A New Thanksgiving

Unrelenting.

The sun was nearly unbearably bright out in the bare ocean during the middle of the day. The temperature, however, was drastically in the other direction. On deck it was just below freezing, and the blowing winds did not improve the situation in the slightest. The good thing for the passengers was that they weren't allowed on deck for long periods of time in such weather. Instead, the 102 passengers of the Mayflower were stowed underneath the main deck in the small, cramped gun deck.

However, the gun deck wasn't designed as a mobile living space for months at a time. It measured a measly fifty feet by another twenty-five feet, with only a ceiling high of an astounding five feet. The space was also shared by several cannons and their equipment as well, equaling what made for very uncomfortable voyaging conditions. They majority of the passengers belongings, a pleasure to them, were stored below them in the cargo hold, along with other provisions they brought.

Up on the main deck, several of the crewmen were at work. Two of the swabbers were cleaning the deck wood. Another crewman was high above the deck, dozing off in the crow's nest, not expecting to see land anytime soon.

The captain, an older gentlemen from Essex, Christopher Jones sat within his cabin at the rear end of the main deck. He had been hired by the Puritans and Separatists only a month before their departure. Seated before him was one of the men responsible for him undertaking the job at hand. A Separatist leader in Holland after leaving England, William Bradford had decided the time was necessary to escape the jurisdiction of the tyrannical King James I. He was convinced that the New World was in fact the answer to the issue before them. The issue at hand, however, the one that Jones had called on Bradford for, was a much more pressing issue.

"William, as I'm sure you are plenty aware, we are running out of time to reach landfall," Jones started.

"In what way are you referring?" Bradford questioned, moving forward in his chair.

"Supplies, William. We're nearly out of food, and oil and especially the beer. We won't make it many more weeks without finding landfall," the captain explained.

"It can't be much farther," Bradford said.

"We've been at sea for over four months, my dear boy. Even with the storm in August should we have arrived by now," the captain said, getting frustrated.

"Captain, nearly ever account we have on the duration is contradictory to one another. We can't be certain that we should have arrived. All we can say is that we haven't," Bradford said, trying to calm his elder Captain.

"I'm not the only one anxious to get off this vessel, Bradford." The captain poured himself some of the remaining beer and offered another to Bradford, who took it hesitantly. Jones downed his glass in one swift wrist flick and neck arch that it would have been impossible to tell it occupied any liquid had you not been present to see him pour it. Bradford looked down at his glass and placed it gently on the captain's desk instead.

"Captain, if I may say so, I think your worrisome nature is premature. Give it a few more days, a week, to see how things possibly unfold," Bradford stated, standing up from his chair.

Captain Jones turned and faced Bradford and sighed. "Perhaps you are correct, William. I have come across no reason to doubt your judgement."

Bradford and Jones shook hands before they both retired for the night, sun light nearly out of the sky. The only person aboard the vessel awake at the hour was the man seated up high in the crow's nest. Seated up in the mast, with only a small candle for heat and light, the man occasionally scanned the horizon, not expecting to find anything of value. Several hours afterwards, just as he was dozing off into sleep, did something catch his attention, delaying his rest.