CHAPTER II
THE NAME OF MILES
IN the great cabin two huge, smoky lanterns, that swayed from the beamsoverhead, cast blending white circles in the middle space, while thecorners still remained dusky. Somewhere, there in the dark, a womanwas crying hysterically, and others, calmer, but with startled, whitefaces, were standing beyond the group of men, who were gathered roundthe door of the Billingtons' cabin. Miles saw about him all the faces,terrified or menacing, but it was blurrily, as in a dream. He kepttelling himself it was all a dream, an ugly dream, and presently hewould awake to find he had never gone with Francis Billington, and veryglad he would be to awake so.
But the grasp on his neck--it was big John Alden, the cooper fromSouthampton, who had dragged him out into the great cabin--was real,and so, he now found, were the faces of the men who confronted him. TheElder, William Brewster, with his gray hair, and grave Governor Carver,he noted among them, with a hopeless feeling that all the majesty ofthe company was come thither to judge him. Close by, he heard FrancisBillington crying, with tearful sobs, not dry howls alone, but Milesdropped his shamed eyes to the floor of the cabin and did not look athis companion. He heard Goodman Billington's rough voice, thick withabuse and threats against his son, and then he heard the Elder cut himshort: "Peace now, friend. Maybe the lad is hurt."
Just then, from within the Billingtons' cabin, whence a light smokestill drifted, spoke a quick, deep voice: "Come you in and lend a hand,Alden. There is work for two needs despatch. The floor here is overshoe thick with powder."
"Ay, Captain Standish," the young man answered promptly, and loosed hishold on Miles's collar.
There was a little movement in the group of men, and Master StephenHopkins, stepping closer to the cabin door, peered in and spokesolemnly: "A full keg of powder broke open! 'Tis by the mercy of Heavenalone the ship was not blown into atoms."
"I did not have it in mind to blow up the ship," Miles faltered,raising his eyes. "I did but touch off a squib--because it would burnbravely." There the words choked in his throat, for, a little back fromthe other men, he caught sight of his father, and Goodman Rigdale'sarms were folded, his heavy brows drawn close together, and his lips,beneath his beard, set in a way Miles knew of old. "I did not mean it,"he repeated huskily, and, gazing at the floor again, began crushing afold of his doublet in his hand.
About him there was questioning and answering, he knew, and he heardFrancis whimper: "'Twas Miles. He touched off squibs, he did."
"Squibs do not make such a noise as that we heard," Governor Carverinterrupted sternly.
"'Twas daddy's fowling piece. Miles Rigdale and I shot her off, andhe--"
"Let Miles Rigdale rest," the Elder admonished. "Do you tell us ofFrancis Billington."
Bit by bit a fairly accurate story was drawn from the two boys, thoughby such slow and woful stages that before it was ended Captain MilesStandish and John Alden, with their hands all grimed with powder,came out from the cabin. Miles stole a fearful side-glance at theLow Country soldier, who, being trained in the brutal discipline ofthe camps, was likely to prove a harsher judge than the Elder orthe Governor, but, to his relief, he saw the Captain halt besideGoodman Billington, to whom he growled out some pithy advice as tothe expediency of keeping his powder covered up and out of reach ofmischievous hands.
Miles took heart a little then, as much as he could take heart while heknew Goodman Rigdale was frowning in the background, and even venturedto look up when he heard Elder Brewster say, in a tone which a traceof amusement and much relief made almost kindly: "Well, well, 'twas noGuy Fawkes conspiracy, it seems, only the folly of two scatter-brainedlads. Your Excellency scarce will set them in the bilboes?"
"Nay, I leave it to their fathers to teach them not to meddle with suchtools in future," Governor Carver answered gravely; and thereupon, witha surly mutter or so from other fathers in the company as to what thetwo culprits deserved to get, the men scattered to weightier affairs.
As the group thinned, Miles was left face to face with his father, who,making a curt sign for him to come after, led the way to the door ofthe cabin. Miles felt queer and empty at the pit of his stomach, andhis fingers trembled as he began unhooking his doublet, but he followedalong bravely. His eyes were still downcast, and, as he stepped, hecounted the planks in the flooring and tried to think of nothing buttheir number.
Out in the darkness of the forward deck his father gave him suchpunishment as he looked for,--a beating with a rope's end, so hard thatMiles had to set his teeth tight and clench his hands to keep fromcrying. Once, in the midst, Goodman Rigdale stayed his arm, and in theinstant's cessation Miles, standing in his shirt-sleeves, felt the windfrom across the harbor strike cold on his hot flesh, that was quiveringwith the blows. "That is for that you near destroyed the ship," hisfather spoke, gravely and without anger. "Now I must flog you for thatyou disobeyed me, and had to do with one of those Billington imps."
The second whipping ended, Miles huddled on his doublet, stiffly andawkwardly, glad of the darkness that hid his face. Goodman Rigdale wasspeaking again: "And ere you lie down to-night, my son, remember togive thanks unto God that by His mercy He has preserved you from beingcast into His presence with the deaths of all that are within this shipupon your soul."
Miles did not quite follow the words, but, with a sense that he wasthe chiefest of sinners, and with a keen realization that his back andsides were smarting, he gulped out an unsteady "Yes, sir," and blindlyfled away.
Aft of the foremast, as he stumbled uncertainly, he ran against awoman, and at once he knew it was his mother. In an unformed way he wasaware that she had been waiting to comfort him, and at each blow hadsuffered more than he. Her voice was quavering now, though she triedhard to keep her everyday tone: "Come, come down to the cabin now.Father has shot a bird, and I've made a broth to our supper. Come,deary, it is turning chill here."
Shaking off the hand she laid on his arm, Miles broke away and ran tothe mainmast, where the hatchway yawned. Slipping and swinging on thesteep ladder, he descended headlong; he was not going to his father'scabin, nor did he know whither he was going, only that he wanted to beby himself. On the orlop deck he halted an instant before passing downinto the hold; below, there would be many people, while here, for themoment, he was alone. He stood blinking at the dim lantern that hung bythe ladder, till slowly it grew blurry to his eyes, and, raising hisbent arm, he hid his face.
It seemed only a moment before he heard someone come tramping up fromthe hold, and felt a hand on his shoulder. He was turned round; hehad to look up; and he saw, standing over him, Master Hopkins, verygrim and stern, as was his wont. "I am glad to see these tears ofrepentance, Miles Rigdale," he spoke severely.
Miles wriggled out of his hold. "I am not repentant," he cried. "I wishI _had_ blown _you_ up. Now you can go bid my father flog me again."With that he dodged the hand Hopkins put out to detain him, and,jumping over some coils of rope, scrambled away out of reach.
Clambering over the chests and kegs that were placed upon the orlop,he paused only when he reached the next cleared space, by the forwardhatchway that led to the gunroom. There it was all dark, a comfortable,thick blackness, and, to make it safer and lonelier, he crept under atable that was stored among other household stuff.
For a moment he sat panting, and listened to the lap, lap of the wavesupon the side of the ship and to his own heavy breathing, but he heardno sound of any one's pursuing him. Doubtless Master Hopkins hadgone away to tell every one that he was crying and repentant, Milestormented himself; no matter, he was never coming out to be jeered atand preached to; he would stay under the table forever, and he wouldnot shed another tear to please them.
So he sat, rigid and still, and each moment grew more keenly aware thathe was sore from his beating, that his head ached, and his burnt handthrobbed, and his heart was big with a great burden of shame. Of asudden, in the stillness and dark, he heard a sob. Then he found it washimself, lying with his head buried in his arms a
gainst the crosspiecethat braced the legs of the table, and crying helplessly.
He had lost track of the minutes, but he had lain there a long time,he knew, for his arms were numb with the pressure of the crosspieceagainst them, and his throat ached with much sobbing, when he caughtthe sound of a footstep on the planking of the orlop. At the samemoment, light beat against his smarting eyelids, and, opening his eyes,he raised his head to look.
The edges of the table under which he crouched were silhouetted blacklyagainst the yellow lantern-glow, which crept midway into his shelter.Following with his eyes along the light, he could see beyond the tablethe joinings of the planks of the floor, a bit of the ladder that ledto the main deck, and by the ladder, in shadow as the lantern wasraised, the lower part of a man's body.
Miles stared breathlessly at the commonplace leather shoes and kerseybreeches,--all the rest the table hid from his view,--while he stroveto hold back a sob that was halfway up his throat. It would out, but hetried to turn it into a sneeze, which ended in a mournful, indefinablegurgle.
Instantly the light of the lantern, swinging round, swept almost intohis face, and a deep voice commanded: "Come out hither."
Miles sat up, tense and braced. "Is it you, Captain Standish?" heasked, in a small voice. Not that, to his knowledge, Miles Standish hadever hurt any one, but he was a brusque, peremptory man, reputed of afiery temper; it was for this, probably, that Master Hopkins had senthim hither, as one fitted to deal out further punishment to such acriminal as Miles Rigdale.
"Come out, and you'll speedily find if 'tis I," Standish's voicerejoined grimly.
Miles rubbed his sleeve across his eyes, the rough frieze hurting themrarely, then dubiously crept from his shelter. The straight course wasto crawl toward the light, but to go that way would land him squarelyat the Captain's feet,--a last touch of ignominy that he could notendure. So he scrambled painfully over the crosspieces and round thetable-legs, till he came out upon the open floor the width of thetable-top from the enemy.
"It's naught but you, is it?" the Captain greeted him, and turned thelantern so the light fell full upon him.
The boy struggled hastily to his feet. "Ay, sir," he nodded, withoutspeaking or looking up.
The other drew a step nearer. "You're one of the knaves who tried toblow up the _Mayflower_, are you not?" he questioned sternly. "Did yousteal down here to fire the magazine and finish the work?"
"I--I did not go for to blow up the ship, sir," Miles pleaded, raisinghis eyes. With amazed relief, he saw that, for all his gruff tone, theCaptain looked more amused than angry.
Standish must have taken closer note of him, too, for he askedabruptly: "You're John Rigdale's lad, are you not?"
"I am Miles Rigdale."
The lantern was lowered suddenly. "My namesake, are you? Do younot think, sirrah, you bear too good a name to drag it into apowder-burning matter such as this?"
"I do not hold it a good name," Miles burst out. "I would they hadcalled me plain Jack."
"Wherefore, pray you?"
"Miles is no name at all," the boy hesitated, between shyness and thedesire to vent a long-standing resentment. "It makes me think of thestone in our village that said: 'Thirteen miles to London.'"
"Tut, tut, lad! Have you no Latin?"
Miles slipped one hand under the edge of the table against which heleaned, and picked at a splinter he found there, while he stammered:"N--no, sir. There was no school in our village, and, had there been,my father could not spare me from the farm. I must help him, for I'mmighty strong for my years," he added gravely. "And I never want to gosit in a school, either. I am glad there will be no schools here inthe plantation, not till I'm a man and can do as I will. I hold thatis the best part of all in planting a colony, except the lions and thesavages."
"And what do you think to do with the lions and savages, MilesRigdale?"
"Fight 'em, sir."
Captain Standish chuckled softly in his beard. "You'll fight 'em, eh?'Tis a great pity, in truth, no one has told you what name you bear.You should know that Miles in the Latin tongue signifies 'a soldier.'"
Miles forgot that his cheeks were tear-stained and his eyes swollen,and looked up happily into the speaker's face. "I am right glad ofthat," he announced. "'Tis a good enough name, after all." He wassorely tempted to ask the Captain if he had been named that after heproved himself a soldier in the wars, or if they named him first and hegrew to it afterward, but he concluded that would be over-bold.
Though, after all, he began to doubt if Captain Standish were sucha terrible body. He looked pleasant enough now, as he stood in thelantern light,--a stocky, square-shouldered man of some six and thirtyyears, with yellow-brown hair and beard, and eyes so deep set under hisbrows Miles could not tell their color. The linen bands at his neck andwrists were small and plain, and along the sides of his doublet of darkmaroon kersey the rubbing of armor had worn down the cloth. He was notso fine a gentleman, doubtless, as young Master Edward Winslow, but helooked the man of war, through and through, and, moreover, he neitherscolded nor preached at a small sinner; Miles began to be glad in hisheart that he bore the same name as the Captain.
"So, after all, you're content to be named 'Soldier' Rigdale?" Standishsuddenly read the expression of his face.
"'Tis a soldier that I mean to be," Miles confessed. "I like the smellof powder."
"So it seems," the Captain answered, in the dryest possible tone, andthen, as Miles's cheeks began to burn, went on hastily: "Which was it,you or the Billington lad, put out the fire? We found the blanket onthe floor of the cabin."
"Mayhap 'twas I. I do not recall it clearly."
The Captain reached out his hand, and, taking Miles by a fold of thedoublet-sleeve, lifted his arm. "No doubt 'twas you," he said; "you'veblistered your hand here."
"I know. It aches," Miles whispered, with a sudden husky dropping ofhis voice.
"You'd better go to your mother straightway and ask her to put oil onit; that will soon draw out the fire."
"I can't," Miles gulped. "I can never go out among the people again.When they all think I tried to blow them up,--and when every one willknow I have been newly whipped. I shall stay here forever." His voicedied down as he spoke the last: it did not sound manly, but uncommonsilly.
"You'd get mighty hungry if you did," the soldier answered him coolly."You're going to your mother now, my man. Run along with you. I've togo on down into the gunroom, but I'll light you up the ladder."
Miles gave a tremulous gasp of resignation, and scuffed slowly to thefoot of the ladder, where he paused and smeared the back of his handacross his cheeks; then turned to his companion. "Captain Standish," hehesitated; then, as it was the only possible way of learning what hewished to know before he showed himself among the company, he blurtedout desperately, "Will you tell me, is my face clean?"
Captain Standish looked down at him with a funny expression in hiseyes. "I think 'twill serve in a half light, if you slip directly intoyour father's cabin."
"Thank you, sir," Miles answered; then added hastily, "You see, therewas something flew into my eye, and one that did not know mightthink--I had been crying."
Soldier Rigdale: How He Sailed in the Mayflower and How He Served Miles Standish Page 2
