The Dumb Shall Sing

by Stephen Lewis

  Catherine did not respond. She had one more point to make for the governor’s benefit.

  “You may well be marrying English law to Scripture, and that is a good thing, for we are told in Deuteronomy ‘At the mouth of two witnesses, or three witnesses, shall he that is worthy of death be put to death; but at the mouth of one witness he shall not be put to death.’ As you worthy gentlemen consider your recommendation, consider that you did not hear two witnesses say they saw Margaret harm the babe.”

  Minister Davis paused on his way down from the pulpit.

  “Am I not right?” Catherine asked him.

  “You say the words as they are in the Book,” the minister said. “It does say so in that place.”

  Governor Peters rolled his papers and brought them down on the table.

  “Quoting Scripture with our learned friend is one matter, Mistress, but advising your magistrates how to apply the law is quite another. Is that not so Woolsey?” He did not wait for a response but stood up and strode out of the meetinghouse.

  Minister Davis followed the governor. Woolsey nodded to the constable, who took Margaret by the arm and encouraged her to stand. He led her out and the crowd sat silent as though disappointed that the entertainment was over. The Jamesons left next, although Ned seemed to hang back. Catherine watched as he motioned to the pock marked sailor. They approached her, and she placed herself in their path.

  “A word with your friend,” Catherine said.

  “I do not think he has anything to say to you Mistress,” Ned said.

  “Has he a tongue?”

  For answer, the sailor thrust his tongue out until he drooled. A glob of spit gathered in a crater left by the disease on his chin.

  “Aye, but cannot it talk?” Catherine asked.

  They were now alone in the meetinghouse. Ned pulled on his companion’s arm and they made their way past Catherine. At the door stood Massaquoit. They stopped. He stood there, arms crossed in front of his chest. Ned continued but his companion remained. Ned looked back over his shoulder and waved him on.

  “Come on mate, you are safe here in the Lord’s house. The savage will do you no harm.”

  “I want no part of him,” the sailor said.

  Ned shrugged.

  “As you like.”

  He walked straight at Massaquoit. Catherine gestured for him to step aside, and he did.

  “See, mate,” Ned called, but then Massaquoit took his place again in the doorway.

  “What would you know?” the sailor asked Catherine.

  “You seem to be an especial friend of young Ned.”

  “Aye, ever since he came aboard the Good Hope.” “I took him under my wing, like, him being just a lad with his shoes still covered with the dust of the road, if you take my meaning.” He looked past Catherine to Massaquoit.

  “Just a word or two more,” she said. “What can you tell me why he came aboard.”

  “Why only that he need to get out of his uncle’s house, seeing as there was a problem touching that Irish girl who killed the babe and was just sitting in this very place.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  The sailor smirked.

  “That kind of trouble,” and then as though he had regained his courage he strode at Massaquoit who stepped aside.

  After he left, Catherine walked up to Massaquoit.

  “I was returning from the woods,” he said, “ when I saw the people leave. I waited. I looked through the door when everyone had left and saw you talking to those two. I remember them well.”

  “I am sure you do. You did me service.”

  “That is what I am to do, is it not?”

  “Yes,” she said. She paused for a moment. “Perhaps I shall ask you for another.”

  Catherine sat on the edge of her bed listening to the chirping of the crickets outside of her bedroom window. It was pointless to try to sleep. Her mind was still back in the meetinghouse replaying the words she had heard, and seeing again the hatred in the eyes of Margaret’s accusers, not just the Jamesons but the good people of Newbury as well. And in the governor’s actions and words she read his determination to play the politician rather than the judge. Whatever he might feel privately he had apparently decided it was very much in his interest to ride the wave of the people’s anger. And the girl, the poor thing, clutching her cross, saying her beads, swearing by the Virgin. If she were as innocent as a lamb, these acts in the eyes of these people would redden her fleece to crimson.

  Yes, Catherine concluded, she was headed for the gallows, and in a hurry at that. If they were back in old England, where the law was just as brutal but moved more slowly, maybe the girl could plead her belly to save her life, but here she might well be at the end of a rope before the new life in her swelled enough to satisfy a man such as Governor Peters who would use an amalgam of scriptural and secular law to his own purpose.

  She knew she must listen to her heart, and believe that it was beating in consonance with God’s purpose for her. And as she listened to it, she knew what she must do, a deed that would require her to enlist the aid of Massaquoit. She smiled grimly to herself at that idea. At least he was a long way from becoming a Christian so he would not scruple to violate the Christian’s law. She might have to barter something with him, but that did not concern her at the moment. All she thought about was keeping the rope from around the neck of Margaret Mary Donovan, late of County Cork in Ireland, and now sadly, with child and lying on the floor of the Newbury jail.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Massaquoit stared into the eyes of the English woman who stood before him, blinking in the dawn sun in front of his wigwam. He had heard her steps, which he now recognized by their rolling movement over the grass, so he had been more surprised than alarmed at such an early visit. He had poked his head through the opening to his wigwam, and there she stood, her mouth already framing her question, while he groped for something to cover his nakedness.

  It had been an extremely hot night, and he had slept in the nude. His hand found the breeches that he so disdained, and he thought for a moment of putting them on, but rejected that notion. He searched in the half-light for his usual loincloth, but he had tossed it into some corner where it now was out of sight. He settled on pulling up the blanket, which the white woman had given him in anticipation of cooler nights to come, and which he now used as a sleeping mat.

  “And why should I do this thing?” he asked.

  “Because if you do not, an innocent girl will die. And innocent as she is, even more innocent is the child she now carries.”

  Massaquoit hardened his heart. This was no time for softness.

  “You English seem to kill the innocent regularly.”

  “You know I would have stopped what happened to your people on board that ship if I could have.”

  Massaquoit shrugged.

  “Yes, I know that, but I do not know why you should care.”

  “For the same reason, I suppose, that I care about this girl.”

  “Why should I risk my life. How do I know that she is innocent, any more than you do. We were both on the water when the child died. We do not know who killed it.”

  “I know she did not,” Catherine said.

  “Your god has told you?”

  “I would not say that.”

  “You would not say so, but you think so.”

  “Just tell me if you will do what I ask.”

  “What do you propose to trade?”

  “Your freedom.”

  Massaquoit had not expected such a bold and frank offer. He pulled the blanket about him more tightly even though he was beginning to sweat.

  “You cannot guarantee that.”

  “No, but I can give you an opportunity to seize it.”

  “If I succeed...” he began.

  Catherine nodded.

  “You need not come back. I will find some way to prevent the militia from chasing after you. I do not think they will have much stomach for such a pursuit any
way.”

  He did not respond right away.

  “I would give you time to consider, but I do not have it to give,” she said. “If I am not very much mistaken, you were planning to make away before I spoke with you today. Maybe you can take her with you.”

  He was not surprised that she had guessed his intentions, but he did wonder why she would seek his help. He had traded many years with the English, and he had learned to read their intentions behind the mask of their expressions and through the mist of their words. Apparently something had gone very wrong at the meeting she had attended with the other English.

  “She is in your jail.”

  “Yes. That is why I need your help.”

  “I will need certain things.”

  Catherine relaxed.

  “You shall have them.”

  * * * *

  Wequashcook was waiting openly for him this time, sitting on the pine log where last they had talked. Massaquoit sat down on the far edge of the log. Pitch, warmed by the hot sun, ran through the cracks of the dry wood. Massaquoit felt the warm, sticky substance cling to the back of his thighs, but he did not move from the spot he had chosen.

  He held out his hand, palm up, so that Wequashcook could see the coins Catherine had given him glinting in the sun.

  “These are yours when you have the boat for me that you promised.”

  “You are in a great hurry,” Wequashcook said.

  “I do not intend to become an English, as you have done.”

  “Then you are the greater fool.”

  Massaquoit smiled.

  “You try to anger me, but all I want is the boat you promised.”

  Wequashcook took the coins from Massaquoit’s hand, and weighed them in his own.

  “For one so anxious, you come ill prepared to do business,” he said.

  Massaquoit extended his other hand, which contained an equal number of coins, and dropped them on top of the others in Wequashcook’s palm.

  “That is much better,” Wequashcook said. “I might now be able to speed you on your way to folly, whatever folly that is.”

  “Yes,” Massaquoit responded, “you can, and it is mine.”

  * * * *

  Phyllis acted as though she could not trust her ears.

  “Give it to him,” Catherine insisted, “it is necessary, I tell you.”

  “But we are not supposed to, Mistress Williams, and you know that better than I do.”

  “Just do as I say,” Catherine replied.

  Phyllis shrugged and handed the mug to Massaquoit. He sipped the beer and frowned against its bitter taste.

  “I never did enjoy your English beer,” he said.

  He emptied the mug in two or three deep gulps. Then he walked over to Catherine and breathed directly into her face.

  “What do you think?” he asked.

  “That you reek of beer as though you had been drinking a good deal of it.”

  Massaquoit held out his mug to Phyllis, who was holding the pitcher. She looked at Catherine with disbelief still full in her eyes.

  “Fill it for him,” Catherine said.

  Phyllis poured the beer into the mug until some ran over and spilled onto his hand. He rubbed his hand over his cheek. Then he poured the cup over the doublet he had put on for just this purpose.

  “I need more,” he said, and he took the pitcher from Phyllis and poured its contents over his doublet and let it dribble down his breeches. He took a deep breath.

  “I think that I have enough now,” he said, and he handed the pitcher back to Phyllis.

  “It is for drinking and not bathing,” she said.

  “It now suits my purpose,” he replied.

  Phyllis just shook her head and glanced at Catherine.

  “Go back into the shed and refill the pitcher,” she said. “Go on now.”

  Phyllis took a deep breath as she walked by Massaquoit and drew her head back as the pungent odor of beer reached her nose.

  “So this is your plan?” Catherine asked when Phyllis was gone.

  “Do you not think it a good one?” Massaquoit asked. “A drunken Indian will arouse no unusual suspicion. I will be acting as you English expect me to act. The rest should not be so difficult.” He walked toward the door, stepping with an exaggerated motion as he lifted his feet against the unwonted weight of the clumsy English shoes he had put on. He muttered under his breath and looked down at his feet. “I must dress the part,” he said, “from my shoes to my head.”

  Catherine took his arms in her hands. She expected him to recoil from the gesture but he did not.

  “My word is good, you know.”

  “I must hope so.”

  “It is. If you succeed, you need not come back.”

  “And the girl?”

  Catherine sighed. She had not thought that far ahead herself, other than to seek out Woolsey to advise him that Massaquoit was acting under her orders. She would need her old friend to shield her from the very dangerous repercussions of the act she was now putting into motion.

  “We will figure out something to do once she is safe,” she said.

  “I will send word,” he said. He took a step toward the door, but Catherine stayed him with her hand gently on his arm.

  “One more thing,” she said. She took down a pouch that was hanging on a peg next to the door.

  “Take this,” she said. “It may be of use to you, if things go awry.”

  He opened the pouch and took out a paper, folded in half. He uncreased the paper and stared at the unfamiliar markings. He raised his eyes to her.

  “I am not English enough yet to read,” he said.

  “Of course. It says that you are in my employ, on an errand of mercy for me.”

  He cast his eyes back down on the paper.

  “You English and your words on paper, in your books. You swear by them.” He placed his hand on his breast. “But you do not live by them.”

  “Some of us do,” she replied, aware that no words of hers would ever soften his anger. He permitted his face to relax for a moment, and then he folded the paper and returned it to the pouch. His fingers felt coins.

  “Money is always useful,” she said. “There is one more item in the pouch.”

  He felt around in the pouch and pulled out Margaret’s beads.

  “Give them to her when you have succeeded.”

  He held them to his neck as though they were a necklace. She shook her head.

  “They are not an ornament. Perhaps Margaret can explain them to you herself.”

  He nodded. He put the beads back into the pouch and then ran his fingers over its rich leather before slinging it over his shoulder.

  “This looks like something carried by an English man, not a woman such as yourself.

  “It belonged to my husband.”

  He dropped the pouch on the floor. .

  “I cannot carry that. His spirit will come to me. You should have buried it with him.”

  She picked up the pouch and extended it towards him.

  “Do not worry,” she said. “I know that his spirit would approve its use by you.”

  “You mock me,” he said.

  “Surely not.”

  He did not believe that she had spoken with her husband’s dead spirit, but he knew that the contents of that pouch might save his life. He took it from her hand and put it lightly on his shoulder, waiting for it to indicate the presence of its owner’s spirit. When nothing happened, he let it sit more fully near his neck, and then he left.

  * * * *

  Massaquoit walked from Catherine’s house towards town, practicing his walk. He took a step and staggered to his right. Then he took another and let his body shift his weight hard to the left so that he had to almost trot to stay upright. He struggled to control his motions in the English shoes, which blunted his contact with the ground. He wondered why the English would wear such thick footgear when there was no snow on the ground, as though they feared the very grass beneath the
ir feet.

  It was a dark, cloudy night and he did not meet another traveler until he was half way to the town center. But then, a large man approached him from the opposite direction. The man walked unsteadily, and he was carrying a thick staff, which he leaned on from time to time to steady himself. Massaquoit imitated the man’s stagger and fell to one knee as they came abreast of each other. The man reached over to clasp Massaquoit on the shoulder. Massaquoit started to parry the motion but then he realized that it was being offered in camaraderie.

  “And a good night to you,” the man said, and Massaquoit could smell the beer on his breath. He struggled to his feet, and offered the man his hand. As the man gained his feet, the full moon emerged from behind a cloud and the man blinked as he saw Massaquoit’s face. He stepped closer and drew his nose back as Massaquoit expelled his breath.

  “Why what is this? Who are you? Why Mistress Williams’ savage. And you be drinking I will swear by our Lord. Get you home before I get the constable after you.”

  The man lunged at Massaquoit. He sidestepped him easily, and the man fell heavily on the side of the road. Massaquoit leaned over him and saw that he was unconscious. He resumed his walk, with a broad smile on his face. He had passed his first test.

  Most of Newbury was already in bed as he stood before the public house. He peered through a window into shadows cast by the candles on the tables. He pressed his face against the glass, straining to see better. He was startled to find another set of eyes staring back at him. The eyes, however, did not seem to focus on him, and after a few moments, they turned away, and he could just make out the back of a head moving unsteadily through the shadows and then dipping as the person sat down at a table.

  Having satisfied himself that there were only a few patrons in the public house, he took a breath to steady himself and then he pushed open the door. He scanned the people sitting at the tables. A young man was sitting at a table with an older woman. The man looked up from the mug of beer in his hands and smiled at Massaquoit. It was Ned Jameson.

  “Well, Matthew, isn’t it?” Ned said.

  Massaquoit did not respond.

  “You needn’t worry,” Ned said. “Even though you and me has unfinished business, that is not what I am about tonight. He looked at the woman, who smiled nervously, never taking her eyes off of Massaquoit. Ned grinned at Massaquoit.