The Blind in Darkness

by Stephen Lewis

  “And how is he?” Catherine asked.

  Frank glanced at the merchant, who beckoned him forward.

  “Tell Mistress Williams,” Worthington urged, “but first your apology.”

  Frank looked as though he would rather have his teeth pulled from his mouth, but he shuffled toward Catherine and bowed.

  “I am much grieved that I disturbed you some time back. It was only a prank.”

  “You can blame it on his youth,” the merchant added.

  “I accept his apology,” Catherine said slowly, “in the spirit with which it is offered.”

  “Tell her, now, lad,” Worthington said.

  “As Master Worthington says, I heard Nathaniel and Thomas. I was outside their tent, keeping an eye and on ear on them, like, and I hears one or the other of them keep saying, something like, ‘she’s coming, and what then are you to do when she’s here,’ and the other replies something in the manner of ‘why nothing more than you’ and other such.”

  “Does this ‘she’ have a name?”

  “I believe I heard one of them say something like ‘Thomasine.’”

  Worthington leaned forward and said in a hushed whisper, “That is Thomas’s sister, who was to marry my Nathaniel. What think you, Catherine?”

  “I do not think it strange that two men so connected might talk about the woman that binds them.”

  “But arguing, most fiercely, were they not Frank?”

  “Yes, as I believe.”

  “As for that, I do not know what to say.”

  Worthington looked disappointed.

  “Pity,” he said, “for I know how shrewd you are. I thought perhaps you could cast some light.”

  “I regret I do not meet your expectation.”

  Worthington shrugged.

  “Ah, but there is another matter. Frank?”

  Confusion spread over the young man’s face for a moment, and then he seemed to remember.

  “There was somebody else what saw something,” he said. “That savage friend of your savage.”

  “The one they call William,” Worthington added. “I am most anxious to talk with him.”

  “He was lurking about that tent, I can vouch for that,” Frank said. “It may be he knows something, or did something.”

  “Know you where he can be found?” the merchant asked.

  “No,” Catherine replied.

  “He is a special friend of your Matthew, is he not?”

  “As for that, I cannot say. Nor do I know where Matthew is now. I do not chart his movements. Or his friends,” Catherine replied.

  “Pity, then,” Worthington muttered. He bowed his head toward Catherine as though to speak in confidence.

  “To tell you the truth, I fear for the lad, as long as this William is about.”

  “I do not think you have aught to fear.”

  Worthington leaned even closer so that Catherine could smell his breath, sour from decayed teeth.

  “Ah, but if this William spied my Frank, and further if this William perchance had aught to do with the attack on Nathaniel.”

  “Then you and Frank would indeed have reason to fear him, but I do not think any of your suppositions are sound.”

  “Maybe so. But just to be sure, I am sending the boy on an errand to Barbados.” Worthington brushed at his eye. “One that my Nathaniel should have done.” He stepped back and motioned for his two companions to follow him toward the house.

  “Passing strange,” Catherine said when they were out of earshot.

  “He called you by your given name,” Phyllis said. “I never heard him do so.”

  “Nor I, these twenty years. I cannot believe he has abandoned our quarrel. I can only wonder why he sought my advice on a question I obviously would know nothing about.”

  “He says he values your wisdom.”

  “I trust him not. I think I am being offered bait, but to what purpose, I cannot now imagine. It does make one wonder.”

  “Indeed, one does, ” Phyllis replied.

  They followed the road away from the harbor, through the town square and then on toward Catherine’s house. As they approached it, they saw gray puffs of smoke rising from Massaquoit’s wigwam. He was standing, arms crossed, as though waiting for them.

  “Edward told me where you went,” he said. “I must talk with you about the young English who mocked me at your meeting.”

  “Why?”

  “Wequashcook has given me reason to seek him out.” He pointed toward his wigwam. “I have started a fire so that I can invite you into my house.”

  “Why Mistress Williams can do no such thing,” Phyllis said.

  “But of course I can,” Catherine replied. “Go yourself to tend to our supper, Phyllis, and I will be in before long.”

  “Why, such a thing,” Phyllis muttered, but she strode toward the house.

  Massaquoit pulled back the flap to his wigwam and Catherine stooped down to make her way inside. There she felt the warm air from the fire, and in its dim light she saw squatting next to it Wequashcook. Massaquoit came in behind her and closed the flap behind him.

  “Wequashcook can tell you our concerns,” Massaquoit said.

  And so Catherine forced her balky knees to bend so that she could sit across the fire from Wequashcook.

  “I am listening,” she said.

  Chapter Nine

  Wequashcook did not begin speaking right away. He studied a large log that cracked with a sputter, tossing sparks into the air. Slowly he raised his head. Catherine was unsure whether there was a protocol to be observed in Massaquoit’s house. Perhaps, she thought, she should speak first, and so she did.

  “Master Worthington is anxious to talk to you.”

  Just the trace of a mocking smile formed on Wequashcook’s lips.

  “I do not think I am as anxious to speak with him,” he said.

  “His servant, Frank Mapleton, who was with the English soldiers, says he saw you near the tent when Nathaniel Worthington was fatally wounded.”

  “That is true,” Wequashcook said. “And I also saw him there.”

  “Master Worthington believes you might have had something to do with the attack on his son.” Catherine waited for Wequashcook to respond, but she saw an expression in the old man’s face that indicated that he would not dignify such a preposterous charge with an answer. “Or that you might know more than you have already said.”

  “Now that is a more reasonable idea,” Wequashcook said, “but the truth is I have little to say.”

  “And yet something,” Massaquoit encouraged. Wequashcook looked steadily at Catherine.

  “You do me dishonor,” Catherine said, “to question my motives.”

  Wequashcook shrugged.

  “I am no longer so interested in honor, but in breathing.”

  “Continue,” Massaquoit said.

  “As I have told Massaquoit, I saw the one called Thomas lying on the ground with the wounds you yourself have tended, and the other, the merchant’s son, bleeding too much blood. I knew he could not live. And Worthington’s man Frank Mapleton was there, too. That is what I saw. Before that I heard names, the same name, but not the same.”

  “Thomas, but not Thomas,” Massaquoit said.

  “Oh, that would be Thomasine,” Catherine said. “She is Thomas’s sister, who is coming here to marry Nathaniel.”

  Wequashcook looked at Massaquoit.

  “All these years, and still my ear cannot understand these English names,” he said.

  “But what were they saying about Thomasine?” Catherine asked.

  “I cannot say,” Wequashcook replied. “Their voices were loud with anger. I heard that name. That is all.”

  “It is strange,” Massaquoit added, “that this Thomasine’s brother and her man were saying her name as they fought with each other.”

  “Yes,” Catherine replied, “that appears odd, but there might be a simple explanation.”

  Wequashcook shrugged.

&nb
sp; “That is for you, as an English woman, to figure out. I cannot do more.” He closed his eyes in thought for a moment, and then he stood up slowly, stretching the muscles of his back and his legs as he did.

  “Now I think I must go to talk with Master Worthington.”

  “But,” Catherine said, “you said you had no desire to speak with him.”

  “I have less desire for him to send his dogs after me. No I will talk with him.”

  “He may put you in jail.”

  “I do not think so.” Wequashcook stooped to go through the flap door. He looked back at Catherine.

  “If Master Worthington decides to put me in jail, I hope I can trust that you will talk with him on my behalf.”

  “Surely,” Catherine replied.

  Wequashcook nodded and slipped through the flap.

  Catherine started to rise, but her legs refused to co-operate. Massaquoit extended his hand, and helped her. She felt dizzy for a moment, and remained holding his hand.

  “Thank you,” she said. She looked toward the flap through which Wequashcook had exited. “I do not think Master Worthington will put Wequashcook into jail. They are too much like, each seeking to outwit the other.”

  “In that case,” Massaquoit replied, “I would not bet against Wequashcook.”

  “Nor would I,” Catherine said. “And thank you for inviting me into your house.”

  Massaquoit tilted his upper torso toward her in an awkward bow.

  “Is not what you English do?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Before you leave, there is one more thing. I wanted to tell you alone. You remember that button I gave you.”

  “Of course.”

  “I found it outside the house where the old farmer was killed.”

  “Oh, the lieutenant,” Catherine said.

  Massaquoit tried not to show his surprise.

  “I took note of his coat,” Catherine said. “I saw that it was missing a button. You have said that Indians did not kill Isaac.”

  “The old man was shot with an English pistol. The scalping was only done to hide the bullet hole. It was made to look like Indians by those who do not know how we take scalps.”

  Catherine shuddered.

  “Are you sure.”

  “Yes. No Indian would have left the job half done like it was this old man.”

  “What if he were interrupted?” Catherine asked.

  “That is possible, but I do not think so.”

  “Then you suspect the lieutenant.”

  “He was there at that time. Otherwise the snow would have buried that button where I would not have seen it.”

  “That he was there does not mean he killed Powell.”

  “No, it does not. The only one, besides the lieutenant, who knows what happened is Thomas and he is gone.”

  “Pity,” Catherine said.

  “But he may be back.”

  “That would not be wise.”

  “So I told him, and yet he said he might well return.”

  “If he does, we must talk with him before Master Worthington, or Lieutenant Osprey can.” She looked at Massaquoit wondering if she could give voice to the thought that lingered in her mind, an itch that demanded to be scratched.

  “It is possible someone else knows what happened to Isaac Powell,” she said slowly, as though expecting to be stopped.

  Massaquoit held up his hand.

  “You do not need to say what is on your mind. I, too wonder about Wequashcook. He was there when I found Thomas, and when Nathaniel was killed.”

  “And maybe he was there as well when Isaac Powell was attacked,” Catherine added.

  “Perhaps,” Massaquoit said. “I do not trust him.”

  “Nor I Master Worthington.”

  “Two snakes, then,” Massaquoit said, “one English, one Indian.”

  “And two men dead, another fled, and Thomasine, widowed before she was married.”

  “There is one more thing I can tell you. I do not know if it is important. I found the old man’s hands next to a dead dog that had dragged them away as food. I saw the bandage you had put on. I also saw the dog’s mouth. He had no fangs.”

  * * * *

  Massaquoit sat alone in his wigwam before the fire. He heard the wind rush by, and he sensed the drop in the temperature. Winter had returned that afternoon after Wequashcook and Catherine had left. It did not seem right that the warmth of his hospitality had been so rudely displaced by the return of the north wind, who hurled his frigid breath against the wall of his wigwam.

  He poked the fire with the end of a charred stick, which he then threw into the flame. The fire flared and he tossed another log onto it. His wood was almost gone. He had three more logs, just enough to last through the night. He wrapped himself in his blanket and curled himself next to the fire as close as he dared. Even though his flesh warmed from the flame, he still felt a cold chill that had nothing to do with the temperature inside his wigwam.

  * * * *

  In her bedroom, Catherine looked out into the black night that served as a stark backdrop to the heavy white flakes. She saw the smoke rising from Massaquoit’s wigwam and wondered again why he refused her offer to wait out the storm in the comfort of her house. They lived next to each other, and yet there was a gulf that neither could bridge. She was sure she would walk across such a bridge, if it were there, but she was almost equally certain that he would not. She could not blame him for his feelings, but nonetheless they saddened her.

  Still, they found themselves functioning as a team. She sought the truth of Nathaniel’s death not so much for herself, but for her old friend Alice. Massaquoit seemed to have his own reasons, perhaps something to do with Wequashcook, as the two Indians, however unsure of each other to each other, were both sure of their need to stand together against the English.

  And several miles up the road leading out of Newbury lay the body of Isaac Powell, missing his hands, and his scalp half torn off. She did not think it had been buried yet, as there was no-one, no relative, to seize the thaw as the Worthingtons had done for Nathaniel. No, in all likelihood, Isaac lay beneath a blanket of snow, in death much as he had been in life, a lonely and alienated figure.

  She paced the room, the floor boards startlingly cold beneath her bare feet. Massaquoit’s last comment returned and raised an image in her mind. She saw the wound she had tended, and now she visualized the dog whose teeth could not have made that wound. She remembered how reluctant Isaac had been to permit her to treat it. Sara Dunwood had told her how Thomas had sought refuge from the old farmer’s unwanted attentions. Both Alice and Samuel Worthington, one way or another, had made it clear that Thomas had been sent away to sever his relationship with their son. Her hand closed on the brass button lying on the table next to her bed. It, too, was cold, as cold as the certainty forming in her mind that there was a string connecting Isaac Powell and Nathaniel Worthington.

  The one individual who could indicate the contours of that connection was Thomas, and he had disappeared. There remained only one path to pursue.

  * * * *

  She was dressed before the sun fully rose. She peered out of her the window in he bedroom that faced east and saw that the day was going to be bright. A steady drip of melting snow from her roof told her that a warm wind had replaced yesterday’s storm. It was the first day of April, and perhaps spring would arrive to stay.

  The promise of good weather only increased her anxiety. It was as though the deaths that had occurred in the cold grasp of winter would linger after the snows had melted, casting shadows of suspicion and unrest on Newbury, even as the earth renewed itself. She went downstairs, and thought about heating some samp for breakfast to quiet her stomach, but her mind’s unease was more insistent than her hunger. She threw her cloak about her shoulders and walked out into the sunshine, pausing for a moment to feel its warmth, and then walking as fast as she could manage through the yielding layer of snow toward Massaquoit’s wigwam
. No smoke now rose from the hole in its top, and she feared that he had already left, and with his departure the only hope she had to pursue her suspicions, since to do so required Massaquoit’s energies and skill.

  Inside his wigwam, Massaquoit finished dousing the remains of his fire with a couple of handfuls of snow, which sizzled for a moment as it melted against the remaining log. He heard the familiar steps of the white woman coming towards him and rose to greet her. He found her standing almost knee deep in a drift that had formed in front of his entrance.

  “Your feet must be cold,” he said.

  “Yes,” she replied, “but that is what I came to see you about. My feet cannot do what I must ask yours to do.”

  “Your request might well meet my intention,” he said, “for I was on my way to the harbor to see if the Helmsford was set to sail.”

  “I am glad to hear it, for I am most intent to know whether Frank Mapleton sails on her.”

  “And you would like me to fetch him back to talk with you?”

  “Yes.”

  “That seems to be what I do these days. Catch up and retrieve wandering English who other English want to talk to.”

  “You are good at it.”

  “I would rather hunt something I could eat.”

  “But you will do me this service.”

  He nodded his head slowly as though to emphasize the deliberateness of his decision to do as she asked.

  “But not only for you.”

  “Ah, I see. For Wequashcook as well.”

  “For him, and all of us.”

  She noted the edge in his voice and so she simply replied.

  “I will wait for you.”

  * * * *

  The road to the harbor was rapidly turning into slush that made walking difficult even for Massaquoit’s strong legs. His deerskin boots kept him dry, but they were soon covered in wet snow and pieces of ice so that he felt as though he had to bring his feet up from below the ground for each step. Still, he made good time, and although he was short of breath when he arrived at the hill overlooking the harbor, he was relieved to see that The Helmsford was still at anchor besides the dock, and that there was no sign of anybody getting on board.