CHAPTER XXII

THE BEARER OF TIDINGS

CAPTAIN STANDISH must have spoken to Master Hopkins of other matter than wounded Indians, for, to his surprise, Miles got no whipping next morning. "Since the Captain needed you, I cannot punish you for your delay," Master Hopkins said curtly, a remission which would have overwhelmed Miles, if it had not been surpassed by the joyous fact of Mistress Hopkins's bringing out an old suit of his father's that afternoon and starting to make him new clothes.

In duty bound Miles went forth, and, seeking Priscilla, thanked her awkwardly that she had spoken for him to the Captain. He wasn't seeking Francis Billington, he would have declared, but somehow he sauntered to the shore, where Francis was likely to be, and, true enough, there he was, paddling in the water by the landing rock.

Miles halted on the beach and resumed the talk where it had stopped at their last meeting. "Hm," he sniffed at his old enemy, "I take it, Captain Standish has other things to do than gossip about me to your father. You lied to me, Francis Billington, when you said he called me the worst boy in Plymouth, and I'm going to thrash you for that lie."

"I was but jesting," vowed Francis.

Miles, with his aggressive fists, smote the boy and rolled him in the sand. "I'm jesting too, now," he said grimly.

Francis fled howling home, and Miles, with his shoulders well back, swung away to the corn-field. "I _had_ to beat Francis," he assured himself, "but now I'll not fight nor run from labor any more, but bear me well, because I am to go live with the Captain soon."

But Miles's "soon" proved, after all, a long, and, in some ways, a cheerless time. There were many days still to spend in his guardian's house, where Mistress Hopkins scolded at his carelessness, where Master Hopkins bade him work when he had thought to win an hour's playtime, and where more than once, sorry to tell, Master Miles himself strayed wantonly into mischief and was sternly but justly punished therefor.

Nevertheless, now that he had a big, pleasant hope to live forward to, he found it easier to bear what was not to his liking in the present. After all, when he tried, it was not so difficult as he had thought to do Master Hopkins's bidding, Miles told himself, and never realized how much easier it was for him to perform his tasks, while Ned Lister, still sulky and subdued from his public punishment, was working fiercely and would not pause to idle with him.

Thus in little, dull labors and the large pleasure of looking forward, the muggy August days panted out their course and the September twilights shortened. A long, secure time of peace it was for the settlement, in which there fell but one incident,--an expedition which ten of the Plymouth men undertook far up the coast to the Bay of the Massachusetts, where they traded for skins and made a league with the Indians. Ned, who was one of the company,--because, Giles Hopkins told Miles, laughingly, he was held too much of a firebrand to be left behind,--came home with something of his old braggart manner, and told big stories that set young Rigdale wild with envy. Why could not he be a man at once, a full-sized man with a musket, and go with the Captain to trade or fight with the savages?

But presently there was manly work in which Miles shared, for with the rare October days came the time of harvesting, when, as in the weeks of planting, every man and boy in the colony must bear a part. It was good weather to work, though, with nothing of the sickly heat of the April days, but a bracing air nerved every muscle, and the sky was deep and clear.

Miles liked the stir and freshness of trudging to the fields, one of the whole company, in the awakening cool hours of the morning. His task at first was to follow after the reapers in the barley field and gather the heavy stalks of the bearded grain into sheaves. Then after the barley, as the days grew shorter, they harvested the corn, a toilsome labor, that soon became irksome to Miles, whose part was to sit all day under cover, amidst the stiff stalks and rustling leaves, and husk the ears till his arms ached and his fingers were sore. By and by, when the corn was dried, he foresaw he should have to help shell the kernels from all those ears, and he sighed a little, as he watched the pile rise high.

Yet at heart he knew that, like all the others in the settlement, he was glad for the great heap of yellow ears. It had been a fruitful harvest; the pease, to be sure, had withered in the blossom, but the increase of corn and barley was so great that there was no fear lest the colony go hungry that winter. Men's faces were soberly elate, and even Master Hopkins relaxed his customary sternness.

But Mistress Hopkins had a mighty grievance, for Governor Bradford, after the harvest all was garnered, set apart a week as a time of special rejoicing. "That means in a community of men, even of the most godly, a week of feasting," she lamented. "And who is it shall prepare the food but we ten poor women and maids of the colony?"

To Miles, however, a week of feasting sounded pleasant; he only wished he were Ned Lister, for the Governor sent him and three of the other men fowling to get provisions for the merrymaking. In a day the four killed near enough to last the company a week,--a great, feathery heap of woodcocks, pigeons, quails, and plump wild turkeys. Miles shared in the work of plucking the birds, and, for the rest, he fetched wood, armful by armful, for the great fires that blazed out-of-doors, and he ran dares with the other boys, who should go farthest in among the blazing brands, till Goodwife Billington bore down upon them, and, chancing to collar her own son, cuffed him mercilessly.

He tugged buckets of water, too, for the endless boilings and stewings, till his back ached, but he minded it little, for this was holiday time. The October air was crisp; there was plenty to eat,--meat, and bread of the fresh corn meal; and, all the time, the zest of strangeness was added to the jubilation by the coming of hordes of Indians to share the English cheer.

The third day Massasoit presented himself, with ninety hungry warriors, whereat not only Mistress Hopkins but cheerful Priscilla Mullins was in despair. But his Majesty did his part in supplying provisions, for next morning some of his men went into the forest and returned with five fat deer, which he bestowed, as seemed to Miles most fitting, on the Captain and the Governor. They were, however, roasted for the behoof of the whole company, and on the last day of the feast, after the Captain had drilled his little troop before the King to do him honor, the Plymouth people and their guests ate of good venison.

The tables were spread in the fields, and Miles held it a notable distinction that he and Giles were bidden by the Captain wait at the one where he sat, with Massasoit and the Governor and others of the chiefs of the red men and white. Miles carried the platters of meat thither, with all the decorum of which he was master, and hoped that Standish might throw a word to him, so his happiness was final when, on his last trip to the table, the Captain called him to his side. He was sitting at the left hand of the Governor, where the light from the afternoon sun struck athwart his face, and over opposite him sat King Massasoit, greasy as ever, but now monarch-like in a great robe of skins.

It was to him that Standish spoke, in words of the Indian tongue of which Miles caught only one or two. But the Captain answered his questioning look: "His Majesty was pleased to crave a sight of you, Miles. Truth, you put him to stir enough last July. It was he who, when he got tidings from Manomet, despatched the order thither that no hurt should be done you, and sent us word where to seek you."

"Did he do so much, sir?" Miles asked, and, gazing at the stolid Indian, made him a grateful bow. "I should like to tell him 'thank you,'" he added. "If Squanto would say it for me,--or you."

Then he tramped back again to the fire to take his own share of the feast, a large turkey leg which Constance had saved for him, and, whether it were overmuch turkey or overmuch labor, he was too tired even to rise and witness the departure of the Indians after the board was cleared, for all he knew the musketeers would fire them a parting volley. 'Twas toilsome work, this merrymaking, he agreed with Priscilla, and, going weary and cross to bed, he was glad to awake to the Sabbath quiet of the little village, and, on the ensuing morning, drop once more into the ordered round of duties.

There was naught to do in the following days but to make ready against the coming winter, by mending the cottages till every crevice was secure, and fetching good supply of firewood from the distant hills. A hint of wintry weather now was in the chill air and the lead-colored sky, so, one November afternoon, Miles spent hours in hunting for his mittens that had gone astray.

Together he and Constance and Giles opened, in the search, the little chest that had been Goodman Rigdale's; it gave Miles a dull pang to turn over the clothes his father and mother had worn, but somehow all that sorrow seemed to have fallen very long ago. "Yet 'tis not a year since we sailed into the harbor," he said softly.

"Just a year to-morrow since we sighted Cape Cod," answered Giles, and Constance changed Miles's thoughts by adding: "The other ship with our fresh supply should come now very speedily; in about a month I heard father say we might look for her. I hope there'll be cattle come in her; 'tis hard for the babies to have not a drop of milk."

"And no butter," sighed Miles, thinking of himself. "And if they bring oxen, 'twill be easier ploughing, come spring; and there'll be more men to fight--"

"There'll be two more next spring, in any case," Giles interrupted. "Captain Standish says that then Bart Allerton and I shall have muskets of our own and be enrolled in his company."

In the days since the landing at Plymouth, Giles had grown a responsible youth, but Miles, who had been so much with him that he held himself near as old, was quite jealous at his last speech and wondered if no one would offer him a musket.

He took himself forth from the chamber into the living room, where Ned Lister, who was cleaning his fowling piece and was in a good temper, as he usually was when he was busied over his weapons, let him meddle in the work till his fingers were blacked. "I'm going northward to-morrow morning, where Squanto tells me a flock of geese are astir," Ned spoke further. "If Master Hopkins is willing, I'll take you with me, Miley; 'tis months since we've gone about any labor together."

Disappointingly, Master Hopkins was not willing, for, when he came to his supper, he had to report an evil rumor, which one of Miles's old enemies, the Nauset Indians, had just brought to the town, that a great ship had been seen on their coast. It might be some English trader, or it might be a French ship of war, come to dispossess the colonists, just as the English had driven the French, at an earlier time, from their northern settlements.

Still, even if 'twere a Frenchman, Ned argued, men must eat, and must kill their food ere they could eat it, so, at the last, his master said he might go fowling, and even, if he did not roam too far, take Miles with him.

Early next morning the two hunters set out in lively spirits, in spite of the fact that the woods were sombre and the sky rough with clouds that looked, should they thrust a hand deep into them, as if they would strike something hard and cold. Already there had been bitter frosts, and the thick fallen leaves, on the northward trail, rustled crisply beneath the tread of the fowlers. Ned wore his red cap, which blazed out bravely under the dull trees, and his buff-jacket, too, which gave him the martial look he liked. Miles had no such warlike equipments, but Ned generously suffered him to carry the fowling piece, so he felt quite like a soldier. "I do but wish the French would come upon us now," he panted boastfully, as he shouldered the gun.

"There's small danger you'll find a Frenchman, unless you cross the water to seek him," Ned answered. "I'll do it, so soon as my time's out. Go into Bohemia and fight--" There he turned off into discourse on the joys of a life where a man never fetched and carried, but handled a sword like a gentleman, which lasted them for a mile along the bare trail.

By then they came from among the leafless trees of the level land to a thick piny growth at the base of a tall hill, that blocked off sight of the ocean. Ned was for climbing it out of hand, for, on the other side, by the shore, he thought to find the wild fowl, so up he scrambled, quite nimbly, since he had long legs and tramped unburdened, while Miles toiled after with the fowling piece. A mighty steep hill, where the pine needles lay slippery, so Miles stumbled and near fell, and, when he came at last to the little barren stretch of the summit, where the lowering sky seemed to bend down to him, he could only drop flat and lie panting.

Ned cast himself down beside him, although he did not seem weary, and, half smiling at Miles's breathlessness, let his eyes at last turn seaward. Lying back, Miles, too, looked out upon the gray water, beneath the hill, that far away to eastward merged into the gray sky, and then a sudden exclamation made him glance at his companion.

Ned was sitting erect with his hand shading his eyes, and the lines of his face were sharpened with a sudden tenseness. "What d'ye see?" Miles began carelessly, but the other, springing to his feet, spoke to him in a curt tone: "Jump you up, Miles. Look yonder, if you see aught in the offing."

Ned's hands turned Miles's head eastward, but, though the boy yielded himself obediently and gazed whither he was told, he saw only dull water and brooding sky. Yet he was beginning to guess the meaning of it all, and, with the heart fluttering into his throat, he cried, "Ned, sure, you do not think--that French ship--"

But Lister, wheeling about, had reached in two strides a tall pine tree that spired from the summit of the hill, and, grasping its lower branches, swung himself upward from bough to bough. His cap showed very red against the green of the pine needles, and Miles watched it go bobbing toward the tree top, with a mind so suddenly dulled that he could think of nothing else, till at last the young man, holding fast by one arm, swayed at the topmost point of the pine tree.

A long minute Ned clung there, staring seaward with his face sober, then headlong slipped and scrambled from the tree. "It's a sail, true enough," he cried, and, as the words left his lips, came to the ground with a crashing fall that made the branches sway.

Before Miles could reach his side, Ned sprang to his feet, stood a moment, took a single step, and then toppled over again across the roots of the pine, with his face working in a manner that frightened his companion. "Are you hurt? What is it, Ned?" he cried.

"Naught but my ankle," groaned Lister, struggling to a sitting posture. "I've wrenched the cursed thing. Tut, tut, tut! Don't waste time here by me. Run to Plymouth. Tell them the ship's in sight."

"The Frenchman?" gasped Miles.

"How can I tell, when 'tis four league off shore?" snapped Ned. "'Tis a ship, and that's enough. Run along with you, briskly!" Then, spite of the pain, there came a sort of softening to his face. "You're not afeard to go back along the trail alone, Miley?"

"I've been in woods before now," cried the boy, indignantly. "But--but if I go, what will you do?"

"Sit here and take tobacco," Ned answered, in his swaggering tone, and, with his hand a little unsteady, drew his pipe from his pocket. "Give me the fowling piece near to me, and now run your briskest, d'ye hear? Off with you, heavy-heels, unless you be afraid!"

The taunt more than all else sent Miles plunging headlong down the hill. The needles slipped beneath his shoes, and his knees jarred with the steepness of the descent. Once he tripped, and, falling, rolled over and over, and rose up in fear lest he had hurt himself like Ned. But he could run well enough, he found, as he stumbled into the more level part of the trail. His briskest, and warn the Plymouth folk, Ned bade, and suddenly Miles's heart gave a great leap that he was to do so soldierly a part in the Captain's sight. He drew a big breath, and, bending his head, dashed down the trail.

The dry twigs snapped beneath his feet; a frightened quail, with a startling whir, flew across his path; the branches, as he rushed by them, wavered and shook. Below him the ground reeled and the sky above was shot with black; the breath came gripingly in his throat, and a pain like that of a piercing iron bored into his side.

Downhill, where the ground seemed not to be beneath him, and in the hollow splashed a brook. He felt the chill of the water over his ankle as he thrust his foot into it, and, stopping a moment, he plunged his head, that ached to bursting, into the icy ripples, then, gasping, staggered up the opposite slope.

He was running heavily now, so it scarcely could be called running, swaying from side to side of the trail, but more than half, than three quarters, of the way was out. The trees dwindled about him; yonder were cleared fields; yonder the smoke rose from cottage chimneys. Now the stubble of corn was stiff beneath his feet; now he crashed through a little patch of brambles; and at last, thrusting his hands gropingly before him, he pitched up against the door of Captain Standish's cottage. "Open!" he called, but his voice came in a mere whisper.

Within, they heard him, however. The door was flung open; he fell against Master Winslow; and yonder by the table he had sight of the Governor and the Elder and Master Hopkins and the Captain himself, starting up from the conference he had interrupted. Miles reeled forward a step or two and caught Standish's arm. "Captain Standish," he gasped, "the ship--the French--we saw it from the hill--the French are in the offing."

Then his knees gave way and the room whirled round. A blackness was about him in which he heard faintly the questions and re-questions of the men, the clatter of the house-door, a calling in the street. Then thunderously, subduing all other sound, he heard the crash of the great gun upon the Fort Hill that called home from labor the men who should defend their settlement.