The Sea Hath Spoken

by Stephen Lewis

  Constable Larkins shrugged.

  “I do not entirely regret it, although you did cause me some shame among my fellows.” He studied Massaquoit’s face for a moment and then turned his gaze back to the jail.”

  “I hope you know I am better prepared this time.”

  “I do not have reason to be concerned about those two young English.”

  “Aye, but Mistress Williams does.”

  “He is too much his own man, now,” Wequashcook offered.

  “But you...” the constable began.

  “I am only a man of business. No more, or less.”

  “Then I do believe you are the more dangerous,” the constable said, and with a nod toward Massaquoit he walked on his way.

  * * * *

  Catherine watched as Phyllis made her way on her knees through the field of coneflowers, digging around the stalks of the plants and pulling them up with roots intact. She glanced down at the dirt beneath her broken fingernails, winced as she tried to straighten the arthritic joints of her fingers, and felt the imprint of a large stone on the flesh of her right knee, and the guilt she had begun to feel for leaving the task of gathering the plants to Phyllis rapidly dissipated. In any case, it was not so much an egalitarian spirit that had motivated her to crawl besides her servant through the field, but rather her enduring conviction that she would do a better job selecting the plants to gather. Now she comforted herself that Phyllis’s judgment, after all, had profited greatly from her years of apprenticeship, and she could be trusted to do an adequate job.

  She sensed the presence of a figure coming around the bend before she saw the constable. He looked toward Phyllis and then made his way toward Catherine.

  “A good day to you, Constable Larkins,” she said.

  “And to you Mistress.” He looked back over his shoulder down the road toward the jail. “But I expect you have seen better.”

  “That I have.”

  “Do they not know of the new ordinance?” the constable asked.

  “I do not think so,” Catherine replied. “They have only just arrived, and I did not wish to trouble them, as they promised they would not call attention to themselves.”

  “Aye, if only they had kept their word.”

  “They were provoked.”

  “Not overmuch,” the constable said.

  “I must go to them,” Catherine said.

  “You will find Matthew and William beneath a tree not far from the prison house.”

  “To what purpose?”

  “That I cannot answer. I did hope you could instruct me.”

  “I am sure I do not know.”

  “Verily?”

  “Indeed.”

  Constable Larkins bowed and doffed his crude, woolen cap. The sun glinted off the round bald spot, fringed by his dark brown hair. Perspiration formed on his bare scalp as he held the gesture for effect.

  “Such a simple thing,” he said, as he stood up straight and replaced his cap.

  “Aye, it is, to you, but for those two, I am afraid, beyond their conscience.”

  “Better to stretch their conscience than their necks,” the constable said, and then he continued on his way up the road and around another bend. As soon as he was no longer visible, Phyllis was standing next to her mistress.

  “What did he want of us?” she asked.

  “He came to tell me what I know, that my young charges do not recognize the danger they have placed themselves in by their stubborn refusal to bow themselves to our customs.”

  “Do they think they are better than we are?” Phyllis asked with disbelief in her tone.

  “I do not think so. Nor do they think they are worse than any.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “You needn’t, but they must be made to.” Catherine glanced at the pile of uprooted plants. “Take those home and begin to prepare a poultice, which I hope is all that we will need to salve the results of their impertinence.”

  Phyllis frowned.

  “Do not worry, child,” Catherine said. “I go now to talk with them. Tomorrow, you can accompany me when they are to be punished.”

  Phyllis brightened.

  “It is not that I wish to see them hurt,” she explained after an embarrassed pause.

  “I know that well,” Catherine replied and turned her steps without a further glance at her servant toward the prison.

  * * * *

  Jailor Drake was squatting in front of his door. He waved a branch that still held a full complement of maple leaves in front of his face to create the semblance of a breeze in the sullen air. Every once in a while, he swatted a fly that deigned to land on his face or buzz by his ear. His eyes though, remained focused on the road, and he rose to his feet as soon as he discerned the round shape of Catherine as she hurried towards him.

  For her part, Catherine glanced toward the tree where the constable, using their English names, had said he had seen Massaquoit and Wequashcook, but they were gone. She then took note of Drake’s shape and considered why he would choose to sit in the full sun instead of inside in the living quarters of the prison. As she got close enough to see his hands moving the maple branch and to recall how those hands had extended palm upwards toward her earlier in the day, she realized that he had chosen to endure the discomfort of the middle of the day heat rather than miss an opportunity to be bribed. In her mind’s eye, she saw him sitting at the crude table in the front section of the prison, his head resting in a drunken stupor next to the mug of beer, unable to hear or rouse himself against a knock at his door. She slowed her pace and kept her eyes on his hands, which he strove to keep at his sides, but by the time she was ten paces from him, he gave up the attempt and let first one, and then the other, hand stretch towards her in a gesture both welcoming and solicitous.

  “Mistress Williams,” he said. “You can be sure that your charges are safely and comfortably accommodated. I cannot vouch for their disposition before the magistrates, but they will be well cared for in my prison.” He turned toward the tree where Massaquoit and Wequashcook had been standing.

  “Your savage, Matthew, and that other one, were there keeping a kind of vigil like, and making me somewhat nervous,” he said. “I trust you have sent them on their way.”

  “No, I have not, nor do they need my me to tell them their place.”

  “But once...” he began.

  “That was a long time ago,” Catherine replied. She reached into her pouch for her coins, and Drake leaned toward her, his hands now clasped behind his back. His shoulders twitched with the tension of keeping them there. Catherine held out the coins. “Some things do not change,” she said.

  Without a reply, Drake took the coins from her in a gesture so practiced and efficient that a careless onlooker might well not have seen it. He bowed low, straightened himself, and then opened the door for her.

  “See that they sup well,” Catherine said. “I shall have a report from then.”

  “As you like, Mistress. But, in truth, as I have not been expecting company my larder is quite bare and it is late to go to market.”

  “Be sure you manage, nonetheless,” she replied, and stepped into the doorway, as Drake stepped aside.

  “I needs must wait on you. I can bide outside until you are quite done with your little talk,” he said. “They are together in the room on the left. It is the one that captures more of the breeze on a hot afternoon.”

  Catherine breathed in the still and sultry air.

  “I thank you for them for your consideration,” she said, and took a step into the building when she felt Drake’s hand on her elbow.

  “You might want to announce yourself with a knock,” he said, “in respect of their privacy.”

  “Why, indeed. They are brother and sister.”

  Drake scratched the stubble of his beard.

  “Aye, they are that. Forgive my careless thought.”

  Catherine nodded and ducked through the doorway into the dank living quarters wher
e her nostrils closed against the fumes of beer and the noxious odor of cheese gone rancid and lying in a corner near the door. She turned in the direction of the smell in time to see two mice, one so fat it rolled more than it scurried, and the other lean and agile, dash across the room and disappear under Drake’s unmade bed and into the wall that separated the jailor’s living quarters from the prison rooms.

  She approached the door on her left, and hesitated, the jailor’s odd warning still playing in her mind. She could not settle on a reason for his remark, and because she could not, she decided not to heed it, even at the risk of ignoring her usual manners. The door was held shut by a heavy log, crudely split, laid in a pair of brackets, one on the adjoining wall and one on the door itself. She slid the log toward the wall until she could free the door. The movement of the log creating a low grating sound, softer than a knock from her fist. Somehow the noise emboldened her to push the door open with a sudden shove.

  She heard them before she saw them, as the room, whose one window faced north, was in shadow even in the middle of the afternoon. By the time her eyes adjusted to the dark, she saw them sitting with their backs against the far wall. They appeared unremarkable except for a slight glow on Jane’s face, which might well be a flush from the heavy heat in the room. Roger rose.

  “It is so kind of thee to visit us in our durance,” he said.

  Catherine took in the smile, a flash of white teeth in the darkened room, and for a moment she felt herself respond to the charm. But then she righted herself.

  “Roger, when I agreed to your father’s request to act as your guardian during your stay in Newbury, I was also aware that you were coming here to start over again. Yet, now I find you are repeating the same mistakes that caused you to remove from England. I fear that you do not understand that those mistakes in Newbury will have even graver consequences.”

  Roger clasped his hands around his neck in imitation of a rope.

  “But I am most certain of the risk I take in the service of God.”

  His voice was solemn, but a hint of a smile still played on his lips. Jane reached up to seize his wrist, and with one swift and strong motion, he aided her to her feet.

  “I do not think you should be scaring us in this manner,” she said.

  Catherine felt the heat of her anger redden her face.

  “I do not come here to play. And it is now only the high regard I have your mother and father that stops me from walking out of this sad place and leaving you to your fate, which it appears you are eager to run toward. If that is what you truly have bent your heart toward, tell me now, so I can save both my breath and my pity.”

  Catherine waited for an answer. Jane lowered her eyes, with her jaws clenched either in shame or repressed merriment. Roger looked as though he would speak as soon as he found the right words. Before he could, however, there was a loud knock at the door.

  “I did not think our jailor would be so courteous as to knock,” Roger said.

  “He would not,” Catherine replied. “I am certain that on the other side of that door now is a kind, old gentleman, who to do me a service would do you one. I am of a mind to send him away.”

  “That would be unkind,” Jane said. “To have him come here to no purpose.”

  Again, Catherine found herself not quite able to read this quixotic young woman’s intent, as she seemed always to hide between, or behind, her words. Her actions, though, were clear enough, and now she strode to the door so quickly that Catherine did not have an opportunity to stop her. The door opened out, and Jane gave it a vigorous shove. Still, it swung heavily on its hinges, and when it stopped, there stood Magistrate Woolsey. Jane bowed and beckoned him in. He nodded, his lips drawn into a tight smile, and walked to Catherine. He glanced at Roger’s hat, now on the floor near the wall where he had been sitting, and then turned to Catherine.

  “I have managed to prevail upon the governor to have these two released to your management and care until their hearing tomorrow.”

  “I do not know that I should thank you Joseph,” Catherine said.

  The magistrate looked stunned.

  “But...surely...” he began.

  “Yes,” Catherine replied. “It is my sad care to watch over these reckless children. Do not worry Joseph. In your heart and in your head, you did what you ought, and now so must I.”

  Jane approached Catherine and kissed her on the cheek. Catherine searched the young woman’s eyes for sincerity, thought she saw the hint of it, but could not hold on to the moment’s warm feeling that slipped away from her like the juice of a ripe grape, sweet but transient. Roger embraced her and she felt the strength of his arm more than the depth of his convictions. Without further word, she walked to the door where now stood Jailor Drake.

  “Happy I am to give them to your custody,” he said, but his voice betrayed his anxiety.

  “You need not worry,” Catherine said. “I do not demand my money back. Use it well for yourself, and remember it when I next need you to recall my generosity.”

  Drake smiled broadly, and rubbed his hands together as though pressing the coins again into the flesh of his palms.

  “As you say, Mistress, so shall I do.” He led the way to the front door of the prison, opened it, and watched as Catherine went out, followed by Jane, Roger, and Magistrate Woolsey. He closed the door behind him and headed up the path to the Lion’s Paw, a newly opened tavern just at the edge of the town common.

  Woolsey caught up to Catherine and took her elbow.

  “Permit them to walk ahead,” he said with a gesture toward Roger and Jane. He waited for the young people to distance themselves, and then leaned toward Catherine and lowered his voice.

  “The governor is much overwrought,” he said.

  “They are scarcely more than children,” Catherine said.

  “ Psaw!” the magistrate replied. “They are of age, are they not?”

  “In years,” Catherine said.

  “Be that as it may, it is only your care and protection that prevents them from being put on the next ship back to England.”

  “Well, I know it,” Catherine answered , “and between now and the morning I must endeavor to instruct them.” She bent down to pick up a stone. “Howsoever I think this would heed me better.”

  * * * *

  That night, after supper, as Phyllis cleared the table Catherine turned to her guests.

  “Well, you know,” she said, “that your parents have sent you here to me in Newbury to give you a fresh start.” She spread a letter in front of her.

  “Yes,” Roger agreed with a quick smile, “Alford no longer could abide us.”

  Catherine frowned, disappointed that her young guest still did not realize the seriousness of the situation. She picked up the letter, squinted, and then held it closer to her eyes.

  “It is all here in your father’s own words, as you well know,” Catherine said.

  Roger’s face darkened for a moment, and his jaws quivered as he controlled his anger.

  “Indeed, I do know the contents,” he said. “Father has made it quite clear that I must abandon the Society of Friends, even though my mother remains dedicated to them.”

  “That is so,” Catherine murmured, “for he does say that his heart is torn.” She glanced down at the letter. “Your mother is perhaps a saint, he says, but saints swing at the end of a rope oft times, and he fears for her, and for you.”

  “He has not seen the light,” Roger said, “as our mother has.”

  “And yet he asks only that you rein in your religious enthusiasm, and he will give you control of his business interests here, which will make you a very rich young man ere long.”

  “And if not, I am I am disinherited, and,” he turned to Jane, “my sister left deprived of dowery.”

  Catherine studied over the letter.

  “It does say words to that effect, but your father declares that you are to have freedom of conscience as long as you govern your tongue and your beha
vior.” She read on and then turned her eyes to Jane. “Here your father has words especially for Jane. He says he hopes I can tame her passions that seem to rise from her blood into her head.”

  Jane ran her hand through her thick, red hair, now unrestrained by her bonnet.

  “Father has a peculiar fancy that my hair is this color because of the heat of my blood. It is a wonder”, she added her voice rich with irony, “that his is so cold that the Lord’s spirit cannot warm it. Mayhap that explains the success that he is.”

  Tension hovered over the table for a few moments. Phyllis dropped a trencher, and it clattered to the floor. Catherine waited for her to pick it up, and then there was a knock at the door.

  “See to that,” Catherine said. She turned again to Roger and held his eyes until he looked down.

  “If you do not mend your ways, you will find Newbury even less hospitable to you. Quakers are no more welcome here than Alford.”

  “‘Tis more the pity, then,” Jane said.

  “The pity will be if I fail your parents,” Catherine said.

  Phyllis returned, her face bright with excitement.

  “It is Miriam King,” she said. “She bids you come attend to Abigail.”

  “Tell her I will come by and by,” Catherine said.

  Phyllis did not immediately respond, and Catherine knew well why not.

  “Do as I say,” she insisted, and Phyllis turned to walk back to the entrance. Catherine watched her broad back until it was lost in the shadows, and then she looked sternly at Roger and Jane.

  “I think you know well enough what I intended to say to you. I do not know that I will return before you must go to your hearing before the governor tomorrow. You must promise me that you will listen and not provoke his anger further.”

  “We do,” Roger said, “surely we do.”

  Catherine glanced at Jane, and she nodded her head up and down with unusual vigor.

  “I must be content, then,” Catherine said.

  She found Phyllis still waiting at the front door.

  “Goody King thanks you and says she left Abigail alone and so could not stay for you.”

  “The birthing stool and the butter,” Catherine said. “We must haste.”