His face was painted black, his body covered with animal grease. He had come for war. During the night, he and the others had tested the white men by howling like wolves in the woods. The whites had roused themselves and fired off their guns, and many of the Nausets had lost their courage. But Autumnsquam would not let them run. Now he counted only one white man for every three Nausets, and by some arrogance or stupidity, the whites had carried most of their weapons to their canoe, then had gone back, unarmed, to their little square of logs and boughs on the beach. Autumnsquam crawled to Aspinet and said the time had come.

Jack Hilyard was watching Simeon Bigelow melt goose grease over the fire. “Through the mist, nuffin’ can be seen of the beaches to the south.”

“Then thou hast little to say.”

“I’ll say no matter, when the mood ’round the fire warms.”

Myles Standish stood at the opening of the barricado. Not the cheeriest of men, his demeanor had worsened as several had elected to carry their guns and gear to the shallop, to be ready to go when the tide rose. Hunger made him even angrier. “What breaks our fast, Master Simeon?”

“Hard tack in goose grease and a gill of beer.”

“For this we leave our guns unguarded.”

“Repast fit for a king,” said Bradford cheerily.

Jack Hilyard cleared his throat. “I knows a way we’ll all eat like kings, with sterling brung by whale oil—”

Nothing more of what he said could be heard above the wild cries that came from the woods.

“Wolves?” said Bradford.

Stephen Hopkins rushed into the barricado, “They are men! Indians! Indians!”

And a shower of arrows whistled through the air. Three shafts thumped into the ground around Jack. One struck the kettle and splashed grease onto his breeches. Another landed by his boot. A third pinned Simeon Bigelow’s cloak to the ground.

Jack felt a familiar chill at the nape of his neck, which was good, because a little fear sharpened the senses and steadied the hand. But too much fear froze men to their boot soles, and for a moment, none of the others could move.

Then Standish proved the worth of a soldier among farmers and shopkeeps. Though he had no target, he raised and fired his snaphance at the woods. The thunderous roar frightened the Indians into silence and roused the explorers from their shock.

“Arm yourselves! Now!” Standish shouted.

“Fear not the arrows,” cried Bradford, finding his courage. “God is with us.”

“And dressed most of you in armor!” added Jack.

“But the guns be by the shallop!” said Hopkins.

“And you bloody fools for leavin’ ’em there!” shouted Standish.

“I be no fool,” cried Jack. “Mine be right here.”

“And there are two more,” said Bradford.

“Be quick with ’em, then,” ordered Standish, “and the rest of you ready yourselves to run for the shallop.”

Jack looked at Simeon, who was still crouched in fright, and held out his gun. “Fire the match.”

Another flight of arrows came in, some digging into the sand, some fluttering to the ground, a few tearing into the cloaks drying above the fire, and every one rooting Simeon Bigelow more firmly to his fright.

“Fire the match, Simeon,” said Jack evenly, “or we’ll none of us get out of here alive.”

With shaking hand, Simeon pulled a burning stick from the fire and touched it to the slow match on Jack’s musket.

Standish was now standing in full view of the Indians, letting arrows bounce off his corselet while he reloaded. When a stone-tipped arrow struck the armor near his neck, he snapped it in half and spat on it.

This infuriated the Indians, who screamed out a strange cry—“Woach, Woach, ha ha hach woach”—and sent down another rain of arrows.

“Do all the spittin’ you wants, Captain.” Jack raised his matchlock and pulled the trigger. The hammer snapped, touching the smoldering cord to the powder in the pan. There was a small flash, then an explosion that once more shocked the Indians into silence, but this time, their fear neither grew as great nor lasted as long.

Standish ordered the unarmed men after their guns. “Run, you bloody fools. Run now!”

And as the white men fled down the beach, the Indians burst from the woods to give chase.

“Run!” cried Jack.

“Be men of faith,” added Bradford.

“And you be men of the musket!” cried Standish. In the firelight, his face now shone as red as his beard.

Bradford and John Carver rushed out with their matchlocks, dug their rests into the sand, fitted the barrels, and took aim.

Standish pointed at the shadows churning down the beach as though driven by the wind. “Aim together,” he ordered calmly. “Together, now.