Constance. Patricia Clapp

“I will go with you and tell your father of John’s misadventure. He will not trounce you if I am there.”

      Francis peered up at her suspiciously, sniffed, and wiped his nose with his hand once again. “He will, once you leave,” he muttered, but he turned and went with her across the Street and up one house, to the Billingtons’.

      Elizabeth made Giles wash his hands and face, and rest long enough to eat some corn bread and cold meat. By that time Master Brewster and Master Billington were ready to leave. Looking at Master Billington I could not but feel for young Francis. It seemed quite sure his father would not only be very ready to trounce him for any misdemeanor, but would take great pleasure in the doing.

      Until dark that night, and throughout the next day, and the next, the search continued for John. By this time poor Ellen Billington, whom I like little more than her husband, she being a loud-voiced, shrewish woman, was sure her child was dead and lying somewhere stiff and cold and never to be found. She knew he had been set upon either by wolves or Indians, and in truth it seemed most possible, but John Cooke said to me that he knew Indians were very smart and he had always understood that animals were too, and he doubted whether either one would bother with the Billington lad.

      At last Governor Bradford ordered that word be sent to what Indians we knew were friendly as to whether they had seen aught of John. It was Massasoit who replied, telling our Governor that John had wandered into an Indian plantation twenty miles south of here—a place called Manamet—and that the Indians there, on their way to Nauset, had taken John with them! This news caused Ellen Billington to moan that her son would be better off dead than raised by the Indians, as would surely be the case, for they would never let him go. John Cooke said they would let him go fast enough once they found what a troublesome child he was, but he only said it to me.

      Nauset being far down the coast from here, Master Billington and the Captain and a few others took the shallop and started out. They had been gone only an hour or so when a most horrible storm broke, with thunder and lightning enough to end the world, but they did not turn back. Poor Giles, who had not been allowed to accompany them, was in a fearful state, taking all the fault unto himself, though Elizabeth and the Two Teds and I told him that was not warranted.

      And then, after three dreadful long days of waiting, the shallop came sailing into the bay, and there was John, standing jauntily in the bow, decked with beads and feathers, and looking mightily pleased with himself. His mother fell upon him, weeping and sobbing and clutching him close to her, and then stood back and handed him a clout on the ear that knocked the child back into the water. From thence his father plucked him out, curtly thanked Captain Standish and the other men who had manned the shallop, and grasping his wife by the arm and dragging John after him—with Francis bringing up the rear—he strode up the hill to his house, pushed them all inside, and slammed the door.

      Upon the heels of this came Father and Edward Winslow, wearier and hungrier than I have ever seen them. They paused briefly to speak to Governor Bradford and put his mind at rest as to the success of their trip, and then each went to his own home. While Giles pulled off Father’s boots and I rubbed his sore, raw feet with an unguent, Elizabeth piled his trencher high with a steaming hotchpotch of venison. We told him all concerning John’s disappearance and the great disturbance it had caused, and he told us some of the events he and Master Winslow had shared, yawning mightily the while. Elizabeth laid her hand on his shoulder.

      “Did you not sleep, Stephen, whilst you were gone?”

      Father wiped his mouth with his napkin, swung around in his chair, and pulled Elizabeth down on his knee.

      “Bess,” he said, “each night the Indians have been creditable hosts to us. As they slept, so did we.”

      “Well, then?” Elizabeth said. “What keeps you gaping so?”

      “One night we slept in the open field, making a juicy feast for the mosquitoes. Another night we laid upon boards covered with a thin matting. At one end lay the chief and his wife, at the other end lay Edward and I, and among us lay two other chiefs, who deemed it an honor to rest with white men.” I saw Elizabeth’s lips begin to twitch.

      “And the other nights?” she asked, with something close to a giggle.

      “The other nights—wherever we were, we were treated to the best bedding our hosts could provide, and in every case they shared it with us.”

      “Then I do not think you should complain, Stephen. It seems to me you had excellent treatment.”

      “Bess, every night we slept with Indians! You know how Indians smell, but blast it, woman, do you know how Indians put themselves to sleep?”

      Elizabeth shook her head, her eyes wide and sparkling, as Father stood up, letting her feet slip to the floor.

      “No, Stephen, how do Indians put themselves to sleep?”

      With a roar that sent Giles and me into an agony of laughter, Father bellowed, “They sing!” Then he added, “I am now going to bed. If anyone dares to raise his voice before noon on the morrow, may he be struck dumb from above!”

      And with that Father tumbled into bed, breeches and all, and while Giles and I—aye, and Elizabeth too—gasped with smothered laughter, his loud and ferocious snoring most comfortably filled the room.

       September 1621

      It is hard to believe that the summer is nigh gone. Now, in September, the nights grow cool and the fire is welcome, though the daytime sun still shines hot.