The Sea Hath Spoken

by Stephen Lewis

  “Was she there as well?”

  “Yes.”

  She took the idea a step further.

  “Is she hurt?”

  “No.”

  Catherine relaxed a little.

  “But she is not right,” Massaquoit replied. “Her words did not make sense, and her actions were peculiar.”

  “I am not surprised,” Phyllis interjected.

  “Please explain,” Catherine said to Massaquoit, after a quick, stern glance at her servant.

  “She said she must hide her brother’s face from the sun, which was breeding the worms that fed on his flesh. She insisted I help her pull it into the shade. And then she told me to tell you that if you wanted to understand why she could not come back to your house, you should look into that shipping crate.”

  “Such babble,” Catherine said. “I cannot fathom her meaning.” She looked at Phyllis.

  “You have not opened that crate, yet, have you?”

  Phyllis reddened.

  “Why it does not have my name on it,” she sputtered.

  “Then do it now, and see what you can discover. I am too weary at this moment to try that puzzle.”

  Massaquoit watched the broad back of Phyllis as she slowly walked out of the room. It seemed as though the servant was torn between her curiosity to see what was in that crate and her desire to hear what conversation would ensue between Catherine and Massaquoit. He waited until her heavy tread on the stairs indicated she was out of earshot.

  “Jane had other things to say,” he said.

  “Touching upon who killed her brother?”

  “Yes. She first said her killer was Wequashcook.”

  “Pshaw,” Catherine exclaimed. “She could have been more original than to cast blame on an Indian...”

  Massaquoit felt the smile begin to stretch his lips. Over the years of his acquaintance with this strange and marvelous woman he had come to actually believe that she did not share the racial hatred of the other English toward the Indians.

  “Do you credit that idea?” Catherine asked, her voice now quite serious, as though she had decided that Jane’s words, however bizarre their author, must be given due consideration.

  “It is possible,” he replied with a shrug. “But she changed her story immediately, and said she did not mean Wequashcook, but a sailor from your ship.”

  “I think I know who that might be,” she replied. “A lad with a bruised face who came here looking for her one day.”

  “I know that lad,” he said. “He was there when I found that dead sailor. But Wequashcook says he can vouch for his innocence. After his fashion.”

  “Yet, it is remarkable how that lad keeps turning up near dead bodies,” Catherine said. “Where think you he might be found?”

  “He is a sailor,” Massaquoit said.

  “Of course,” Catherine replied.

  “There is another one to suspect,” Catherine said. “I patched him up, as you know, once before, and his assailant that time was an Englishman. In the employ of Minister Davis, I suspect.”

  “To discourage his interest in the niece. But not to rob the young man.”

  “Certainly not. But why do you mention robbery?”

  “Because Roger’s wallet was cut open and there was nothing in it.”

  “Aye, there was nothing, for he had nothing. He has been borrowing coin from me this past fortnight.”

  “And yet somebody wanted what was in that wallet. I do not think it was money.”

  “What then?”

  “A letter. One that the English man of god you had me fetch had.”

  “Had?”

  “It was taken from him. Perhaps by Wequashcook, with the help of that same sailor. I will seek them both in your ship.”

  “Both?”

  Massaquoit nodded.

  “If Wequashcook has been using this sailor in his business, he will keep him close so as to have his eyes on him. I will tell you what I find out.”

  “And I you,” she said. “For as you seek this letter from one side, I will look for it on another.”

  “Jonathan Peters?” Massaquoit asked.

  “Indeed. I have business with him on behalf of the woman he has ruined.”

  “There have been more than one,” Massaquoit replied.

  “I know,” Catherine said. “All the more reason to hold him to account.”

  * * * *

  At first, nobody answered Catherine’s knock at the King house. She stood outside the crude, plank door, which permitted the sun’s rays to pass through cracks into the interior. She put her eye to one of these cracks, but could not see anything. Yet, she sensed a presence inside. A moment later a baby’s cry, followed by an adult’s hushing sound, confirmed her feeling. She knocked again, and this time she heard feet shuffling toward the door. It opened and Abigail peered out, her face set in a hard look of despair.

  “My mother says I am not to speak to you.”

  “Where is she?”

  “She works now, she does. And we have enough to eat for us and the babe.”

  “I see. I suppose the governor can be generous when he chooses.”

  Abigail’s face widened in surprise.

  “I told you nothing.”

  “In words, you did not. But your expression spoke what you would not say. I am not young, Abigail, and it is a long way back to my house. And it would do my heart good, if I could see your babe.”

  Abigail exhaled, her breath smelling of something spicy that she must have just eaten. She shrugged and opened the door.

  “I don’t suppose it can do any harm to have you come in and sit for a few minutes. Mother does not come home until after dark.”

  A cradle besides the table seemed to be moving of its own volition. Catherine walked over to it and saw the infant looking back up at her, waving his arms and legs strongly enough to upset the equilibrium of the cradle. The babe’s face glowed with health.

  “He is a fit one, he is,” Catherine said.

  For the first time, Abigail permitted herself a quick smile.

  “He is that, my Jonathan.”

  Saying the name, however, erased the smile. She picked up the infant and held it to her chest. “What good is there in my calling him that name.”

  “Are you going to baptize him?” Catherine asked.

  Abigail now scowled.

  “I hoped to baptize him Jonathan, with his father in attendance, as he should.”

  “That won’t happen,” Catherine said gently. She recognized that the turn this conversation was taking might work toward her purpose, but she did not want to distress the young woman more than was necessary. Still, Abigail’s anger could motivate her to risk the small comforts brought to her household by Governor Peters’ money, which was no more than a bribe to shield his own family from disgrace. It was that shield that Catherine intended to penetrate. And, if in so doing, she also came closer to understanding who had killed Roger so much the better.

  “I did see your mother the other day wearing a new gown,” she said.

  Abigail recoiled, and then cast her eyes down at her own gown, a shabby affair, stitched in several places, stained in others with all the various shades of dirt to be found inside and out of her house.

  “Aye, she has become the lady, hasn’t she?”

  Catherine decided on one more, bold stroke.

  “Unacknowledged bastards do now wear any finery, by my troth,” she said.

  Abigail rose from her chair, now, her eyes ablaze.

  “He is no more a bastard than your own,” she said.

  Catherine took the young woman’s hand.

  “Then, come with me,” she said in her gentlest voice. “Let us visit the governor.”

  Abigail withdrew her hand, her face again sullen.

  “I can see no profit in that,” she declared. “He has made himself very clear that he will have nothing to do with me, or my babe.”

  “But the babe’s father is now in his house.”
>
  Catherine expected Abigail to rise to this bait, but instead the young woman seemed to withdraw more fully into her sullen depression.

  “I do not know that I want to see him.”

  “But you have said...” Catherine began.

  “I know what I did say, and what I am saying now is,” she paused, “that I do not think he wants to see me, and that will pain me too sore.”

  “I see,” Catherine said. “I am just now on my way there. I thought you might wish to accompany me.”

  “I will consider,” Abigail said.

  “I do not walk fast,” Catherine replied, “and I believe you know the way.”

  It did not take long. Within ten minutes, Catherine heard footsteps behind her, and then labored breathing. She turned to see Abigail, babe in arms, hurrying after her. She waited for her to catch up, and then with a nod and quick smile she resumed walking. Together, they made their way to the governor’s house across from the meetinghouse in Newbury Center.

  * * * *

  Massaquoit approached the ship tied up at the dock in the harbor. . It was so unlikely a place for the old Indian to be that it made sense that he would be there. For Wequashcook had not lived this long and so successfully by being predictable.

  A rope hung down the flank of the ship’s wooden hull. Massaquoit eyed it and waited. There was no sign of activity on board the ship, which had been emptied of its cargo some time ago. A young man wearing the rough leather doublet and breeches of an apprentice walked off the dock toward him. Massaquoit offered him his stone faced stare, and the young man averted his eyes and continued walking. The dock was now deserted, for the moment, and Massaquoit seized the rope and, hand over hand, lifted himself to the ship’s rail, and then heaved himself onto its deck.

  As his feet hit the planks, a sailor approached him, as though he had been waiting. Massaquoit noted the stubborn discoloration beneath the right eye, and he knew he was looking into the face he had last seen peering down at the corpse of Billy Lockhart.

  “Aye, so you have a good eye, and a better memory,” Henry said, with a mocking smile that permitted his saliva to drip between his missing teeth and onto his chin. He swiped the drool off with the back of his hand.

  “I did not come to find you,” Massaquoit replied.

  “Of course, you did not. The last time we met, you did not see me neither.”

  The bump on Massaquoit’s head seemed to throb with his understanding. He felt a strong urge to pay back this audacious pup, but that would take him away from his present business.

  “I think I prefer seeing you face to face,” he contented himself with saying.

  Henry smirked.

  “I was this time sent to greet you proper. Him you do seek set me to watch for you, for he says, it won’t be long afore you figure that you must talk to him.”

  “Is it not strange for an English to be in the service of an Indian?” Massaquoit asked.

  The smile that had been playing on Henry’s face disappeared, as the young man thrust out his jaw and narrowed his eyes form a fierce scowl.

  “I take orders only from myself, I do.”

  “Like your mate that was found floating dead in the water?”

  “He was a fool.”

  “I see, and you are wise.”

  “Smart enough to know my own interest,” Henry replied. “But here now, we are passing the time, and your mate waits below.”

  Massaquoit followed Henry through a door that led below decks to the cargo area. As they pushed through a door that led to the hold, a strong stench of urine and excrement assaulted Massaquoit’s nose, although Henry seemed not to notice. The floor of the hold was lined several feet thick with ballast stones, some smooth river cobbles, and other roughly hewn pieces of granite. The smell seemed to rise up from these stones. Massaquoit paused in the doorway and waved his hand in front of his nose. Henry offered a smirking grin.

  “The lads come down here in foul weather,” he said. “You gets used to it, after a while.”

  “A long while.”

  The voice belonged to Wequashcook who was sitting on a blanket cross-legged some fifteen feet into the hold, almost against the timbers of the hull. The blanket lay on a wooden platform, and it seemed that the stones immediately about it had been kept clean of excrement or urine. Four poles stood at the corners of the platform, as though in a position to support some kind of screening. Wequashcook lifted a wooden spoon from the iron pot on his lap and extended it toward Massaquoit.

  “I see you still have your appetite,” Massaquoit said.

  “I’ve been keeping him fed,” Henry added.

  “It is not bad,” Wequashcook said.

  Massaquoit looked past the spoon to the pot, in which he saw and smelled a soup. A fish head floated on the surface of the liquid. He squatted and took the spoon from Wequashcook. As he was about to bring the spoon to his mouth, he felt something brush against his lower leg. He was wearing English style breeches that ended just above his knee, and so he recognized the hard bristles of a rat against his flesh. He saw the animal, paused on its hind legs, nose twitching and red eyes glaring, a couple of feet away. With a quick motion he swatted it with the back of his hand. The rat flew across toward Henry, who was standing at the foot of the steps leading down into the hold. The animal landed on its back, and before it could right itself, Henry skewered it with the knife he wore in a sheath at his waist. The rat spasmed for five or ten seconds on the end of the knife and then was still. Henry made a downward throwing motion but held onto the knife and so hurled the dead rat toward his feet where it landed with an audible splat against the stones. Henry offered himself a self-congratulatory grin. Wequashcook motioned him away, and Massaquoit now brought the spoon to his lips and swallowed. The soup was hot and not a little salty, but it felt good going down into his stomach. He handed the spoon back to Wequashcook. Wequashcook scooped the spoon into the soup and brought it to his mouth with a smack of his lips. He shook his head.

  “A very complicated business,” he said.

  “And here you are at the center of it, eating soup made for you by an English,” Massaquoit replied.

  Wequashcook glanced toward Henry, who had remained at the foot of the stairway. Henry looked away, and with a shrug walked up the narrow steps toward the deck. He paused after climbing a little ways up and turned back.

  “I cannot vouch for your safety down here any longer,” he said. “I hear that the cargo is to be loaded on the morrow.”

  Wequashcook sighed.

  “That is unfortunate,” he said. “But I tire of the food, and the company. And the rats.”

  “You need not come back, then,” Henry said. He pointed to the dead rat at his feet. “But if you do, this fellow and his mates will be what you will have to eat.” He sheathed his knife and disappeared up the stairs.

  “An irritating boy,” Massaquoit said. He rubbed the back of his head.

  Wequashcook smiled.

  “I did not intend that,” he said. “He is a clumsy boy, like most of the English, but he has his uses, if you know what to do with him.” Wequashcook took a swallow of the soup. “But now he is no longer useful, and I will be rid of him.”

  “He seems to be free to go where he likes,” Massaquoit said.

  “For a short while, but I have set the dogs on him.” He waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “Forget him. He is not important.”

  Massaquoit shrugged.

  “I did not come here to talk to you about this boy. I have been to a great deal of trouble with no more to show for it than this bump on my head. And somehow, I think you have the answers I seek, if it was not your hand that hit me.”

  “Your head will heal like mine did, only better. But I will pay you for your pain with the information you seek. Your young friend Ninigret comes to me. He is involved with this English woman. They want to retrieve a letter. I find out that the English priest has it, the one you were taking back to Newbury. I catch up with him after H
enry has,” he paused, “distracted you.” He dipped his spoon again into the soup and slurped a deep swallow. The soup dribbled down his chin, and he licked it with his tongue. “That boy is a good cook. That is what he does on this ship. He works in the galley.”

  “The letter,” Massaquoit prodded.

  “Ah, yes, the letter.”

  “Did you not read it?”

  “No. It did not concern me, and could burden me with unnecessary information. I tried to trade with the priest, but he was insulting to me. I did what I had to and took it from him, and then I watched as you caught up to him.”

  “Who has it now?”

  Wequashcook shrugged.

  “I know who did have it a little time ago. The dead English. I sent the boy to meet him where he went to pray in his strange fashion, in that abandoned house, where the Quakers meet. When he did not find him there, he was very bold, more than I would like. He went to your woman’s house. In the night. He brought him to me.” His face brightened. “Do you think the Quaker god is the same as the one they pray to in the meetinghouse in Newbury?”

  “I do not know,” Massaquoit said.

  “I find this English god very puzzling,” Wequashcook said, “but he seems to keep the English content, and that is good for us Indians.”

  “You gave the letter to Roger?”

  “I sold it to him, for future considerations, he had no money, bad business.”

  “Yet, he’s dead, and you have nothing in your pocket.”

  Wequashcook shrugged.

  “I should know better. But as for the letter, whoever killed him must have it. Perhaps his sister knows.”

  “She says you killed her brother.”

  Wequashcook’s expression did not change except for a slight twitching of his lips, which could have been the beginning of a smile or a scowl.

  “Then she changed her mind,” Massaquoit said.

  “I am not surprised. Her mind is not steady.”

  “She said your sailor friend did it.”

  “I do not think so.” He shrugged in a gesture that dismissed the matter from his mind. He scraped his spoon across the bottom of the bowl, and scooped up the last of the soup. He offered it to Massaquoit. Massaquoit shook his head.