The Dumb Shall Sing

by Stephen Lewis

His dirt encrusted hand closed over hers. His skin felt like coarse leather. His mouth opened into a crooked smile.

  “Of course, but I don’t think she will be enjoying my hospitality very long.” He nodded to the open space in front of the building. “I saw Fred Hainesworth looking for a nice level place out there this morning.”

  “He’d be better off building a six plank chest than planning a gallows.”

  “Somebody has to do it, what with the town’s master carpenter so involved in the proceedings.”

  “Just let me in so I can see the poor girl.”

  He leaned his back against the door to open it fully and with a sweeping gesture of his right hand he beckoned her in.

  The doorway let immediately into the small room in which the jailer lived. Drake was now unmarried, and perhaps had never been. He had come to Newbury just as the jail was being completed, looking for employment and a place to stay. The town’s selectmen sought a jailer, but they were not having much success in filling a position that offered no material advantages in land or salary. They were about to set up a rotating system of enforced volunteers, much as they used to provide Newbury with its constables, ward and watch, fence viewers, and so forth, when Drake offered to take the job if he could live in the jail. He would be paid a small stipend, which he could supplement anyway he chose as long as what he did was discreet and did not infringe on the rights or property of the good citizens of the town. What was understood, but not spoken, was that he would add to his meager wages by skimming a few pennies out of every shilling that the town paid him toward the room and board of his prisoners. Thus, he found himself again in a minority position. Not only was he alone among the men in the town in not having had a wife, or showing much interest in a woman’s companion, and not only did he fill a position nobody else wanted, that position made him peculiarly interested in a regular breakdown in law and order, which would provide him a constant supply of prisoners. When his jail was occupied, in short, he prospered.

  Catherine stepped into his living quarters and waited for her eyes to adjust to the semi- darkness as he shut the door behind them. Two doors had been cut into the crudely plastered wall that separated Drake’s living area from the prisoners’ rooms. She saw his rope bed, on which his bedclothes lay in a heap, and next to it the small, roughly hewn plank table and bench. A wooden trencher containing the scraps of some indeterminate food sat on the table.

  “I was just finishing my breakfast,” Drake said.

  Catherine pulled the loaf of bread out of her pocket and broke it in half.

  “Here, then,” she said. “Take this.”

  He bowed, and swiped the bread out of Catherine’s hand with the practiced ease of a bear sweeping a fish out of a stream.

  “As you like, Mistress, this way.”

  He took a step toward the door on the left of the wall that separated his living area from the prisoners’ rooms. It was secured by a heavy board that sat in iron brackets. A confused murmuring of voices, one male and the other female, reached them through the shut door. Catherine strained to make out the woman’s words, but they were too entangled in the deeper tones of the man.

  “Quickly, then,” she said.

  “It is nothing,” Drake insisted, but he hurried to the door and lifted the board. He opened the door, and Catherine saw two bodies moving together, side by side, on the floor. The one on the right was the man, and his hand was reaching under the skirts of the Irish servant girl, whose face was bright red. The man turned his head toward the opening door. One side of his nose was collapsed into his face, and as he moved his lips to speak, he revealed yellowed, uneven teeth.

  “What’s this?” Drake shouted. He crossed the room in two giant strides and thrust himself between the two bodies, and shoved them apart. The man rolled away from the girl and very slowly removed his hand from between her legs. The girl turned her face to the wall. The man squinted in Catherine’s direction.

  “Begging your pardon, mistress,” he said. “I didn’t see you.”

  “This one, he’s Simon Oldcastle,” Drake said. “The thief,” he added.

  “Yes, I recognized his nose,” Catherine said.

  Simon smiled, and placed his forefinger against the collapsed nostril.

  “They’re going to slit the other one, this time,” he said. He motioned toward the girl, and then he brought the palm of the hand that had been between her legs up to the good side of his nose. “I was just getting a smell of her while I still could.”

  “I’d like to speak to the girl alone,” Catherine said to the jailer.

  “I have to take him outside shortly, if you know what I mean.” Drake said.

  Catherine looked at Simon. He shrugged and then opened his mouth in a crooked grin. Saliva dribbled down his chin.

  “I could have used another minute or two with her,” he said.

  “Take him, then,” Catherine said.

  Drake grabbed Simon by the shoulders and hauled him to his feet.

  I’m coming,” Simon said. “You don’t have to pull me about like I was a sick cow, or some other silly animal.”

  The jailer steered Simon toward the door.

  “I don’t suppose I have to lock you in,” he said to Catherine.

  “What do you think?” Catherine demanded. “We’ll be right here when you are through with that one.” Drake pushed Simon through the door. The jailer pushed the door back so that it was halfway closed. Catherine waited until the jailer and Oldcastle were gone, and then she knelt down next to the girl.

  “I have come to help you, if I can,” she said.

  The girl turned toward Catherine. Her cheek bore the impression of the uneven plaster of the wall.

  “You were there last night,” she said.

  “That I was,” Catherine replied. “And I am here again this morning. What is your name, child?”

  “Margaret Mary Donovan.”

  “Well, Margaret Mary Donovan,” Catherine said, “was that man forcing himself on you?”

  Margaret began to shake her head and then nodded.

  “I was afraid and lonely. I couldn’t stop my shivering, and he said he could take care of me.”

  “Did you invite him to come by you?”

  “No. I didn’t say anything.”

  “Did you want him to continue what he was doing when we came in?”

  She shook her head.

  “I didn’t care one way or t’other. It’s just what men do, I’m thinking.”

  “Had you before, then, Catherine asked?”

  Margaret nodded. Her eyes remained expressionless as though she had just been asked if she had eaten breakfast.

  “Back home, in Ireland, I was in service, don’t you know, and the master took me to his room, the first day. He said it was his right to be the first, seeing as how he was an English lord, and me the daughter of a papist pig who didn’t own the land he worked.” She looked down at her hands for a moment. “They took my babe from me and put me on the ship to come here. The master said I was too stupid and too ugly to keep, so he was giving me to somebody else.”

  Catherine looked at the girl’s bright blue eyes set a bit too high and unevenly above her small nose, at her thin lips, and pointed chin. She could be no older than sixteen. Catherine put her arm around the girl, but she did not respond. She sat stiffly, her eyes staring straight ahead. She placed the half loaf of bread into the girl’s hand, but she did not close her fingers about it, and let it slide onto the floor filthy with mouse droppings.

  “What were you doing with the Jameson babe?” Catherine asked.

  “Saving its poor, immortal soul.”

  “Did you know it was already dead?”

  Margaret shook her head.

  “There was no priest, so I did what I could.”

  “Is that all you can tell me?” Catherine asked.

  “I only did what I thought I should,” the girl repeated. “I didn’t intend to do it any harm.” She seemed suddenly to remembe
r the bread, and she picked it up. She stared at it for a moment as though trying to remember what it was. Then, she scraped off a pellet of mouse dropping with her fingernail, and bit into the freshly baked bread. A rich aroma escaped through the broken crust and lifted into the close air of the room.

  “I am hungry,” she said.

  * * * *

  Massaquoit watched Catherine’s plump body hurry down the road in her rolling gait. She barely looked at him as she passed, offering a quick wave of her hand. He surprised himself by realizing that he was disappointed in her lack of attention to him, and he even caught himself as he took a step toward her as though to ask where she was going.

  He turned back to what he now called his tree. He had been at work since sunup and he had already formed his saplings into a skeletal dome little more than six feet on the ground and decreasing to the foot circle on top which he would leave open to provide egress for the smoke of his fire. The wigwam when completed would be just large enough for him to lie down in. He would not be able to stand upright. He did not care. He was not expecting to entertain company, nor did he plan on spending more time than necessary in his shelter.

  He tied another sapling horizontally to one of his uprights, using the roots as rope. He would weave two rows of these, working them in and out of the vertical supports, tying them well at the junctures. When completed the structure would be stronger than a first glance would suggest. Then, he would work the bark into overlapping strips to form a covering that would serve as his walls. He would first cover the side of his wigwam opposite the house. He would build his doorway so that he could sit in it facing the harbor. He would be able to feel the breeze lifted from the waters where his comrades had drowned, and thereby keep their memories fresh in his mind.

  He heard the door of the house open slowly, and he knew before he looked that the young white woman was trying to make her way out quietly enough so that he would not see her. He felt her eyes on his back as clearly as if they were her hands, cold with fear. He turned, and as he did the sounds of her movement ceased. He fixed his glance on her, and she took a step back towards the door, which she had just shut.

  “Your mistress has already gone,” Massaquoit said. To his ear his voice sounded kind, but she started as though he had hurled a blood-curdling scream at her. He took a step toward her, and he could see her chest expanding and contracting as she fought to calm herself. “If you hurry,” he said, “maybe you can catch up with her.”

  “I left you some breakfast, on the table inside. Mistress Williams told me to tell you that you should eat it.”

  Even though his stomach was empty, he said, “Maybe later.”

  “Edward will be here any moment,” she said.

  “That is good,” Massaquoit replied. “Are you waiting for him to go with you after your mistress?”

  “No, he does not like to see what I am going to see.”

  “And what is that?”

  “Mistress said you could come along. If you want to see how we punish one of our own.”

  “I think I would like that.”

  “You will have to let me call you ‘Matthew’ then.”

  “It does not matter what you call me. My name is Massaquoit.”

  Phyllis walked onto the road.

  “Come along, then, Matthew. I suppose if you are going to knock me on the head, there is nothing I can do about it.”

  “If I was going to do that, you would already be dead.”

  Phyllis shuddered.

  “And Mistress wonders why you scare me so.”

  “It is your thoughts only that scare you,” Massaquoit said.

  “No,” Phyllis insisted. “I believe it is you. But come along if you are coming.”

  Margaret wiped the crumbs from her lips with the tips of her fingers, a delicate gesture that belied the vehemence with which she had attacked the half loaf of bread.

  “When did you last east, child?” Catherine asked.

  Margaret shrugged.

  “I cannot remember. Master Jameson told me I could always have what was left after his family had theirs, and lately there has not been but a few crumbs of bread or a couple of bites of rotten meat that they were too good to eat, but what was good enough for me.”

  “I have given jailer Drake some money to see that you are fed while you are in here.”

  “It seems I hunger all the time,” Margaret said, and then clasped her hand over her mouth as though she had permitted a secret to escape.

  “Are you indeed?” Catherine asked, and her glance shifted down to Margaret’s belly. The girl drew her knees up.

  “It’s just, with all the trouble. I forget myself.”

  “Did he force you?” Catherine asked in her gentlest voice.

  “Oh, what does it matter now,” Margaret said. “They mean to hang me. Or send me back to Ireland on a boat. If they are going to do that, I think I would rather they hang me now, so I can go up to heaven and find my mother who has been there waiting for me ever since I was a little girl, so my Da used to tell me.”

  Catherine swept the girl into her arms as though she were still that child she remembered being.

  “Hush,” she said. “You will not hang. And you will not be sent back to Ireland.”

  Margaret rested her face on Catherine’s breast, but still moved her lips to form the same words.

  “It does not matter,” she said.

  * * * *

  Phyllis and Massaquoit arrived in front of the jail just as Drake finished fastening the pillory over Simon Oldcastle. The device was a hinged board with circles cut to accommodate the victim’s neck and wrists. Drake lifted up the top section of the board and shoved Oldcastle forward so that the thief stumbled into the pillory’s embrace. Drake then brought the movable board down hard and tied it with a leather thong that passed through iron rings set in each section of the board. The townspeople gathered in front of the pillory cheered as Drake finished tying his knot with one last sweeping pull on the thong. As he stepped back, something flew by and crashed into Oldcastle’s face. Drake jumped back, and the thief blinked his eyes and spat in an effort to rid himself of the mud that now caked his face.

  The dignitaries, including Reverend Davis and Magistrate Woolsey, had recoiled as the mud splattered at their feet. They now both strove to recover their composure by straightening their bodies and taking a step toward the pillory.

  “Have you come to join me, then?” Oldcastle asked.

  Minister Davis turned to the crowd.

  “The mud that oozes now on this man’s face is but the visible sign of his sin, showing the blackness of his heart, and as it hardens it typifies the hardening of his heart away from our Savior.” He turned back toward Oldcastle.

  “Do you now repent of your ways?”

  “That I do, but I regret chiefly that I got caught, I do.”

  From the back of the crowd, Massaquoit observed this English form of punishment. Phyllis motioned him to come forward.

  “I will watch from here,” he said.

  “Suit yourself,” she replied, but I want to see.”

  “What is going to happen to that man in the wooden collar.”

  She leaned toward him.

  “Look, there, off to the side. Do you see that little fellow.”

  Massaquoit looked in the direction she indicated, and then nodded.

  “The one holding the blade.”

  “Yes. George Firkin. He can cut your hair, shave your beard, or bleed you.”

  “Which is he going to do to that fellow?”

  “You’ll see. Just keep your eye on him while the minister is talking away up there. When he’s through, George will do his job.”

  Phyllis pushed her way through the crowd, smiling at each person whom she had to shoulder out of her way, but permitting no impediment to block her progress until she stood with an unobstructed view of Oldcastle.

  * * * *

  Catherine still sat with her arms cradling Margaret. The gi
rl’s breathing became so regular that Catherine thought she had fallen asleep. However, when she tried to remove her arm from around the girl’s shoulders, she shook her head. So Catherine held her, and as she did she listened to Minister Davis’s mellifluous voice as it reached its full stride just as though he were in the meeting house delivering a sermon. That’s what he does, wherever he is, Catherine thought, spreads the word of God as he understood it. Pity his understanding was so dim. She smiled at a thought she would never utter out loud.

  “This building behind me,” Minister Davis said, “was built from the scraps of lumber that we did not use for our meeting house.” He paused, and Catherine imagined that he must be gesturing across the square to the meeting house, and she recalled that the jail was built from a pile of oddly assorted boards with which Henry Jameson, using the full extent of his carpenter’s skills, had managed to construct the jail. Only one looking carefully would see the occasional odd seam where two boards of different widths joined, or how the floorboards contained so many small lengths of wood.

  “The solid lumber formed the walls, and the floors, and the ceilings of our meeting house, lumber as solid as the members of the congregation sitting on its benches. But some lumber was rotten, or warped, and these boards could not serve to build God’s house, and just as they were thought unfit to stand in God’s sight, just so thieves like Simon Oldcastle behind me in the pillory, is no better than a pile of dung in the shape of a man, but a man whose heart is so hardened that he cannot fail to sin, and having sinned, is not capable of begging forgiveness. If he will not offer a confession or statement of contrition, let us show him how we deal with sinners.”

  Minister Davis’ voice paused, and Catherine knew what was going to happen next.

  Massaquoit, too, noted the pause. His eyes shifted to the man Phyllis had pointed out. George Firkin stepped forward. He was a little man, with one shoulder raised a little higher than the other. In his right hand, he held his razor. Its bright blade glinted in the sun. Simon Oldcastle also stared at the shining implement coming toward him. He started to sneer, but then closed his eyes. George looked first at Minister Davis and then at Magistrate Woolsey. Each man nodded in turn.