The Sea Hath Spoken

by Stephen Lewis

  He was tall, a little over six feet at a time when the average height for a man was something like half a foot less. Now that his large hat was removed, his black hair rose in wild disarray, tumbling over his ears and the nape of his neck. His eyes, which had been gentle in his deference to Captain Gregory, now were bright with intense focus. He looked down at his sister. She turned aside for a second, and then she nodded. Catherine, whose eyes had followed the minister’s gaze, saw that an almost imperceptible shrug preceded the nod of her head.

  “Thou are surely mistaken,” Roger said, in a voice every bit as commanding as the minister’s. “Thou would mislead these poor lambs to their damnation in hell.”

  The color rose in Minister Davis’s face, moving up from the folds of his neck through his fleshy jowls and then continuing across his cheeks to his forehead, which now bulged with the pressure of the veins that had carried the angry blood. Catherine found herself worried that his head might explode, for much as she disagreed with the man of the cloth on many points of doctrine as well as his approach to pastoral care, which was far to magisterial for her taste, she yet retained a human care for the man beneath the cloth, and she now saw that his fury was reaching a level dangerous to his well being. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out as though he could not from the wealth of his erudite vocabulary select the words of opprobrium sufficient to contend with this brash challenge to his authority.

  Roger filled the silence as all in the meetinghouse waited for the minister to gather himself.

  “What sayest thou?” the young man demanded. “Are thou not confounded?”

  Minister Davis clamped his mouth shut hard, passed his hand across his forehead as though to dispel its confusion, and then found his voice. A young woman on the front bench across from Catherine half rose and glanced from the minister to Roger. Catherine recognized her as Grace Davis, the minister’s niece, recently arrived in Newbury. Grace’s eyes lingered on Roger and then she sat back down as Minister Davis spoke.

  “Surely not. Am I, who stood up before the tyranny of the King’s ministers who could put my head in a noose for preaching the true gospel, now to be confounded by such a pup as you who do not know how to address your betters?”

  “What meanest thou?” Roger asked, but the smirk on his face revealed that he full well understood the minister’s point.

  “Why that you show forth your ignorance even now.”

  “No, the fault is thine, as thou are surely but one person.” He moved his arm in a sweeping gesture toward the congregation. “Now surely, you are many, and so correctly addressed.” He brought his arm back to point at Minister Davis. “But he is but one man, although he seems unaware of that simple truth.”

  Minister Davis’s face had resumed its more usual authoritative expression, and his color had almost lost its red glow.

  “My young friend,” he said, “we need not argue over ‘thou’ or ‘you’. And I will even forgive your impertinent interruption so that in answering your objection to my opening of the doctrine of sanctification, I can the better show you its truthfulness.”

  “Sayest thou so?” Roger said.

  “I do,” Minister Davis replied in a voice informed by the calm of thirty years in the ministry facing adversaries of every stripe.

  Roger made his way to the aisle and strode to the rear of the meetinghouse. He stopped in front of the last bench and pointed at Wequashcook and Massaquoit.

  “There is a light in all men,” he said, “even these that thou term savages. They too carry the light within them. Is it not so that heat follows from a flame but does not cause the fire?”

  “It is,” Minister Davis agreed, his voice raised to reach and confront Roger at the back of the building.

  “Just so is the light within these savages like the flame. Heat follows the flames, and righteousness follows the light. Stand up men and leave this building, for you need it not,” he declared. He seized Wequashcook by one arm, and Massaquoit by the other, and tried to raise them to their feet. He strained for a few moments but then dropped his arms.

  “They have been better instructed,” Minister Davis said. “They know they must hear the word of God opened to them by their minister.”

  “They are the more deceived, then,” Roger retorted. He stepped back into the aisle and strode with deliberate pace toward the pulpit. He stopped at a point even with the front-most bench, and turned to face the congregation. He paused for a moment as his eyes engaged Grace’s. His height gave him a commanding presence almost equal to the much shorter minister ensconced as he was behind the massive oaken pulpit. “Rise up I say and free yourselves from the slavery of this ministry. Learn to nurture the seed of righteousness that God has placed in your bosoms. It is not so difficult to do, for I have come to show you the way.”

  Catherine rose to her feet. She felt the blood full beneath her cheeks and she knew her face was red. At that moment she could not have said whether she was more angry or humiliated. Although she found Roger’s point more than passingly compatible with her own distrust of a church polity based on a powerful ministry, she could not condone his rudeness. And further, as Roger’s hostess, and therefore sponsor in the community, she would be held responsible for his behavior. The fact that she had first laid eyes on him two days ago would not lessen her responsibility in the eyes of her neighbors.

  She wanted very much to reach Roger and silence him, but others had also stood and the congregation was forming itself into an angry human wall between her and Roger, whose head remained visible above everybody else. Catherine turned toward the pulpit, hoping that Minister Davis would find some word to dampen the hot anger she felt fill the meetinghouse, but for once the clergyman seemed struck speechless. He stood, face purple, with his elbows leaning on the pulpit on either side of the massive Bible open to the page of his text. He glanced down at that page, perhaps hoping to find something there that would defuse a situation that had escaped his usually iron grip on the emotions of his congregants. He moved his lips, as though the calming words he sought would thereby form themselves, but he could say nothing.

  Roger, on the other hand, glowed with the confidence of those informed by a self-defined sense of righteousness, fueled by a fierce desire to bring the light of truth to the benighted. He cast his eyes toward the ceiling of the meetinghouse and then lifted both arms as though inviting his hostile audience to embrace his words. However, before he could utter them, an arm reached out from the human wall that was now leaning toward him from the benches immediately in front of him. Catherine saw the lace cuff of a shirt, and the hand, which held a leather glove rolled into a ball. She raised herself onto her toes, but still could not see the body to which the arm belonged. She nudged Woolsey with her elbow.

  “Who is it?” she asked.

  “Who...” the magistrate repeated, unsure of what he was being asked.

  “The hand,” Catherine said.

  “I see it,” Woolsey replied.

  The hand’s mate, another flash of white lace at the cuff, circled the back of Roger’s head and its fingers grabbed a handful of hair. His expression turned startled, his mouth agape. The hand holding the glove shoved it into the opening. Roger pulled his head back, but the insistent hand followed until the balled glove all but disappeared down Roger’s throat. He stepped back gagging for breath. Two more hands, these rougher and larger, extending from sleeves of coarse, dark brown wool, appeared from behind Roger’s head and clamped his mouth shut by pressing his jaw up with one powerful hand while the fingers of the other pressed down on the crown of his head. Roger flailed his arms in a windmill motion.

  “Let him go!” The voice boomed from the chest of a man who now stood clearly visible next to Roger. The other man released his grip from Roger’s head, and the young man fell to his knees. The one who had issued the command straightened his lace cuffs and stepped aside, much as he would have done if Roger had been a steaming clump of manure encountered in his path. Roger a
ttempted to rise but collapsed back on to the floor. The fingers of his right hand seized the tip of the leather glove and yanked, but the glove was caught in his throat, which now spasmed in terror. His jaws, perversely, had clamped shut. He grunted and pressed his left hand against his throat. His right hand now pounded the rough planks of the meetinghouse floor.

  The man with the powerful hands knelt over Roger. He pried open Roger’s mouth and grabbed the end of the glove. As he began to pull it out, Roger’s mouth shut again, and his teeth drove into the man’s fingers. The man brought his other hand down in a hard slap against Roger’s jaw. Roger’s mouth opened from the impact and the man removed his hand. The impression of Roger’s teeth was clearly visible on the man’s index finger. Where the skin had been broken by Roger’s incisors, a thick drop of red blood oozed. The man lifted his finger to his nose, as though to smell the blood, and then wiped his finger on his sleeve.

  “I do not think you will be wanting that glove back, Master Worthington,” the man said.

  “I will not miss it,” Master Worthington replied.

  Roger was now thumping the wooden floor with one fist while clutching his throat with the other. Catherine forced her way through the crowd that now formed a semi-circle in the aisle where Roger lay. She saw the telltale blue tint forming beneath his skin. Jane was right behind Catherine and seized the end of the glove. She pulled but to no effect.

  “He cannot breathe,” she said.

  “He had breath enough for his blasphemy,” Master Worthington replied. He addressed Catherine. “You will be better advised to see to George’s wound.”

  George extended his hand toward Catherine. Another droplet of blood had formed on the wound. She brushed the hand aside and got down on her knees next to Roger. His eyes had all but rolled back into his head, and he thrashed about as he felt her cradle his head with her arm. He managed to focus his gaze on her, and he calmed long enough to point to his throat.

  “Perhaps it is God’s will,” Minister Davis said from the edge of the semi-circle where he had stood for the past few moments after descending the pulpit. Grace stood by his side and shook her head.

  “Uncle, I do not think it,” she said.

  Minister Davis turned a withering stare at his niece, and Grace retreated a few steps.

  “Govern you tongue,” the minister said, and Grace reddened.

  Massaquoit was on his feet, observing this strange spectacle. He knew he could help, perhaps save the life of the tall English who had caused so much anger. He had to decide whether he wanted to, and he did not hurry himself, even as he saw the man’s life ebbing. The English stood around the fallen man and seemed unable or unwilling to come to his aid as he brought his fists down on the floor with increasing violence. Massaquoit saw the concern in Catherine’s face, and felt himself drawn to her aid. He strode toward her, but his way was blocked by the English who had now formed a full circle several bodies deep around Roger. . He pushed against the gap between two young English men. They turned toward him, their expressions changing from surprise to contemptuous resistance and finally to acquiescence before the set of Massaquoit’s jaw and the determination in his eyes. He did not speak. Long experience had taught him that silence was far better than his words in dealing with the English who seemed to delight in willfully misunderstanding his intention. For a couple of moments, nobody moved, and then one of the English, a young man no more than sixteen, of slight build and poor complexion, shrugged and stepped aside. His companion, a little older and sturdier, held his ground as Massaquoit stepped by him.

  He reached Catherine’s side just as Roger began bucking so hard that she could no longer cradle his head. His face was now clearly blue and his eyes were indicated he was staring at death.

  “Can you do anything?” Catherine said. “He will die.”

  “Yes,” Massaquoit replied.

  He squatted next to Roger and grabbed the young man’s arms. Roger flailed in his agony, but Massaquoit was able to raise him to a sitting position with his arms pinned to his sides. Massaquoit lowered his head and buried his shoulder into Roger’s abdomen, just below the sternum. He threw his arm’s around Roger and tried to rise. He got halfway up, but then Roger’s weight proved too much. Catherine seized one of Roger’s elbows, and Jane, who had been standing helplessly by, took the other. The two women looked at each other for a moment ,and then as though at a wordless signal, they lifted. Massaquoit added his effort and managed now to stand with Roger on his shoulder. He dipped his knees, almost lost his balance, and then steadied himself. He stiffened his legs with a sudden movement that lifted Roger off his shoulder by an inch or two. When Roger landed again, his mouth opened and the glove shot out. He gasped and pulled air into his lungs. Massaquoit sat him down on the floor. Roger threw his arms out as though to open his lungs to the air. He cast his eyes upward toward the ceiling of the meetinghouse and then he brought his glance down so that he could look at each of the bystanders in turn. A gurgling sound crept out of his throat, and it was followed by a large glob of spittle. He jerked his head to one side so that his saliva landed on the floor within a few inches of the buckled leather shoes of Master Worthington. The merchant stared at the small pool and then stepped back.

  “What think you of our new arrival?” he said, addressing the question to Governor Peters whose head was clearly visible above the crowd around Roger.

  “Why, that he is rude, in speech and in manner.” The governor cast his eyes about until they landed on a stout, middle aged man.

  “Constable Larkins,” he said, “be you so kind as to escort Mr. Whitcomb to our jail, there to be held until we can better decide how to further entertain him.”

  “He is in need of my attention,” Catherine said. “I will accompany him, if the governor has no objection.”

  “I expect nothing less than that you should want to minister to your guest,” Governor Peters said. “Stray Indians, dogs, or Quakers, you seem not to distinguish, Mistress Williams.”

  “Oh, but I do, Governor Peters. I know well the difference between an Indian, a dog, a Quaker, and even a magistrate.”

  Governor Peters’ face reddened. Catherine braced herself for the rebuke, but it did not come. Instead, the governor felt himself yanked about as Magistrate Woolsey pulled on his elbow.

  “Now, we must be about our business.” He looked out over the crowd. The congregation ringed the spot where Roger lay. Many faces were dark with anger and words passed behind the screen of hands. Governor Peters nodded.

  “Your friend and protector is right, Mistress Williams, for he reminds me that I have more important matters to attend to than correcting that wayward tongue of yours whose bite I have indeed felt these many years.”

  “For that I must beg your pardon,” Catherine said, thankful that Woolsey had once again shielded her. Behind the acquiescent smile of a woman who had once again been shown her place, she fought to contain her emotions. The foolish young man at her feet had almost been murdered before her eyes for speaking words in public he knew would invite retribution, and now he was to be dragged off to prison from whence he would be summoned for his punishment. Catherine bowed her head to underscore her submission and knelt to offer Roger her hand. Jane did the same. Roger grasped each woman’s hand and struggled to his feet. He looked toward Massaquoit and nodded.

  “Thank you, friend,” he said.

  Massaquoit held the eyes of this strange young English and then returned the nod with a slight movement of his head. Constable Larkins stepped forward.

  “Come along, now,” he said, “and don’t be about calling me your friend when I never did lay eyes on you before this morning.”

  “And yet, a friend in Christ, I trust,” Roger said.

  “I would not know anything about that,” the constable said, and took Roger’s elbow in his hand.”

  “There is no need,” Roger said. “I will follow thee where thou lead.”

  “To the jail, that is where,” the co
nstable said and he maintained his grip on Roger as they began to make their way out of the meetinghouse. Roger brought his free hand up to his head, and ran his fingers through his hair, stopping at the crown. He looked to Jane, who was walking at his side. She turned down an aisle of benches, now empty, to retrieve Roger’s hat from its peg. She trotted back and held it out to him, and he put it on with elaborate care as though his head were as fragile as an egg that the hat might crush. Constable Larkins yanked on his elbow, but Roger, now seemingly fully recovered, braced himself against the pull until he settled his wide brimmed hat to his satisfaction. Then he nodded and let himself be led out of the meetinghouse and across the square to the jail, followed by Jane and Catherine.

  Massaquoit watched them leave and then walked to the back of the meetinghouse to the last row of benches where Wequashcook still sat. Wequashcook stood up and stretched the stiffness from his joints.

  “The English are sometimes amusing,” he said.

  “Even in their amusements they are dangerous,” Massaquoit replied.

  “I think I will follow after,” Wequashcook said.

  “To see what crumbs might fall from the English table?”

  Wequashcook shrugged.

  “I have seen enough for one day,” Massaquoit said. He walked out of the meetinghouse, cast a glance of the knot of English gathered outside of the jail, and then turned up the road that led from the town square to Catherine’s house and his wigwam beneath the huge maple.