages will lay siege to our stockade and burn it down. Pratt made a great error in designing it. The logs of the stockade are the back wall of all the houses therein. They will immediately catch fire, and we will be surrounded by flames and left without a single building in which to seek refuge from the Indian arrows that will rain down upon us.”

Someone with a hoarse voice cried out, “Hang the man, and have done with it!”

Rigdale said, “What doth my dear friend Charles Wentworth have to say?”

I said, “I cannot in all good conscience sacrifice the lives of fifty men to save one—even one whom I love. May God forgive me.”

Rigdale said, “God will forgive thee, as do I.”

“I thank thee for that but will never forgive myself.”

Rigdale said, “Tell me this, dear friend. Doth committing a felony mean that I am damned?”

I said, “You are one of the Elect. You are saved. I am sure of it!”

Rigdale said, “I have but two regrets. I regret that I will not be buried in the churchyard at Southwark near my beloved wife and child. And I regret that God did not see fit to give me the words to preach at least one sermon in my life. I should now like very much to preach on Job 13:15, ‘Lo though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him.' But I cannot find the words.”

Captain Green said, “Let us have a show of hands for all those who would hang Master Rigdale.”

I raised my right hand along with all the rest.

Rigdale said to me, “God prosper you and make you happy. Marry Mistress Abigail, and name your son Zachariah after me.”

I said, “We will.”

He said, “Now hang me and have done with it.”

Green said, “So be it. Being here confirmed by an Act of our Parliament, Zachariah Rigdale will now be hanged. May God have mercy on your soul, Master Rigdale. One of you sailors fashion a noose at the end of a long rope and bind Rigdale's hands behind him. Then remove him to one of the oak trees without the stockade and hang him.”

In the presence of a noisy crowd of savages and Englishmen, Rigdale was brought to an oak by the edge of the glade, where the dangling end of the long rope was thrown over a low limb some ten foot in height and grasped by five men. One of the men made a hangman's noose and slipped it over Rigdale's head and about his neck. I counted nine coils in the rope.

Captain Green said, “Let us pray.”

Rigdale croaked and bellowed, “Revenge me, Charles! Revenge me! Revenge me!”

The five men pulled the rope, hand over hand. The rope grew taut and the noose tightened about Rigdale's neck. He slowly rose until his feet were a yard off the ground. His face turned purple, and his eyes and tongue protruded from his head. He kicked furiously; his left shoe flew off his foot. Of a sudden, without thinking, I pushed my way forward through the crowd, grasped him about the knees, and jerked his body downward with all my strength. I heard his spine crack and was drenched from his bowels that gushed down the back of his thighs. The savages howled in triumph.

• • •

I washed my filthy hair and my stinking shirt, breeches, and stockings in the Bay. Then I hung my clothes to dry on a bush and immersed myself in the water up to my neck. It was a fair day. I watched an eagle flying in the eastern sky and listened to the cry of a loon. I saw two wood-ducks swimming near the shore. I spied a crab crawling across the sand. The world teemed with life, but Rigdale was dead. I crushed the crab with a stone.

At length, I stood over Rigdale's fresh grave and resolved that I would avenge his death by killing Wittuwamat. The savages were gone from the stockade and from all the little houses in the glade. Even the crippled little Indian maiden had been taken away. Did that mean that the savages intended to attack us?

It grew dark. I had not eaten all the day. Captain Green shared his meager dinner of shellfish stew with me. I went into my house to recover Rigdale's tool box. It was gone, doubtless stolen by some knave. His clothes were also gone. His Geneva Bible was all that was left of his possessions. I read John 15:13: “Greater love than this hath no man, when any man bestoweth his life for his friends,” and cursed my cowardice.

At about five of the clock on the following afternoon, whilst searching for ground nuts, I heard a musket shot within the stockade. I ran there through the west gate and saw nine armed men gathered before the shed. The shortest one was clad in a coat of mail and a pikeman's helmet. It was Captain Standish.

I called out his name, and he replied, “Good morrow, Master Wentworth,” and I said, “And a good morrow to you, sir, and a good year.”

We shook hands. I had forgotten just how short of stature he was. The crest of his helmet reached my chin.

He told me that he and his eight men had just arrived in a shallop, in which they had sailed from Plymouth at dawn.

Said he, “We have learned that Wittuwamat and the Massachusetts have joined in a plot with the Nausets, the Paomets, and the Succonets to annihilate us and burn the Plymouth and Wessagusset plantations. We have come hither to forestall him.

“We also know that the Massachusetts are scattered and do not number more than thirty or forty warriors. My purpose in coming here today is to kill Wittuwamat and as many of his men as we can.”

I said, “Let me join you, sir.”

I described to him the circumstances of Rigdale's hanging, and he said, “By all means, join us and take your revenge. You shall do God good service.”

Said I, “Thank you, Captain Standish. I offer myself as wholly yours.”

I greeted Henry Winslow, armed with a musket and his cutlass, along with two other men whom I knew: young Joseph Rogers, whose father, Thomas, died in the general sickness during the winter of 1620, and William White, once a wool carder in Leyden.

Henry said to me, “I have a letter for you from my sister.”

Abigail wrote me the following:

Sweetheart,

I have joyful news. Thanks to Master Brewster's spiritual ministrations, I have been born again. By God's grace, I am now among the Elect. Praise the Lord, I have closed with Christ. I live in His love. I have new perceptions and sensations entirely different in their nature from anything I experienced before I was sanctified. An appearance of newness beautifies everything. When you return to the Plymouth Plantation, I shall relate to you how my wondrous regeneration came to pass.

Captain Standish tells me he will presently make war upon the Massachusetts. Dearest, for my sake, do not put thyself in the forefront of the battle so that you will be slain. I pray God to keep you safe from the arrow that flieth by day and the terror that comes upon us in the night.

Yours in Christ,

Love, Abigail

P.S. I enclose a letter to you from your aunt Eliza which arrived here a week ago yesterday on the good ship
Furtherance
.

The thirtieth of March, 1623

Aunt Eliza's letter read as follows:

My dear nephew Charles,

George Stronge, my attorney, is writing down my words to thee.

I have heavy news. Your uncle Roger is dead. He died two weeks ago at supper by the stroke of God's hand. His mouth sagged on one side. Then his head fell forward and struck the table. I kissed his lips. We had been married three-and-thirty years. The Lord hath not been wont to let me live so long without some affliction or other. Roger's death is a terrible affliction for me, for in it the Lord seemed to withdraw His tender care for me, which He showed by my beloved husband, who loved me dearly even though I am barren.

Roger loved you like a father. Upon my death, he left you twenty pounds in ready money. According to his will, you are also to receive a glover's shop worth five-and-twenty pounds and Hempstead farm, inclusive of buildings, livestock, carts, &c., which is worth two hundred pounds.

However, to claim your inheritance, according to the conditions of the will, you must return to England within two years of the receipt of this letter, reside here at Hempstead for life, and oversee the farm work. Otherwise, your entire fortune goes to my nephew, Tom Foot.

Roger loved you like a son. He awaited a letter from you, which alas never arrived. You promised to send him rhymes from common speech that you gathered in the New World. Ever the fool for words, he collected some for you, viz., “The wine of a flagon, and the love of a whore, at evening is rich, at morning is poor.” Thus spake a maimed soldier to Roger at The Sign of the Ram, hard by the House of Correction at Sherborne.

Roger bequeathed six pounds to Tom, who is betrothed to my dutiful maid-servant, Grace Orchard. They work hard, and I have grown very fond of them. Grace has a way with the farm animals. She nursed a sow of mine stricken with the measles back to health. Upon my death, she will receive all the curtains in the house. She sends you her best wishes.

I am now almost totally blind and would like to see your face once more before I die.

Your loving aunt Eliza,

Hempstead Farm

The seventh of December, 1622

I estimated that, if I returned to England, I would inherit property and ready money in the amount of two hundred and twenty-five pounds. Two hundred and twenty-five! Why, I would be as rich as the goldsmith, William Cosh, in Sherborne.

I shed no tears at the news of my uncle's death. I had no desire to pray. I remembered uncle Roger's mysterious words that he had once addressed to me: “In the end the soul comes to meet itself.” If that were true, he now knew all the secrets of his sinful soul, and I trembled that the whole of my sinful soul would someday be revealed to me.

But surely uncle Roger was saved. He loved God and God's people dearly. He was fitted for heaven. And his fortune could fit Abigail and me for a gracious life on earth.

Captain Green and five stragglers, with whom he had been searching for ground nuts, entered the stockade.

Standish said to Green, “My men and I boarded the
Swan
and found it abandoned. How durst you do such a thing?”

Green replied, “We have no fear of the Indians, and indeed, we live with them, suffering them to come and go in the stockade with perfect freedom.”

Captain Standish said, “Well, they intend to massacre you, unless we can prevent them. Henceforth, I am in command here, and you will all obey my orders on pain of death.”

Green said, “I am happy, sir, to relinquish my command to you. God knows, I was not equal to the task.”

Standish sent Green and five of his company to bring back the remainder of Green's men, who were out foraging for food. Standish said, “Anyone else who leaves the stockade without my permission will be put to death.”

I was relieved to surrender to Standish's will and place my fate in his hands. He allotted each of us a pint of corn a day out of his supplies taken from the little reserve from Plymouth that he had stowed upon the shallop.

Just before sunset, an armed savage came into the stockade to trade four beaver skins for an ax.

Standish said, “I know this rogue. His name means ‘White raven' in their heathen tongue. I have traded with him before. But not today. I will have no truck with him today.”

The savage had a big nose like Governor Bradford, which he poked everywhere. It was apparent that he was spying upon us.

When he departed, Standish said, “He will undoubtedly report my arrival to Wittuwamat. Good! That should draw the savage here.”

The next morning, at about seven of the clock, Wittuwamat lead Memsowit and six other armed savages into the stockade. Every man wore a deer skin mantle. The
sachem
withdrew his knife from its sheath and flourished it before Standish's face. I could not take my eyes away from Wittuwamat's bitten fingernails.

Wittuwamat said as Memsowit translated his words, “I remember you. We traded together here in the early spring. But now you have come to make war because I have joined my people with the Succonet, the Nauset, and the Paomet. Together we shall kill all of you Englishmen hereabouts and in Plymouth, as well.”

Standish said, “We shall see.”

Wittuwamat's companion was six foot in height—the tallest Indian I ever saw. He taunted Standish thus: “Beware, little Englishman. My name is Peeksuot. Though I am no
sachem
, I am a man of great strength and courage. Behold my knife! It hath the face of a man carved upon its haft. My knife cannot see, it cannot hear, it cannot speak, but it can eat. It hath eaten the flesh of both Englishmen and Frenchmen (
Frenchmenog
). And anon, it shall eat yours.”

Wittuwamat said to Standish, “Gather all your men together and depart from this place within three days or we shall drink your blood.”

He and his savages left the stockade. I watched them walk through the forest toward their village. Each carried on his back a leathern quiver filled with arrows.

Standish appointed the ten of us, including himself, to take turns standing watch at the walls for the remainder of the day. We waited in vain for the return of Green, our five messengers, and the twenty-one missing men.

We were armed to the teeth. I took up my piece, six musket balls, two flasks of powder, and a forked gun rest.

Standish asked me, “Have you ever shot a man to death?”

I said, “Never, sir.”

He said, “You will find it difficult to kill even a savage. When the time comes, don't think of him as a man. Fancy him as a ravening two-legged beast. Rest your barrel upon your gun rest, take aim, and shoot! Aim at the savage's stomach or breast. Squeeze—do not jerk—the trigger, and you will kill your prey.”

I took up my matchlock, primed its breach and pan, and rammed one musket ball, wrapped in a piece of tow, down the muzzle. The one-ounce ball could pierce a savage's breast at a distance of fifty yards. I hoped that was farther than he could shoot an arrow at me.

For the first time, it struck me that the design of the matchlock was diabolically clever. What European gunsmith had thought of the five-foot-long inflammable braided linen match that, when I pressed the trigger, ignited the powder in the pan, which in turn ignited the powder in the breach and propelled the musket ball from the muzzle? I was sure that the ingenious gunsmith had been inspired by the Devil. On the other hand, he had given Christians a weapon far deadlier than that possessed by the heathen savages in New England.

Captain Standish said to me, “Remember! Before you discharge your musket, blow on the burning coal at the end of the match. But take care! A burning match is a constant hazard in the presence of the powder carried upon your person.”

“Yes,” I said. “I'll remember.”

Captain Standish addressed the company. “The undisciplined behavior of Captain Green's men hath undoubtedly inspired the savages with contempt for all Englishmen. They come amongst us, few in number and unafraid. It is likely that the two most dangerous of them—Wittuwamat and Peeksuot—will arrogantly return here on the morrow with a small body of men. Secure all the gates, save the one facing west, to make sure they will use that to enter the stockade. As soon as they are all within, William White will make the west gate fast. My seven other men and Master Wentworth will be concealed with charged muskets within the shed. Let us pray the savages do not smell your burning matches.

“I will welcome them in my shirt-sleeves and unarmed. Then I shall kill Peeksuot. Pray, do not inquire how. I will show him what this runt of an Englishman can do. I will then run the short distance back to the shed as fast as I can, doubtlessly amid a shower of arrows. Pay me no heed. By that time, the eight of you will have emerged from behind the shed and formed two lines, one behind the other, facing the savages. At Stephen Hopkins's command, the first line of four men will shoot, then step back, and the second line of four men, with charged muskets, will take their places. Meanwhile, the four men behind them will charge their muskets, and after the four men standing before them have shot off theirs, the two lines will once more exchange places.

“Obey Hopkins's orders. I have full confidence in him. He is disciplined and a good shot.”

Then Standish called out, “Winslow, sharpen your cutlass! I promised Governor Bradford that, with God's help, I will bring Wittuwamat's head back to Plymouth and display it atop the blockhouse.”

Henry said, “I sharpened my cutlass this morning.”

For the remainder of the afternoon, we rehearsed our parts in the morrow's battle, but without discharging our muskets for fear the noise would alert the savages to our purpose. Trusting in Providence and wanting to display my courage, like Caesar in his red cloak, I chose to be the last man on the right hand in the first line, one of the positions which was most exposed to the Indian arrows.

Again and again as we rehearsed, I stepped back and forth, carrying my musket, my gun rest, my bullet bag, and two powder flasks. It seemed to me that I was dancing an English war dance.

Standish removed his dented helmet, his coat of mail, and his rapier. He and William White ran five times from the west gate to the shed. They ran the forty-foot distance not in a straight line, but hither and yon, as if they were dodging falling arrows.

Standish did not say how he intended to kill Peeksuot. Why did he not first kill Wittuwamat? Was Standish vain? Did he intend to kill Peeksuot to revenge himself upon the savage for publicly taunting him about his short stature? I gazed upon Standish's bearded face. It was the countenance of a reliable, seasoned soldier. Perhaps I was wrong, and he planned to kill Peeksuot first for sound military reasons. I did not have the courage to inquire.

We secured all the gates, save the one facing west. That evening, after we had supped on
nokake
, Standish said, “Let us make our peace with God, as some of us may die on the morrow.”

He then led us in prayer and read aloud from the ninety-first Psalm. When he recited the fifth verse, “Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night, nor for the arrow that flieth by day,” I was reminded of Abigail's letter, in which she had paraphrased the same verse from Scripture.

I took the coincidence as a bad omen. Of a sudden, I was terrified of being killed by a flying arrow.