THE SOWING OF THE FIELDS
"TO be sure, though, I was not weeping," Miles declared to Constance,
who came out from the house to see why he tarried so long at the
woodpile, "for I never even thought on going back to England."
He little guessed that, at one time, the leaders of the colony had
spoken seriously of returning Dolly and himself to the home-country.
But Master Hopkins had urged that, in such case, the children might be
drawn back into the faith of the Church of England, from which their
father had sought to snatch them; and Elder Brewster had added that it
was a weary journey for such little folk, and no prospect at the end
save of hard fare among grudging kindred.
John Rigdale left no near relatives; and his distant cousins, to whom
the children would have to go, were poor tenant-farmers, just as he
had been, who would find it burdensome to feed two more mouths. For
Miles and Dolly, not only would childhood prove hard and laborious,
but there would be nothing better to look forward to; as the boy grew
to manhood, he could hope only to toil for daily hire on some farmer's
land. "Unless he fling away his soul's welfare by going as a mercenary
in some iniquitous foreign war," said Master Isaac Allerton; whereat
Captain Standish smiled a little behind his beard, but made no answer.
But here in New Plymouth, though Miles would have plenty of work to
do, he would have, as his inheritance from his father, a claim to a
share of land and of whatever cattle or other property the settlers
should hereafter hold in common. By the time he was a man, there would
be enough for him to have a small farm of his own, where he could live
in more comfort than he would have known in England; and, till he was
grown, Master Hopkins was willing to feed and shelter him, in return
for what labor he could do.
As for Dolly, her case was simple enough, for if Miles stayed, she
stayed; and Mistress Brewster was quite determined that the little girl
should stay in no house but hers. So the _Mayflower_ sailed away, and
Miles Rigdale, with his little household, remained behind; and he never
dreamed that people had thought of continuing the colony without his
aid.
The boy had some cause to rate his services highly, for, in the
weakened condition of the settlement, every atom of strength had to
be used, and tasks were set for him as seriously as for burly Edward
Dotey. The full working-force of New Plymouth mustered but twenty-two
men,--counting in the venerable Elder, the Governor, and the Doctor,
who all labored with their hands as readily as the rest,--and nine
boys--some half-grown fellows, like Giles and Bart Allerton, who, at a
pinch, could bear a musket and do almost a man's work, and some small
rascals, like Miles himself, who, with the best intentions, did not
always, for lack of strength or of wisdom, accomplish what was bidden
them.
But, old or young, laggard or brisk, every male member of the colony
was expected to turn out now and bear a hand, for the mid-April season
approached, and the precious corn, that was to feed the settlement,
must be planted. To the elders, it looked like a stretch of hard work,
but Miles hailed it joyously, as a dignified, manly labor.
It began excitingly, with the coming of the alewives up the river, just
as Squanto had foretold; and straightway some of the men set to taking
them with seines, while others with hoes scored up the rough soil of
the cleared fields to the north, that once had been the planting land
of the Indians of Patuxet. Still others got out the corn, a precious
supply of seed which they had found buried in an Indian basket under
the sand of Cape Cod, and had made bold to take against this sowing
time.
For the present, Miles's part was only to splash about at the river
brink, where he fancied he was hauling at the seines, or to carry a
bucket of water to the workers in the field, or bring a stouter hoe
from the storehouse. Planting was no labor, just sport, he went to
assure Dolly, at the end of the first twelve hours.
He tried to see his little sister once each day, but this time the work
had been kept up so late that it was past twilight before he could
run across the street to Elder Brewster's cottage. A lingering warmth
was in the evening air, so Dolly and tall Priscilla Mullins, their
faces dim in the candlelight that shone from within the living room
behind them, were sitting on the doorstone. Some one else stood leaning
against the doorpost, some one with a deep voice, who called Miles by
name.
"Is it you, John Alden?" the boy asked, and, because Alden was the
Captain's friend, would have talked to him, had not Dolly, saying she
had a great secret to tell him, dragged him away, round the corner of
the cottage.
"Now guess what 'tis, Miles," she bade, as they halted in the ray of
light that streamed from the house-window beside them.
"I cannot guess, Dolly. Be not so childish."
"I'd give you three guesses. 'Tis something Love and I found in the
woods, up beyond the spring, on a southern hillside. 'Twas so far I was
near afraid, but I am glad I went. We were playing in the dead leaves,
and we found these. Look on them."
She drew her hand from her small bodice, with three wilted pink flowers
clenched tightly in it. They were small flowers, of a star-shaped form
and a rare, deep pink color, but Miles scarcely heeded color or size in
his enjoyment of their sweet, spicy smell. They were unlike any blossom
he had ever seen, so he was not ashamed to show his interest, even if
a flower was a girlish trifle. "You and Love found them, Dolly? And no
one else knows?"
"'Tis a secret," Dolly nodded. "We told only Wrestling and Priscilla
and Mistress Brewster. Ay, and the Elder too, because Mistress Brewster
said perchance he might know what flower it was, he is so wise. And
John Alden, Priscilla told him. And Love told Harry Samson and Milly
Cooper--"
"It's a mighty great secret when all the colony knows it," Miles said
sarcastically, and then, at Dolly's hurt look, was sorry; so he added,
"but I'm glad to know't, Dolly, and I'll go seek for some myself."
"There are buds yonder on the hillside, but no blossoms. Maybe,
though, we could find some, if we went and searched. Priscilla wishes
to get some too. Oh, Miles, could we not all three go to-morrow?"
"I must work," Miles answered proudly. "I'm not a child or a girl, so I
cannot stop to play."
Yet he was child enough to think he should like to go get a handful of
those rare, pretty flowers. After he got them, he would not greatly
care for them, but there would be the zest of owning something that
every boy in the colony did not own; and if he gave the flowers to
Dolly or to Constance, it would please them, since they were girls. So,
before dawn next morning, Miles tumbled out of bed, and, taking in his
hand the hunch of bread that formed his breakfast, ran away up beyond
the spring. Perhaps before work-time he could find a blossom or two, he
thought; and so grubbed hopefully among the damp, dead leaves of the
hillslope.
The mist that precedes the sunrise melted from the air; a bird sang
faintly in the distance; and even amidst the undergrowth the light grew
yellow and cheerful; work-time was near, and Miles had found only a
poor half-dozen blossoms. He hated to give over, but there was no help
for it; so, getting slowly to his feet, he was starting down the path
to the settlement, when a man crashed out through the bushes on his
left. It was John Alden, Miles saw at once, and he carried a great
handful of the pink flowers.
That was palpably an unfair arrangement, Miles held, so, as he fell
into step at Alden's side, he queried: "You did not come hither and
strip our place, did you?"
"Whose place, lad?"
"Why, mine and Dolly's and Priscilla's and--"
"Do you think I should dare plunder the holding of so many proprietors?
I have been to northward."
Miles was silenced a moment, then insinuated, "John Alden, what do you
want of posies? You're a man."
"Well, what do _you_ want of them, Miles?" John smiled down at him.
"I'm going to give mine away; I'm taking them to the Elder's cottage--"
"Give them away there, eh? To Mistress Mullins, now, perhaps?"
"No, to be sure," Miles said indignantly. "I do not like Priscilla
Mullins."
"Then you are the only one of that mind in New Plymouth. Why do you not
like her?"
Miles went in silence a time, kicking at each hump and hummock in his
path, but Alden was waiting for his answer, and he wished to please
him. "Well, if you must know, John Alden," he broke out at last, "I do
not like Priscilla Mullins because she kissed me."
Alden began to laugh, then, suddenly picking Miles up by the back of
his doublet, shook him a little. "Miles Rigdale," he said solemnly,
as he set the boy, rather breathless, on his feet again, "you are an
ungrateful little cub."
Miles held that a most uncalled-for charge, but he had no time to
defend himself, for just then they came over the brow of the hill by
Cooke's cottage and saw men astir in the street, so the day's labor
must be beginning. Miles ran to join Francis and Jack, and, in bragging
to his comrades of his flowers, forgot to take them to Dolly. That
night, when he stopped to have a word with her, he told her all about
them, but he found that she was not interested in a story of six
blossoms, seeing that Priscilla Mullins, since the morning, had had a
fair large bunch of them, such as no one else in the settlement could
show.
But in the days that followed Miles had little time to go seeking
flowers on the hillslopes, or gossiping with his sister in the
twilight. For, with never a minute of daylight to rest, the whole
colony worked now in good earnest,--taking alewives in the brook,
tugging them up into the fields, setting the little hills with corn
seed and with fish to keep it moist. To crown all, the planting fell
in a season of heat, and an intense heat, unlike the milder warmth of
England, that sapped the heart of the stoutest worker.
The first day Miles was bidden to plant corn, putting two shiny
alewives into each hole, and Jack Cooke was set to plant the row
next him. But unhappily they chattered so much that Miles presently
realized, in some horror, that he had supplied several hills with
alewives, but no corn, and, while he was pulling up the ground to
set the matter right, came Master Hopkins. He was angry; not that he
blustered, but he cuffed Miles smartly, and, saying he could not be
trusted at such important work, sent him down to the shore to labor
hereafter.
From that time on, Miles tugged fish,--a dreary task, in which he was
coupled with Francis Billington, another scatter-head. They had a
great flat Indian basket, in which they heaped the alewives, taken all
slippery from the big pile that lay upon the river brink; then they
would lift the basket between them, to each a handle, and, panting and
heaving, struggle up the steep bank from the river, and so through the
settlement, out to the hot, open fields.
It was not a great load they could carry at one time, so their
usefulness depended on the number of trips they made, but there they
were sluggish. Often the basket upset, and they had to sit down to
refill it; and again, more and more frequently as the hot days went
on, they must halt to quarrel, when Francis vowed Miles was bearing
down on his end of the basket, and Miles declared Francis was not doing
his share.
One morning it came to such a pass that Miles took a basket by himself,
but he found the journey single-handed so hard that he was in even
less hurry than usual to return from the fields and get a second load.
Loitering along, he was amusing himself by trying to carry on his head
the empty fish-basket, which _would_ fall off, when, as he paused to
pick up the troublesome article for the fifth time, Captain Standish,
coming shirt-sleeved and grimy from the fields, overtook him. Rather
guiltily, Miles straightened up very erect, and said, "Good morrow,
sir," as he always said it to the Captain.
"You're journeying back to the brook, Miles?" asked Standish. "At this
speed you'll not come thither ere dinner-time."
"I'm hastening now, sir," Miles answered, accepting the words as an
invitation to trot along at the other's side.
The Captain had his own concerns to look to, plainly, by the way he
tramped along, but, right in the midst, he glanced down at his small
companion and asked unexpectedly: "Where are your shoes, Miles?"
"I--I could not wear them," the boy explained, kicking his bare feet
in the sand. "Down by the river 'tis very wet. And then 'tis hot, so
I laid off my doublet and my shoes and stockings too. I like to go
barefoot," he added defensively. "In England, they never suffered me;
they said only beggar children went barefoot. But--" his voice grew
suddenly anxious, "I am sure my mother would think it right now, do not
you, sir?"
The Captain did not look convinced.
"It is a great saving to my shoes," murmured Miles.
"You were better save your feet," the Captain answered. "When your
shoes wear out, there'll be new ones for you. Now do you go to the
house and put them on, before you step on a thorn or do yourself some
hurt." His tone was brusque, and he hurried at once about his business,
as if he had no time to waste.
Obediently Miles went to the house to finish dressing; he was a little
sorry, because he liked the fun of going barefoot in the soft dirt,
yet, on the whole, it was pleasant to have Captain Standish speak to
you and order you into your shoes, as if he had some concern for you.
So flattered did he feel, indeed, that he only smiled in a superior way
when Francis Billington, barelegged and unregenerate, sneered at him
for putting on his shoes and stockings.
But that was the last happening of the week which Miles remembered with
enjoyment, for the first excitement had now gone out of the labor, yet
the work dragged heavily on. All through the weary day he felt the
weight of the basket pulling at his arm and the heat of the steady sun
scorching upon his bare head; and at night, when he lay on his pallet,
with his feet throbbing and his back aching, he dreamed of tugging fish
up the breathless pitch of a never-ending bluff.
A little respite came on the Sabbath, when, of course, no work could
be done, but with Monday's light all were in the fields once more. It
was a day of sweltering heat; the rays of the sun seemed beaten upward
again by the steaming earth, and the languid air was heavy and sick.
Toward the fiercest hour, about noon, as Miles was panting through the
fields on a return trip to the brook, Master Carver called to him.
The Governor had knelt to set the corn at the head of one of the rows;
his doublet was off and his hands were grimy, but, for all the heat,
Miles saw that his high, bald forehead was quite dry of perspiration.
"Here, lad," he said, as Miles ran to him, "can you fetch us a pail of
water hither to drink?"
"Ay, Governor," Miles piped in a respectful treble, and, much impressed
by the importance of his errand, trotted off briskly. At the spring
he longed to dally a moment, to drink of the water and to stir up the
great green frog who lived in the cool sand of the bottom, but, so soon
as his bucket was filled, he resolutely turned back through the glaring
heat to the fields.
Short as the time had been, a change had taken place. At first he
thought it a mere trick of the dazzling light, but, as he looked again,
he saw that indeed most of the men had risen from labor and, drawn
together, were gazing in his direction. Nearer at hand, he beheld two
coming toward the settlement; the one was John Howland, a member of the
Governor's household, and the other, who leaned heavily upon his arm,
was the Governor himself. They passed within arm's length of the boy,
and Miles took note how the Governor's down-bent face was now of a dull
reddish hue, and he noted, also, how the grime of his homely toil still
clung to his limp hands.
Surprised and a little awed, though he scarcely could tell why, Miles
tugged on into the fields, and, finding Goodman Cooke among those who
stood gazing after the Governor, asked him eagerly what was wrong.
"Why, naught," spoke Cooke, "only Master Carver complains of his head;
'tis along o' the heat, so the Doctor ordered him back to his house to
rest. He'll be well again by eventide."
But with eventide the word went among the colonists that Governor
Carver lay unconscious, and at those tidings faces grew grave. Miles,
in his youthfulness, gave little thought to it all; he was more
concerned with his own half-flayed hands and aching legs than with
Master Carver's illness, and each day these physical pangs grew keener.
The height of misery came on a sultry afternoon toward the close of
the week, a breathless, stifling time, when, for sheer weariness and
hopelessness, Miles sat down in the hot dirt in the middle of the field
and thought he never could rise again. Yet he scrambled up briskly,
when he saw his guardian approach, though Master Hopkins, whose face
was very grave, did not scold the boy, but, after a first sharp look,
bade him go rest in the shade till the day was out. "The hot sun is
deadly," he said, as to himself; but Miles realized only that he was
bidden to cease from labor.
He dragged himself back to the house, where he lay down upon his bed,
and watched the little patch of sunlight clamber higher up the wall and
harked to the drowsy sounds of out-of-doors; then heard nothing clearly
till the men tramped in to supper. He sat up slowly, and listened to
catch what gossip they might bring; their voices were subdued, and
he half guessed what had befallen ere he heard Master Hopkins say
solemnly that the good Governor Carver was dead.
Miles thought on it the night long; this death, lonely by itself, was
so much more awesome than the crowded sicknesses of the last winter. It
seemed the order of life must show some change, but, with the heat of
the next rising day, the colonists, as usual, only more silent, filed
forth to their labor in the fields. For whether men were well or ill,
or lived or died, the corn that was the hope of the settlement must be
planted.