The Pilgrim

by Hugh Nissenson

  “Praise God, so she has,” Brewster said. “She tells me that you want to be saved, as well.”

  I said, “I have no hope of it, for I am damned. God will not forgive my sins. I sinned against my father and my best friend.”

  “Do you pray for forgiveness?”

  “My best friend once said that his soul was a dry land. So it is with me. My soul is a dry land, wherein no prayer can take root.”

  Said he, “That, sir, is a mediocre metaphor. Now get you hence, and return to me only when you want to learn to pray for forgiveness from the God of Israel in plain English.”

  Henry Sampson, the musketeer who stuck Wittuwamat’s head atop the flagstaff, returned my knapsack. He had washed the canvas clean of maggots and carrion beetles in the bay. I turned the knapsack inside out and hung it in the sunshine on the gate of Master Brewster’s vegetable garden.

  Sampson said, “Tell me about cutting off Wittuwamat’s head. Was there much blood?”

  Said I, “I will save my breath for my broth.”

  Within the last three or four days, Wittuwamat’s head had become a fleshless skull. The ravens had eaten almost all the skin upon it. There was a patch beneath the jawbone, and three or more round its crown, from which his long strands of hair dangled. The biggest raven often perched atop the crown, preening his lustrous feathers. I saw him pluck a thick strand of hair from the crown and fly off with it streaming from his black beak. Our bloodstained banner hung limply from the flagstaff.

  That afternoon, Phineas Pratt and Mosq visited Brewster’s house, wherein we supped on fat, sweet, smoked eels.

  I said to Pratt, “I never expected to see thee alive again.”

  Bradford said, “Master Pratt hath found himself a new occupation. He hath become a scout. He bravely made his way here all alone through the woods from Wessagusset without a compass, armed only with a dagger. May he borrow your compass? He and Mosq are going scouting for me on Cape Cod, among the people of Nauset, Paomet, the Succonet, and the Manomet to discover if they still plan to attack us, despite our massacre of the Massachusetts.”

  Said I, “I will gladly lend my compass to Pratt. But let him relate to me the circumstances of his escape from Wessagusset.”

  Pratt said, “I fled Wessagusset out of cowardice. I deserted the stockade, fearing that I would be killed there by the savages. I said in my thoughts, ‘I made a grave mistake.’ My design was lacking. I should have built a blockhouse, in addition to my impaled fortification. The blockhouse should have stood in place of the hut. It would have provided us with additional protection, a fort in which to retreat in case the savages broke into the stockade. I said in my thoughts, ‘I overreached myself.’ Truth is, I am only a simple carpenter.

  “As soon as I reached the woods at the edge of the glade, I spied three savages, armed with bows and arrows, following me at a distance of about two hundred yards. One of them was also carrying a dagger on a leathern thong about his neck. I ran southward, till about three of the clock. I heard a great howling of wolves and ran on. My mouth was dry from fear. I came to a river. The water was deep and cold, with many rocks. I passed through the icy water with much ado.

  “My thirst was quenched. I was still faint for want of food, weary from running, and afraid to make a fire because the savages were doubtless still pursuing me. Then I came to a deep dell, with much wood fallen into it. I said in my thoughts, ‘This is God’s Providence that I may here make a fire.’ I did so, and its heat began drying my clothes. The stars began to appear. I saw Ursa Major and the polestar. The following day, at about three of the clock, the sun broke through the clouds, and I resumed running south.

  “At length, I lay face down to rest behind a big granite stone. Of a sudden, I was no longer afraid of savages, wolves, or getting lost in the woods. Nor was I frightened of being frightened. For a moment or two, I calmly gazed down at my body from a great height. I saw my steel dagger grasped in my right hand. I said in my thoughts, ‘If I live, what a story I will have to tell.’

  “I rose to my feet. Running down a hill, I saw a group of Englishmen. I sat down on a fallen tree, then rose to salute them.

  “One of them said, ‘I am glad and full of wonder to see you alive, Mister Pratt.’

  “I said, ‘Let me eat some parched corn.’

  “The long and the short of it was that Governor Bradford called me to him, bade me welcome, and after I related what had happened to me, asked me to become a scout with Mosq. I agreed without hesitation. My little amble through the woods made a new man of me.”

  Said I, “Here. Take my compass as a gift.”

  Said he, “Thank you. I have a favor to ask of thee.”

  “Speak!”

  “If I do not come back alive, tell my story.”

  “I promise,” said I.

  He and Mosq left the next morning at dawn for Cape Cod, the habitation of the Nauset, the Paomet, the Succonet, and the Manomet. Pratt was armed with a musket and a dagger. Mosq also carried a steel dagger, and a bow and a quiver filled with arrows. His face was painted black, with a wide red streak on each cheek.

  • • •

  I supped that evening with Abigail in the Winslow house. Afterwards, she and I walked east on the Street, between the new thatched huts. I said, “The letter you sent me from my aunt Eliza informed me that my dear uncle Roger is dead and hath, when my aunt dies, bequeathed to me his farm near Winterbourne. It is worth two hundred pounds. Ay, you heard me! Two hundred pounds! Why, I shall be one of the richest land owners in the parish of Harrow Hill!

  “Aunt Eliza is three-and-seventy years of age and blind in one eye. God preserve her, but she will not live many more years. Now harken to me! According to the conditions of the will, I must return to England and oversee my farm.

  “Marry me and you shall be the mistress of one hundred and twenty acres of rich pasture land, a broad stream, two ponds, an apple orchard, and divers and sundry sheep, cattle, and swine tended by a shepherd and a cowman. You shall have a serving maid, whose name is Grace Foot. Her husband, Tom, is our bailiff of husbandry. You and I shall abide together in a seven-room farmhouse, impaneled with red clay. The walls within are hanged with painted cloths. The house hath two storeys. On the first floor, there are three living rooms at one end, and a kitchen, buttery, and dairy at the other.

  “Did I mention the rose garden near our bedroom window? The blooming roses seem to be afire, even in the rain.

  “Dearest Abigail, I have been thinking about all this for some time. I know we had plans to marry and live in Plymouth. But I have come to a different decision. I cannot remain in Plymouth because of my damnable pride. I am not one of the Elect. Abigail, as I love thee, let me tell you true. God forgive me, I am envious of thy regeneration. I cannot help it. I envy your delight in the loveliness of God.”

  Then I said, “Pride and envy. There’s a devil loose in me.”

  Abigail said, “I love roses. We shall one day grow them in Plymouth and warm our souls over their fires. Dear Charles, I will never return to England. I love living like a godly Christian woman in Plymouth. I cannot again submit my soul to the papist Church of England. I will not live amongst people who play at cards and bowl on the holy Sabbath. I beg you: remain here with me. Let us marry and raise our children in what is surely the only godly commonwealth on earth, wherein we live to do the most good to others. For, as one saith, ‘He whose living is but for himself, it is time he were dead.’

  “What say you? O, Charles! Do not envy my delight in the loveliness of God. Consult with Master Brewster. He will tell you how you too can be regenerated. That is, if you are predestined to be saved. Be brave and discover your soul’s final destiny, be it heaven or hell.”

  Said I, “O, Abigail, till this very moment I had not thought how brave you were to discover thy soul’s eternal destiny! I have never loved thee more! I shall consult anon wi
th Master Brewster and prove myself worthy of your love for me.”

  I spake with Brewster the next morning whilst we were weeding his cornfield.

  He always worked side by side with his four laborers in the hot sun.

  He said, “God hath been good to me. I reckon my six acres will, for the first time, bear at least two hundred bushels of corn.”

  I said, “Tell me, sir. What should I do? I caused my beloved father’s death and did nothing to protest the hanging of my best friend. My heart is well nigh consumed with guilt.”

  Said he, “Scripture says, ‘For if you do not forgive, your Father which is in heaven will not pardon your trespasses.’”

  Said I, “Whom shall I forgive?”

  Said he, “I cannot say. You must search your soul. Trust in God. He may lead thee into a new place wherein you have never been. God is great and we know not His ways. He takes from us all that we have, but if we possess our souls in patience, we may pass through the valley of the shadow and come out in sunlight again.”

  Late that afternoon, I said to Abigail, “Wittuwamat and myself! My soul tells me that to find peace, I must forgive Wittuwamat and myself. Myself! Who ever heard of such a thing? How can I forgive myself?”

  • • •

  In the evening, Governor Bradford called me to him. Said he, “I should like you to give me your opinion of my Hebrew grammar, which I have but recently completed. What a singular language! As you know, parts of the body that come in pairs—like eyes and hands—are masculine. Whereas a single feature, like the nose, hath a feminine ending.”

  Said I, “I am a great sinner, sir, and am no longer worthy of studying the holy tongue in which God spake unto the prophets and Jesus prayed in the temple.”

  Said he, “Tush! You are too hard on yourself.”

  “Not hard enough,” said I. “Not hard enough.”

  Pratt and Mosq returned on Friday, the twenty-ninth of August. The meeting house was crowded for the next day’s Sabbath services. Everyone in the Plantation, save the very sick and those who kept watch, stayed to listen to Pratt’s address after the morning service.

  He said, “Mosq and I learned that Captain Standish’s sudden and unexpected execution of the Massachusetts hath so terrified and amazed the other Indians all throughout Cape Cod that they forsook their houses and ran to and fro like men distracted, living in swamps and other desert places, wherein in the last month, they brought manifold diseases upon themselves. I said in my thoughts, ‘God forgive us.’ Many innocent women and children—babes in arms—are amongst the dead. Many more, hiding in swamps and remote islands, shall starve to death as they are unable to plant their crops.”

  I said, “Tell me more of their children.”

  “They are already starving. I saw eight or ten of them with swelled bellies and arms and legs as thin as twigs. They had not the strength to weep or cry aloud. Mosq and I gave the mother of twins half of the parched corn we carried with us.”

  Said I, “Did you perchance see a crippled little Indian maiden, about seven years of age?”

  Pratt said, “Nay.”

  Mosq said, “Nay.”

  Then Pratt said, “The Indians call us ‘wotawquenange.’ Cutthroats.”

  • • •

  Now behold an act of Providence! The next afternoon, the jawbone fell off Wittuwamat’s skull.

  Master Brewster said, “Let us bury the loathsome things and have done with them.”

  I said, “I will do it.”

  Brewster said, “Then do so! But leave our bloody banner where it is. Let it remind us of our sins.”

  Governor Bradford said, “Let it be a warning to our enemies and a reminder to us of our victory in Wessagusset.” Then he said, “The word in Hebrew for ‘skull’ is ‘gulgolet.’ Hence, Golgotha, which means ‘the place of the skull’ in Aramaic. I learned a little Aramaic from the old rabbi in Leyden who taught me Hebrew. He studied the Talmud in Aramaic. The Talmud is a holy book to the Jews. As I recall, it teaches that Jesus was a magician who brought a dead sparrow back to life when he was a child.”

  Then he said to me, “Do not bury the accursed skull and its jawbone. Cast them away in the woods like the bones of an animal. Leave our bloody banner where it is as a warning to the savages that may visit us to trade.”

  I climbed to the roof of the blockhouse with my knapsack and placed the jawbone and the rest of the skull within it. The bloodstained banner reminded me of the Indian whom I had slain, and I vomited. I carried my knapsack half a mile south on the Highway. There I vomited again.

  I digged a deep hole beneath an oak tree with my dagger and buried my knapsack therein.

  I said, “Wittuwamat, I will give your skull the burial worthy of a sachem.”

  Next, I placed my dagger, in its green leathern scabbard, atop the knapsack and said, “Wittuwamat, this is the dagger you coveted. I give it to you now as the treasure due to a sachem’s buried bones.”

  I covered up the knapsack and the dagger in its green leathern scabbard with handfuls of earth and three flat stones. Then I said, “Now, as you did for your wife, I shall sing thee a death song.”

  I sang the old song that Mary Puckering sang to me in my childhood:

  O death, rock me asleep,

  Bring me to quiet rest.

  Toll on thou passing bell,

  Let thy sound

  My death tell,

  For I must die,

  There is no remedy,

  For now I die.

  Then I said, “Wittuwamat, I forgive you.”

  I vomited bitter choler. My whole body was in a tremor. Then I said, “Hear me, O my God! Is it permissible to forgive myself in Thy name?”

  Of a sudden, my heart beat very quick. There arose in me such a sense of God taking care of those who put their trust in Him that I wept for joy. I felt no guilt for what I had done to my father and Rigdale. My heart beat faster. I wept again and laughed.

  I cried out, “What rapture! My rapture will kill me.”

  I was not afraid. My rapture increased. I was utterly full of the love and grace of God. My heart seemed about to burst. Then I heard the Holy Spirit speak within me in a still, small voice, saying, “Forgive thyself in My name.”

  I groaned like a man in pain, though I was in no pain at all. I said, “Lord, I forgive myself in Thy name.”

  For a few moments, I felt the greatest joy that was ever my lot to know. I shouted and praised Him who loved me and had washed away my sins.

  Then I walked quickly back to Plymouth. I could not stop praising the Lord. I raised one foot, and it seemed to say, “Glory!” Then I lifted the other, and it seemed to say “Amen!” They kept up like that all the time I hurried along.

  I found Abigail washing dishes in her house. I sang,

  Hey down-a down, down-derry,

  Among the leaves so green, o!

  In love we are, in love we’ll stay,

  Among the leaves so green, o!

  Said she, “Sweetheart! Why so merry? Where hath your melancholy gone?”

  I spake a little verse to her extempore:

  Joy hath revived

  In the tomb of my soul,

  Which, like a womb,

  Was quickened by

  A word from God:

  “Forgive!”

  So I forgave my enemy

  And myself,

  And was reborn.

  I then said to Abigail, “Praise God, who predestined the rebirth of my soul.”

  Thus God preserved and kept me all the days of my youth. At times I lost His special presence, yet He returned to me in mercy again.

  On the twentieth day of January, in the year of Christ 1625, the godly Saints of the Plymouth Colony elected me to their Fellowship of the Gospel after I made to them the entire aforesaid public con
fession of my sins and declared my public regeneration. Thereafter, on the following Monday, being the twenty-seventh day of the month, Abigail Winslow and I were wed.

  Don’t miss Hugh Nissenson’s The Days of Awe,

  also available from Sourcebooks Landmark.

  Artie Rubin couldn’t keep his mind on Odin. His thoughts buzzed around the corpses of the two Arab kids in Nablus. At eleven, he called Johanna at her office. He read her the headline on the front page of the Times that was eating at him: “Israeli Raid Kills 8 at Hamas Office; 2 Are Young Boys; Palestinians Call for Revenge; Violence on Both Sides Shows No Sign of Letup.”

  Artie said, “The boys were brothers, five and six. One was found on top of the other.”

  “I saw the article. Their poor parents. Leslie and Chris are having dinner with us tonight. I made a reservation at Shun Lee for 8:30.”

  “Any bleeding this morning?”

  “Yes. I spoke to Dr. Gunning. He’s convinced it’s just hemorrhoids. I hope he’s right. But we’ll soon know for sure. I’ve never had a colonoscopy, so he insisted I schedule one for next Monday at ten. ”

  “Finally! You’ll be woozy from the anesthetic. I’ll pick you up.”

  Leslie said to Johanna, “Send Daddy my love.”

  Johanna said good-bye to Artie. Leslie clicked on their five bellwether stocks: Citigroup 50.34, Intel 30.30, Cisco 65.79, Microsoft 66.71, Johnson & Johnson 54.25. No significant change this week; no significant change since late spring.

  Leslie said, “Chris and I are going shopping after lunch. He needs a summer jacket. I’m thinking dark brown. To go with his tan pants.”

  Artie drank a Bass ale. It went right to his head. He squeezed out five sentences: “The god Odin appears among us as a warrior in his mid-fifties with one blue eye; his reddish-brown beard is turning gray. Instead of a helmet, he wears a blue broad-brimmed hat and carries a magic spear called Gungnir. Men hanged from trees are sacrificed to him.”

  Don’t start with Odin. Begin at the beginning.

  Artie wrote, “In the beginning was fire and ice.”