Gilbert scanned the pages, and she watched him. Then she said, “Read some of it, Gilbert.”
He paused at the page he was on, looked up, then began to read:
Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As foretold you, were all spirits, and
Are melted into air, into thin air:
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp’d towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself—
Yea, all which it inherit—shall dissolve
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.
He lifted his eyes, about to comment on the lines, but she said in a weary tone: “That’s what I’ve been feeling, Gilbert.”
“What, Dorothy?”
“Why, like the poem says, everything is so frail! The earth is going to dissolve. That’s what I’ve been feeling lately.” She gave him a trembling smile, then brushed her hand across her eyes. “It’s true, isn’t it? Nothing lasts.”
Gilbert was trapped, wishing desperately that Carver or Brewster were on hand to handle the question. His own mind was not clear on such things, but he knew he had to give her some encouragement.
“Why, things change, of course,” he said. “But when the old things pass, new ones come along. Like your garden in Leyden,” he said quickly. “It was beautiful, but you’ll have one here, too.”
She did not respond, but kept her eyes fixed on the candle that threw a flickering light over the dark room. It seemed to fascinate her, and as she spoke, her speech was slower, slurred as if she were very sleepy.
“But—it’s not real. Like the poem says, we are made of stuff like dreams. That’s what life is, Gilbert—a dream—like a dream. . . .”
Her voice trailed off, and he saw with a shock that her eyes were fixed and glassy. Taking her arm he gave her a shake, saying loudly, “Dorothy! Life’s not like that at all!”
She did not hear, and her hand was limp and lifeless as he took it, cold as ice.
“It’s all a dream . . .” she murmured, and then she started singing the song he had heard her sing before. “I’m a lost lamb . . .” and over and over in the darkness she sang the song and said, “It’s a dream.”
He sat there holding her hand, from time to time saying her name, and the horror of it rived him like a sword. This was not Dorothy sitting beside him, he knew, but something else. Where was the attractive, witty woman who had charmed him in Leyden? What held her in such a fell embrace and left him sitting with an empty shell of a woman? As time dragged on, he fought valiantly, forcing himself to remain when every nerve cried out to flee the dark cabin and the thing that sat beside him.
Finally, the door opened and Humility stood there. She was outlined against the door, her face still and yet moving as she looked into the countenance of her friend. Then she entered and asked, “She’s bad, isn’t she?”
“Very bad!” Gilbert breathed. He got up, and his hands were trembling.
She looked up at him, and there was some of the old affection in her eyes as she said, “You’ve been good to stay.”
“I wish—!”
She shrugged and sat down, taking Dorothy’s thin hand. “I know. It’s in God’s hands. I’ll stay with her now.”
He nodded, and the last thing he saw was Humility pulling Dorothy’s head against her breast as she would a sick child.
Humility remained with Dorothy in the small cabin for twenty-four hours, and finally dropped, exhausted, into sleep.
Dorothy had slept off and on, but when she awakened and found her hand released and Humility lying on the floor asleep, she lay there for a long time staring at the candle.
The winds were whistling through the sails, and the motion of the boat was hypnotic.
“I’m a poor lost lamb—I’m a poor lost lamb . . .” she breathed softly, then put the cover aside and stood up. The cabin was cold, and she shivered as the air struck her. She leaned forward peering at Humility intently; then a small smile touched her lips and she put a finger on her lips and whispered, “You sleep, Mama—I’ll go outside and play with my dolls.”
Softly she tiptoed through the cargo hold, carefully avoiding the sleeping forms, and when she got to the ladder leading upward, she giggled with her hand over her mouth. She climbed the stairs and went out on the deck.
The ocean was a beast, rolling from side to side and growling deep, but she did not heed the crashing of the waves against the sides, but made her way quickly to the bow. There she leaned out and stared down at the water that seemed to be alive.
“I’m a little lost lamb . . .” she murmured, and leaned farther to see into the green depths of the great water that licked the sides of the dark hull.
The prow went down sharply, and then rose high in the air, and the sudden movement frightened her. She began to cry, calling out, “Papa! Papa! Where are you, Papa?”
Her thin cries were swallowed up by the roar of the wind, and waves licked higher up on the hull. She turned to go back along the deck, then came to a large box beside the rail.
Carefully she climbed up on top of it, then turned to look over the rail, now up to her knees. The ship seemed to drop, then lurched sideways as she started to step down, and the sudden movement threw her off balance.
Her feet slipped, and she shot over the rail crying once before she reached the freezing water, Oh, William! Then she struck the hard green water; darkness enveloped her as she went down, head over heels. The icy coldness seared her lungs, and she opened her mouth to scream, but it filled with salty water. Then she slid into utter darkness, dragged down by the claws of a powerful undercurrent.
The tide rolled her gently toward the deep sea, her skirts wafting slowly, a sea flower, her hands white fingers of coral, her hair fine streaming sea grass.
* * *
When the shallop approached the Mayflower on Wednesday, the sun shone brightly and the air was milder than it had been for days—almost like a fine fall day.
Gilbert was standing in the bow, his head down, exhausted from the search he had made in the small boat for Dorothy’s body. He had driven himself long after Fuller and Humility had said, “It’s no use, Gilbert—she’s gone.”
A shout rang out, “There’s the craft!” and a moment later the rail was lined with women looking for their husbands. They waved as the shallop came in, bending on the wind, crying out to the small figures in it.
Nearer and nearer came the craft, until they could be identified: old John Carver, Alden, Edward Winslow, Hopkins, Billington, White, and the rest.
As the boat was made fast and the men started up, Brewster made his way forward, his face a mask. He must be the one to tell Bradford.
Hopkins jumped to the deck, yelling “Arrows!” and began to tell of the Indian attack; then the others piled on deck.
William Bradford was one of the last to mount the ladder, and as the others were shouting and hugging their wives, Brewster took him and drew him beneath the projecting weather-beaten deck of the poop.
Bradford looked quickly at the older man, noting the sorrow in his eye and the silence in the midst of the uproar.
Quickly he said, “Dorothy—she’s worse?”
Brewster took a deep breath, then said quietly, “She’s gone, Will—our Dorothy’s gone to be with the Lord!”
The rawboned, harsh-featured man stood there staring at Brewster, and then without a word he turned and made his way below, going down into the dark recesses of the deck, into the cabin where her things still were, and shut the door. He stumbled about with little half-formed cries, seeking a corner in which to hide, finally falling on his face, grinding his forehead into the rough planking and calling her name again and again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“IT WILL BE ALL RIGHT!”
&nbs
p; “I think we must go to Plymouth Harbor, Captain.”
Christopher Jones, looking up in surprise to see William Bradford standing before his desk, did not answer for a moment, so shocked he was at Bradford’s appearance. It had been three days since the party came back, and Bradford had kept to his cabin all that time.
There was something pitiful to Jones about the way the minister held his back straighter than usual, but he said only, “I agree, Mr. Bradford. Are your people agreed on settlement at Plymouth Harbor?”
Bradford stared at him, then said quietly, “I will do the agreeing, Captain Jones. Please get underway as soon as is convenient.”
Bradford wheeled and marched directly to the lower deck. As he came to the small area used for meetings, a silence fell on the group of men who had been loudly debating the issue of choosing a harbor.
“Well, Mr. Bradford,” William Mullins said haltingly, “you’ve come to help us decide on which harbor we will choose for our permanent settlement.” Mullins cast a look around, seeking encouragement from the others, and added, “Some would have us settle at Corn Hill, while others would like—”
“We set sail at once for Plymouth Harbor.” The tone of Bradford’s voice was no softer than the rocks on the harbor half a mile away; he settled back on his heels, rifled the group with a steady gaze, and said, “We have no choice. Corn Hill has no permanent water supply, and that alone is sufficient reason to eliminate it.”
“But we must discuss . . .” Billington raised his voice, but was cut off at once by Bradford.
“Governor Carver has made the decision, and we sail at once.”
Every eye turned to the elderly Carver, who suddenly seemed uncomfortable. He twisted this way and that, and finally nodded reluctantly, saying, “Yes, that is what we must do.”
Everyone knew instantly that Mr. Carver was incapable of such a radical decision, that William Bradford was the power behind the throne; but none dared challenge the direct stare of the small man standing there like a rock.
Suddenly there was a loud rattle as the anchor chain began to draw, and Bradford said with a nod, “We will begin work on our first building as soon as Captain Jones can drop anchor.”
As the group broke up, Edward said to Sam Fuller, “He’s changed, Sam.”
“Right enough! And for the better, I say!”
“I thought he’d die in that cabin for three days. I don’t think he ate a bite.”
“He’s always been a driving man, but he’s got a look in his eye, ain’t he, Edward?”
Edward nodded slowly. He stared at the departing Bradford, and said, “He’s the one man who can make a plantation in this place, Sam. Too bad it took the loss of his wife to get a fire built in him.”
“There’s going to be more than Bradford losing their people—and not as far away as all that, either.” The heavy face of the doctor reflected the strain that he’d worked under, and he gave a helpless gesture with his hands as he turned and left Winslow alone.
The Mayflower weighed anchor and headed for Plymouth. With a stiff breeze blowing from the northwest, Jones slipped between the long sandspits that almost enclosed the harbor. He hauled around to the north, dropping anchor just as dark fell.
The entire company came on deck, ignoring the cold, to stare at the land, their journey’s end.
A long arm of sand lay between the ship and the land. In the opposite direction a mile of uneven mud flats stretched from inner water to shore, intersected by many pools. It looked barren, huge, like the earth after the Flood receded and exposed a dying world. But far off lay the solid land, a virgin land of timber, hill, and plain.
“A miracle that we got in,” Captain Jones said quietly to William Brewster who stood by him. “Another hour and the wind would have changed again.”
“A miracle, Captain?” Brewster said quickly, with a sly gleam in his eye. “I thought you didn’t believe in such things.”
Jones ducked his head, then raised a hand to scratch his nose. “Well . . .” he finally grinned, “I suppose there are always exceptions.”
Then the voice of Coffin giving instructions to the seamen up in the yards came loud and clear: “Drop the mainsail—but reef it for easy flyin’. This is their graveyard, ain’t it now? We’ll be off in a couple of days and they can start their dyin’!”
Jones opened his mouth to rebuke the man, but Brewster put a restraining hand on his arm. “He’s partly right, you know.”
“What?”
“Why, the land has only two uses for man—to live on and to bury each other in. And if we do the first according to God’s will, why, the other will not be difficult.”
The next day was the Sabbath, and once more the saints from Leyden refused to violate it. Many of the crew had come to respect the iron-firm convictions of the settlers, even to admire the way these people lived their faith. “They ain’t no Sunday men!” was the way John Parker put it. “Always the same!”
Early on Monday, a party was sent ashore to explore. They probed the wide mouth of a brook which emptied into the bay and found good soil, supporting a thick cover of pine, walnut, beech, ash, birch, hazel, and sassafras. But the ground was too heavily wooded to be cleared quickly. They called on God for direction, and decided to settle on the high ground along the brook in the southern part of the harbor, just behind the huge rock that reached up out of the sea.
That night Mary Allerton, the tailor’s wife, was brought to bed and delivered of a son, but he was stillborn.
“God grant we get off this ship before we all die,” William Mullins groaned. He was ill, and a dozen others lay prostrate in their bunks. That night Richard Bitteridge of London was sewed into his shroud. He had died on shore at dawn, and braving the wind and rain, they dug a shallow grave for him on the low hill just above the shore. All that day and all the next day the storm continued to beat down on the shivering men ashore, but then the weather improved and on Monday, December 25, work began in earnest.
All able-bodied men went ashore—some to fell timber, some to saw, some to rive, and some to carry. On the north side of the brook, just above the beach, they chose a site and laid the foundations of what they called their Common House. Close by, to house the workers left ashore each night, they threw up a number of temporary shelters, conical huts of branches and turf. Late in the afternoon an Indian alarm had sent all running for their muskets, but nothing came of it.
Captain Jones watched the weary men drag themselves on board. “Not much of a Christmas for them, is it?”
Brewster smiled and tugged at his gray beard. “We don’t observe the day, Captain. To us it’s just a human invention—a Roman corruption—just a survival from heathen days.”
“No special meal, no gifts?”
“Well . . .” Brewster admitted slowly, “We do like to have a good meal, a little better than usual. But I suppose we’ll have to forego that. We drank the last of our beer some days ago, and the larder is pretty lean.”
Jones smiled and excused himself. Later as the settlers were sitting down to a sparse meal with plain water, he appeared with seaman O’Neal behind him carrying a keg, and Davis, a hulking sailor with one arm, carrying a large box.
“Why, Captain Jones!” Carver said in surprise, looking up from his plate. “You’ve come to join us?”
“If I may. And since I’m unexpected company, I brought a little something to add to the supper.”
A hum went up as the seamen set their burdens down, and Jones asked innocently, “I am not familiar with your customs, Governor. Are you allowed to drink beer?”
“Beer!” Carver beamed, and looking around with pleasure, he nodded rapidly and said, “There’s nothing in our doctrine that forbids that!”
“Ah—and nothing against plum cake and these few dainties?”
“Indeed not!” Carver said. He looked on the neat form of Jones and said, “Bless you, Captain Jones!”
“I was afraid you might think I was trying to corrupt you into ce
lebrating Christmas, Mr. Carver,” Jones said with a sly smile touching his gray eyes.
Carver gave him a direct look, then said seriously, “No, sir. You are a good man, Captain. We all know that. I would that you were of our faith.”
Jones stared at Carver, started to say something, then apparently changed his mind. “That is a rare compliment, and I shall treasure it, Mr. Carver,” he said simply.
Humility had found Peter Brown seated beside her at the meal, and for the next week, he found an excuse to talk to her every day. She wrote to her best friend in Leyden, Hope Stewart:
My dear Hope, there is no way to mail this letter, of course, but one day a ship will come and bring it to your door.
The men started building our houses on December 25, and although the weather was bad the next day, on Wednesday and Thursday, all was clear and the party was back at work.
It was decided to assign unmarried men to each family to save time, so there will only be nineteen houses, the size of the plot adjusted to the size of the family.
Building the houses is very difficult, not at all like at home. A foundation of stone must be laid, then an open frame erected. Trees have to be cut and trimmed to square sections with a broadax, then finished with an adze. Are you impressed with my knowledge? I have been talking a great deal to a young man named Peter Brown, one of the strangers from London. He is not really a carpenter, but has done some work in that line. He is teaching me how to sharpen tools so that I can be of some help.
I can hear you say, “Oh, Humility, what does he look like? Is he handsome? Is he married?” Well, perhaps you would ask that last question first! He looks very well, he is not married. I might add, at the risk of being vain, he is the most eligible bachelor on the ship, and I would be blind if I had not noted the attention he pays to me. But I am not ever going to marry.
I find this hard to write, my dear Hope, but I have no one to talk to here. It is a great sin on my part, but I must confess it, even if just in this letter that may never be seen by any eyes other than mine—I have not been able to forgive Gilbert Winslow for his behavior toward me.
The Honorable Imposter (House of Winslow Book #1) Page 23
