THE LITTLE BOOK.
An uneasy and difficult week passed over Plymouth, its shadow resting
especially upon John Alden’s house, when one fine sunshining morning
Jo, the second boy, rushed into the house, with the news,--
“Mother, there’s a big boat down from the Bay, and a captain in it,
bigger than our captain, and the governor’s son, and a mort more of men
come to get the man in our fore-room.”
“And where’s thy father, Jo?”
“Oh, he’s down there at the waterside, and all the other men, talking
with the Bay folk, and I ran off to tell you, mother.”
“That’s my brave boy! He doesn’t forget mother, does he?” And Priscilla
turned to look fondly at her second-born, a fine, manly little fellow,
with a marvelous likeness to his uncle Joseph Molines, victim of the
first winter’s pestilence, the brother whom Priscilla had so fondly
loved, so deeply mourned.
“Well, poor man, if he’s to be carried away prisoner by so many
warders, I’ll e’en toss him up a dainty dish for his last dinner with
us,” continued she busily. “Jo, my man, run down and ask father if any
of the Indians have brought in oysters to-day, and if not, to get some
clams or a lobster; and be quick, my boy, for it’s hard on noon. And,
Betty, see if there are some fresh eggs in the hen roost,--I’ll make
an omelet with herbs; and there’s a fine salmon to serve with cream
sauce and a sallet”--
“We might kill a chicken, mother,” suggested John, the grave
first-born, so like his father in everything.
“Nay, not to-day, Johnny,” replied Priscilla, somewhat embarrassed,
for her mind reverted to a little discovery of her own, and her eyes
glanced toward the high mantel where lay a small brown-covered notebook
much worn at the edges, and although apparently of trifling value,
just then a greater weight upon the mind of the mistress than even her
silver cup, or her six teaspoons.
It was but the day before that Betty had picked up this book just
outside the house, and bringing it to her mother said she thought the
gentleman had dropped it out of his pocket, for she had seen it in his
room upon the table. Opening it at random, Priscilla read a few words
only, but those so strange that, instead of at once restoring the book,
she laid it aside until she should have time to consider her duty in
the matter. On one side lay hospitality and honor, but on the other was
the obligation to justice and to the common weal, which to those early
settlers was a matter far more vital than to us, for it included not
only their own interests, but perhaps the very lives of all belonging
to them. If here indeed was “a snake in the tender grass,” had she a
right to let him wind his beautiful deadly way out of reach of justice?
But on the other hand, was the danger deadly enough to warrant her in
betraying the man who had eaten her salt? This controversy of mind,
sufficiently perplexing to a woman of Priscilla’s day and training,
was suddenly resolved by the news brought home by John Alden that
the Boston boat would return directly after noon-meat, and that Sir
Christopher Gardiner would return with her.
“Then come you in here a moment, John,” said Priscilla, rising from her
almost untasted dinner, and leading the way to her bedroom.
John ruefully rose, his eyes upon his plate, where lay a huge segment
of suet pudding which he had just begun to absorb in his own slow and
methodical fashion. Betty’s quick eyes saw the whole.
“I’ll turn a basin over it, father, and set it by the fire till you’re
ready for it,” said she with a flashing smile; and her father, smiling
also, replied,--
“Thou’rt ever a good little wench, Betty!”
“See here, John! See this little book!” exclaimed Priscilla, shutting
the door so promptly as nearly to catch her husband’s last foot in the
crack. “’Tis the man’s, and mayhap the governor ought to know he’s a
Catholic for one thing. See, see! Isn’t that what this page meaneth?”
“Ay, he was reconciled, as they call it, on such a day and”-- But as
Alden pored over the scribbled entry, murmuring vaguely such words as
more clearly presented themselves, his impetuous wife interrupted him:--
“I gave him fish for his dinner to-day, sith I would not have a dog
lack meat to his mind in mine own house, but still I remember how those
fiends of Catholics murdered my grandsire in cold blood, and his wife
after him, for naught but that they were Huguenots, as we are, and I
must hate Catholics forevermore.”
“Nay, wife, not hate them,--not hate whom God has made and still spares
for repentance,” suggested John; but Priscilla impatiently tossed her
head.
“God is God, and I’m but poor Priscilla, his creature. I cannot love
and hate all in one breath the same thing.”
“Nay, wife, but thou didst give the man what meat his conscience called
for on a Friday?”
“Yes, of course I did.”
“And now will deliver him to death, if so it be?”
“Oh, I cannot tell; but I hate Catholics; my father bade me do so.”
“And yet thou dost feed them, and I’ll be bound thou’lt see that this
man’s tender wounds are well covered from the cold before he goes
aboard.”
“There, now, I’m glad you spoke on’t, John! I’ll lap his arms with a
good woolen bandage, and you must lend him your old horseman’s cloak to
wrap himself withal. The governor’ll fetch it some day when he goes up
to visit the Bay governor again.”
“Nay, wife, I don’t see but thou dost humbly follow thy God, and love
the sinner while thou dost hate the sin.” And John slowly and fondly
smiled down upon the petulant brown face of the wife he still loved as
well as when first he wooed her.
“Oh, I know not how that may be, my Jeannot,” replied Priscilla,
laughing and blushing a little as she saw herself trapped. “But here’s
the little book.”
“Ay, here’s the little book, and to my mind the best thing is for me to
carry it straight to the governor and let him do with it as he lists.
’Tis a matter too weighty for us to handle alone.”
“Doubtless you’re right, John, and here it is,” and Priscilla, with
a little sigh of vague regret, handed the book to her husband, and
watched him as he at once left the house to carry it to the governor.
But Betty kept the pudding warm for his supper.
That afternoon Sir Christopher Gardiner, formally made over to the
custody of Captain John Underhill and Lieutenant Dudley, son of the
deputy-governor, sailed out of Plymouth wearing John Alden’s cloak, in
which he sullenly muffled the lower part of his face, while a slouched
hat nearly covered the upper.
“Are you sick?” bluntly demanded Underhill, who had orders to treat his
prisoner honorably and kindly.
“Nay, I’m sorry,” retorted the knight.
“Fortune of war, comrade,” returned the Puritan captain not unkindly,
“and there’s no very sharp measure laid up for you, as I take it.
Our governor bade me have a care for your comfort, and the Plymouth
governor hath writ a long letter to Master Winthrop, all in your favor,
as I know from what he was saying to Alden.”
“‘Have no fear,’ says he, ‘it shall do him no harm;’ and t’other
returns, ‘We did but our duty, and yet would be right loath to hurt the
man.’ Now what make you of that, man?”
“Read the governor’s letter and you’ll know more than I do,” replied
Sir Christopher gloomily.
“Read it! Nay, that’s not my business. But ’tis a hugeous letter.”
And from the pocket of his doublet Underwood drew forth a little packet
carefully sealed and superscribed,--
_To_
MASTER JOHN WINTHROP,
_Honourable Governor of the Massachusetts Bay Colony these:_
As he turned the package over and over in his hands, the knight, who
at first had glanced at it in moody indifference, roused to intense
attention, and finally, while a streak of dusky red animated his sallow
cheek, extended his hand, saying as carelessly as he could,--
“Let me look at the governor’s seal, captain. Has it an heraldic
device?”
“Nay, I know naught of such follies,” returned Underhill, holding
out the packet; but even as his fingers touched those of the knight,
trembling with impatience, a glance at his face, or perhaps only the
soldier’s instinct of peril at hand, suddenly diverted his attention,
and snatching back the dispatch, he began to replace it in his doublet,
saying gruffly,--
“Marry, ’tis no business of mine or thine what these governors say to
one another.”
“Nay, but I’m sick--make way, man, make way”--and throwing himself
across Underhill, as if to reach the side of the boat, Sir Christopher,
what with his long arms flying all abroad, and what with the great
cloak that swept across Underhill’s face and breast, came very near
knocking the packet out of his hand and sweeping it overboard.
“Have a care, man! Have a care!” cried the captain angrily. “Though
you’re squalmish all of a sudden, you needn’t fling yourself nor me
overboard.” And thrusting the inclosure containing Sir Christopher’s
notebook and the kind and gentle letter accompanying it deep into his
pocket, the future slayer of “Pequods” recovered his equilibrium and
made room for Sir Christopher, who, leaning his head upon the gunwale
of the boat, effectually hid his face from view, and made no reply to
further efforts at conversation.
A week or so later another Boston boat came down to Plymouth, and
brought John Alden’s cloak and a letter to Bradford from Governor
Winthrop. It tells its own story in its own quaint phraseology:--
S^R.: It hath pleased God to bring S^r. Christopher Gardener safe
to us with thos that came with him. And howsoever I never intended
any hard measure to him, but to respecte and use him according
to his qualitie, yet I let him know your care of him, and y^t
he shall speed y^e better for your mediation. It was a spetiall
providence of God to bring those notes of his to our hands; I
desire y^t you will please to speake to all y^t are privie to them
not to discover them to any one for y^t may frustrate y^e means
of any farder use to be made of them. The good Lord our God who
hath allways ordered things for y^e good of his poore churches
here directe us in this arighte, and dispose it to a good issue.
I am sorie we put you to so much trouble about this gentleman,
espetialy at this time of greate imploymente, but I know not how
to avoyed it. I must again intreate you to let me know what charge
& troble any of your people have been at aboute him, y^t may be
recompenced. So with the trew affection of a frind desiring all
happines to your selfe & yours, and to all my worthy friends with
you (whome I love in y^e Lord) I comende you to his grace & good
providence & rest
your most assured friend
JOHN WINTHROP[4]
BOSTON _May 5, 1631_
FOOTNOTE:
[4] True copy.