Bristol was in those days the chief commercial city of England next to London. It was the centre, too, of a district where large quantities of woollen cloths were manufactured, which were sent forth to foreign lands by the numerous vessels which traded to its port. In a large room belonging to one of the principal merchants in the city, a number of persons were collected. At the head of a long table sat William Penn, while on either side of him were several friends,—Claypole, Moore, Philip Ford, and many others. They were engaged in organising a mercantile company, to which was given the name of the “Free Society of Traders” in Pennsylvania. William Penn, the governor of the new colony, was addressing them.
“I have secured, friends, a number of persons skilful in the manufacture of wool, who have agreed to go forth to our new colony from the valley of Stroud. From the banks of the Rhine, also, many persons conversant with the best modes of cultivating the vine have promised to emigrate.”
“We need not fear, then, for the success of our holy enterprise,” observed Philip Ford; “and I am ready to embark all my worldly possessions. I have already sent out my beloved son Jonas, a youth of fair promise, and what thing more precious could I stake on the success of our undertaking.”
William Penn having made all his arrangements with the new company, giving them very great facilities, returned to London. Here he made preparation for his own departure. It was grievous to him to leave his children and his beloved wife. He hoped, however, in a short time to come back and return with them to the land of his adoption. There was a great stir in the Quaker world, for not only farmers and artisans, but many persons of wealth and education were preparing to take part in the enterprise.
Among the first ships which sailed after the departure of the Amity, and those which have before been spoken of, was one, the Concord, on board which William Mead and his family, with several friends, set sail for the New World. William Penn saw his old friend off, his prayers going with him, and hoping himself to follow in a short time.
In the autumn of the year 1683, a large vessel might have been seen floating on the waters of the Thames. She was the Welcome. Surrounding her were a number of boats which had brought off passengers, while her decks were loaded with bales and packages of every possible description, which the crew were engaged in stowing below. On the deck, also, had been built up sheds for horses and pens for sheep, as also for goats to afford milk, and pigs and poultry in large quantities for provision. Already nearly a hundred persons were collected on board, besides the crew. The signal was given, and the Welcome got under weigh to proceed down the Thames. Once more she brought up in the Downs, off Deal. The 1st of September broke bright and clear. Her flags were flying out gaily to the breeze, her white canvas hung to the yards, when a large boat, followed by several smaller ones, came off from the shore, and the young and energetic preacher of the gospel, the governor of a vast province, the originator of the grandest scheme of colonisation ever yet formed, ascended the side of the Welcome which was to bear him to the shores of the New World. Prayers ascended from the deck of the proud ship as her anchor was once more lifted, and she proceeded on her voyage to the west. All seemed fair and smiling, and all that forethought and care could arrange had been provided for the passengers. Few who saw William Penn at that moment would have supposed, however, that he was a man of indomitable energy and courage. Downcast and sad, he gazed on the shores of the land he was leaving, which, notwithstanding his general philanthropy, contained those he loved best on earth, where all his tender affections were centred. The Isle of Wight was soon passed. The Land’s End faded in the distance, and the stout ship stood across the Atlantic. William Penn soon recovered his energy and spirits, and the captain promised a speedy and prosperous voyage. The governor was walking the deck, talking earnestly with his friend Pearson, a man of large mind and generous heart, when the captain came to them.
“I fear, friends,” he said, “that one of our passengers is not long for this world. She has been unwell since she came on board at Deal. Her lips are blue, and dark marks cover her countenance.”
The governor and his friend instantly went below; a young girl of some twelve years old lay on her bed in one of the close cabins.
“I fear me much it is the small-pox,” said Pearson. “Yet it would be well if we could avoid alarming the other passengers.”