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Remember Plymouth

Bjorn Hasseler


Plymouth town, Plymouth Plantations colony
Saturday, May 9, 1637


“The French will be here soon,” Governor William Bradford stated. The governor was a healthy, physically fit man whose neatly trimmed mustache and goatee contributed to his sense of presence and dignity. He glanced at the sails in the bay, then at the men who stood beside him in the middle of Plymouth, their backs to the wind. It was a damp and chilly spring day, mostly overcast with a dark cloudbank on the horizon.

After a moment Bradford spoke again. “John Winthrop’s letter outpaced them. He is no longer the governor of Massachusetts Bay—no Englishman is—but I think we can rely on his account of the French landings in Boston and Salem last month.”

Elder William Brewster nodded firmly. He was no longer the pastor of Plymouth—in fact, he lived in Duxbury now. But if the French were coming to take possession of the colony, he was the spiritual leader everyone wanted present. Brewster was aging, his white hair and narrow face giving him a monk-like appearance. Now he spoke up. “I am sure his warning will prove accurate and insightful. There’s been little violence, and some of that accidental. Small comfort to the families of those killed, of course. And the French have not, as yet, interfered with the Puritan congregations.”

Captain Myles Standish snorted. “Yet. They will wait until after they have gained control of all our towns. How many men does Winthrop say they have?”

Bradford was meticulous. He brought the letter out from under his cloak and checked it, even though the numbers had to be fixed in his mind. “Some few hundreds. Ten ships. One man-of-war with thirty or forty guns and two men-of-war with twenty to thirty guns. The rest are merchant ships carrying troops and colonists. A few guns and swivels, of course.”

Standish pointed toward the bay. “Four sail yonder, so perhaps two hundred men. But . . . colonists, you say?”

“Farmers, a smith, a cooper, a chandler, and so on,” Bradford summarized. “A governor and subordinate officials. That means . . . ”

“That we have no leverage.” Standish sighed. “They do not need any of us for their colony to survive.”

“Not so.” The only Native American in the group spoke up in English. He was a tough, well-muscled man who wore tunic and trousers while he was in Plymouth town. “These French follow a new king called Gaston. They have not heard the words of their great chief Champlain who would counsel them to avoid the mistakes you yourselves made at first. Nor will they speak with Massasoit Ousamequin.” He pronounced the title Mas-SA-so-eet.

None of the four white men bristled at that statement, not even the often-irascible Myles Standish.

It was simply the truth.

“We thank you—I thank you, Hobbamock—for rescuing us from those mistakes.” William Bradford’s words were sincere.

Hobbamock nodded gravely to Governor Bradford. “Edward here did likewise for Massasoit Ousamequin in turn.”

Hobbamock had lived with the Pilgrims for several months in those disastrous first two years. Had been assigned to them by Massasoit Ousamequin wasn’t too strong a way to characterize it. Later, Hobbamock had worked with and sometimes against Squanto, but when he’d been the one to bring word to the Pilgrims that Squanto had been captured by another tribe, Standish had led the rescue party.

And that, Hobbamock reflected, was odd. For all that Myles Standish did not respect the Wampanoag or the Massachusett or any other tribe—he’d nearly started a war with Sassacus, the great sachem of the Pequot, just last year—he had gone to Squanto’s aid. And Standish and Hobbamock were not precisely friends, but something close to it.

“Did the French governor actually refuse to meet with Massasoit Ousamequin?” the fourth Englishman asked. Edward Winslow was Governor Bradford’s right-hand man, had explored the Connecticut and Kennebec Rivers, established trading posts, and was a personal friend of Massasoit Ousamequin. He and Susanna White had even been the first Pilgrims to marry in Plymouth. Each had lost a previous spouse in the terrible first winter.

“The governor said he would summon him at leisure. Summon.” Hobbamock shook his head in disgust.

“That would be a grave mistake,” Winslow stated.

“Perhaps, once the formalities are over, I might speak with the new governor or his designate . . . ”

“The French are lowering boats,” Standish announced.

“Very well,” Governor Bradford stated. “Allow us to meet them. In a solemn manner—all Plymouth is watching.”

* * *

An hour later, the five men were waiting by the gate nearest the bay. They had seen to it that the gates were open, and both the blockhouse at the far end of Plymouth and the stockade in the middle of the town were unmanned.

An irregular line of eight boats was struggling through the wind-driven chop toward shore. Each held several soldiers, muskets or pikes held upright between their knees. Behind them, several sailors rowed. A couple of the central boats held one or two men who appeared to be dressed in finer clothes.

One of those boats finally grounded on the beach. The soldiers leapt over the side at once. The Plymouth men heard shouts, and the soldiers formed into rank. Within a couple minutes, most of the other boats reached land. Their soldiers added themselves to the formation, pikes in the center and muskets on the flanks.

“Fools,” Standish muttered. “How so?” Winslow asked.

“The gate lies open, no colors are flying, and not a soul is near the cannon. Anyone ought to see that we wait in greeting. If they cannot discern that, why then, forming into a single mass is the worst of all. Were the guns loaded, two charges of grape would down half of them.”

“I appreciate it offends your professional art.” William Bradford’s tone was dry. “But, please, enough.”

At a crisp command, the formation of French troops marched forward. A second command brought the pikes down. A third brought the formation to a halt with the blades a few intimidating yards away. Then a voice called out from behind the formation, and two soldiers stepped up to the Plymouth men. One held a musket, the other a sergeant’s half-pike.

“Give us your weapons!” one of them barked in English.

Myles Standish shrugged. “A sword would do little against your numbers, but if you are determined . . . ” He unbuckled his sword belt and handed it to the French sergeant.

The other soldier glared at Hobbamock and held out his hand.

Hobbamock gazed at him, then glanced down to where he had a knife sheathed at his waist. He looked up at the sergeant’s half-pike and held his hands a few inches apart.

“Give the knife to me,” the soldier insisted. “No weapons.” He spoke slowly.

“I am truly a skilled warrior, but I have more sense than to attack fifty men. If the Wampanoag desired war, we would have attacked you on the beach. Instead Massasoit Ousamequin sent me as his ambassador.”

“Ambassador!” The sergeant looked like he was about to spit. “Tell your tame Indian . . . ”

Pniese Hobbamock of the Pokanoket tribe.” Standish spoke angrily. “He does, in fact, speak for Ousamequin, Massasoit of the Pokanoket and all the Wampanoag and has proven trustworthy since the earliest days of the colony.”

The Plymouth men heard a snort as one of the civilians approached. “I am Capitaine Choublet, sent by Colonel Desormiers, military governor of Nouvelle Lorraine, to take possession of this . . . village. The Indians will wait. Colonel Desormiers will summon them at an appropriate time, and then they will appear before him.”

“If I may, Captain?” William Bradford asked. He gestured to the man beside him. “Elder William Brewster, Edward Winslow, and Captain Myles Standish. I am William Brad—”

“I do not care who any of you are,” Capitaine Choublet stated. “I am in command here, and you will obey my orders. Disobedience is treason against France and will be dealt with harshly. Take us within the walls.”

Bradford put a restraining hand on Standish’s arm while simultaneously exchanging glances with Brewster and Winslow. Brewster shrugged, as if he were asking, What choice have we? The five men started toward the open gate. Thunder rumbled in the distance.

Arrêtez!

The Plymouth men stopped because of the sergeant’s tone, not because they understood the word. “The knife.” The French sergeant held out his hand.

Hobbamock handed it to him and watched with amusement as the sergeant tried to carry his own half-pike, Standish’s sword belt, and Hobbamock’s knife without dropping any of them. Then he turned and followed the four colonists into Plymouth. The French sergeant and the musketeer were at his heels, with the rest of the French soldiers shifting formation to enter the gate.

As soon as Hobbamock passed the heavy, sturdy palisade, he saw that the inhabitants of Plymouth were quietly watching events unfold. He saw William Bradford motion outward with his hands, indicating they should back up and make space for the French. Bradford led the way toward the central intersection, near a small stockade.

Arrêtez!

Everyone stopped. Capitaine Choublet came forward, this time accompanied by the other man in expensive clothing. He was younger and carried a rolled-up document. Choublet held out his hand, and his aide handed it to him.

“Gaston, by the Grace of God, Most Christian King of France and Navarre, etc., claims possession of New France, all territory in North America north of the Viceroyalty of New Spain save the possessions of the Netherlands. The lands east of the Hudson River extending north and east to Acadia are nearby designated Nouvelle Lorraine. . . . ”

Once he had read the entire proclamation, the captain stated, “Colonel Desormiers has given me command of this village. Therefore, I order all previous inhabitants to remove themselves outside the walls.”

Gasps came from the residents gathered around. “Oui!

“Captain,” Edward Winslow began, “some here have dwelt inside the palisade for fifteen years.

Would you seize all they have built—”

Oui, I would and I do. I will not tolerate complaints. Dissent will be treated as treason against France, and traitors will be executed!”

Again, there were gasps, and this time Elder Brewster held out his hands as if to curtail them. “We shall build anew. We have done so before. Houses, a meetinghouse—”

“No meetinghouse,” Capitaine Choublet barked. “Your heretical practices will not be tolerated in public.”

Hobbamock heard a shrill sound. A woman’s voice, he realized, and a cry of triumph, not dismay. He spotted Eleanor Billington, one of only four adult women who had survived the colony’s first winter. The Billingtons were strangers, not Separatists, and had caused all sorts of trouble.

Hobbamock saw faces in the crowd darken, some in dismay, others in anger. Then William Brewster gave an exaggerated shrug and spoke.

“We had no meetinghouse at first. I am sure we can make do.”

“Then get your belongings and get out.”

Brewster and Bradford exchanged glances. Then Bradford raised his voice. “Everyone, please begin moving your belongings.”

Some grumbled, but with Capitaine Choublet glowering at them and fifty soldiers right there, most moved to comply.

Hobbamock kept an impassive expression on his face over the next several minutes. He noted that Standish was scowling, and Bradford, Brewster, and Winslow all had concerned looks. That was no surprise. The English would have to build houses and plant crops. It would have to be nearby but not—

Mousquet!” The sudden shout in French rang out, followed immediately by the deep whoom of a musket firing.

Hobbamock whirled around as a second musket fired. He immediately saw what had happened and knew it was already too late.

One of the Englishmen had come out of a nearby house carrying an armload of his possessions, a musket and an axe among them. Both would be critical in starting over, but one of the French musketeers—white smoke was still wafting from his musket barrel—had seen the barrel precede the man out the door and fired. He’d missed, but the soldier next to him hadn’t. The Plymouth man was sprawled in his doorway. His musket lay in the dirt, and his ax had fallen across his body.

“No!” Elder William Brewster cried out in horror. He dashed several steps forward, raising his hands in a gesture to stop.

At the same time, the first Plymouth man to reach the man who’d been shot shoved the ax away. Someone shouted in French, and two more musketeers immediately fired.

“Stop!” Brewster cried. “It is a mista—”

Capitaine Choublet drew his sword and ran William Brewster through. With shouts of horror and anger, several Plymouth men surged forward. “Apprêtez-vos armes!” the French sergeant called out. “Joue!

The French soldiers’ muskets came up, and their pikes came down.

Myles Standish leapt forward and caught the sergeant in the throat with a rock-hard fist. The Frenchman made a choking noise and fell to his knees. His half-pike, Standish’s sword belt, and Hobbamock’s knife fell away in separate directions.

Feu!” Capitaine Choublet ordered.

The musket volley crashed out, twelve shots from the left side and only six from the right. Edward Doty, Henry Samson, and William Latham all went down. Then Myles Standish caught up the sergeant’s half-pike and thrust it into the nearest musketeer.

Hobbamock drew a second knife from a sheath inside his trousers and leapt on the musketeer who had originally come forward with the sergeant. That man went down, his throat cut, and now Hobbamock held his unfired musket.

“Charge! Kill them!” Capitaine Choublet shouted.

Hobbamock jerked the trigger back, the slow match dipped into the black powder in the pan, and he shot the capitaine in the back.

The pikes surged forward as the musketeers frantically reloaded. If he had a dozen warriors right now . . . 

“Allerton!” Standish bellowed. “The musketeers!”

Hobbamock saw Francis Billington and Samuel Hopkins wrestle one of the musketeers to the ground. Another butt-stroked Bradford, but then Edward Winslow crashed into him.

Standish shot by, half-pike gripped firmly in both hands. Hobbamock realized his goal immediately—to keep the musketeers on the right side of the formation from firing again. He was two steps behind Standish when the short captain speared the first one.

Hobbamock knifed one, spun away from a short sword. He grabbed the man’s musket from him, landed a blow to the knee, and spun left again. He was behind them now, and these white men were slow.

Another volley boomed out, entirely from the left. Hobbamock heard running feet. He smashed a Frenchman in the back of the head, and then he and Standish finished the last one. One glance told the Pokanoket that the pikemen were butchering anyone who couldn’t outrun them. Another glance showed him the French boats were landing a second group of soldiers.

“Standish! More soldiers!”

Standish swung the half-pike and laid out the capitaine’s aide. “Allerton! Quickly! Men, take these matchlocks!”

Apprêtez-vos armes!

Hobbamock whirled and saw the dozen musketeers on the left had reloaded. “Joue!

Hobbamock felt rain on his face, and, for an instant, he thought the boom from above was thunder. When he saw the musketeers’ line had been blown apart, he understood. The English had small cannons, what they called patereros, at the top of the stockade.

“Follow Hobbamock and finish them!” Standish ordered. He turned away to holler at a different group of men. “Stop! You cannot stop those pikemen yourselves! Women and children to those houses there! A few of you brace those doors from the inside! The rest of you men, pick up these matchlocks and fall in!”

The next few minutes were a blur. Hobbamock led a dozen Plymouth men in a charge against the remaining musketeers. In the end, they swarmed them under, but lost two of their own. He heard a ragged volley as Standish’s townspeople fired into the pikemen. Bodies lay seemingly everywhere. Fifty more Frenchmen poured through the eastern gate.

Another paterero fired, spraying nails and broken bits of metal into the new arrivals. They drove forward stubbornly, trying to gain the door of the stockade. A second paterero struck down the back of the column, and then they were so close the cannons could not depress far enough to reach them.

But they were caught in a crossfire.

One volley crashed out from Standish’s line. Hobbamock cared not for the manual of arms. “Shoot!” he ordered.

The ragged series of pops seemed almost pathetic, but it was fire from a third angle, and that broke the charge. Musketeers and pikemen withdrew. Not all the way to the gate; they took cover behind the last few houses.

Standish called to him.

“Hopkins, take charge.” Hobbamock loped over to where the initial confrontation had taken place.

Did I just give Englishmen orders?

It was sprinkling steadily now. “We are going to have to flee Plymouth,” Myles Standish stated without preamble. “We have some twenty French firelocks. Perhaps ten of our own—if we can get to them. The pikemen from the first body will come for us some enough. The survivors of the second band and the whole of the third will make eighty men. We must get the women and children out into the woods.”

“Why?” someone demanded. The first French cannon fired.

“That is why,” Edward Winslow stated. He held a cloth to where blood was dripping down his scalp. “They’ve cannon, bigger than ours.”

“Make for Aquidneck Island,” Standish ordered. “Move the wounded if you can, but do not delay everyone to await them lest all perish. The French will come to Duxbury and our other towns, and they will take or burn them. Gather everyone and flee. Governor Bradford?”

“Head injury.” Winslow’s voice was grim. “Elder Brewster?”

Winslow shook his head sadly.

“He is with Keihtánit now,” Hobbamock realized. “I will mourn him later.”

“Hobbamock has the right of it,” Standish stated. “Quickly now!”

As if to underscore his words, two booms sounded out in the bay. One cannonball thudded into the palisade. The other missed, either short or wide of its mark.

“Allerton!” Standish shouted at the stockade. “Send me your best assistant!”

The man emerged in seconds. “You and”—Standish turned and pointed to several of the Plymouth men who now had muskets and then several who did not—“you men, come with me. Hobbamock, hold here.”

“Where are they going?”

“The blockhouse,” Hobbamock answered. “Allerton’s man and the others to fire cannon back at the ship. Standish and those with muskets to keep those pikemen at bay. You, you, and you, pick up every pike here.”

“Why?”

Hobbamock wiped rain from his brow and flicked his fingers at the man. “Because wet gunpowder does not burn.”

The French ship continued firing, and it found the range. Cannonballs plunged into two houses. One cannon, then another, began firing back from the blockhouse up on the hill. But they were only four-pounders, and their crews were far from expert.

A servant boy ran up to Hobbamock. “Master Hobbamock, Master Winslow says he will have one hundred fifty ready in five minutes.”

Hobbamock thanked him and wondered where Standish was. Then he realized he’d spoken in his own language. “Thank you.”

Another messenger ran up. “Master Hobbamock! Master Hopkins says there are French with pikes outside the south gate!”

The French had another capitaine, Hobbamock realized, and he was a good one.

“Quick! Run toward the north gate! Do not get too close. Come back and tell me if the French are there, too.”

As soon as the messenger was off, Hobbamock shouted up at the stockade. “Allerton! Allerton!” A face looked over the edge.

Hobbamock pointed with both hands. “Pikes to either side! Aim your cannons!”

“They will withdraw out of sight!” Allerton protested.

The white man’s way of war is complicated. But Hobbamock was a pniese and knew how to lure an enemy.

“The first time the ship’s cannons hit the stockade, you must feign defeat! Load your cannons but wait.”

“Yes, sir!”

If I survive this day, I shall make use of “Master” and “sir.”

Gunfire sounded. The French musketeers were forming up. And there were more marching through the gate. Hobbamock understood. The new French capitaine had sent his pikes to block the north and south gates. He would simply drive forward with his musketeers. If the Plymouth men wanted to charge him, he would accept it. Because it is a trap.

A house one street over was hit, and this shot did considerable damage to the roof.

Hobbamock spread his musketeers out in pairs, holding the seven pikemen in reserve. “One man fire, and the other waits until he is half reloaded,” he instructed.

The rain was light but steady now, and he was not surprised when two of the first four muskets did not fire.

The French ship finally found its mark, and a cannonball crashed into the stockade. It struck halfway up the wall and splintered the wood. No one was hurt by it. But it was a matter of time now.

Myles Standish ran up a couple minutes later. “Hobbamock! What is the situation here?” Hobbamock sketched the situation.

“We defeated those pikes,” Standish stated. “But Edward’s group must run at once.”

A volley of musket fire kicked up dirt all around, and one of the Plymouth men went down.

Hobbamock heard a voice say, “John, get your mother and the rest of the family to safety.” Then Francis Cooke took up the fallen man’s musket and cartridge box.

“Pikes!” came the shout from atop the stockade.

“Well executed,” Standish murmured. A double row of pikemen appeared at the north and south gates.

“I’ve two patereros laid on them to the south!” Allerton shouted down to them. “Cooke, you men hold here,” Standish ordered. “Pikes with me. Edward Winslow!”

“Captain Standish.” Winslow hurried over. “It looks as though we are too late.”

“You’ll leave by the south gate. Start now. We will clear the street for you.” Standish turned to Hobbamock.

“Well done. I could not ask for better. When we force the gate, run. Run for Duxbury.”

“I will fight beside you,” Hobbamock declared.

“You must survive to tell Massasoit Ousamequin what happened here. Sassacus, too, if he will listen. Tell them all the up-timer Chehab was right. We will hold as long as we can to give Edward’s group time to escape.”

Hobbamock nodded gravely. He and Standish clasped forearms. “Warn Duxbury. Warn my family and the Aldens.”

“I will see they reach safety.”

Standish signaled Winslow, and those inhabitants of Plymouth he’d been able to gather started for the gate. It sucked the French pikemen in nicely, Hobbamock observed. Their own pikes—all seven of them—started toward them.

The French formation gave a great shout and came forward.

Two patereros boomed. One charge missed entirely and splattered into the palisade. The other hit the formation dead center.

“Forward!” Standish ordered.

The French hurriedly dressed their formation, stepping over the dead and wounded. They came on with pikes lowered.

Plymouth’s pikes faltered. But then Samuel Hopkins’ musketeers fired from nearly point-blank range. Four Frenchmen went down.

“Charge!” Standish led the charge himself. He’d recovered his sword at some point. Standish evaded a pike, closed in, and slashed the man. He was on to the next.

Hobbamock rolled under a pair of pikes, knifed one, and made for the gate. A junior officer lunged at him with a sword.

A body flew into him from the side, knocking him to the ground. The other man took the blade.

Hobbamock scrambled to his feet and saw that it was Standish. Plymouth’s captain came to his feet, too, his breastplate now bearing a long scrape. The French officer lunged again, and Standish parried.

“Run!”

Hobbamock ran. He looked back once, and saw the first townspeople emerging.

“Keihtánit, the Son, and the Holy Manitou protect thee, Myles,” he whispered. Then he picked up his pace. Duxbury was nine miles away, and he wanted to be there in what the English called one hour.

Hobbamock lost track of time. He ran through the rain, and he was sure he had never run faster.

Finally, he saw the first house ahead. He started shouting.

“The French are coming! The French attacked Plymouth town!”


Duxbury, Plymouth Plantations colony


Priscilla Alden was spinning and singing the hundredth Psalm. More precisely, she was teaching her oldest daughter Elisabeth, thirteen, a more advanced technique while Sarah, nine, played with little

David.

The door opened. Joseph, ten, and Jonathan, five, burst into the house. “Boys!”

“Mother, an Indian is running through town, shouting that the French attack!” Joseph delivered that news in a breathless voice.

“An Indian? A Pokanoket?” I will discuss manners later. This could be important—or it could be folly.

John, fourteen, came in, remembering to take off his hat and wipe his feet. “Mother, I think it’s Hobbamock.”

Priscilla rose at once and went to the door. “See?” Jonathan asked.

“I do see an Indian at the Standishes. And Mistress Standish looks distressed, even from here.” Priscilla raised her voice. “John, run to your father, and tell him to come quickly.”

Young John took off like a shot.

“What is it, Mother?” Elisabeth asked. She came to her mother’s side.

“Hobbamock is one of Massasoit’s mightiest warriors and a wise advisor. The first year in Plymouth, Massasoit sent him to help us. Remain here with the younger children. Joseph, come with me.” With that, Priscilla Alden hurried toward the Standish house. As she drew closer, she realized that Barbara Standish was indeed in tears. “Oh, Priscilla! Myles is dead!” she cried. Priscilla gasped.

“He was not dead when he ordered me to run for Duxbury.” The Indian delivered the words with a gravity that caused Priscilla to believe him.

“Hobbamock, what happened in Plymouth?” she asked.

“The French arrived—in four ships, all larger than the Mayflower. They landed in boats, fifty or so men each time. The capitaine of the first group said he would brook no dissent, and ordered everyone out of their houses. They were beginning to carry armloads of belongings out when a man came out of his house carrying a musket. A French soldier shot him. Elder Brewster stepped forward to try to stop it, and the capitaine ran him through.”

Priscilla and Barbara both gasped.

“Then the battle started,” Hobbamock continued. “Many died. Men who survived your first winter here. Women and children, too.

“Edward Winslow gathered all he could find. Myles ordered him to make for Aquidneck Island. Myles, Samuel Hopkins, Francis Cooke, and others forced a way out for them. They were still fighting. Myles ordered me to warn you to flee Duxbury before the French come here.”

Other townspeople were beginning to gather around now. Priscilla looked for her husband John and saw him and Young John coming at a run.

“Hobbamock!” John Alden cried. “Greetings! What brings you to Duxbury?”

“The French have attacked Plymouth town.” Hobbamock repeated what he’d just said. “Might the Lord give us victory?” John asked.

“It seems unlikely. We defeated the first band, pushed back the second, but the third came from three directions. Isaac Allerton still fired the cannons on the stockade.”

“We must march to Plymouth’s relief!” one of the Duxbury men cried out. His words were met with a rumble of approval.

Alden raised a hand to quiet the crowd. “What did Myles say?” he asked Hobbamock.

“That Plymouth was lost, and Duxbury and the other towns, too. He commanded me to tell you to flee to Aquidneck Island.”

“Could we fight the French?”

Hobbamock was shaking his head before Alden finished asking the question. “No. Not now. They would have taken us at the first rush but we were in among them. Powder and shot for the small cannons were at hand. Governor Bradford ordered the platform clear and the guns unloaded, and Myles obeyed. But he must have made private plans with Allerton, should an attack come to pass.” He paused. “I saw women and children killed.”

“We’ve no cannons or patereros here,” Alden noted. “Nor a palisade. We must not tarry. We leave for Aquidneck within the hour. If the situation changes, we can return.”

Alden pointed to two young men.

“Lads, you are single, fast, and sober-minded. Run to Marshfield, and then on to Scituate. Tell them to evacuate and meet at Aquidneck. Bring their guns, their seed, as much food as they can carry. Gather your own and be on your way. Meet us at Aquidneck.”

The two young men nodded and left immediately.

“I will guide you as far as I can,” Hobbamock stated. “But I must warn Massasoit Ousamequin.”

“Of course,” Alden agreed. He raised his voice. “What I told the lads. Gather your guns, seed, food, and anything you might carry. But it is several days’ journey.”

“The cows?” The question came from the back of the crowd.

“Aye, cows and sheep and goats, too. We will not be traveling fast. Warn every house. Tell everyone come, but if they choose to stay, do not get caught with them. Now go!”

Alden turned to his wife and Barbara Standish. “I would rather march on Plymouth now, but it would be the wrong decision.”

Hobbamock nodded his agreement. “The capitaine who came with the third band of Frenchmen is a skilled soldier. You would need every man and still might not defeat him because he could set his fourth band in ambush for you. Some must guard the women and children until they are far enough to sunset that a French scout cannot overtake them.” He named a Pokanoket village. “Nemasket.”

“That is wisdom.” John Alden turned to his wife. “Dearest, tell young John what he and Elisabeth should direct the other children to gather.”

“You mean for me to stay with Barbara for a while. Will you be helping the Standishes, too?”

“No,” John told his wife. “I will stop William Holmes from charging off to Plymouth with men who are needed here.”


Roughly an hour later


With the assistance of Hobbamock and George Soule, John Alden restrained William Holmes and a band of like-minded men from marching to Plymouth town.

“Standish and the others fight to give you time,” Hobbamock stated flatly. “Not so you are slaughtered, too.”

Priscilla helped the Standish family pack for the journey. Other women spelled her so that she could return to the Alden household where young John and Elisabeth were doing their best.

By the time men started shouting for the inhabitants of Duxbury to assemble, the Aldens were more or less ready. They’d carry what they could. Young John was leading their cow, Elisabeth held David, and Joseph, Jonathan, and Sarah each had something to carry. Priscilla ran her hand over the spinning wheel, regretting that she had to leave it behind. Then she made a final check of the house, hefted her own burden, and walked out the door. The rain had settled into a light mist.

“Children, we will travel with the Standishes. Be a comfort to them,” she told her children.

Her husband had the heaviest pack on his back and carried his old matchlock musket. He was trying to get the townspeople moving. Some of them wanted to begin with prayer—long prayers.

Hobbamock rolled his eyes. He remembered what he’d prayed for Standish and spoke up loudly. “Keihtánit, the Son, and the Holy Manitou protect us.” Then he started walking.

John Alden stepped up to a man who’d about choked at that prayer. “Follow that Pokanoket. You may teach him doctrine along the way.”

Most, but not all, of the inhabitants of Duxbury went with them. Hobbamock and John Alden took the lead. But after their first break, Alden let the whole column pass by. He grouped households together into bands numbering a couple of dozen. “Count all your members each time we stop and each time we set out,” he instructed.

Priscilla smiled to herself, very proud of her husband. But by the second stop, she was becoming worn—not from the walk itself but because the younger children were growing tired and cranky.

They stopped about sunset and made camp for the night. Alden joined his family once all the stragglers had arrived.

“I am sorry to be late.”

Priscilla waved it away. “We have a fire to cook and to dry us. How far is this village Nemasket?

Will we reach it tomorrow?”

“About fifteen miles from Plymouth,” John told her. “Somewhat more from Duxbury. We should reach it tomorrow. I do not think we should impose on Nemasket longer than one night. It is twice or even thrice as far from there to Aquidneck.”

“Do you think anyone will join us from Plymouth town?” Priscilla asked softly. “I pray so. Hobbamock believes that Edward’s band escaped.”

“And Myles?”

John lowered his voice. “I believe Myles and Isaac resolved to fight to the last to gain time for Edward and for us.”

Priscilla nodded. She did not trust her voice just now, and she did not want tears where Barbara Standish might see them.

“Hobbamock will ask the Pokanoket in Nemasket to send out scouts,” John continued. “They may find Edward’s band.” He rose. “I must organize the watches.”

Priscilla realized something. “John, tomorrow is the Sabbath.”

Her husband looked troubled. “Aye, ’tis. We’ve a dozen or so miles to Nemasket. That will trouble some, but we dare not remain here else our flight be in vain.”

The watch kept the fires burning for warmth. With many children and the occasional cow lowing and sheep baaing, their camp was already conspicuous. Having fires lit wasn’t going to make them any more obvious than they already were. Warmth was more important on this damp night.


A forest, Plymouth Colony
Sunday, May 10, 1637


Priscilla awoke (again) when little David awoke with the dawn. Another few nights of this, and she knew she’d begin to look back fondly on the months spent in the cramped Mayflower. She resolutely set that thought aside. She’d not think just now of how much she missed her parents and brother who had all died that first terrible winter. That was . . . half her life ago, she realized. Since then, she and John had made a life first in Plymouth town and then, after the division of land, in Duxbury. It hurt to give up everything they’d built. They were “strangers and pilgrims on the earth” again.

Priscilla thought the writer of Hebrews probably meant that the Old Testament believers were both strangers and pilgrims. Here, though, in Plymouth Colony, Strangers and Pilgrims were two different groups, as they soon proved this Sabbath morning.

The Strangers were, by and large, Anglican. They tended to be less observant than the Pilgrims. “Mother?” Elisabeth asked. “Did Jesus not journey through the fields on the Sabbath and His disciples pick grain?”

Of course, there was a lull in conversation just then, and the thirteen-year-old’s voice carried. Several Pilgrims shot her disapproving glances.

Priscilla returned their gazes. Elisabeth had a point, a good one. “Smoke! Smoke!”

Everyone looked for whomever was shouting. Eleven-year-old Alexander Standish slid partway down a nearby tree trunk and dropped to the ground.

“There’s smoke coming from the east!” he announced.

“Plymouth town.” John Alden pointed to one of the well-respected men. “Please lead us in prayer. We will set out and then pause at noon to worship the Lord.” Afterwards, Priscilla murmured to her husband, “That was well done.” John’s eyes warmed, losing their worried look for a few moments. “How do you and the children fare?”

“We will persevere.”

By afternoon, Priscilla Alden was less sure of that. They had all hoped—perhaps unreasonably— to encounter survivors from Plymouth. As the day passed with nothing but more trees, and the occasional clearing and small brook, the adults grew fretful. The children grew tired, and the two fed one another.

John set William Holmes and the men following him as their rear guard. Each time they stopped, a man or boy climbed a tree. By now, they could no longer see any smoke from Plymouth town.

It was almost sunset when someone hailed the column. Hobbamock answered in Wampanoag. After a couple of minutes, the other Wampanoag and Hobbamock were deep in conversation. When the Alden and Standish families caught up, Priscilla suddenly realized that John had had more than one reason to make Holmes and his men the rear guard.

The Wampanoag of Nemasket came out to greet the refugees of Duxbury. But they indicated that they should camp outside the village.

John Alden nodded vigorously when Hobbamock translated that. They had exchanged gifts, but the group from Duxbury was at least half the size of the Wampanoag village.

Later, as Priscilla was settling the children to bed, Joseph asked, “Do the Indians not like us?”

Priscilla bit her lip. “Joseph, there are many Indians. Plymouth Colony is friendly with some and less so with others. Sometimes, both we and the Indians have made bad decisions. Nemasket is one of the places that happened, and this village does not trust us.”

“But they should,” Joseph insisted.


Nemasket, Wampanoag Confederation
(up-time Middleborough, Massachusetts)
Monday, May 11, 1637


In the morning, more Wampanoag came to their camp.

“They have given us food,” John told Priscilla. “We have given them some, too.” She nodded her understanding.

“More importantly, they have sent scouts east, toward Plymouth town. I am torn whether to await their return this evening or press onward toward Aquidneck.”

Priscilla did not know which was more important, so she said nothing, and let John work it out himself.

“If Edward and his band are nearby, the Wampanoag will find them and direct them here. If he is pursued by the French, uniting our band with his adds men of fighting age but slows the whole. Hobbamock is most anxious to report to Massasoit Ousamequin, who will certainly send men in search of Edward if those of Nemasket do not find him first.” John looked up. “It would lift our hearts to meet Edward’s band, but every other reason says we should move on today. If they indeed escaped, we will meet at Aquidneck if not before.”

Priscilla put a hand on his arm. “I will inform the women. John, I know you do not seek to lead, but you do it well.”

John gave her a brief smile.

As they resumed their journey, the Wampanoag of Nemasket saw them off, a few children watching them curiously. Suddenly, Jonathan Alden broke away and ran up to a Wampanoag boy who looked like he was also about five years old. Jonathan hugged him.

“Friends?”

The Wampanoag boy said something that might have been “Nétop.”

Priscilla spotted the concerned-looking Wampanoag woman who had to be the boy’s mother. They exchanged tentative smiles.

Throughout the day, Priscilla took strength from that incident and from the look in her husband’s eyes that morning. The third day’s journey was even harder. They took turns carrying David Alden and Josiah and Charles Standish. Barbara was fraying, and Priscilla increasingly found herself keeping track of twelve children.

They made camp in a clearing that night. Many of the younger children were worn out and cried at every small provocation. Many of the adults were equally worn out and short-tempered as well. Priscilla recognized the problem, but she had her hands full—usually quite literally. Somehow, they got the littlest changed, food cooked, and everyone bedded down.

John came by as she and the oldest children were cleaning up. He looked as tired as she felt. “John, take a moment to eat,” she urged.

“Thank you, dearest. I have been trying to assure everyone.” He sighed. “Tempers are short. It was the right decision to press on today. One more day, and we should reach Montaup, perhaps even Aquidneck. I know not how to get there, but Hobbamock does. He says that Massasoit Ousamequin’s men will encounter us on the morrow.”

Once he had eaten, John checked the watch, and then all but fell on his blanket. Priscilla snuggled close and pulled her blanket over both of them.


A clearing, Wampanoag Confederation
Tuesday, May 12, 1637


Enough young children were up at dawn that most of the other Duxbury folk were awakened. A few still slept deeply. John Alden was up and circling the camp, though he was far from fully alert himself. He saw the state of the watch—awake but not truly alert—and gave thanks he’d not given the order to tarry at Nemasket another day. If a French patrol had happened across them . . . 

“One more day, and you can rest at Montaup,” came Hobbamock’s voice. “You have pushed on hard.”

“Thank you, Hobbamock. If not for your guiding . . . ”

Hobbamock completed the circuit of the camp with John. They arrived back where the Aldens and Standishes were to find Priscilla comforting Barbara Standish. After a few minutes, Priscilla came over to John and explained quietly. “Loara asked if we could all go home today. She is five. She doesn’t understand.”

John bowed his head and held his wife for a few minutes. Then he took a deep breath and got them started on that day’s journey.

About noon, Hobbamock signaled a halt. He gave an odd whistle, and suddenly there were a lot more Wampanoag just ahead of them.

John couldn’t understand them, but from the occasional English word, he realized the other Wampanoag had asked Hobbamock what had happened.

One Wampanoag stepped forward, and the others immediately made way for him. His face was painted a darker red than the others’, and he wore a necklace of white beads. Beyond that, nothing distinguished him from the others.

“Massasoit Ousamequin!”

A serious but fast conversation between Massasoit Ousamequin and Hobbamock followed. Then the sachem turned to John Alden.

“Edward . . . danger?” John nodded. “Yes.”

“We find him. You go with Hobbamock. Sowams, not Aquidneck. Food. Safety.”

“Thank you.”

“Wampanoag . . . Plymouth . . . nétop. I go find Edward.”

Massasoit Ousamequin and most of the other Wampanoags strode east. John watched them go, saw how they split into three groups, weapons at the ready.

“Come,” Hobbamock said.

It was another long, exhausting day. But one worry was gone. The French would not overtake them without encountering the Wampanoag first. They reached Sowams in good order while there was still daylight. Wampanoag women were waiting for them and showed them where to camp.

Priscilla Alden worked alongside Pokanoket women preparing the camp and a meal. “They expect you to make a speech,” Priscilla prompted John.

He gave her a rueful look. “I know little of what to say.”

But he stood. “We from Duxbury thank the Pokanoket of the Wampanoag for your hospitality, for coming to our rescue again. May this day be a celebration of deliverance and friendship between us.”

Heads nodded in approval.


Sowams (up-time Bristol, Rhode Island)

Thursday, May 14


“They’re coming!”

Priscilla shook her head. Somehow the children could already communicate with the Wampanoag children. It might be slow and halting, but they were well ahead of the adults.

“Who is coming, Joseph?”

“Massasoit and his warriors and more Englishmen.”

“Well done.”

Priscilla quickly found John and Hobbamock. They reached Sowams just as a long, ragged column began to emerge from the forest. Massasoit Ousamequin and Edward Winslow were at its head.

“Edward!” John and Priscilla rushed up to him.

“John and Priscilla Alden! How do you happen to be here?”

“Hobbamock warned us. Most of Duxbury is here.”

“Thank the Lord,” Winslow murmured. “Some of us are wounded, and we’ve had little to eat since fleeing Plymouth.”

“We will have food ready in a few minutes,” Priscilla promised. “Myles?” John’s question was quiet.

Edward Winslow shook his head. “When I last saw Myles, he and Samuel Hopkins and Francis Cooke still held the line, but the French pressed them hard. One of Allerton’s patereros fired for a while, but then we saw the stockade in flames.”

Meanwhile, Massasoit Ousamequin spoke to several of his warriors.

“Tell the other tribes what has happened.” He pointed to each in turn, assigning a particular tribe.

Then he pointed to the last two. “Tell Sassacus. Tell the Dutch.”


Grantville, State of Thuringia-Franconia, USE
Sunday, May 24, 1637


Nona Dobbs was spending a lazy Sunday evening in front of the television. She’d graduated from high school yesterday, and tomorrow was the sixth anniversary of the Ring of Fire. The news was mostly full of speculation about the upcoming elections, but once that was finally over, she could watch the Sunday night movie.

Someone actually dashed onto the set to hand the anchor a story. Nona was amused until the woman glanced it over and visibly paled.

“A radio transmission from North America has been received in the Kingdom of the Low Countries. A French flotilla landed in Massachusetts Bay in April and took control of Boston and Salem. On May 9, it arrived in Plymouth Colony. French troops entered Plymouth town. Fighting broke out immediately. Many were killed by French troops. Parts of Plymouth were on fire. Governor Bradford is missing. Captain Myles Standish was last seen in command of men holding the south gate open so that the residents of Plymouth could escape. At least two groups of Pilgrims had reached safety by the time this report was sent.”

Nona gasped. Then she ran for the phone.

“Alicia? Did you see the news?” Nona quickly related the story. “We have to do something!”


Grantville, SoTF, USE
Monday, May 25, 1637


The Times carried Ring of Fire Day as its headline story, but “Battle in Plymouth” was also above the fold. The Freie Presse didn’t have Plymouth on the front page at all. But the Daily News’ secondary headline was “Plymouth Massacre.”

It was weird, Nona thought. Down-timers had been through a lot of battles and massacres in the past twenty years. One more, and this one far away in North America, made little difference to them. She understood why. And there were up-timers who, after six years, were pretty well-adapted and understood that history wasn’t going to replay itself.

But there were also those who studied history and knew the significance of Plymouth. Grantville’s Committee of Correspondence was angry. Some of the older up-timers were furious. She’d already seen one pamphlet broadside today whose headline read REMEMBER PLYMOUTH!

“I can’t believe they killed the Pilgrims!” she hissed to Alicia as they made their way through the crowded streets.

“I know! But the papers say there are survivors.”

“Oh! They’ll need help. Food, shelter . . . Is there a way to send help?” Alicia pointed. “I see Mayor Carstairs. I bet she’d know.”

They hurried over.

“Mayor Carstairs?” Alicia was tentative at first. “What can I do for you, girls?”

“Everyone remembers what they were doing when the Ring of Fire happened,” Alicia said. “Some of the older folks remember the night the Gulf War started, or the Challenger, or the Kennedy assassination, or Pearl Harbor.”

Liz Carstairs nodded.

“We heard about Plymouth yesterday,” Nona said. “How can we help?”


Long Island Sound
Tuesday, August 18, 1637


The Griffin was nine weeks out of Hamburg, to the day, when the lookout spotted the Connecticut River. Captain Gallop had been beside the tiller since they entered Long Island Sound. He passed his orders in a calm voice, suppressing the tension he felt.

They’d made a fast passage. His greatest worry had been encountering French ships, especially here in Long Island Sound. As they drew closer, it became clear to all why the Griffin had not seen any French ships. They had already come and gone. Fort Sovereignty was a charred ruin.

He considered turning back, or at least diverting elsewhere. But he was under contract. The Griffin had sailed from England to Boston each year since 1633. Each year, fewer Puritans decided to remove themselves to Massachusetts. This year, to fill out the complement of passengers, he’d sailed to the Low Countries to see if any more of the Leiden community wished to go to Plymouth.

Instead, he’d received a well-paying charter to load goods in Hamburg and take them to the mouth of the Connecticut River. Half the offer came in hard currency up front and very good charts indeed. So, the Griffin would unload, quickly, and be off back to Europe again before the French took notice.


Dorchester (up-time Windsor, Connecticut)
Friday, August 21, 1637


Priscilla Alden hummed to herself as she prepared dinner. It was a more substantial dinner than they’d become accustomed to. Messengers had come from Sovereignty earlier in the afternoon with news that a ship had arrived. She was the Griffin, which had brought Puritans to Massachusetts Bay each of the last four years. But this year she carried mostly food, and much of that food was on its way to Dorchester. That meant they’d survive and not starve.

She thanked God for the good news. Since fleeing Plymouth Colony, their lives had been filled with wild swings from mountaintops of blessing to valleys of despair and back again.

Other bands of Pilgrims from Marshfield and Scituate, and even a number of Puritans from Massachusetts Bay, had arrived at Aquidneck in May. Some had wanted to plant crops on Aquidneck Island, but the area was becoming overcrowded and taxing the ability of Sowams and Montaup to provide for them. Moreover, it was too close to Plymouth.

Massasoit’s warriors had kept Plymouth town under observation. The stockade and the blockhouse were gone, presumably burned, for the smell of smoke still clung to the town. Under cover of night, they’d approached a patch of turned earth outside the palisade and found it was a mass grave. If the Wampanoags’ estimates were accurate, anyone who had not fled Plymouth with Edward Winslow’s band was dead.

John, Edward Winslow, Hobbamock, and Massasoit Ousamequin all felt that the Pokanoket would be safe enough by themselves, but if the French learned of the gathering of a few hundred Europeans, they would certainly try to attack. Moreover, the Narragansett were looking at any European activity on Aquidneck Island very suspiciously. So, they had sent envoys to the Connecticut River towns, who had invited them to settle there. John had volunteered the Duxbury band to go first.

It had been another long, difficult journey through the forests. Not fearing pursuit, they’d moved more slowly. Still, it was hard on small children. They’d veered too far north.

And then Robert had found them. He hadn’t said much about himself, but John and Priscilla thought him a Puritan. He’d gotten them back on course, and they’d arrived at Dorchester safely. At that point, the leaders of the river towns had sent fishing boats to Sowams. It had taken multiple trips, but they’d brought all the Pilgrims and Puritans in the vicinity of Sowams to the Connecticut River Valley.

The French had seen them. The Sovereignty men thought a ship they’d glimpsed off Block Island was one of the French flotilla. In July, several French ships appeared in Long Island Sound. They’d bombarded Fort Sovereignty, doing heavy damage. Then they’d landed troops. Most of the inhabitants of Sovereignty had fled.

The French force—barely a hundred men—had started to push up the Connecticut Valley. But one of the men from Sovereignty, Colonel George Fenwick, had rallied Puritans, Pilgrims, and even Dutch from the trading post on the river. Sassacus, Uncas, and Wequash Cook had arrived with Pequots, Mohegans, and Niantics. No one fully trusted each other, but after some light skirmishing, the French had turned back to their ships.

When the inhabitants of Sovereignty returned, they found the charred ruins of the fort and village—and the bodies of those who hadn’t escaped. They’d been executed.

Some had talked of fleeing further, but New Netherlands was to the west. They had nowhere to go. And their crops were in the ground. They couldn’t flee. The arrival of the Griffin changed all that. Messengers had reached Dorchester earlier in the day, and already rumors were flying. Some of the more outlandish ones even said the ship carried weapons.

“Mother!” Young John stuck his head in the door. “Father asks if you would come to Council Hall.”

Priscilla looked surprised. “Of course. John, help Elisabeth prepare supper. If I am delayed, please feed everyone.”

“Yes, Mother.”

Council Hall was what they’d taken to calling a building in the center of Dorchester where representatives of the river towns and the various bands of refugees met. There was an open area nearby where the Indians were currently meeting.

“Dorchester is neutral ground,” John had explained. “Massasoit Ousamequin, Sassacus, and others can talk here, and no one has the advantage.”

As soon as she entered the building, John and another man approached. John introduced him as one of the messengers from Sovereignty.

“Goodwife Alden, the Griffin carried packages. Some of them are addressed to leading men like Edward Winslow and John Winthrop. Others are addressed to Indians.” The messenger mangled the names, but Priscilla understood whom he meant. Massasoit Ousamequin, Sassacus, Samoset, Uncas.

“And there’s one for you. Priscilla Alden.”

“Why?” Priscilla asked.

The messenger shrugged.

Priscilla looked to John. He shrugged, too. She carried the package to a table and carefully pried the seal away, then opened it.

It was full of booklets, with a letter on top.


Dear Priscilla Alden,

You don’t know me, but I wrote a report about you in school. My name is Nona Dobbs. I am eighteen years old and an up-timer. My friend Alicia and I will always remember what we were doing when the Ring of Fire happened, and we’ll always remember where we were when we heard Plymouth had been attacked. We hope you and John and your kids escaped from Plymouth.


Priscilla looked up at John in confusion. Why did up-timers know their names? But yet, these two girls seemed to think they lived in Plymouth town.


We figure you aren’t just sitting at your spinning wheel.


Priscilla’s eyes widened. How did they know that?


That’s in the poem, “The Courtship of Miles Standish.” It’s by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, who was one of your descendants in our timeline. But according to the poem, you’re a perceptive lady, and we thought at least one of these packets should go to a woman.


Priscilla read their description of “The Courtship of Miles Standish” and didn’t know whether to be indignant or amused. John was reading over her shoulder, and he laughed. She glared up at him.

“Have you not been urging me to speak up all summer?” John’s innocent tone was too much, and Priscilla giggled.

Once she had herself under control, Priscilla pointed to the letter. “John, we seem to be part of their history. Plymouth is a place of import to them.”


Please read the booklets and pass them around.


Priscilla and John examined the stack. Farming Methods. Sanitation. Medicine. Pilgrims, Puritans, and Colonial History. A Short History of the Up-Time United States of America. The Native Americans. The Ring of Fire. The Gospel and Missions. Interpreting the Holy Scriptures. The Salem Witch Trials.

Ten booklets.


Most of these are research papers from the State Library. We wrote The Gospel and Missions. Some friends of ours wrote Interpreting the Holy Scriptures.

We cannot tell you what to do. We are not there. Alicia and I hope to be, someday. But there’s something in The Gospel and Missions you need to show the other Pilgrims—and any Puritans you meet.

When Protestant churches started sending out missionaries all over the world, the missionaries from Europe and America often stayed in charge of the new congregations for as long as they were there. So when the missionaries got killed or expelled, the congregations foundered. Up-time, some were starting to emphasize indigenous leadership, that missionaries should teach local leaders, like Paul did. Except that we didn’t start doing that because that’s what Paul did. We did it because that’s how the Special Forces operated, and we saw that it worked. It seems to us that this ought to be an important principle in how Europeans interact with the Native American tribes. You can see from the booklets that we didn’t do a good job of that in our timeline. The Native Americans are people. They’re adults. They just see the world differently.

We were told that anything we sent you had to be ready very quickly. We couldn’t find much about the Special Forces in the time we had. But we included a few pages of information we found at almost the last minute.

We’re praying for you. So is the prayer watch. The Anabaptists who have come to Grantville take one-hour shifts so that all day and all night someone is praying. You are on their list.

Nona Dobbs

Alicia Rice


Priscilla turned so that she could look up at John. “Most remarkable.”

“Yes. Edward’s packet held these same ten booklets. So did Thomas Hooker’s. Another was intended for John Winthrop, who is still in Massachusetts Bay. We—the representatives of the towns and Massachusetts and Plymouth bands—have agreed his son who is governor of Sovereignty Colony ought to open it. It was the same as the others. Moreover, the messengers carried packages for several Indians. I venture theirs are the same. Each package has a short letter, but not like yours.”

Priscilla considered that for a moment and then set the letter aside. The next sheet bore a title at the top:


Rogers’ Rangers Standing Orders


Priscilla read the page, and John continued to read over her shoulder.

“This appears to be a collection of military proverbs,” she observed. She set it aside as well. The next two pages were . . . different.

“This appears to be written in English, but I understand little of it,” she confessed.

John reached out and tapped the page with the orders. “This is from their world, but a time near ours. The circumstances are different, but one may understand it.” His finger tapped the other pages. “This must be later. It is what the girls who wrote the letter to you mean when they saw that the Church of their day began to imitate how this force conducted itself.” He shook his head. “I have no idea if it works.”

“How they treated those they trained?” Priscilla asked. At his nod, she suggested, “Go and ask Hobbamock what he thinks.”

She saw that look in his eyes again as he left.

Priscilla looked down again to see that there was one last page. She read it and found her eyes were watering.

* * *

John Alden approached Hobbamock during a break in the tribes’ discussions.

“John Alden.”

“Hobbamock.”

“Have you a bundle of books, too?” Hobbamock swept his arm around. The gesture encompassed several stacks of booklets that lay on blankets.

“Yes. May I?” At Hobbamock’s nod, Alden stepped closer and peered down at the nearest booklets. The Native Americans was on top, with Pilgrims, Puritans, and Colonial History laying askew beneath it.

John straightened. “Yes, it looks like the same set of ten booklets. That is why I am here. Did any of you receive a letter along with them?”

In answer, Hobbamock picked up a single folded sheet of paper and handed it to Alden, who opened it and read.

“The others are like it,” Hobbamock told him. “We suspect that the Ring of Fire people sent the letters to the people their stories speak about. Massasoit Ousamequin, Sassacus, Samoset, Uncas.”

John thought about how to respond to that. “I am certain they did not mean to slight anyone else.” Hobbamock laughed. “Oh, most of us understand that. A few of us were either proud or jealous at first until one of your English lads read the letter to Uncas aloud. They said plainly that they know some of their stories about him are wrong. It is no surprise that they do not know many of us.”

“Did your packages contain anything else?” Alden’s voice was almost urgent.

“Nay. Each had a letter to the individual. All four suggested the tribes form a league or confederation.” Hobbamock shrugged. “We were already discussing how that might be done.”

“Ours—I have seen the letters to Edward Winslow and John Winthrop—caution us to ‘treat the Native Americans better this time’ and ‘learn from our mistakes.’” Alden frowned. “They say nothing about an alliance of tribes.”

“Truly? So they did not favor you?”

“Truly,” Alden confirmed. “I think it plain to all here that we must work together lest the French conquer us one by one.”

Hobbamock nodded emphatically.

“One of the packets came to Priscilla,” John stated. He held up the letter and began reading. Hobbamock listened with interest. When John started reading Rogers’ Rangers Standing Orders, he started snickering. As John kept reading, Hobbamock laughed out loud and eventually beckoned another Native American over.

“Samoset,” he managed. “You must hear this. John, please read these orders again.”

Alden complied. By the time he was done, Samoset was all but doubled over with laughter. “What?” John asked.

“Any of our warriors could have said this,” Samoset finally explained. “We have heard of the wars in Europe. Is this not how white men fight?”

“No,” John told him. “It is not. Hobbamock described how the French fought at Plymouth.”

Samoset’s eyes widened. “I thought that was because they were inside Plymouth town. They would do the same in the forest?”

“Aye. But there is more here.” Alden began reading the pages about the Special Forces.

Partway through, Hobbamock stopped him with an upraised hand. “John, you must read this to the sachems.” He looked at Samoset. “You hear what they intend, do you not?”

Samoset nodded. “I believe so. I will find the sachems.”

Hobbamock looked to Alden. “Please summon Edward Winslow, John Winthrop the younger, George Fenwick, and William Holmes.”


Monday, August 24
Dorchester


Food from Griffin began to arrive three days later. With it came five rectangular wooden crates, about six feet long, two feet across, and a foot deep. Two were labeled PILGRIMS-PURITANS-CONNECTICUT. The other three were labeled ALGONQUIAN CONFEDERATION. A smaller square crate accompanied each.

All were opened carefully. The most outlandish rumors of Griffin’s cargo were true. Each crate held ten firearms and instructions. These were not matchlocks nor flintlocks. They were something called shotguns, and each had a single moving part. The barrel slammed back against the rest of it and fired the shell. Each barrel had a leather handgrip fitted around it and was attached to the rest of the weapon by a strip of leather.

Naturally, people got upset. Some of the Pilgrims, William Holmes among them, didn’t like the fact that the Indians had more shotguns than the English. Sassacus realized very quickly that the supply of shotgun shells was finite.

“Hear my words!” John Alden shouted down the growing hubbub. “Hear my words!”

He had enough respect among Englishman and Native American alike that most quieted down.

“I have read to the tribes and to all the varied English the letter to my wife Priscilla Alden.” Alden pointed at the colonists’ crates with one forefinger and at the tribes’ crates with the other. “This is what the letter talks about. They do not order us about. They expect us to do the right thing.”

“Like parents,” William Holmes muttered. Several Pilgrims and Puritans laughed. Once the remark was translated, so did the Native Americans.

“I hear,” Massasoit Ousamequin said into the pause that followed the laughter. “Your twenty guns are not enough to face the French. Our thirty are not enough. If we do not unite, three for each tribe? Three warriors, powerful for a day. If we unite, powerful for many days, guns or no guns.”

“With all fifty we could attack the French.”

Alden shook his head. Holmes didn’t understand yet.

“No,” Hobbamock stated. “I saw how the French fought in Plymouth town. So did Edward. That is not what the Ring of Fire sent us. The up-timers sent us the story of their men who fought like we do. Their girls write of sharing their God but us keeping our ways and manner of dress. I do not think they ask us to fight a great battle but to fight our way.”

Everyone considered that for a few moments.

“You leave something out,” Sassacus said. “They write words that say if they send more shotguns, they will send some to the Haudenosaunee as well.”

“We can make more,” George Fenwick blurted out. “What?”

“I showed one to our blacksmith. He said that now he has seen it, he can make more. Maybe not as fine, but serviceable.”

Sassacus waited for the translation.

“We need blacksmiths,” the Pequot sachem declared.

John Alden sensed this was a turning point, the last point where the English could choose to exert control.

“Send men who want to learn to work metal,” Edward Winslow offered.

Sassacus shook his head. Hobbamock translated. “He says it is properly women’s work.” The Pilgrims and Puritans were dumbfounded.

Massasoit Ousamequin stood. “Let us decide whom we send. Gunpowder.”

“That is a problem for us, too,” Winslow agreed. “We can make small amounts, but it is not very good gunpowder.”

The council descended into details, from Will we? to How will we?


Dorchester

Monday, August 31, 1637


A week later, the Algonquians and the colonists sent the team forth: the Massachusett sachem Kuchamakin, Wequash Cook of the Niantic, Hobbamock of the Wampanoag, the Abenaki sagamore Samoset, a Narragansett, a Pequot, a Mohican, a Mohegan, a Puritan, a man from Dorchester, and— and John Alden.

Priscilla was not happy about that. At all.

On the other hand, one of the team’s goals was to make sure that any Pilgrim or Puritan still in Plymouth or Massachusetts Bay who wanted to reach the river towns could do so. They doubted the French would simply let them into the towns to tell everyone that—or let everyone leave. But Priscilla had found something in A Short History of the Up-Time United States of America. In their world, word had been passed by means of song to African slaves who wanted to escape slavery. One of the songs was included. Priscilla had no idea what the tune was supposed to be, but she had rewritten the words.

Samoset and Hobbamock were chanting them now.


When the Hebrew month starts and the first owl calls,

Carry your drinking gourd.

Band of twelve waiting to lead you on to Canaan,

Carry your drinking gourd.

Hold it off to your right and journey on,

Carry your drinking gourd,

Go with the wind that parted the Red Sea.

Carry your drinking gourd,

Band of twelve waiting to lead you on to Canaan,

Carry your drinking gourd.

On to William and down the tidal river,

Away from your drinking gourd.


Holding the Big Dipper on their right as they journeyed west should bring them to the team. If they missed them, continuing west to William Pynchon’s Agawam Plantation on the Connecticut River and then following the river south would bring them to relative safety in the river towns.

John left the other men and came over to Priscilla and the children. He embraced each of them. “Can we come?” ten-year-old Joseph asked.

“No. We go to scout and find any other English who might join us here. Children, obey your mother, you hear?”

A chorus of ayes answered. Priscilla and John traded an amused look. “Be careful, John,” she told him.

“I will. Worry not.”

Priscilla forced a smile. Easier said than done.

Hobbamock called. John kissed Priscilla and turned to join the other men.

Priscilla remembered the last page in her packet. It was a second letter she hadn’t shown anyone but John.


Dear Priscilla Alden,

If I were in your place, I would wonder if I could trust all this information. Alicia Rice and Nona Dobbs are fine, God-fearing young women. They put this together as soon as they heard about Plymouth. They have been told that there is a way to get all this to you, that it will be included with some other things being sent to help you.

If you are there, if you made it out, I suppose your people are at war. So are mine. My husband is with our army. It’s the fourth time he has been away. It is hard. On him, on me, on the children. “For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the powers, against the world forces of this darkness, against the spiritual forces of wickedness in the heavenly places.” (Eph 6:12)

The United States of Europe is at war with the Ottoman Empire, Poland, and Spain. So we cannot send whole armies. But we’re sending what we can. We remember Plymouth.

Kathy Sue Burroughs



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