Читать книгу A Candle in the Wilderness - Irving Bacheller - Страница 4

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Now Boston was a lusty young village of more than a hundred houses in a scatter of green trees. There were two hills next to the sea. Some of the smaller houses were built of tree trunks with the bark on them. Some of frames covered with clapboards with breakneck roofs in the rear. A few were built of brick and stone and roofed with slate or planks. On well-ordered, comely streets, were a mill, a smithy, a fish market, an inn and a number of stores, trading mainly in furs, clothing, linen, hardware, wampum and fishing gear. Robert and William went to the inn and, after a day of looking about, to the house of the Reverend John Cotton whose hands had touched their heads in blessing when he was the Vicar of St. Botolph’s—a magnificent church of that parish, by common report, the greatest in England. They were familiar with the thrilling story of his escape in disguise from the High Commission of the King and his violent, pestering Bishop Laud. He was a graduate of Trinity College, a fellow and Dean of Emmanuel’s College, where these boys had spent a year and had hoped to spend other years. From this rich, learned and sumptuous environment Cotton had come to the crude, rough-wood meeting-house on the edge of a vast wilderness as the teacher of the people of New Boston—mostly unschooled but serious-minded. He was no small figure of a man. There was a noble dignity in his smooth-shaved, handsome face. His stalwart form was as erect as a sheriff’s post.

He received the young men with a warm heart and the clerical fashion of speech.

“Welcome, my boys! You are as those come to another planet. Youth and strength and courage backed with the good English blood are needed here. I have heard of your frightful voyage and of a fine brave thing Heydon did.”

The young man was quick to answer: “I am sorry. I do not want a reputation to live up to that is on so poor a footing. Let me be known only as one who hates oppression and who has come here to be rid of it, and to help build up a better England.”

The great man put his hand on the boy’s shoulder, saying: “Your talk is like a breath from the beloved fenlands. One knows what to expect from a well-bred Englishman. You will hear much talk of another kind. Roundabout us are many lewd and common folk. In spite of all our severity we can not prevent the breaking out of sundry gross and notorious sins, especially drunkenness and uncleanness. This is a lusty atmosphere and our natures are naturally corrupt and not easily bridled. We have a hard time to keep those outside the church within bounds and certain of those in the fold toward and orderly. Satan is as crafty here as ever he was in the garden of old. Often you will be shocked but you will be happy and, in the good days coming, prosperous. I should like to see you bound in wedlock to this new world and stayed among the founders of a great commonwealth.”

With a smile Robert answered: “Our mothers advise us not to marry here.”

The Doctor rejoined: “I have all deep respect for the good English mothers, but they speak with little knowledge of America. A great, free, God-fearing people are growing up here and one can do no better thing for England than give his strength to them. It should be done with no reservations. You will have small comfort standing with a foot in England and the other in America. I would rather see you marry and become flesh of our flesh. Here man may not practise or submit to beguilements far too common in the world behind us. A man and a woman are now under sentence of death for adultery. It is my duty to make you to know of these new English rigidities. I am acquainted with lusty youth and its perils. Not long will you be happy or contented in this land unless duly married. We have girls with every grace of mind and person. Come and dine with us to-morrow and you shall know that my eyes do not deceive me. Moreover you shall meet men who can advise in the business you have in mind and perhaps give needed furtherance.”

They were glad to accept this offer of hospitality from the kindly Doctor. As they were leaving he directed them to an agent of the colony from whom they bought, subject to the court’s approval, a few acres near the home of their friend. Forthwith they agreed upon plans for the immediate building and furnishing of a house. The agent introduced them to an interesting, friendly man—heavily bearded and a little beyond middle age—of the name of Amos Todkill.

“This is a man of great and diverse adventures,” said the agent. “He fought with Captain John Smith in Pannonia and helped him to make a map of this promontory when the wilderness touched the water. He is the famous story-teller of Massachusetts Bay. He knows the savages as no living white man knows them. For a few pence he will show you all the tri-mountain peninsula and tell you of the old times and the new.”

They had, even now, begun to speak of “old times” in this New England.

Todkill was a sinewy, broad-shouldered, ruddy man of medium height and keen blue eyes. His blond hair and beard were streaked with gray. His quick movements and rapid talk, his prodigious hands and arms betrayed the lion-like vitality and energy wrapped in his red skin. He led them along the shore where canoes were busking about in the quiet water. He showed them the place where he and Smith had landed and another point where they saw savages scurrying to cover and he imitated the whizzing of the arrows that struck near them. He pointed out the houses on the hills behind and characterized the men and women who lived in them as follows:

“America is partly rocks: I reckon they helped to hold the world down a pretty time while it were young and in the green years. They have winds here that would blow the top off o’ hell. We need weight in the houses to hold ’em down.

“There’s John Endicott! A big iron cannon loaded with hard opinions! He is sure that God agrees with him.

“There’s Winthrop. He’s a lever among iron men. He can move ’em—a gallant good man! Rich, learnt! Lives in that long house yonder.

“Thomas Dudley, the Governor, lives next to Winthrop. Blue-blooded! Agent and kin o’ the Duke o’ Northumberland and Sir Philip Sidney! Iron man! Guts o’ brass! Hates light stuff. Beware o’ light carriage and light words when he’s lookin’. I reckon he thinks that God is a Dudley and as easy insulted. But hold up yer hearts. It’s a buxom land. I want to take ye to a wit and a scholar. Knew Will Shakespeare and Ben Jonson. He’s ‘the hermit o’ the promontory.’ ”

He hired a birch-bark canoe and paddled the young men across a cove to the little hut of Henry Blaxton—a tall, lank, swarthy, hospitable Englishman who loved to smoke and recall his memories to men of understanding. He had a kindly face of noble outlines—a voice rich, deep and gentle. He was near sixty years of age. In deerskin half-boots and rough sad cloth he was still a gentleman—one of those restless sons of the old sod who have seen much of the world and can be content with his own company. His head and beard were well trimmed. The cheerful friend of John Smith was smiling. There was a twinkle in the gray eyes of the hermit when, after welcoming his guests, he shook the ashes out of his pipe and said:

“Todkill, you look like a New England planter whose cow has just calved.”

Todkill laughed and shook his head—a habit of his when amused.

Blaxton filled his pipe, saying with a sober face:

“He often shakes his head as if to make sure there is a brain in it. I see no ground for his doubts.”

Todkill rejoined: “That’s one matter in which you have good judgment.”

“But you have the judgment of a malt horse or you would not be bringing your friends to meet a half-decayed, worm-eaten gentleman. I have a great fear of woodpeckers.”

“Well, if we light on you we shall do no peckin’,” Todkill answered.

“Sit down and loose your tongues. I’ll be a whetstone for your wit.”

Todkill turned to the young men and said: “Here’s a whale who needs deeper water to play in than my gab affords. Once one o’ King James’ men playin’ at the Globe.”

Then the hermit spoke: “And now playing with many ghosts in a comedy called Solitude. This is my kingdom. I am the king, the court, the church and the parliament. The dog and the cat are my people. We have no disagreements. The other players enter. Real folk, as now, or ghosts out of my memory. My friend Will Shakespeare comes in with a merry jest and sits down with me as he was wont to do of old. Then as we drink our wine together I hear the familiar query: ‘Can you hold your water while I read a sonnet?’ Therein he writes of another Garden of Eden with God walking in it and the fathers and mothers of a new world. I see the need of it when big Ben Jonson blusters on with one of his old tales of the town, full of intrigue and youthful deviltry, adding at the end ‘If it be not so I’ll eat my spur leathers.’

“It is my part to be often looking out upon the sea. It is the grave of the best-loved ghosts in the play. Sometimes I hear their voices when the tide comes in. The last scene will break no hearts. It is the hour of sunset, the play is near its end. The ghosts are calling me. I shall get into my canoe and paddle out to sea. Then the curtain of night.

“What is life without illusion so it does not turn one’s head! Many here are often gazing at the sea. Alas! Some of them have discovered the meremen.”

“These boys were eager to meet you,” said Todkill.

Blaxton remarked with a bow and a smile: “I will now hear their lines. I hope that they are of ‘sober and peaceable conversation.’ ”

They recognized this phrase from one of the laws of the general court, which Doctor Cotton had read to them.

“Are you a member of the church?” young Heydon asked.

“No, I am old and I live in the skies. The Lord’s brethren are like the Lord’s bishops, but the brethren are better men,” Blaxton answered. “I hate their tyranny as a Jew hates hog’s flesh. Still when I think of these stern men I set my wisdom at work. The shores swarm with mere adventurers who expect to find rocks of pure gold. Some of them are rake hells, whoresons, cullions, who sucked in deviltry with their mother’s milk and are fitter for Bridewell than the company of decent folk. Some are careless, improvident, merry time-killers. Their receding backs were a joy and relief to their friends in England. Some are visionaries content with nothing but war and loot and a liberty that kills itself. Some are bull beef, ready to go as they are driven. None of these louts care a straw for law and order. They would be glad to see them put away. These evil, lax and thoughtless men outnumber the church folk. But remember the church makes the only law we have and maintains a respect for it. Weakness would open the way to chaos and anarchy. The magistrates are sturdy old Englishmen struggling with the ancient law of dead and moldering ages to bend it to their common sense.”

One of the young men asked how they had treated the Indians.

“Firmly and in a manner to my liking. They punish every white man who mistreats the savages, every savage who breaks their law. Trade with the Indians is a new kind of commerce. It may be unjust to take their furs and their land for wampum and hatchets and tin whistles, but what is one to do but give them the things they demand? They care not for money or any symbol of value. Our clothing is of no more use to them than our religion. Yet our religion, in spite of their distrust, is a comfort to them. In a pestilence they turn away from their own sick. The brethren go and minister to these abandoned ones so that often death is induced to give them back. Stern with mischief, tender with misfortune, these white folk have stayed the arrows and cooled the fierce passions of the savage. Still he can not understand us. Industry and thrift are not for him. He is the child of Bloody Strife.”

“Soon or late we got to fight it out with him,” said Todkill.

Blaxton went on: “You boys have enlisted in a war the end of which will not be in your time. It is a war against two enemies, one before and one behind you—Tyranny and the Wilderness. The Winds and Waves and Wideness of the sea will be your allies. There is but one power which can hold men to a purpose through many generations.”

He paused to fill his pipe.

“Will you name it?” William asked.

“The power personified by Endicott, he of the short neck and the big, round, abominable breach—religion. Even the fleas on his dog have religion.”

Robert laughed as he said: “A flea lit on me the other day and in a minute he sucked all the religion out of me. If fleas have religion I know how they get it.”

“Well, a flea’s belly can hold as much religion as there is in most young gentlemen just arrived from England. But be of good cheer. Your capacity will increase and you’ll need it for you’ve gone back thousands of years to the ancient arena of God and Satan. You must choose sides here. There’s no middle ground for the young.”

“I can shoot and fence and ride and play football, but I have never had any gift for religion,” said Robert.

“It’s a better game than any you know under two great Captains. After all, what is religion but a window through which we should see the light of truth? Here you will find it covered with the dust of ages, the cobwebs of ancient error. It is the part of the young not to break the window but to clean and renew its panes, remembering that no earthly thing is perfect. Winthrop is a window cleaner. He would be a father to you.”

As they were leaving this lover of solitude Robert exclaimed: “He’s a whale. He overawes me. I feel foolish.”

“Why not?” Todkill asked.

“There’s no good reason,” Robert agreed. “The man is a prophet.”