BETWEEN MAN AND MAN
ALL that night the rain fell steadily; harking to its slow patter
on the roof, Miles thought on those who were tramping the forest,
and wondered how they fared. Ned, stretched beside him, save for his
regular breathing, lay like one dead, and yonder in the living room he
could hear Trug, admitted to shelter from the rain, grumbling in his
sleep.
A long, long night it was, and the day that followed, all blurry with
faint sunshine, was well nigh as long. Little work was to do in the wet
fields, so Miles fetched pails of water and tended the fretting babies,
while, like every other soul in the colony, he waited for news of the
Captain and his men.
A second night, sickly with warm mist, had closed in on Plymouth,
before tidings came. Miles and Giles had gone forth together into the
moist darkness to the spring, where they drank, before drawing a last
bucketful for the house; the alders looked startlingly dense against
the lighter black of the sky, and Miles kept close to Giles.
Even the elder boy was more alert than his wont, and jumped listening
to his feet, when far up the Namasket trail sounded ordered footsteps.
"'Tis father and the men returning," he cried next moment, and
scrambled swiftly up the bluff, with Miles, eager yet half in dread
lest ill had befallen, panting after.
Down through the dusk of the trail men were coming--the heavily armed
Englishmen and in their midst some scantily clad savages. Giles,
forgetful of reserve for once, pressed forward boldly to meet his
father, but Miles, having no one to meet, stood back in the bushes,
that touched his face clammily, and watched the little column, noisy
now, as home approached, swing past. At its head marched a stocky
figure that he knew, and, as if the Captain could see him even in the
blackness, Miles shrank a little farther into the bushes.
Yet he joined himself to the very end of the column, for he had no will
to stay alone in the dark. Goodman Cooke marched there, and, eager to
have some friend in the party, Miles fell into step beside him. "You
are all come back safe, sir?" he asked propitiatingly.
"Surely, yes," the other replied. "All sound, save three Indians we
fetched hither to the Doctor. Best of all, we've Squanto here; we found
him unhurt."
By this they had come down into the village, where all the people, it
seemed, had hurried forth, and, hearing the news of their interpreter's
return, showed no small joy thereover. Squanto, a figure of varying
light and shade beneath the lantern glow, took such expressions of
kind feeling stolidly, and profited from the good wishes of his white
friends by asking for strong water. There was some merriment thereat
among the Englishmen,--all were in good spirits, in truth, for the
expedition had fared well.
In broken fragments Miles caught the story as he was hustled about
among the returned soldiers and, with the other lads, stood staring at
them under the lantern light: how the Englishmen, coming at midnight
to Namasket, had beset the house of Corbitant, but found that valiant
chief had fled at the mere rumor of their approach; how several of the
Indians, trying to press forth in spite of their promises that no harm
was meant them, had been hurt; how Squanto and Tokamahamon had been
found alive; and how, after leaving for Corbitant a stern warning as
to what he might expect if he continued to stir up rebellion against
Massasoit and his allies, they had returned, successful and unscathed.
But the story was quickly told by the hungry men, and then they
scattered to their houses. The street was swiftly emptied, and even
Giles, calling to Miles to fetch home the bucket they had left at the
spring, trudged away with his father.
Miles turned slowly up the street; he had admitted it to no one, even
to Giles and Ned, but the last week he had had a fear of the black
woods. Spite of his boasts to the boys of his merry life with the
savages, he shuddered every time he thought of Nauset, and he had a
foolish feeling that if he ventured into the forest the Indians might
swoop down on him again. In the daytime he could laugh it away, but at
night, and especially after the anxiety of the last twenty-four hours,
the fear came on him strongly, and it did not seem as if the courage
was in him to go down to the inky spring alongside the stepping-stones
that led to the woods.
He stood a time by Cooke's gate, in the hope that he might see some one
else bound for the spring, but no one came. He went a few steps down
the street, but, if he returned to the house without the bucket, he
would be scolded, so, at a snail's gait, he trudged uphill again.
Then it was that he noted the companionable light that shone in the
window of Standish's cottage, high up the hillside, and, though he
was afraid of the Captain, yet there seemed a kind of encouragement
in that shiny spark that made him cross the street and loiter nearer.
"Maybe John Alden'll be going to the spring," he told himself. "Or
maybe--maybe I'll go, presently."
Just at the edge of the Captain's unfenced dooryard, he halted and
stood gazing at the light. He was not spying, to be sure; he would
go in a moment. Through the open window he could see a corner of the
living room, a table, with a rack and three guns above it, and, as
he gazed, Alden, a big, black figure, strode into the bright corner
and set down two bowls on the table. Miles drew a step or two nearer.
"Maybe the Captain will come into the light next," he told himself.
"And after I've seen him, then--"
And then some one took him firmly by the shoulder, and right beside him
spoke the Captain's voice, "Well, Miles?"
"Oh!" the boy gasped, and then, in a panic-stricken tone, "I'm going
home; prithee, let me go home, sir."
"Nay, you are coming in with me," Standish answered, and, helplessly,
Miles yielded to the other's grasp and stumbled over the threshold.
Within, the living room was bare and martial, with a rapier above the
chimneypiece that caught a gleam from the candle set below it, and the
form by the door and the rough stools standing stiffly as on parade. On
a shelf beside the fireplace there were some pots and platters; Miles
noted all very accurately, and wondered that he should note them at
such a time.
He started when Captain Standish spoke, for all his tone was amused:
"Here, Jack, set a bowl for this gentleman I have fetched to sup with
us. And you, Miles, will you give me your parole not to attempt an
escape, if I take my hand from your collar?"
Miles eyed the shaft of candlelight that lay at his feet and ventured
no answer. He knew the Captain had loosed his grasp on him, and then he
heard him ask, in a different, serious tone: "Are you afraid of me?"
At that Miles tossed back his head, stiffly as if a bar of iron were
run down his neck. "No, sir," he said, boldly and untruthfully.
He could not slip away now, whatever might be in store for him, but
stood rigid and unpretending, while Captain Standish flung off his
buff-coat, and Alden, with a ponderous movement, lifted the soup kettle
to the table. Then he sat down on a stool, as he was bidden, and ate.
It was clam broth, and he was aware of the good flavor of it, just as
he was aware, beneath all his alarm, of the honorable fact that he was
taking supper with Captain Standish. He began to hazard long looks at
the Captain and to listen to the talk of the two men, with some thought
for their words, as well as for his own concerns.
"This is none of your cooking, Jack," said Standish, as he rose to
refill his bowl.
"Mistress Mullins fetched us the broth," Alden replied, with a studious
lack of interest. "She thought we'd have naught to eat in the house
to-night."
"'Twas very wisely thought. When you have eaten, Jack, best carry back
her kettle. They'll not yet be abed at the Elder's house."
Somehow, after that, Alden made short work of his portion, and,
summarily emptying the kettle into the Captain's bowl, gave it a
perfunctory scrub and started briskly for Master Brewster's cottage.
The Captain, with his face sober all but his eyes, swallowed his
broth in leisurely silence for a moment before he addressed his small
companion: "I had speech with Priscilla Mullins several days since.
What is this, Miles, that she tells me you had to say to me?"
Miles crumbled the fag end of his piece of bread with one nervous hand.
"Why, 'twas--'twas--Captain Standish, is it true you think me the
worst lad in the settlement?" He looked up into the other's face, and
something he saw there made him blurt out, "I doubt if you do."
"So that's why you ran away from me day before yesterday, is it?"
Miles kicked his heels softly against the legs of his stool. "Because
I want to tell you I'm sorry," he murmured. "I shall never run away to
the Indians again. I--I was but talking when I said those words unto
Francis and the others."
"A 'miles gloriosus,' eh?" said the Captain, and smiled.
Miles saw nothing amusing in the words, but he took it as a sign the
Captain was his friend again, so he smiled back. "I won't do it again,
sir," he promised vaguely, and then, as Standish rose from the table,
he slipped off his stool. "May I wash the dishes, sir?" he volunteered
for "a girl's work" eagerly.
"If you wish it," the Captain answered, and then, about the time Miles
had dropped the bowls and spoons into the nearest pail of water, broke
out irrelevantly, "In the name of goodness, Miles, are those the only
breeches you have to wear?"
Miles clapped his right hand over one knee, and his left over an
ostentatious rift in the side. "She hasn't time to make me new ones;
I'm wearing these for punishment," he explained.
"Indeed!" said Standish; he took his pipe from the chimneypiece and,
filling it, kept silent so long that Miles finished his dishes and
stole over to the hearth beside him. On the chimneypiece some books
stood up from the miscellaneous litter, and, because they were the
Captain's books, Miles raised himself on tiptoe to read their names.
A "Bariffe's Artillery Guide" pleased him most; he was wondering if he
could learn from that how to be a soldier like the Captain, when behind
him spoke a familiar voice: "Well, Miley, do you have it in mind to
sleep at home to-night?"
Miles swung round with a start; Master Hopkins and that bucket of water
and the scolding to come,--he remembered all clearly, for there in the
doorway stood Ned Lister, with his out of temper look. "The master sent
me to find the boy," he explained more civilly to the Captain. "I've
sought him all through the village. Come, Miles, Master Hopkins--"
Involuntarily Miles pressed close to the Captain. "Is he going to whip
me, Ned?" he asked anxiously.
"Tell Master Hopkins I'll send the lad home straightway," Standish
dismissed Lister curtly, then puffed a moment at his pipe till the
young man's leisurely footsteps died out in the yard. "So Master
Hopkins whips you often?" he questioned abruptly.
"He says I need the rod," Miles answered in a woful voice, wondering if
the Captain would take his part. "He says I'm a son of perdition. I see
not why 'tis right. When Ned Lister called Dotey a fool, he said he was
in danger of hell fire, and, sure, son of perdition is a worser name
than fool."
"Hm!" muttered the Captain. "And you're still good friends with that
valiant duellist, Edward Lister?"
"I like Ned mightily, yes. But Master Hopkins does not suffer me work
near him."
"That's for punishment, too, I take it?"
Miles nodded.
"At this rate you should prove the best lad in the colony, not the
worst," the Captain said dryly; and then, "Say we walk down to Master
Hopkins's house now, and see how that wounded Indian is faring."
A queer, vague hope that had risen in Miles vanished and left an
amazing emptiness; the blackness of the lonely spring, and the whipping
for that evening's tarrying came to his mind before he had crossed the
room, and in the doorway he halted short.
"What's amiss?" asked Standish, with no great surprise, however.
"I--I take it, I'm afraid," gasped Miles, hot and cold with the shame
of the terror he could not check. "I must go down to the spring, and
'tis dark, and I think I'll be whipped, and--and--" His lips were
twitching childishly. "But I wasn't afraid at Nauset, not a whit, and I
didn't cry there," he added piteously.
"I understand," the Captain said, with amazing kindness. "I'll go to
the spring with you, Miles."
For the second time in his life, Miles stepped out into the night
with the Captain, but there was small elation in his heart with
the knowledge of his cowardice upon him. He felt a censure in his
companion's silence, yet he dared not speak himself, only hurried
forward as fast as possible to end the walk. They left the last cottage
behind them, passed a menacing clump of bushes, and then, at the head
of the path, Miles spoke out, almost in spite of himself: "Pray you, go
back, sir. I'm not afraid. I won't be afraid. I'll go alone."
He called back the last, halfway down the path. The pebbles rattled
with shocking loudness; there in the thicket, across the sullen
brook, something stirred, he knew. With his eyes on the black ground,
he stumbled toward the gurgle of the spring, groped for his bucket,
fearing lest his hand touch something else, and, seizing it, filled it
sparsely at the first dip, then, setting his teeth tight, made himself
fill it again, slowly and carefully.
Behind him, as he rose, the bushes all were moving and alive, and
something, he knew, pressed close at his heels. He could not hurry with
the bucket in his hand, only clamber, step by step, with the breath
choked within him, till he came at last to the black pathway above the
bluff. Before he could cast a frightened look up the trail, the bucket
was quietly taken from him. "You waited here for me?" Miles gasped,
and then, "But I wasn't afraid."
"You will not be next time, Soldier Rigdale," Standish answered him,
and, putting a hand on his shoulder, kept it there.
Before they were into the thick of the settlement, he spoke again,
abruptly: "So you're not happy at Master Hopkins's?"
"I hate it there," Miles said under his breath, and then the hope
that the Captain's former words had raised swept back once more, and
he caught the other's hand. "Will you take me away from him, sir?" he
asked hurriedly. "If I could live with Jack Cooke, anywhere else, I
know I could be good."
"I know you could, too," Standish answered. "And I think your father
and mother would wish it. But Master Hopkins is your guardian and your
kinsman; I can do naught, only try my hand at coaxing, and I'm uncommon
ill at that. My faith, I know not why I speak it out to such a babe
as you, Miles, but you must say naught of this, remember. Only--if
'twill comfort you for your tattered breeches and the rest of your
penances,--so soon as pretext is given me, I am minded to take you from
Master Hopkins to live with me."
"With you?" Miles asked in the blankness of joy, and then he must hush,
for the candlelight from Master Hopkins's window struck across his
face, and an instant later they came into the living room.
Master Hopkins looked angry, of course, but his face relaxed at sight
of the Captain, and he only bade Miles pack off to bed. "But he'll
surely thrash you in the morning, Miles," Giles said, with a sober
pucker of the brows. "What made you stay so long?"
"I was with the Captain," Miles replied light-heartedly, and to himself
he added, "And by and by 'twill be like this evening every day, for
I'll live with him all the time."