The Sea Hath Spoken

by Stephen Lewis

  “Take it home to your good wife,” the smaller figure then said, punctuating her words with a cackle. She leaned against the tree, staring at Catherine and Phyllis. She walked towards them, on unsteady legs and stopped a few feet in front of them. Her breath smelled of beer.

  “You are interfering with my trade, you are,” she said. She leaned a little closer toward Catherine. “Mistress Williams, is it now?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Catherine replied.

  “That is my good luck, isn’t it?” the woman said. “I was to come looking for you, because my man is sorely hurt, and he said in particular that I should bring you to him. But as you can see I stopped here being thirsty as I was, and then I met that fellow there who you frightened away, so now I figure that you are in my debt.”

  Phyllis took a firm step toward the woman, using her broad body to shield Catherine from the woman.

  “Here, now, you do not speak to Mistress Williams that way. Be off with you. Maybe you can run after that fellow and finish your business.”

  The woman glanced in the direction the man had gone, and then laughed in Phyllis’s face.

  “In troth, I do think he was looking for you when he found me by mistake.”

  Phyllis raised her arm as though to strike, but Catherine seized her elbow.

  “Do not be provoked,” she said, and pulled gently on her servant’s arm until Phyllis stepped back. “I think I would like a word with this woman.”

  “Now, that is right sensible of you,” the woman said. “Because I think you will want to hear what my Timothy has to say.”

  “Is he hurt?”

  “That he is. But his mouth works fine, and he says to me, tell Mistress Williams that I cannot pay her in coin for her help, but maybe she will want to pay me for what I have to say to her.”

  “That may be,” Catherine replied. “But how badly is he hurt?”

  “For that, I am no judge, other than to say a knife has cut his side, and he still bleeds. You must see for yourself, if you care to follow me.”

  “Go. We will follow.”

  The woman led the way through Newbury Town Center toward the harbor. When they were close enough to the water to smell it, she turned off onto a narrow path that led to a wigwam. The woman pulled back the flap and motioned for them to enter. Inside, they found a man lying on a mat with a stump of a candle flickering next to him. He raised himself slowly and with a grunt onto one elbow when they came in.

  “Mistress Williams, I take it. I have no doubt Bess here stopped for a swallow of somethin’ afore she found you.”

  “Just a nip and a bit of business, Timothy. You know we can use the coin,” Bess replied.

  “Aye, while I wait here with my life blood running out.”

  “Why, then, I would need the money to bury you, wouldn’t I?” Bess said with a snorting laugh, which Timothy soon joined.

  “That you would, my love.”

  “Can I see your hurt?” Catherine asked.

  For answer, Timothy lay back down and pulled up his shirt. A dirty cloth, stained a dark reddish brown from dried blood, lay across his wound. He lifted the cloth. Catherine held the candle over the wound, which was mostly covered by congealed blood through which a few bright red drops of fresh blood oozed. The blood trailed down to the leg of his breeches where it left a deep and dark brown stain in the fabric.

  “You will live,” she said.

  “And so you can use her money for drink,” Phyllis, who had been standing near the entry, added.

  “Do you have my bag?” Catherine asked.

  Phyllis nodded and handed Catherine’s midwife bag to her.

  “Is there water about?” Catherine asked.

  “There’s a stream on the other side of the hill,” Bess said.

  Catherine handed her the dirty rag.

  “Clean it in the water, and bring it and a bowl of water back.”

  Timothy watched her leave, his eyes warm with affection.

  “A good woman, she is,” he said. “She does take care of me after her fashion.” He looked around the bare interior of the wigwam. “How do you like my house?” he said. “It is a present to me from a friend of yours, the one they call William who always wears that beaver hat.”

  “A present?” Catherine asked. “I know William to be a man of business who exchanges goods for services.”

  Timothy began a laugh that dissolved into a coughing fit that had him clutching his side. The blood oozed a little more fully. He looked down, shook his head, and then smiled.

  “Service, yes, that is what he seeks.”

  “And in this case,” Catherine persisted.

  But before Timothy could gather himself to answer, Bess returned with a bowl of water in which floated the rag, only a little cleaner than it had been before. Catherine dipped the cloth into the water and wrung it out. She lifted Timothy’s hand from the wound and daubed around the edges, removing the congealed blood and working to where the knife had entered the flesh. The wound was a deep puncture, but fortunately the knife had gone in and back out without tearing the flesh beyond the entry point. Once she had the area free of dried blood, she pressed her palm over the wound. The skin was at ordinary body temperature, and there was no sign of inflammation.

  “You will keep bleeding unless I stitch this,” she said. She looked at the blood stain on his breeches. “And you have already bled quite a bit.”

  “That I have, Mistress,” Timothy said, his voice still filled with good humor.

  Catherine turned to Phyllis.

  “My bag,” she said. Then she looked to Bess who was squatting in the corner of the wigwam, seemingly disinterested. “Do you have any rum?”

  Bess looked up and smiled. She pointed to her belly.

  “I see, “ Catherine said. Phyllis handed her the bone needle with the catgut thread. “Take a deep breath,” Catherine suggested to Timothy, “and close your eyes if you like.”

  Instead, Timothy focused his glance on the needle and watched as with a few quick stitches, Catherine gathered the flesh over the wound. She motioned to Phyllis, who handed her a rag dipped in the poultice of goldenrod. She smeared the poultice over the wound while Timothy watched her every motion. When she was finished, he lay back down and closed his eyes.

  “If you want to find the man what done this to me, who now has my very own knife, which he put into me, you can follow the blood it dripped to your own house, and if you find him not there, seek him at the Minister’s house.” His last words were swallowed in a snore, and he was in a deep sleep.

  * * * *

  Massaquoit trotted down the path toward Newbury. He winced each time his foot landed on the ground and sent the pain radiating from the base of his skull down his spine and up the back of his head, extending its reach to the spot between his eyes and forehead. He slowed his pace to a walk, and the pain eased after a few steps. He stopped for a few minutes, and the pain ceased. He took a deep breath and launched himself again into a jarring trot. He bit down on his lower lip and grunted against the knife that seemed to be probing from the back of his head to the front. But he had no intention of giving in to this discomfit. Instead, he held his fingers against the lump at the back of his head, as though to press the swollen flesh back to remove the pain. He knew that was a foolish thought, but it somehow took his mind off the shocks that tore his head each time his foot hit the ground.

  The pain, of course, only fed his anger and humiliation at having been surprised by an assailant. Age must have made him careless. He must have considered how little resistance he could expect from Jonathan and ignored the possibility of an accomplice, or if not an accomplice, perhaps somebody who was just as interested in gaining custody of the English minister as he was. In any case, he was certain that Jonathan would not travel very fast, whether he was traveling with someone who had freed him, or someone who had merely taken him from Massaquoit for his own purposes. Either way, Jonathan would not be made to hurry.

  It took ev
en less time than Massaquoit expected to overtake his quarry. He had not traveled half a mile when he heard a moan coming from the side of the path. He waited. A red squirrel scurried in front of him, an acorn in its mouth. Birds twittered in the trees above where the moaning came from. Whoever was making that sound had been there long enough for the local wildlife to become comfortable with the intruder into their environment. A few steps through the underbrush brought Massaquoit to Jonathan, lying on his side with his hands tied behind his back and bound to his feet, forcing him into a fetal position. He was face down in a pile of moldy leaves and he seemed unable to lift himself away for more than a few seconds, during which time he gasped for air and moaned. Then his head dropped back into the leaves and he flailed like a beetle on its back trying to right himself.

  Massaquoit watched this struggle for a few moments, wondering if this helpless man could have been responsible for the knot at the back of his own head. Jonathan became aware of Massaquoit’s presence and struggled to hold his head up long enough to plead.

  “Help,” he said, and then dropped into the pungent leaves.

  Massaquoit bent down and rolled him onto his back.

  “I have a lump on my head,” Massaquoit said. He placed his foot on Jonathan’s stomach and leaned his weight on it until Jonathan gasped. “Do you know anything about that?”

  Jonathan shook his head and then looked down at Massaquoit’s foot, which was still on his diaphragm.

  “Please,” he gasped.

  Massaquoit lifted his foot, and Jonathan sucked in a deep breath. Massaquoit took out his knife from the sheaf on his belt. He passed the bright blade in front of Jonathan’s eyes and watched the man’s eyes open in terror. Then he rolled the minister back onto his side, and sliced through the knot in the rope binding his feet. The rope had been wrapped through several turns about Jonathan’s legs so that a length of a couple of feet fell to the ground. Massaquoit picked it up and watched as Jonathan staggered to his feet. Jonathan turned his back toward Massaquoit and held out his bound hands.

  “No, I do not think so,” Massaquoit said. “I have an even better idea.” He picked up the length of rope and knotted it to the piece binding the minister’s hands. He wrapped the free end firmly about his wrist.

  Jonathan shrugged.

  “I do not suppose it will do any good to tell you I know nothing of who hit you.”

  “It will not. But I remain most interested in the letter you were showing me the moment before.”

  Jonathan muttered a half laugh.

  “It is gone. Taken by the one who tied me up. Find him, and maybe you will find the one who attacked you. I think you know the man. He wears...”

  The image of a beaver hat flashed into Massaquoit’s mind, and he pressed his palm across Jonathan’s lips. He did not want his suspicion confirmed by the lying mouth of this English.

  “Never mind him,” Massaquoit said. “As we walk together to Newbury, you will tell me all about that letter, will you not?”

  Jonathan did not answer. When it was clear that he would not, Massaquoit yanked the rope up with a sharp, brutal gesture that brought Jonathan’s bound hands toward his shoulder blades. Massaquoit held the rope taut with one hand, and placed the other beneath Jonathan’s hands and pushed even harder until he heard a crack in the minister’s joints. Jonathan grunted in pain.

  “I will tell you,” he said, “for all the good it may do you.”

  “I do not know if it will do me any good,” Massaquoit responded, “but that piece of paper has already caused me some pain and trouble, and has raised my curiosity about why so many people seem so interested in it.”

  “For that I do not know. I have read it, and I confess I do not know why that Indian boy or anybody should want it.”

  Massaquoit looked up at through the trees at the darkening sky. “We will stay the night here.”

  “I do not fancy that,” Jonathan said.

  “And I do not fancy walking with you through the woods in the dark,” Massaquoit said, “for you have not convinced me that it was not a friend of yours who attacked me.”

  “It was not.”

  “So you say. But now, before we sleep, “Tell me what you know about that letter.”

  “It is from the parents of the Quaker brother and sister to Mistress Williams, placing them in her care.”

  “That does not seem to be all,” Massaquoit replied.

  “There is one more thing. It is probably nothing at all, and now that I do not have the letter I cannot check my memory.”

  “What is it?”

  “Something about the woman.”

  Massaquoit leaned toward Jonathan, holding his eyes. He saw there more strength than he had anticipated. The English minister was not a man of physical courage, but when he saw a way to gain an advantage without exposing his flesh, he could be very stubborn. Massaquoit concluded that although he could probably coerce more information from him, he would rather wait and observe to see if Jonathan revealed more.

  “Let us sleep, then,” Massaquoit said. “In the morning, your memory might be fresher.”

  Chapter Seven

  Catherine saw the movement out of the corner of her eye as she approached her house, and then the man staggered onto the path in front of her. His face was bruised, and he had a bloody rag tied around one hand. In his other was a blood encrusted knife. He pressed the palm of his wounded hand against his ribs, and he seemed to be having difficulty catching his breath.

  “Roger,” she said.

  He nodded and dropped to his knees in front of her.

  “Somebody attacked me,” he said.

  “I think I know who,” she replied. “Phyllis,” she said, “help me with him.”

  Phyllis and Catherine each took an elbow and helped the young man back to his feet. They placed his arms around their shoulders and they started to walk the remaining distance to Catherine’s house.

  Roger stopped walking so abruptly that both women lost their balance. Catherine freed herself from his arm and stepped back. His face was frozen in shock.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “I just remembered,” he replied. “I must find the man.”

  “The one who attacked you?”

  Roger looked down at the knife still in his hand. He threw it away into the darkness.

  “You need not worry about him,” Catherine said. “He will live.”

  Roger started, but then just bowed his head and permitted himself to be led into the house. He took one look at the stairs leading to his room, and he shook his head.

  “I do not think I can,” he said.

  Catherine pointed to her front room and Roger followed her into it. There he maneuvered his long frame onto a settee covered in an ornate scarlet velvet fabric decorated with gold thread embroidery. He placed his bloody hand against the fabric and sighed. He had a wallet on his hip, and he kept his good hand firmly over it.

  “At least I cannot stain it,” he said, looking at the red fabric.

  “Hush,” Catherine said. “It is only cloth. Let me see your wound.”

  Roger glanced down at his hand.

  “It is nothing.” He coughed and doubled over, spitting blood.

  “Phyllis,” Catherine said, “fix some chamomile tea. He will need his rest.” She took his hand and unwrapped its bandage. A deep, clean gash cut into the palm. He winced as she examined it. She daubed it with her poultice, and wrapped it anew in a clean piece of cloth. She studied his face. His cheek under his right eye was swollen. She touched it, and he winced. She traced down his cheek to his neck where she found a shallow scratch.

  “His knife did that,” Roger said, “before I could grab it.” He held up his wounded hand. “Better this than my throat cut. After I wrested the knife from him, he hit me hard, here.” He pointed to his sternum. “Then,” he hesitated, “then I used the knife on him.”

  Phyllis returned with the tea in a saucer, and Roger drank it down. Catherine took out a
rug from a chest and spread it on the floor next to the settee. He looked down at the rug and nodded.

  “Yes, I am weary.” His head dropped to his chin. “He put the knife to my throat, he did,” he mumbled. “He said I must leave Newbury, for such as I am are not welcome here.”

  “Is that all?” Catherine asked.

  Roger nodded. He knelt on the rug and stretched out. In a few minutes he was asleep, his good hand still clutched on top of his wallet. Catherine waited a few moments, and then attempted to lift his hand from the wallet. He stirred, and she desisted. She would have to wait to discover its secret, for she assumed that is why he kept such close guard on it. As if to confirm her judgment, Roger rolled onto his side so that his body now covered the wallet.

  * * * *

  Later that night, Catherine tossed in her bed. She had drunk some of the same tea she had given to Roger, because she knew that she needed a good rest. But she had not remembered how powerfully the tea could act on her, and so as she lay in bed, her head flashed images, merging past and present. She heard her front door open. She heard hushed voices, and saw Frederick coming through the door, clutching his side from which a steady stream of bright red blood flowed. He was her oldest son whom she had not seen in twenty years, since he moved west seeking land for his growing family. Rumors had recently reached Newbury that Frederick’s village was threatened by Iroquois in the service of the French. Now he stood before her dripping blood from the stump where his hand used to be, but then her son’s handsome features hardened into the coarse mien of Timothy, and then the aristocratic face of Roger, bloodied and bruised as it was. She stirred herself awake, and separated the thoughts of her son and the young Quaker. She pushed away her fears for Frederick and concentrated on what had happened to Roger. She knew that somebody had paid Timothy to attack him. And Timothy’s cryptic comment suggested that Minister Davis might have been that sponsor. She was surprised at that thought, but not shocked. She fell back into a fitful sleep.