The Sea Hath Spoken

by Stephen Lewis

  “In the matter of the murder of William Lockhart, a member of the crew of The Good Hope, found dead in the shallows of Newbury Harbor, we conclude that there is good cause to hold Henry Jenkins, also a crew member of that vessel, responsible for that death, and he is herewith charged with murder.

  “In the matter of the murder of Roger Whitcomb...” he paused as a rumble of voices lifted from the crowd of onlookers, and both soldiers and Indians reflected their tension in the stiffened attitudes of their bodies, and in the tightened grips on their weapons. “In that matter,” the governor continued, “we find suspicion does fall on the Indian Ninigret.” He again stopped, this time in response to the absolute hush in the common. One Indian strung an arrow on his bow, and a soldier shouldered his musket. Governor Peters walked forward until he was abreast of these two, who faced each other. He looked hard at each, and then at Lieutenant Waters and Rawandag, who had each come to the side of the man under them. Massaquoit took the arm of the Indian, and pushed it down, and the soldier lowered his musket. “We find suspicion does fall on the Indian Ninigret,” the governor repeated, “but not sufficient or reliable to reach a determination. He is henceforth banished from Newbury, but we offer him no further harm.”

  Ninigret looked at his captors, but the governor held up his hand.

  “In time,” he said and looked across at Jonathan, “in time for both. I have one more judgment to deliver and that involves the woman we knew as Jane Whitcomb, but who in truth we now know to be an imposter, whose real name, we believe to be Mary Norris of Southampton, England, wife of Samuel Norris. Although the shadow of guilt for both William Lockhart and Roger Whitcomb’s deaths falls heavily on this woman, we have failed to find sufficient evidence to try her for murder. Instead, she is banished, and must leave Newbury by sundown tomorrow.”

  The citizens of Newbury had now heard their leaders’ decisions, and turned to their neighbors to offer their comments. Governor Peters waited until relative quiet returned, and then as though impatient to end this business, he simply declared, “Release them!”

  Lieutenant Waters urged Ninigret forward, and then Rawandag pushed Jonathan toward him. The two walked toward each other, and paused when they both reached the middle ground between the two lines, their eyes locked. They continued to their sides.

  Massaquoit embraced Ninigret. The governor intercepted his nephew, and led him across the common to the road that led to the harbor and his mansion overlooking the water.

  Catherine had her arms around Grace and Abigail, standing just in the front of the meetinghouse.

  “It is done,” she said, and squeezed the two young women against her sides.

  “I think I understand Mary Norris,” Abigail said, and shifted her baby, now awake and blinking in the sun.

  “I do not know if I do,” Grace said. “My thoughts are only of Roger, “ she looked at the baby, “and what might have been.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The pungent aroma of freshly sawn lumber floated on the warm morning air as Newbury citizens again gathered in the village common. This time they stood around the newly constructed gallows, on which stood Minister Davis and the condemned man. The trial had been swift, based on his confession. The Sunday before his execution, Henry had stood up in the meetinghouse and proclaimed his repentance. Two sturdy young men, serving as special constables for the occasion, had been stationed by the front door in case Henry had changed his mind and decided a dash for freedom suited him better than squaring his accounts with God. Catherine had listened to the young sailor beg God’s forgiveness, but remained unconvinced of his sincerity, especially as Henry’s eyes roamed to the door as he spoke, and his expression seemed to indicate that he was still calculating his chances. Now, observing him on the gallows platform, his head bowed as Minister Davis offered the usual homilies about God’s love for a repentant sinner, laced with references to the parable of the prodigal son, the thought occurred to Catherine that if Henry’s contrition was a ploy in search of mercy it had failed, and he would soon have a chance to know God’s disposition directly. She took some comfort in realizing how blasphemous that thought would appear to the minister.

  Off to the side of the gallows, on chairs put there especially for them, sat Governor Peters and Magistrates Woolsey and Pendleton. Catherine saw the grim expression on Woolsey’s face, and knew that her old friend did not relish these occasions and would take several days, or longer, to recover his equanimity. The governor, on the other hand, seemed if not joyful at least content that justice, of a sort, was being served in his jurisdiction. Pendleton seemed unsure whether to reflect the governor or Woolsey’s attitude, and so succeeded only in appearing uncomfortable. Behind them, his hand still bandaged, was Jonathan Peters. He placed his good hand on his uncle’s shoulder and whispered something to him. Catherine hoped he was talking about his arrangements to sail back to England on the next outward ship, for that was part of the agreement that had been reached with Abigail King, who would receive from the governor as agent of the nephew, a decent stipend toward the support of her babe. An initial payment in the form of a lump sum to seal the deal had already been paid directly to Abigail who stood not far from Catherine. She was wearing a new gown and bonnet. Catherine saw, however, how she could not refrain from stealing glances at Jonathan, and she could only wonder at the woman’s folly in continuing to be drawn to the man who had used her so badly. Catherine took one more look at the gallows, where Minister Davis seemed to be winding up his remarks, and she turned her back on the scene and started to make her way through the crowd to find the path that would lead her home.

  “Are you not going to stay?” Phyllis asked.

  “I think not,” Catherine replied. “I do not take pleasure in seeing a young life so shortened.”

  “You do not mind if I do, then, do you?” Phyllis asked needlessly.

  “Of course not,” Catherine replied. “Stay here with Edward, if it please you both.” She continued to walk. It was not only her discomfort witnessing a man hang that was driving her away, but the piece of paper in her pocket. She wanted to reflect on it in the quiet of her own home. As she worked her way through the crowd, she saw all eyes looking past her toward the gallows, and just as she reached the edge where the Martin family stood with other members of their sect, she heard a collective gasp, and she knew that Henry now hung at the rope’s end. She stopped, unable to keep herself from looking at the eyes of the nearest witnesses. Some people shut their lids tight, but in those whose eyes remained open, Catherine could read the young man’s end, and she envisioned his body jerking as the onlookers seemed to hold their breaths until he breathed his last. She started on her way again, only to find Jethro placing himself in her path. The young man’s face was bruised. Isaiah Martin joined his son.

  “How does your wrist mend?” Catherine asked.

  “Well,” he replied, “and I thank thee.” He looked toward his wife and daughter whose eyes were still fastened on the gallows where Jailor Drake, who conducted the execution for a small fee, would now be cutting the body down. It would be placed on a cart and taken to the side of the hill opposite Newbury Cemetery, where it would be deposited in an unmarked, shallow grave. “We are thinking of finding a more hospitable place to live,” Isaiah was saying. He looked toward his son. “Yesternight, he was accosted in the field by some who said we Friends are to blame for what has happened in Newbury, that God is punishing the village for permitting us to stay here. When he said what folly such an idea was, they were upon him.”

  “I regret that you feel you must leave Newbury,” Catherine replied, “but I cannot argue with the wisdom of your choice.”

  “I just wanted to tell thee,” Isaiah said.

  * * * *

  In Niantic, the air there, too, was rich with the aroma of freshly cut wood. Massaquoit stopped by Peter, whose body glowed with perspiration, as did those of the half dozen men of various ages, who were working with him on the construction of a new bui
lding on the site of the old one.

  “I thought you might be discouraged,” Massaquoit said.

  Peter shook his head.

  “It does not matter what I feel. The English are here to stay, and they have brought their God with them. If we learn to worship him, we can survive.”

  “Yes,” Massaquoit replied, “but as what? English Indians?”

  Peter offered a bemused smile.

  “As what we are,” he replied. “Perhaps you will join us for meeting, here, instead of Newbury.”

  The thought struck Massaquoit as an alternative he had never before considered. He attended worship among the English in Newbury because he had to. Would it make more sense to do so on his own in Niantic? He would leave that decision for another day.

  “It is possible,” he said, and then hurried on. .

  He found Ninigret and Mary Norris in front of the wigwam where they had been that night when the English came. She offered an insincere smile as he approached, and he knew that she still blamed him for their misfortune. Ninigret motioned for her to pick up a bundle at her feet. She did so, with slow motions that showed she was being co-operative to avoid an unpleasant scene. She put her arms through straps on the bundle and positioned it on her back. She walked into the wigwam and the bundle jangled. She is carrying cooking utensils, no doubt, Massaquoit thought, but he could not imagine that she would easily fit in the role of Ninigret’s helpmate. Ninigret looked after her.

  “Presents from my mother,” he said. “She expects my woman to cook for me.”

  “Will she?” Massaquoit asked.

  Ninigret smiled, and then his expression turned serious.

  “I owe you my life,” he said. “You and Mistress Williams.”

  “Your woman does not think so,” Massaquoit replied.

  “I am sorry for that,” Ninigret replied.

  “I would like to visit you, after a while,” Massaquoit said.

  “That would be good,” a voice behind him offered.

  He turned to see Willeweenaw.

  “My son could benefit from your wisdom,” she said. Something in her eyes suggested that she intended more than that truism. He took a step toward her.

  “And his mother?”

  Willeweenaw frowned, although her lips snapped back into a half smile.

  “She would not be unhappy to see you again.”

  Ninigret embraced Massaquoit and disappeared into the wigwam.

  “That woman,” Willeweenaw said, “I do not care for her.”

  “But your son does.”

  “I have lost one to the English god, and another to an English woman.”

  Massaquoit took her in his arms and held her for a moment. He looked past her at the sad village, and heard the clang of hammers against iron nails from the site of the new meetinghouse.

  “I do not know where I should live,” he said. He realized he hoped she would tell him to stay with her in Niantic, but instead she stepped back.

  “I cannot answer that for you,” she said. “But I am going to try to convince Ninigret that he and his English woman should leave with me.”

  Massaquoit felt the disappointment like a physical blow.

  “Leave?” he asked.

  She smiled at his distress.

  “Yes,” she replied, “but I will be sure to tell you where we might go.”

  She took his hand for a moment, and then dropped it. She went into the wigwam, leaving Massaquoit with the realization that in all likelihood she was slipping through his fingers before he had even extended his hand to hold her. And if that were so, it was so because they both had already lost so much that it was not possible to rebuild their lives together. He turned his back on the wigwam, and on Niantic, and directed his steps back toward Newbury.

  * * * *

  Catherine sat at the table in her kitchen, with three letters spread out before her on the table. She had stirred the fire so that it now crackled. The papers would burn quickly. The memory of what they said, however, would stay in her mind, perhaps forever. Two of the letters were the original and the forgery from Roger and Jane’s father. The new one was addressed to Magistrate Woolsey, who had given it to her that morning. It was signed by Samuel Norris. It sought news about his young wife, Mary, who he had recently discovered was seen boarding The Good Hope as it sailed from Southampton to Newbury. The husband professed his deep and abiding affection for his wife, and claimed to have no idea why she might be fleeing from him. He noted how distressed he was to hear from the owner of the Sign of the Lion that his wife had been entertaining sailors like a common prostitute. Still, the husband declared, he would welcome her back to his hearth and home.

  Catherine read over the words, as she had already done several times, and stopped where she had before. To this point, she could almost believe that Samuel Norris was an aggrieved husband dealing with a rebellious young wife. It was likely even that he was a widower marrying again, after his wife died in childbirth, or simple exhaustion from too many children, and now Samuel was only looking for a new companion, and perhaps even more children. More power to him, Catherine supposed, if he had the means to support them and a disposition to treat them well.

  But the end of the letter gave her serious pause. In it, he offered a money reward for the return of his wife, in terms that one would use to recover an escaped servant. And then Catherine remembered how that morning in the jailhouse Mary had lifted her gown and shift to reveal the deep scars on the backs of her legs and across her buttocks, where, she said, her husband’s leather strap had taken off her skin. Those old scars, Catherine thought with a bitter frown, balanced the fresher ones opened on Mary’s back by Constable Larkins’ whip.

  Catherine took all three letters to the fire and watched how they curled into ash in the flame. Then she sat down again at the table, and took out a fresh piece of paper, and quill and ink, and prepared to write to the senior Whitcombs to explain to them how and why they were now childless.

  Copyright 2001 by Stephen Lewis

  Originally published by Berkley Prime Crime; electronically published by Belgrave House in 2004

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

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  This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.