THE SAILING OF THE MAYFLOWER
Just in the gray of the dawn, as the mists uprose
from the meadows,
There was a stir and a sound in the slumbering village
of Plymouth;
Clanging and clicking of arms, and the order imperative,
“Forward!”
Given in tone suppressed, a tramp of feet, and then
silence.
Figures ten, in the mist, marched slowly out of the
village.
Standish the stalwart it was, with eight of his valorous
army,
Led by their Indian guide, by Hobomok, friend of the
white men,
Northward marching to quell the sudden revolt of the
savage.
Giants they seemed in the mist, or the mighty men
of King David;
Giants in heart they were, who believed in God and
the Bible,—
Ay, who believed in the smiting of Midianites and
Philistines.
Over them gleamed far off the crimson banners of morning;
Under them loud on the sands, the serried billows,
advancing,
Fired along the line, and in regular order retreated.
Many a mile had they marched, when at length the
village of Plymouth
Woke from its sleep, and arose, intent on its manifold
labors.
Sweet was the air and soft; and slowly the smoke from
the chimneys
Rose over roofs of thatch, and pointed steadily eastward;
Men came forth from the doors, and paused and talked
of the weather,
Said that the wind had changed, and was blowing fair
for the Mayflower;
Talked of their Captain’s departure, and all
the dangers that menaced,
He being gone, the town, and what should be done in
his absence.
Merrily sang the birds, and the tender voices of women
Consecrated with hymns the common cares of the household.
Out of the sea rose the sun, and the billows rejoiced
at his coming;
Beautiful were his feet on the purple tops of the
mountains;
Beautiful on the sails of the Mayflower riding at
anchor,
Battered and blackened and worn by all the storms
of the winter.
Loosely against her masts was hanging and flapping
her canvas,
Rent by so many gales, and patched by the hands of
the sailors.
Suddenly from her side, as the sun rose over the ocean,
Darted a puff of smoke, and floated seaward; anon
rang
Loud over field and forest the cannon’s roar,
and the echoes
Heard and repeated the sound, the signal-gun of departure!
Ah! but with louder echoes replied the hearts of the
people!
Meekly, in voices subdued, the chapter was read from
the Bible,
Meekly the prayer was begun, but ended in fervent
entreaty!
Then from their houses in haste came forth the Pilgrims
of Plymouth,
Men and women and children, all hurrying down to the
sea-shore,
Eager, with tearful eyes, to say farewell to the Mayflower,
Homeward bound o’er the sea, and leaving them
here in the desert.
Foremost among them was Alden. All night he
had lain without slumber,
Turning and tossing about in the heat and unrest of
his fever.
He had beheld Miles Standish, who came back late from
the council,
Stalking into the room, and heard him mutter and murmur,
Sometimes it seemed a prayer, and sometimes it sounded
like swearing.
Once he had come to the bed, and stood there a moment
in silence;
Then he had turned away, and said: “I will
not awake him;
Let him sleep on, it is best; for what is the use
of more talking!”
Then he extinguished the light, and threw himself
down on his pallet,
Dressed as he was, and ready to start at the break
of the morning,—
Covered himself with the cloak he had worn in his
campaigns in Flanders,—
Slept as a soldier sleeps in his bivouac, ready for
action.
But with the dawn he arose; in the twilight Alden
beheld him
Put on his corselet of steel, and all the rest of
his armor,
Buckle about his waist his trusty blade of Damascus,
Take from the corner his musket, and so stride out
of the chamber.
Often the heart of the youth had burned and yearned
to embrace him,
Often his lips had essayed to speak, imploring for
pardon;
All the old friendship came back, with its tender
and grateful emotions;
But his pride overmastered the nobler nature within
him,—
Pride, and the sense of his wrong, and the burning
fire of the insult.
So he beheld his friend departing in anger, but spake
not,
Saw him go forth to danger, perhaps to death, and
he spake not!
Then he arose from his bed, and heard what the people
were saying,
Joined in the talk at the door, with Stephen and Richard
and Gilbert,
Joined in the morning prayer, and in the reading of
Scripture,
And, with the others, in haste went hurrying down
to the sea-shore,
Down to the Plymouth Rock, that had been to their
feet as a door-step
Into a world unknown,—the corner-stone
of a nation!
There with his boat was the Master, already a little
impatient
Lest he should lose the tide, or the wind might shift
to the eastward,
Square-built, hearty, and strong, with an odor of
ocean about him,
Speaking with this one and that, and cramming letters
and parcels
Into his pockets capacious, and messages mingled together
Into his narrow brain, till at last he was wholly
bewildered.
Nearer the boat stood Alden, with one foot placed
on the gunwale,
One still firm on the rock, and talking at times with
the sailors,
Seated erect on the thwarts, all ready and eager for
starting.
He too was eager to go, and thus put an end to his
anguish,
Thinking to fly from despair, that swifter than keel
is or canvas,
Thinking to drown in the sea the ghost that would
rise and pursue him.
But as he gazed on the crowd, he beheld the form of
Priscilla
Standing dejected among them, unconscious of all that
was passing.
Fixed were her eyes upon his, as if she divined his
intention,
Fixed with a look so sad, so reproachful, imploring,
and patient,
That with a sudden revulsion his heart recoiled from
its purpose,
As from the verge of a crag, where one step more is
destruction.
Strange is the heart of man, with its quick, mysterious
instincts!
Strange is the life of man, and fatal or fated are
moments,
Whereupon turn, as on hinges, the gates of the wall
adamantine!
“Here I remain!” he exclaimed, as he looked
at the heavens above him,
Thanking the Lord whose breath had scattered the mist
and the madness,
Wherein, blind and lost, to death he was staggering
headlong.
“Yonder snow-white cloud, that floats in the
ether above me,
Seems like a hand that is pointing and beckoning over
the ocean.
There is another hand, that is not so spectral and
ghost-like,
Holding me, drawing me back, and clasping mine for
protection.
Float, O hand of cloud, and vanish away in the ether!
Roll thyself up like a fist, to threaten and daunt
me; I heed not
Either your warning or menace, or any omen of evil!
There is no land so sacred, no air so pure and so
wholesome,
As is the air she breathes, and the soil that is pressed
by her footsteps.
Here for her sake will I stay, and like an invisible
presence
Hover around her for ever, protecting, supporting
her weakness;
Yes! as my foot was the first that stepped on this
rock at the landing,
So, with the blessing of God, shall it be the last
at the leaving!”
Meanwhile the Master alert, but with dignified air
and important,
Scanning with watchful eye the tide and the wind and
the weather,
Walked about on the sands; and the people crowded
around him
Saying a few last words, and enforcing his careful
remembrance.
Then, taking each by the hand, as if he were grasping
a tiller,
Into the boat he sprang, and in haste shoved off to
his vessel,
Glad in his heart to get rid of all this worry and
flurry,
Glad to be gone from a land of sand and sickness and
sorrow,
Short allowance of victual, and plenty of nothing
but Gospel!
Lost in the sound of the oars was the last farewell
of the Pilgrims.
O strong hearts and true! not one went back in the
Mayflower!
No, not one looked back, who had set his hand to this
ploughing!
Soon were heard on board the shouts and songs of
the sailors
Heaving the windlass round, and hoisting the ponderous
anchor.
Then the yards were braced, and all sails set to the
west-wind,
Blowing steady and strong; and the Mayflower sailed
from the harbor,
Rounded the point of the Gurnet, and leaving far to
the southward
Island and cape of sand, and the Field of the First
Encounter,
Took the wind on her quarter, and stood for the open
Atlantic,
Borne on the send of the sea, and the swelling hearts
of the Pilgrims.
Long in silence they watched the receding sail of
the vessel,
Much endeared to them all, as something living and
human;
Then, as if filled with the spirit, and wrapt in a
vision prophetic,
Baring his hoary head, the excellent Elder of Plymouth
Said, “Let us pray!” and they prayed,
and thanked the Lord and took courage.
Mournfully sobbed the waves at the base of the rock,
and above them
Bowed and whispered the wheat on the hill of death,
and their kindred
Seemed to awake in their graves, and to join in the
prayer that they uttered.
Sun-illumined and white, on the eastern verge of the
ocean
Gleamed the departing sail, like a marble slab in
a graveyard;
Buried beneath it lay for ever all hope of escaping.
Lo! as they turned to depart, they saw the form of
an Indian,
Watching them from the hill; but while they spake
with each other,
Pointing with outstretched hands, and saying, “Look!”
he had vanished.
So they returned to their homes; but Alden lingered
a little,
Musing alone on the shore, and watching the wash of
the billows
Round the base of the rock, and the sparkle and flash
of the sunshine,
Like the spirit of God, moving visibly over the waters.
