The Pilgrim

by Hugh Nissenson

  “You have a keen wit, sir.”

  “Thank you, Mistress. I honed it in disputations with my tutors at Cambridge.”

  “So you are a Cambridge man, Master Wentworth. Well, well!” and, for the first time, she looked intently at my pitted face.

  Henry said, “Cousin Edward’s father and our father were brothers. They were both fervent Separatists. Our mother, of precious memory, was too ill with the consumption for Father to take our family to join cousin Edward and the other Separatists in the Low Countries. Father tended Mother day and night for three years. She died two years ago in the month of September—the same month in which Father, of precious memory, coughed bright red blood into his handkerchief.

  “Said he, ‘I know the color of this blood. Your mother coughed up bright red blood like this. This is arterial blood. It means my death.’

  “The surgeon bled him and gave him infusions, decoctions, and tinctures—all to no avail. I clothed and unclothed him. Abigail made his bed, fetched him water, fed him, and changed and washed his bedclothes for over two years. He died last August 1st, one day after his forty-ninth birthday.

  “On his deathbed, he bade us flee England and the dominion of the Anglican church. Said he, ‘My children, I bid you cross the sea and dwell in the Plymouth Plantation with our godly cousin Edward and his brothers and sisters in Christ.’

  “I wrote cousin Edward. He answered me thus: ‘Come hither, dear cousins, and help build a commonwealth in the wilderness ruled by Christ through His Elect.’ I spent twenty pounds of our inheritance to buy our passage in two cabins on this ship, together with six pounds, four pence to dine with the Captain in his cabin.”

  The Swan sailed around a bend in the Thames and passed the Isle of Dogs. We beheld its gibbet, from which a blackened, putrid corpse was hanging in a rusty iron cage.

  Rigdale said, “’Tis very like peering into a grave. Oh, Ann, to think that you now look like that.”

  Henry drew his cutlass from its scabbard and said, “I bought this in London from a soldier. Look you! It hath but one cutting edge. I have pledged myself, by this sharp blade, to become a soldier of the Lord in defense of the Plymouth Plantation. One day, by God’s grace, I will cut off a heathen Indian’s head.”

  Abigail said, “My brother is filled with martial ardor in the service of Christ. I am a frail female vessel who thus far is empty of grace. But I have hope that I will discover that I am predestined to be saved. Who knows? Perhaps God’s grace will be bestowed upon me and one day I will dwell as one of the Saints in the Plymouth Plantation.”

  I said, “I also pray for God’s grace. The temptations in England were too great for me, which is why I choose to live chastely in the wilderness among Weston’s men.”

  The wind tossed the auburn curls upon Abigail’s forehead and stirred the ends of the white kerchief tied about her long, slender neck.

  • • •

  Abigail and Henry lodged aft in two small cabins, each just large enough for a canvas bed stuffed with straw and a cupboard. Andrew Weston lodged with Captain Green in the great cabin. Rigdale and I slept upon our canvas beds stuffed with straw on the crowded gun deck with Weston’s other men. For fear of the ship catching fire, the Captain forbade us to light candles or cook our victuals. We dwelt below in perpetual darkness.

  On our fifth day out, at about nine in the morning, the wind grew so strong at southwest, and heavy rain withal, that Captain Green ordered the crew to take in the topsail and lower the mainsail. The storm tore the foresail in pieces. I lay upon my bed and listened to the wind howl and the waves break against the hull behind my head. The men about me vomited and groaned. Then I too took sick. The storm continued all the day and night. I was nauseous the whole time, but only able to vomit a bitter liquid. And after that, I had nothing left within me to disgorge.

  The storm slacked off at about five the next morning. I lay there in the dark, too sick to move. At length, I roused myself and made my way up to Abigail’s cabin, wherein she said to her brother and me, “There is a common saying that only those who go by sea know what it is to fear God. I learned in the night that the saying is true.”

  The three of us offered up a prayer of thanksgiving for our deliverance from our first storm at sea, and, with Rigdale, we kept a fast in gratitude to almighty God all the following day.

  I soon became accustomed to the stench in the gun deck of the damp, the spoiled victuals, rotting straw, spew, piss, and excrement. At the beginning of our third week at sea, Captain Green told Weston that the filthiness of his men lodged on the gun deck endangered the health of the ship. Weston, who never once went below during our voyage, summoned Rigdale to his cabin and ordered him to appoint men to keep the gun deck clean. Rigdale appointed himself, me, and four other men to keep our room clean for three days; then he appointed six others to succeed us, and so forth.

  The next morning, after I had emptied two buckets of excrement over the side, Abigail said to me, “God bless you sir, for cleansing our ship of some of life’s filth.”

  “I am of the opinion that before Adam fell, the whole of the world was always clean.”

  “Why, that shall henceforth be my opinion, too.”

  “You are heartily welcome to anything of mine.”

  “What, then, is your opinion of me?”

  “First tell me this: thirteen days ago, when we met here upon the quarterdeck, you gazed intently upon my pitted face. Pray tell me why.”

  “My father, of precious memory, also had a pitted face. He was stricken with the smallpox at the age of sixteen. Your face brought his beloved face to my mind.”

  “Perhaps that is why God afflicted me with the smallpox.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Why, to bind you to me at our first meeting.”

  “And what—if anything—binds you to me?”

  “Your curls. My heart is entangled in your curls.”

  • • •

  Rigdale led me, the Winslows, and one Phineas Pratt in prayer three times a day. In fair weather, we prayed on the quarterdeck. When the weather was stormy, we gathered in Henry’s cabin. Pratt was a master carpenter from Ipswich who had signed a contract with Weston for twelve pounds a year—the most ready money any of us were to receive. He and Rigdale had left their tool boxes in Captain Green’s care. One rainy afternoon, in the captain’s great cabin, they examined each other’s divers tools, viz., augers (both). Various and sundry planes, cabinet scraper, crosscut saw, &c. (Rigdale). Rip saw, framing chisels, gauge, plumb line, hammer, &c (Pratt).

  Pratt hammered a nail half way into the wall and then rubbed its head with the tip of his forefinger. He said, “I have the magic touch. You, sir, Master Wentworth, I’ll wager you a shilling that you cannot drive this nail up to its head in three blows.”

  I said, “My religion forbids me to make a wager, sirrah.”

  He said, “Yes, sir, of course, sir. Never mind the wager. Forget the wager. Far be it for me to tempt you to sin. I bid you to try so that you may behold the effect of my magic touch.”

  I struck three hard blows, but each time the hammer flew off the head of the nail. Pratt and Rigdale laughed. I laughed, too.

  Pratt said, “I played a little carpenter’s trick on thee. Forgive me, sir.”

  “I forgive you, sirrah, if you explain the trick.”

  “I rubbed ear wax upon the head of the nail.”

  I laughed. “Henceforth, I will call you, ‘Ear-Wax Pratt.’”

  He said, “Your servant, sir,” and pulled the nail out of the wall.

  “Nay, I will not call you ‘Ear-Wax Pratt.’ I will call you ‘Phineas.’ Phineas is a noble name. There was once a Phineas who was the pagan king of antique Thrace.”

  “You mean to say that my father named me for a pagan?”

  “So he did, sirrah.”

  “Father
never told me. I’m not surprised. He was a papist. I converted to the true religion when I was a journeyman in London.”

  “Which religion is that?”

  He said, “Why, the Church of England, sir.”

  Rigdale said, “Would you take me for a member of the Church of England, sirrah?”

  Pratt said, “I cannot say. I cannot see into your soul. I know not what you are. Are you a Minister? You lead our little congregation in prayer thrice daily. But why do you not preach a sermon to us on the Sabbath?”

  Rigdale said, “I would if I could.”

  I said, “You do not require a licence to preach aboard the Swan.”

  “God must give me His licence to preach.”

  On the following Sabbath, the wind slacked about noon, and the cool weather grew very calm. Rigdale’s little congregation gathered on the quarterdeck. An immense black whale breached just off the starboard bow. He jumped clear of the sea and dove back beneath the waves. Then he burst to the surface, blew two soaring plumes of water that formed a V from atop his head, and vanished again into the depths.

  Rigdale cried out after him, “Leviathan! That was Leviathan! God be praised! We have beheld Leviathan!

  “Dear friends, with God’s help, I will this day preach a sermon to you on Job 40:20, ‘Canst thou draw out leviathan with an hook and with a line which thou shalt cast down into his tongue?’”

  He stood awhile in silence and then spake thus: “God help me! I have nothing to say about Job 40:20. I have nothing now to say about anything, save my soul. And I have but one thing to say about that: my soul is a dry land.

  “Dear God, licence me to preach a short sermon in the plain style to these godly Christians on the aforesaid words of Job. O, my God, the Jews do not yearn for their Messiah with more devotion than I yearn to preach Thy Word. O Lord, harken unto my prayer.”

  Another whale breached off the starboard bow and vanished into the sea. Rigdale said, “I took your companion as a sign for me to preach a sermon on Job 40:20. I was wrong.”

  • • •

  In fair weather, Henry, Abigail, Weston, Rigdale, and I dined in the great cabin with Captain Green. We had each paid three pounds, tuppence for the entire voyage to eat various and sundry victuals: dried bread and biscuits, salted eggs and salted fish, bacon and cured meats, calf tongues in bran or meal.

  We all grew particularly weary of dried bread. One afternoon, at the beginning of June, Weston said, “Last night I dreamed that a warm loaf of freshly baked white bread was set on a table before me. I said to myself in my dream, why can I not smell this delectable loaf of bread?

  “Pray tell me, Master Wentworth, can you smell in your dreams?”

  “I am thinking on it.”

  He said, “Whilst you think, I will pour me another cup of Aqua Vitae.”

  “If it please you, sir, pour me another as well, for I cannot stomach drinking the beer on shipboard. It is either very salty or as thick as pudding.”

  “Well? What say you, sir? Can you smell divers odors in your dreams?”

  “I cannot recall having done so.”

  “I will tell thee how to do it.”

  “How?”

  “Piss abed whilst you dream you are pissing, and you will smell piss.”

  I said, “Go piss abed yourself and say that you sweat!”

  Henry said, “Gentlemen! I pray you, cease your filthy talk in the presence of my sister.”

  I said, “I apologize, Mistress. Forgive me. I forgot myself. Swilling Aqua Vitae is a beastly thing. I swear to you that I will never swill the stuff again.”

  Abigail said, “Thanks be to God, for then we can remain friends.”

  That night, three of Weston’s men forced open a cask of Aqua Vitae in the hold and got drunk. Weston kept them on bread and water and had them clapped in leg irons, with their hands bound behind them, all the next day.

  One of the rogues, whose name was Martin Hook, thereafter said to me, “Do you remember me, sir? I remember you. I said to you, ‘If I sail not with you on the Swan, sir, hang me up from the main-yard.’ I said, ‘I pray you, sir, show me where to make my mark, that I might earn my four pounds, two shillings, and tuppence for my one year’s labor in the wilderness across the sea.’

  “I would gladly suffer leg irons again in exchange for another night of tippling Aqua Vitae in the hold. Being drunk is my only time aboard this infernal ship that I do not fear drowning. I was almost mad from fright during the storm.

  “I was a lad of twelve, on my father’s farm in Sussex, when I carried the corpse of little Elizabeth Fowler out of Laxton Pond. How she come to drown there no one knows. Jane Mayo, whilst washing clothes, spied her under the water and fetched me from the barn. As I cannot swim, I walked into the water up to my chest and held my breath and ducked my head and spied wee Beth lying face up on the sandy bottom, midst the weeds. I remember her long braids floating amongst the weeds. Her eyes were shut. I grasped her right wrist. The flesh was cold and slimy. It was the first time I had ever touched a corpse. I took another breath of air and picked up Bess. She was very light in weight. I carried her out of the pond and laid her upon the bank.

  “Bess Fowler was nine years of age when she drowned. Jane Mayo cleansed the vomit from Bess’s mouth with her forefinger. I touched Bess’s cold, slimy wrist once again. It chilled my heart. I have been terrified of drowning ever since. Sailing across the sea on the Swan is the bravest thing I have ever done. I’m doing it for ready money: three pounds, six shillings, and one share of the profits we shall make.”

  • • •

  Abigail and I passed much of our remaining time aboard the Swan together. We endured fog, rain, cold, and three more storms, the last of which, on the second of June, split our spritsail in pieces. It was a great mercy of God that it did split, for otherwise it would have endangered the breaking of our bowsprit, and perhaps our topmasts as well. The whole ship kept a fast of thanksgiving.

  I must confess that once when Abigail was sick in her cabin, I enjoyed a bowl of Captain Green’s Aqua Vitae, after which I asked her forgiveness, which she granted me, with tears shining in her bright blue eyes. I must also confess that those eyes, and her auburn curls, distracted me during our daily prayers. When we prayed in Henry’s cabin, I often stared at a big cobweb between the cupboard and the wall. When we prayed on the quarterdeck, I always gazed out to sea, where one afternoon I saw ten porpoises frolicking at starboard. God forgive me, I envied their bestial delight.

  Abigail told me something of her life in Boston, Lincolnshire, that is surrounded by fens. Her father was a rich fuller; her mother was a rich fuller’s daughter. Their parish church was St. Botolph, which hath a short steeple called “The Boston Stump.” Its Minister, George Story, begged his bishop to be released from wearing the surplice and white vestments. The bishop refused him. The Reverend Story then refused to make the sign of the cross over an infant during her baptism. The bishop discharged him. Abigail’s father procured a position for him as the chaplain of the godly Sir Francis Fulford.

  When Abigail was six years of age, her father hired a godly tutor for her named Thomas White. White taught her to read swiftly and write distinctly. She learned the catechism and, in the years to come, fervently studied the Geneva Bible.

  Abigail said, “Beside the Gospels, I favored the Apocrypha. I took Queen Esther’s prayer for mine own. Thus I prayed after each of my beloved parents died of the consumption, ‘O my Lord, Thou only art our king. Help me, a desolate woman, who hath no helper but Thee.’”

  I asked, “And did He answer thee?”

  She replied, “I am not now so desolate as I was.”

  In fair weather, we admired the night sky from the quarterdeck and thanked God for the new sights in His heavens. The polestar was now lower than in England, and we saw the new moon more than half an hour after sunset. It was m
uch smaller than at any time it shone above England. On the twelfth of June, the full moon illuminated Abigail’s upturned face. She returned my gaze, and we looked into each other’s eyes.

  I said, “Let us henceforth call each other by our Christian names. What say you, my sweet Abigail? From now on, between us, let it be ‘Abigail’ and ‘Charles.’”

  “As you wish, Charles.”

  Then I said,

  Charles and Abigail

  Set sail.

  And Charles loved Abigail.

  One night,

  By the bluish light

  Of the full moon,

  He said,

  “I love thee, Abigail.

  But what doth it avail me?”

  Then she said, “What a pretty little rhyme! And extempore, too! You say that you love me and ask, to what avail? To tell you true, Charles, I do not know. I am all in a whirl.”

  “And my wits are gone a-woolgathering. I do nothing well but think on thee.”

  The last night aboard ship, Abigail said to me, “I do not deserve your love, Charles. I dutifully tended Father for two years, ten months, and sixteen days. But God forgive me, I wished every day that he would choke to death on his bloody, purulent spittle lest I be stricken with his chest pain, his high fever, and his short, dry cough.”

  I said, “Why, then we are twins in misfortune. My thoughtless recitation of my sins to my sick father caused his death.”

  • • •

  We made land in Plymouth harbor at five of the clock on Thursday morning the eleventh of July, in the year of Christ 1622. We dropped anchor a league from a beach on which there waited a dozen or so men. They discharged their muskets into the air. About half a mile to the starboard, in the south, I beheld two parallel rows of some thirty thatched houses atop a flat hill. They were enclosed by a high wall of sharpened wooden stakes. Just beyond that, to the southwest, atop another hill, there was a platform mounted with four or five cannons aimed toward the sea. Then I beheld a great granite rock protruding from the sand near the foot of the first hill. Half a mile or so to the east, I beheld a dark forest of white pines. Each was at least a hundred foot in height, and some were a hundred foot higher than that. They were the tallest trees I had ever seen.