Читать книгу Constance - Patricia Clapp - Страница 10

December 6, 1620

The days go on and on and here we stay. Sometimes I think the rest of my life will be spent here in this tiny tossing prison. The men have taken the shallop up and down the coast, making trips in weather so cold that the salt spray froze hard on their hair and beards and clothing. They discuss this place and that place—one hill is too steep for hauling supplies; this spot is too open to the weather; that spot too difficult for boats to anchor—and meanwhile we wait. The crew complains bitterly that their food will never last them the trip back to England—oh, if only I were going with them!—and yet Captain Jones must stay until we are somewhat established. It is in his contract.

From time to time many of the women go ashore to wash clothes or hunt for shellfish, and take the children with them so they can run some of their deviltry out. Only yesterday young Francis Billington, who, though he is but eight years old, has mischief enough in him for one thrice his age, came across some gunpowder with which he tried his hand at making squibs in the Great Cabin. He then found a small barrel, half full of powder which, in playing with it, he managed to strew about the room. Feeling very manly, it seems, he chose a fowling piece, fully charged, and proceeded to shoot it off, creating as terrifying a commotion as I have yet seen! Fire started promptly, and there was a great banging of flints and other small metal things flying about the room; and young Francis screaming; and his father bellowing; and men running with buckets of sea water to douse the flames; and women clutching their babes to their bosoms to protect them; and Captain Jones roaring out that it was bad enough he had to spend his days waiting for his praying passengers to decide where they would settle so he could get back to England before he and his crew all starved to death, but did he have to have his ship blown out from under him into the bargain.

In all this turmoil young Francis managed to escape and hid himself among the barrels in the hold. ’Twas John Alden found him there, it being John’s particular task to watch out for the barrels and kegs, and Francis was thence delivered by the seat of his breeks to his father. Punishment took place behind closed doors, so I know it not, but Giles reports that young Francis has not sat down since the doors were opened. Father refers to this episode as the Mayflower Gunpowder Plot, and speaks of Francis as Guy Fawkes.

As though we had not enough children on board, even though most of them are better disciplined than the Billington boys, there is one more child now. Susanna White, who is Dr. Fuller’s sister and William White’s wife, gave birth to a son she has named Peregrine. The poor woman so lacked for privacy that Elizabeth had her brought into our space. I don’t know why it is that we should have a bit of privacy when very few others do, but Father has a way of managing things like this, and I no longer question it. In any case I took little Resolved White out on the deck with Damaris, and showed them how to catch snowflakes on their tongues, and how to see the different shapes when they fell softly on our cloaks. After a while Elizabeth came out and told us a baby boy had been born, strong and lusty and already bellowing. As well he might! Peregrine. The traveler. Methinks most of his travel took place before he knew of it.

Today, December 6, many of the men set out in the shallop again. They say this is to be their last exploration, and that when they return they will have decided where we are to settle. In truth, I hope ’tis soon! Father says ’tis too important a point to solve without careful thinking, but this life on an anchored ship becomes unbearable! The food is better, with fish to eat and wood to cook with, but the air is cold, and the tempers of the crew and of ourselves have become short and triggered. We have all lived here in a heap far too long.

John Cooke has taken to dogging me around—for lack of anything better to occupy him, I suppose—and proves himself a pest. How can a boy with as good a mind as John’s act so like a fool? And he does have a clever mind. His great-grandfather was tutor to King Edward VI, and two of his great-uncles were members of Queen Elizabeth’s court. Sir Francis Bacon, of whom I have heard Father speak as an excellent writer, is cousin to John’s father, Francis Cooke. So with all these great minds in his family ’tis no wonder he is bright and educated, but lately he acts like a true ninny, telling me I have eyes like midnight and wanting to hold my hand. Coming from John I do not find this as exciting as I always thought I would.