To the shores of Cape Cod there came, on November 11, 1620, a little
leaky ship, torn by North Atlantic gales and with sides shattered by
North Atlantic rollers. Standing shivering upon her decks stood groups
of men and women, plainly not sailor-folk, worn by a long voyage, and
waiting to step upon a shore of which they knew no more than that it was
inhabited by unmerciful savages and overlaid by dense forests. The
first must be conciliated, and the second, to some extent at least,
cleared away before there could be any hope of settlement.
What pictures of happy homes in the Old Country, with their green little
gardens and honeysuckle creepers, rose up in the memory of those
delicate women as they eyed the bleak, unfriendly shore! Yet, though the
cold bit them and the unknown yawned before, they did not flinch, but
waited for the solemn moment of landing.
[Sidenote: The "Mayflower"]
Perhaps a little of what they did that day they knew. Yet could they, we
wonder, have realised that in quitting England with their husbands and
fathers in order, with them, to worship God according to the manner
bidden by their conscience, they were giving themselves a name glorious
among women? Or that, because of them and theirs, the name of the little
tattered, battered ship they were soon to leave, after weary months of
danger from winds and seas, was to live as long as history. Thousands of
great ships have gone out from England since the day on which the
"Mayflower" sailed from Plymouth, yet which of them had a name like
hers?
Tried as the "Mayflower" women were, their trials were only beginning.
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