And, so, with the April mildness on land and sea, came the last night when the lights of the Mayflower shone to them out of the darkness. On the morning of its departure, how visible the scene is to us. The women watch from places of vantage, in groups or singly, in company with some men or with the children clinging to them, from the hill beside the street, their wistful eyes following the battered sails out of the harbor, while the guns from the Fort ring out in parting salute the farewell to their ever-ready shelter, to the only connecting link between them and the rest of their race. Each one has been asked a question all have had plenty of time to consider well, if it were needed to repeat, “shall we, shall I go back?” Away with the Mayflower to a once familiar life from unfamiliar trials, from haunting memories to friends or relatives left on the other side of the sea? Each woman for herself has answered “No.” The venture made in faith by those loved and gone from their sight, should not have been made in vain; the standard formed of high hope and courage should not go down while they were able in the light of that faith and remembrance to carry it forward.
Now only as a mirage can their ship be seen on the far horizon.
Susanna White, clasping her baby closer, stands near the place on the hill where the body of William, her husband, had been laid; not far away near the grave of Elizabeth, his wife, is Edward Winslow. Their eyes, though seeing each other, are viewing things far away. (Could a breath from the lindens of Leyden be wafted to them?) In that moment arose a consciousness of an unfelt emotion—hitherto drowned by selfishness in sorrow—pity.
Mutual shock and endurance was to continue for them all on this same day. To shake from them any idle reflections, the men worked steadily and vigorously for the remaining hours, on the new fields and planting of seeds, the elder, the doctor, the governor, each exerting every energy, as well as the other men and boys. The day proved unusually hot and the governor seemed to feel it greatly. Reaching his home, he lay down to rest, but while his family waited upon him in deep concern, he lost consciousness. Thus not only was the harbor dark that night, but a cloud hung over Plymouth and common anxiety on their governor’s account caused the departure of the Mayflower to be almost forgotten. But the governor was worn out, not with that day’s labor but by his labors, as has been said, “in three countries and on the sea, as counselor, agent, nurse, farmer, magistrate and man of God,” and, in spite of their efforts and distress, consciousness did not return ere he passed from them. In the pathetic description, by his successor, “he was buried in the best manner they could, with some vollies of shot by all that bore arms,” and his grave left smooth and unmarked, as the others on the hill, that it might not appear to any enemy that their numbers were lessened. Though the office of governor was filled, the first lady of the colony had no successor, since the widower, William Bradford, was chosen. Her anguish of grief was so intense, and her frailness grew so perceptably, that it became evident her stay with them was but transitory.
And again, as in Leyden, the doctor’s sister kept the home for him; but there were more members in the family than in those by-gone days, for Susanna had three little lads to care for now, and the doctor three small nephews to play with. Let us follow the bright rays of the sunset into their cottage on a May evening. Supper is over, and now is little Peregrine’s bedtime. His mother is gently rocking the cradle, as she mends his brother’s stockings, glancing now and then at the smiling but sleepy baby and urging him in softest baby language to accompany the “sandman” without further delay; but Peregrine’s ambition seems to be to stay awake on this bright particular evening and he coos and laughs in response to his mother’s admonitions. His brother and cousin are romping just outside the front door and Resolved runs in to get the cane that had been his father’s, to play horse with. Susanna sits on a bench beneath the little square window, which swings open with its paper pane, and the breeze which enters plays with the soft, curly tendrils of her hair; beside her on the bench stands the little chest of drawers which has ever held her sewing articles and trinkets since William White gave it to her when they were married. A shadow falls across the light and men’s voices come to her as her brother passes with a friend, returning from a stroll to enjoy a smoke by the cottage door. Twilight is fast failing now; the baby is at last asleep; Susanna softly puts away her sewing and goes into the living-room, adjoining, to light a candle at the fire-place; she then stands in the doorway to call in Resolved and Samuel, as she does each evening; she sees her brother and his friend on the doorstep bench, also quite a regular occurrence about this hour, and Edward Winslow rises in his courtly manner to receive her smile of greeting. In the few weeks since the sailing of the Mayflower, her pity and sympathy have unconsciously awakened an interest which is now slowly dawning in some wonderment upon her, while for Winslow he had already questioned himself if she would be willing to let him take William White’s place, and if, on the other hand, she could fill the vacancy left at his hearth-stone by Elizabeth? He thought he knew the answer to the second question, but for the first sought her reply. That Edward Winslow, talented, aristocratic, of good family and of some wealth, should admire her, pictures Susanna for us almost as plainly as his painted portrait represents him. We have not the slight details of her features, but in fancying her with the light brown hair, blue eyes and pink and white skin of a young English mother in her twenties, we cannot be far wrong; and for character, the reflections of her life and times show us that which certified the regard of all who knew her and gives her to ours. Her good sense ever caused her acceptance of facts and prompt adjustment of her life to the conditions imposed upon it by circumstances. By her intelligence and resourcefulness she was saved from the dissipation of despondency, devoting her physical and mental energies to making the best of the situation in which she found herself. With courage she contemplated the present and took thought of and measured the possibilities of the future. Her cheerfulness and adaptibility to the inevitable in meeting her serious problems won her a victory over them and greatly increased her own pleasure in living and unquestionably added to the pleasure of others. She had had advantages of comfortable circumstances always—more than some and as much as few of the pilgrim women had; her brother, her husband, were men of education and breeding, such also the men of the families of her nearest friends.
Edward Winslow, doing always the unexpected, but always pleasing himself, soon found the opportunity of settling the question in his thoughts. Shortly thereafter Mary Brewster again played confident to a neighbor. When the bans were published at the next Sunday service, announcing such an item of interest in the lonely, quiet existence of the community, any surprise was soon dissolved for most, by their regard for the principals. Before May was over, the simple ceremony took place, performed by the governor, as magistrate, as he himself has recorded, “after the fashion of the Low Countries,” and the first bride of the colony appears before us. Anna Fuller whom we first knew in Leyden, there becoming Susanna White, now changes, as far as name goes, into the second Mistress Winslow of Plymouth and before her stretch long years of prosperity. And contentment and happiness? Yes, such as a woman like her will always seek and find.
Natural curiosity ever alert at a time of a wedding is sadly checked for us, by dearth of description or detail of this one, so full of an unusual interest. The old friend Mary Brewster, was surely witness for the bride, and her brother, the doctor; while the elder, as properly, was witness for the groom, and Isaac Allerton, doubtless, as assistant. But what repast Mary Chilton, Priscilla Mullins and Elizabeth Tilly, reinforced by the culinary skill of Mistress Hopkins, prepared for the newly married couple, or who were of the wedding guests who partook, or whether at her house or his, we have no record. We know simplicity was the keynote, as complying both with the Pilgrim opinion and the necessity caused by conditions. It was an important day for the bride and for the young girls, who were gladly stirred by the event into a remembrance of romance and a brighter side of life, forgotten for many a day. It even aroused Katherine Carver from her lethargy of grief into a wondering attention when Elizabeth Tilly gave to Desire Minter all the details in her possession, which we gladly would glean also, if we could. However, the date appears upon the page of Plymouth history like an illuminated initial letter, for it marks the beginning of a more normal life. The dark days since their arrival which seemed emphasized only by sickness and death and hunger and cold, had passed.
The summer thus ushered in, brought its herbs for salad and medicine, its wild fruits and berries of many varieties, its fish and game, also roses to gladden their eyes, fragrant and colorful, and, owing to the friendliness and good understanding with the Indians, the colonists might walk in the woods round about their homes as in the highways of England. The two Indians called Squanto and Hobomok, who attached themselves permanently to the colony, showed them many things of advantage in the way of agriculture and home crafts which the women were as glad to learn as the men.