moved from the ship, and then the few houses necessary to shelter
themselves. Of these plans they talked at night when the men returned
to the ship or on the days when the weather was so inclement that no
trip could be made ashore; these delays were a constant strain upon
the nerves of all, as the need for haste was so evident, with winter’s
storms increasing and the impatience of the crew growing therewith, to
say nothing of the failing health and strength of so many of themselves.
The fortitude and patience of the women who had braved all the dangers,
shared all the trials, and now, in spite of courage and cheerfulness
seemed fading before their eyes was enough to urge every man to use his
own last reserves of energy and strength to provide better conditions
for them. They well realized the important asset to their venture, of
the women. Without them not even the magnetism and charm of Brewster,
the indomitableness and courage of Myles Standish, the business ability
of Allerton, the experience of Hopkins, the worldly wisdom of Winslow,
the youth and strength of John Howland and John Alden or the zeal and
fervor of Bradford and Carver could have assured the stability and
success of this colony. Previous settlements in this region and others
further south bore witness to a lack of something making for continued
interest and permanence on the part of the men, who were not wanting in
necessary personal qualities. The abandonment of such ventures in Maine
and Virginia, where no women had accompanied the men, is proof that a
common larder and fireside are not the things for which men struggle
against hardship, disaster and death. But the street of Plymouth,
albeit made in the face of every trial of circumstance, was made by men
for the women they loved, and Plymouth has never been abandoned nor its
street untrod by the families and descendants of these men and women.
* * * * *
The weeks of January drag by, spent by the men ashore, many not
returning to the ship at night when the roof of the store-house was
finished, both to save the time of the trip back and forth and to
guard their belongings already there; so lights gleamed at night from
Plymouth, seen by the weary watchers on the ship and the ship lights
shone in the sight of the builders, signals to one another yet seeming
to make the gloom of their situation more visible.
The violent storm which ushered in the month caused the _Mayflower_ to
madly roll and tug at three anchors necessary to hold her; in the midst
of this discomfort, the third birth occurred on the ship, but the son
of Isaac and Mary Allerton never knew the world to which he came. One
of the young men, Richard Britteridge, also died about this time, and
so the burials began on the snow-covered hill.
The women had more to do, however, than look towards the shore and
long to land, for the life on the ship was not an idle one for any
of them while health and strength lasted. As, one by one, illness
attacked them, those remaining well had many added cares. Assisting
Doctor Fuller, attending to the wants of the families of those mothers
who were ill, preparing the food for the sick and for the men who went
daily ashore to work, keeping the children safe and amused, and, above
all, keeping their own faith and hope alive went on as unendingly as
the swell of the sea beneath them.
By the end of the month, the house built to store their belongings
and to shelter some of them while the others were being erected, was
finished and was also a hospital in its capacity of general or common
house, for numbers of the workers had to occupy the beds as fast as
they could be brought from the ship, their brave fight against the odds
overwhelming many. The women had an hour of frightful suspense when,
suddenly, before the eyes of some looking towards the land, flames
leapt out and shouts were heard. They were sure the dreaded event had
happened--that the Indians had attacked and vanquished all ashore. But
the later knowledge that no Indians had appeared and no one was hurt,
reconciled them to the loss of the roof of the common house from too
great a fire in the chimney; it had to be relaid--and then the joyful
decision was made that all who were able should come from the ship on
the next Sunday for a service in the common house, which was to serve
also as church and barracks for a time.
* * * * *
The little ship of the Pilgrims, called only “the shallop,” and
already proven staunch and true to their needs, leaves the side of the
_Mayflower_ on this wintry Sunday, with the women as passengers for the
first time, and sails over the mile or so of water towards the landing.
Some are using their greatest efforts; some are too weak to come at
all, and even those still well are vastly different in looks and
manner from their appearance at leaving old Plymouth or even on that
first Monday of enthusiasm at Cape Cod. But all feel that a new era is
dawning and again the need calls out the latent spirit of sacrifice
inherent in every woman, on this occasion once more requiring the
putting aside of personal feelings of sorrow or illness for the common
good. From the day when these women gave up their early associations
and left their English homes to live in a strange country among people
with different customs and language, striving to preserve their own
during the twelve years of their sojourn, through the time of their
embarking at Delfshaven and later sailing from Plymouth, when they saw
cherished possessions and loved members of their families left behind,
during the famous voyage with its heart-rending conditions for them of
wet, cold, poor food, overcrowding, storms, anxiety, to the day they
landed, worn and exhausted with no homes to go to, new hardships and
dangers awaiting them, self-sacrifice was in a continually ascending
scale and, for many, could go no further.
Some of the men are standing on the rock, watching the progress of the
boat, some are grouped at the Common House on guard, as ever, against a
surprise from the unknown Indians. The governor, the elder, several of
the other men whose wives are in the boat, two or three of the younger
men we may see in the grave group at the landing, but the light of
expectancy and contentment for this one hour at least, glows in their
faces. With costumes so similar it is hard to distinguish where each
woman is placed in the shallop and to single out a special one for whom
a man may be looking. At the bow two or three are grouped, waving to
their welcomers, their alertness seeming to be an urge to the little
craft. The eager children are held from crowding forward as they near
the shore. An instant of excitement, the sailors making ready to fasten
the boat, it touches, is beside the rock; the woman who stood foremost
at the bow on the way over, has poised herself a second and sprung from
the boat, catching at the outstretched hands of the nearest man, to
steady her foothold on the slippery stone; the keen wind and spray have
dashed color in her cheeks, the brilliancy of sun on snow is reflected
in her eyes--a flashing triumph at being the first--it is Mary Chilton.
Someone has said that Plymouth Rock began with her its fame, but for
her and for the other women, quickly following her to clasp the hands
of the men,--as it had been for those men--it became for them the
threshold into Plymouth Colony. Some of the women of the _Mayflower_
have not gotten so far, and some of these scarce pass the threshold.
The service is held, as planned; once more they listen to the uplifting
and strengthening words of their Elder. Afterwards some return to the
_Mayflower_, but others remain with their husbands on shore.
The work on the other houses goes forward as rapidly as possible. All
were built of squared logs, the crevices filled with clay, the roofs a
thatch of the swamp grass, resembling their English cottages in this.
The few windows have only oiled paper to resist the winter’s storms.
Each house is set on a plot of ground of its own on either side of the
street--the location for each family being decided by lot. Yet building
by men cramped with rheumatism and sciatica, or falling down from
weakness as a prelude to illness and death is not a rapid business,
and, for all that they planned at first to live as compactly as
possible, without being crowded, the unattached young men to be part of
the families--as they had been in Leyden--it soon became evident that
many houses would not be needed.
In less than a week after the first visit of the women ashore, not all
the prowess of Myles Standish, hero of war in Flanders, not all his own
unending strength and endurance, could defend his Rose from the blight
of illness nor shield his heart from the sharp stab of sorrow. She had
dreamed of the new home in a land of fair skies, sunshine and flowers,
not this region of snows; she knew how thin and white she was growing,
but she knew that her husband had not ventured on any vain purpose, and
willed to be brave for his sake. Her high resolves were not long tested
however, ere she gained the reward of her faith.
Others soon followed her, and, having but crossed the threshold, Ann
Tilly, Mrs. Martin, little Ellen More and Mary Chilton’s mother were
gone from the colony; another month and Mary Allerton, John Tilly’s
wife, Sarah Eaton and the sister-in-law of Doctor Fuller (Mrs. Edward
Fuller), were numbered with them. Meanwhile, Susanna White had become
a widow, and Elizabeth Tilly an orphan, with Mary Chilton, and soon
Priscilla Mullins was added to these girls’ forlorn state. Alice
Rigdale and her husband; Thomas Tinker, his wife and child, needed not
houses nor land in Plymouth. Two of the More boys and a number of the
young men fell victims in the great mortality, and Sarah Priest, in
Leyden, was a widow, though nearly a year passed before she knew it. A
little later and Elizabeth Winslow slipped from the gentle hand clasp
of Katherine Carver, to join her other dear friend, Rose Standish.
Thus twelve wives were swept away by this fatal epidemic, some from the
_Mayflower_, some from the land. Even the comfort of graves bearing
their names which should tell those who loved them, and others,
that they had been with them, was denied them. But their monument is
the hill by the seashore, on which their graves were made, and their
remembrance shall last as long as mayflowers blossom.
From the time of the first anchoring of the ship (at Cape Cod) of the
total of the twenty-five women and young girls, thirteen were released
from their labors. It is indeed remarkable that even twelve should
have survived. Into the hearts of those recovering from their own
illness, the spirit of desolation must have entered for a time, as they
struggled to their feet again, to grieve for those who were laid to
rest under the snow and to take up the burdens of life once more. Many
of the men had gone, too, but few of the children.
For the five elder women, life, even under the circumstances, still
was worth while. The governor’s wife had the loving care and interest
of all but two of her household’s original numbers; her husband, her
young ward, her maid and John Howland; two of the other young men, as
well as the little boy she cared for on the voyage, Jasper More, had
gone. But deepest grief was not, as yet, her portion. Mary Brewster,
too, was strengthened by the sight of her husband untouched by illness
and apparently not weakened by the terrific work and strain he had
been under, and her own two boys, soon helping as ably as before, and
even Richard More, the sole survivor of his family, was already one of
her’s. For Elizabeth Hopkins and Eleanor Billington not one of their
own particular groups were gone. But Susanna White had left only her
own two children, her nephew and her brother--and he, of course, seemed
to belong to each one as much as to her.
Humility Cooper and Elizabeth Tilly, Priscilla Mullins and Mary
Chilton were indeed the most truly alone, each one being the sole
representative of her family.
On the five women the care and responsibility fell heaviest, though the
girls and even the children had their share in the general division of
labor. Each served while there was nursing to be done. Cooking was not
only a duty but a serious problem in finding the wherewithal to tempt
failing appetites or keep up the strength of the men and children. Who
can doubt that these women often went hungry that others might have
more? Scarce wonderful that Mary Brewster and Katherine Carver never
regained their full health again. The former took to her home and
mother love the homeless and motherless girls, sadly missing her own
daughters, so far away.
Gradually came a lessening of the strain of apprehension of unknown
evils; the problem of the Indians had been solved on the day that they
heard the word “welcome” from a strange voice, and, from then on,
mutual fear diminished between their immediate neighbors in the forest
and themselves, and visits from these strange people became frequent
and helpful as well.
The day of the making of another covenant was one marked by color
and animation in the doleful monotony of those early months, for the
women with strength enough for interest. Their governor, with all
the formalities of his office, met and entertained the sovereign of
the savages, and the lively music of the drum and trumpet, the firm
footsteps of the military guard quickened their spirits and brought
a sense of assurance. The green rug, on which royalty sat, in one of
the unfinished houses, must always have brought back, to the woman who
owned it, that scene and its results--the lasting treaty of mutual
friendship and benefit. That other rug of modern times, on which
the Liberty Bell rested at the Panama-Pacific Exposition, in 1915,
afterwards used at celebrations connected with the great generals of
the World War, is interesting but not more important in the historical
part it has played than the rug which we now see in fancy.
Also their defense from their fort was accomplished, the cannon being
landed and dragged up the greater hill, to the summit, and a strong
building erected there. Military preparedness began as soon as the
men were able to drill, under command of Myles Standish, their chosen
Captain.
Gradually, also, Spring came, the children found arbutus and other
early flowers, and were happy, though their search might not take them
far from sound of the home voices, as the fearsome sound of the wolves
was a constant warning. Remember and Mary Allerton and Damaris Hopkins
played on the beach with Constance, Elizabeth and Humility, and
gathered the bright shells in the warm sunshine till the pink of the
shells and arbutus was reflected in their checks. The sailors, now that
the connection between them and their erstwhile passengers was soon to
end and their roughness softened by the common ills of the winter, were
glad to tell tales to amuse the children, when lingering ashore.
And, so, with the April mildness on land and sea, came the last
night when the lights of the _Mayflower_ shone to them out of the
darkness. On the morning of its departure, how visible the scene is
to us. The women watch from places of vantage, in groups or singly,
in company with some men or with the children clinging to them, from
the hill beside the street, their wistful eyes following the battered
sails out of the harbor, while the guns from the Fort ring out in
parting salute the farewell to their ever-ready shelter, to the only
connecting link between them and the rest of their race. Each one has
been asked a question all have had plenty of time to consider well,
if it were needed to repeat, “shall we, shall I go back?” Away with
the _Mayflower_ to a once familiar life from unfamiliar trials, from
haunting memories to friends or relatives left on the other side of
the sea? Each woman for herself has answered “No.” The venture made in
faith by those loved and gone from their sight, should not have been
made in vain; the standard formed of high hope and courage should not
go down while they were able in the light of that faith and remembrance
to carry it forward.
Now only as a mirage can their ship be seen on the far horizon.
* * * * *
Susanna White, clasping her baby closer, stands near the place on
the hill where the body of William, her husband, had been laid; not
far away near the grave of Elizabeth, his wife, is Edward Winslow.
Their eyes, though seeing each other, are viewing things far away.
(Could a breath from the lindens of Leyden be wafted to them?) In that
moment arose a consciousness of an unfelt emotion--hitherto drowned by
selfishness in sorrow--pity.
Mutual shock and endurance was to continue for them all on this same
day. To shake from them any idle reflections, the men worked steadily
and vigorously for the remaining hours, on the new fields and planting
of seeds, the elder, the doctor, the governor, each exerting every
energy, as well as the other men and boys. The day proved unusually hot
and the governor seemed to feel it greatly. Reaching his home, he lay
down to rest, but while his family waited upon him in deep concern, he
lost consciousness. Thus not only was the harbor dark that night, but a
cloud hung over Plymouth and common anxiety on their governor’s account
caused the departure of the _Mayflower_ to be almost forgotten. But the
governor was worn out, not with that day’s labor but by his labors, as
has been said, “in three countries and on the sea, as counselor, agent,
nurse, farmer, magistrate and man of God,” and, in spite of their
efforts and distress, consciousness did not return ere he passed from
them. In the pathetic description, by his successor, “he was buried in
the best manner they could, with some vollies of shot by all that bore
arms,” and his grave left smooth and unmarked, as the others on the
hill, that it might not appear to any enemy that their numbers were
lessened. Though the office of governor was filled, the first lady of
the colony had no successor, since the widower, William Bradford, was
chosen. Her anguish of grief was so intense, and her frailness grew
so perceptably, that it became evident her stay with them was but
transitory.
* * * * *
And again, as in Leyden, the doctor’s sister kept the home for him;
but there were more members in the family than in those by-gone days,
for Susanna had three little lads to care for now, and the doctor
three small nephews to play with. Let us follow the bright rays of
the sunset into their cottage on a May evening. Supper is over, and
now is little Peregrine’s bedtime. His mother is gently rocking the
cradle, as she mends his brother’s stockings, glancing now and then at
the smiling but sleepy baby and urging him in softest baby language
to accompany the “sandman” without further delay; but Peregrine’s
ambition seems to be to stay awake on this bright particular evening
and he coos and laughs in response to his mother’s admonitions. His
brother and cousin are romping just outside the front door and Resolved
runs in to get the cane that had been his father’s, to play horse
with. Susanna sits on a bench beneath the little square window, which
swings open with its paper pane, and the breeze which enters plays
with the soft, curly tendrils of her hair; beside her on the bench
stands the little chest of drawers which has ever held her sewing
articles and trinkets since William White gave it to her when they
were married. A shadow falls across the light and men’s voices come to
her as her brother passes with a friend, returning from a stroll to
enjoy a smoke by the cottage door. Twilight is fast failing now; the
baby is at last asleep; Susanna softly puts away her sewing and goes
into the living-room, adjoining, to light a candle at the fire-place;
she then stands in the doorway to call in Resolved and Samuel, as she
does each evening; she sees her brother and his friend on the doorstep
bench, also quite a regular occurrence about this hour, and Edward
Winslow rises in his courtly manner to receive her smile of greeting.
In the few weeks since the sailing of the _Mayflower_, her pity and
sympathy have unconsciously awakened an interest which is now slowly
dawning in some wonderment upon her, while for Winslow he had already
questioned himself if she would be willing to let him take William
White’s place, and if, on the other hand, she could fill the vacancy
left at his hearth-stone by Elizabeth? He thought he knew the answer to
the second question, but for the first sought her reply. That Edward
Winslow, talented, aristocratic, of good family and of some wealth,
should admire her, pictures Susanna for us almost as plainly as his
painted portrait represents him. We have not the slight details of her
features, but in fancying her with the light brown hair, blue eyes
and pink and white skin of a young English mother in her twenties, we
cannot be far wrong; and for character, the reflections of her life
and times show us that which certified the regard of all who knew her
and gives her to ours. Her good sense ever caused her acceptance of
facts and prompt adjustment of her life to the conditions imposed upon
it by circumstances. By her intelligence and resourcefulness she was
saved from the dissipation of despondency, devoting her physical and
mental energies to making the best of the situation in which she found
herself. With courage she contemplated the present and took thought
of and measured the possibilities of the future. Her cheerfulness and
adaptibility to the inevitable in meeting her serious problems won
her a victory over them and greatly increased her own pleasure in
living and unquestionably added to the pleasure of others. She had had
advantages of comfortable circumstances always--more than some and as
much as few of the pilgrim women had; her brother, her husband, were
men of education and breeding, such also the men of the families of her
nearest friends.
Edward Winslow, doing always the unexpected, but always pleasing
himself, soon found the opportunity of settling the question in his
thoughts. Shortly thereafter Mary Brewster again played confident to
a neighbor. When the bans were published at the next Sunday service,
announcing such an item of interest in the lonely, quiet existence
of the community, any surprise was soon dissolved for most, by their
regard for the principals. Before May was over, the simple ceremony
took place, performed by the governor, as magistrate, as he himself has
recorded, “after the fashion of the Low Countries,” and the first bride
of the colony appears before us. Anna Fuller whom we first knew in
Leyden, there becoming Susanna White, now changes, as far as name goes,
into the second Mistress Winslow of Plymouth and before her stretch
long years of prosperity. And contentment and happiness? Yes, such as a
woman like her will always seek and find.
Natural curiosity ever alert at a time of a wedding is sadly checked
for us, by dearth of description or detail of this one, so full of an
unusual interest. The old friend Mary Brewster, was surely witness for
the bride, and her brother, the doctor; while the elder, as properly,
was witness for the groom, and Isaac Allerton, doubtless, as assistant.
But what repast Mary Chilton, Priscilla Mullins and Elizabeth Tilly,
reinforced by the culinary skill of Mistress Hopkins, prepared for the
newly married couple, or who were of the wedding guests who partook,
or whether at her house or his, we have no record. We know simplicity
was the keynote, as complying both with the Pilgrim opinion and the
necessity caused by conditions. It was an important day for the bride
and for the young girls, who were gladly stirred by the event into a
remembrance of romance and a brighter side of life, forgotten for many
a day. It even aroused Katherine Carver from her lethargy of grief into
a wondering attention when Elizabeth Tilly gave to Desire Minter all
the details in her possession, which we gladly would glean also, if we
could. However, the date appears upon the page of Plymouth history like
an illuminated initial letter, for it marks the beginning of a more
normal life. The dark days since their arrival which seemed emphasized
only by sickness and death and hunger and cold, had passed.