I looked at Elizabeth and she at me, but there was naught to do. I brought an extra rug from the chest, and Samoset calmly wrapped it about him, lay down on the floor and started to snore.
Surely no one ever spent a stranger night! Giles and I put our pallets close together, which was a mistake, because as soon as Father fell asleep and joined his snores with Samoset’s, we fell into such a state of giggling that we nigh choked to death on our own mirth. At last Giles fell asleep, and I must have too, for when I next opened my eyes it was pale morning and Samoset was standing in the open doorway gazing at the fresh clear sky. No one else was awake, so I rose quickly and went to him.
“I will give you some breakfast,” I said.
“No need. Samoset eat later.” He stepped outside into the cool spring air, and I followed him. I did not know quite how to bid him good-bye.
“You must bring your daughter with you when next you come,” I told him.
“Indian women stay home,” he said. “Much to do. They do not travel with their men.”
I felt rebuffed, though his tone was not unkind, and I looked down. My eyes fell on my dear bracelet, and, unthinking, I turned it with my fingers so that the sun’s first rays caught it brilliantly. I looked up and saw that Samoset was looking at it too. And this is the part I cannot explain! For I took the bracelet from my arm and gave it to him.
“In friendship,” I said. “For your daughter.”
Samoset took the bracelet and looked at it carefully. “It is good.”
“Yes. It came from England. My father gave it to me. Now I give it to you—for your daughter.”
He put his hand on my shoulder and smiled at me. “Samoset take gift to daughter. He tell her that white sister sent it to Indian sister. It is a good thing, for it will make friendship. Samoset says his thanks to you.”
And then he simply turned around and off he went!
I tried to explain to Father why I had given away his present to me, but it was difficult, because I was not sure myself. He shook his head, calling me quite daft, saying that he thought I had liked the bracelet—the which I assured him I had—and then adding that if he lived to be a hundred and had a dozen daughters, which he hoped God would spare him, he would never understand the female mind. Elizabeth set the trenchers of steaming porridge on the board and told Father not to fret about understanding the female mind, but to concentrate on the Indian mind, which she felt I understood better than he, and that she thought I had done more to bring friendship between the Indians and ourselves than anyone else had managed, and would Father please to bless the food now so we could eat. He did.
April 1621
Today the “Mayflower” left us. I think there was not a soul who was not on the shore to see it go, and not a soul who did not feel his throat tighten when the great anchor broke water, the ship turned slowly, and the sails suddenly filled with wind until—like a bird leaving the ground—the “Mayflower” skimmed out onto the sea, her beak pointing for home.
When I recall how anxious Captain Jones was a few months ago to have us ashore and settled, so he could be rid of us and on his way back, it seems strange that he should have lingered so long. But his crew suffered the dreadful Sickness just as we did, and many of them died—just as we did. The others lay for a long time weak and nigh helpless, and to have put them to the task of sailing a ship in winter storms and blasts would have been foolhardy. So the “Mayflower” has lain at anchor until now, and I had become used to seeing it there, familiar and solid, a link with home.
As she slipped away from us with the sun glinting sharp on her metal, Governor Carver bade us all gather at the Common House to pray for the ship’s safe passage. I sat there looking round me at the few who make up this little world—so many less than when we started. Francis Eaton and Isaac Allerton and Will Bradford and Captain Standish and Edward Winslow have all lost their wives since we landed, although Susanna White is the only widow. There are the orphans, dear Priscilla Mullins, and Mary Chilton, little Sam Fuller and Bess Tilley, and there are those many other children with but one parent left to them. A handful of young men and boys—John Alden, John Howland, Father’s Two Teds, Giles, John Cooke, a few others—and an even smaller handful of young women. Less than fifty of us now, fifty people to make a life for themselves and for those who will come after.
As we left the Common House, all of us subdued and thoughtful, I walked beside Elizabeth, taking Oceanus from her to carry him home. We could still see the “Mayflower,” a tiny dot against the sea and sky. I felt a ninny, but I could not stop the tears that came hot to my eyes as I watched it, tears that would not be dried by the warm spring wind blowing soft against my face. Elizabeth put her hand under my arm and we went up the hill together, neither of us speaking. As we entered our house she said, “Lay Oceanus in his cradle, Constance, and let us try our hand at a plum pudding.”
I looked at her, surprised, the tears still sharp in my eyes. “A plum pudding?”
“Yes. We may have to make shift with a few things, but you will find a cluster of dried plums in my box. I fancy we can manage.”
“Dried plums!” My mouth watered at the thought of a dish that would in any way resemble the plum puddings Elizabeth had made at home. “I did not know you had any such—”
“I have been keeping them for some occasion, and mayhap this is it.” She laid her hand against my cheek—a thing she rarely does. “Thou art a good child,” she said. “Now dry thy eyes, and let us get to work.”
The pudding was monstrous good!
May 1621
And now we have one more widow, and from her state it seems she will not be long amongst us, and one less family, if family it could be called, there being nary a child. Just a few days after the “Mayflower” set sail for England, Governor Carver was working in the fields with the other men. It was a tremendous hot day—the sun shines far warmer here than at home, I think—and the Governor, being unaccustomed to it, was most likely working harder than was wise. Whatever the cause, he came stumbling from the field and fell upon the ground, complaining greatly of pains in his head. He was carried to his house, and Dr. Fuller came, but in a few hours the Governor had fled his senses, and lay without moving or speaking for three days before he died.
Captain Standish took it upon himself to plan the best burial that could be managed, calling upon all those who can use a gun to stand at attention at the grave and fire a volley of shots. Poor Mistress Carver collapsed and had to be supported home, as her husband had been only a few days before, and she has now taken to her bed from whence Dr. Fuller doubts she will rise again.
All the men met at the Common House, and Father told us it took them only a few moments to choose Will Bradford as the new Governor. I had thought Father might be angry that he was not named, but he says Will is the man for the job, and that he is a sober and just man, filled with patience and charity, but very firm. Father says himself that he may have a deal of charity but that God knows he is not patient, to which Elizabeth only smiles. Since Will is still weakened somewhat from the Sickness (which takes a long time to depart a body), Isaac Allerton has been named to act as Assistant to him, he being healthy and a good friend to Will.
And so our number is one less, and our leader has changed, but the work of planting and building and living goes on, and the world is fair with spring.
The seed that has been dropped so carefully in our fields already shows green promise, far earlier than any of the men expected it to. Father says this is because of the way Samoset, and another Indian, Squanto, taught our people to plant. The corn was placed in tiny hills, with fish in each hill, head down—although