 | Twice-told tales |  |
ENDICOTT AND THE RED CROSS.
At noon of an autumnal day, more than two centuries
ago, the English colors were displayed by the
standard-bearer of the Salem trainband, which had
mustered for martial exercise under the orders of
John Endicott. It was a period, when the religious
exiles were accustomed often to buckle on their armor,
and practise the handling of their weapons of
war. Since the first settlement of New England, its
prospects had never been so dismal. The dissensions
between Charles the First and his subjects were then,
and for several years afterwards, confined to the floor
of Parliament. The measures of the King and ministry
were rendered more tyrannically violent by an
opposition, which had not yet acquired sufficient confidence
in its own strength, to resist royal injustice
with the sword. The bigoted and haughty primate,
Laud, Archbishop of Canterbury, controlled the religious
affairs of the realm, and was consequently invested
utter ruin of the two Puritan colonies, Plymouth and
Massachusetts. There is evidence on record, that
our forefathers perceived their danger, but were resolved
that their infant country should not fall without
a struggle, even beneath the giant strength of the
King's right arm.
Such was the aspect of the times, when the folds
of the English banner, with the Red Cross in its
field, were flung out over a company of Puritans.
Their leader, the famous Endicott, was a man of
stern and resolute countenance, the effect of which
was heightened by a grizzled beard that swept the
upper portion of his breastplate. This piece of armor
was so highly polished, that the whole surrounding
scene had its image in the glittering steel. The
central object in the mirrored picture, was an edifice
of humble architecture, with neither steeple nor bell
to proclaim it, — what nevertheless it was, — the
house of prayer. A token of the perils of the wilderness
was seen in the grim head of a wolf, which
had just been slain within the precincts of the town,
and, according to the regular mode of claiming the
bounty, was nailed on the porch of the meeting-house.
The blood was still plashing on the doorstep.
There happened to be visible, at the same
noontide hour, so many other characteristics of the
times and manners of the Puritans, that we must endeavor
to represent them in a sketch, though far less
vividly than they were reflected in the polished breastplate
of John Endicott.
In close vicinity to the sacred edifice appeared that
important engine of Puritanic authority, the whipping-post,
— with the soil around it well trodden by the
feet of evil-doers, who had there been disciplined.
At one corner of the meetinghouse was the pillory,
and at the other the stocks; and, by a singular good
fortune for our sketch, the head of an Episcopalian
and suspected Catholic was grotesquely encased in
the former machine; while a fellow-criminal, who
had boisterously quaffed a health to the King, was
confined by the legs in the latter. Side by side, on
the meetinghouse steps, stood a male and a female
figure. The man was a tall, lean, haggard personification
of fanaticism, bearing on his breast this label,
— A Wanton Gospeller, — which betokened that
he had dared to give interpretations of Holy Writ,
unsanctioned by the infallible judgment of the civil
and religious rulers. His aspect showed no lack of
zeal to maintain his heterodoxies, even at the stake.
The woman wore a cleft stick on her tongue, in appropriate
retribution for having wagged that unruly member
against the elders of the church; and her countenance
and gestures gave much cause to apprehend,
that, the moment the stick should be removed, a repetition
of the offence would demand new ingenuity in
chastising it.
The above-mentioned individuals had been sentenced
to undergo their various modes of ignominy,
for the space of one hour at noonday. But among
the crowd were several, whose punishment would be
life-long; some, whose ears had been cropt, like
branded with the initials of their misdemeanors; one,
with his nostrils slit and seared; and another, with a
halter about his neck, which he was forbidden ever to
take off, or to conceal beneath his garments. Methinks
he must have been grievously tempted to affix
the other end of the rope to some convenient beam or
bough. There was likewise a young woman, with
no mean share of beauty, whose doom it was to wear
the letter A on the breast of her gown, in the eyes of
all the world and her own children. And even her
own children knew what that initial signified. Sporting
with her infamy, the lost and desperate creature
had embroidered the fatal token in scarlet cloth, with
golden thread and the nicest art of needle-work; so
that the capital A might have been thought to mean
Admirable, or any thing rather than Adulteress.
Let not the reader argue, from any of these evidences
of iniquity, that the times of the Puritans were
more vicious than our own, when, as we pass along
the very street of this sketch, we discern no badge
of infamy on man or woman. It was the policy of
our ancestors to search out even the most secret sins,
and expose them to shame, without fear or favor, in
the broadest light of the noonday sun. Were such
the custom now, perchance we might find materials
for a no less piquant sketch than the above.
Except the malefactors whom we have described,
and the diseased or infirm persons, the whole male
population of the town, between sixteen years and
sixty, were seen in the ranks of the trainband. A
the primeval Indian, stood gazing at the spectacle.
Their flint-headed arrows were but childish weapons,
compared with the matchlocks of the Puritans, and
would have rattled harmlessly against the steel caps
and hammered iron breastplates, which enclosed each
soldier in an individual fortress. The valiant John
Endicott glanced with an eye of pride at his sturdy
followers, and prepared to renew the martial toils of
the day.
`Come, my stout hearts!' quoth he, drawing his
sword. `Let us show these poor heathen that we
can handle our weapons like men of might. Well
for them, if they put us not to prove it in earnest!'
The iron-breasted company straightened their line,
and each man drew the heavy butt of his matchlock
close to his left foot, thus awaiting the orders of the
captain. But, as Endicott glanced right and left
along the front, he discovered a personage at some
little distance, with whom it behoved him to hold a
parley. It was an elderly gentleman, wearing a black
cloak and band, and a high-crowned hat, beneath which
was a velvet skull-cap, the whole being the garb of a
Puritan minister. This reverend person bore a staff,
which seemed to have been recently cut in the forest,
and his shoes were bemired, as if he had been travelling
on foot through the swamps of the wilderness.
His aspect was perfectly that of a pilgrim, heightened
also by an apostolic dignity. Just as Endicott
perceived him, he laid aside his staff, and stooped to
drink at a bubbling fountain, which gushed into the
the meetinghouse. But, ere the good man drank, he
turned his face heavenward in thankfulness, and then,
holding back his gray beard with one hand, he scooped
up his simple draught in the hollow of the other.
`What, ho! good Mr. Williams,' shouted Endicott.
`You are welcome back again to our town of peace.
How does our worthy Governor Winthrop? And
what news from Boston?'
`The Governor hath his health, worshipful Sir,'
answered Roger Williams, now resuming his staff,
and drawing near. `And, for the news, here is a
letter, which, knowing I was to travel hitherward today,
his Excellency committed to my charge. Belike
it contains tidings of much import; for a ship
arrived yesterday from England.'
Mr. Williams, the minister of Salem, and of course
known to all the spectators, had now reached the spot
where Endicott was standing under the banner of his
company, and put the Governor's epistle into his
hand. The broad seal was impressed with Winthrop's
coat of arms. Endicott hastily unclosed the
letter, and began to read; while, as his eye passed
down the page, a wrathful change came over his
manly countenance. The blood glowed through it,
till it seemed to be kindling with an internal heat;
nor was it unnatural to suppose that his breastplate
would likewise become red hot, with the angry fire of
the bosom which it covered. Arriving at the conclusion,
he shook the letter fiercely in his hand, so that it
rustled as loud as the flag above his head.
`Black tidings these, Mr. Williams,' said he;
`blacker never came to New England. Doubtless
you know their purport?'
`Yea, truly,' replied Roger Williams; `for the
Governor consulted, respecting this matter, with my
brethren in the ministry at Boston; and my opinion
was likewise asked. And his Excellency entreats you
by me, that the news be not suddenly noised abroad,
lest the people be stirred up unto some outbreak, and
thereby give the King and the Archbishop a handle
against us.'
`The Governor is a wise man, — a wise man, and
a meek and moderate,' said Endicott, setting his teeth
grimly. `Nevertheless, I must do according to my
own best judgment. There is neither man, woman,
nor child in New England, but has a concern as dear
as life in these tidings; and, if John Endicott's voice
be loud enough, man, woman, and child shall hear
them. Soldiers, wheel into a hollow square! Ho,
good people! Here are news for one and all of you.'
The soldiers closed in around their captain; and
he and Roger Williams stood together under the
banner of the Red Cross; while the women and the
aged men pressed forward, and the mothers held up
their children to look Endicott in the face. A few
taps of the drum gave signal for silence and attention.
`Fellow-soldiers, — fellow-exiles,' began Endicott,
speaking under strong excitement, yet powerfully
restraining it, `wherefore did ye leave your native
country? Wherefore, I say, have we left the green
and fertile fields, the cottages, or, perchance, the old
where our forefathers lie buried? Wherefore
have we come hither to set up our own tombstones in
a wilderness? A howling wilderness it is! The wolf
and the bear meet us within halloo of our dwellings.
The savage lieth in wait for us in the dismal shadow
of the woods. The stubborn roots of the trees break
our ploughshares, when we would till the earth.
Our children cry for bread, and we must dig in the
sands of the sea-shore to satisfy them. Wherefore,
I say again, have we sought this country of a rugged
soil and wintry sky? Was it not for the enjoyment
of our civil rights? Was it not for liberty to worship
God according to our conscience?'
`Call you this liberty of conscience?' interrupted
a voice on the steps of the meetinghouse.
It was the Wanton Gospeller. A sad and quiet
smile flitted across the mild visage of Roger Williams.
But Endicott, in the excitement of the moment,
shook his sword wrathfully at the culprit, — an
ominous gesture from a man like him.
`What hast thou to do with conscience, thou
knave?' cried he. `I said, liberty to worship God,
not license to profane and ridicule him. Break not
in upon my speech; or I will lay thee neck and heels
till this time to-morrow! Hearken to me, friends,
nor heed that accursed rhapsodist. As I was saying,
we have sacrificed all things, and have come to a
land whereof the old world hath scarcely heard, that
we might make a new world unto ourselves, and
painfully seek a path from hence to Heaven. But
this grandson of a papistical and adulterous Scotch
woman, whose death proved that a golden crown
doth not always save an anointed head from the
block —"
`Nay, brother, nay,' interposed Mr. Williams;
`thy words are not meet for a secret chamber, far
less for a public street.'
`Hold thy peace, Roger Williams!' answered
Endicott, imperiously. `My spirit is wiser than thine,
for the business now in hand. I tell ye, fellow-exiles,
that Charles of England, and Laud, our bitterest persecutor,
arch-priest of Canterbury, are resolute to
pursue us even hither. They are taking counsel,
saith this letter, to send over a governor-general, in
whose breast shall be deposited all the law and equity
of the land. They are minded, also, to establish the
idolatrous forms of English Episcopacy; so that,
when Laud shall kiss the Pope's toe, as cardinal of
Rome, he may deliver New England, bound hand
and foot, into the power of his master!'
A deep groan from the auditors, — a sound of
wrath, as well as fear and sorrow, — responded to
this intelligence.
`Look ye to it, brethren,' resumed Endicott, with
increasing energy. `If this king and this arch-prelate
have their will, we shall briefly behold a cross on the
spire of this tabernacle which we have builded, and
a high altar within its walls, with wax tapers burning
round it at noonday. We shall hear the sacring-bell,
and the voices of the Romish priests saying the mass.
may be suffered without a sword drawn? without a
shot fired? without blood spilt, yea, on the very stairs
of the pulpit? No, — be ye strong of hand, and
stout of heart! Here we stand on our own soil,
which we have bought with our goods, which we have
won with our swords, which we have cleared with our
axes, which we have tilled with the sweat of our
brows, which we have sanctified with our prayers to
the God that brought us hither! Who shall enslave
us here? What have we to do with this mitred prelate,
— with this crowned king? What have we to
do with England?'
Endicott gazed round at the excited countenances
of the people, now full of his own spirit, and then
turned suddenly to the standard-bearer, who stood
close behind him.
`Officer, lower your banner!' said he.
The officer obeyed; and, brandishing his sword,
Endicott thrust it through the cloth, and, with his left
hand, rent the Red Cross completely out of the banner.
He then waved the tattered ensign above his
head.
`Sacrilegious wretch!' cried the high-churchman
in the pillory, unable longer to restrain himself;
`thou hast rejected the symbol of our holy religion!'
`Treason, treason!' roared the royalist in the
stocks. `He hath defaced the King's banner!'
`Before God and man, I will avouch the deed,'
answered Endicott. `Beat a flourish, drummer! —
shout, soldiers and people! — in honor of the ensign
part in it now!'
With a cry of triumph, the people gave their sanction
to one of the boldest exploits which our history
records. And, for ever honored be the name of Endicott!
We look back through the mist of ages, and
recognise, in the rending of the Red Cross from New
England's banner, the first omen of that deliverance
which our fathers consummated, after the bones of
the stern Puritan had lain more than a century in the
dust.
| Twice-told tales | |