“Yes. You, and Bart Allerton, and Peregrine White, and Giles Hopkins used to catch it once in a while when you meddled or made with the guns.”
“Yes, and when he trained us in the manual exercise. But we’re all beholden to him for knowing how to manage a piece man-fashion.”
“Ay, we’re all beholden to him, and sorry am I he’s gone from the town, and they say is breaking in health and spirit.”
“Since father went it seems as if the old settlers were passing away and we youngsters are to hold the helm.” And Jacob sighed in a gruffly sentimental sort of fashion.
“You’re right, Cooke, and I sore mistrust our fathers’ chairs will prove too wide for us. I know mine is, and often enough I wish the old man back.”
“Ha! That was a shrewd twist of the wind! It seemed to snatch my breath. Well, here we are.” And raising the heavy iron latch, the two men precipitated themselves into the great lower room of the Fort, where once we saw the Pilgrims hold their fast when drought and famine were sore upon them, and once we assisted at the trial of John Oldhame.
The religious services of the town were still held in this place, although it had long been Pastor Rayner’s urgent appeal to the people that they should build a suitable meeting-house for the worship of God, and no longer mingle ecclesiastical and secular pursuits in the same building. But since the removal of some of the colony’s wealthiest and most influential townsmen to Duxbury, Scituate, Marshfield, and the Cape towns, poor Plymouth had become so destitute that her sons could barely provide food for the body, and had little money or energy to spare in suitably serving the soul’s aliment.
And now help was to come, and from a most unexpected source.
Upon the platform at the top of the Fort the two visitors found Lieutenant Holmes, sheltered from the wind behind a sentry-box, and absorbed in the use of the spy-glass they had come to seek.