Harvard Yard (Peter Fallon)

by William Martin

  Finally, Isaac loaded his old blunderbuss and placed it by the door. “You’ll not need this,” he said to Rebecca, “but ’twill make you feel more secure.”

  “Our Indians be docile, Mother,” said John.

  “Your mother fears ’em yet,” said Isaac. “‘Satan’s minions,’ she calls them.”

  “Which they be,” answered John, “the unconverted ones, leastways.”

  Indeed, thought Isaac, the mother had taught the son well. His faith was as simple and strong as hers.

  “If Satan’s minions come to the door,” Isaac told her, “point the gun and fire. The shot will splatter wide. What it doesn’t strike will be frightened off by the roar.”

  “I’ll need no gun, Isaac,” she said. “I’ll simply pray, as I pray for our Johnny.”

  They left Rebecca in the yard, shielding her eyes from the August sun, and took the road along the edge of the marsh. After a quarter mile, they came to Deacon Haynes’s garrison house, built to defend the settlers should ever there come an Indian attack, and Isaac offered a silent prayer that the garrison would never be needed for its purpose. Then they turned east, crossed the rough-hewn bridge over the Sudbury River, and made for Cambridge.

  It was a brightening world that they went through, as by now the forests had fallen for some twenty miles in a wide semicircle around Boston. The Lord’s people were an industrious lot, thought Isaac, and fruitful, too. Settlements had appeared along the roads, congregations were coming together in the Lord, and there were many opportunities for a young man who wished to preach the Word.

  Isaac, however, would not commit his son to any goal beyond the gaining of knowledge. The boy could be a minister, if that was his choice, or a merchant, or a doctor educated at some European university. After Harvard, he might even choose to attend the University of Padua, though Isaac would not encourage him to follow the path of one who had gone there long ago, one rumored recently to have died in a London debtors’ prison, one Nathaniel Eaton by name.

  Isaac tried to push thoughts of Eaton from his mind, and yet, to look upon his son, riding solemnly at his side, was to remind him of his own emotions on a similar journey, made on the day that he first met Eaton, a journey made in company with the man after whom the colony had named the college and Isaac had named his son.

  John Harvard would have been pleased to know that the college survived, though it could hardly be said to thrive. There were only five students in the class of 1678, twenty-three in all. Towns that once had sent the College Corn now spent their money on other things. Contributions promised were quite often deferred. And while students might pay in hard coin, they were as likely to offer “country pay”—grain, livestock, cords of wood. The only regular income derived from the Boston-to-Charlestown ferry revenue, a tradition at Oxford and Cambridge that produced a pittance at Harvard. And not only was the college a poor place. It was a contentious one, too, rife with disputes and intrigues among a new president, certain overseers, the tutors, and the rebellious students.

  It may not have been the best place for a young man to earn his Ars Bacheloris, then, but in English North America, it was the only place.

  Isaac and John arrived in the late afternoon. They came into the Yard by old Peyntree House, into a scene that would never be immortalized in a book of engravings depicting the world’s great seats of learning.

  Though the college hall remained the largest building in the colony, its roof now sagged toward the east like a leaking sack of grain. Little remained of Eaton’s orchard, and most of the fencing had been taken down, as the cows now grazed in farther fields. But chickens went scuttling and squabbling ahead of Isaac’s horse, and three piglets rooted about in the grass, which was crisscrossed with dirt paths leading to outhouse, brewhouse, pigpen, henhouse, and a brick building erected in high expectation as the Indian College but now occupied by a printing press and a few students.

  With the college hall collapsing under the weight of termites and rainwater leaking through the roof, the overseers had solicited contributions for a grander structure, to be built of brick on a stone foundation, roofed with slate, called Harvard Hall. Its timbered skeleton rose at the west edge of the Yard. And Isaac chose to make it the center of his son’s attention, rather than the squalor surrounding it.

  “See that framework, John,” he said. “New wood, pegged tight to proclaim the Lord’s favor. He would not allow such an edifice at a school that had no future. And He would not allow a student who had no future to attend such a school.”

  “But, Father”—the boy reined his horse—“I fear that my Latin and Greek are—”

  “More than sufficient. I taught you myself.”

  “But some who study here studied first at the Boston Latin School.”

  Isaac looked hard at his son. “What have I always told you?”

  John drew his upper teeth across his lower lip—an expression that reminded Isaac of his little boy, not of this young man. “About what, Father?”

  Isaac slapped the sack hanging from his saddle. “About books?”

  “That a . . . that a man will be known by his books?”

  “Aye. And you’ve had my books to study. By them will you be known.”

  “But, Father, there will be others here who know much more.”

  “And others who know much less. As long as you keep to your tasks and read your Scripture, you’ll do well. I believe that as sure as I believe in the Lord.”

  “Father,” said the boy solemnly, “that remark approach blasphemy.”

  Isaac took off his hat and wiped perspiration from his forehead. It was a stark but simple truth that raising a son could make a man sweat. “You worry too much, John.”

  “I worry because I’ve heard your thoughts on such truths as predestination.”

  “I’ve seen men turn from good to evil and from evil to good. If the Lord permits men to change, He must hold hope for salvation to all.”

  “But the Lord has already chosen the elect. They reveal themselves by their good conduct and understanding of Scripture.” John Wedge was a most argumentative boy . . . never rebellious, but always prepared to contend over issues of faith or politics.

  And Isaac realized how deeply he would miss their clash of wits. He had taught the boy to argue for the things he believed, even as he had taught him to respect the authority of those who interpreted the Word. He sometimes wished that he had better taught the boy to think for himself, no matter the interpretations of others, because in their debates, Isaac always found himself defending the unorthodox idea, which was not the natural order of things.

  Isaac sometimes wondered where he had found his own questioning spirit. Perhaps it had come in Italy, where he had seen the soaring beauties and monumental superstitions of Romanism. But more likely he had begun to question the wisdom of Puritanism when he studied under a man who pretended to all appropriate pieties in public but showed a face of rank brutality in private.

  “Remember, son,” he said, putting on his hat, “we are also taught that some who demonstrate strong faith will not be saved.”

  “And some who do not will be.”

  “’Tis a conundrum, then. Simply do as I’ve told you: treat others as you expect to be treated, act as Holy Scripture tells you to act, and live honestly. Now come along.”

  They dismounted before the Old College, and John said he would rather go from there on his own. Isaac understood, but he had brought the sack of books as a gift for Samuel Sewall, tutor and keeper of the library, knowing that such a gift would stand young John in good stead. So father and son went into the hall together.

  As they entered the library, a boy looked up from his reading. His hair was cut short, his complexion was reddish, as if heightened by the simple exertion of turning pages, and his features had yet to mold themselves into any form that would suggest the character beneath.

  “Good afternoon,” said Isaac.

  The boy gave a grudging nod of the head, as if he disapp
roved of those who broke the silence of the library.

  Then Isaac introduced his son. “And what is your name?”

  “C-C-C-Cotton M-M-M-Mather.” The young man had a powerful stammer.

  “Son of Reverend Increase? Nephew of John Cotton?” asked Isaac.

  A flicker of a smile crossed the boy’s face. “The very s-s-s-same.”

  “And they have fostered a veritable genius.” Samuel Sewall bustled in with an armful of books. “Master Mather is the youngest student ever to attend. All of—what is it, Cotton—twelve years old?”

  “Eleven and a half, sir. ’Twas my father who m-m-m-matriculated at age twelve.”

  “A most brilliant family.” Sewall put down the books. He was a heavyset young man whose lively eyes and strong nose overlay an especially small mouth, so that his face seemed perpetually at odds with itself. He whispered to Isaac, “Brilliant the boy may be, sir, but too young for college, if you ask me. The older lads have made rough sport of him already. He’d best quit his stammering, or they’ll make even more.”

  Sensing that Mather was listening while pretending to read, Isaac said, “Well, Tutor Sewall, the son of Increase Mather may count on the friendship of the Wedges. Isn’t that right, John?”

  “Unh . . . yes, Father.” John answered with little enthusiasm, for what sixteen-year-old would welcome a companion so young? But Cotton’s father was pastor of Boston’s Second Church, and while friendship with the Mathers would be of little consequence to a Sudbury farmer, Isaac’s son might someday find benefit in such a relationship.

  More immediate benefit would come from a relationship to Samuel Sewall. So Isaac placed the sack of books on the table. “Now that I be done with these, Samuel, ’twould seem best that they be added to New England’s font of knowledge.”

  “What have you brought us?” Sewall poked his nose into the sack and drew forth a volume. “Clavis Homerica?”

  “Published at Rotterdam last year. Selections from the Iliad and the Odyssey.”

  “Excellent,” said Sewall. “We’ve only Chapman’s Homer, from Master Harvard himself. We need more literature. Though I . . . I trust there be no play in that bag.”

  Play. A mere word, and the uttering of it was like the sound of a gun. Cotton Mather’s head snapped up. John Wedge stepped toward his father, as if to protect him or seek protection. And Isaac took a step backward before regaining balance enough to say, “Why, Master Sewall, why would you suggest such a thing?”

  “I’ve come into possession of a diary and notebook owned by the late Reverend Shepard,” answered Sewall. “I’ve read them in preparation for writing a sketch on his piety . . . something I shall deliver before his congregation on the fortieth anniversary of his settlement.”

  “He was a good man,” said Isaac warily.

  “His writings include sermons, daily thoughts, and the confessions of those who accepted church membership in those days, including yourself, sir. It also comments on several of the confessions, including your own, sir.”

  By a quick shifting of his eyes from one slack-jawed freshman to another, Isaac tried without words to tell Sewall that he had said enough.

  But Sewall went on talking as he picked through the books in Isaac’s bag. “I thought Katharine Nicholson’s confession most amusing. It accused you of seeking a play on a trip you made to England. A ‘modern’ play.”

  “I returned with a classical play. The Agamemnon by Aeschylus.” Isaac went over to the wall and slipped the book from the shelf where it had resided for more than a quarter century. “Here is the very volume.”

  “Quite so,” said Sewall. “I’ve read it myself.”

  “And does Reverend Shepard’s little book also tell that truth?” asked Isaac.

  “Indeed it does, sir.”

  “Then there be no need to comment in front of impressionable boys who—”

  “I am n-n-not impressionable, sir,” said Mather. “My conscience has been well formed by my f-f-father, who considers m-m-modern theater the work of Satan. As do I.”

  “So you say?” answered Isaac.

  “So I say.” And for a moment, Isaac was pinned by the gaze of a boy who seemed certain of the rectitude of his opinions, despite his stammer and a voice that had not yet changed. The words of young Mather, brilliant son of the colony’s most brilliant father, were enough to convince Isaac that Love’s Labours Won should remain where it was, at least until the attitudes of the next generation could be better discerned and shaped.

  ii

  No year in the life of the college was ever as difficult as John Wedge’s first. In November, the students left in a revolt against the president, or perhaps the tutors, or was it the overseers? Nothing was certain, except that John Wedge walked the whole way back to Sudbury, appearing at his parents’ door on a gloomy afternoon and staying until March, when the president resigned, the tutors returned, and the college reopened.

  Meanwhile, the building of Harvard Hall proceeded fitfully, the pace determined by the speed with which the good people of Massachusetts fulfilled their pledges. But come June, the people of Massachusetts were using their money to defend their colony, and by August, they were fighting for its survival.

  The great Indian War, feared for so long by so many, had finally come to pass. The wonder to Isaac was that it had taken over fifty years. The Indians had seen their forests fall. They had watched white men widen their ancient footpaths and cut new roads west. And they had heard too much of a strange new god with three names yet one being, a god said to be more powerful than all the spirits of sky and earth. So they rallied around a Wampanoag chief named Metacom, known to the English as King Philip, and they attacked towns along Narragansett Bay. Then they moved north and west, inciting the Nipmucks and Pocumtucks and igniting the frontier.

  To meet the Indian threat, men were mustered in every town. And as he was fluent in the Algonkian language, Isaac was called upon several times to march out. Each time, he put the blunderbuss by the door and told his wife to use it without hesitation.

  Her answer was always that the Lord would protect her.

  Isaac believed that the Lord was most helpful to those who helped themselves. So he resolved to do his best to bring peace to the frontier. If he failed, he told his wife, the task would someday fall to their son.

  That winter a dozen Massachusetts towns were put to the torch. As winter flamed into spring, John Wedge wrote to his parents from the college:

  Word arrives of attacks on Lancaster and Medfield. Cotton Mather says that his father—ever in a position to know such things—hears rumors of five hundred warriors gathered near Mount Wachusett. I fear for your safety. Should I come home? Or better yet, should you come here?

  This letter reached Sudbury on a warm evening in April. Isaac and Rebecca were sitting together on chairs set out in front of the house, their eyes turned to the sunset, their ears attuned to the rising song of the spring peepers. And Isaac was thinking that once they had satisfied the senses of sight and sound, a husband of fifty-four and a wife of fifty-two might find it within themselves to satisfy other senses, as well.

  But into this gentle scene came two riders on heavily lathered mounts.

  “We bring a letter, sir,” said one of them.

  “And a request from Captain Wadsworth that you join him,” said the other. “He’s on the Great Path, marching to the Marlborough garrison.”

  “That’s eight miles west.” Isaac skimmed his son’s letter. “From what this tells, there be five hundred Indians some twenty miles northwest.”

  “From Marlborough, sir, we’ll be in position to move against ’em, however they strike. I’m under orders to request that you join us,” said one rider.

  “It seems I should be stayin’ here,” answered Isaac, “to defend wife and home.”

  “We’re to bring you with us, sir, forcible if we must,” said the other rider.

  Rebecca touched his arm. “Isaac, the Lord is my shepherd, and the garrison
is close. I’ll be safe.”

  So Isaac went into the house and, in an act that was by now ritual, put the blunderbuss by the door. Then he put his Bible in his breast pocket, draped powder horn and shot pouch over his shoulders, and embraced Rebecca. “If there’s trouble,” he told her, “don’t bother with the gun. Run for the garrison. Run hard.”

  “And the book?” she asked. “Do I save it or leave it?”

  “You would save the book for me?”

  “I be but a poor minister’s daughter and true minister’s wife . . . who believes that the Lord give her husband wisdom. Those riders prove it.”

  “How so?” asked Isaac.

  “You were the first man to see that Injuns can’t be educated. You saw it at the college. They be a different breed, and there be no hope to live with ’em.”

  That was not exactly what Isaac had seen or said, but he made no protest.

  “If you be right about that,” she went on, “who’s to say you’re not right about the meanin’ of blasphemy or the innocence of a play?”

  “’Tisn’t blasphemy at all, I don’t think.”

  “I’ve bet my immortal soul on what you think, Isaac Wedge. Otherwise, I would have cast that book into the fire on the first day you spoke of it. I’ll not let some heathen savage do what I would not.”

  “You have a strange way of showin’ your love.” He kissed her and held her close. “But if the Indians attack, leave the book and the gun. Just run.”

  Dawn came early in April. The old earth turned again toward the sun, brightening the sky and bringing birdsong before five. For each dawn that he had seen, Isaac had thanked the Lord. And he said his prayer again that morning, crouched by a campfire in front of the Marlborough garrison house. But before the sun had risen far, he was saying prayers of a different sort and Wadsworth’s column was hurrying back to the east, toward a cloud of smoke rising over Sudbury.

  Isaac, one of the few on horseback, begged Wadsworth to let him ride ahead.