THE TWO EDWARDS
THE fields of New Plymouth at last were sown,--twenty acres of Indian
corn and six of English seed, wheat, barley, and pease,--enough to
yield an ample harvest. There was besides another field, where the
corn, however tall it grew, would never be reaped, for, that the
savages might not know the number of the dead, it was planted upon the
graves of those who perished in the winter's sickness.
Among them lay John Carver, buried honorably with such poor military
pomp as the colony could show its governor, and with a more precious
tribute of grief for a good man lost. Near him lay now his wife
Katharine, who at his death had grieved and pined, till within six
weeks they had dug for her a grave in the new-sown corn-land.
Master Bradford was the new governor; a grave, wise-headed gentleman,
with a gift of kindly speech and a shrewd sense of humor, but, to
Miles, his greatest claim to respect was that the interpreter Squanto
had chosen to dwell with him. For Miles Rigdale, to use Mistress
Hopkins's vexed phrase, was "ever beating the street after the heathen
savage." It must be owned that to his guardians he was a troublesome
boy; not a bad boy, but a careless fellow, who, though he might mean
to do well, was likely, when sent to weed in the fields, to be found
swimming in the river, or hunting strawberries on the hills, or fishing
with Squanto.
Miles did not reason out his new dislike for responsible labor, did
not take into account the influence of lazy Edward Lister, or the
distractions of the spring and early summer in this new country; but he
did feel there was a difference between working with his father, when
he knew the harvest would be for his mother and Dolly, and grubbing in
a corner of a great field that was the property of no man, but should
feed the whole colony. He no longer took pride in his labor, and, if
he had taken any, Mistress Hopkins's dissatisfied comments would have
destroyed it. Yet, much though he disliked the bustling woman with the
sharp tongue, he neither disliked nor feared her the half as much as he
disliked and feared her husband.
Years later, when he had come to manhood, Miles was able to think
on Master Hopkins with gratitude, for, in all honesty, this severe,
undemonstrative man used him like a son, as kindly as he used his own
boy, Giles. Except in the stress of planting-time, Miles was never
set to tasks beyond his strength; he was well fed,--as the fare of the
colony went,--well sheltered, decently clad, while the little store of
his father's goods was scrupulously left untouched for his later use.
Master Hopkins tried also, conscientiously, to keep him to the path of
strict virtue, with admonitions, and, if need were, with corrections.
It was an age of whippings, and, on occasion, Miles was whipped
painstakingly. Master Hopkins's floggings were, on the whole, not so
severe as Goodman Rigdale used to give his son, but Miles resented them
with an amazing outburst of anger. "You are not my father; you have
no right to beat me," he cried, the first time Master Hopkins took a
birch rod to him, and, swinging round in a fury, he lustily kicked his
chastiser's shins.
After that one attempt and the sorry consequences which it entailed, he
never again tried to defend himself, but, though he had to submit, the
old feeling remained; to the pain and shame of a beating was now added
a rankling sense of the injustice and, so to speak, of the illegality
of it all.
Beatings, though, were something every boy in the colony, even the
sober Giles, had a good share of, so Miles made shift to endure; but
Master Hopkins presently devised a new-fangled means of persecution,
for he insisted on teaching him to read.
The boy had clung to the black-letter Bible because it was his
father's, and sometimes of a Sunday, between the morning and afternoon
teachings at the Common House, when it grew irksome to sit quiet and do
nothing, would take the book and spell out half a chapter, and amuse
himself with looking at the funny black letters. But one Sunday, a warm
May Sunday, when Miles was lying with his book in the young grass in
the shadow of the house, Master Hopkins, noting his unusual employment,
bade him read aloud to him, and, as he was a man of education, was
honestly shocked that, as he put it, "the lad could scarce spell out
his mother-tongue."
From that time dated Miles's tribulations. It was useless to protest
that he could read well enough, he did not wish to read better; Master
Hopkins's decree went forth that every night after supper the boy was
to come to him with his Bible, and read aloud a chapter. Miles never
reflected that, after a day of hard labor in the fields or woods, or of
serious consultation with the other leaders of the colony, it could be
neither restful nor pleasant to Master Hopkins to hear a stupid little
boy stumble through a dreary waste of words. But he was quite aware of
the unjust fact that the space of daylight, in the long summer evenings
after supper, was the time when all the other lads were at liberty to
play, while he must drone out the chronicles of dead and gone Hebrews
with unpronounceable names.
The reading lesson always took place just without the house-door, where
there was a bench on which Master Hopkins sat; Miles stood beside him,
where he could see the harbor and the street, with the boys passing
down it to the beach, perhaps; and where, too, it was convenient for
Master Hopkins to cuff his ears when his attention strayed hopelessly
from the book to the affairs of his playmates.
Sometimes, when he wished to get away and join them in carrying out
a long-laid plan of sport, Miles would pore over his chapter twice
or thrice in the day, and so, when evening came, be able to read it
fairly. But on such occasions Master Hopkins always said there would
be time to finish another chapter; and when it came to that, poor,
disappointed Miles always stumbled, so that his lesson ended in
disgrace and bitter rebuke.
Early in July, however, he had a blissful holiday, for Master Hopkins
went with Master Winslow and Squanto far inland to visit King
Massasoit, so for five days there was no one to bid Miles read a word.
Neither did any one whip him, for all he shirked his weeding, and ran
away to fish in the harbor with Ned Lister and the sailor, Trevor, and
played by the brookside with the other boys till long after dark.
Dotey, to be sure, one morning when Miles forgot to fetch a supply of
water, and he had to fetch it himself, threatened to "swinge" him; he
was a steady fellow, was Dotey, and, since Giles was but a lad, in his
master's absence was tacitly admitted to the headship of the household.
But when he talked of beating Miles, up rose Ned, and called him, with
an oath, a great bully, swaggering in his little ha'penny borrowed
authority, and threatened, if he laid hands on the little fellow, to
break his head for him.
It was in the living room this happened, just before the noon meal;
Miles remembered afterward the good smell of the roast fish Mistress
Hopkins was setting on the table, and what an overpowering heat came
from the great fire on the hearth. He was standing near the fireplace,
backed up against the wall, a little conscience-stricken and fearful
of a whipping, but still more frightened by the vehemence of the two
men. Lister had swaggered across the floor, and stood before him, and
Miles was glad of his protection, though he half realized that it was
not alone the desire to defend him, but the desire to defy Dotey, the
trusted and sober, that spoke in Ned's tone.
Constance's quiet voice, as she stepped between the two young men,
quelled the squabble: "Don't curse so, pray you, Ned. And, Ed Dotey, do
not you whip Miles; he only forgot--"
"He does not merit whipping," spoke slow Giles, who held his own little
resentment that his father's servant was set in authority over him.
Mistress Hopkins interrupted tartly that Miles needed a strong hand
to correct him, and Dotey was quite in his right; her approval made
it lawful enough for the young man to carry out his intention, but
Dotey, like a discreet fellow, had no wish to bring about a scuffle
with Lister and a hot family quarrel in his master's absence. So he
said, as if it were a concession, that he would do as Constance asked,
and let Miles off this time; and with that they all sat down peaceably
to dinner. Miles ate his full share of the fish, and, believing this
episode happily ended, put it quite out of his head.
He had good cause to remember it some ten days later. By then Master
Hopkins had returned, so it was necessary for all to be busy, and Miles
weeded in the corn-field till his back ached, and every evening read
his chapter in the Bible. But one morning, a hot, dull morning with
an overcast sky, Ned and Giles planned to go with Squanto to fish for
perch in a pond far up in the woods, and Miles received a reward for
his diligence of the last few days in a permission to go with them.
Giles and the Indian started on ahead, to take the bait, while the two
others stayed to make ready the extra tackle, which, being left to
Ned's management, was always in a snarl.
Lister was sitting on the bench by the house-door, whistling a little,
as he disentangled lines and adjusted hooks, and Miles, kneeling on
the grass beside him, was giving what help he could, when Master
Hopkins and Dotey came out of the cottage. Dotey, who had an axe on his
shoulder, headed away through the garden to the hills whence firewood
was fetched, but Master Hopkins came and stood over Ned.
How it went and exactly what was said, Miles scarcely comprehended, but
he heard Master Hopkins's stern voice and Ned's sulky answering tones,
and in the lulls the rattle of trenchers, as Constance, inside the
house, cleared the breakfast table. The gist seemed to be that Master
Hopkins had found out about Ned's threatening to break Edward Dotey's
head, for he rated him soundly that he durst lift his voice against one
set in authority over him, a sober man, who was his better--
"He is not my better," Ned retorted, flinging up his head, with his
eyes sullen and angry.
"Do you grow saucy to contradict me?" Hopkins asked frowningly.
Too much had been said of Dotey for Ned to cast off rebuke with his
usual shrug; flinging aside the tackle, he started to his feet, but,
before he could walk away, Hopkins caught him by the shoulder. As they
stood thus Miles noted, with sudden surprise, that alongside Master
Hopkins Ned looked slight and almost boyish; somehow Miles had always
thought of him as a man, because he was old enough to use a razor.
"You shall stay till I have done with speaking," said Master Hopkins;
and then Ned made a sudden movement to free himself, flung up one arm,
half involuntarily,--and Stephen Hopkins reached him a blow that,
taking him beneath the chin, stretched him flat on the ground at his
master's feet.
The women came to the house-door, and it surprised Miles that it was
not Constance, but Mistress Hopkins, who cried, in a frightened voice:
"Stephen, Stephen, I pray you--"
Ned rose to his feet with his face white, and stood brushing the dirt
off the side on which he had fallen; there was a great brown streak of
it along one sleeve and the shoulder of his shirt. "There's work you
have made for the mistress, sir," he said, and began laughing in a high
key.
"That's enough," Stephen Hopkins checked him. "Remember, I've never
laid hands on you ere now, Edward Lister, but if you mend not your
ways, this will not be the last time." He lingered yet a moment ere
he turned away to the door, as if awaiting an answer, but Ned made no
reply, just stood fumbling at the fishing tackle with one hand, while
the other hung limp at his side.
Only when Master Hopkins had passed out of sight into the house did
Lister raise his head, and then, squaring his shoulders, he led the way
toward the street. "Will you not take the tackle, after all?" asked
Miles, running at his side. Ned's only answer was a shake of the head,
and to all Miles's further efforts at talk and one clumsy effort at
sympathy he kept silent.
They left behind them the sandy street, and, skirting along the bluff,
came to the path to the spring and the stepping-stones, beyond which
lay the trail to the ponds. Ned did not turn off there, however, but
trudged on till he reached the little stream that flowed from the pool
where they had cut thatch. "Whither are you going?" panted Miles, for
the third time.
"Where you were best not come," Ned answered, crashing into the bushes
on the right hand. But Miles turned doggedly in his steps, through the
first crisp thickets and then along the miry ground by the edge of the
pool, where the air was so muggy that he wondered Ned cared to keep up
his reckless pace.
Of necessity the speed slackened, as they clambered over the pebbles
and pushed aside the crackling undergrowth of a dry gully in the
northern hillside, but it was not till they were tramping through the
hushed woods on the summit that Ned spoke: "Did you know, Miley, my
father was a gentleman? A great family, the Listers, up Yorkshire
way. But he was a mere younger son, and he married a pretty serving
wench out of his father's hall, so they would have no more of him. But
he was a gentleman, and he tried to give me a smattering of decent
breeding,--" there Ned began to laugh, with the corners of his mouth
drawn up, and his eyes mirthless,--"and I am a brisk serving fellow,
whom the master pommels at will, eh, Miles? And they set a clod like
Edward Dotey over me."
There was going to be a fight, Miles guessed, but though at another
time he might have been secretly glad at the prospect of such
excitement, he had seen one man knocked flat that day, and it had not
been amusing, so now he was not over-zealous for the sport. "Come back
and fish, Ned," he coaxed, plucking at his companion's sleeve, when
that very moment, on the hillside below them, both caught the sound of
an axe falling on wood.
After that Miles scrambled down the slope, eager as Ned himself, in
his curiosity to see what would follow. A little clearing it was they
came out in, where one tree had been newly felled, and its clean stump
showed yellow; by the tree trunk, leaning on his axe and wiping his
sweaty forehead with his sleeve, stood Dotey.
"Well, Neddy, I've come to talk with you," Lister greeted him, in a
fleering voice, and on the word set himself down on the stump, with his
hands clasped about one knee.
At first it was a talking, that lay all on Ned's side, while Dotey
tried to keep up a pretense of work. Ned spoke words, well-chosen and
stinging, that should make even stolid Dotey wince, and spoke them in
a jibing tone, with a hateful laugh that startled Miles, even more
than the sight of the little pulsing motion of the blood in Ned's dark
cheeks.
Dotey swung round impatiently at last. "Hold your tongue, will you?" he
cried.
"It is thou who wert better have held thy tongue, Neddy, before thou
wentst blabbing to Hopkins of what passed between us."
"I did not," Dotey answered blankly.
"Thou art a liar," quoth Ned, quietly, and still hugging his knee.
Then Dotey strode over to him, and Ned, laughing up into his face,
jeered at him, "threaten a man with his fists, would he, when he had
just set Hopkins on to rebuke him for the like offense;" but at length
he rose up and cast his mocking manner. "We are agreed there is one
Edward too many in the house," he said slowly. "Now say we despatch one
forth of it. Will you fight me like a gentleman, rapier and dagger?"
In a daze Miles listened to Dotey's first protests, Ned's taunts,
till the final agreement was struck and the arrangements made. "I'll
contrive to fetch rapier and dagger from the Captain's house," Ned
concluded, "and do you, Miles, take those that hang in Hopkins's
chamber, and bring them unto us behind the Fort Hill."
Unquestioningly, Miles sped upon the errand. The sun had burnt away the
fog now; among the trees it was hot and breathless, and, when he ran
through the fields, the drying earth crumbled under his feet. Yet he
scarcely minded heat or dust, as he thought on what was now to come,
and thrilled with anticipation; for, down in his heart, he told himself
Dotey and Lister would never hurt each other, and he had never seen
anything livelier than a bout at quarterstaff, and a real duel would be
a wonderful thing to witness.
By the time he came to the house, he was all of an excited flutter,
but happily Mistress Hopkins alone was within, and she was so busied
in scouring her pewter platters that she only looked up to ask sharply
what brought him back.
"Just to fetch somewhat for Ned," Miles answered guiltily; and then
fortune favored him, for Damaris, within the bedroom, set up a wail,
and Mistress Hopkins bade him run in and soothe her.
So Miles sang to baby, and, singing, took Master Hopkins's dagger from
the shelf and hid it beneath his doublet; then slipped the rapier from
the wall, and, after a hasty glance to see that none were looking,
dropped it out at the open window. Still Damaris would not hush, and he
had to pace the floor a time, singing always, though his voice shook
with impatience, and his forehead was wet with perspiration.
[Illustration: "Saw the two young men close in combat."]
At last the child was quieted. Placing her on the bed, he passed
quickly out through the living room, and, running behind the house,
snatched up the rapier from the grass. Still none saw or intercepted
him; the men and boys were at work; the intense heat of the day kept
the women within their cottages. But to Miles each doorway seemed full
of faces, and, in a panic, he ran for the northern spur of the hill, at
a pace that brought the heart strangling into his throat.
On the west side of Fort Hill was a little level space in the abrupt
descent, where some pine trees stood wide apart, and the ground was
brown and slippery with pine needles. There Lister and Dotey, both with
their doublets and shoes cast off, were awaiting Miles; Dotey, with his
stolid face grim, sat on the ground, turning a rapier in his hands, but
Ned Lister was pacing slowly to and fro.
"I came--fast as I could run," panted Miles.
"You saw no one?" questioned Lister, as he took Master Hopkins's
rapier and measured it with the one Dotey held.
"No, no one."
"Francis Billington has been spying about here, though," Dotey spoke
evenly. "'Twas while you were at the Captain's house. I sent him
packing. But he may bring--"
"Ere any come, we'll be done with the work," Ned Lister interrupted.
"Here, Miles, do you run up to the hilltop and lie you down in the
grass. If you see any man coming upon us, whistle us a warning."
The grass, in the glare of the sun where the trees had been felled,
was a dazzling green, and the slope was very steep. From the summit of
the hill where he lay down half-hidden, as they bade, Miles could see
the blue harbor and all the sunny street of the town, so deserted that
he ventured a glance back over his shoulder. His eyes were fastened
there, for he saw the two young men close in combat; he heard the click
of steel, saw the quick thrust and recovery, the bending and swaying
of the struggling bodies. Then a cry rose up in his throat and choked
there, for he saw the dagger fly out of Dotey's hand, and saw him slip
upon the pine needles.
A clatter of feet on hollow boards made him look suddenly toward the
gun platform, and he had an instant's sight of Captain Standish, who,
clapping his hand to the railing of the platform, cleared it at a leap
and ran headlong down into the pine thicket. Setting his fingers to his
lips, Miles gave a shrill whistle, and right upon it heard the Captain
cry, in a terrible voice, "What work is this?" Casting one frightened
glance down the hill, Miles saw Ned lay on his side among the pine
needles, and Dotey stood over him with one hand dripping blood.
The sky seemed to waver and the whole green world to stagger with the
horror of what had happened. Miles crawled away through the long grass
down the hillside, through the undergrowth, and never paused till he
hid himself, terrified and sick, in the tangle by the pool in the
hollow.