The Blind in Darkness

by Stephen Lewis

  Catherine felt the eyes of the congregation shift from Massaquoit to herself. In the faces of her neighbors she read all the accusations she had heard whispered behind her back, whispered with a deliberate loudness so that she would hear how she had betrayed them by taking into her house one of them. In their hostile glances now came the amplification of that betrayal as the discontent at Massaquoit’s presence like a noxious weed rose up from the soil manured by stories of Indian atrocities, so that she knew how they were thinking that now he was sitting there among them pretending to be a God fearing Christian when they knew that he had not abandoned his savage ways, that he came to meeting under compulsion, and that he constituted an unregenerate threat to their safety.

  All this Catherine felt in their looks at her as palpably as though the glances had hardened into sounds, and the sounds into words. And in her heart, she knew that some of what he neighbors thought was true. Massaquoit was not, and would not any time soon embrace the English god. But he would not, for that reason, spill the blood of those who did.

  Minister Davis tried clearing his throat loudly, but that gesture, which ordinarily would have produced immediate silence, was ineffectual. The young man and Worthington tossed remarks back and forth over the heads of the congregation, and each statement elicited a response of increasing intensity and anger. Massaquoit stood up and stared stonily ahead as though he could silence the babble by meeting it with his own steadfast silence.

  The minister slammed the covers of his huge Bible together as loudly as he could. Worthington turned back to face the minister and his face blanched. Davis was holding the tome over his head as though he meant to throw it out among his congregants. Those nearest the front recoiled and quieted, and the quiet rolled back through the congregation until only the young man remained standing. He muttered a steady stream of insults. Minister Davis let the Bible down, gently, onto the lectern. His face was red and glowing with sweat.

  “Remember whose house we are in,” he said, and his voice filled the meetinghouse. The people, now docile before the authority of their shepherd, settled back in their places, ready to be instructed. Davis looked at Catherine.

  “It would be well,” he said, “if you took Matthew home now. The Lord will understand.” The minister nodded at her with an expression he reserved for those occasions when he had opened a difficult passage of Scripture. She also recognized that both his words and that expression were intended much more for the congregation than for her, as she knew that Minister Davis did not so undervalue her faith or her intelligence as to be gulled into believing that he had any weightier concern than defusing a dangerous situation by removing its source. Introducing the Lord into this situation was intended only to invoke a presence that might erect a temporary screen behind which she would be able to escort Massaquoit home.

  For his part, Massaquoit’s face revealed no response to either the minister’s words or the threats of the congregation, while in his mind he wondered what the English god could possibly think of his people’s unthinking rage and their unprovoked attack on his innocence. He knew well enough that his people would avenge the murder of one of their own, but they would be very sure, as the English were not, to make sure that they identified the murderer by something more specific than the color of skin. When English blood was spilled, all Indians became the enemy. So, he was not surprised that he found himself facing the hostility of the citizens of Newbury because one of their own had been killed.

  He took a step toward the aisle. He would show them neither fear nor an answering hostility. The young man in the row in front of him mirrored his movements so that when Massaquoit reached the end of his row he stood in his path.

  “You should listen to your minister,” Massaquoit said. “He does not think your god wants me in this house today.” He took a step toward him.

  “Or any day, for that matter,” the ragged young man sneered, but he backed up, and stepped back into the row between the benches.

  The murmuring in the meetinghouse had stopped with Massaquoit’s movements. Catherine edged her way into the aisle, casting a glance at Worthington. Osprey took a half step forward toward the aisle, but the merchant, his eyes holding Catherine’s, grabbed his arm and muttered something into his ear. Nathaniel leaned forward to hear what his father was saying.

  “But Thomas . . .” Nathaniel said. “He is Thomasine’s brother.”

  “Well, I know it, Thomas, ” replied Worthington, and then he nodded at Catherine as though the remark indicated to her as well the notion that their differences, dating back to her husband, and now amplified by his son’s relationship to the missing Thomas, fled perhaps before the murderous hand of Massaquoit, would have to be confronted.

  Catherine shook her head slowly from side to side in a gesture she would employ with a recalcitrant child, and then she beckoned for Massaquoit to come toward her.

  “Stand by,” she called out to the young man.

  Massaquoit stared hard at the young man, and then with deliberation he took a step directly forward. He paused and watched the arrogance fade from the man’s face, replaced for a moment with a petulant stubbornness. Still, he presented his body as an impediment. Massaquoit put a hand on each of the man’s shoulders and pressed until his knees buckled. Then he spun him around with a push that sent him staggering into the row between the benches. He steadied himself and again stepped in front of Massaquoit.

  “You do not think to stop me, do you?” Massaquoit said.

  The young man glanced about him, but those nearest him shifted their bodies away from a confrontation they wanted no part of. He shrugged.

  “I see how it is,” he said.

  Massaquoit paced straight ahead so that he was now chest to chest with the young man. He could smell his beer rich breath. The young man stepped aside and bowed as Massaquoit passed him by.

  Everyone’s eyes were on Massaquoit as he made his slow progress up the aisle. Nobody said a word, and no-one offered resistance, but there was a stir as he came abreast the row where the servants sat. He sensed a movement of a body forcing its way through irresolute resistance, and he smiled inwardly as Phyllis fell in behind him. As he walked by each row now, there was an audible release of breath as though those sitting there had been unable to exhale until he passed. Catherine waited until he was a few feet from her, and then she moved to join him.

  Worthington looked up to Minister Davis.

  “Do you not think it meet to question the savage?” the merchant demanded. “He will surely flee into the woods.”

  “This is God’s house,” Minister Davis replied.

  Catherine broke from Massaquoit’s side and strode to Worthington, a tall, portly man who towered over her.

  “Anyone who wants to talk to Matthew knows where to find him. But as for Isaac Powell, I was the one who traveled to his farm to tend to his hurt hand. Matthew was nowhere near that old man’s house.”

  “So say you,” Worthington said, his lips curled back.

  “That I do,” Catherine replied. She rejoined Massaquoit and Phyllis. Worthington now placed himself in their path, and the young man walked up the aisle to form a hostile bookend. Massaquoit looked at Catherine and then at Worthington, but she shook her head.

  “That would not be wise,” she said. She looked beyond Worthington to the tall figure of Governor Peters, which was now lifting itself from his seat. In one long stride, the governor was at Worthington’s side. He leaned down and whispered something in his ear. Worthington, shook his head, but when Peters seemed to repeat his point, this time with more emphasis, so that the words “not now” floated into the otherwise tense silence, the merchant nodded, and stepped aside.

  “Thank you for your timely aid,” Catherine said as they walked by. She did not think he noticed the irony in her tone.

  As they reached the front door, the congregation regained its collective voice, and there were various cries hurled in their direction. One or two voices above the others said
“Vengeance. We want vengeance. And a third, a high pitched soprano, belonging perhaps to a young woman, screamed, “Stop him!”

  And then the rich baritone of the minister filled the meeting house like a wave overrunning the confused swirl of the surf.

  “Vengeance, indeed,” the voice declared, “yea, vengeance saith the Lord is mine.”

  Catherine paused to see if the voice had the calming effect it always did, and when she saw that it did she led them through the door.

  Once outside, Catherine took Massaquoit’s arm.

  “That young man who was stirring things up, I think I remember seeing him.”

  “Do you not know him, then?” Phyllis asked.

  “I cannot place him.”

  “Well, it takes one to know one I suppose. To the rest, some are invisible.”

  “Make yourself clear,” Catherine said.

  “Servants I am talking about,” Phyllis replied. “There are those that do not see us, even when we be standing right in front of them. That lad came up from Barbados with the one what was living with Isaac Powell when he got himself killed. He was taken in by Master Worthington until he run away, which was some little time ago. I heard that the boy was slinking about the door of the house looking to see if Master Worthington would have him back.”

  “I guess he did,” Catherine said, “and has him plying a new trade.”

  “What might that be, then?” Phyllis asked.

  “I would say a rabble rouser,” Catherine replied.

  Chapter Three

  They started to walk the road leading away from Newbury Center toward Catherine’s house, making slow progress as the wind was now blowing horizontal waves of snow into their faces. Phyllis walked ahead so that her broad shouldered body could act as a shield to protect her mistress, and Massaquoit fell in behind. They had taken only a few difficult steps when Phyllis stopped and extended her arm toward a large house on their left. Catherine shielded her eyes against the snow and looked in that direction.

  “I see him,” she said. “You go on ahead.”

  “Do you not want us to wait for you?” Phyllis asked.

  Catherine shook he head.

  “You know how Master Woolsey is. He will want to speak to me alone. You two go on ahead.”

  Massaquoit lowered his head so that his voice could be heard above the rush of the wind.

  “I will walk with Phyllis to your house. And then I think I will make my way to that farm.”

  “I am not sure that is wise.”

  “But everybody is now here, are they not?” he said, and pointed to the meetinghouse.

  “Yes,” Catherine conceded.

  “And the body still lies there?”

  “Yes. It was thought too difficult to attempt burial during the storm. And the magistrates have not yet made their way there.”

  “Then this is the best time for me to go.”

  As was his custom when he made up his mind, Massaquoit did not wait for an answer, but beckoned Phyllis to follow him. She glanced at her mistress, shrugged, and then walked after him.

  Joseph Woolsey stood in the doorway of his house, a heavy, fringed wool shawl drawn tight about his shoulders. Every moment or two, he lifted his right hand out from beneath the shawl to swipe away the snow that plastered his cheeks, or flew into his eyes. He looked decidedly uncomfortable, but Catherine knew that her old friend was perfectly capable of ignoring physical discomfort and that, therefore, the pained expression on his face probably had a good deal more to do with Isaac Powell and the suspicions now pointing at Massaquoit than it did the flakes that seemed ready to turn him into a living snowman.

  “Get on inside, with you,” she said, as soon as she was near enough to him for her voice to carry above the wind.

  “I must speak with you,” he replied. “I did not feel strong enough to attend meeting, but I fear I should. Seeing you and him leave early gives me some comfort that my worst fears have not been realized, but also confirms that I was justified in having them.”

  “Right you are, as usual, Joseph,” she said as she reached his side, and placed her hand on his arm to guide him back into the house. “Your fears were well grounded, and we took the opportunity to leave before something worse happened.”

  He let himself be led back into his own house where a servant girl, her expression showing no apparent interest in either her master or his guest, waited just inside the door. The door opened into a narrow hallway, an unusual architectural feature found only in the largest Newbury houses owned by the most affluent citizens, of whom Master Joseph Woolsey, whose money and service to the community ranked him with Governor Peters and Minister Davis, in the social hierarchy of the community. To the right of the hallway was a spacious front room, and to the left a much smaller study, dominated by an elaborately carved oaken desk. The servant girl took a step toward the large, front room.

  “No, Dorothy,” Master Woolsey said, “the wind blows through that room as though we were standing outside.” He pointed to the study. “In there. Build the fire, if you please.”

  Dorothy, a thin girl of sixteen, with a pointed chin and long nose that detracted from her otherwise pretty face, said nothing, but preceded them into the study and applied a pair of bellows to the smoldering fire. Woolsey sat behind his desk and motioned for Catherine to take the one chair, which had a cane back and seat. It was decorated with interlocking wooden loops on the top of the back and between the front legs.

  “Sit,” Woolsey said, as Catherine hesitated.

  “Will it hold my weight? Or my dignity?” she asked.

  “I have just had it from Cartwright in London. It arrived on The Helmsford.”

  Catherine sat down gingerly.

  “You did not call me here to show off your new chair, I warrant.”

  “Certainly not. I am only sorry that my ague kept me abed this morning. I strove mightily to overcome it. Is that not so, Dorothy?”

  The girl, her face reddened and perspired from building the fire, turned and nodded, a barely perceptible motion that gave her head the appearance of a bird pecking a minute morsel.

  “What’s that, child?” Woolsey demanded.

  Dorothy rose to her feet. Her eyes were suddenly bright and her features animated as though waking from a trance.

  “It is as he says, Mistress. It was a great struggle I had to tell him not to go out, for he would surely take badly ill and then what would I do, just come to this colony and my master in the grave?”

  Catherine found herself smiling at this unexpected linguistic assault, so contrary to the girl’s reserved manner and frail body.

  “You did right, child,” Catherine said. “But you need not worry about your place. Good Master Woolsey, I have known since I was a girl and he will live a while longer, without doubt, and should you need it you can always come stay with me. My own servant Phyllis has a tongue that oftentimes outpaces her brain, and I see you would be a fine match for her.”

  “I thank you, Mistress, but as you say and can see for yourself I am very happy here with Master Woolsey, as long as he will be sensible about his health.” She knelt by the fire, her face again blank, and applied the poker with a disinterested persistence that soon brought the fire to a blaze.

  Catherine regained her focus after the distraction provided by this strange young girl.

  “Samuel Worthington,” she said, “is not a man to forget an imagined grievance, even when the object of his concern is long in the ground.”

  “Your John and he had their differences,” Woolsey said. “But I think I can shed further light on his present anger. His son is betrothed to be married to the sister of that very lad who was living with Isaac Powell, and he told me himself how ill his son has taken his disappearance. His betrothed is coming on the next ship up from the islands.”

  “That might explain his displeasure but it does not excuse how at meeting today he was inciting the people against Massaquoit.”

  Woolsey let out an audibl
e sigh.

  “I feared something of the sort, but I did not know it would be him.”

  “It was.”

  “It is time you took my advice and sent Matthew to Niantic.”

  “He has no interest in joining what he calls ‘white Indians’.”

  “White Indians, indeed,” Woolsey said with a violent explosion of breath that left a trail of spittle running down the chin. He swiped at it, and shook his head. “They at Niantic have accepted our Lord, they pray to Him, and some even are learning to read His word.”

  “He will not go. And if he would, I fear it is too late. His presence would only bring the wrath of those incited by Worthington down on them.”

  “Such insufferable pride.”

  “Who?”

  Woolsey started.

  “Why your man, of course.”

  “That is precisely the point. He is not my man, nor yours, but his own. As he should be, as we should want him to be.”

  “Well, may that be, but what are we to do? In the current state, he represents a danger, not only to himself, but to you, as his, if you will pardon the term, mistress.”

  “I pardon it. As to what we are to do, I hope that you begin by talking to Master Worthington, as he is not likely to listen to anything I might have to say.”

  “And what would you have me say to him?”

  “Why that he is doing nobody a favor by inciting to riot in the Lord’s house.”

  “I should think Minister Davis could make that point.”