Crow Hollow

by Michael Wallace

  Nevertheless, James didn’t know yet if Leverett were a party to the conspiracy, or if Knapp and Fitz-Simmons had whispered tales into his ears. Either way, he guessed the king’s commission would change no minds. Leaving aside the vague words, the king’s seal was broken, had fallen completely away during his travels.

  “Whatever you know or think you know about me is a lie,” James said. “I was sent by His Majesty to investigate the death of Sir Benjamin.”

  “You were sent by Sir Benjamin’s creditors,” Leverett said. “They wish to recover the man’s gambling debts in London and to rob the widow of her inheritance.”

  “That is a damned lie.”

  “You profane at your peril, sirrah.”

  “Who told you this?” James pointed his sword at Knapp. “This man?”

  Leverett smiled. “A warning letter arrived by boat from England. It arrived two days after you fled Boston to avoid arrest for disturbing the peace. It warned of your ruse. Where is the Praying Indian?”

  “Murdered on the road by Samuel Knapp and his confederates.”

  “Then you have many crimes to answer for,” Leverett said. “If you have caused the death of your companion, as well.”

  James had been knocked off balance by the confidence of this man. He’d expected to face Knapp and Fitz-Simmons, had been ready to answer their lies. He hadn’t prepared himself for this confident, self-assured governor, used to commanding and being obeyed. Another moment and the last remnants of James’s authority would fall away.

  “Let me tell you what these men did,” James said. “Knapp is responsible for the destruction of Winton, the murder of Sir Benjamin and many other innocents, English and Indian alike. He and Fitz-Simmons—”

  Leverett waved a hand, a look of disdain on his face. “I know all about your allegations. I received warning from London, I tell you. From one of your confederates. You have been betrayed, sirrah.”

  James lifted his sword tip and pressed it against the governor’s chest. He used it to force the surprised man back.

  Then, to Cooper and McMurdle, “Arrest those two. The short ugly one. The gray-haired fellow next to him too. We’ll question them in private. Then we’ll return to arrest the other conspirators.”

  James’s fellow agents moved around the table with their pistols drawn while Knapp and Fitz-Simmons sat calmly. The mood was ugly among the other members of the General Court, but most were older, prosperous-looking men; if a few resisted, he had little doubt that the three king’s agents, plus the two at the door, would cut down any opposition.

  There would be hell to answer for back in London, though, if it came to bloodshed. He’d been tasked with creating a disturbance, perhaps even seizing the charter of the Bay Colony, but overthrowing the entire colonial government through violent means was likely to cause trouble among the restive New Englanders.

  All of this went through James’s head in an instant, and he scarcely had a chance to question why Knapp and Fitz-Simmons were sitting so placidly. Knapp even managed a sneer.

  Then the doors behind the chapel opened, and pouring from the reverend’s personal chambers came several men armed with muskets. Many of them were the same men who’d met James and Peter on the wharf.

  “Stand back, you dogs!” one of them yelled.

  Cooper was reaching for Knapp’s shoulder as if to drag him to his feet, but now he froze. McMurdle’s confidence vanished in an instant. The militia members came at them, but the two men had the presence of mind to stand back with their pistols aimed at their would-be attackers.

  James still had his sword pressed against the governor’s chest. Three muskets aimed at him, the rest at his companions.

  “Now listen to me,” James said to the governor. “You’re making a terrible mistake. I’ll give you a chance to step back and reconsider, but call off these men first. If not, you will sow the wind and reap the whirlwind, I swear before God.”

  Leverett’s jaw clenched, and he met James’s gaze and held it. “Put down your sword, sirrah.”

  They wouldn’t take James without a struggle. Could he count on Cooper and McMurdle, or would they throw down their weapons and beg mercy? How about the two at the door? If they came rushing down the aisle, the five of them stood a slim chance of fighting their way clear. A very slim chance. These men would be veterans of the war, hardened by battle and bloodshed. They wouldn’t panic and run. And even if James did break free, what then? Flee through the streets of Boston while they were hunted down like vermin?

  He cast a glance to the doors to see them wide open and Marianne and Vandermeer with their backs to him. The cowards meant to run.

  No, damn you.

  But then he saw that they’d opened the doors not to flee, but to admit newcomers to the meetinghouse. The first one in was Prudence Cotton. Behind her came her sister, holding Mary, followed by Reverend Stone and Lucy Branch.

  Thinking quickly now, James grabbed the governor and held the sword up to his throat, using the man’s body to shield himself from the men with muskets, who were trying to flank him but finding it difficult to maneuver around the pews.

  “Everybody stop!” Prudence cried. “Put down your weapons. James, please!”

  “Are you a traitor, sir?” James asked the governor in a low voice.

  Leverett stared back at him. His jaw was set, a vein throbbing at his temple. He did not look afraid.

  “If I release you, will you listen to the widow?” James asked.

  “You make no demands here.”

  “I demand that you listen. Or are you too proud for that?”

  “Very well. I will listen. Then you will hang for your crimes.”

  “We shall see,” James said.

  He pushed the man away and took two steps backward. Vandermeer and Marianne came down the aisle ahead of Prudence and the others, and James fell back until he stood with them. Cooper and McMurdle were in the grasp of the militia, disarmed and glaring. Knapp was on his feet now and standing defiantly with the militia. Fitz-Simmons remained seated. For the first time he looked troubled.

  Prudence strode up to the governor. “I denounce Samuel Knapp and William Fitz-Simmons for murder, for treason, and for the violation of a woman’s virtue. For the killing of unarmed prisoners, including children. For theft of property through deception.”

  The men in the room had quieted to hear what she was going to say, and now murmurs of disbelief passed from one man to the next.

  “Whatever lies Bailey told you,” Leverett told her, his voice measured, patient, “rest assured that you will be offered leniency for your role in this matter. You acted under duress. You were deceived. Trust me, Widow Cotton, we have the truth of it.”

  “No, Governor. You are wrong.” Prudence waved her hand. “Lucy, come. Now.”

  The servant girl stepped forward from where she’d been cowering next to Prudence’s sister and the child. She stared at the floor as if she could bore holes in the planks with her gaze. Prudence had to take her elbow, she was trembling so violently.

  “Tell us,” Prudence said.

  “I poisoned the Praying Indian,” Lucy said.

  “What?” Leverett blurted. The room exploded in shouts of disbelief. The governor quieted them with a gesture. “Tell the truth, child.”

  Lucy pointed her finger, lifting her gaze for the first time to stare at Samuel Knapp. “This man forced himself upon me. Then he threatened to accuse me of witchcraft and whoredom if I did not adulterate the drink of the Praying Indian.”

  James kept his gaze steady, but he was surprised. This was not what Prudence had surmised before. She had been certain that Lucy had offered herself freely, to try to attract the prosperous, powerful man’s interest in marriage. Was this a lie to protect the girl?

  The certainty faded from the governor’s face. He cast a glance at the two accused men.

  “She’s lying,” Knapp snarled. “She wants to protect her lover, this knave from London who seduced her.”

/>   Leverett turned away and looked at James, then Prudence. “I cannot believe it. Knapp, perhaps, but Goodman Fitz-Simmons is my deputy. There’s no man I trust more in Boston.”

  Prudence lifted Mary from the arms of her sister. “This is my daughter. Kept by the Indians these nine months. I heard the truth of the matter from the mouth of the surviving Nipmuk. Knapp and Fitz-Simmons murdered a woman and committed an outrage against the sachem’s wife. They did this so the Indians would attack Winton and slaughter its inhabitants. My husband had promised peace, and his two associates grossly violated it. When the Indians caught Benjamin, they subjected him to special torture.”

  “More lies!” Knapp cried. “Tell them,” he urged Fitz-Simmons.

  But the deputy-governor remained silent. Anguish broke across his face.

  “Reverend?” Governor Leverett said, turning to Stone, who stood with his wife. “What is this? Is any of this truth? I feel as though I’m being deceived by Satan.”

  “There is deception here, Governor,” Stone said. “But not by Widow Cotton, and not by Master Bailey.”

  “How can this be? The Praying Indian was poisoned under your very roof?”

  “Mistakes were made, eyes closed in blindness. Knapp acquired the richest lands left by Sir Benjamin. He told me the land was worth little. This was a lie.”

  “But the rest of it?” Leverett said. “Can you vouch for this story?”

  “Aye, that I can,” the reverend said. “Lucy already confessed to poisoning the Praying Indian under command of Captain Knapp. As for the rest, I believe it all. So does my wife, and she has never led me astray. I do not believe that Prudence is deceived, and neither does Anne.”

  A tremble hit the reverend’s voice, and James almost felt sorry for him, even though his words were slippery even now. Mistakes made, eyes closed in blindness? Was he incapable of accepting responsibility?

  “Goodman Fitz-Simmons,” Leverett said. Some of his confidence had returned, the iron morality of his tone, but it was no longer leveled toward James, but toward the deputy governor. “Answer these charges. Are you in league with Knapp?”

  Knapp sputtered. “Nobody is in league with me. It is all a lie!”

  Fitz-Simmons was shaking worse than Lucy Branch as the governor came over to him.

  “Tell me the truth,” Leverett said. “It is your only hope to avoid the hellfire and damnation that surely await on the other side.”

  The room had fallen silent. The only sound was the crackling fire. James held his tongue. Cooper and McMurdle had freed themselves and made their way quietly to his side.

  “It is true,” Fitz-Simmons said at last. “All of it, even the attack on the highway and the murder of Robert Woory and Peter Church.”

  “May the Lord have mercy on your soul,” Reverend Stone murmured.

  James had been studying the other men, both those armed with muskets and the members of the General Court. Watching for guilty reactions. Knapp was edging away from the table, his body tense, casting furtive glances toward the back door from which the militia members had materialized earlier. Getting ready to flee.

  James sprang after him before he could move. All attention was on Fitz-Simmons, and nobody moved to block him until it was too late and he was at Knapp’s side. He swung with his sword hilt and smashed Knapp on the head. The man staggered back with a cry, and James punched him in the gut. Knapp doubled over and fell. He reached for something in his cloak as he tried to rise, but James straddled him and pressed the sword tip against his throat, and Knapp went limp as a dead snake.

  For a moment there was stunned silence, then the rest of the king’s agents rallied around him. Cooper plucked away muskets, and McMurdle snarled threats at those who resisted. One of the older men from the court pleaded for peace, for the New Englanders to obey the king’s agents.

  In a moment, Cooper and McMurdle had disarmed the militia and tossed all the weapons to the floor. Vandermeer hauled Knapp to his feet while Marianne covered him with a pistol. Blood trickled from his forehead, and he could scarcely remain standing without assistance.

  Leverett crossed his arms and stared at Fitz-Simmons, who was still trembling. “Will you name your accomplices in sin?”

  “Some died on the highway west of Boston.”

  “And the rest? Name them.”

  The deputy governor swallowed hard and nodded. “John Johnson. Harold Kitely. William—”

  A gun fired. Men startled. Mary cried out in Prudence’s arms.

  One of the older men slumped across the table, dropping a pistol that clattered on the floor. Blood gushed from his ruined head, spreading across the papers and maps on the table. He’d blown out his brains.

  Prudence turned away with her daughter, covering the child’s eyes. James moved to her side, almost put an arm around her before remembering where they were.

  Leverett cast an unforgiving glance at the dead man. “William Crispin, you were going to say?”

  Fitz-Simmons swallowed hard and nodded. “Aye, Goodman Crispin.”

  James was angry at himself for not checking all of the men for hidden weapons. He ordered Cooper and McMurdle to search the rest of the members of the General Court.

  “Continue,” Governor Leverett told his deputy when that was accomplished. “Name the rest of the condemned.”

  “Matthias Walker. Joseph Nance. Henry Edwins. And Samuel Knapp, our leader. That is all. May the Lord forgive me my wickedness.” Fitz-Simmons buried his face in his hands.

  “The Lord may,” James said. “But His Majesty, Charles the Second, will not.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  A mob loved a hanging, and the good Puritans of Boston were no exception. By the time James and Cooper arrived at the frozen Common on horseback, several hundred people were milling about the large, open field around the gallows.

  A small group of officials, wealthy merchants, and ministers gathered in a somber knot. Stone was up there, speaking to the governor in quiet tones. There were several women in the governor’s coterie; perhaps Prudence was among them. He hadn’t seen her since the trial three days earlier, when she’d testified against Knapp and his confederates. Since then, he’d been busy writing letters, negotiating with the colonial government, and arranging credit to finance the expenses of his final days in Boston before his return to England.

  “McMurdle is on the Vigilant, guarding the prisoner?” James asked Cooper.

  “Aye, with the mulatto. McMurdle will sail to London, if you’ll allow him. There will be honors. This could be his opportunity.”

  “And you? This could be your opportunity as well.”

  “With your permission, I will return to my family in Springfield.”

  James considered. It would be a cruel thing to force Cooper back to London.

  “Stay in the Bay Colony, if you must, but you will settle in Boston. I need a man in the city.”

  Cooper nodded, looking relieved. “You could stay too. ’Twould be good to have a friend among these stiff-necked fellows.”

  “No, I am leaving as soon as I settle affairs here.”

  “Nothing could make you stay?” Cooper gave him a sharp look. “Not even the love of a good woman?”

  “As for McMurdle,” James said, ignoring the question, “I have half a mind to order him back to New York. Vandermeer isn’t enough—I need someone with more cunning and force of will. The Dutch came back once—who can say they won’t try again? Moreover, if he’s enamored of Marianne, and she of him, they’d fare better in Manhattan than London.”

  “Aye, that they would. What about the colonial charter? Will you seize it?”

  “No. I made promises to Governor Leverett in order to secure his cooperation. Betraying that promise now would only incite more sedition. But I’ll make my recommendation to the king. Know this, the Crown will be exerting more control of New England. Soon enough, we will have those charters and these will be royal colonies.”

  The two men ignored the stares
as they came up front and dismounted. They tied their animals to the side of the scaffolding. The long arm of the gallows creaked in the wind. Six nooses waved back and forth, glistening in the morning sun, the rope coated with ice. The hanging was to have taken place the previous evening, but Leverett had asked James to grant a temporary stay. The wife of one of the condemned men had given birth the previous day, and the man wished to hold his child first. James granted the stay. Freezing rain had fallen during the night. The last thing the men would feel before the swinging was an icy collar tightened around their necks.

  Eight conspirators. One was dead, having blown his own brains to kingdom come when his name was spoken. He would receive his reward in the next world. Another man was in chains in the hold of the Vigilant, on his way to England to face the king’s wrath in person. The other six would hang.

  As James and Cooper stepped up front, Leverett and the other men with him turned away, refusing to look at the king’s agents. Only Reverend Stone approached.

  “The widow is not here,” Stone said. “She is with her child and my wife at the house.”

  James had been looking around for Prudence; now he turned to the reverend, attempting to keep the disappointment from his face. “It is for the best. A hanging is an ugly thing. One should not delight in the death of one’s fellow man.”

  “How very true,” Stone said. “There has been altogether too much delighting in these parts as of late. We defeated our enemies in battle, but at a terrible cost.”

  “It was a war. War is brutal.”

  “Do you remember what Peter Church said when he denounced me during my sermon?”

  “He was denouncing all of Boston,” James said, “not you in particular.”

  “Instead of spreading the gospel to the native sons of this land, those who hungered for truth were given gall and hot lead. Their blood cried up from the soil for justice. And this,” Stone added with a nod toward the gallows, “is a taste of the punishment the Lord will deliver this land if we do not repent.”