The Sea Hath Spoken

by Stephen Lewis

  “Surely not. It is to ask thee to mend my father’s arm, for he has had a grievous hurt and is in much pain.”

  “I will do what I can,” Catherine said.

  “Thou know the way to our meetinghouse. Walk a little ways past it, up a little hill and down the other side. There thou will find our house. I can take thee there.”

  Just as Catherine and Phyllis were about to set off to follow the girl to her house, the sound of drum rolls, carried by a gentle breeze flowing off the Newbury harbor, traveled from the town to Catherine’s door. The girl looked toward the village.

  “They say that the militia is being gathered to go to Niantic to bring back that apostate.”

  “Who says?” Catherine asked.

  “Folks. And my mother and father.”

  “Do they mean Jane Whitcomb?”

  “Of course,” Susan replied.

  “We must hurry, then,” Catherine said. “For I too must away to Niantic.”

  “My father awaits thee,” Susan declared.

  “Then let us not tarry.”

  With Phyllis trudging beside her, and the girl dancing ahead, Catherine approached the Quaker meetinghouse. Standing in front of it was a knot of men. In the center was Nathan Whitehead, who appeared to be holding forth.

  “Go on ahead,” Catherine said to Susan. “Tell your father I am right behind you.” The girl nodded and dashed ahead. “Follow after,” Catherine said to Phyllis. “And make him comfortable. See if there is anything about the house for a splint.”

  Catherine walked toward Nathan and he stopped talking. He looked in the direction taken by Susan and Phyllis, and then he beckoned Catherine forward.

  “Mistress Williams. I see thou has come to help Brother Martin. But his house is that way.” He pointed toward the hill behind the meetinghouse.

  “I did not think you would be meeting now.” Catherine replied.

  The men, half a dozen ranging from late teens to sixties, seemed tense. They shifted from one foot to another. One young man had a knife on his belt. An older man was leaning on a thick staff, and Nathan held his club like stick. He looked about his men.

  “We have not come for that purpose.”

  “I can see that.”

  Nathan held out his hands, palm up toward the men, and then walked to Catherine. He took her elbow and steered her away a few feet, out of earshot of the others.

  “We expect trouble. Your townspeople will be happy to find a reason to come after us, and now that woman has given them one. We need to be prepared.”

  “I trust your fears are exaggerated,” Catherine said, but she remembered Roger and Jane’s backs opened beneath the whip and she could not discount Nathan’s concerns.

  “Thy face tells me thou understand,” Nathan said. He leaned down to her level. “Go tend to Brother Martin,” he said. It appeared as though he might say more, but he turned and strode back to the men. They huddled about him and seemed to resume their discussion. Catherine waited a moment, but she could not hear anything and it was clear that her presence was only being tolerated, and not for much longer.

  She found Israel Martin lying on a straw mattress bed in the back room of a two room house. The house was simply furnished with hand made stools and tables, but all was clean and in order. Susan Martin stood on one side of her father, and on the other, holding her husband’s good hand was Rachel Martin. Israel’s face was white and beaded with perspiration, although a late afternoon breeze had cooled the air. His injured arm hung off the bed. His wrist was swollen, and discolored. His hand turned at an unnatural angle away from his arm. Catherine reached to touch it and he shuddered.

  “He cannot bear to move it,” Rachel said. “I told him about that horse, but he would not listen.”

  “He was kicked, then?” Catherine asked.

  “I told him,” Rachel repeated. “But he would have that big stump out where he took down that dead tree, so he goes to borrow the use of this animal from our neighbor, whose own leg is just healed after being broken by this same beast.”

  Israel looked as though he wanted to object to this characterization of his accident. He started to rise up from his mattress, but then the pain from his injured arm grabbed him and he settled himself back down as slowly as he could while he stared at his hand as though wondering how his own body part could be attacking him so grievously.

  Phyllis entered the room, red faced and out of breath. She held a thin length of wood a foot long. She handed it to Catherine.

  “I found it out back,” she said.

  “He was building a chicken coop,” Rachel said. “He is always working, he is.”

  Catherine noted the affection in her tone, which had been lacking when she expressed her unhappiness with her husband’s stubbornness that in her mind led to his accident.

  “ I will need to set it,” Catherine said. “But to do that he will need to be calm.” She looked at Phyllis. “In my bag, the dried hops blossoms.”

  “I can boil some water,” Susan said, “if thou are thinking of a tea.”

  “I am,” Catherine replied. She took Israel’s good hand and pressed his palm

  “Patience,” she said.

  “As Job,” he replied.

  “And Job’s wife, let us not forget,” Rachel added.

  The tea put Israel into a doze within a quarter of an hour. He lay back with head lolling about. Catherine touched his injured hand, and he stirred a bit, but did not shudder as he had before.

  “Now,” she said to Phyllis who knelt next to her at the side of the mattress. Phyllis nodded and picked up the piece of wood. Catherine grabbed Israel’s forearm with one hand and his wrist with the other. She knew that the effects of the tea would not be strong enough to block out the pain more than for a second or two, so she must act quickly. In her mind’s eye she saw how the hand should rest in a proper position. She slid her fingers to the top of his hand and with one quick, but gentle motion turned it to conform to the mental image she had drawn. Israel convulsed in pain, and groaned but did not pull his arm away, Phyllis placed the length of wood along his forearm, and Catherine adjusted it so that it supported the wrist in a straight line. She wrapped the wood from his elbow down to his fingers with a long piece of sturdy cotton cloth.

  “Try to see that he does not move it overmuch,” she said to Rachel and stood up.

  They sat at the plank table before the fireplace in the front room.

  “Do thou think he will mend?” Rachel asked.

  “My father is a sturdy man,” Susan suggested.

  Catherine looked at the child and then the mother.

  “I have every hope,” she said. “I will look in on him when I return from Niantic.”

  Rachel’s face darkened.

  “What is it?” Catherine asked.

  “Nothing,” Rachel replied.

  “Tell, mother,” Susan said. “Thou said thou would.”

  “It is my son, Jethro,” Rachel said after a few moment. “He saw something.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “He is like his father. Stubborn. He has that horse harnessed, and he is pulling out that very same stump.”

  “What can he tell me? Something touching the killing of Roger Whitcomb? Or about his sister Jane?”

  “Yes. And both,” Rachel replied. “But thou know he cannot swear to anything he has seen.”

  “I have so heard,” Catherine said. “But still I must know before I travel to Niantic whatever he can tell me.”

  “Thou will find him in the back of the field.”

  “I did see him working there,” Phyllis interjected.

  * * * *

  As they walked back toward town, Catherine was lost in thought.

  “Do you think the boy told us the truth?” Phyllis asked.

  “I am afraid so,” Catherine replied.

  They neared the town center where a unit of militia of a dozen or so men had gathered. Minister Davis stood to one side of the assemblage and motione
d for them to come to him.

  “We go to seek that harlot and her savage,” he said.

  “We will go with you,” Catherine replied.

  Minister Davis looked back over her head in the direction from which she and Phyllis had just come.

  “One of the Quakers, Israel Martin, was kicked by a horse. I set his wrist,” Catherine said before he could ask.

  “Touched by God for his blasphemy no doubt,” the Minister replied. “But come if you must, for you are the harlot’s guardian.”

  “And so I will,” Catherine answered, choosing not to respond to the minister’s explanation of God’s providence guiding the horse’s hoof. From her point of view, Israel Martin was a thick headed man who got kicked by an ill tempered animal. She did not think that her God would so chasten a man who whether rightly or wrongly had devoted himself to a particular form of serving that God. As for Jane and Ninigret, her thoughts remained a tumble as she tried to factor in the story she had just heard from Jethro Martin.

  The company of militia formed behind the drummer, a boy no more than fifteen or sixteen. Lieutenant Arthur Waters stood to the side of the column. Catherine recalled how the lieutenant had presided over the execution of the sachems years before when she was permitted to save one of them and chose Massaquoit. Waters had done his duty, but it had been evident to her that he had taken no pleasure in it. In fact, he had returned to England shortly after that incident and had only recently returned to Newbury, grayer and thicker of body than he had then been. She wondered if he approached this new assignment with more enthusiasm. He lifted his arm and brought it down hard in the direction of the boy, who rolled his sticks over the drum. Just then, Catherine heard a shuffling of feet coming up behind her, accompanied by heavy breathing.

  “Catherine,” Joseph Woolsey panted. “I thought I might find you here, as you are ever where you should not be.”

  “Why what do you mean?” Catherine said, although she was perfectly aware of his objection.

  The magistrate swept his arm toward the soldiers, some with muskets, others pikes, on their shoulders, wearing helmets and corselets.

  “I know well I am not a soldier,” Catherine said.

  “Then you should bide with me until they return.”

  “I have not the patience,” she replied.

  “Then stay a moment while I tell you what has happened. That boy is to be indicted.”

  “The sailor?”

  “Henry Jenkins.”

  “For killing Roger?”

  Magistrate Woolsey was about to nod, but then he caught himself, and shook his head.

  “Not at all. For killing Billy Lockhart. He has confessed it all. Minister Davis came to ease his spirit, and he was so marvelously moved to accept our Lord in his extremity that he bade Will Best be summoned with his pen and paper so he could clear his conscience.”

  “Minister Davis is a marvelously persuasive man,” Catherine said, but withheld the further thought that rose in her mind that at times while he served his God he was also not unlike a vulture gnawing on the carrion flesh of a sinner.

  “That he is,” Magistrate Woolsey replied with an emphatic nod, and Catherine noted how, as usual, her friend failed to hear the irony in her voice. She did not know whether to attribute this habitual obtuseness to Woolsey’s gradual loss of hearing, common to all men of his age, or to his insistent belief, despite a lifetime of contrary experiences, that a person’s morality accorded with that individual’s title. Thus, by definition a minister would serve God, while a magistrate such as himself, or the governor, would promote the health of the community. She placed that question in the back of her mind, as she looked past Woolsey to the militia company that was now beginning to move slowly out of the village common and toward the path that followed the river to Niantic. As it left the grassy field of the common, a figure wearing a beaver hat slid out from a small stand of pines and took its place at the head of the company. Phyllis, who had stepped a respectful distance apart as her mistress spoke first with the minister and then the magistrate now approached.

  “We must hurry,” she said.

  “Magistrate Woolsey thinks we should tarry here. What do you think?”

  “It is a far walk on a hot day,” Phyllis said.

  “He believes that women such as ourselves should let the men wearing armor go about their business.”

  “If you are ready for a walk,” Phyllis replied, “I am as well.”

  “I cannot dissuade you then?” Woolsey asked.

  “No, I am afraid not,” Catherine replied, and she and Phyllis started off at a steady pace toward the river road. After a short while, Phyllis’s faster pace took her yards ahead of Catherine. She looked back at her mistress. Catherine waved her on and resumed walking in her rolling gait that carried her with an easy motion that belied her sixty years.

  * * * *

  Massaquoit parted the covering to the entrance of the wigwam and made his way inside. He saw that Jane was asleep against the side of the wigwam. She snored lightly. Ninigret squatted, wide awake, a few feet from her.

  “Let us take a walk,” Massaquoit said.

  Ninigret glanced at Jane and then nodded. It was late morning, but Niantic was quiet. Some people slept where they had collapsed the night before after the dancing and feasting. They walked toward the meetinghouse where Willeweenaw still sat, her head cradled in her arms. Two young men stood on either side of the door. Willeweenaw lifted her head as they approached. She stood up, walked to Massaquoit, and handed him the paper he had taken out of Jonathan’s mouth. Then she took Ninigret’s arm and guided him a few feet away. She spoke to him, and then embraced him. Ninigret returned to Massaquoit while Willeweenaw resumed her position sitting in front of the meetinghouse.

  “She wants me to flee before the English come,” Ninigret said.

  “It is good advice,” Massaquoit replied.

  Ninigret looked toward the meetinghouse.

  “I cannot. My brother is inside with the English priest. I must see what I can do. I do not think you would run if you were me.”

  “I do not know,” Massaquoit said. “It has been a long time since I was as young as you, with such heat in my blood.” He looked at the folded paper. “We must talk about this. And I am thirsty.”

  They retraced their steps to head toward the edge of the village where a small stream provided water for bathing and fresh water. As they passed Ninigret and Jane’s wigwam, Massaquoit glanced through the thin reed cover. He could not see Jane, and so he was not surprised when he saw her at the stream’s bank when they arrived there. She stood with hands on her hips as they approached.

  “Ninigret,” she said, “last night we slept together and now in the morning I find you with a man I do not trust, and you should not either. He has lived too long with the English woman. I know, for I saw him with her.”

  Ninigret took her arm and held it against his own.

  “I did not wake up with white skin,” he said.

  She stepped back, a hard, scornful smile on her lips. She was wearing only a shift, and she pulled it over her head.

  “Look at this white skin, then,” she said. “If you want to get close to it again, you will heed what I say.” She waited for him to respond, and when he didn’t, she shrugged, turned, and slipped into the shallow water of the stream. She swam underwater until midstream, about fifteen yards from shore, and then she rose in a spray of water. The sun hitting the water gave her red hair a halo, and she opened her mouth in a laugh of pure joy. Then she dove again into the water and swam toward the opposite shore. Ninigret squatted on his haunches, his eyes following her. Massaquoit took his place beside him.

  “You must tell me what happened,” he said.

  “What is in the paper?” Ninigret asked.

  “That is not important,” Massaquoit replied.

  “Not important? It is that paper that is the cause of everything.”

  “I know.”

  Ninigret picked u
p a stick and drew a figure in the soft dirt of the stream bank. The figure had a large brimmed hat, such as Roger wore. He drew a smaller figure next to it.

  “I wanted only the paper,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “I found it in a pouch on the beach. Then that priest stole it.” He lifted his eyes across the stream where Jane now lay on her back in the shallow water. “She bade me get it back from her brother. I do not know how he got it.”

  “It was taken from the priest,” Massaquoit said. “And sold to the brother.”

  Ninigret rubbed his eyes as though to clear away confusion.

  “She said it would make us rich,” he said.

  “You believed her?”

  Ninigret hunched his shoulders.

  “I did not believe or not believe. But when I saw how fiercely the English fought to keep it, I thought maybe it would.” He rubbed out the first figure he had drawn, and then redrew it, lying on the ground.

  “You did not mean to kill him,” Massaquoit said.

  “No. I threatened him with my knife, and he seized my wrist. He was very strong. But I was quicker.”

  “I see,” Massaquoit replied.

  “Do you think the English will believe me?”

  Massaquoit hesitated.

  “No. But that is why we have the English priest still alive, missing only one finger. If you had killed him, my only counsel would be to flee. And I still think that a wise choice. But I know you will not. So we must trade.”

  “Will they?”

  “Perhaps. Especially if Wequashcook leads them here as I think he will.”

  “He is an excellent trader, I hear,” Ninigret said.

  “He is the very best,” Massaquoit replied. He looked across the stream at Jane, who now stood up with water streaming off her naked body. The sunlight lit the drops of waters into many colored jewels. “And her?” he asked.

  “She is my woman.”

  “Her white skin, is that it?”

  “She is my woman,” Ninigret repeated.

  “Then go to her.”

  Ninigret stood up.

  “That piece of paper is a danger to us,” Ninigret said.

  “It is.”

  “But you cannot give it to me.”