Cape Cod

by William Martin

  Douglas unrolled a map of Jack’s Island, subdivided into scores of 5000-square-foot lots. In the corner was a legend, in the fountain-pen script of someone who had learned handwriting in the old school: “Plan of Land for Pilgrim’s Rest at Jack’s Island, Brewster, Mass., owned by Elwood Hilyard, Zachary Hilyard, and Heman Bigelow, January 9, 1904, Scale 1″ to 100′, Charles Berry, C.E., Orleans, Mass.”

  “I dug this up at the Barnstable County Courthouse,” explained Douglas. “They did plans like this for land all over the Cape. Most of them came later than this one, and they were seldom followed up on. This one was forgotten after the Hilyard House burned, but these things retain their weight.”

  “What good does it do us?” asked Janice.

  Dickerson tried to say something, but Douglas was doing the talking now, and he talked right over his father. Since Dickerson’s heart attack, Douglas had done so much talking, and done it so fast and so well, that Dickerson didn’t even try to top him.

  Douglas took his putter from the corner and used it like a pointer above the map. “The genius who laid this out divided the island like a pie, with everybody getting a quarter-acre. If we don’t alter the roads or lot-lines, just combine lots to build bigger houses, we have a strong case. I’ve already gone after several building permits on my side of the island, just to test the waters.”

  “What did Uncle Rake say about that?” asked Geoff.

  “That’s when he started his eminent domain drive,” answered Doug. “He wants the town to take the whole island.”

  “He’s getting senile,” grunted Dickerson.

  Douglas dropped a golf ball onto the floor. “If the town rejects Rake, then it’s up to you, Geoff. Convince him to sell, and you’re in for a fee of a million five—six percent of projected construction costs—plus payment for your piece of land, which may be worth two mil more.”

  Geoff looked at Janice. Through the telepathy of marriage, they heard the arguments without speaking them: Imagine the prestige. Imagine the income. And it wasn’t like he’d never thought of it himself. He had moved to the Cape to create buildings that respected the Cape’s history and ecology, whatever that meant. Here was his chance. Besides, if the island was going to be developed, who better to design it?

  But Janice knew what else he was thinking, and she said it for him. “This would kill Uncle Rake.”

  Dickerson grunted, as though his daughter’s remark might kill him. “Nothing could kill Uncle Rake.”

  “I need to think about this,” said Geoff.

  “Take a week,” said Douglas.

  Janice looked at her brother. “Does he get this offer in writing?”

  “In writing!” Dickerson half-rose from his chair, then dropped back as if reminding himself not to get angry. “This is family, kids.”

  But Geoff did not notice Dickerson’s effort at self-control. He pointed at the painting. “They got it in writing.”

  Douglas tapped the ball across the rug. “You don’t know of anything else they got in writing, do you? Like a book?”

  Geoff didn’t, and he didn’t puzzle over it, either. There was too much else to think about.

  iii.

  In real estate, three things mattered—location, location, and…Cornhill Road in Truro, views of Cape Cod Bay and Little Pamet marsh, walk to beach, older home, needs TLC. Geoff and Janice had read the ad when they were first married. They liked the idea of having a place thirty miles from Jack’s Island, forty from her father’s house. Now the house was an even older home—a living, breathing money pit—but it had appreciated so much that they called it an antique.

  They unloaded the car, then gave the kids flashlights, and off they all went toward the crest of Cornhill.

  “Nothing makes a kid happier than a flashlight,” said Geoff, “except being up past bedtime.”

  “Nice to be a kid again.”

  “Nice to have nothing to think about.”

  Janice took his arm. “Too bad it’s not the case.”

  “Too many things to think about. That’s one of the nasty things about pushing forty. That and less sex.”

  She stopped and put her hands on her hips.

  “Just a joke,” he said.

  She was one of the better things about pushing forty. There was a new hardness at the cheekbones, and the lines were leathering in around her eyes and mouth. But she still had great legs and one of those forthright Yankee faces—a little long in the jaw, a little pinched around the nostrils, never ravishing, but handsome when simple beauty faded. Too bad she was so damn stubborn.

  He took her arm, and they walked in silence for a time, following the flashlight beams that danced ahead like fireflies. Then Janice said, “I think you should do it.”

  In the distance, someone set off a machine-gun string of firecrackers.

  “Sell out my uncle?”

  “Talk to him. Tell him the world won’t stop because an old man wants to keep things the way they were in 1928.”

  “You’re sounding heartless.”

  “You’re thinking the same way.”

  He slipped his arm from hers and hurried to the crest of the hill, where dozens of happy, half-lit people were singing the ooh-and-ah chorus to the bass thump of distant fireworks.

  Around the rim of the bay, the oldest towns in America were celebrating its birth. To the west, above Plymouth, fireworks blossomed and faded like flowers on a distant mountain. To the south, where the land dipped below the horizon, nothing could be seen but white flashes. To the north, over Provincetown, you could almost touch the colors dancing against the blackness.

  Janice whispered, “Even the Pilgrims knew you had to move one idea aside to make room for the next.”

  CHAPTER 4

  December 1620

  The First Encounter, The First Mysteries

  December 1, 1620. Clear, calm, cold beyond freezing. It is said that in the planning of this migration, some argued for the Guianas, but fearing the tropics unhealthful and the Spaniards too close by, they chose America. Of the Spaniards I have heard no good, but no place could be less healthful than this.

  Three days past, we sailed to the place called Cornhill, so named because the first explorers from the ship found there buried, amongst Indian graves and abandoned dwellings, a store of corn, some of which they did bring back. Wishing to find the Indians and barter for the rest, but mindful of the wrath they may have incurred in first taking of it, the elders wanted many arms on a second exploration, so I offered the crew.

  We shipped in longboat and shallop on November 28, but were much hindered by crosswinds and rough seas and put in after only four miles. All waded ashore, some to their knees, some to their waist in the cold water. And the salt wind that stung our ears turned wet seams and stitches to ice on our legs.

  We slept that night in soggy clothes on the beach, and by suncoming, our blankets were covered over with snow. Though all suffered the cold and gripin’ bellies, we explored a shallow harbor and two tide-cut rivers, then went up Cornhill, tallest bluff on the bay, covered over with stunted pines, brambles, sassafras, and hardwoods in the protected places. Ezra Bigelow charged his brother Simeon and others to dig into a certain sand hill where the corn was hid, but Simeon hesitated, as it might be a grave that they defiled.

  Jack Hilyard said digging was the only way to know if it was Indian corn or Indian bodies in the mound. Simeon, who seems a gentle and honest man, answered that they had come firstly to make amends with the savages. Ezra answered that they had come firstly to guarantee a store of corn and could not make amends with them who would hide from them and do them harm if they could.

  Bradford told Simeon to quiet himself, as they would do business with the Indians at the first moment.

  Then a rush basket of corn appeared, and Bradford led a prayer of thanksgiving.

  In whatever they do, they believe God watches over them. ’Tis a fine confidence, especially when they take what is not theirs.

  I returned to
the Mayflower with the corn, ten bushels in all, and those men too sickly and tired to keep on. The rest of the party—Bradford, Carver, Hopkins, Hilyard, the Bigelows, et al.—returned this forenoon, bringing with them wooden bowls, spoons, rush mats, and other trinkets taken out of empty Indian dwellings.

  And Ezra Bigelow spoke of something that struck me as mysterious. North of Cornhill, in a mound near two abandoned dwellings, they found a bow, arrows, cups, bowls, a strange sort of crown, and two bundles.

  They ope’d the larger of those and found bones and skull, how long buried could not be told. Some unconsumed flesh remained, and hanks of hair, which was yellow. In the smaller bundle were the bones of a boy, buried also with a bow and beads around his wrists and ankles. Indian king and son? But Indians have black hair. French fishermen? The canvas shirt and breeches on the larger skeleton are sailor’s garb. But why buried with such honor? None could say.

  After telling his tale, Ezra Bigelow was strangely disconsolate and sought out another disconsolate one, Dorothy Bradford, who has remained at the rail, gazing fearfully at the wilderness, all the weeks we have been here.

  In truth, they should all be disconsolate that went out. ’Tis no season to explore, but they must continue. ’Tis no season to build shelters, but it must be done. ’Tis time for me to be sailing, but I must stay.

  ii.

  Some Nausets tipped their arrows with eagle claws or the tails of horseshoe crabs. Others used pieces of brass traded from white men. But Autumnsquam had learned to shoot a stone-head arrow. With a stone-head arrow, he knew just the force and flight needed to bring down deer or black duck. Bringing down white men would be no different.

  He sat before his wetu, and with a large stone he chipped at a smaller one. On the ground sat a bowl of finished arrowheads and a pile of unworked stones.

  “You make many.” Aspinet stood over him.

  Autumnsquam looked up. “We need many.”

  The old sachem sat on his haunches, which pleased Autumnsquam because it was a sign that Aspinet accepted him as an equal. Autumnsquam called to his new woman to bring them food.

  “The white men have been here now for one moon, and they have not come south of the rivers of the Pamets.” Aspinet picked up a piece of snow crust and sucked on it.

  “But they do much north of there. They take Pamet seed corn. They dig into Pamet graves. They steal from Pamet dwellings. White men steal everything.” Small chips of stone flew as Autumnsquam worked. “Even us.”

  “Their women wash clothes on the shore. They would not bring their women on a stealing voyage.”

  “So they wish to settle. Stealing or settling, they bring no good.”

  Autumnsquam’s new woman came with a bowl of salt herring and put it before the men. He waited until the sachem had taken the first bite of fish; then he took a piece and tore it with his teeth. When she saw that the men were pleased, the woman went back into the wetu.

  “Her belly grows big,” said Aspinet.

  “I will not let her be stolen, or lose another child to another sickness. If I do, I will wait for a storm, then point my canoe into the sea.”

  Aspinet looked for a long time at the young man, then picked up an arrowhead. “Make many more.”

  iii.

  Jack Hilyard awoke like a man. That was what he said whenever morning brought a firmness of the loins, whether from a dream or a need to piss.

  The feeble light slipping through the cracks of their little canvas room told him it was before sunrise. He glanced at his son, sleeping at the foot of the pallet. Then he listened. Except for the sounds of snoring and coughing, the tween-decks was quiet. Sleep was a true gift.

  The Saints might have their thoughts of God, the Strangers their dreams of a new beginning, but every waking hour was invested by the presence of a wilderness that seemed, even to Jack, to be indomitable. For all of them, sleep had become a small surcease from this vision, a time to restore the spirit as well as the body. And when the spirit was restored, the body might awaken like a man.

  Jack pulled his shirt up around his waist, then rolled toward Kate, who slept with her back to him. He bunched up a handful of her shift and pressed against her. She made a sound in her sleep and moved slightly, just enough that he could slip himself between the soft globes of her flesh.

  Then he closed his eyes and felt her warmth. He had been cold for days. He had been miserable for weeks. Only Kate had kept him from losing hope. In a life of hopelessness, any woman might make a companion, but a woman who loved you promised the future. In a life of few pleasures, any woman was a gift, but a big woman was an extravagance, and nowhere was Kate Hilyard more commodious than behind. Her warmth coursed through his loins, along his spine, and filled him with a feeling that he could conquer the world.

  He wet his fingers and gently tried to waken her. She made a sound of contentment and stretched herself toward his hand. He kept his fingers moving gently in the place she liked most until he knew she was awake, though with eyes still closed.

  “Good mornin’, my darlin’.”

  “Thou got hairy balls, mister.”

  “And a cock that asks if the hen be layin’.”

  Kate giggled, which made Jack even firmer. Most women were as solemn as priests when they did this. A woman who could laugh with you in the midst of love, she was something rare. And he told her as much.

  “Thou art a rare bird thyself, to be wantin’ it with thy twelve-year-old son sleepin’ at thy feet.”

  “He won’t be wakin’ any time soon.”

  “Do it quiet, then. But not too quick.”

  And it was as fine a tumble as a man could want. She loved the feel of their flesh as much as he. When he rolled onto her, she welcomed him with her legs and her lips and the breasts that she slipped from her shift. When he began to move, she rolled her heavy hips as lasciviously as a whore. When he growled his pleasure, she whispered, “ ’Tis true what they say.”

  “What?”

  “The fuller the cushion, the finer the pushin’.”

  And from the other side of the canvas, they heard Simeon Bigelow whisper groggily to his wife, “What didst thou say dear?”

  Kate grabbed Jack’s buttocks to keep him from moving. Jack put a hand over Kate’s mouth to keep her from laughing.

  “What, Simeon?” came another voice from sleep.

  “Thou asked me for a cushion.”

  “I asked a question? What question?”

  “Not question. Cushion.”

  Jack buried his face on Kate’s breasts to stifle a snicker. Husband and wife were like two mischievous children. They should have been used to life in the tween-decks. Day and night, the air echoed with the sounds of farting and vomiting and snoring and pissing and coughing, all things that kept a man in this world, no different from the animals. But seldom did the sounds of love break through. To Jack Hilyard, a man was never closer to God than when his hips were joined to his wife’s. The sounds of love should have been as the sounds of morning prayer. But even the Hilyards kept their passion quiet.

  “I did not ask thee for a cushion,” said Anne. “I got a pallet.”

  “You distinctly said, ‘Push me a cushion.’ ”

  “Pray pardon but I did not. And why didst thou wake me?”

  “Thou woke me and asked for a cushion.”

  Kate’s body was shaking with laughter, which felt so good to Jack that he had to move once more.

  “Where on this godforsaken ship at the edge of this godforsaken wilderness would I expect thee to find a cushion?”

  “Right here,” whispered Kate. She rolled her hips. And Jack responded, and Simeon and Anne Bigelow continued to argue. And Jack and Kate moved with each other. And Jack tried to hold his consummation but could not. And Kate tried to hold her cry but could not. And Kate turned her head to her pillow to muffle the noise. And the Bigelows fell silent at the sound. But Jack did not notice, and neither did Kate, because for a few seconds, they took each other to anot
her place, away from the cold and smells, the salt food and sad prayers, the fading hopes and winter-killed spirits.

  Then the cry that Kate stifled became a cough. She sucked it in and tried to hold it, but it shook her body and reddened her face and finally burst out of her. Jack felt it rack in his own chest. He rolled off of her and held her until the spasm ended.

  She wiped her watering eyes with the back of her hand. “ ’Tis no worse than what anyone else has. But what we just done… there’s none who has better.”

  He tenderly pulled her shift over her breasts and stroked her stringy hair. “I’m goin’ to build thee and the lad a proper house, darlin’.”

  “A shelter’ll do, Jack. Then build thyself a whaleboat and build us a future on the backs of them big black monsters out in the bay.”

  “These Saints ain’t whalemen. If they decides to settle where there be no whales, I’ll break away and expect thee to stand by me.”

  “I’ll brook nuffin’ foolhardy, Jack. I told thee that the day of the signin’. But a man of courage, who does what he has to, I’ll take him to me bed whenever he asks.”

  “Thou gives me a strong spine, me darlin’. And a strong son.” Jack looked at the boy, who was sitting up, staring straight at them, eyes wide and curious. When Jack found his voice, he said, “Run along, lad. See what the weather bring for the exploration.”

  The boy looked once more at his mother’s dishevelment, pulled on his breeches, and went out.

  “How much did he see?” asked Kate.

  “Don’t matter. Learnin’ ‘bout the world, he is. And he knows why we come here. There’ll be no fo’c’sles or fishmongerin’ for him. Not here. Not in America.”

  “Excuse me.” Simeon Bigelow poked his head over the canvas, and with a small smile he said, “Wouldst thou have a cushion we could borrow?”

  Kate laughed and began to cough. “More cushions and less cold would do us all some good.”

  iv.

  But for the explorers, the day brought only more cold. The shallop, under sail, pounded south through the icy spray. Jack Hilyard’s cloak froze like a board on his back. Myles Standish’s helmet and chest plate had an ice glaze that made him look like a sugar man in the window of a London bakeshop. Bradford, John Carver, Stephen Hopkins, Simeon Bigelow, and the others hunkered down while the waves broke over the bow of the shallop and sent up a mist that rimed their hats, hair, and sword hilts.