32. The hard voyage was over at last, and on the 9th of November Cape Cod appeared. They knew about Cape Cod from the map and book of Captain John Smith, who had tried to plant a colony there some years before, but they intended to land somewhere near the Hudson River, and turned south along the coast. Shoals and breakers barring their passage that way, they returned, and, on November 11th, anchored in Cape Cod harbor. "Being now passed the vast ocean and a sea of troubles, before their preparation unto further proceedings . . . they fell down upon their knees and blessed the Lord, the God of Heaven, who had brought them over the vast and furious ocean, and delivered them from all perils and miseries thereof, again to set their feet on the firm and stable earth, their proper element."
33. So there they were, and as yet no one had left the ship. It was winter. The cold blue ocean beat the cold white shore, and the dark forest further back rustled and moaned in the north wind, whistling bleak welcome. What could those women and children do there? West from the sea lay an unexplored country, no one knew how large; dark forest uninhabited, save for the dusky Indian, clothed the land in an unbroken mystery of wilderness; north and south stretched the desolate coast, stretched five hundred miles ere it reached the nearest European settlement; east lay the ocean, not to be recrossed. How could the men build shelter in the midst of a northern winter? And they must build, for the ship's store of provisions was none too large, and the captain impatient to be off again before famine set in. After ages of comfort—shiver to think of it!—that lone, cold landing; the stretching, desolate coast; the cutting, wind-blown snow; the little anchored ship, bearing treasure of warm human hearts, strong human wills, clear purpose, courage untamed. Slight protection, the rocking ship, for such precious store of life, with that white, relentless winter coming down upon the bay.
34. The day of casting anchor, those steadfast, earnest men, whose God was the Lord, and whose king was James of England, gathered in the Mayflower cabin and, by a formal statement written and signed, formed themselves into a civil state. Note the words of the compact: "In the name of God, amen. We, whose names are underwritten, the loyal subjects of our dread sovereign lord, King James—" have fled over seas from English persecution? No—"have undertaken, for the glory of God and the advancement of the Christian faith, and honor of our king and country, a voyage to plant the first colony in the northern parts of Virginia." God and the king; true Christians and true Englishmen. The document reads with a calm dignity, a clear political instinct, a solemn religious faith, worthy of Englishmen. They may have braved English laws for conscience' sake, but there is no bravado; they may keenly feel the injustice they have experienced, but there was no repining.
35. Then began expeditions to the land. The men, under Captain Standish, went in parties in a small boat, returning to the ship at night, or, in some cases, they camped on the shore and were away from the ship several days. Wading to the shore through water too shallow even for the small boat, with sea-spray freezing as it covered them, tramping through the snow, breaking through the forest, with prayer each morning, and always a day of rest on Sunday, they explored the coast and wilderness for the best place to settle. They found yellow Indian corn buried by the Indians in sand-heaps, and carried it to the ship, counting it God's special providence that they were thus provided with seed to plant the next year. "The Lord is never wanting unto his in their greatest needs; let his holy Name have all the praise!" cried William Bradford. November wore away, dark and wild, and with set teeth December came. Back and forth went the exploring parties. A skirmish with the Indians took place; but "it pleased God to vanquish their enemies and give them deliverance, and by his special providence so to dispose, that not any one of them was hurt or hit, though their arrows came close." Thereupon they gave the Lord solemn thanks, and named the place "The First Encounter."
36. After a stormy, dangerous week, Saturday, December 9th, dawned clear, and the sun shone down on the snowy world. The Sabbath day the explorers observed on shore, and Monday they "sounded the harbor and found it fit for shipping, and marched into the land and found a . . . place fit for situation; at least, it was the best they could find, and the season and their present necessity made them glad to accept of it. So they returned to their ship again with this news to the rest of their people, which did much comfort their hearts." This day, December 11th, old style, corresponding to December 21st, new style, is celebrated as the date of the "landing of the Pilgrims."
37. Meantime, what of those left in the ship these four dreary weeks? The ways of life went on in births and deaths; six of the wanderers found the door of the other world; and Peregrine White came into this—first-born of New England. The little boy Jasper More, who came in care of the Carvers, died; and Dorothy Bradford fell overboard and was drowned while her husband was exploring the coast. The men had terrible coughs and colds from wading through the freezing sea, and the women were beginning to suffer from the hardship of it all. The children, child-like, adapted themselves to the situation. Mr. Billington being gone to the shore, his son John, with the family gun well loaded, took occasion to try his skill by shooting it off in the cabin; "yet, by God's mercy, no harm was done!"
38. Midwinter, and provisions low. Seven already buried in the ocean. Sickness setting in with more severity, women and children to be somehow cared for, two tiny babies to be shielded from all harm, their only home the inhospitable shore. No time to lose! The 16th they began to build the first house, and so was planted Plymouth.
39. In that dead winter time sprang Plymouth. Cold for the seed of the Mayflower, but Mayflower's seed did not easily die. The houses went up, one after another, and as it became possible the company on the ship were transferred to the land. The ship, indeed, became more and more undesirable: sickness prevailed; the sailors did not escape, but dragged about or tossed in their beds in fierce impatience, and, of the Puritans, half their number died before the end of March. Elder Brewster and strong Miles Standish, with half-a-dozen others who were left in health, toiled night and day, cooking, building fires, making beds, washing clothes, adapting their masculine hands to women's offices as they dressed and undressed the feverish patients, cared for the babies whose mothers lay ill, heard the children say their prayers. Ah, Miles Standish, rough captain, nowhere do you stand out braver than against that background! And Rose, thy wife, Rose Standish too must die, ere ever she comes to the home on the shore.
40. The winter wears on. The Indians come to investigate, later to treat with the English. Since there are few well enough to build, the little settlement, snowbound between the ocean and the forest, grows but slowly. Sometimes death comes twice and thrice in a day, and the whole scene is a funeral and the ocean one black grave. Yet they bear it all patiently, silently: it is the hand of the Lord. Priscilla Mullins sees her father, her mother, her brother, buried in the heartless sea, and stands in the New World alone. "God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble." Priscilla can bear it as a brave woman will, and, later, finds protection in the strong arm of John Alden. Mr. Winslow watches the waves close over the form of his wife. "My life is spent with sorrow and my years with sighing,… but I trusted in thee, O Lord; my times are in thy hand." He can bear it as a brave man can, and not many months after finds comfort in taking to himself the widow of Mr. White; the two knit together by common sorrow and danger. Elizabeth Tilley loses father and mother. John Rigdale and Alice, his wife, die together. Thomas Tinker, wife, and child, all die there in the ship. And the north wind beat the sea and blew through the bare trees. Desolate, desolate welcome! "From the end of the earth will I cry unto thee, when my heart is overwhelmed: lead me to the rock that is higher than I. The rock of my strength and my refuge is in God." They could bear it and be brave; and they did, until God sent the spring with new health for his people.
41. Warmer shines the sun, and April comes. All the people—all whom death has left—are in the houses now, and the Mayflower is ready for the home voyage. They gather at the shore to see the last of her, and send last messages back to the dear home land. Back goes the ship, straight to Old England; yet, with that fearful winter freezing in their memories, scarce fifty of them left to found the lonely settlement, weak yet and worn, not one returns to the easier life at home. The Mayflower disappears on the eastern horizon; the last watcher by the shore is satisfied that she is gone; and then alone, self-governed, self-dependent, free, the sea and wilderness circling close about them, God their Father watching overhead, the Puritans take up their stern life, and in America create New England,