The Blind in Darkness

by Stephen Lewis

  A knock came on the door, and a few moments later, the round and red face of Minister Davis appeared peeking into the room. White hair straggled from beneath his skull cap, and he walked in bowing his head.

  “Master Worthington bade me come and pray with Felicity,” he said.

  “And welcome you are,” Catherine said, “for I have done all that I can for her.”

  “He also said that I should take care to lift any spells the heathen girl might have placed on her.”

  “There are none such,” Catherine said with a little heat.

  “I did not think so,” the minister replied, “but . . .”

  “But you would not gainsay Master Worthington.”

  Minister Davis offered a slight shrug and knelt besides Felicity. He closed his eyes and then cast them heavenward. Catherine watched, thought about joining him, and then decided she would offer her own prayers to God as something in her rebelled against joining her thoughts to his at this moment. She entertained the idea, as sometimes she felt she must, that his God shared the name but not the character of hers. The God Minister Davis prayed to seemed more intent on coercing obedience while her more benign deity filled her own heart with hope. She left the minister praying while she walked across the hall and picked up the crying infant, and as she paced the room with the babe in her arms, she felt her weariness depart.

  * * * *

  A stub of a candle sitting on a low table next to the cradle flickered an inadequate light as Sara Dunwood sat nursing the babe. From across the hall came the low murmur of the minister’s voice articulating words of supplication for the life of his parishioner. The murmured voice flowed like a gentle stream over smooth stones in the silence that filled the rest of the house, and Catherine felt herself being lulled by the counterpoint between voice and silence, and by the first faint stirring of hope that all might yet be well. The babe sucked hard on Sara’s breast.

  “Hungry he is,” Sara said.

  “You have come none too soon for him.”

  Sara shifted her weight on the stool on which she sat. She was a plump young woman of twenty-five with a pretty face marred by pimples and a missing front tooth. She kept her eyes fixed on the babe, a smile on her lips as she felt the strong tug. After a few moments, the babe stopped sucking, its eyes closed, and she rocked it for a moment in her arms before placing it back in the cradle. She laced up her gown and stretched.

  “Mine own waits for me, and I do not think Allan has much patience.”

  “Can you return this evening?”

  “Aye, I can.”

  “I can send Phyllis to walk with you.”

  “I do not think she will want to come.”

  “Was she that afeard?”

  Sara nodded and chuckled.

  “She swore she felt the ghost of old man Powell riding on her shoulder. Then it ran off in the shape of a cat, and when she passed by his barn, she heard his coffin lid bang open.”

  “Does that not bother you?”

  “‘Tis the living what concerns me. That old man was more to worry about when he drew breath than he is now lying stiff and cold, his wicked soul no doubt on its way to perdition.”

  “Why Sara, I tended his hurt hand not two days before he was killed. I found him like many old men, strangely fixed in their ways, but no worse than that.”

  “Ask the lad about that, then,” Sara said.

  “Thomas?”

  “The same, the one now running from the savages that killed his master. Ask him about that hand, if he still has a tongue in his head or his head on his shoulders when he is found.”

  “I trust he will be.”

  “Well, then, when he is, and you ask him that question, see if he remembers coming to me own house and begging Allan to protect him from that old man’s lust for him, how he was being used like some old men use a goat or a cow. His mouth was swollen and out of joint that night he came running to our door, it was. It weren’t no dog what bit that old man’s hand.”

  “I see,” Catherine said.

  “Well, then, maybe you can understand why young Nathaniel is so anxious to find him.”

  Chapter Six

  They had followed the creek bed down to where it widened as the ground it crossed leveled. Massaquoit, who had been leading the way, stopped and held up his arm. Thomas stumbled to a halt at his side. The creek bed continued in an arc through a stand of pine on one side and maple on the other. At the point where it curved out of sight behind the pine it entered the clearing where Massaquoit had stood deciding that his quarry would seek higher ground. He stood very still and listened. The wind blew silently through the bare limbs of the maples but whistled through the needles of the pine. After a few moments he was sure of what he heard.

  “The English are very close now,” he said.

  Thomas had mimicked him, bending his head into the wind as though straining to hear.

  “I did not hear anything but the wind,” he said.

  “That is because you heard only the wind, but not what it carried. We must wait here.”

  Thomas bundled the coat about him but still shivered.

  “How do you know it is not the friends of that fellow you left lying in the snow?”

  “They are gone, for now, but they may come back.” He pointed toward the entrance of the clearing. “The English are there. If you are so cold, and so certain your friend awaits you, then go on ahead. I am not so sure of my welcome among them.”

  “Not me neither. I can wait with you.”

  Massaquoit stared hard at the young man. He had always flattered himself that he could read a man’s heart in his face, that he could sift through the man’s words to find the truth. But this young English posed a new challenge. He could not read him.

  “Then why do you suppose the English are so anxious to find you?” he asked.

  Thomas shrugged in a gesture that revealed only that he found the question ill informed or irrelevant.

  “A man can be of interest to others for many reasons.”

  “But your friend, no doubt . . .” Massaquoit began.

  “He more than the others,” Thomas replied. He straightened himself and began walking in a stiff legged stride toward the entrance to the clearing. “It is time for me to find out.”

  Massaquoit took a step toward him, intending to stop him, but then he just watched. He had seen a slight movement in the pines, just a flicker of shadow moving towards them, and he had no doubt who was there, and that this troublesome young man would soon be taken from his hands. And so he watched Thomas walk away from him, slipping every few steps on the icy ground, and then slowing as he got close to the clearing. When he came abreast of the place where the shadow had shown itself, a figure emerged in front of him. Massaquoit saw the shrug of the young man’s shoulders as he confronted this figure, and then they both made their way toward the clearing. After they had gone a few more steps, the figure turned back toward Massaquoit and tipped his large beaver hat. Wequashcook raised his hand with the palm facing Massaquoit, and then he threw his arm around Thomas and resumed walking toward the entrance to the clearing.

  Massaquoit understood the gesture, although he reminded himself that his level of trust in Wequashcook was only slightly higher than it was in the English. Still, Wequashcook’s sign that he should stay back coincided with his own sense that he should proceed with caution. He waited until the two men were about to turn out of his sight before following them, keeping to the cover of the pines on the side of the creek bed, ready to melt into the frozen woods at the first sign of a pike or musket pointed in his direction. They made the turn and he could no longer see them, but if he strained his ears he could hear the crunch of their feet on the hard crust of snow. He adjusted his pace so that the sound of their feet remained constant so he knew they were the same distance ahead of him.

  He reached the turn of the creek bed. He stood behind the thick trunk of an ancient pine and peered past it. He could see them again as they approach
ed the entrance to the clearing, a space between two maples just wide enough to accommodate the two figures walking abreast. However, before they could walk through that space, a short burly man confronted them. From this distance he could not be sure, but the man looked like the one he had seen in the meetinghouse on the day he was forced to leave the service. The man gestured at Thomas and then seized the young man by the shoulders, ripping the coat from him He held up the coat and raised his voice in words that Massaquoit could not understand, although he could detect the anger in them. He threw off the cloak he was wearing and put on the coat. He pointed at the cloak, and Thomas picked it up and wrapped it around himself. The stocky man again gripped Thomas by the arms and shook him so that Thomas’s head snapped back and forth. He shoved Thomas away from him. Thomas turned around and pointed in the direction of Massaquoit.

  By the time he threw his arm toward him, however, Massaquoit had hidden himself behind the tree. He waited there, listening to the angry baritone of the older man rise in pitch until it was joined by the nervous tenor of Thomas and for a few moments the air was filled with their duet, voice pushing against voice. Then there was a loud snap followed by a muffled thud, and Massaquoit knew without looking that Thomas would now be picking himself up from the snow. He heard a heavy tread followed by lighter steps over the snow, and then there was silence.

  * * * *

  Wequashcook would find him before long. He had worked his way to a little rise that overlooked the clearing. From there he could see the English camp. Toward the rear of the clearing was a tent large enough to house three or four men. Ranged around it in matching arcs, like two arms, were smaller tents between which were two campfires. Clusters of English soldiers huddled next to the fires. Massaquoit’s eyes, though, remained fastened on the larger tent where he figured the leader of the English troops must be. After a while he saw a tall young man walk out of the tent followed by the stocky man. They conversed for a few moments. It seemed that the younger man was giving orders to the other, who then stalked off, shaking his head. The young man went back into the tent, and Massaquoit heard the steps coming behind him.

  “You have found a good perch,” Wequashcook said. “They have been talking about you.”

  “That is why I am here.”

  “The English leading the troops was very happy with the prize you brought him.”

  “But the other one seemed more interested in the coat he was wearing.”

  Wequashcook smiled.

  “Of course. It is his coat. You must have found the one who took it from him.”

  “I did. He has no need of the coat.”

  The smile disappeared from Wequashcook’s face.

  “His friends will seek to avenge him.”

  Massaquoit shrugged.

  “The English should not have been so foolish as to lose his coat. And the one who took it was going to take the boy as well.”

  Wequashcook squatted and pointed several hundred yards up the creek bed.

  “We found the English lying in the snow, his head bleeding. If we had come a few minutes later, he would have no need of his coat either.”

  Massaquoit reached into his pouch and pulled out the brass button. He held it up so that it glinted in the sun. Wequashcook stood up, leaned toward it and nodded. He held out his hand, and Massaquoit dropped the button into it.

  “That coat,” he said, “has an interesting past. Where?”

  Massaquoit had already decided that he was not prepared to share that particular information with Wequashcook.

  “That is what I hoped you could explain to me.”

  “But I know no more than I have told you. Perhaps in the struggle the button came off, if you found it near here.”

  “Ah, yes,” Massaquoit said. “That must be what happened.”

  Wequashcook frowned.

  “I hope you do not take me for such a fool.”

  “A fool? No, that is not a word I would ever use to describe my old companion, who now serves the English.”

  “Only so that he can serve himself. But I have not told you what I came to say. I have convinced the English that you are that boy’s rescuer, and that you pose no danger to him or to them. They are mostly satisfied. But it would help if you could tell them what I already know, but which they will not believe from my lips.”

  “That the boy stumbled on a trading party of Iroquois that is now on its way back to the French up north?”

  “Yes.”

  “And why should they believe that truth from my lips more than yours.”

  “Because you can tell them that you saw the Iroquois leave.”

  “There is the matter of the dead Iroquois.”

  “ We need only convince them their mission is complete and they should go home.”

  “Yes,” he said, “but you and I know that the body will be found.”

  Wequashcook looked up, shaded his eyes from the sun, which was now just over the top of the trees.

  “We have a little time, at least until the morning. We will tell the English they need a good watch while they sleep.”

  Massaquoit felt the sting of the cold wind that intensified the hollow in his stomach, and suddenly he decided he would rather take his chances being warm and fed even if it meant risking his life to secure the comforts of food and a fire among his enemy.

  “I will stand with them,” Massaquoit said. “I do not want to place my life in the hands of the English who cannot see the bear that crashes through the woods in pursuit of them.”

  Wequashcook shook his head.

  “Do you think they will trust you?”

  “As much as you. But I am sure they will have one of their own watch with me.”

  “We find ourselves between two enemies,” Wequashcook said, and then he started walking down the slope toward the creek bed.

  Or three, Massaquoit thought, as he watched the tall beaver hat bob in front of him as he followed Wequashcook, who led the way toward the English camp.

  * * * *

  Only a sliver of moon rose above the trees in a cloudy sky that seemed to promise another snow. Massaquoit stood outside the large tent, listening to the muffled voices reaching his ears through the canvas sides. The voices stopped, and Wequashcook slid out through the flap, straightened up, and beckoned him to come inside. The flap was stiff with a thin layer of ice that melted in Massaquoit’s hand as he took his time following Wequashcook back into the tent. He had no intention of showing any anxiety or even interest. He was merely stopping by to do the English a service. It would be up to them to decide whether they would receive what he had to tell them with the same good faith with which he offered it. But at bottom, he really did not care. He wanted only to be left alone.

  Inside, he found himself looking at the young English officer he had seen only from a distance. He was sitting on a low slung rope mattress bed that was no more than a foot off the ground so that he peered through the knees of his long legs while his arms were wrapped around his shins. Standing next to him was the older, burly English man, whom he had encountered first in the meetinghouse. Crouching in a corner with a blanket around his shoulders was Thomas. His long blond hair hung swung as he moved his head to look up at Massaquoit, his face expressionless.

  “Here he is,” Wequashcook said, “let my brother speak to you in his own words.”

  Lionel Osprey took a step forward so that he stood between Wequashcook and Thomas. He held his thick arm out with its palm toward Massaquoit.

  “Your brother can wait a moment,” he said.

  “I want to hear what Matthew has to say,” Nathaniel said. His voice quavered as he sought to inform it with an authority beyond his years and experience. Lionel bowed in a gesture that could be seen either as acknowledging the young officer’s position or condescending to an inexperienced boy trying to be a man.

  “And you shall, captain, if it please you to wait until I hear from this one.” He pointed toward Thomas, who seemed to shrink back further int
o the corner.

  “Osprey, I think Thomas has had quite enough to deal with, do you not?”

  Lionel ran his hand slowly through his thick hair, and then lifted it where it lay over his forehead. An angry red scar ran between and above his eyebrows.

  “He is not the only one who has had his fill these past days,” he said. “As you know well enough, I came very close to losing the top of my head.”

  “And you know who stopped the hand with the hatchet in it.” Wequashcook’s voice filled the tent for the moment. “It would be good for you to remember that.”

  “Aye. It was you. I confess it. But I am not sure that on another day you might have that hatchet in your own hand.” He walked to Thomas and heaved him up by his arms. “Now, lad, just a word from you.” He pointed at Massaquoit. “Did that one over there capture you?”

  Thomas shook his head.

  “Did he offer you any violence?” Nathaniel asked

  Again Thomas shook his head.

  “Are you not satisfied?” Nathaniel said to Osprey.

  “As well as I can be. But I tell you, captain, you are advised not to trust none of these savages. Listen to me, sir. I have seen them and what they can do. Here and in Jamestown before where I was with Captain John Smith.”

  “So I have heard you tell my father, many times.”

  “The iteration does not make what I say the less true.”

  “Do you have need of me?” Massaquoit asked “I grow weary and cold standing in the entrance to your tent, like a poor dog waiting to be fed or beaten.”

  “You know what you are, then, do you?” Lionel said.

  Massaquoit took the man’s measure. In one way, he was not so different from men he had encountered before the English arrived, Indian men who asserted dominance with words. The difference with this English bully was that his vehemence was activated by the skin color of his adversary. In time, Massaquoit thought, I will make answer, but not now.

  Nathaniel rose from his cot, a slow, almost languorous, unfolding of his long, thin body. His head brushed the ceiling of the tent and he had to stoop a little. He looked at Thomas, and his expression softened into tenderness.