The letter examined by the triumvirate of governor, Elder, and captain proved that Lyford’s penitence, if indeed it had ever existed, had spent its strength in protestation. The writer alluded to the letters the governor had allowed to go forward, either by original or copy, and declared that all they had stated was true, “only not the half,” and that since their discovery he had been persecuted and browbeaten to the verge of existence, and all because he loved and clung to the Prayer Book and his Episcopal ordination. The letter closed with entreaties that a sufficient body of settlers, with military leaders, should at once be sent over to crush his present hosts and set him at liberty to follow his conscience.
“At least, we may at once grant our brother liberty to follow his conscience in matters spiritual,” remarked the Elder with a grave smile, as he laid down the letter. “I think it will be best to summon a church meeting for next Lord’s Day, and utterly dismiss Master Lyford from our fellowship and communion. It is no less than sacrilege for a man who can write after this fashion to sit down at the Lord’s table with us, professing to be of us.”
“You are right, Elder,” replied Bradford sternly, “and I leave the spiritual matter to you; but it is my duty, and one not to be slighted, to drive this traitor out of our body politic. He must leave Plymouth at once. Say you not so, Captain Standish?”
“I say, bundle him into the Little James and send him back to England to his dear cronies there, or, better still, strip off his gown and bands and hang him as a traitor.”
“To send him to England we have no warrant, nor would it be wise to invite English legislation in our particular affairs,” retorted the governor; “and as for hanging him, it is a course open both to these same objections and to something more. No, we shall simply bid him leave the colony and not return hither on any pretense. The wife and children may remain until he has a home whither to carry them.”
“A righteous judgment,” pronounced the Elder, and as Standish growled assent, the matter was settled, and so promptly carried into effect that in less than forty-eight hours the renegade forever turned his back upon the place and the people who had trusted and honored him, and whom, had he been a faithful servant of his Master and the Church, he might undoubtedly have led to a renewed allegiance to the venerable Mother whose unwise severity rather than whose doctrine had driven them from the home of their ancestors.
“There goes a viper scotched, not killed, and we shall feel his sting yet,” remarked Standish, as he with Peter Browne and John Alden stood on the brow of Cole’s Hill, and watched Lyford’s embarkation in a fishing-boat belonging to Nantucket, where Oldhame had pitched his tent for a while. Here also, or at neighboring Weymouth, Blackstone, Maverick, Walford, and a few other of the Gorges party had succeeded to the houses left empty by Weston’s men after their deliverance by Myles Standish from Pecksuot, Wituwamat, and their horde. In course of time, Blackstone, carrying his clergyman’s coat, removed to Boston Common, Walford to Charlestown, and Maverick to East Boston, each man representing the entire population of each place; but still some settlers remained on the old site, so that from the time of Weston’s arrival in 1622, this neighborhood has been the home of white men.
“Scotched, not killed,” repeated Standish, filling his pipe, as he sat and mused in the autumn sunshine outside of his cabin door, while Barbara in her noiseless but competent fashion got ready a savory supper within, and Alick, with a bow made for him by Hobomok, fired not unskillful arrows at a target set upon the hillside.
A week later the captain’s words came true, for the same fishing boat that had carried away Lyford put into Plymouth Harbor on an ebb tide, and sent off her boat with four men, one of whom was soon recognized as Oldhame. As the banished man leaped upon the Rock, followed by his comrades, all strangers to Plymouth, some of the older townsmen met him, and one of them gravely inquired his business.
“Business quotha!” blustered Oldhame, who was evidently the worse for liquor. “My business is first to tweak Billy Bradford’s nose, and then to kick Myles Standish into a rat-hole, and finally to burn down your wretched kennels, and root up this doghole of a place, where I and my friends have met such scurvy treatment.”