“ ’Tain’t yer work, lad,” said Mr. Hatfield, fitting a seat onto the legs of a chair and talking to Obidiah over his shoulder. “It’s yer persuasion. Two more gentlemen canceled their orders just this mornin’. ‘Don’ want t’ contribute to the support o’ no Separatist varmint,’ says they. For myself, I don’t care whether ye be a Separatist or a son o’ Satan himself, ‘long as you know the right way to drive a peg. But if it hurt m’ trade, I got no choice but to cast ye off like a split board.”
It was hard for Obidiah to believe folks would let their minds grow so narrow but there he was, tarred with the same brush as Reverend Robinson, Deacon Brewster and all the rest. And everywhere he went in Scrooby he heard the same thing. “Sorry. No job for a herytic. If our Church ain’t good enough for ye, nuther is our money.” He had never realized before how terribly set people were in their ways. But finally when Harry Muggridge, the tavern keeper who had drunk so much of his own ale he had begun to look like one of his barrels, when even he wouldn’t take Obidiah on as an extra barkeep to help with the Saturday night brawlers, Obidiah got in such a temper he just stood right out in the middle of the square and hollered, “This country’s goin t’ the Devil, if ye should ask me. When a body that’s willin’ and able can’t get work ’cuz he happened to walk into the wrong church by mistake, things’ve come to a fine howdy-do. And if the high and mighty Church o’ England is afeared of a handful o’ dissenters, mebbe it ain’t so high ’n’ mighty after all. The Seprytists, they got some pretty strange idees, but if ye think ye c’n kill an idee by gaolin’ its believers or starvin’ em out, well you got another think comin’….”
Obidiah had never talked like that in his life before, and while he was standing there trying to catch his breath and lower the wick on his anger, who should come up to him but Silence. “Brave words, Obidiah, and I’m proud on ye,” she said. “Mos’ courageous speakin’ I hear in this village in quite a spell.”
“Wasn’t makin’ no speech,” said Obidiah. “Jest a-tellin’ Mister Muggridge what I think on him fer bein’ sech a consarned narrer-minded critter what won’ even throw a poor persecuted dawg a bone of a job.”
“Now, mebbe that’s the way you blew it in,” Silence said, “but that sure ain’t the way it come out. The way it come out, that’s the most law-defyin’ speechifyin’ heered in Scrooby since I c’n remember. The author’ties’ll run ye in by nightfall for bein’ one o’ the ringleaders, I do believe.”
“Saints ’n’ sinners!” he said. “Obidiah, ye sure have the knack o’ gettin’ ye’self into one buster of a pickle.”
“Ye do wrong t’ call it a pickle,” said Silence.
“And what would ye call it?”
“I call it the glorious state o’ the true religion o’ free men.”
“The true religion o’ free men is all very well and good,” said Obidiah. “But it’s kind o’ stretchin’ things t’ call ye’self a free man while ye’re lookin’ out through the bars o’ the Scrooby gaol.”
Then Miss Silence turned her honest face around one way and then the other, conspiratoriallike, and whispered in his ear, “We be fixin’ to go a-pilgrimizin’ any day now and ye best be comin’ with us. We’ll be meetin’ in Deacon Brewster’s house tonight after lamps’re out for to make the plans.”
“Ain’t interested,” said Obidiah.
But that night he was walking the streets of Scrooby feeling lower than the underparts of a worm when the lamplighters came around to snuff out the wicks. Well, what’ve I got to lose, he thought to himself, my goose is cooked in Scrooby anyhow. So he sneaked up to Deacon Brewster’s and set himself down. Silence greeted him with her best smile, and kept smiling to herself like a Cheshire cat.
And that’s now Obidiah came to shake the dust of dear old Nottin’hamshire from his boots and set up shop in Leyden away over yonder in the land of the Dutch.
The good people of Holland left the migrant Separatists alone. They didn’t seem to care if this strange little group prayed forwards, backwards or upside down, as long as it paid its way and kept the peace. Nice little country, Holland, for the Dutch, Obidiah was thinking. But it doesn’t matter how fine a house is, if a man’s only visiting it, your host can say, “Make y’self to home,” till he’s blue in the face and you still can’t get yourself to feel comfortable in it. A man’s got to build a country around him like a house.
That little bug of restlessness was biting all the Separatists, that and the fact that not being able to talk the Dutch lingo made supporting themselves as difficult as squeezing sweat from a stone. There were only a few hundred of them but when they went down the list of countries and the tyrants that were heading them, it seemed as if Europe wasn’t big enough for Separatists and tyrants, too.
Now, there was a man among them, Will Bradford, who could read as well as any priest. He read so well he’d even set himself down to reading a book for the sport of it when he hadn’t got anything better to do. And one day he happened to pick up a pamphlet that a fellow named Captain Smith had written about the New World, and especially a little corner of it called Virginia, which from the sound of it was second only to Paradise itself. In fact, Bradford told them, Captain Smith had to lean over backwards not to put it the other way ’round.
So, after the usual arguments and procrastination, it was decided to part with every article of worldly goods they could spare, pool their money and buy a couple of boats to ferry them across to that Kingdom of Heaven on Earth. John Carver, Miles Standish and Deacon Brewster had a guinea or two, but the rest of them were just plain yeomen that hadn’t had any land to yeo, and humble artisans as honest as they were poor. So all together they didn’t have enough gold to buy any but the poorest excuses for ships that ever shivered in a gale, and one of them was hardly bigger than the little Dutch canalboats. The Speedwell it was called, though the fellow that named it—Obidiah grumbled—must have been quite a joke-ster. And the other one was only slightly larger, just a little old wine freighter it was, with the letters spelling out MAYFLOWER nearly weathered off the stern, though it didn’t exactly suggest a mayflower to the nose, with the hold still smelling of stale, sour grapes.
The two boats were hardly big enough to hold more than half the group between them, so the old and the sick had to stay behind and wait until the first group got themselves settled over there. When old Reverend Robinson saw he had to be left behind, he knelt down on the dock and prayed the Lord to keep watch over them. “These pilgrims be yer bravest soldiers,” he said, “a little army flying yer banner that’s going forth to conquer a new world with love and peace in their hearts, instead of force and hate.” Then everyone cried “Amen!” and fell to hugging and kissing, God-blessing and bawling, such tearful goings-on Obidiah hoped never to see again.
But after all that leave-taking, they had to turn back and go through it all over again because the Speedwell, the one Obidiah was on, turned out to be just about as seaworthy as a sieve. They were hardly out of the harbor before it began to look as if they had more ocean inside the ship than they had out. So they had to put back to shore and lay over a couple of days to mend the leak and try again. But damn if she didn’t spring another leak, bigger than the first, and Obidiah thought his back would break from helping to pump her out till they made it to shore.
Obidiah figured those forty souls on the Speedwell would be running out of enthusiasm for Virginia by now and content to wait behind with the old folks and the sick ones. But those pilgrims who piled off the Speedwell couldn’t wait to join the others on the Mayflower, till that old scow looked as if she was going under right there in the harbor.
“No thank ye,” said Obidiah, when he was invited to come aboard. “Sometime I get to wonderin’ if I wasn’t a mite crazy to leave home in the fust place. But I’d a sight ruther go on livin’ here in Holland—least it’s got land in it, and that’s more’n ye’re likely to see in that plaguey tub o’ yourn.”
Then John Carver spoke up in his deep
organ voice, “This is just the Lord’s way of testing us to see if we be strong enough to go out into the wilderness in His name and build a new world.” And then he fixed his fiery eyes on Obidiah and said, “For those who’ve got the faith and strength of spirit, all aboard. For those that haven’t, all ashore.”
“It ain’t so much strength o’ spirit I be lackin’,” said Obidiah. “It’s strength o’ stomach. I was feelin’ the seasickness afore we even left the harbor. There ain’t a sea on the globe my spirit don’t hanker to sail, if my stomach could be left behind.”
“Let this be a free assembly of free worshippers,” said John Carver. “May your conscience be your guide.”
Silence was waiting right behind him, and as Obidiah stood there trying to make up his mind, she didn’t say anything, but two big tears fell from her eyes and went sliding down her rosy cheeks.
“Reckon that trip’ll be trouble enough, without havin’ no woman on my neck,” Obidiah muttered, and started to turn away. Just then the skipper of the Mayflower, Captain Jones, came up and tapped him on the shoulder. “I hear ye be a carpenterin’ man,” he said. “Would ye mind comin’ aboard a minute to tighten a beam supportin’ the main deck that’s worked itself loose?”
So Obidiah carried his tools into the ship and sweated and grunted the beam back into place again. But when Captain Jones was satisfied the job was done, it took a little time for Obidiah to get away from Silence, who still hadn’t given up trying to talk him into coming along.
“Fer the last time, no!” he said when all of sudden he looked out the porthole. “Cap’n, Cap’n, there’s been a terrible mistake,” he hollered. “You forgot t’ leave me off.”
“Well, I swan!” said the captain. “I thought ye went ashore when ye got the job done.”
“And if it ain’t o’ been for a woman’s gab, so I would,” said Obidiah. “But since I didn’t, ye had better put her about, becuz I ain’t a-goin’ with ye.”
“That seems to be a matter of opinion,” said Captain Jones, quietly smiling down his beard. “Looks to me like you be, fer a fac’.”
Then John Carver stepped forward. “Since this be the exodus of free men searching for a place to live and worship as they please, seems like a bad omen to begin the voyage by forcing a man to come with us against his will.”
“I don’t know much about omens and sech,” said Captain Jones. “Tides ‘n’ currents is my business. I can think o’ worse things ’n startin’ a voyage on a bad omen. Startin’ it wi’ the tides ag’in ye, fer instance. And that’s the way it’ll be if we take this young feller back.”
“Nevertheless,” said John Carver, “our duty is clear. Even if it means waiting over till the morrow.”
Well, Obidiah wasn’t a superstitious fellow, but he couldn’t help thinking how maybe the Lord meant for him to go along, on account of their needing a carpenter perhaps, or because they had so many pious, heaven-minded souls aboard, the Lord figured it might not be a bad idee to send a likker-drinking, cussword-using critter along with them so they could see how far they had come along the road to the Pearly Gates. “Well, ‘long as I’m aboard,” Obidiah shrugged, “I reckon I might as well take m’ chances wi’ the rest o’ ye.”
“Praise the Lord!” said Silence. “I knew His voice would speak through ye afore it was too late.”
“He spoke through me after it was too late,” Obidiah protested. “An’ that’s the only reason I’m aboard.”
“Who are we to question the ways of the Lord?” said Silence, smiling that smile that brought sunlight to the cold, dark places of the old scow.
If John Carver had put his offer to Obidiah the morning after the first night, young Flagg would have jumped at the chance to go ashore. The whole flock of them, women, children and all, had to sleep in one big room with sand on the floor and a ceiling that was just high enough to give your head a good crack when you tried to straighten up. And as for ventilation, when Obidiah lay on his back in the wooden bunk with the cabin so black he couldn’t see his hand in front of his nose, he said to himself, “Obidiah, now ye know what it feels like t’ be lyin’ in yer coffin six feet under the earth.” And the next morning when they barely managed to stagger up to the deck, the sea rose up beneath them until as they looked across the bow, they seemed to be flying up into the angry sky, only to come crashing down into the valley between those giant waves.
They were a sick-looking bunch of believers that day, and the next night even the seamen had fear in their eyes, though rougher, fiercer-looking brutes Obidiah had never seen. And in language that made Silence and the other maids put their hands to their ears, they grumbled and groused that it made no sense to go any farther with the sea a raging hell. Aye, they even muttered threats as to how they’d deal with Cap’n Jones if he didn’t see eye to eye with them and turn his leaky tub of a ship around.
A toss of the ship sent Obidiah rolling from his bunk and when he landed on his arm and was sure it was broken, he was so mad he hollered out before he knew what he was saying, “God damn us all to hell if I don’t think them tars be right. We wuz all a pack o’ blasted idiots to trust our lives to this rotten ol’ scow in the fust place. But we be even bigger fools if we don’ give up this infernal wild-goose chase afore it’s too late.”
Then John Carver spoke up and his voice was as deep and strong as the roar of the waves. “Obidiah,” he said, “mind your tongue. We’re not afraid to live and we’re not afraid to die. The only thing we be afraid of is turning back, ’cause that would be a confession of weakness. And the Lord wants nothing but strong men for to build a New World.”
“But all we got lef’ fer victuals is the stale bread and salt beef we’ve been sharin’ with the maggots,” said Obidiah. “And the damned boat is groanin’ like it wants to split in two.”
“Our faith will hold it together,” John Carver said.
“I’m a carpenter,” said Obidiah. “An’ I never j’ined two pieces o’ wood wi’ faith yet. Takes pegs an’ screws, it does.”
“The Lord doesn’t need such tools,” John Carver said.
“But mebbe we’re out to sea so fur the Lord can’t see us,” Obidiah argued. “Mebbe He figgers He’s got enough to do just watchin’ over the land, an’ the sea c’n go to the Devil.”
“Obidiah Flagg,” said John Carver, in his steely voice, “that comes mighty close to heresy.”
“Well, a man’s got a right to his own opinion,” Obidiah talked back. “And I say the New World is about as far off as m’ marriage to Silence. And ye know how far that be.”
“Obidiah Flagg,” John Carver said, pointing a long, bony finger at his head, “as the elected leader of this expedition, I find you guilty of blaspheming and undermining confidence.” He turned to the group’s only military man. “Mister Standish, put this man in the brig.”
So there he was, cooped up in the tiny brig, with his chin cracking against his knees every time another wave crashed against the hull. He was cursing the day he ever wandered into that little church of theirs back in Scrooby, and thinking how nice it would feel to be back in Nottin’hamshire in the field with his pa, when all of a sudden the sea started falling away from under them until he thought they were going to hit the bottom for sure. But just as suddenly the water came up to meet them again, and the ship shuddered in its tracks like a butchered cow, and there was a terrible sound like lightning, only it was coming from inside the ship, right over Obidiah’s head and he was resigned that the end had come at last. And while he was squatting there with his eyes closed waiting for Judgment Day, Captain Standish came running with a lamp in his hand and started to set him free.
“So it’s every man for himself?”
“No,” said Standish, “the main beam is sprung again. The upper deck’s nigh cavin’ into our quarters. An’ ye’re the only man among us who c’n fix it.”
So Obidiah got out his lever, his mallet and his big brace, and went to work on the beam. When the tossing of the boat m
ade him hit his thumb a mean lick with the mallet, he cried out in pain, “Hellsfire!”
“Mind your blaspheming,” warned John Carver, and Deacon Brewster and Will Bradford and all the others watching Obidiah work nodded in agreement.
When he got the beam set, Obidiah told them all to put their shoulders to it and push. “Heave, goddammit, heave!” he shouted, and John Carver looked up again. “I said mind your blaspheming. Ye be out of the brig on good behavior. I don’t want to have to warn ye again.”
“Well, gol darn it,” said Obidiah, “I can’t work without cussin’. Kind o’ helps me to bear down on what I’m a-doin’. So it’s up to ye to decide whether to let me go on fixin’ this damn ship or see us all plunge to hell.”
John Carver kind of hesitated a minute, looking to Deacon Brewster for advice. Then he said quietlike so that maybe God wouldn’t be able to hear him, “Go on with yer fixin’.”
So Obidiah went on cussing and working, working and cussing, and pretty soon he got the blasted beam back in place again. Then Captain Jones came down and asked if he would take a “look-see at the middle mast that’s a-splitting at the base.” Well, it wasn’t exactly the job Obidiah was hankering for but there didn’t seem any way of getting out of it, so he climbed to the outer deck. Soon as he set his foot outside, his legs blew up over his head like a suit of long underwear hung on a line on a windy day. He had all he could do to hold onto the rigging, to keep from flying off into the foaming sea. So Captain Jones had a couple of tars lash Obidiah to the mast while he mended it as best he could. But just when they were untying him a big wave came over the side that seemed to be looking for Obidiah in particular. Before he knew it, he was getting the first bath he had had since he left Holland, only the tub he was taking it in was a mite too big for comfort. But he reckoned he must be too ornery to die, because the next wave slapped him right against the side of the ship and he grabbed hold of the topsail halyard that was hanging down and rode along that way for a while with his head mostly under water till they fished him out with a boat hook.