Soldier Rigdale: How He Sailed in the Mayflower and How He Served Miles Standish

by Beulah Marie Dix

The blue sky was all blurred out, as he passed through the opening of one of the black wigwams; an intolerable smoky odor half choked him; and his eyes were blinded with the dimness all about him. But out of the dusk he heard Dolly call his name, and, stumbling toward the sound, he put his arms about his sister.

As he grew more accustomed to the dim light, he saw the old Chief, squatting on a mat at the back of the wigwam, and saw the shadowy gesture that bade him sit beside him. Almost cheerfully, since he held Dolly's hand in his, Miles obeyed; and for the moment, as Trug stretched himself at his feet, and Dolly snuggled close to his side, felt secure and whispered his sister not to fear.

There was no time to say more, for, amidst the confusion of folk that crowded the dusky wigwam, he now made out two squaws, who drew near, and, with their curious eyes fixed on him, set before him food—a kind of bread of the pounded maize and ears of young corn roasted.

It did not need the Chief's gesture to bid Miles fall to; he might be more than a little frightened, but he was also very hungry, for it was near eight-and-forty hours since he had tasted heartier food than raspberries. He now ate with such good will that nothing was left of the victuals but the corn-cobs, and he persuaded Dolly to eat too, though it was hard work to coax the child to lift her head from his shoulder. "I do not like to look on the Indians," she murmured tearfully, between two hungry mouthfuls of corn. "I would they did not so stare at us."

They were not over-civil, Miles thought, though, after all, they scarcely stared at their white guests more rudely than Miles himself had gazed at Massasoit, when the latter visited Plymouth. He might not have minded their staring, if there had not been so many of them,—squatting and lying all through the wigwam, on the floor, or on the mats, or on a broad, shelf-like couch which ran all about the lodge,—and if the bolder ones had not been curious to feel of his shirt,—his doublet was left behind on the beach where he had taken the clams,—and of his shoes, and of Dolly's gown, though no one cared to put a hand upon the bristling and growling Trug.

They chattered a wearisome deal too, till Miles's head ached with the clamor, the squaws very shrilly, and the men in guttural tones; the old Chief seemed to be questioning the Indians who had found the children on the beach, but presently he turned and addressed Miles.

The boy fixed his eyes on the speaker's face and tried to understand, but, while all things about him were so strange and ominous, it was hard to keep his thoughts on the hasty sounds. He did make out that the Chief asked him whence he came, and, answering "Patuxet," he pointed whither he judged the Plymouth plantation lay. "I should like to go back thither," he suggested, and endeavored, with signs and his few poor words of the Indian language, to explain that, if they took Dolly to the settlement, the people would give them knives and beads. He started to make the same arrangement for himself, but he judged it useless; he doubted if Master Hopkins would think him worth buying back.

But, even in Dolly's case, no one made a movement to grant Miles's request, and though the old Chief spoke, for an Indian, at some length and in a civil tone, he did not mention Patuxet nor a return thither. Miles swallowed down a lump in his throat, and said bravely to Dolly that he guessed they'd have to spend the night with the savages, but they seemed kindly intentioned.

Through the low opening that formed the door of the wigwam he could see now that a long, gray shadow from the pine ridge lay upon the trodden sand; the afternoon must be wearing to a close. Moment by moment he watched the shadow stretch itself out, till all was shadow and a thicker dimness filled the wigwam, and on the bit of sky, which he could see through the smoke-hole in the roof, brooded a purplish shade. It was evening in earnest, and it should be supper time, Miles told Dolly; but Dolly, resting half-asleep against his arm, made no answer.

Miles himself, for all his apprehensions, was heavy with the weariness of the last two days, so, whatever the morrow might have in store, he was glad when, one by one, the Indians slipped away like shadows, and he judged it bedtime. He and his sister were to sleep on the couch-like structure by the wall, he interpreted the Chief's gestures, so willingly he bade Dolly and Trug lie down; then stretched himself beside them. A comfortable resting place it was, very springy and soft with skins; but, ere Miles could reassure Dolly and settle himself for the night, Trug began to growl, and the great couch to groan, as what seemed an endless family of Indians cast themselves down alongside them.