Milton in America, page 2
Captain Farrel advanced unsteadily towards him, and shouted in his face. “Go below, sir! Now! A stiff gale has come upon us, and an overgrown sea!”
“I trust in my providence, Captain. I shall not go out like some candle in a snuff.”
But he was speaking to the air: the captain had already hurried away, and was at once shouting commands to his crew. “Bear up the helm! Bring the ship to right and fetch the loglines to try what way she makes. Turn up the minute glass, and observe the height!” His words were like swarms and wings around Milton, but even then he could also hear the topsail being taken in and the foresail lowered in homage to the tempest. Then there was the sound of something breached or broken—he thought it was the ship itself but, from the cries of the mariners, he realized that the mainsail was being torn to pieces in the gale. Something rolled past him on the deck, and Goosequill let out a cry which might have been a laugh or a scream. “There goes our tub,” he said. “That’s where the fish were salting!”
A small party of the other travelers were now lamenting and praying loudly, while three of their number tried to make their way against the wind with their cloaks covering each other from the rain. One of them carried two horseshoes and, in the old-country custom, tried to nail them upon the deck as a charm against the violent sea. Goosequill watched, delighted, and described the scene to his master. “They slide like children at Frost Fair, sir!”
Milton kept his face up to the roaring sky as he spoke. “They have become like the Indians in preparation for our landing!” Another barrel rolled past him. “The sea has turned more than their stomachs. It has turned their wits.”
“We will soon be turning in very watery graves if we do not go within. Come, sir, for your safety’s sake.”
Milton laughed out loud, and his laughter was mingled with the elements. “Are you ready to be pinched and tossed in the reeling cabin?”
“I am.”
“Then untie me. This storm has beaten us under the hatches.”
The crosswinds drove the Gabriel from its appointed course but, after they had passed Cape Cod, the wind dropped and the rain abated. They had lost sight of land, but throughout that night Captain Farrel consulted the charts and the stars; he guessed, correctly, that they had passed the large island known variously on his maps as Nope, Capawock, Martha’s Vineyard and Martin’s Vineyard. But were they now to be driven upon the grey rocks and small islands that were so marked and treacherous a feature of this New England coast? At first light he found his bearings: the Gabriel, pitching on the still-restless sea, was less than half a league from a large island of hills and brushwood known to the captain as Munisses or Block Island.
“He plans to chart our course past Block Island,” Goosequill was explaining to his master, “and make landfall at Petty something in the country of the Narrow—”
“Pettaquamscutt. Narragansett. Barbarous names. But not an alien shore.”
They were walking upon the upper deck, past the broken tackle and the mainmast which hung in the shrouds with its sails rent in pieces. Only the spread-sail remained intact, to spoon before the wind and take them slowly towards the shore. “Like a rotten rag,” Goosequill said. “Our little house has collapsed around us, sir, with all its beams showing their wrong side. We might have come from the world’s end.”
“Be less poetical, Goose. It does not suit you.” Suddenly he was still. “What is that rustling near me?”
“A rat?”
“No. Quite different. Look behind you.” Milton gazed, sightless, over the boy’s shoulder.
Goosequill turned towards the wooden rail, and then touched his master’s arm. “It is a bird,” he whispered. “A pigeon. Like our pigeons from the woods, but more strongly colored.”
“Does it move?”
“He chews his breast with his beak.”
“It is our first greeting from the new land. This bird of calm has flown over the charmed waves towards us. I wish it had something in its mouth. A twig. A flower. Anything.” He paused. “Now it is flying away?”
“He is going towards the land. Oh, yes, he is joined by another.”
“They represent our hopes, Goosequill. As we follow them towards the destined shore.”
The boy watched the birds until they were out of sight, and then with a sigh turned to his master. “Do you wish me to describe the little islands on our starboard side?”
“Are they highly delightful?”
“Oh no. Very barren and forlorn.”
“Good. Continue.”
“Very great black cliffs.” He always took pleasure in his more doleful pictures, as Milton did also. “Much clay and dark sand. Sharp rocks. Hills with no shrubs.” He put his hand up to shield his eyes from the sun. “There is one coming near us which has diverse colored rocks. There are mulberries or some such growing upon them. I wonder how trees could grow on such hard foundation.”
“This is as God made it, Goosequill, when He created the world.”
“Well, sir, it is desolate enough.”
“Sacred, not desolate. If there is no rock so barren that a tree cannot grow upon it, then there is no land so forlorn that it cannot be nourished.” He believed that he could still hear the beating of the wings of the birds.
The boatswain was calling the men to prayers, even as Milton spoke. At that moment, too, a fresh wind sprang up and caught the sail of the spread-mast; the ship shuddered and started to veer northeastward towards the small islands which Goosequill had described. Its tackle creaked so loudly that the prayers of the mariners could hardly be heard. “O eternal Lord God who alone spreadest out the heavens, and rulest the raging of the seas. Who hast compassed the waters with bounds until day and night come to an end—”
“Listen,” Milton said. “Do you hear the movement of the wood? The boat is singing. It is singing to the angels who guide us.”
It seemed, indeed, to be a fortunate wind; although the Gabriel could not keep the course that the captain had anticipated, it was driven past Block Island without running upon any of the foul ground and shoals which lay among these waters. Captain Farrel had come to Milton’s side after the prayers were over. “God be thanked,” he said. “We will land safely near Sakonnet Point without much trimming or steering among the rocks. You will then have the honor, sir, of being the first to set foot from this ship upon dry land.”
So they made their way towards the shore, with the other travelers giving loud praise to the Lord as if they were in a conventicle. Milton stood with Goosequill at the stern, since he had said that he wished to face England at the moment of their deliverance from the sea and their arrival in the new land. The others were crowded upon the half-deck at the helm, where they felt the power of the restless and boisterous wind which again changed direction: the ship veered northwestward away from Sakonnet Point and drifted towards a more desolate part of the shore. The pilot and captain saw the danger. The full force of this wind was driving them close to a rock which lay, half submerged, in the water. Farrel called for the starboard tacks to be turned about, and for the anchor to be cast. But the ship could get no purchase upon the seabed. “The anchor comes home,” one of the yonkers shouted. “The ship is adrift!”
“Veer out more cable!”
“There is none!”
The Gabriel plunged forward, and those who saw the rock approaching called out to their God to save them before the ship was thoroughly crushed and broken. Milton heard their prayers and laments, but his sightless eyes were still turned towards England. “I believe,” he said calmly, “that we are in doleful hazard. I sense that we are in danger of oversetting.” He could hear the cries of the goats and cattle in the hold, mingled with the screams of the children and the rush of the turbulent waters. He closed his eyelids for a moment, and seemed to experience a more intense shade of darkness. He reached out for Goosequill’s arm, in order to steady himself upon the shifting deck, but grasped only the air. He fell, unbalanced by a sudden tipping of the ship and by his own sense of abandonment. A moment later he felt Goosequill’s arm trying to lift him. “I looked out towards the shore,” Goosequill shouted to him in the desperate gale. “We are being hurled upon some great rock!”
“Recommend yourself to God!” Milton shouted in return, but his words were lost in the noise of a great tearing and splitting asunder. The Gabriel was being lifted by the waves between two great rocks; it seemed to hang there suspended above the waters for a moment, but then with a great sigh it settled down upon the sharp stone and was beaten by the encroaching waves. The water rushed into the pinnace and overwhelmed the crew and the voyagers, while Milton and Goosequill were suddenly washed through an open scuttle hole into the ocean. The blind man gasped as he entered the white foam of the waters, although he was for a blessed moment free from all the noises of terror and confusion around him. He rose to the surface for an instant, his mouth open to the sky, but once more he went down. He was struck a glancing blow on the arm by a plank which had split from the ship’s sinking timbers, and was hit in the side by a barrel which had rolled from the deck; but he felt no pain. In this extremity, so much like a dream of terror, he was surrounded by words as well as water; phrases beat within his head even as he began to sink, and he could hear “the fiery surge,” “rolling in the fiery gulf” and “forever sunk under this boiling ocean.” Why were fire and water so strangely mingled? He could not have shouted out loud, since he was beneath the raging sea, but he could distinctly hear that question spoken as he drowned.
He was being carried upwards by some great wave and was dashed against one of the rocks; he was lifted into a hole or crevice and felt the pressure of the hard stone against his bruised body. He flung out his arms in exhaustion, and found that his fingers were within some fissure to which he might cling; but then he began to slide down the wet rock. He clung on with all his fierceness, but he started to fall back into the sea. He was under the water when he felt Goosequill’s arms lifting him up. The boy was straddled across a piece of the broken mast, some five feet in length, and he managed to haul his master upon it. He tried desperately to maneuver the mast towards land, but it was tossed upon the billows of the ocean; once more they were overwhelmed by water and, for John Milton hanging upon the wood, there was now no time and no motion. He was suspended between two worlds, and a general quietness gathered about him.
“God in heaven!” Goosequill shouted as a large wave lifted the mast higher than before: still they clung on, and suddenly the boy felt ground with his left foot. They had been driven towards the shore but, as he tried to rise, the waves beat him down. But he was lying in shallow water: he turned back for Milton and dragged him by his arms from the mast. They were both now lying in the shallows and, before another wave could reach them, Goosequill hauled the blind man onto dry land. “Crawl or walk, sir!” he screamed. “This is no place to stay!” Somehow they pulled themselves from the shore, and came to rest against the trunk of a pine tree which had been thrown down in the storm. Cold, and weary, and sorely bruised, they wept.
THREE
That was the worst of it, of course. But our adventures started long before. Did you ever hear of Acton, Kate? The sweetest little place you could find. Well, that was the beginning.
Is that not in London, too? You mentioned it once as a good place for pigmeat.
They grow there, Kate. They are not eaten there. So I had plodded all the way from the city, in the spring of the year, when I saw an old wagon mumbling and grumbling ahead of me. All the shine had long gone from my shoes, as you can imagine, so I took it into my head to ride at the cart’s arse. Do you know our London proverb, sit awhile and run a mile? Well, those were my thoughts exactly. So I got aboard her with a single leap—
Will you pass me that linen cloth, Goose? There. Now I am listening again. I will not stir.
So I leaped aboard and, never letting the driver see me, settled down as snugly as I might on her canvas cover. We had jogged along a few yards like old friends when I heard a munching and a crunching. Someone yawned, and there was a most aromatical savor of old cheese in the air. So I put my ear to the canvas, and I could plainly hear the sound of a lovely meal being consumed. Do you know the story of Dame Alice’s pantry, all bare and nothing there? That was the sorry condition of my stomach, so I pinched myself to take courage and then whispered, “Any to spare?” There was a little low sigh from within, just like air coming out of a leather bladder, so I whispered again. “Not even a little piece of that good cheese?”
“Who are you?” It was a man’s voice, but he must have been trembling like a gentlewoman trying to sell pickles.
Mr. Milton sometimes does tremble. I hold his hand until he is calm again.
Will you hold my hand now, Kate? Like this?
Go back to your seat, Goose, or I will never finish sowing this cloth. Be a good boy. Please.
So he asks me who I am. “Who am I, sir? A poor boy indeed. Please to refrain from sticking any sword or knife through the canvas.”
He was silent for a moment. “What do you want with me, poor boy?”
“As I said. A little bit of that good old cheese. It would travel well down gutter lane.”
“A London poor boy, then.” He had a very mild and even voice, now that he had become calm. Like someone who was used to singing.
Oh I know his songs, Goose. He calls them his divagations. But what is a divagation? I have never dared to ask him.
It is some kind of food. Like a trifle. So I told him truthfully that I came from a long line of sausage makers. “In Tallboy Rents by Smithfield, sir. I left my mother’s womb like a piece of Andover pork.”
He laughed, and I liked him then. “You are a spark, I see.”
“Forgive me, sir, but I do not think you can see.” I do not know why I said it, Kate. I just said it. Do you remember how I told you about my sister? There was the same forlornness in his own voice. What is the word for it? It had no echo.
“How do you know that?” He was sharper with me this time.
“My sister is a little blind thing, sir. I used to be her guide through the streets by the market.”
I wonder how she is, Goose. You have been away from her for two years now. Oh, I do pity her without you to lead her.
Cowcross Street. Turnmill Lane. Saffron Hill. I could pity myself too, Kate, if I am never to see them again. May I have your gracious permission to return to my story? Mr. Milton was quiet again under the canvas. I thought to myself, this gentleman is more silent than my dead cat. “Is it dark yet?” he said at last.
“Amost as dark as a blackamoor’s arse.”
“You had better come within, then, poor boy. I have bread as well as cheese.”
So I slipped the knot from the edge of the canvas, and slid down into this bale of warm straw. He was propped up in a corner of the wagon, with a piece of cheese in one hand and a silver penknife in the other. He had long curled hair, like that of a king, and his face looked as finely made as a girl’s. Not as fine as yours, of course. He did not have dark lustrous eyes, or a pretty, slim nose, or lips as yielding as a bed of down. May I?
No, Goosequill, not now. You’ll wake the babe, and then you’ll have to do some more fine talking to soothe her.
I know it. Mr. Milton had a friendly sort of smell, too. Almond milk and raisins mixed. “Here,” he said. “Catch and eat.” He cut off a piece of cheese, and threw it in my precise direction. It was down my stomach as fast as an eel in a culvert, and then he threw me some more.
“Excuse me, sir, but I can fetch my food if you wish. I am not yet a bear in Paris Gardens.”
He laughed at that, and I liked him again. “Tell me more of your sister. Was she born without her sight?”
“Oh no indeed. She could see as well as anyone while she was a squab, but then she was scalded by a pan of hot grease. It was said to have cooked her eyeballs.”
“Poor girl.”
“But she recovered her spirits, being young.”
“Indeed.” He said no more for a moment, and I was about to ask for a piece of the promised crust, when he started up again. “I have been blind these past eight years.”
“I am sorry to hear of it, sir. Was it hot grease, or an arrow, or some such?”
“Yes. An arrow from God.” He leaned back against the side of the wagon, and I could see his fingers restlessly touching the straw around him. “The great evangelist was ordered to eat the book of revelation so that he might possess the gift of prophecy, but it was still bitter in his mouth.”
I understood not a word of this but, as they say, better to talk than to fart. “I know all about books, sir,” I said. “I used to read to my sister.”
“You can read?”
“Oh yes. I conned my horn books as fast as any boy in Smithfield.”
“Do you write?”
“With a very neat hand. I was apprenticed to a scrivener in Leadenhall.”
“My father was a scrivener.” I must have coughed, or hesitated, because he turned his head towards me. “I can tell, from your voice, that you did not serve out your term.”
“I sound too young?”
“Too young by far. But a young boy is not permitted to leave his master or forsake his mystery. A young boy, in such a case, will find himself before the City fathers.” He still seemed to be looking at me. “Is that why you are riding away from London?”
“Well, sir, I will tell you in two words—”
“No. Say nothing. Come and sit by me.” So I slipped over to his side, and at once he put his hands upon my face. “Snub nose. Wide mouth. A Smithfield boy.”
“My ears are my best feature, sir. They flap in the breeze.”
“But you have an honest face. A face like a blessing. Now what shall we call you?” He was still fingering me like a potter, and I thought to myself that a new dish should have a new name. He was touching my head. “What is this? It is like a quill.”
