NOVA ANGLIA.
Good fortune and fair weather smiled upon the two travellers during the
remainder of their journey, and not another notable adventure befell
them before they rode from the forest during the fall of day, and saw
the fenced fields of the Lincolnshire farmers stretching before them
down the Atlantic slope. Melancholy stumps of trees dotted the
prospect as far as the eye could travel; beyond, the thatched or wooden
roofs of small houses glowed in the strong light; and from the far
distance came the inspiring wash of the sea.
Von Donck reined in his pony and fell from the saddle. "Dost now feel
at home?" he cried.
Somewhat sadly Geoffrey shook his head. He was indeed grievously
disappointed to find New England so different from the old. He had
hoped to see neat hedgerows, compact farms, and sloping meadows, such
as he might have looked on in his native county of Berks. He had hoped
to see a wain creaking over the fields, to hear the crack of a whip and
the carter's cheery song. He saw nothing but poverty, small
beginnings, and the signs of a hard struggle for existence. Some men
were working in the distance. He could see the quick flash of their
axes and hear the solemn blows as steel bit the wood. Between dreary
lines of fencing, jagged stubs, patches of corn, showing yellow here
and there, springing from every cultivated foot of ground; beyond, some
acres of burnt ground, and those cold wooden houses with their enormous
chimneys, so altogether unlike the warm brickwork of Old England homes.
"This is not Virginia?" he asked.
"Virginia lies five hundred miles to the south, very far beyond
Hudson's River," replied Von Donck. "'Tis a fairer province than this,
and better settled, because older. Be not downcast, boy. Here thought
is free, and here a man may reap the full reward of his labours. You
shall find no tax, nor persecution, nor kingly oppression in this land.
Here the people rule for the people; and here you may worship God after
your own inclining, and dwell in peace all the days of your life."
"It is a barren land," protested Viner.
"What would you look for in the new world? That island of yours was
once a land of forest and swamp. The first man was put into the garden
to till it. Labour shall conquer here as elsewhere. Mark you the
richness of the soil and the purity of the air. Here you shall fear no
pestilence, and if your hands be not afraid to work you shall raise two
crops of corn in one season. Gold and silver there are none; but he
who owns an ox and has no corn may exchange with him who has corn but
wants for meat. In our settlement we use strings of wampum for
currency. A shell from the beach becomes gold when it shall buy a man
that which he lacks."
The comrades drew back into the forest and waited for evening, because
Geoffrey would not advance alone, and Von Donck dared not risk his life
among the Puritans, who were at war with the people of New Netherlands.
They partook of their last meal together, and when the shadow of night
grew heavy upon the fields, Pieter rose and shook himself.
"We have now come to the parting of our ways," he muttered. "You are
among your people. We will together cross yonder fields, and then you
shall wish me God-speed. The town of Boston lies upon your right hand.
I shall beat inland at the base of Connecticut, until I reach the bank
of Hudson's River, and there I am upon my own territory where no man
shall lead me. I shall ride beside the river until I come to the
little city of the Manhattoes, where William Kieft rules. San Nicolas!
How old Will the Testy shall stare and blow at his pipe when he sees
Pieter von Donck on the steps of his bowerie!"
They set out upon the last stage along a trail between the whispering
corn. Von Donck had grown suddenly silent. He plucked at the panther
skin, snorting occasionally, and casting side glances at his companion,
who rode close to his side, intent upon the prospect of low houses and
broken bush. When Geoffrey at length leaned over with a warning to
point out the figure of a man, who was proceeding down a side path with
a dog at his heels, the old Dutchman replied by touching the shoulder
nearest him and saying:
"Dost feel the smart of that wound yet?"
"It is nothing," Geoffrey answered. "See you not that man advancing?"
"The marks shall remain," went on Pieter solemnly. "The scar will be
there to remind you of a good friend in New Amsterdam. My lad, I shall
seek to hear of you. Each time I look on this skin I shall breathe a
wish for the happiness of the boy who saved my life in the crystal
hills. When you come to make your home in Virginia, send to Pieter von
Donck at the hostel by San Nicolas, and if he be alive, and not grown
too fat to walk, he will come out to meet you. Will not forget the old
rogue who tricked the French?"
Geoffrey put out his hand and grasped the podgy fingers. "May I meet a
traitor's end if I forget my friend," he answered. "Had it not been
for you my dry body would now be swinging in the wind of the mountains.
I wish you well, Pieter; I shall ever wish you well. Now ride! You
would not have me fight for you against my own people."
"There is no English blood in him," snorted Von Donck. "A Dutchman, I
say, a Dutchman to the ends of his hair."
The dog was bounding towards the travellers, and the farmer put up his
hand and hailed them.
"We are Englishmen," Geoffrey called back.
"Now, by the sack of San Nicolas, out upon you," shouted Von Donck. "I
am no Englishman. I am a Hollander, fellow, Hollander from head to
heel."
"Ride!" exclaimed Geoffrey, smiting his comrade's mount. "God be with
you, Pieter."
"And you, boy."
Von Donck lashed his pony and the nimble animal bounded off to the
west, while Geoffrey dismounted, and, holding the savage dog at bay
with his sword, advanced to meet the owner of the land.
"Do not fear, friend," he said, as they drew together. "I am no spy,
but an Englishman from the north. He who rides yonder is a friendly
Dutchman who has accompanied me upon the way. I pray you tell me is my
Lord Baltimore within the town?"
The settler, a tall man in a quaker hat and black cloak, which fell
from his neck almost to the ground, regarded the speaker with cold,
unfavouring eyes.
"You know little of this country, young sir, if you believe that Lord
Baltimore governs here," he replied at length. "You stand within the
province of Massachusetts beside the town of Boston, and the lord you
seek rules over the province of Maryland and that country to the west
of the bay of Chesapeake."
Geoffrey's heart sank at this chill reception, and he lowered his eyes
despondently before the stern gaze of the Puritan as he answered:
"I come to pray for a ship and men to be sent against the French, who
hold the north. He who sent me, charging me to deliver this ring in
his name to Lord Baltimore, believes that his countrymen and mine will
not fail to help us in the time of need."
"Put not your trust in Massachusetts," said the listener dourly. "We
have much ado to defend ourselves against the Mohicans and the pinch of
famine. We know not ourselves where to turn for aid, and your cry is
ours also. You have reached the valley of dry bones, young stranger."
"The dry bones stood up in an exceeding great army," returned Geoffrey
boldly.
"Even so. If it be God's will, we also shall stand up. What is the
name of him who sent you?"
"Sir Thomas Iden."
"Of county Kent?"
"The same."
"I have heard of that family as most loyal to the Crown. Arms, a
chevron between three close helmets, if my memory mistake not. I also
am from the south, driven out, like many a better man, by the hand of
persecution. Come now! I will lead you to the house of John Winthrop,
our governor."
The town of Boston was then a mere village of distressful huts crowded
within a great palisade; the single street, which led to a quay of
closely-packed logs covered by stones with earth atop, was rough ground
over which the tyreless wheels of primitive carts jolted woefully. The
candle-light from a few windows shed a dreary gleam across the way,
where men closely muffled drifted along with a stern "Good-e'en."
There was neither laughter nor tavern-singing nor play-acting in that
cheerless town, no throwing of dice nor rattle of cups. The Puritan
mind was dominant; and the only sound of music that disturbed the
unhappy silence was the lugubrious droning of a psalm or sad-toned hymn.
A lamp flickered near the entry, and beside the watchman, who kept the
light burning at the gate, stretched a board; and upon the board
appeared in short black letters the notice:--
"No person within this province, professing to believe in Jesus Christ,
shall be in any ways troubled, molested, or discountenanced for his or
her religion, or in the free exercise thereof."
"See!" said the guide, without a smile. "Here we have liberty!"
At the entrance to a low house near the end of the street they stopped,
and the guide knocked. After a long interval a shutter was pushed back
and a voice demanded to know who it was that knocked.
"A stranger from the north to see the governor," said the guide.
The voice grumbled and lessened gradually, still grumbling, until it
sounded more loudly and the door opened. An old man stood on the
threshold, a lighted candle in his hand, the thick grease running upon
his fingers. He looked from one to the other, and cried in a shrill
voice: "The governor is with his reverence. The stranger must wait."
"I am content to wait," said Geoffrey.
Hearing a sound, he looked back, and saw the man who had brought him so
far already receding in the gloom of the street. The porter bade him
enter, and when he had done so provided him with a seat, and there left
him for a good hour, at the end of which time he reappeared in darkness
and said shortly: "Come!"
The room into which Geoffrey was ushered contained all the marks of
extreme poverty. The light came from one great log glowing in the big
fireplace, for the night was chill with the breath of the sea and a
sharp north wind. Two figures occupied this comfortless room, one on
either side of the fire, the older man attired in the simple gown and
bands of a minister of religion; the other, dark, with luminous eyes
and white forehead, leaned forward, the long fingers of his right hand
trifling with his wig. Both were well-known in their generation. The
layman was John Winthrop; the minister Roger Williams.
"You are welcome to Boston, sir," said Winthrop, without rising, but
merely lifting his head in the firelight to scan the face of the
visitor. "Come you to our town by chance?"
"I come from the far north to seek aid," said Geoffrey, with a boyish
pride which caused Williams to frown.
"_Terra incognita_ indeed," he murmured. "A cold land where Popery is
rampant. How great is the distance, and how came you thence?"
Geoffrey told his story and delivered his message. The two men watched
him intently, Winthrop always playing with his wig, Williams leaning
out with hands clasped over a massive Bible held upon his knee. When
Geoffrey had finished his tale, there was a moment of silence, broken
only by the spitting of the fire. Then the Puritans looked across the
hearth and smiled.
"The poor man is the helper of the poor," murmured Williams.
John Winthrop laughed bitterly.
"When a poor man begs of me he has my all, and that I give to our poor
brethren in the north. They have my prayers. Young man," he went on,
rising and confronting the messenger, "you have nobly performed a noble
duty; but in coming to us you confront poverty indeed. Here night and
day we struggle for existence. I myself have gone to rest, knowing not
how to face the morrow. We have our wives and little ones to feed and
protect, and these are our first charge. Daily the cry goes out to us:
'We want.' Nightly we dread to hear the shout of 'Mohican invasion.'
We fight, not for fame nor for honour among nations, but for a foothold
upon this continent, where we are striving to plant a home for the
free, to the glory of God, and the shame of England who has cast us
out. Young man, you have done your duty."
"And your help shall come from Heaven," murmured the divine deeply.
"I shall proceed to Lord Baltimore. To him I was sent," said Geoffrey.
"Go to him if you will, but the answer you shall there receive will be
that you have heard already," said Winthrop. "Virginia is in sore
straits, being unable to convey her tobacco crop to the Old World,
since there are no English ships to cross the seas."
"Nevertheless I shall go," said Geoffrey.
John Winthrop bowed his head. "You shall sleep under my roof this
night and accept what poor hospitality I have to offer. My friend and
servant shall minister to your needs."
He made a slight movement of his hand to signify that the interview was
ended, and the messenger retired, sorely depressed at the manner of his
reception. The old man who had opened the door gave him food and
drink, asking no question and imparting no information; but continually
droning through his nose a hymn, or muttering in gloomy tones some sad
portion of the Scriptures. He was one of the most zealous of
Winthrop's company, all of whom were Nonconformists, but not
separatists. Indeed, they esteemed it an honour to call themselves
members of the English Church, and openly admitted that they had
emigrated in order that they might be divided from her corruptions, but
not from herself. For all his devotion, the old servant was not a
cheerful companion for a man who was already cast down in mind, and
Geoffrey was glad to be rid of him and alone in a cold, bare room,
which was as sad in all its details as the men who occupied the town.
It was long before sleep came to the traveller. He had become so
accustomed to the open air that the atmosphere of his room stifled him.
When at last he succeeded in finding unconsciousness the boom of the
sea shook the house and occupied his brain.
Morning came, and with it a heavy tramp of feet. A rough hand struck
the door, and the sleeper awakened with a start, to behold at his side
three men, cloaked and stern, the foremost holding a scrap of paper, to
which was affixed a red official seal.
"Sir stranger, surrender yourself," he said.
"What means this?" exclaimed Geoffrey. "I am an Englishman in a colony
of the English."
"The charge against you is that of treason," replied the stern Puritan.
"Treason!" repeated the young man; and rose dumbfounded.
"It is suspected that you are a spy, in the employ of our enemies the
Dutch."