The Sea Hath Spoken

by Stephen Lewis

  Massaquoit and Rawandag followed while Jonathan was led to a place between the two dancing circles. But nobody was dancing now. The drummers sat next to their instruments, and the men and women gathered in lines. Between them was a thick tree stump. Jonathan was led there, and made to stand on the stump. The man carrying the Bible placed it, open, on the ground in front of the stump. Jonathan stared at the men who began yipping at him as though they were wolves about to attack a crippled deer. Jonathan turned to the women, expecting mercy from them, but they put their hands to their mouths as though to muffle their laughter. They were staring at his exposed genitals, and pointing at where his urine had stained his flesh. He tried to cover himself, but two men sliced through the rope that bound his hands, and retied them behind his back. The women now approached, one by one, and each slapped or punched him between his legs. He staggered with each blow, but he was not permitted to fall as the men held him up by his elbows. When he tried to draw his legs together, two other men pulled them apart to give the women more ready access. Tears filled his eyes, but he no longer moaned. The last woman took a torch from one of those who had led Jonathan in. He now had closed his eyes against the pain and the humiliation. She waved the torch in front of his face, and its smoke settled over his head until he coughed. She the torch back to uncover his face with eyes now wide open staring at the flame. His eyes followed the fire as the woman lowered it in front of him from his face to his groin where she held it as he struggled against those who were holding him. Finally, she pulled back the torch and spat in his face.

  He was pulled down from the stump and a man approached him holding a knife. He began to whimper, but then stopped in relief as the man walked behind him and cut his hands free. His relief, though, was short lived. The man with the knife signaled, and two others forced Jonathan to sit with his legs now surrounding the stump. His feet were tied together, and his arm held down on the surface of the stump. The man with the knife leaned hard on his wrist, causing his fingers to splay out. He drew the knife across his thumb, just hard enough to draw blood. Jonathan stared at his hand, his eyes full of terror.

  Massaquoit stood not ten feet away. Every once in a while, Jonathan looked up at him with an expression that shifted between despair and anger. But Massaquoit did not respond in word or gesture. Part of him celebrated the humiliation being heaped upon this English priest who had so thoughtlessly attacked Minnehaha, as though the girl’s body was nothing more than servant to his lust. It was not so much the act itself, but the indifference that had appeared in Jonathan’s eyes, even after Massaquoit had pulled him off the girl. But on another level, Massaquoit was deeply troubled by what he was observing. He knew that he could not let it proceed too far. The more blood Jonathan was made to spill, the more his tormentors’ appetites for even more blood would be whetted and it would not be long before the humiliated English priest would be a very dead and mutilated one. And as pleasing as that image was, even to Massaquoit, the consequences of that act in inciting the English hunger for vengeance would be too terrible to countenance. Massaquoit knew how the English sense of justice would weigh twenty Indians as the equivalent of one English priest, corrupt as he might be.

  For these reasons, he was about to step forward to see if he could say something to preserve this hulking, cowering priest, when from the fringe of onlookers, near Willeweenaw, came a man’s voice yelling something that was swallowed by a chorus of dissenting exclamations. He looked in that direction and saw Ninigret’s brother Peter being restrained by Willeweenaw and another woman. With one strong shove, he managed to free himself from their grasp and he hurtled himself forward until he stood in front of Jonathan. The man wielding the knife watched as Peter placed his own hand on top of Jonathan’s. Jonathan looked up at Peter, his eyes filled with gratitude.

  “Cut mine,” Peter said.

  “Is this what your English god teaches you?” Rawandag said with a sneer as he stepped forward.

  Peter picked up the Bible.

  “It is,” he replied.

  Rawandag straightened himself to his full height as though he could through that gesture erase the years that distanced him from the proud warrior he had once been. He swept the assemblage with his gaze, slowly, as though insuring that each would hear his words.

  “Listen to the words of your brother who would lead you to worship the English god, and turn you into women who do not fight,” he said in a loud and clear voice.

  He was greeted with murmurs of approval.

  “Then let us send him back to the English where he belongs,” Rawandag said. Several men moved forward and seized Peter. He struggled, but he was no match for their combined strength. They pulled him from Jonathan, and sent him sprawling on the ground, where he was greeted with the hoots of the men and the scornful titters of the women. He reached for the Bible which was in the dirt a few feet from him. A woman came forward, picked it up, and gestured as though she would hand it to him. When he tried to reach for it, she tossed it away from him. He stood up and looked once more at the Bible, and then at Jonathan. He walked through the crowd, and nobody tried to stop him. Massaquoit now took his place next to Jonathan. He put his foot on the Bible.

  “Those who know my reputation know that I do not share Peter’s enthusiasm for the English god.”

  “Yes, but you serve an English woman,” a voice cried out.

  Massaquoit stared in the direction of the voice, which had been supported by several other assenting voices, and after a moment or two all were again quiet.

  “You do not know him, if you say that,” Ninigret declared. “He is a man, one of us,” Ninigret continued. “Listen to him.”

  “I say this,” Massaquoit offered, with a nod toward Ninigret. “I do not put my hand beneath the blade for this English priest. He must suffer for what he did. But we must also check our anger unless it comes back and lashes us out of the barrels of the English muskets.” He paused, his eyes on the ground. “We are no longer strong enough to fight the English on their own ground. We are alone, surrounded by them. Perhaps our young warriors will learn from the mistakes of their elders, and not fight until they have a chance of success. Until then, we must endure.” He turned to the man holding the knife. “Continue. Take off his finger.”

  Jonathan tried furiously to free himself from his forced embrace of the stump. The man with the knife approached and again drew it across Jonathan’s thumb, deeper this time, and the blood spurted. Jonathan cried out. Massaquoit leaned over him and whispered into his ear.

  “I am trying to save your life, you fool,” he said. “Not because I value it, but because I value the lives of those of my people that will be lost if they are foolish enough to kill you. Be still. You are going to lose one finger, maybe two. The more you show your cowardice, the slower he will cut you. Do you understand?”

  Jonathan nodded, and Massaquoit stood up.

  “He is ready now,” Massaquoit said, and the man again approached. He held the knife over Jonathan’s thumb, taunting him with feigned cutting gestures. When Jonathan managed to remain still and quiet, the man smiled and sliced again. The thumb was now half off, and entirely covered with blood. Again, the man held the knife over the thumb, and when Jonathan did not offer any plea or resistance, the blade came down again and sliced the thumb off. Blood spurted again, and Jonathan’s face turned white. He collapsed against the stump, and the onlookers began to chant as the drummers played.

  Rawandag looked toward the women and nodded. An old woman, gray haired and bent with age, came forward carrying a rag that reeked of some pungent odor. She passed it under Jonathan’s nose and he snapped his head back. She cackled and then pressed the rag over the bleeding stump of his thumb. Then another woman, young enough to be the first one’s granddaughter joined her and wrapped another cloth around his hand to form a bandage. The two women stood up.

  “He will bleed a little more,” the old woman said. “But then my medicine will work, and the blood will stop.”


  “Pity,” the younger one said, and Massaquoit recognized her as Minnehaha. She held his eyes.

  “I never thanked you,” she said.

  “It is not necessary.”

  “No,” she replied, “especially now that you appear to have saved his life.” She pointed at Jonathan.

  “Only to protect you from more harm.”

  She looked as though she were about to protest, but then glanced at the old woman who was waiting for her.

  “My mother calls me. I did not want to help her stop this pig’s blood, but she said I must.”

  “She is wise, then,” Massaquoit said.

  The old woman nodded, and Minnehaha walked off with her. Jonathan stared at his bandaged hand, and then laid his head down on his arms. His chest heaved with quiet sobs. Ninigret approached him and pressed his hand on top of Jonathan’s head. With his other hand, he beckoned Jane forward.

  “Let this English priest drink his own blood and wonder when we might take off his hand, or his head.” He waited while the onlookers nodded and murmured their approval. He took Jane’s hand and raised it high above their heads. “Let the feast in honor of my wife begin!” he cried. He dropped Jane’s hand and took out a long knife from a sheath at his waist. He knelt beside one of the roasting deer and sliced off a slab of meat. He cut the meat in two, and handed one piece to Rawandag, and the other to Massaquoit. He nodded at the drummers who again began playing their instruments. Rawandag and Massaquoit each tasted the meat and bowed their thanks to Ninigret. He cut another piece, which he handed to Jane, and then still one more for himself. He jabbed his knife into the carcass of the deer and took his place in the dancing circle. The drummers increased their intensity and Ninigret began to dance by himself, and then he was joined by the others. One by one, the men approached the deer and sliced meat for themselves. The women led Jane to the center of their circle and she imitated their dance steps, at first with a shy hesitancy, but then with exuberance. Her hair, flung about as she danced, matched the red of the fire. The women, too, took their turn cutting meat from the other deer.

  After a few minutes, her face glistening with sweat, and shreds of deer flesh hanging from between her teeth, Jane exited the circle and walked to Jonathan. The drummers stopped and all eyes followed her. She picked up his Bible and tore out a page. She held it aloft and spun around in a slow circle. Her actions elicited loud hoots. She waved the page furiously around and around over head and all eyes followed its whirling motion, all that is except Massaquoit, who noticed that she reached into the waistband of her gown and pulled out another paper. She brought her hands together and crumpled what she was holding. Then she grabbed Jonathan’s hair and lifted his head.

  “Open,” she commanded. “It is time for you to eat.”

  Jonathan shook his head, and Jane beckoned to Ninigret.

  “Help me feed this priest,” she said, her eyes bright with excitement. Ninigret clamped his fingers over Jonathan’s nose with one hand, and pressed hard on his jaw hinge with the other. Jonathan’s mouth opened as he gasped for air, and Jane shoved the paper into his mouth. She spun away and resumed her place in the dancing circle as the drummers resumed to a chorus of laughter. Ninigret released his hold, and Jonathan’s head flopped back down on the stump. He raised it for a moment and tried to spit out the paper, but it was too far down his throat.

  Massaquoit watched and waited. When everyone seemed occupied either with eating or dancing, or walking off in pairs into the shadows, he approached Jonathan and pulled the paper from his mouth. It was dripping with saliva. He folded it again until it fit into his hand, and then he walked to Willeweenaw and handed it to her.

  “I may have need of this later,” he said. “It may save your son.”

  She nodded and tucked the paper into her moccasin.

  Jane again left the circle and approached Jonathan.

  “So you have eaten, have you?” she said.

  Jonathan nodded.

  “That is good,” Jane laughed. “You must have been hungry.”

  Rawandag, who had been quietly munching on his slab of deer meat now came forward. The drummers, as if on his command, although he said nothing, ceased, and all eyes turned to the old man, who stood next to Jonathan.

  “Take him to the house where he can pray to his god,” Rawandag said. “We will meet again to decide what to do with him.” Rawandag walked toward the meetinghouse, and Massaquoit followed as Jonathan was led stumbling and falling. Peter sat huddled before the front door. He stood aside as Jonathan was taken inside. Massaquoit heard the thump of fists and feet against flesh followed by exhausted moans. Rawandag took Peter by the arm and looked at the door.

  “Do you want to join your English brother inside?”

  “Yes,” Peter said.

  “Are you sure?” Rawandag asked.

  “Yes.”

  Peter walked into the meetinghouse and the door was shut behind him. Two heavy logs were dragged to the door and jammed against it. Others placed piles of dried reeds and twigs around the perimeter of the building.

  “If we must, when the English come,” Rawandag said, “we will see if their god can protect those two inside.”

  Willeweenaw strode to Rawandag and held the old man’s eyes with her own fierce expression.

  “My son is in that building.”

  “No,” Rawandag said, “that man inhabits the skin of your son, but your son is no more.”

  She stepped closer so that he could feel the warmth of her breath, and she spoke in a low voice.

  “Save those words for others.”

  Massaquoit, who was a few feet away, stepped between them so that the width of his body drove them apart. He turned to face Willeweenaw, giving Rawandag only his broad back to look at.

  “It would be better if Peter came out, but if he will not, I will protect him.”

  Her expression softened for a moment, but then hardened as cold stone.

  “I no longer trust anyone. Even you, Massaquoit, who could not protect his own wife and child.” She walked to the front door and sat down between the logs. “If you want to help me,” she said, “you can help me open this door.”

  Massaquoit wanted very much to do just that, not for Peter’s sake, but because there was a warmth in Willeweenaw’s eyes that touched that sliver of his heart that the years had not turned into adamantine. He felt the contemptuous gaze of Rawandag, and he looked out at the crowd of men and women, his people whose patience had been exhausted, and he knew that he must wait. He walked to Willeweenaw, and sat down beside her.

  “I cannot do that just now, but I will stay with you to show you that my word is good.”

  Rawandag followed Massaquoit’s movements with a face still set in hard disapproval. Then he lifted his limp arm with the aid of the other in a gesture to his people that pointed them back to the dancing circle. The drummers began, and the people again gathered in their circles, with Ninigret in the center of one, and Jane in the middle of the other.

  Massaquoit gazed at the young people who would be in each other’s arms in an hour or so, and he felt the warmth emanating from Willeweenaw. She, however, sat with her eyes straight ahead, as though she were sitting alone.

  Chapter Eleven

  The young girl at Catherine’s door looked at her with an expression that showed that she had overcome her fear to complete an errand that was of the utmost importance. The girls’ face looked familiar, and then she remembered.

  “Susan Martin, what can I do for you? I trust your family is well?”

  The girl stepped back, startled. Catherine held out her hand toward her.

  “Child, I did not mean to startle you. I saw you one day at your meeting when your mother was preaching.”

  “I did not see thee that day.” The girl seemed to have recovered her equanimity and now spoke with quiet assurance

  “Surely not, for I was not in the house, but looking in through a window.”

  “How strange,” the gir
l replied. “Thou wilt not find the Lord in that manner.”

  Catherine felt herself startled at the girl’s audacity, but then she realized it was common among these Quakers, even the young, to speak their minds in a way that could be taken either as arrogant or merely confident. She had reserved judgment as to which term she thought better fit, and she was not going to test her judgment on this little girl standing in front of her. Still, she did not feel comfortable letting the remark pass without comment.

  “Perhaps I have already found Him.”

  “Perhaps thou hast,” the girl replied, but her tone carried her doubt.

  “You did not come to my house to discuss my state of grace,” Catherine said.