The Blind in Darkness

by Stephen Lewis

  “Go and watch over those two,” he said. He got up as Catherine approached. Phyllis lumbered up behind.

  “She is inside,” he said. “Sometimes she sleeps. Sometimes she thinks she will leave. That is why I sit here.”

  Catherine started to walk into the house, but Massaquoit stayed her with a touch of his hand on her arm.

  “There is a trunk of clothes in the closet behind the room. You might want to look at it.”

  “First I must tend to her,” Catherine said.

  Massaquoit looked at Phyllis.

  “Maybe Phyllis can examine it while you look at the woman. Then you both can look at her. I have already done so.”

  Catherine nodded and led the way into the house.

  “What is he being so mysterious about?” Phyllis asked.

  “I think I know, but you go before and look in the closet.”

  Inside, they found two candles lit on the table, which had been pushed close to the bed. Phyllis picked up one and walked to the door to the closet. Catherine move the other closer to the edge of the table and then she sat down on the edge of the bed. A rug served as a blanket, and it was pulled up over Thomasine’s head. Catherine drew it down until she could see the face. She felt the cheek and forehead. They were no warmer than what would be natural to sleep. Thomasine stirred and opened her eyes. She seemed not to recognize Catherine. She sat up quickly, and then her face contorted in pain. She looked toward her foot.

  “I remember now,” she said.

  “Let me see it.”

  Thomasine shook her head.

  “It is nothing,” she said.

  “Mistress Williams,” Phyllis called. “Come here and have a look in the trunk.”

  Thomasine shrugged and then smiled. She threw the rug off and, with a grimace, extended her leg toward Catherine.

  “I do not think it matters any longer,” she said.

  Phyllis stepped to the bed, holding her candle over her head so that its pale yellow light illuminated the bemused expression on her face.

  “There’s clothes belonging to some man there,” Phyllis said.

  “They are my brother’s clothes,” Thomasine said.

  Catherine meanwhile had unwrapped the wound. The ball from the pistol had ripped through the calf, which was swollen and discolored at that point. Catherine ran her fingers over the skin adjoining the wound. She pressed hard enough to feel the bone. It did not seem to be broken. The wound was deep, but it appeared clean. Catherine applied a comfrey poultice. She expected Thomasine to pull away, but she did not. It was as though she had resigned herself to some fate that she had long tried to elude. Catherine lifted the shift a little higher so she could wrap it in a new bandage. She saw the edge of a fresh scar just above the knee. She took the candle off the table and held it above the scar. Then she replaced the candle on the table.

  “So you see how it is,” Thomasine said, with a bright and sassy edge to her voice.

  “I see a wound like I treated on your brother.”

  Thomasine lifted her hand to her head and pulled off her blonde wig. Beneath it was the shorter blond hair of Thomas. His face was now sullen, with a touch of suggestive sensuality, just as it was the night Catherine had come to the Powell farm to treat the old man’s wounded hand. The voice, too, dropped to a lower register.

  “It is my leg you treated,” he said.

  “I had some idea,” Catherine began, “but not . . .”

  “But not this?” He pulled the wig back on. “It is a fine wig, made of my very brother’s hair.” His voice rose to its female pitch. “But what about this?” Thomasine asked.

  She pulled up her shift. Catherine started.

  “Bring your candle closer,” Thomasine said in a seductive whisper, “and have a good look.”

  Catherine motioned Phyllis to bring her candle. Phyllis held it a few inches over Thomasine’s groin, and then she let out a gasp. Catherine ran her hand over the hairless pubic area, pausing first on the penis, as thin as a twig and hardly an inch long, but with an unmistakable, miniature glans and foreskin. She continued down to the lips of the vulva. The penis flopped above the vulva like an elongated clitoris. Thomasine put her own hand on top of Catherine’s, and pressed it down so that Catherine’s forefinger was forced between the lips. Then she abruptly lifted Catherine’s hand away with one hand, and pulled her wig off with the other.

  “I feel nothing down there,” Thomas said. He lifted his tiny member. “It does not work as a man,” he said. He put his fingers on the vulva, spreading the outer lips. “And this gives me no pleasure.” He then put the wig back on and lifted the shift to reveal two small, but well formed breasts. A thin tuft of blond hair grew between them. “The men like these,” she said.

  “But Nathaniel?” Catherine asked.

  “He loved me,” she purred. “But he was afraid, as well.”

  She pulled the wig off, and Catherine now knew to wait for the transformation, the dropping of the tenor of the voice, the alteration of the facial muscles from soft to hard, as Thomasine again became Thomas.

  “What did he fear?” Catherine asked.

  “Why his father, you, the good people of Newbury. He knew how my sister was. He met her in a tavern, you know. I tried to take her away, for I knew what trouble she could cause. But she would not listen. And Nathaniel would not be put off.”

  “But you came with him from Barbados. You left your sister behind.”

  Phyllis let out her breath as though she had been holding it in as she witnessed. Catherine glanced up at her with an expression that ordered her silence. Phyllis nodded.

  This time, Thomas remained Thomas, his hand holding the wig in a tense grip as though to prevent it from rising of its own accord to his head.

  “After my sister married him, we talked. We decided that she could come after. That I would be his companion for a while.” Now he let his hands lift the wig until it covered his face. He peered out from behind it and as Thomasine said, “You see, he must have one or the other of us, and after a while he did not care which. My brother can be so dark, while I am so light, so light I threatened to float away from him when he displeased me.” She settled back onto the bed. “I am so tired,” she said.

  “I know,” Catherine said, “but tell me about the farmer.”

  Thomasine flung down the wig and said in Thomas’s angry voice.

  “He wanted only to use me. He did not know about my sister until he forced her to show herself, and then he would not keep his filthy old hands off of me until I sank my teeth into them. But you know about that.”

  “And then?”

  “And then, Master Worthington set his lieutenant to chase me away, but the old man would not let him near me. He was stronger than you would think. They fought. I started to run. The lieutenant tried to hold me, but I got away in the snow. I watched him go back into the house. The old man was lying on the floor.”

  “What happened later, when Nathaniel was killed?”

  He dropped the wig to the floor, and shut his mouth hard, and closed his eyes. He would talk no more.

  “Why I never thought,” Phyllis began.

  “I don’t imagine you did. Nor did I. Not the full measure of it.”

  Massaquoit had been standing wordlessly in the doorway. He came in now.

  “The sun will be down soon,” he said.

  “Did you hear and see?” Catherine asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I would like to bring Thomas to my house, to keep an eye on him.”

  “Are you going to call him a man then?” Phyllis asked.

  Catherine looked at the wig on the floor.

  “He is now.”

  “I have two poles outside,” Massaquoit said.

  “Take his blanket,” Catherine replied.

  * * * *

  Phyllis had one end of the litter Massaquoit fashioned, and Ninigret the other as they walked toward Catherine’s house. Catherine walked next to the litter, stroking Thomas’
s hand. Massaquoit held the rope that bound Osprey and Mapleton. The two walked side by side, their heads almost touching as they talked. Then Mapleton cursed his companion, and Osprey responded in kind. They banged into each other but could do little damage with their hands still bound behind their backs. Massaquoit waited until they tired, and they resumed walking, this time stretching the rope to its limit between them.

  Once at Catherine’s house, Massaquoit secured them to the tree near his wigwam while Ninigret and Phyllis carried the litter inside. Catherine walked to where Massaquoit stood near the tree. She looked at Osprey and Mapleton who now sat staring in opposite directions. From time to time, one or the other would turn to mutter a curse over his shoulder at the other.

  “Are they secure enough?” Catherine asked.

  “They are.”

  “For the night?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I can tend to Thomas. I will give him a tea that will make him sleep. She walked back into the house. A few moments later Ninigret emerged.

  “I will watch first,” he said.

  Massaquoit nodded and stooped to enter his wigwam. He suddenly felt very tired.

  * * * *

  He started awake with the sun. He crawled out of his wigwam. Ninigret was sitting, eyes fully open staring from Osprey to Middleton who lay asleep on the ground. Osprey was snoring loudly.

  “Why did you not wake me?” Massaquoit said. He felt a flush of shame warm his face.

  “I am young,” Ninigret said, “and I was not tired. You have them so well bound,” he continued, “there was no danger.”

  Catherine came out of her house holding a half loaf of bread. She handed it to Massaquoit.

  “I thought you might be hungry. Phyllis is baking fresh. I am to see Master Woolsey.”

  Massaquoit looked toward Osprey and Mapleton, who were now awake and sitting with sullen expressions at opposite ends of their tether.

  “Yes,” Catherine replied, “and the one inside as well. Those two might be hungry as well.”

  Massaquoit broke the bread into thirds, and handed two pieces to Ninigret.

  “Eat one. When you are finished, you can toss the other to those two dogs.” He turned to Catherine for confirmation. “They deserve no better, do you think, after twice trying to take our lives?”

  “A crust is too much,” Ninigret said.

  “A crust does fine,” Catherine said, and she walked off toward the road.

  * * * *

  Massaquoit and Ninigret sat a few feet from Osprey and Mapleton who were chewing the remains of their crust of bread when two men came up to the front door and knocked. Massaquoit saw Phyllis open it and talk to one of the men. She pointed toward Massaquoit’s wigwam, and then the two strode up the hill, followed by Phyllis, wiping her hands on her apron as she hurried to catch up with them. She did so just as they planted themselves, legs akimbo in front of Massaquoit, who rose slowly to greet them. Both constables wore swords at their sides.

  “We are here under the orders of the governor to take custody of your prisoners, and to request your presence at the meetinghouse this morning so as to explain your actions.”

  Ninigret, who had remained sitting, leapt up.

  “Perhaps you can ask those two dogs how it is they offered us such violence.”

  The constables’ faces darkened. One pulled his sword out of its scabbard.

  “There is no need,” Massaquoit said. He walked to the tree, cut the rope, and led Osprey and Mapleton to the constable. The one who had drawn his sword used it to cut through Osprey’s remaining bonds. Osprey rubbed his wrists, and then held out his hand.

  “My pistol, if you please. And my knife.”

  Massaquoit slapped its butt end hard into the lieutenant’s outstretched hand. Ninigret placed the knife on top of the pistol. Osprey smiled, and bowed.

  “And what of me?” Mapleton asked.

  A constable took the end of the rope attached to the boy’s hands.

  “Come along,” he said. “Master Worthington wants to be sure he has a chance to talk with you.”

  Massaquoit and Ninigret watched the constables leave with Osprey and Mapleton.

  “We had no powder or ball,” Ninigret said.

  “Nor need,” Massaquoit replied. He turned to Phyllis. “How is your patient?”

  “Stronger,” Phyllis replied.

  “Good. For I have an idea.”

  “Should we not wait for Mistress Williams to return?”

  “We can join her at the meetinghouse.”

  * * * *

  “He is doing much better,” Dorothy said as she led Catherine into the front room where Woolsey now sat at his desk poring over a page in his ledger book. He looked up and beamed at Catherine.

  “We have done remarkably well with this voyage of The Good Hope. When it reaches England and sells our cargo of tobacco and sugar, we will make out handsomely.” He paused. “I have heard some say that this tobacco is a savage vice. What think you, Catherine?”

  “I think I am glad of our profit Joseph.” She placed her hand on the ledger page. “But it is a very different business I have come to discuss with you. Thomasine was, but for the intervention of Massaquoit, and his new friend Ninigret, dead at the hands of Osprey and Mapleton.”

  Woolsey removed Catherine’s hand and shut the ledger book with an audible thud. His smile turned to a distasteful frown.

  “This is Samuel’s doing,” he said.

  “There is more, much more,” Catherine said.

  “Then you must tell me,” Woolsey replied.

  Catherine pulled up the cane backed chair.

  “Take a breath,” she said.

  Woolsey obeyed.

  “Now, then,” Catherine said. “You recall meeting Thomasine, Nathaniel’s intended.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you recall her brother Thomas, Nathaniel’s friend.”

  “Indeed.”

  “They are the same.”

  “Brother and sister?”

  “They are one person, who is now recovering in my house from a wound from the lieutenant’s pistol.”

  “One person you say.”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “God can explain the reason, but I have seen with my own eyes. He, she, is both man and woman, or perhaps neither.”

  Woolsey sank back into his chair.

  “Wondrous,” he said.

  “Indeed. And the cause, no doubt, that both Nathaniel and Isaac are dead.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Samuel Worthington did not offer a greeting, not even a polite lift of his head to acknowledge their presence, as Catherine and Woolsey walked into the meetinghouse. He turned instead to whisper something to Lieutenant Osprey who sat next to him on the foremost bench. Wequashcook stood at the end of the bench holding the rope that still bound Frank Mapleton. Behind Mapleton were the two constables. Catherine noted with dismay that Osprey again had his pistol tucked into his cloth belt. Governor Peters sat behind the table, which had been drawn out from its closet behind the pulpit as it customarily was when the house of God was transformed to serve the laws of men. At his side was Minister Davis whose facial expression indicated he would have been much happier in his accustomed place in his pulpit. Peters motioned for Woolsey to take a seat next to him.

  “Mistress Williams,” Governor Peters said, “Master Worthington has brought to me a grievous account of your Matthew’s interference in his attempts to resolve a matter touching his family and, in particular, the estate of Nathaniel.”

  Catherine took the brass button out of her pocket and tossed it on the table.

  “Ask him to explain that, if you please,” she said.

  The governor picked up the button and passed it to Woolsey who laid it on the table in front of him.

  “A button,” Peters said.

  “From his man’s coat, found not far from Isaac Powell’s body. He has said as much to me.”

  Peter
s looked toward Osprey.

  “I did so,” the lieutenant replied. “I explained how I found the man dead and started to follow his attackers, only to be discouraged by the cold and the snow.”

  Catherine faced Osprey.

  “And how happened it that you were there?”

  “On my business,” Worthington interjected, “my family business.”

  Massaquoit entered, walked over to Catherine and whispered in her ear. She nodded, and he returned to the door where he remained standing.

  “And what was that business?” Catherine insisted.

  Worthington glowered.

  “I do resent your intrusion, Mistress,” he said.

  “No more of an intrusion than a pistol ball,” Woolsey said.

  Worthington looked at Massaquoit.

  “Her savage, Matthew, there, can best answer that.”

  “I think not,” Catherine said. “Massaquoit, would you, please?”

  Massaquoit walked out of the door. He returned a moment later with Thomas(ine), who had one arm wrapped around his neck, and the other supported at the elbow by Phyllis. Thomas(ine) was wearing a man’s leather doublet and breeches, but also a woman’s apron and white cap over her wig. In a collective gasp, Governor Peters and Minister Davis drew in their breath, and each sought to gather the escaping air into words. But before either could, the three walked to the front of the meetinghouse, where Thomas(ine) proceeded unaided to stand in front of Osprey.

  “He shot me.” The voice had the high, seductive tone of Thomasine. It dropped now. “He had attacked me before, when I lived with Isaac Powell.”