The weeks of January drag by, spent by the men ashore, many not returning to the ship at night when the roof of the store-house was finished, both to save the time of the trip back and forth and to guard their belongings already there; so lights gleamed at night from Plymouth, seen by the weary watchers on the ship and the ship lights shone in the sight of the builders, signals to one another yet seeming to make the gloom of their situation more visible.
The violent storm which ushered in the month caused the Mayflower to madly roll and tug at three anchors necessary to hold her; in the midst of this discomfort, the third birth occurred on the ship, but the son of Isaac and Mary Allerton never knew the world to which he came. One of the young men, Richard Britteridge, also died about this time, and so the burials began on the snow-covered hill.
The women had more to do, however, than look towards the shore and long to land, for the life on the ship was not an idle one for any of them while health and strength lasted. As, one by one, illness attacked them, those remaining well had many added cares. Assisting Doctor Fuller, attending to the wants of the families of those mothers who were ill, preparing the food for the sick and for the men who went daily ashore to work, keeping the children safe and amused, and, above all, keeping their own faith and hope alive went on as unendingly as the swell of the sea beneath them.
By the end of the month, the house built to store their belongings and to shelter some of them while the others were being erected, was finished and was also a hospital in its capacity of general or common house, for numbers of the workers had to occupy the beds as fast as they could be brought from the ship, their brave fight against the odds overwhelming many. The women had an hour of frightful suspense when, suddenly, before the eyes of some looking towards the land, flames leapt out and shouts were heard. They were sure the dreaded event had happened—that the Indians had attacked and vanquished all ashore. But the later knowledge that no Indians had appeared and no one was hurt, reconciled them to the loss of the roof of the common house from too great a fire in the chimney; it had to be relaid—and then the joyful decision was made that all who were able should come from the ship on the next Sunday for a service in the common house, which was to serve also as church and barracks for a time.
The little ship of the Pilgrims, called only “the shallop,” and already proven staunch and true to their needs, leaves the side of the Mayflower on this wintry Sunday, with the women as passengers for the first time, and sails over the mile or so of water towards the landing. Some are using their greatest efforts; some are too weak to come at all, and even those still well are vastly different in looks and manner from their appearance at leaving old Plymouth or even on that first Monday of enthusiasm at Cape Cod. But all feel that a new era is dawning and again the need calls out the latent spirit of sacrifice inherent in every woman, on this occasion once more requiring the putting aside of personal feelings of sorrow or illness for the common good. From the day when these women gave up their early associations and left their English homes to live in a strange country among people with different customs and language, striving to preserve their own during the twelve years of their sojourn, through the time of their embarking at Delfshaven and later sailing from Plymouth, when they saw cherished possessions and loved members of their families left behind, during the famous voyage with its heart-rending conditions for them of wet, cold, poor food, overcrowding, storms, anxiety, to the day they landed, worn and exhausted with no homes to go to, new hardships and dangers awaiting them, self-sacrifice was in a continually ascending scale and, for many, could go no further.
Some of the men are standing on the rock, watching the progress of the boat, some are grouped at the Common House on guard, as ever, against a surprise from the unknown Indians. The governor, the elder, several of the other men whose wives are in the boat, two or three of the younger men we may see in the grave group at the landing, but the light of expectancy and contentment for this one hour at least, glows in their faces. With costumes so similar it is hard to distinguish where each woman is placed in the shallop and to single out a special one for whom a man may be looking. At the bow two or three are grouped, waving to their welcomers, their alertness seeming to be an urge to the little craft. The eager children are held from crowding forward as they near the shore. An instant of excitement, the sailors making ready to fasten the boat, it touches, is beside the rock; the woman who stood foremost at the bow on the way over, has poised herself a second and sprung from the boat, catching at the outstretched hands of the nearest man, to steady her foothold on the slippery stone; the keen wind and spray have dashed color in her cheeks, the brilliancy of sun on snow is reflected in her eyes—a flashing triumph at being the first—it is Mary Chilton. Someone has said that Plymouth Rock began with her its fame, but for her and for the other women, quickly following her to clasp the hands of the men,—as it had been for those men—it became for them the threshold into Plymouth Colony. Some of the women of the Mayflower have not gotten so far, and some of these scarce pass the threshold.
The service is held, as planned; once more they listen to the uplifting and strengthening words of their Elder. Afterwards some return to the Mayflower, but others remain with their husbands on shore.
The work on the other houses goes forward as rapidly as possible. All were built of squared logs, the crevices filled with clay, the roofs a thatch of the swamp grass, resembling their English cottages in this. The few windows have only oiled paper to resist the winter’s storms. Each house is set on a plot of ground of its own on either side of the street—the location for each family being decided by lot. Yet building by men cramped with rheumatism and sciatica, or falling down from weakness as a prelude to illness and death is not a rapid business, and, for all that they planned at first to live as compactly as possible, without being crowded, the unattached young men to be part of the families—as they had been in Leyden—it soon became evident that many houses would not be needed.
In less than a week after the first visit of the women ashore, not all the prowess of Myles Standish, hero of war in Flanders, not all his own unending strength and endurance, could defend his Rose from the blight of illness nor shield his heart from the sharp stab of sorrow. She had dreamed of the new home in a land of fair skies, sunshine and flowers, not this region of snows; she knew how thin and white she was growing, but she knew that her husband had not ventured on any vain purpose, and willed to be brave for his sake. Her high resolves were not long tested however, ere she gained the reward of her faith.