“Good,” Massaquoit replied. He placed his shoulder on the stern of the canoe, and Ninigret took a position next to him. They shoved, and the canoe slid over the mud into the shallow water. Massaquoit knelt in the stern, the boy in the prow, and they began to paddle. Near the shore, in the shade, there were still a few pieces of ice floating on the water, but after a few strokes they were out in the full sun, and Massaquoit felt perspiration begin to gather on his forehead and in the corners of his eyes. He dipped his hat into the water and brought it back up to his face. The water at the surface was warm, and he did not feel refreshed. He dipped his hat in deeper and brought up cooler water, which he splashed over his face.
The boy looked at the trail, just visible now, at the edge of the river.
“They will be looking for one man, a warrior, coming along there.”
“We need only a little surprise,” Massaquoit said, and he leaned his weight into his paddle. “I grow impatient with their game.” Ninigret thrust his paddle into the water and laid his full weight against it so that he almost lifted himself off the bottom of the canoe. The craft shot forward.
The wind, which had been blowing gently into their faces, now picked up in considerable gusts, so they were working against both it and the sluggish current flowing downstream toward Newbury Harbor. They continued paddling hard. Every once in a while, Ninigret would glance over his shoulder at Massaquoit and then ply his paddle even harder. Massaquoit could see the strain on the boy’s shoulders and hear his breathing begin to labor, but he knew his young companion would not ask for a rest. He respected the boy’s pride, and so he would not compromise it by asking if he were tired. Instead, after a half hour of steady labor, he lifted his own paddle out of the water. Ninigret looked back, took a few more strokes, and then stopped.
They floated without conversation for a few minutes. The wind and current conspired to point the canoe toward the eastern shore of the river. Massaquoit put his paddle into the water as a rudder to keep the prow of the canoe pointed into the wind. He took several exaggerated deep breaths and then resumed paddling at a slower pace. Ninigret joined his effort and again they began a slow progress upstream. Before long their labors were rewarded.
As they came around a bend toward the west, they saw the sail of the shallop a quarter of a mile upstream. The sail moved first toward one shore of the river and then the other, as the craft tacked. It was moving no faster than they were.
“I do not think they can see us,” Massaquoit said. “We will keep this distance for a while.”
“What are waiting for?” Ninigret asked.
“An opportunity,” Massaquoit replied.
That opportunity arose an hour later, as the shallop tacked to the eastern shore, and then instead of changing its direction continued into a shallow cove. Massaquoit looked up at the sun, which was now beginning to slide toward the horizon on the west.
“They must be tired,” he said. “Now is a good time to overtake them.”
They were close enough to see a short man bent over the long steering oar while another furled the sail on the single mast. They paddled slowly toward the shallop giving the two on board it ample opportunity to take note of their approach. When they were within twenty yards, the short man, whose eyes had not left them as they neared, reached into his belt and withdrew a pistol.
“That is the lieutenant,” Massaquoit said.
Osprey beckoned them to come closer with his left arm, while his right held the pistol leveled at them. Frank Mapleton placed himself next to Osprey.
“Smile at them,” Massaquoit said. “Then show them a pelt, a good one.” He pulled the brim of his hat down until it nearly covered his eyes. He paddled with exaggerated slowness while Ninigret raised himself to a crouch. The canoe rocked but steadied after a few moments, and the boy reached into the pile of pelts and held up the bright red fox fur. Osprey waved his arm more energetically, urging them closer. Ninigret looked back at Massaquoit.
“Do not fear the pistol,” Massaquoit said. “He cannot hit anything that is more than a few feet away from him.”
“I do not fear. I only wondered if you are ready.”
“I am. The lieutenant will fight. The boy will run. You chase him, and leave the little English to me.”
Ninigret turned back to Osprey. They were no more than ten yards away. Osprey stopped waving his arm, and instead held it toward them, palm outward.
“I see your bloody fur,” he cried. “You don’t need to come no closer.”
“It is good fur,” Ninigret said. He pointed to the pile in the canoe. “More here like it, even better.”
Massaquoit, his eyes down and hidden by the brim of his hat, dipped his paddle into the water and propelled the canoe slowly forward. He raised his eyes just enough to focus on the pistol in Osprey’s hand. It was aimed in the general direction of the canoe, but not specifically at either himself or Ninigret. He stroked once more, and the canoe slid a little closer although the wind driven current threatened to force it to the stern of the shallop. He continued stroking, gentle little motions, just enough to turn the canoe toward the shallop and inch closer to it.
“I said you are close enough,” Osprey said.
Ninigret looked at Massaquoit and shrugged.
“My grandfather is very old. He does not hear.”
Mapleton bent down and picked up something. The slanted rays of the sun glinted off the long barrel of a matchlock musket. He struck a match and lit the cord, and then aimed the clumsy weapon at Massaquoit.
“Maybe he can hear this,” he said.
Massaquoit tensed. It was too soon for a confrontation. Ninigret knelt down in the canoe and cupped his hands toward Massaquoit.
“Old man,” he shouted, “stop paddling.”
Massaquoit lifted his head slightly as though waking from a sleep. He nodded vigorously so Osprey and Mapleton could see the obvious motion of his hat. He kept his paddle in the water, without stroking, just to use it as a rudder to keep the canoe pointed toward the shallop. Osprey put his hand on the barrel of the musket and pushed it down.
“Relax, Frank ,” he said. “We don’t need any of that. It’s only a boy and an old man what looks like he can’t lift his head up underneath that hat.”
“That is right, English,” Ninigret said. “We want only to trade. These furs, all of them for that musket and the pistol.”
“Why, now, that is a proposition,” Osprey said, “but I think you are selling your furs too dear, or holding our weapons too cheap. But come a little closer.”
Ninigret picked up his paddle. He looked back at Massaquoit, who nodded, and then they both stroked. The canoe lurched forward, but it was turned by the current. Massaquoit dug his paddle hard into the water while Ninigret waited, and then when the bow was again dead on to the shallop, he too pushed his paddle into the water. The canoe gathered speed. Massaquoit kept his eyes on Osprey, and he saw the lieutenant’s expression change from casual indifference to concern and then to alarm, as he realized the canoe was approaching faster than was necessary to come along side.
“Why, what mean you?” the lieutenant said. He leveled his pistol. He had a short sword in his other hand.
“Do not hesitate,” Massaquoit said to Ninigret. “Go for the boy. Seize his musket.”
Osprey leveled his pistol at Ninigret just as the canoe clunked against the side of the shallop. Mapleton lifted his musket, but the match cord was no longer lit. He grabbed it by the barrel, and prepared to use it as a club. Osprey pulled the lever trigger of the pistol. It flashed and went off. Ninigret ducked to one side as he saw the lieutenant fire. The ball whizzed by him and landed in the bottom of the canoe at Massaquoit’s feet. Osprey tossed the pistol aside, and switched his sword to his right hand.
Ninigret rose from his crouch and grabbed the side of the shallop. Massaquoit seized the top three or four furs and hurled them at Osprey. As they came down on and in front of the lieutenant, he swung himself on to the stern of the shallop while Ni
nigret leaped aboard it amidship. Mapleton took one swing with his musket at Ninigret, missed, and dropped the weapon. He pulled a knife from his belt, but as soon as Ninigret began to grapple with him, he dropped the knife, freed himself and dove off the shallop from the far side into the shallow water
Ninigret followed him and they both half swam and half stumbled toward the shore through knee high water.
Massaquoit dropped to the deck of the shallop, balancing himself on his right arm while he kicked out with his legs at the lieutenant. Osprey, still busy shedding the furs lunged at Massaquoit. Massaquoit flung his hat in the path of the sword, and deflected it so that it grazed his arm the same time his feet crashed hard into the back of Osprey’s legs. His knees buckled and he fell forward. His weight now pushed the sword further into the soft wood of the shallop’s deck. He had both hands on the hilt of the sword, grunting as he tried to free it. Before he could pull it all the way out, Massaquoit rolled to his feet and clubbed his jaw twice, hard, and the lieutenant staggered, letting go the sword, which fell to the deck.
“Aye, so it is you,” Osprey said. “I am not surprised.” He lowered his head and charged at Massaquoit, butting him in the chest, and crashing his fist against Massaquoit’s cheek, beneath his eye. They crashed into the side of the shallop and then rolled onto the deck. When they separated, Massaquoit was able to seize the sword, and in a moment, he had it against the lieutenant’s throat.
“I do not want your blood,” Massaquoit said. “I want only to talk with the boy.”
“I am sure you do, and don’t you know that is why I have been taking him away from you.” He made as though to get up, and Massaquoit pushed the blade a little harder against his flesh.
“Do not be such a fool,” Massaquoit said.
Osprey relaxed his body so that he lay on the deck. Massaquoit lifted the blade and stepped back. He kept the point of the sword, however, poised above Osprey’s chest.
“Do you see that you are my prisoner?” he asked.
Osprey’s face darkened into a frown, and then it eased into resignation with a lift of his eyebrows.
“Aye,” he muttered, “it is not the first time I have been so, although the first at the hands of a savage.”
Massaquoit lowered the sword so that it hovered immediately above Osprey’s breast, and he moved the blade in small circles like a wasp locating a target for its stinger. He sliced through the lieutenant’s shirt and then just enough skin to draw a trickle of blood.
“You must learn manners,” Massaquoit said. “I am a Pequot sachem, no more savage than you.”
“As you say,” the lieutenant replied. He pressed his fingers against the shallow wound until the blood stopped. “Do you think you can let me up?”
Massaquoit fought the urge to further humble his adversary, and he gestured for him to stand up.
“What do you want of me, then?” Osprey asked. He looked toward the shore where Ninigret and Frank had disappeared into an area of tall marsh grass. “I do not control that one. Nobody does. Master Worthington thinks he does, but that boy minds only his own interest.”
“Ninigret will bring him back soon enough. You and I have a brass button to talk about.”
“I did see you give some such thing to that meddlesome woman.”
“I intended for you to see me do that.”
“It’s only a button.”
“Like one on your coat that I took off a dead Iroquois who took it from you.”
“ ‘Tis a common thing, a brass button.”
“I found this button in the snow outside of Isaac Powell’s house. Right after he was killed.”
“Why I was there. I do not deny it. Like you, after the poor fool was killed.”
Massaquoit suddenly felt weary of his interrogation. It was not his business after all. Let the English deal with their own. He was feeling more and more like a hired hand, and his pride rebelled.
“I will bring you back to talk to the other English. If you promise not to struggle, we can have an easy trip back. If not, I will have to tie you in a way that you will find uncomfortable.”
“I can sit easy and enjoy the ride,” Osprey said.
A splashing sound drifted toward them from the shore. Frank Mapleton waded into the water in front of Ninigret. Frank’s hands were bound behind his back with a piece of thorny vine, which pierced his flesh if he attempted to free himself. The vine also looped around his neck forcing his head back so that he seemed to be staring at the sky as he walked. His foot slipped into a declivity in the river bed and he stumbled face forward into the water. Ninigret watched as he struggled to regain his footing without being able to move his arms for balance. Finally, he grabbed Frank’s shirt and hauled him up. Mapleton gasped and spit out a mouthful of water.
“He runs better than he fights,” Ninigret said when they reached the shallop. He pulled himself over the side. Then he leaned back over the side and grabbed one of Frank’s arms. Massaquoit took the other, and they hauled the young man up. Frank tensed his body as he was lifted, trying to keep the thorns from pressing into his flesh, but has he tumbled onto the deck his arms were thrown back and the vine cut cruelly into his neck, which turned red as blood gathered in the gash left by the thorns as they ripped across his skin. He forced himself into an awkward kneeling position and dropped his arms as slowly as he could to relieve the pressure of his bonds. He cast a rueful look at Osprey.
“I see you did not manage much better,” he said.
“Maybe I did not, but I did not find the water so inviting as you did.”
“You were supposed to keep me safe from him,” Mapleton said, and he swung his head toward Massaquoit.
Osprey shrugged.
“I did that what I could. No man can fault my effort.”
“No, not that,” Frank sneered, “just the result.”
Massaquoit found a place between the thorns on the section of the vine running down the young man’s back. He grasped it and pulled it just enough to show how much more damage he could inflict if he chose. Mapleton leaned toward him, and moved his head toward the stern of the shallop.
“Over there,” he said in a whisper.
Massaquoit led him there while Osprey stared hard at Mapleton.
“Don’t believe what he tells you,” the lieutenant said. “His tongue know nothing but lies.”
“Speak,” Massaquoit said when they were out of earshot of Osprey.
“Just this,” Frank said. “I was the bait, you see, and that one over there was supposed to take care of you when you caught up. All the time, he keeps on talking of this button that he saw you give Mistress Williams, and how he cannot let you say where you got it.”
Massaquoit listened without expression.
“Do you have more to say?” he asked.
“Only this. Now I have shown you my good intentions, do you think you can let me go. I fear what they will do to me.”
For answer, Massaquoit motioned to Ninigret, who began to set the sail while he led Frank back amidship so he could take hold of the long steering oar.
“We have the wind and the river runs toward Newbury,” he said.
Frank shuffled forward, and twisted himself so he could reach a pouch at his belt. Massaquoit watched as he stretched his hands against the bite of the thorns into the pouch, and then pulled them out. He turned around so he could extend his hands behind his back while he looked at Massaquoit over his shoulder. His hands were filled with coins.
“Here’s money they give me, to play my part. Take it. Say I escaped. Only Osprey could gainsay you.”
“ I have no use for your English money.”
The wind filled the sail, and Massaquoit guided the shallop toward the middle of the river. Frank Mapleton opened his hands and let the coins drop onto the deck. He watched to see if Massaquoit would pick them up. When Massaquoit did not, Frank knelt down and one by one, suffering the painful jabs of the thorns into the flesh of his wrists, he gathered the coins and droppe
d them back into the pouch. He stood and stared over the stern at the water and watched his chance for escape disappear.
Chapter Eleven
Phyllis came hurrying into the kitchen with a basket of eggs, and her face flushed with excitement. She began talking before she was fully through the door.
“Peace,” Catherine said, “put down your basket and quiet yourself so I can understand what you are saying.”
“The Good Hope, Mistress,” she managed to sputter as she placed the basket on the table. The basket rocked for a moment until Catherine reached across to steady it . “The sails have been seen just outside the harbor, and there is a fair wind onshore.”
Catherine felt a flush of excitement. The ship was long overdue because of the severity and unusual length of the winter, and she had had no news of it for more than two months. It was coming up the coast from Barbados with a cargo of sugar and tobacco for which she had paid, to which she would add the codfish and lumber she had brokered for Woolsey, once the ship harbored in Newbury. Then, fully loaded, it would cross the Atlantic. If all went well, she and Woolsey would reap a very nice profit, perhaps too much so, in the eyes of Minister Davis who was not overly fond of merchants whose profits he equated with the Biblically proscribed sin of usury.
The Good Hope had been delayed by storms off the Virginia coast, and the bad weather had trailed her northward, finally driving her into harbor between the forks of Long Island, where she found safety from the wind only to be trapped by ice floes off of Shelter Island. Now, at last, she had taken advantage of the warming weather to complete her journey to Newbury.
Phyllis hurried ahead of Catherine on the way to the harbor. When they reached the hill that overlooked the water, Catherine could see that a crowd of fifty or sixty people was already there, with more arriving on the main road as well as the secondary paths. Almost all were curiosity seekers who had no actual interest in the ship or its cargo, as the arrival of any boat, particularly after a difficult winter, always generated a market day air of excitement even among people who had nothing to buy or sell. She recognized several tradesmen in their leather doublets and breeches, such as the chandler, the blacksmith, and the shoemaker, all taking time from their businesses, which they left under the supervision of servants, to come down to the harbor. Other servants dressed in their coarse and dull colored garments stood at the fringes of the crowd while some of the more affluent citizens in brighter colored clothing occupied the area immediately in front of the dock. Chief among these, was Samuel Worthington, who, Catherine surmised, must have seen the sail from his hilltop home before anybody else, and he was not one to pass up an opportunity to evaluate a competitor’s goods so as to plan how best he might compete. Off to one side, at the extreme rear of the gathering crowd stood a small knot of Indians, some in their native dress, others in English clothes. Catherine and Phyllis walked straight through the crowd, and people stepped aside to let them pass until they reached Worthington. The merchant turned his head and nodded. Phyllis continued until she was at the beginning of the dock.
The Blind in Darkness Page 19
