The Dumb Shall Sing

by Stephen Lewis

  "Try her then," came the voice from the knot of people, still grouped by the tree. "Have her touch the babe. Then we will know."

  The crowd surged forward and Catherine found herself staggering toward Henry, who dropped to one knee against her weight. Henry threw one hand behind him to brace himself, and Catherine reached for the babe, so as to stop it from falling. As she grabbed for it, its swaddling blanket fell. The babe’s skin was cold. Henry regained his balance and wrapped the babe tightly in the blanket..

  "Try her," again came the cry from the crowd.

  "Surely not," Catherine said. "Magistrate Woolsey is coming. This is a matter for him."

  "We need not wait for the magistrate. We will have our answer now," shouted one. "Now," said another.

  "Right," said Ned. "We will try her now."

  Catherine turned to face the crowd and to peer over it to the road giving way to dusk. She thought she saw two figures approaching.

  "The magistrate is coming even now," she said.

  Henry looked at Ned, and the boy pushed the servant girl toward him.

  "Touch the babe," Ned demanded. "Yes, touch it," Henry said. “If it bleed, it cries out against you.”

  “There is no need for that,” Catherine said. “Talk of the dead bleeding. It is surely blasphemy.”

  “The blood will talk,” came a voice from a crowd. “Yes,” others confirmed, “let the poor dead babe’s blood cry out against its murderer.”

  The girl clasped her arms in front of her chest, but Ned pulled her hands out. She struggled, but he was too strong, and he was able to bring one hand to the exposed skin of the babe’s chest. He pressed the hand onto the skin, and then let her pull her hand back. Henry peered at the spot she had touched, and then lifted the babe over his head in a triumphant gesture.

  "It bleeds," he said. "It bleeds."

  He held the babe out for the crowd to see. Catherine strained her eyes as Henry and the babe were now in shadows. Henry turned so that all could view. Catherine was not sure she saw blood on the babe’s chest, but something on its back caught her eye, and then she could no longer see.

  "Blood," cried voices in the crowd. "The babe bleeds. Seize her."

  There was a violent surge forward, and Catherine felt herself being thrown to the ground. She got to her feet just in time to see rough hands grabbing the servant girl and pulling her away. Catherine hurled herself to the girl and threw her arms around the girl. For a few moments, there was a tense tug of war, all the more startling for the silence in which it occurred. Then a resonant, commanding voice, rose above the struggle.

  "I am here now," Magistrate Woolsey said.

  All eyes turned to him as he made his way through the crowd. He was accompanied by the constable, who had a sword drawn. The crowd parted, permitting them to reach the girl. The grasping hands dropped from her, and she pushed herself against the constable.

  "The babe," Magistrate Woolsey demanded, but Henry clutched it to his chest.

  "I need to bury it."

  "There will be time enough," Magistrate Woolsey said. "You have tried the girl by having her touch it, and now you must hand it to me so that we can examine it."

  Henry held out the babe, and the constable sheathed his sword and then took the babe into his arms. The blanket fell to the ground, and Ned picket it up.

  A high-pitched cry rose above the crowd.

  “No! You cannot take him!”

  All eyes turned toward Martha.

  “Give him to me!” she said. “You do not know. He is mine.”

  She reached for the babe in the constable’s arms, stretching out her strong hands, reddened and callused by hours of rough labor at the laundry tub and in the garden, but Catherine stepped between them.

  “Let me,” Catherine said, and the constable handed the babe to her with its back toward her. She saw a bruise there, and when she turned it she noted its perfectly formed nose. Martha held out her hands and stroked the babe’s face. Then she dropped her hands and Catherine handed the babe back to the constable.

  “Martha,” she said quietly. “We will bring him back to you as soon as we can.”

  “It does not matter,” she said. Her eyes were again vacant. She stepped toward the house, but then seemed to forget where she wanted to go. Her daughter came to her side. The constable looked at Woolsey, and the magistrate nodded. Then he beckoned to the servant girl,

  "Come with me, child." The girl clung to Catherine, and so together they followed the magistrate and the constable through the crowd. People hissed at them as they passed, but nobody dared to challenged the magistrate's authority. As they passed the knot of people by the tree, the same male voice that had been shouting throughout, could be heard.

  "The babe bled, Sir," it said. "We know you will come to see that the girl killed it."

  Woolsey stared in the direction of the voice, but did not respond. The rest of the crowd moved toward Henry and Ned to see what they would do. Nobody paid any attention to Martha, who remained where she was, rocking on her heels, moving her tongue to form soundless words. Her oldest daughter picked up the toddler and steered her mother into the house.

  In the darkness, Catherine did not see Minister Davis in the shadows in the rear of the crowd. He stepped forward, and she recognized the resonance of his voice.

  “A terrible, old superstition,” the minister said.

  “Why say you that to me now?” Catherine asked.

  Minister Davis shrugged.

  “I arrived too late. The people’s anger seemed stronger than I could quell.”

  “So I see,” Catherine replied.

  “What think you?”

  “Yes, a terrible thing, superstition.”

  “About the babe,” Minister Davis said.

  “I know not. I too was too late,” she replied.

  “I see,” he said, and walked away.

  She watched his shape disappear. A man carrying a torch walked up to the minister to say something to him. As they stood, heads close together, the glare of the torch illuminated a figure darting behind a tree. Catherine continued to walk with her arm around the servant girl. It is good, she thought, for him to keep out of sight, for the anger of this crowd would be looking for a new target to spend itself on, and Massaquoit would do very nicely. Of course, he hadn’t killed this babe, any more than the poor, shivering girl in her arms, but Magistrate’s Woolsey’s influence had been just strong enough to shield the girl from the mob; it would doubtless be too weak to protect an Indian.

  * * * *

  From behind a tree, Massaquoit watched. He saw the white woman leave with the man who was on the boat when his comrades were killed. Then the other English in twos and threes walked off into the night until only a few remained in front of the house. They must be the ones who live in the house, he thought. Then, all but two of them went into the house. The two left were men. He could tell that by their height, although it was getting too dark to see anything clearly. One of the English was taller than the other, and he leaned down as though to speak to the shorter one. The shorter one nodded and then trotted back into the house. Massaquoit waited for the larger one to follow but he did not. A few moments later, the shorter one came out. He was carrying something under his arm. The taller one motioned to the woods behind the house and the other carried his bundle in that direction and disappeared into the shadows. Then the taller man made his way into the house. Massaquoit peered at the place where the shorter one had vanished. He thought he saw movement, another figure, much smaller going off in the same direction. He stared harder but it was gone.

  The house was quiet and the yard in front of it where the mob had gathered was deserted. He was relieved to think that the English seemed to have forgotten him in the excitement at this house. He looked down the road the English woman had taken with the old man from the ship, but he did not follow them. Instead, carrying his saplings, roots, and the reeds he had gathered among the marshes at the shore, he returned to his tr
ee on the white woman's land. The sun was now down. He laid the makings of his wigwam down near the maple tree and stared at the small pile that awaited him there. First he picked up the white linen shirt, then the leather doublet, and finally the buff colored breeches of a heavy cloth lined with leather. He was familiar with the way the English dressed although he had never worn their clothes. He held the shirt up to his shoulders and saw that the size was about right. He was not quite sure how the doublet should be worn, so he contented himself with pressing it against his chest. The breeches barely reached his knees, and he recalled seeing English men wear another item that stretched from the knees to the feet. He looked on the ground, and found a pair of shoes, and beneath them two pieces of cloth, bright blue, with feet on their ends. He dropped the breeches next to the shoes and hose and stretched out in his weariness onto the cool ground. He looked toward the house where there was no sign of activity.

  He did not know if the white woman would return. But still, in the morning, whether she did or did not, he would begin constructing his wigwam.

  He had no other place to go.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Catherine was up before dawn, rising from a sleep troubled by the images of the night before, the dead baby limp in Henry's large, rough hands, Martha's lips set tightly pressed together while her eyes stared off into someplace nobody else could follow, and most the terror in the servant girl's eyes as the crowd called for her blood. She sat staring into the morning darkness, hearing the voices from the night before. A half hour later, she was startled to discover that the sun was now up and that she was sitting, fully dressed on her bed, and she did not remember putting on a single item of clothing.

  She walked through the kitchen toward the door at the rear of her house. She heard a snore and then she smelled the bread baking. Phyllis sat with her head on the table fast asleep. Catherine opened the door to the oven, which was built into the wall of the fireplace. The bread's crust was just starting to turn brown. She walked quietly past the sleeping servant. She pushed against the heavy door. The air was humid and the wood of the door had swollen so that she had to lower her shoulder and lean against the door to free it from the embrace of the frame. She gave one more, hard shove and the door opened into the half light of the rising sun. A moment later, she heard steps and turned to see Phyllis stumbling up from the table, her eyes still filled with sleep.

  "What's the matter," the girl asked.

  "Never you mind," Catherine replied. "Tend to your bread, and then put another one into bake."

  "Another?"

  "That is what I said. I have use for the one that is baking now."

  She walked out into the yard. The grass was wet beneath her feet. She made her way through the vegetable garden, passing by a row of pole beans on one side and Indian corn on the other. The bean plants were heavy with blossoms, but the corn stalks only came to her knees. Her eyes stayed focused straight ahead to the very rear of the garden. When she arrived at the patch, she knelt down and sought ripe fruit. Most of the strawberries were still green, but she found one that was red and soft. She squeezed it between her thumb and forefinger, and the juice left a faint, but discernible red stain. She ran her fingers over the stain, and then wiped her hand on her apron, and stood up. Her knees and back complained and she stretched until they quieted.

  She returned to the kitchen to find Phyllis taking the loaf of bread out of the oven.

  "Let it cool, and then wrap it in a napkin," Catherine said. She stirred the pot of powdered corn, called samp that was simmering in milk in the large pot in the fireplace. Then she ladled a generous portion of the mixture into a wooden trencher and carried it over to the table board.

  "I could have done that," Phyllis said.

  "Of course, but I did."

  "You needn't be so sharp with me this morning.,"

  "Well, then," Catherine said, aware that her tongue had more of an edge than usual, "just bring over the molasses and we'll sweeten this samp, and maybe my nature along with it."

  "It's all the trouble," Phyllis said as she spooned generous amounts of the sweet, thick liquid into Catherine's trencher.

  "Yes, it is," Catherine replied. She smiled as her tongue tasted the molasses and then grimaced in pain.

  "That tooth, is it?" Phyllis asked.

  "Yes."

  "I saw Goody Hawkins passing by this morning. I think we should nail a horseshoe over the door. Just to be certain."

  "It is the molasses," Catherine replied. "My tooth only pains me when I eat the molasses. Not when Goody Hawkins visits."

  "Well, for that, you know she does not have to be here to afflict you. People say she is not to be trusted, ever since her husband and her two sons drowned.”

  "It's the molasses," Catherine said. "Now hush about Goody Hawkins and wrap that bread for me so I can take it to the jail."

  Catherine took a few more spoonfuls of the samp. With each swallow, her tooth ached and each stab of pain running down her jaw and into her shoulder made her think of Goody Hawkins and to wonder if Phyllis might be correct. Goody Hawkins was a woman of near seventy whose tongue was sharp and temper short. Few people visited her, and those only who wanted to draw on her expertise in curing intractable illnesses. Because of her nasty disposition and her occasional success in helping those who came to her, gossips in the town made it known that her cures resulted from her witchery, and that she had made those whom she helped sick in the first place. Catherine, though, saw in her only a sad old woman who had outlived husband and children and now faced life wearing a stubborn frown. Still, Catherine was not willing to discount all the talk, and so as she stood up, her tooth aching, she tried to recall the last time she had seen Goody Hawkins. As though she could read her mistress' mind, Phyllis provided the answer.

  "Don't you recall," she said. "Goody Hawkins grabbed hold of your arm as we walked to the Jameson house, and when you would not talk to her, she growled at you like an angry dog."

  "Her voice bears the weight of her years, as her hair is as hoary as the snow in January. It is no more than that."

  "Like a dog," Phyllis insisted.

  "Never you mind," Catherine replied. She had not made up her mind about Goody Hawkins. She might be a witch after all, or she might just be the poor old woman Catherine sometimes thought she herself might become. Still, she could not chase the thought that Goody Hawkins had been at the Jameson house when the babe was born. In fact, she had extended her arms to hold it while Catherine fumbled for a knife to cut the cord. It was when Goody Hawkins had handed the babe back that Catherine saw that its nose needed to be cleared. And Goody Hawkins' face had worn a twisted frown, rather than a smile, when Catherine had cleared the babe's nostrils and it had cried its relief.

  Catherine picked up the wrapped bread and put it into her pocket.

  “I’ll be gone some time,” she said.

  “You’re not going to leave me here alone with that savage lurking about.”

  “Edward will be here shortly.”

  “Cannot I not go with you?” Phyllis insisted.

  “You are not truly afraid of Matthew, are you?”

  Phyllis nodded.

  “Surely, I am.”

  “You want to see that man’s punishment.”

  Phyllis reddened.

  “I had most forgotten.”

  “I do not think so. You can follow after me once Edward is here. Maybe Matthew will want to come with you.”

  Phyllis brought her hand to her mouth and then expelled her breath loudly. Catherine took the opportunity to wave good-bye. Catherine knew she permitted Phyllis too many liberties, but she liked the girl, and the house was too quiet when the girl was gone on an errand. So before Phyllis could catch her breath and continue to plead, Catherine walked out of the door.

  She looked northward, up the road the crowd had marched with glaring torches the night before toward the Jameson house. A stray hog was rooting in the dust and weeds at the edge of the dirt road. She tu
rned toward the south and the center of Newbury Town. There on one side of the road stood a line of three large houses in which lived the minister the governor and Joseph Woolsey. Across from them was the meetinghouse where workmen were removing a damaged section of roof. The road widened there into a square and then it gave way to a meadow on which the militia drilled. Past the meadow, the road narrowed again on its way to the harbor. Although it was early in the morning, a number of people seemed to share Catherine’s destination. She nodded to each in turn as she bustled past them, first a young servant boy, and then an elderly man stooped over a cane, and then two middle aged women walking side by side their heads close in conversation. All were heading to the jail that stood just where the road turned down a hill in sight of the water. .

  In its outward appearances, the jail looked like an ordinary house, and a very modest one at that. It was a simple square building, its walls sheathed in clapboard, and a heavy oaken door, studded with square nail heads, at its front entrance. One fair sized glass window flanked the door on its right. But the other windows, one on each side of the building, announced its function. They were little more than slits, with an iron bar running across their openings.

  A knot of people was gathered next to the pillory in front of the jail. Catherine made her way through the them and was about to knock on the door when it swung open and she found herself staring into the unshaven face of Matthew Drake, the jailer, a man in his fifties with yellow teeth and a bulbous red nose, on the tip of which sat a tuft of coarse black hair. He glanced at the small crowd and then leaned toward Catherine in an obsequious manner.

  “I suppose you have come to see about the girl,” he said.

  “That I have.” Catherine reached into her pocket and pulled out the shilling. “Here,” she said, extending her hand palm up so that the sun could catch the bright coin, “make sure that she has enough to eat and whatever else she might need.”