MILES STANDISH
In the Old Colony days, in Plymouth the land of the
Pilgrims,
To and fro in a room of his simple and primitive dwelling,
Clad in doublet and hose, and boots of Cordovan leather,
Strode, with a martial air, Miles Standish the Puritan
Captain.
Buried in thought he seemed, with his hands behind
him, and pausing
Ever and anon to behold his glittering weapons of
warfare,
Hanging in shining array along the walls of the chamber,—
Cutlass and corselet of steel, and his trusty sword
of Damascus,
Curved at the point and inscribed with its mystical
Arabic sentence,
While underneath, in a corner, were fowling-piece,
musket, and matchlock.
Short of stature he was, but strongly built and athletic,
Broad in the shoulders, deep-chested, with muscles
and sinews of iron;
Brown as a nut was his face, but his russet beard
was already
Flaked with patches of snow, as hedges sometimes in
November.
Near him was seated John Alden, his friend, and household
companion,
Writing with diligent speed at a table of pine by
the window;
Fair-haired, azure-eyed, with delicate Saxon complexion,
Having the dew of his youth, and the beauty thereof,
as the captives
Whom Saint Gregory saw, and exclaimed, “Not
Angles, but Angels.”
Youngest of all was he of the men who came in the
Mayflower.
Suddenly breaking the silence, the diligent scribe
interrupting,
Spake, in the pride of his heart, Miles Standish the
Captain of Plymouth.
“Look at these arms,” he said, “the
warlike weapons that hang here
Burnished and bright and clean, as if for parade or
inspection!
This is the sword of Damascus I fought with in Flanders;
this breastplate,
Well I remember the day! once saved my life in a skirmish;
Here in front you can see the very dint of the bullet
Fired point-blank at my heart by a Spanish arcabucero.
Had it not been of sheer steel, the forgotten bones
of Miles Standish
Would at this moment be mould, in their grave in the
Flemish morasses.”
Thereupon answered John Alden, but looked not up from
his writing:
“Truly the breath of the Lord hath slackened
the speed of the bullet;
He in his mercy preserved you, to be our shield and
our weapon!”
Still the Captain continued, unheeding the words of
the stripling:
“See, how bright they are burnished, as if in
an arsenal hanging;
That is because I have done it myself, and not left
it to others.
Serve yourself, would you be well served, is an excellent
adage;
So I take care of my arms, as you of your pens and
your inkhorn.
Then, too, there are my soldiers, my great, invincible
army,
Twelve men, all equipped, having each his rest and
his matchlock,
Eighteen shillings a month, together with diet and
pillage,
And, like Caesar, I know the name of each of my soldiers!”
This he said with a smile, that danced in his eyes,
as the sunbeams
Dance on the waves of the sea, and vanish again in
a moment.
Alden laughed as he wrote, and still the Captain continued:
“Look! you can see from this window my brazen
howitzer planted
High on the roof of the church, a preacher who speaks
to the purpose,
Steady, straight-forward, and strong, with irresistible
logic,
Orthodox, flashing conviction right into the hearts
of the heathen.
Now we are ready, I think, for any assault of the
Indians;
Let them come, if they like, and the sooner they try
it the better,—
Let them come if they like, be it sagamore, sachem,
or pow-wow,
Aspinet, Samoset, Corbitant, Squanto, or Tokamahamon!”
Long at the window he stood, and wistfully gazed
on the landscape,
Washed with a cold gray mist, the vapory breath of
the east-wind,
Forest and meadow and hill, and the steel-blue rim
of the ocean,
Lying silent and sad, in the afternoon shadows and
sunshine.
Over his countenance flitted a shadow like those on
the landscape,
Gloom intermingled with light; and his voice was subdued
with emotion,
Tenderness, pity, regret, as after a pause he proceeded:
“Yonder there, on the hill by the sea, lies
buried Rose Standish;
Beautiful rose of love, that bloomed for me by the
wayside!
She was the first to die of all who came in the Mayflower!
Green above her is growing the field of wheat we have
sown there,
Better to hide from the Indian scouts the graves of
our people,
Lest they should count them and see how many already
have perished!”
Sadly his face he averted, and strode up and down,
and was thoughtful.
Fixed to the opposite wall was a shelf of books,
and among them
Prominent three, distinguished alike for bulk and
for binding;
Bariffe’s Artillery Guide, and the Commentaries
of Caesar,
Out of the Latin translated by Arthur Goldinge of
London,
And, as if guarded by these, between them was standing
the Bible.
Musing a moment before them, Miles Standish paused,
as if doubtful
Which of the three he should choose for his consolation
and comfort,
Whether the wars of the Hebrews, the famous campaigns
of the Romans,
Or the Artillery practice, designed for belligerent
Christians.
Finally down from its shelf he dragged the ponderous
Roman,
Seated himself at the window, and opened the book,
and in silence
Turned o’er the well-worn leaves, where thumb-marks
thick on the margin,
Like the trample of feet, proclaimed the battle was
hottest.
Nothing was heard in the room but the hurrying pen
of the stripling,
Busily writing epistles important, to go by the Mayflower,
Ready to sail on the morrow, or next day at latest,
God willing!
Homeward bound with the tidings of all that terrible
winter,
Letters written by Alden, and full of the name of
Priscilla,
Full of the name and the fame of the Puritan maiden
Priscilla!
