The somber tones of the church bell rippled through the house. True to their cultural conditioning, everyone cocked an ear to the traditional signal and stopped what they were doing. The pastor closed the lid of the coffin as the young underbearers gathered around it, preparing to bear Benjamin Morgan’s body on its last journey. However, there was an empty space beside the coffin. One of the underbearers was missing. There should be six, but only five were in place.
Jared Morgan burst into the room, hopping on one foot while trying to jam a dripping foot into his shoe.
Typical Jared, Priscilla thought. Irresponsible. He doesn’t think about anybody but himself.
He’d been out at river’s edge, playing in the water. The shoe halfway on, he began to lose his balance. Instinctively his half-covered foot slammed against the wooden floor. As it hit, the shoe made greater progress on his foot. Seeing that this worked, Jared stomped his foot several times until the shoe was in place. He straightened himself, ran both hands in comb-like fashion through his light brown hair, and skidded into place next to the coffin.
As the church bell continued its melancholy summons, the underbearers lifted the coffin to their shoulders. The pall, a heavy black broadcloth owned by the town, was draped over the coffin and the underbearers. The pallbearers, men of age and community standing, held the corners of the pall to keep it from slipping. The procession was ready to begin.
The minister and town magistrates led the procession. The coffin bearers followed, then family members and close friends, finally church members and acquaintances. Priscilla looked around for her mother. She frowned. Constance Morgan had an arm linked with Philip. Daniel Cole, a bulky Boston merchant, occupied her other side while Penelope trailed behind.
Daniel Cole and Constance Mayhew had been friends since childhood, close friends. So close that most people had expected them to marry. As Priscilla heard it, everyone was surprised when Constance chose Benjamin Morgan over the promising Cole.
Constance was dwarfed by the merchant’s size. He was a huge bear of a man with a massive head of white hair. One of his big paws was stretched around Priscilla’s mother, resting on her shoulder. Priscilla didn’t like it. Not one bit. She’d never been impressed with the man, and the thought of him touching her mother was revolting.
Priscilla Morgan joined her father’s funeral procession, maintaining a good distance between herself and the rest of her family.
So this is how it is to be, she thought. Alone. So be it. Life’s easier this way. Just look out for yourself. Don’t get close to anyone. They’ll only hurt you.
“I know I shouldn’t be up here,” a soft voice came from behind her. “But do you think they’ll put me in the pillory if I violate the order of the procession by walking with you?”
Priscilla turned to see who was addressing her. It was Anne Pierpont, a slender young lady with innocent round eyes and a quick smile. Although she was a few years younger than Priscilla, she was taller. But then most people were taller than Priscilla, who had always been petite. Anne was one of the few women Priscilla admired. She was intelligent and a gifted poet.
Priscilla thought it odd that she liked Anne so much, considering their differences. For instance, Priscilla was no stranger to anger, yet she had never seen Anne even mildly miffed; in fact, she’d never seen Anne exhibit any negative emotion at all. Remarkable. How could anyone live like that? But their personalities weren’t their greatest difference. That had to be Jared. Anne was sweet on him. And he—in his own miserable, awkward way—had demonstrated some form of affection for her in return. Priscilla couldn’t understand what it was about her brother that would attract an intelligent person like Anne. It just didn’t make sense.
“If you’d rather be alone, I’ll return to my place in the procession,” Anne offered.
Priscilla hesitated. She thought of her stony resolve and dismissed it.
“No,” she said, “I’d like it if you would join me.”
Anne Pierpont smiled. It was an affectionate smile that swept over Priscilla like a warm tonic.
The procession wound its way up the path leading from the Morgan house along the banks of the Charles River to the little church graveyard, barely a mile distant, situated on the top of a hill. Priscilla could hear Philip’s wheezing cough ahead of her. He’d had the condition as a child. A coughing attack could be set off by dust, exertion, or anxiety. Priscilla always found his attacks too convenient; although she didn’t believe he faked his condition, it seemed odd to her that Philip always seemed to have an attack when there was something he didn’t want to do.
The mourners gathered around the open grave. It was a lonely, barren spot on the hillside. Briars and weeds grew in tangled thickets; birch trees and barberry bushes sprang up unchecked. The graves were clustered together in irregular groups showing no thought of planning, no sense of order.
The grieving family and friends of Benjamin Morgan milled around the grave site. There was no sermon and no religious service of any kind. The Puritans did not wish to confirm the popish error that prayer is to be used for the dead or over the dead, so they said nothing at all. They watched in silence as the coffin was lowered into the grave. The only testimony to the dead man’s life, other than the human legacy he left behind, was the printed words on the headstone. They were written by Anne Pierpont.
When Priscilla purchased the headstone—a hard, dark, flinty piece of slate from North Wales, she was asked what she wanted inscribed on it. She hadn’t given it much thought up until then, and she asked for some examples. The standard inscription, she was told, was:
As I am now, so you shall be,
Prepare for Death & follow me.
Other suggestions were no better, so she asked Anne Pierpont to compose something appropriate. The inscription on Benjamin Morgan’s tombstone read:
I came in the morning—it was Spring
And I smiled.
I walked out at noon—it was Summer
And I was glad.
I sat me down at even—it was Autumn
And I was sad.
I laid me down at night—it was Winter
And I slept.
“It’s beautiful,” Priscilla leaned over and whispered to Anne.
The gentle poet blushed.
“Thank you,” she said.
The funeral over, those least acquainted with the deceased man headed down the hill first. Jared was with them. Philip stood close beside the open grave; Penelope stood beside him. He was head of the Morgan family now. It was still hard for Priscilla to accept. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Benjamin Morgan had lived only half a lifetime. He was such a good man, such a kind man.
Why hadn’t Philip been killed instead?
It was a question that had been rumbling in her mind ever since she heard the news of her father’s death. As much as she hated her brother and loved her father, still she knew the question was unfair. She tried to put it out of her mind. But the question kept coming back.
Why hadn’t Philip been killed instead?
Her father and Philip had gone on a journey, but only Philip returned alive. Her father was pierced by two arrows and a bullet, yet her brother received not a scratch. It didn’t make sense.
Surely Philip could have done something to save him! Did he try? He said he did. But did he really do all he could do, or did he save himself?
“Priscilla.”
The sound of her name spoken by an unfamiliar voice caused her to start.
“Did I scare you?”
It wasn’t an apology. It almost sounded like a boast.
Towering over her was the huge merchant, Daniel Cole. His eyes were a hard, unfriendly gray.
“I want you to know that if there is anything I can do for your family … I mean, anything at all … you see … your mother and I have been friends for a long time.”
“Thank you, sir. The gesture is appreciated,” she said with a flat tone.
The merchant took offens
e at the coolness of her response. He whirled away, then back again.
“Death is not the end, only the beginning,” he said. “Why, the two days in which I buried my wife and son were the best days I ever had in the world! If you weren’t so self-obsessed, you’d realize that this is best for your father.”
He turned and stalked away.
“He means well,” Anne offered, laying a comforting hand on Priscilla’s shoulder.
She was right. Daniel Cole was merely offering a well-known, often-expressed Puritan hope—that when a believer dies, he or she is transported immediately into God’s heavenly kingdom. It was a belief Priscilla shared. Still, it did little to ease her overwhelming sense of loss.
“I’ll bet the day his wife and son died was the best day for them, too,” Priscilla said sarcastically.
Priscilla and Anne were the last to leave the hillside graveyard. Anne kept her distance, allowing Priscilla time to be alone with her thoughts, a gesture Priscilla appreciated. With the breeze whipping her dress, Priscilla stood overlooking Cambridge. The Back Bay and Boston lay in the distance. She could see the winding course of the Charles River and the roof of her house situated among the trees. The sight of home hit her hard.
Her father wouldn’t be coming home tonight. She would leave him buried in the cold earth of this hill. Like lightning striking a dam, her brave resolve to control her emotions splintered and collapsed.
The tender embrace of Anne Pierpont steadied her shaking shoulders. Anne meant well, but her embrace only served to remind Priscilla of the vow she’d made to herself.
“Thank you,” Priscilla said sternly. “But I’m fine now.”
With renewed anger Priscilla Morgan repaired the emotional dam. On that hillside overlooking Cambridge she resolved never to love anyone again. Never to let anyone get close enough to hurt her. She would live alone. She would show them all. She would not fit their mold. She would study, she would learn, and she would become wealthy. People respect wealth, maybe even respect enough to balance the fact that she was a woman.
2
The click of the front door latch startled him awake. Tired, scratchy eyes pried open, searching for a scrap of light to focus on. There was none. The room was totally dark.
The front door creaked—a low, agonizing creak, the kind of creak doors make when someone is attempting to pass through unnoticed.
Then, all was silent.
Fully awake now, Philip Morgan bolted upright. There was a moment of disorientation. Where was he? He wasn’t in his bedroom. Philip rubbed his eyes, hoping to hasten their usefulness. Slowly, dark forms began to take shape. That’s right; he was in his father’s office. He’d fallen asleep while working at the desk. His back and arms complained, aching in the places where they’d rested against the wooden chair.
The front door creaked again. Philip searched the room for some kind of weapon. For the second time the door latch clicked. Ordinarily, the click of the latch would go by unnoticed, but in a dark house, in the still of the night, the sound echoed with frightening clarity.
Philip held his breath, listening for footsteps. Nothing. A weapon, I need a weapon! His eyes darted around the room, looking for something to use as a club. Just then he heard a voice from outside the house.
“Hurry up!” it cried.
Philip crossed noiselessly to the window, stood to one side to avoid being seen, and peered out. A full moon splashed its silvery light on the walkway, the sloping front yard, and the random scattering of trees. A sudden movement caught his eye. Someone running from the house. The human figure ran with an easy, loping gait; a musket was clutched in his right hand while a powder horn swung rhythmically at his side.
Jared!
Philip easily recognized his brother’s athletic stride. It was something he’d envied about his brother most of his life. While Philip excelled intellectually, it was Jared who had always been stronger and faster, even when they were young boys.
Why was Jared sneaking out of the house late at night?
Philip made a mental note to tell his father about it in the morning. Then, like a hot poker, the unwelcome memory of his father’s death burned in Philip’s bosom. He couldn’t tell his father … he had no father. That’s why he was in the office. He was head of the household now. His brother was now his responsibility. Philip stared after his Jared, who was headed for a tuft of trees near the river’s edge.
I should go after him and bring him back, he thought.
In the distance two dark forms stepped from the trees’ shadows. One was tall, the other shorter and chunky. When Philip saw them, his memory flashed to another time, another place when two men stepped out from among the trees.
Suddenly Philip’s windpipe constricted. He wheezed and coughed, struggling to clear a passageway in which to breathe, fighting for any scrap of air. Instinctively, he steadied himself with one hand on the windowsill as violent spasms of coughing and wheezing doubled him over. Although he’d had similar attacks for as long as he could remember, they had never been this violent. Since his asthma attack on the day Father died, each succeeding attack had gotten worse, and with each attack Philip thought for sure he was going to die. And, although he didn’t want to admit it, even to himself, there was a part of him that had conceded that death would be a welcome relief.
The strength of the coughing spasms began to diminish, and Philip groped his way from the windowsill to the bookcase to the desk to the chair. He collapsed into it. The spasms mustered for one last attack, and Philip coughed so hard his feet lifted off the floor. A few agonizing moments later it was over. Philip Morgan fell limp in the chair, his arms dangling over the sides as sweat poured down his face.
He lay still for a long time, exhausted. He thought of Jared. Should go after him. Bring him back. But he didn’t have the strength. He’d just have to wait and confront his younger brother in the morning.
Two dark images appeared in Philip’s mind again. He tried to blot them from his memory, but he could no more do that than he could stop his asthma attacks. Tears merged into the streams of sweat that coursed down his cheeks as Philip remembered the day his father died.
It was supposed to be a simple trip to Boston to check on an investment. Although Philip was the oldest of the Morgan children, he knew little about the family’s financial investments. Up until now his father had taken care of these things, in a rather untimely manner as Philip was beginning to find out. Benjamin Morgan was a scholar, not a businessman. He handled financial matters only when he had to, never because he wanted to. Father and son were much alike in that manner, each preferring the classics to the ledger. But an urgent matter of business had arisen, calling the elder Morgan to Boston. Wanting someone to talk to during the journey, and thinking it was high time his eldest son learned about the family’s business matters, he had asked Philip to accompany him.
Benjamin Morgan and son took the longer land route to Boston rather than using the ferry that crossed over from Charlestown. The elder Morgan had never liked the water. He’d drink it, bathe in it, but would never ride on it. The source of his father’s unabashed phobia remained a mystery to Philip. In some ways Philip respected his father more for having it. Maybe because it made his father seem more human.
So father and son left Cambridge early in the morning on horseback. They’d crossed the bridge over the Charles River on the road heading south and had just passed through Muddy River Village on the way to Roxbury. Benjamin Morgan had just turned to his son to say something when the first arrow struck him.
It came from a small patch of forest on Benjamin Morgan’s side of the road. Because he’d just turned toward Philip, the arrow hit him in the back. The elder Morgan’s eyes flashed wide with pain and surprise. Then a musket fired, and Benjamin’s body jerked with the impact. The pupils of his eyes rolled upward, and he fell from his horse, making the most awful thud as he hit the dirt road.
Philip jumped down from his horse. Every instinct screamed at him
to attend to his father, but first he had to deal with the attackers. He had to get the musket. There was only one weapon, and it was strapped to his father’s saddle. Luckily, his father’s horse had stopped. It stood there stupidly, staring down at its fallen master, oblivious to any danger. Philip used the horse to shield himself from the direction of the attack. He heard his father’s moans as he reached over the horse and grabbed the butt of the musket. That’s when he saw them emerging from the trees.
What a strange pair, Philip remembered thinking. The two attackers halted a short distance from their cover and stood there as bold as anything, studying their victims. One was an Indian— Mohegan, Pequot, Narragansett—Philip didn’t know which; he couldn’t tell one Indian from another. The thing that was so strange about it was that the Indian’s partner was a sailor! What was a sailor doing in the woods attacking his father? The sailor wore wide, baggy breeches cut a few inches above the ankle, a checkered shirt of blue and white linen, and a Monmouth cap. He was short and wiry with scraggly gray hair falling from the edges of his cap. He had a huge, bulbous nose that looked like it covered more than half of his face. Philip had never seen either of them before. He stood there, dumbfounded at the thought that these two strangers would want to hurt him or his father.
Benjamin Morgan had grabbed his horse by the front leg and was pulling himself up. The sailor saw him and said something to the Indian. The Indian drew another arrow.
Philip tried to shout a warning to his father, but before he could utter a word, a violent spasm gripped his throat. There was no warning cry, only wheezing and coughing and rattling sounds.
The Indian loaded his weapon and pulled the bow. Philip could only watch, helplessly clutching his throat and gasping for breath. The arrow whizzed through the air and hit its mark with a thump. Benjamin Morgan slumped to the ground.
The Puritans (American Family Portrait #1) Page 49