A BOLD BUCCANEER.
“It’s an ill wind, they say, that blows nobody good, and I believe this
is that same wind.”
“Tut, tut, man! ’Tis ill luck speaking against the wind. Wot you not
who is the Prince of the Power of the Air?”
“Sathanas; and I verily believe he’s in this smoky chimney.”
“Well, then, Jacob Cooke, get you outside the house, and if Jack
Jenney’s afeard of the one he says makes it smoke, he’d as well go out
with you.”
“Thank you for nothing, Dame Damaris,” retorted John Jenney, laughing
as he rose to his feet. “I didn’t look to be turned out of the house
when I came to make a wedding visit, but mayhap ’tis so new to you to
have a house that you haven’t welly learned to govern it.”
“That’s the truth, Jack,” interposed the master of the house, a little
mortified; “so we’ll e’en leave the shrewish dame to her own devices,
and go out to find a warm corner beside a chimney that doesn’t smoke,
and a woman that doesn’t scold.”
“Go your ways. Your room is aye better than your company,” responded
the comely dame, whom as Damaris Hopkins we saw a baby on board the
Mayflower, and who, lately married to the son of Francis Cooke, was one
of the most stirring young matrons of the town.
The two men, laughing, and yet a little reluctant to turn out into the
shrewd east wind, paused outside the house. This new home, built upon
land inherited by Damaris from her father, Stephen Hopkins, was on the
westerly edge of Training Green, and thus high enough to catch the full
force of the wind rising steadily since noon.
“Phew!” whistled Jenney, dragging his hat over his brows, “’tis enough
to take the curl out of a pig’s tail. There’ll be some wracks along the
coast, if this holds all night.”
“Come up the hill to the Fort, and ask Livetenant Holmes to give us a
squint through the spy-glass.”
“I’m with you. But Holmes isn’t half the good fellow the captain was.
The Fort don’t seem the same place.”
“No. And yet the captain could give a rough lick with his tongue, if
one angered him.”
“Yes. You, and Bart Allerton, and Peregrine White, and Giles Hopkins
used to catch it once in a while when you meddled or made with the
guns.”
“Yes, and when he trained us in the manual exercise. But we’re all
beholden to him for knowing how to manage a piece man-fashion.”
“Ay, we’re all beholden to him, and sorry am I he’s gone from the town,
and they say is breaking in health and spirit.”
“Since father went it seems as if the old settlers were passing away
and we youngsters are to hold the helm.” And Jacob sighed in a gruffly
sentimental sort of fashion.
“You’re right, Cooke, and I sore mistrust our fathers’ chairs will
prove too wide for us. I know mine is, and often enough I wish the old
man back.”
“Ha! That was a shrewd twist of the wind! It seemed to snatch my
breath. Well, here we are.” And raising the heavy iron latch, the two
men precipitated themselves into the great lower room of the Fort,
where once we saw the Pilgrims hold their fast when drought and famine
were sore upon them, and once we assisted at the trial of John Oldhame.
The religious services of the town were still held in this place,
although it had long been Pastor Rayner’s urgent appeal to the people
that they should build a suitable meeting-house for the worship of God,
and no longer mingle ecclesiastical and secular pursuits in the same
building. But since the removal of some of the colony’s wealthiest and
most influential townsmen to Duxbury, Scituate, Marshfield, and the
Cape towns, poor Plymouth had become so destitute that her sons could
barely provide food for the body, and had little money or energy to
spare in suitably serving the soul’s aliment.
And now help was to come, and from a most unexpected source.
Upon the platform at the top of the Fort the two visitors found
Lieutenant Holmes, sheltered from the wind behind a sentry-box, and
absorbed in the use of the spy-glass they had come to seek.
“Well, and what do you see, Livetenant?” demanded Cooke, ever ready
with his tongue. The soldier, who after the manner of most men when
absorbed in the use of one sense was slow to occupy himself with
another (it being one of the privileges of womanhood to do two things
at once and do both well), did not reply at once, and Jenney, screening
his eyes with his hand, looked out to seaward for a long moment, and
then cried,--
“Surely there’s a sail in the scurry off the Gurnet! Isn’t it so,
Livetenant?”
“A sail, say you?” replied Holmes slowly, and in the mechanical tone of
one whose eye is glued to a spy-glass. “Well, double it, and thribble
it, and mayhap you’ll hit closer to the bull’s eye.”
“Three sail!” exclaimed Cooke, fairly dancing with excitement. “Come,
now, let’s have a squint, Holmes, just a cast of the eye, and I’ll give
back the glass in a jiffy. Let’s have it, there’s a Christian!”
“Well, then, Jake, take your squint, and tell me what you make of it.”
And the lieutenant, laughing a little, rose to his feet, handed the
glass to Cooke, and rubbed his eyes, which, in fact, had declined to
serve any longer in that one-sided fashion.
“You’re right, Holmes, you’re right! ’Tis three sail, and sizable
craft, too; brigantines, I should say.”
“Come, come, Jake!” expostulated the lieutenant jealously. “A man’s not
going to tell a brigantine from a bark at this distance, and with such
a spoor flying.”
“Mabbe not, Livetenant, mabbe not; but I’ll miss my guess if it’s not
a brigantine I’ve got in the field now, and laboring mightily she is.
Take my word for it, Brown’s Island’ll be the death of her, unless
they’ve got a skipper out of a thousand, and men of might to handle
helm and canvas.”
“Give me one peep before you take the glass,” pleaded Jenney, and jolly
Holmes consenting, the young fellow so availed himself of the privilege
that Cooke, who was a trifle short-sighted, and found his own eyes
useless, protested,--
“It’s bad manners for any man to take so long a pull at the glass! Pass
it around lively is the rule.”
“My chance now,” cried Holmes peremptorily; so the three men watched,
turn and turn about, until Holmes after a long survey handed the glass
to Cooke, saying,--
“It’s time for me to go down and report to the governor. Stay you here
and keep goal till I come back.”
“All right. I’ll do it,” briefly replied Cooke, already absorbed in the
sense of sight.
In the wide house under the hill, where Bradford and his early love
were growing placidly old together, there was a guest of unusual
degree, and Lieutenant Holmes, requesting to see the governor at once,
was ushered into the dining-room, where with the master and mistress of
the house, their two sons and Gillian, sat a priest in the strait garb
of the Jesuit, and bearing upon his thin, shrewd face the traces of
that cultivation and worldly facility generally marking the Order which
has ruled the world, and yet failed to save itself. This was Father
Drouillette, a Frenchman by birth, a cosmopolitan by training, visiting
the New World, not, as we may be sure, without a purpose, and yet
quite capable of allowing himself to be torn in little shreds without
suffering that purpose to be discovered.
He had already been in Boston, and the fishing-smack that brought
him from thence to Plymouth would with the morning’s tide sail for
Manhattan, so that four-and-twenty hours comprised his stay in
Plymouth; but this brief sojourn was enough for the Jesuit to see and
know that the soil of the Old Colony was not yet ripe for the seeds of
the cinchona (then called Jesuit’s Bark), and also to read Bradford’s
noble nature and courteous kindliness, to both of which he did full
justice in his report, adding that as the day was Friday, the governor
gave him an excellent dinner of fish.
After the fish came a delicate pudding, succeeded by a dessert, over
which the family still sat when Lieutenant Holmes, entering the room,
reported three large vessels in distress driving into the harbor, and
already off Beach Point.
“Are the lives of the mariners in danger?” inquired the priest,
crossing himself so unobtrusively that only Bradford perceived the
gesture.
“I fear for them if they do not keep to the channel, for the tide is
on the ebb, and ’tis but a crooked course,” replied Holmes; and the
governor, rising, said somewhat hurriedly,--
“If you will excuse me, sir, I will leave you with my wife for a
little, and go to see that a pilot is sent out”--
“I told Doten to get his boat ready, and wait your Excellency’s
orders,” interposed Holmes, resolute to give the governor his full
honors before this stranger.
“That was well done, friend,” replied Bradford gently, and would have
left the room, but the priest, rising nimbly, and taking his cloak and
hat from the deer’s antlers where they hung, exclaimed, in his perfect
although accented English, “Nay, I will not be left behind. There may
be use for another pair of hands.”
“And possibly for a turn of priest-craft,” thought Bradford, smiling to
himself; but Drouillette, catching the smile, returned it with a little
shrug and arch of the eyebrows, saying in French,--
“And why not? Few mariners sail from Geneva.”
“You are in your right, sir,” returned the governor in the same tongue,
and courteously motioning his guest to pass before him, while Gillian,
to whom French was a mother tongue, listened with both ears, and
resolved to by and by hold a private conversation with the priest,
who already had perceived her knowledge of his language and taken the
measure of her nature; that she would prove an easy proselyte, and
quite enjoy the intrigue of covertly becoming a Catholic while openly
remaining in a Protestant community, he had also perceived, but after a
moment’s thought had decided the facile victory to be at once valueless
and dangerous, and during the rest of his stay opposed a bland
stupidity to all the girl’s ingenious advances.
The stout pilot boat, clumsy enough as contrasted with those that
to-day skim across the waters of Plymouth harbor, but then a model
of beauty and skill, lay ready beside the Rock, and at a word from
the governor speeded forth under its close-reefed foresail, carrying
three active fellows to the rescue of the foremost brigantine, which,
warned by the sounding-lead of shoal water, and struggling against a
current which insisted upon setting her ashore on the beach, was lying
to and waiting for pilotage. Half an hour later the three vessels
were anchored in the stream, and a procession of boats was bringing
their officers and detachments of the crews ashore, discharging them
at a rude stone pier and bulkhead extending a few feet beyond the
Rock, which, as yet uninjured by patriotic zeal, lay calmly presiding
over the modern commotions that had come to disturb its centuries of
solitude.
In the place of honor in the first boat sat a very elegant gentleman,
dressed in all the picturesque bravery of a cavalier: his broad hat
covered with ostrich plumes, his doublet of Genoese velvet slashed
with satin of Lyons in harmonious shades of cramoisie and murrey,
his breeches of velvet adorned with a deep lace almost hidden by
the wrinkled tops of boots of soft Cordovan leather. To correct the
effeminacy of this costume, accented as it was by jewels, lace, and
perfume in profusion, Captain Cromwell, prince and leader of the
buccaneers soon to swarm the Spanish seas, carried so proud and
warlike a countenance, curled his mustachios so fiercely, showed such
strong white teeth set in so massive a jaw, and such broad shoulders
and muscular limbs, that it must have been a rash man, indeed, who
ventured to make criticism of whatever the captain might choose to
wear, or to inquire how an officer under commission from the new
Commonwealth of England still displayed himself under the guise of a
royalist cavalier. The explanation probably, had he chosen to give it,
was that the Spanish seas were a long distance from England, that it
was a long while since his letter-of-marque had left home, and that as
the King was still at large, the fortune of war might at any moment
replace him upon the throne, so that in view of all these circumstances
a successful buccaneer must be in a great measure his own lawgiver.
Nominally, Captain Cromwell was in religion and politics a Parliament
man; at heart, he was a Roman Catholic and a cavalier, and at this
distance from the central authority indulged himself in at least
dressing to suit his own taste.
Springing ashore as the boat touched the pier, the commandant, without
waiting for an introduction from Lieutenant Holmes, who escorted him,
doffed his hat until the plumes swept the ground and bowed low, both to
the governor and the priest, saying,--
“My respects to you, most noble Governor, and to you, reverend sir,
and my thanks for the timely aid you have sent us. Allow me to present
myself as Thomas Cromwell, in command of these three brigantines sent
out by the English government to hold our country’s foes, especially
those of Spain, in check, and to make reprisals for certain offenses
offered to the British flag in these waters. As it is long since I had
news from England, I will not add ‘God save the King!’ nor yet ‘God
save the Parliament!’ lest I should offend somebody’s sensibilities,
but content myself with simply exclaiming, ‘God save old England!’”
“An aspiration we all may echo, Captain Cromwell,” replied Bradford
gravely, “and I am happy to assure you that by the latest advices from
England the parliamentarians under whose authority you sail are still
favored by Providence. For the rest, all honest Englishmen are welcome
to such hospitality as our impoverished town can offer. There is an
Ordinary at the head of this hill kept by James Cole, where very decent
accommodation may be had for your men, and I shall be most happy to
welcome you and your officers at mine own house, nearly opposite the
tavern, as often as you are pleased to come. This gentleman, a guest
like yourself, is called Father Drouillette, from France.”
“My duty to you, father,” responded Cromwell, bending his knee, and
the Jesuit, keenly regarding him, made a slight motion of benediction,
murmuring, “Bless you, my son.”
“And now,” continued Bradford, in a less formal manner, “let us at once
seek the shelter of James Cole’s roof and mine, and escape this biting
wind, of which, Captain, you will already have had more than enough, as
I opine.”
The buccaneer assented, and speaking a rapid word or two among the men
surrounding him, sent the mass of them to the tavern with a stern
injunction to sobriety and decency; then calling the commanders of the
three ships, he presented them to Bradford, who at once extended his
invitation to them, and led the way to the house, where a merry fire
and refreshments were found awaiting them, but nobody was to be seen.
“I wonder through which crevice that little schemer is peeping,” said
Father Drouillette to himself as he took snuff and presented his box to
Cromwell, who took a pinch, and absorbing it delicately, said,--
“You must let me offer you a jar of Spanish mixture, prepared, as I
hear, especially for the Archbishop of Toledo, who is curious in his
tobacco. It is most agreeably scented with vanilla, and carries a
certain odor of incense that arouses very devout reminiscences in the
mind of a poor wanderer like myself.”
“My poor nose would indeed feel itself honored by a pinch of such truly
ecclesiastical snuff as you describe. But as I sail with the morning
tide, I fear I shall not have the opportunity of trying it,” replied
the Jesuit; and Cromwell, after a moment’s thought, suggested,--
“Unless, reverend sir, you would do me the honor of sleeping on board
the Golden Fleece, as my ship is called. I can offer you a decent bed,
and my fellows will doubtless purvey in this good town the material for
a breakfast. Shall I have the honor of entertaining your reverence?”
“I shall be most happy to accept your hospitality, my son, if Governor
Bradford will accept my humble excuses for cutting short my visit to
him,” began the priest; but before he could finish, a door at the end
of the room quietly opened, and Gillian, with downcast eyes and air of
timid modesty, glided to Bradford’s side, murmuring:
“Our dame fain would know how many beds we shall prepare. She says
there are plenty for all the gentlemen.”
“St. Anthony befriend us! Is that the daughter of our worthy host?”
whispered Cromwell to the priest, who only shook his head, and rising
from his chair said in English,--
“Master Bradford, will you hold me excused if I accept this gentleman’s
invitation to pass the night aboard his vessel? It may be more
convenient for my early embarkation, and less disturbance to your
household.”
“You shall perfectly suit your own convenience, sir,” replied Bradford
in his calm and gentle fashion, although the murmured colloquies of
priest and buccaneer had rather annoyed him; “but you will all take
your supper with us, I trust. Gillian, you may tell the mistress that
these five gentlemen will sup with us, but prefer to sleep on board
ship.”
That night Captain Cromwell transferred a curious chronicle of the
misdoings of a year past from his own conscience to the custody of the
priest, and received some very sensible and practical advice. But at
the end of all, the penitent, with a gesture of deference, declared,--
“You’re right, father, doubtless right, both as priest and man of the
world; but I feel it in my marrow that yon lass is my fate, and ’tis
useless striving against it. Those eyes of hers pierced my heart to the
core when first they met mine own, and when at supper she served me
with meat and drink, no nectar or ambrosia was ever more Olympian.”
“Well, well, my son,” answered the priest indulgently, “I say not
you shall not marry the maid if she will have you; but I forebode
it will be a marriage of haste, most vainly repented of at leisure.
I spoke with the governor about her, and find she is a penniless
orphan, although connected with the family of their late teacher, Elder
Brewster, as they called him; and Mistress Gillian is under the austere
protection of the governor and his most sweet and gracious lady. Your
wooing, if you persist in this mad intention, must be wholly honorable
and worthy. Remember that, my son!” and the priest’s voice assumed a
stern and authoritative accent, which the penitent accepted with a bend
of his head while he replied,--
“Most positively so, father. The homeless maid shall become Mistress
Cromwell, with all the pomp and ceremony”--
“Of Master Bradford’s office,” interposed the Jesuit. “For these
poor rebels to our dear Mother’s authority are only married by civil
process, and scorn the church’s benediction.”
“Is that the way of it!” exclaimed Cromwell, a little dismayed. “Well,
I will bring my bride to Manhattan or to Virginia, where you tell me
you are to found a college, and our nuptials shall be blessed there.
The civil rite binds us so far as law is concerned.”
“Man’s law, yes,” replied the priest dryly; “and I will trust your
word to fulfill this promise, if indeed you carry out your most rash
resolve.”
“I shall carry it out, father,” asserted the buccaneer quietly. “’Tis
my way.”
The next morning Father Drouillette, the richer by a gloriously
illuminated missal, a gold crucifix set with five great rubies, and
half a dozen jars of the Archbishop of Toledo’s snuff, embarked on
board the fisherman, while Cromwell took up his quarters at Cole’s
tavern, which woke to such thriving business as it had never known
before. Examination of the brigantines showed two of them to be in
need of extensive repairs in consequence not only of the storm which
had driven them into Plymouth, but of the long cruise preceding it;
and as this cruise had been exceedingly prosperous, the mariners, who
during the next month pervaded the town and made acquaintance with most
of its inhabitants, scattered their money and precious commodities of
various sorts in such profusion that Governor Winthrop, of Boston, in
chronicling this visit, attributes the storm that drove the buccaneer
into Plymouth to a divine interposition intended for the maintenance of
the impoverished town, threatened with utter desertion and destruction.
Nor was the leader less generous and profuse than his more reckless
followers, so that not only were the governor’s family overwhelmed with
as many rich gifts as he could be prevailed on to allow them to accept,
but nearly every one of the poorer families was so substantially
relieved as to give all new hope and energy to help themselves.
Not a week from the day of his arrival had elapsed before Cromwell
sought an interview with the governor, and, without mentioning that he
already had obtained her full consent to his proposals, offered himself
as a suitor for Mistress Gillian’s hand. Bradford, utterly amazed at
the idea, would at the first have absolutely set it aside, declaring
that such a sudden fancy could have no substantial foundation, and was
unworthy of discussion; but when next the governor was closeted with
his wife, he discovered that in her mind this marriage was a scheme to
be encouraged as much as possible, and at the last, a little impatient
of masculine density, the wife exclaimed,--
“’Tis an honorable and safe way out of the moil we have been stirring
in, since first we made Gillian one of our family; and so that she
desires it, and he hath means and will to care for her, all that
remains, if she has Love Brewster’s consent, is for me to make up the
piece of brocade Cromwell hath given her into a wedding gown, and for
you to bind them fast in matrimony.”
“Say you so, Elsie, say you so?” demanded the governor, pausing in the
perilous operation of shaving his chin to stare into the mirror at
his wife, who was settling her cap at one corner. “Why, I fancied you
prized Gillian’s company and daughterly service above all things.”
“I can spare it,” briefly replied Alice Bradford with an inscrutable
smile.
“But hasn’t the child won a place in your affections, wife?”
“She has in yours and Will’s and Joseph’s, and that’s three parts of
the family.”
“Surely, Alice, you’ve not turned jealous?”
“You lightly me, William, when you ask if I am jealous of--of Gillian.”
“I do not comprehend,” murmured the governor, resuming his razor, but
presently suspending it to demand with considerable energy,--
“You really mean, then, that as honest and Godfearing guardians of this
child we should give her in marriage to this stranger?”
“Yes, I do. When all is said, she is almost as much a stranger as he,
and I know not why they should not suit each other well.”
“So be it. I will tell the man, and do you speak as a mother should to
the maid. ’Tis not like you, Alice, to be bitter.”
“I shall not love her the better, if you are to chide me on her
account, Will.”
“Nay, chide thee, sweetheart! ’Twould ill befit me to chide the better
half of mine own life.”
So the suitor received permission to woo his bride openly, and Gillian
presently so shone with jewels, and so rustled about in gorgeous
raiment, that matrons and maids suspended their work to run to the
doors and watch her as she passed by.