CHAPTER XII
THE SOWING OF THE FIELDS
"TO be sure, though, I was not weeping," Miles declared to Constance,who came out from the house to see why he tarried so long at thewoodpile, "for I never even thought on going back to England."
He little guessed that, at one time, the leaders of the colony hadspoken seriously of returning Dolly and himself to the home-country.But Master Hopkins had urged that, in such case, the children might bedrawn back into the faith of the Church of England, from which theirfather had sought to snatch them; and Elder Brewster had added that itwas a weary journey for such little folk, and no prospect at the endsave of hard fare among grudging kindred.
John Rigdale left no near relatives; and his distant cousins, to whomthe children would have to go, were poor tenant-farmers, just as hehad been, who would find it burdensome to feed two more mouths. ForMiles and Dolly, not only would childhood prove hard and laborious,but there would be nothing better to look forward to; as the boy grewto manhood, he could hope only to toil for daily hire on some farmer'sland. "Unless he fling away his soul's welfare by going as a mercenaryin some iniquitous foreign war," said Master Isaac Allerton; whereatCaptain Standish smiled a little behind his beard, but made no answer.
But here in New Plymouth, though Miles would have plenty of work todo, he would have, as his inheritance from his father, a claim to ashare of land and of whatever cattle or other property the settlersshould hereafter hold in common. By the time he was a man, there wouldbe enough for him to have a small farm of his own, where he could livein more comfort than he would have known in England; and, till he wasgrown, Master Hopkins was willing to feed and shelter him, in returnfor what labor he could do.
As for Dolly, her case was simple enough, for if Miles stayed, shestayed; and Mistress Brewster was quite determined that the little girlshould stay in no house but hers. So the _Mayflower_ sailed away, andMiles Rigdale, with his little household, remained behind; and he neverdreamed that people had thought of continuing the colony without hisaid.
The boy had some cause to rate his services highly, for, in theweakened condition of the settlement, every atom of strength had tobe used, and tasks were set for him as seriously as for burly EdwardDotey. The full working-force of New Plymouth mustered but twenty-twomen,--counting in the venerable Elder, the Governor, and the Doctor,who all labored with their hands as readily as the rest,--and nineboys--some half-grown fellows, like Giles and Bart Allerton, who, at apinch, could bear a musket and do almost a man's work, and some smallrascals, like Miles himself, who, with the best intentions, did notalways, for lack of strength or of wisdom, accomplish what was biddenthem.
But, old or young, laggard or brisk, every male member of the colonywas expected to turn out now and bear a hand, for the mid-April seasonapproached, and the precious corn, that was to feed the settlement,must be planted. To the elders, it looked like a stretch of hard work,but Miles hailed it joyously, as a dignified, manly labor.
It began excitingly, with the coming of the alewives up the river, justas Squanto had foretold; and straightway some of the men set to takingthem with seines, while others with hoes scored up the rough soil ofthe cleared fields to the north, that once had been the planting landof the Indians of Patuxet. Still others got out the corn, a precioussupply of seed which they had found buried in an Indian basket underthe sand of Cape Cod, and had made bold to take against this sowingtime.
For the present, Miles's part was only to splash about at the riverbrink, where he fancied he was hauling at the seines, or to carry abucket of water to the workers in the field, or bring a stouter hoefrom the storehouse. Planting was no labor, just sport, he went toassure Dolly, at the end of the first twelve hours.
He tried to see his little sister once each day, but this time the workhad been kept up so late that it was past twilight before he couldrun across the street to Elder Brewster's cottage. A lingering warmthwas in the evening air, so Dolly and tall Priscilla Mullins, theirfaces dim in the candlelight that shone from within the living roombehind them, were sitting on the doorstone. Some one else stood leaningagainst the doorpost, some one with a deep voice, who called Miles byname.
"Is it you, John Alden?" the boy asked, and, because Alden was theCaptain's friend, would have talked to him, had not Dolly, saying shehad a great secret to tell him, dragged him away, round the corner ofthe cottage.
"Now guess what 'tis, Miles," she bade, as they halted in the ray oflight that streamed from the house-window beside them.
"I cannot guess, Dolly. Be not so childish."
"I'd give you three guesses. 'Tis something Love and I found in thewoods, up beyond the spring, on a southern hillside. 'Twas so far I wasnear afraid, but I am glad I went. We were playing in the dead leaves,and we found these. Look on them."
She drew her hand from her small bodice, with three wilted pink flowersclenched tightly in it. They were small flowers, of a star-shaped formand a rare, deep pink color, but Miles scarcely heeded color or size inhis enjoyment of their sweet, spicy smell. They were unlike any blossomhe had ever seen, so he was not ashamed to show his interest, even ifa flower was a girlish trifle. "You and Love found them, Dolly? And noone else knows?"
"'Tis a secret," Dolly nodded. "We told only Wrestling and Priscillaand Mistress Brewster. Ay, and the Elder too, because Mistress Brewstersaid perchance he might know what flower it was, he is so wise. AndJohn Alden, Priscilla told him. And Love told Harry Samson and MillyCooper--"
"It's a mighty great secret when all the colony knows it," Miles saidsarcastically, and then, at Dolly's hurt look, was sorry; so he added,"but I'm glad to know't, Dolly, and I'll go seek for some myself."
"There are buds yonder on the hillside, but no blossoms. Maybe,though, we could find some, if we went and searched. Priscilla wishesto get some too. Oh, Miles, could we not all three go to-morrow?"
"I must work," Miles answered proudly. "I'm not a child or a girl, so Icannot stop to play."
Yet he was child enough to think he should like to go get a handful ofthose rare, pretty flowers. After he got them, he would not greatlycare for them, but there would be the zest of owning something thatevery boy in the colony did not own; and if he gave the flowers toDolly or to Constance, it would please them, since they were girls. So,before dawn next morning, Miles tumbled out of bed, and, taking in hishand the hunch of bread that formed his breakfast, ran away up beyondthe spring. Perhaps before work-time he could find a blossom or two, hethought; and so grubbed hopefully among the damp, dead leaves of thehillslope.
The mist that precedes the sunrise melted from the air; a bird sangfaintly in the distance; and even amidst the undergrowth the light grewyellow and cheerful; work-time was near, and Miles had found only apoor half-dozen blossoms. He hated to give over, but there was no helpfor it; so, getting slowly to his feet, he was starting down the pathto the settlement, when a man crashed out through the bushes on hisleft. It was John Alden, Miles saw at once, and he carried a greathandful of the pink flowers.
That was palpably an unfair arrangement, Miles held, so, as he fellinto step at Alden's side, he queried: "You did not come hither andstrip our place, did you?"
"Whose place, lad?"
"Why, mine and Dolly's and Priscilla's and--"
"Do you think I should dare plunder the holding of so many proprietors?I have been to northward."
Miles was silenced a moment, then insinuated, "John Alden, what do youwant of posies? You're a man."
"Well, what do _you_ want of them, Miles?" John smiled down at him.
"I'm going to give mine away; I'm taking them to the Elder's cottage--"
"Give them away there, eh? To Mistress Mullins, now, perhaps?"
"No, to be sure," Miles said indignantly. "I do not like PriscillaMullins."
"Then you are the only one of that mind in New Plymouth. Why do you notlike her?"
Miles went in silence a time, kicking at each hump and hummock in hispath, but Alden was waiting for his answer, and
he wished to pleasehim. "Well, if you must know, John Alden," he broke out at last, "I donot like Priscilla Mullins because she kissed me."
Alden began to laugh, then, suddenly picking Miles up by the back ofhis doublet, shook him a little. "Miles Rigdale," he said solemnly,as he set the boy, rather breathless, on his feet again, "you are anungrateful little cub."
Miles held that a most uncalled-for charge, but he had no time todefend himself, for just then they came over the brow of the hill byCooke's cottage and saw men astir in the street, so the day's labormust be beginning. Miles ran to join Francis and Jack, and, in braggingto his comrades of his flowers, forgot to take them to Dolly. Thatnight, when he stopped to have a word with her, he told her all aboutthem, but he found that she was not interested in a story of sixblossoms, seeing that Priscilla Mullins, since the morning, had had afair large bunch of them, such as no one else in the settlement couldshow.
But in the days that followed Miles had little time to go seekingflowers on the hillslopes, or gossiping with his sister in thetwilight. For, with never a minute of daylight to rest, the wholecolony worked now in good earnest,--taking alewives in the brook,tugging them up into the fields, setting the little hills with cornseed and with fish to keep it moist. To crown all, the planting fellin a season of heat, and an intense heat, unlike the milder warmth ofEngland, that sapped the heart of the stoutest worker.
The first day Miles was bidden to plant corn, putting two shinyalewives into each hole, and Jack Cooke was set to plant the rownext him. But unhappily they chattered so much that Miles presentlyrealized, in some horror, that he had supplied several hills withalewives, but no corn, and, while he was pulling up the ground toset the matter right, came Master Hopkins. He was angry; not that heblustered, but he cuffed Miles smartly, and, saying he could not betrusted at such important work, sent him down to the shore to laborhereafter.
From that time on, Miles tugged fish,--a dreary task, in which he wascoupled with Francis Billington, another scatter-head. They had agreat flat Indian basket, in which they heaped the alewives, taken allslippery from the big pile that lay upon the river brink; then theywould lift the basket between them, to each a handle, and, panting andheaving, struggle up the steep bank from the river, and so through thesettlement, out to the hot, open fields.
It was not a great load they could carry at one time, so theirusefulness depended on the number of trips they made, but there theywere sluggish. Often the basket upset, and they had to sit down torefill it; and again, more and more frequently as the hot days wenton, they must halt to quarrel, when Francis vowed Miles was bearingdown on his end of the basket, and Miles declared Francis was not doinghis share.
One morning it came to such a pass that Miles took a basket by himself,but he found the journey single-handed so hard that he was in evenless hurry than usual to return from the fields and get a second load.Loitering along, he was amusing himself by trying to carry on his headthe empty fish-basket, which _would_ fall off, when, as he paused topick up the troublesome article for the fifth time, Captain Standish,coming shirt-sleeved and grimy from the fields, overtook him. Ratherguiltily, Miles straightened up very erect, and said, "Good morrow,sir," as he always said it to the Captain.
"You're journeying back to the brook, Miles?" asked Standish. "At thisspeed you'll not come thither ere dinner-time."
"I'm hastening now, sir," Miles answered, accepting the words as aninvitation to trot along at the other's side.
The Captain had his own concerns to look to, plainly, by the way hetramped along, but, right in the midst, he glanced down at his smallcompanion and asked unexpectedly: "Where are your shoes, Miles?"
"I--I could not wear them," the boy explained, kicking his bare feetin the sand. "Down by the river 'tis very wet. And then 'tis hot, soI laid off my doublet and my shoes and stockings too. I like to gobarefoot," he added defensively. "In England, they never suffered me;they said only beggar children went barefoot. But--" his voice grewsuddenly anxious, "I am sure my mother would think it right now, do notyou, sir?"
The Captain did not look convinced.
"It is a great saving to my shoes," murmured Miles.
"You were better save your feet," the Captain answered. "When yourshoes wear out, there'll be new ones for you. Now do you go to thehouse and put them on, before you step on a thorn or do yourself somehurt." His tone was brusque, and he hurried at once about his business,as if he had no time to waste.
Obediently Miles went to the house to finish dressing; he was a littlesorry, because he liked the fun of going barefoot in the soft dirt,yet, on the whole, it was pleasant to have Captain Standish speak toyou and order you into your shoes, as if he had some concern for you.So flattered did he feel, indeed, that he only smiled in a superior waywhen Francis Billington, barelegged and unregenerate, sneered at himfor putting on his shoes and stockings.
But that was the last happening of the week which Miles remembered withenjoyment, for the first excitement had now gone out of the labor, yetthe work dragged heavily on. All through the weary day he felt theweight of the basket pulling at his arm and the heat of the steady sunscorching upon his bare head; and at night, when he lay on his pallet,with his feet throbbing and his back aching, he dreamed of tugging fishup the breathless pitch of a never-ending bluff.
A little respite came on the Sabbath, when, of course, no work couldbe done, but with Monday's light all were in the fields once more. Itwas a day of sweltering heat; the rays of the sun seemed beaten upwardagain by the steaming earth, and the languid air was heavy and sick.Toward the fiercest hour, about noon, as Miles was panting through thefields on a return trip to the brook, Master Carver called to him.
The Governor had knelt to set the corn at the head of one of the rows;his doublet was off and his hands were grimy, but, for all the heat,Miles saw that his high, bald forehead was quite dry of perspiration."Here, lad," he said, as Miles ran to him, "can you fetch us a pail ofwater hither to drink?"
"Ay, Governor," Miles piped in a respectful treble, and, much impressedby the importance of his errand, trotted off briskly. At the springhe longed to dally a moment, to drink of the water and to stir up thegreat green frog who lived in the cool sand of the bottom, but, so soonas his bucket was filled, he resolutely turned back through the glaringheat to the fields.
Short as the time had been, a change had taken place. At first hethought it a mere trick of the dazzling light, but, as he looked again,he saw that indeed most of the men had risen from labor and, drawntogether, were gazing in his direction. Nearer at hand, he beheld twocoming toward the settlement; the one was John Howland, a member of theGovernor's household, and the other, who leaned heavily upon his arm,was the Governor himself. They passed within arm's length of the boy,and Miles took note how the Governor's down-bent face was now of a dullreddish hue, and he noted, also, how the grime of his homely toil stillclung to his limp hands.
Surprised and a little awed, though he scarcely could tell why, Milestugged on into the fields, and, finding Goodman Cooke among those whostood gazing after the Governor, asked him eagerly what was wrong."Why, naught," spoke Cooke, "only Master Carver complains of his head;'tis along o' the heat, so the Doctor ordered him back to his house torest. He'll be well again by eventide."
But with eventide the word went among the colonists that GovernorCarver lay unconscious, and at those tidings faces grew grave. Miles,in his youthfulness, gave little thought to it all; he was moreconcerned with his own half-flayed hands and aching legs than withMaster Carver's illness, and each day these physical pangs grew keener.
The height of misery came on a sultry afternoon toward the close ofthe week, a breathless, stifling time, when, for sheer weariness andhopelessness, Miles sat down in the hot dirt in the middle of the fieldand thought he never could rise again. Yet he scrambled up briskly,when he saw his guardian approach, though Master Hopkins, whose facewas very grave, did not scold the boy, but, after a first sharp look,bade him go rest in the shade till the day was out.
"The hot sun isdeadly," he said, as to himself; but Miles realized only that he wasbidden to cease from labor.
He dragged himself back to the house, where he lay down upon his bed,and watched the little patch of sunlight clamber higher up the wall andharked to the drowsy sounds of out-of-doors; then heard nothing clearlytill the men tramped in to supper. He sat up slowly, and listened tocatch what gossip they might bring; their voices were subdued, andhe half guessed what had befallen ere he heard Master Hopkins saysolemnly that the good Governor Carver was dead.
Miles thought on it the night long; this death, lonely by itself, wasso much more awesome than the crowded sicknesses of the last winter. Itseemed the order of life must show some change, but, with the heat ofthe next rising day, the colonists, as usual, only more silent, filedforth to their labor in the fields. For whether men were well or ill,or lived or died, the corn that was the hope of the settlement must beplanted.