Land, ho!

George looked out over the ocean. As far as he could see, there was nothing but deep gray sea, teeming and rolling under equally gray, cloud filled skies. He felt his spirits plummet. He had hoped to see faraway, distant shores, some sort of mark on the horizon. The mark of Terra Firma. Mother Earth, land. It wasn’t to be. At least not yet. He didn’t know exactly when that momentous occasion would occur. The moment when one of the sailors on board would yell triumphantly “Land, ho!”

George had almost forgotten what day it was and how long he had been at sea. If his calculations were correct, and he believed they were, he had been on the ship for about two months – two extremely long, grueling, suffocating months. He felt like the voyage would never end.

The ship’s crew was housed in small cabins above deck, while George and his fellow passengers were consigned to the “gun deck” or lower deck, a suffocating windowless space between the main deck and the cargo hold below. The ceilings below deck were no more than five feet high, which forced him, and everyone else, to stoop until they were permanently and prematurely, bent over and aching. Old before their time.

Below deck, it was also freezing cold. George was convinced that living below deck was akin to being in one of the seven circles of hell – if hell were to be the opposite in temperature – deathly cold and not a fiery, burning place. The cold seeped into George’s bones so deeply that he feared he would never be able to shake it. His whole body had turned into a block of ice.

Moreover, it was so crowded below deck that one could barely move. The passengers were packed in as tight as sardines in a can. Cold, damp sardines. Besides the extreme temperature and close conditions, the stench of vomit, unwashed bodies, and human excrement permeated the air. The few slop buckets resting on the wooden plank floor were overflowing with human waste. At first, passengers had regularly hauled the teeming buckets above decks and dumped their contents into the ocean. Gradually, however, over the course of the voyage, most passengers became too ill and exhausted to be bothered. Instead, they huddled miserably under coarse woolen blankets in close proximity to the overflowing buckets, suffering from a combination of hunger pains, seasickness, putrid smells and frigid temperatures until they feared they would go quite mad.

With the unsanitary conditions coupled with their meager diet of hardtack biscuits, salted pork, dried fish and other preserved meat, washed down with beer, it was miraculous that only one passenger, an indentured servant named William Butten, had died during the voyage. In a twist of fate, to compensate for that one death, a healthy baby boy had also been born during the crossing. The baby had been named Oceanus, in honor of the ocean voyage. The voyage was not for the faint of heart. The only thing that kept most passengers going was the thought of a better tomorrow. A fresh start in a new land. Like the baby Oceanus, the ocean voyage represented a birth – new beginnings in a foreign land. 

That birthing process, however, like most, had been long and arduous. The Mayflower and its sister ship, the Speedwell, had originally set sail from Southampton, England on August 15 in the year of the lord 1620. Unfortunately, the Speedwell had proven to be unseaworthy and soon sprung a leak. Most of its passengers were then transferred to the Mayflower, although some had chosen to stay behind. Less than a month after departing Southampton, the Mayflower and its added passengers, had once more set sail, departing on September 6 from Plymouth Harbor. The added burden of the Speedwell's extra passengers soon led to the aforementioned unsanitary, crowded conditions. For the most part, the passengers accepted the sacrifice. They considered their hardships aboard ship a necessary evil, a cross to bear for the promise of a better life – free from the tyrannical rule of their mother country England. 

George Soule was a lowly indentured manservant to a gentleman named Edward Winslow. George was one of approximately one hundred passengers from all stations of life, high and low, undertaking the voyage. As an indentured servant, he labored under a staggering debt that would take him countless years to pay – that is, should he decide to remain in England. His future in England was bleak – years of servitude loomed in front of him with nothing to show for it, nothing beyond mere survival. In America, however, his future seemed bright. He could work off his debt much sooner and become a landowner, a respected citizen in his own right. He would no longer be forced to be a manservant to anyone else. He could be independent. Free at last.

It was a future too tempting to pass up. As a young, strong single man, he had nothing to lose. No one and nothing tied him to his mother country. With the thought of freedom and adventure coursing through his veins, he decided his fate lay in America. 

He tried to hold onto that optimism, despite the grueling conditions aboard the Mayflower. Looking forward to a better life was the only way to preserve his sanity in the midst of an interminable, miserable voyage. As of late, it seemed that the Mayflower was not even progressing forward in its journey. Stormy weather and rough seas often caused the ship to veer off course and even blow backwards, making the journey even longer. George prayed that this pattern would not continue. Soon, he hoped the ship would barrel forward, back on course.

Although passengers had been strongly discouraged from going on deck, and faced the possible wrath of the Mayflower captain and his crew, George decided nonetheless to venture out of his cabin one day to see if he could gauge the ship’s progress. Were they still going backwards or were they now back on course? He wondered to himself. He just had to find out. 

He emerged from below decks and stepped onto the wooden deck, shuffling towards the ship’s stern. Having suffered several bouts of seasickness since the beginning of the voyage, he walked somewhat gingerly, fearing that his embattled stomach would soon start rolling and churning like the seas beneath him. To his surprise, his stomach was at last calm. He also noted in jubilation that it was a beautiful day. The sun was shining, and fluffy white clouds pillowed the sky. The air was light, fresh, and warm – a welcome respite from the habitually cold, damp stink of below. He felt his spirits rise in tandem with the gentle breeze that stirred the air. 

He heard the mournful cooing of some kind of bird and glanced up. He saw a white albatross flying above him. He squinted his eyes and strained his neck muscles to look as high up in the sky as he was able. What was the bird carrying its mouth? To his astonishment, he noted that it was a branch. A branch that appeared to have green leaves on it!

He could scarcely believe it! It must be a sign. Like the dove carrying the olive branch of peace, the albatross carried a fresh, living branch – or at least one that had been attached to a live tree a short while ago as its leaves were still a bright green. The branch and its leaves must be a sign. A sign from God. A promise. The end was in sight. Land would soon be present! His thoughts raced. They were almost there! They had almost made it! He could scarcely contain his excitement. He just had to go back and tell the others.

He turned around and walked hurriedly back towards the hole cut into the deck that led to the wooden ladder that descended to the gun deck. On the way, he saw the first mate, a forbidding looking, unpleasant man who seemed to have a perpetual sneer on his face.

“Pray pardon me, good sir,” George said excitedly. “Has thou seenest the bird flying o’er us? A bird, large and white, with a living branch in its mouth? Does thou not thinkest that bird be the harbinger of good news – land ahead and the end to our voyage?”

Surprisingly, the grumpy man smiled. “The albatross! Thou must have seen the albatross! Tis an old sailor’s omen. A good omen, praise be. Land indeed beckons! Spread the good word, my fellow!”

George could scarcely believe it. He was ecstatic. He had been the one to discover the bird with the branch, and the first mate had agreed with him. Land was soon to arrive!

The first mate sped off to alert the captain of the harbinger of good fortune that had been spotted. Seafaring men were a superstitious lot and they believed in omens and signs. If an albatross with a branch had been spotted, then it must mean land was soon forthcoming. Navigational equipment was not something the Mayflower crew had, beyond an ancient sexton that did not work very well. Using the stars to navigate was also not without fault. Sometimes navigating a ship was nothing more than a wing and a prayer. And this time, the wing had literally been spotted. The wing of a bird, a bird carrying a branch, a branch that had grown on dry land. Land that was surely not far away . . . 

Descending into the foothold, the next person George encountered was his master, Edward Winslow, accompanied by his wife.

“Good morrow, sir,” George said, bowing. “I am happy to announce that land has been spotted!”

In his excitement, George had embellished the story – a feat that he didn’t do deliberately but rather, subconsciously. Land had been spotted. Maybe it was just wishful thinking, but his disheartened brain and spirit had long resided in the dark dungeon of the ship’s underbelly. When he finally saw light and promise in the form of a branch carrying bird at the end of that proverbial long, dark tunnel, he couldn’t help but leap to the logical conclusion that land had indeed been spotted. 

“Indeed?” his master Edward Winslow replied. “Actual land? Splendid, splendid. Thank you. I must share this good news with the rest of my family.”

George continued walking towards his designated spot in the below decks cabin, taking care to bend down, lest he hit his head on the low ceiling, something he had done too many painful times. Along the way, he stopped and told everyone he knew about the land he had seen. Pretty soon, the whole ship buzzed with excitement. Rumors spread like wildfire. The voyage was almost over. Land was in sight. They were almost there!

“I heard that whales were also spotted. Swimming in the water by the shoreline . . .” one man told his wife. 

Another man said that on the beach where they were sure to dock, face painted, bloodthirsty savages riding all white horses were lying in wait for the passengers, bows and arrows at the ready. The Mayflower passengers would surely be shot on sight by Indians and their quivering, sharply pointed arrows.

Another passenger claimed the waters near the shoreline were infested with man-eating sharks. The Mayflower captain and his crew would therefore be forced to somehow run the large, unwieldy Mayflower aground onto dry land before passengers could safely disembark. 

Stirred by these and other similar rumors about what to expect on shore, the passengers, who had previously been too ill, exhausted and disheartened to stir from their squalid berths, were now gathering their tattered, dirty belongings in fevered excitement. The previously gloomy atmosphere below deck was now a cacophony of noise and movement, as passengers readied themselves and their children for their long anticipated, but potentially dangerous arrival. 

Soon, there was a stampede of scurrying feet headed towards the ladder leading to the ship’s deck. Skeletal, dirty, exhausted passengers began climbing the tattered rope ladder leading up to the ship’s deck, one right after another. Everyone wanted to stand triumphantly at the ship’s rail and spot the long awaited land. They wanted to hear those long awaited magical words, “Land ho!” Once on land, George felt he and the others might even sink to their knees and kiss the sand. 

Everyone strained to see that promised land, but so far, nothing had been spotted. Several long minutes passed until finally, an indignant buzz of voices began to rise. At last one man yelled hopefully above the din, “Starboard! The land must be on the starboard side!”

After those words were uttered, there was a thunderous rush of feet on the wooden deck as everyone ran to the starboard side of the ship. With the ship’s weight now unevenly distributed, the ship tilted precariously to one side. One passenger, John Howland, who, like George Soule, was also an indentured servant, had been hanging over the railing trying to get a bird’s eye of the long anticipated land. Suddenly, he tumbled headlong into the water and landed with a resounding splash. 

“Man overboard!” called the first mate, throwing a worn rope to the hapless man, flailing helplessly in the water. Howland grabbed the rope in vain before it slipped out of his slippery grasp. His head then bobbed in the water, and he looked like he might soon go under, never to return. The throngs crowded on deck let out a collective gasp. The first mate then grabbed the rope back again before once more letting it fly back towards the struggling man in the water. This time, Howland reached one feeble hand towards the rope and finally, closed his fingers around it in desperation and tightly held on. 

The crew pulled him back in with the rope, before grabbing him under his armpits and heaving him over the rail where he at last flopped on the deck like a landed fish, spitting and sputtering out water.

“Back to your quarters!” The captain cried. “Land is not yet near! We need to travel further still! Everyone below deck! Our time is not yet nigh!” 

The passengers grumbled in defeat, George being the one to feel the worst. He had been the unwitting bearer of false news. He was afraid everyone would hold it against him. In self chastisement, he almost felt he deserved a public flogging.

Still, with the speed that rumors had spread all throughout the Mayflower, no one seemed to know where they had originated from. George was therefore safe from public humiliation and punishment. Nonetheless, he felt ashamed. He was also downhearted, beaten, and discouraged. He was beginning to lose all hope. The Mayflower would never reach America. They would be at sea forever. Forever trapped in the stifling, airless, putrid, freezing cabin in the ship's bowels. 

He silently cried salty tears and finally fell into a troubled, restless sleep. When he finally awoke, he didn’t get up from his wooden cot. What was the use? He was tired of being filled with false hope and promise. They were never going to get there. The bird with the branch in his mouth must have been an optical illusion. Some sort of sea going mirage. He was surely delirious from lack of food and sunlight.

Just as he was thinking those bitter, defeated thoughts, he heard the clanging of a large bell and the blowing of a bullhorn. What could that possibly mean?

Suddenly, he heard the captain’s booming voice, “Land, ho!”

He realized with elation that the Mayflower had finally, blessedly arrived. He noted the date in his yellowed, water stained journal. November 9, 1620. The Mayflower had finally reached its destination. America. Home at last. His new life had begun.

Author’s note: This story is loosely based on the Mayflower’s voyage and passengers aboard who actually existed. There is a rumor in my own family that we are descended from the Mayflower passenger George Soule, the indentured servant who is the main character in the story. My great grandparents' last name is Sowls, which supposedly is a derivation of the last name Soule. Whether or not this is true and I am related to George Soule, I don’t know, but nonetheless, it's an interesting rumor and gave me the idea for this historical fiction story. Other possible descendants of George Soule include Richard Gere, Dick Van Dyke, and Melvil Dewey. Or maybe that's just a rumor?