The Dumb Shall Sing

by Stephen Lewis

  “She is afraid of you like you was the very savage, but look at you in your new clothes, why now, sit down and have a drink.” He swung his arm in the air, and a small man with a large belly appeared with a pitcher in his hand. “Pour Matthew here one, if it please you,” he said.

  The tavern keeper looked at him, but made no move to serve him. Instead he leaned toward him and took a deep, noisy breath.

  “Now Ned,” the man said, “think you it is a good idea to serve this savage more beer to further inflame his blood?”

  Ned brought his own mug down hard causing the beer in it to slosh over the top and spill onto his companion, who now looked at him with barely concealed distaste.

  “I think I will be going home, now,” she said.

  Ned shrugged.

  “And why not? My friend Matthew here is better company.”

  The woman’s face turned ugly in anger for a moment and then she laughed.

  “Young Ned, come back and see me when you are old Ned, when you have hair on your face more than these poor things.” She yanked on a couple of scraggly hairs on his chin, and rose unsteadily to her feet. She balanced for a moment, and then sat back down. “Do you think you might grow if I sit here and wait?” she asked, with her hand seeking him between his thighs.

  Ned bent over and whispered something in her ear. She threw her head back as though to reject the idea, but he put his arm around her shoulder and breathed heavily on her neck before again whispering. This time she nodded.

  The little man watched this dumb show and when he turned back Massaquoit was holding out one of the bright coins Catherine had left for him in his pouch. The man pressed the coin into his palm without saying a word, and then he poured a mug full of beer and placed it in front of Massaquoit. He raised the mug to his lips and took a deep swallow. He slammed the mug down, as Ned had done, and again beer spilled onto and then off the table, this time onto him. He rose with a yelp as though he had been shot. Ned looked up at him.

  “Easy now, Matthew,” he soothed, but Massaquoit only howled the louder.

  “English man’s poison,” he said, and tossed the remainder of his beer at Ned. Ned jumped up and out of the way, and then reached across the table to seize Massaquoit’s arm.

  “Ayee,” screamed Massaquoit. “Away white devil,” he yelled.

  Another man now approached. He was middle aged and carried himself as though he were used to exercising authority. He had been sitting in the corner, drinking alone, and observing the scene.

  “Now, calm yourself,” he said. “What is the matter, Ned?”

  “Why this savage, the one we should have thrown over the side with his friends. He came in here and he demanded a drink, and then he said some things to Edwina here, things of a very personal nature about a certain part of her body that he was interested in. When I told him to behave himself, why he jumped up and made those devilish noise you just heard. And so, constable, if I was you, I would do something with him right now before he comes to harm or harms some other person.”

  The constable looked at the woman.

  “Is this so?”

  She belched, hiccupped and then nodded.

  “He did say some things he should not have, the filthy animal,” she said, and she leaned against Ned, as though for the protection of his arm.

  “Will you come along easy, then?” the constable said to Massaquoit.

  Massaquoit had listened to Ned’s invention with a mixture of growing anger and amusement. He gave vent now to the anger at the insulting story, even though it suited his purpose absolutely, for he had come into this tavern with every intention of being arrested, and he had not known that Ned would be there to assist him, nor that the constable would be close at hand to effect the business. Still, he had to continue his play acting.

  “Lies,” he yelled. “White man, white woman, all lies!”

  The constable was a sturdy man, and he reached a strong hand to Massaquoit’s shoulders and pressed him down into the chair. Massaquoit felt the pressure, respected the strength, and wished, for a moment, for the opportunity to test himself against it. That would have to wait, however, for another time. For now, he permitted himself to be pushed down, and he slumped his head on his chest as though in a drunken stupor.

  Jailer Drake opened the door after the constable pounded on it for several minutes. He was holding a candle, and his eyes were heavy with his disturbed sleep. He extended his candle until its light flickered on Massaquoit’s face.

  “What have we here?” he asked.

  “Just a drunken Indian,” the constable said. He placed both hands on Massaquoit’s back and shoved. Massaquoit felt the pressure and took the opportunity to hurl his body in a drunken stagger against Drake and into the front room of the jail. He made sure that his arm knocked against the candle and sent it sputtering to the floor. He sat down on the floor. Drake picked up the candle and held it in front of Massaquoit’s face. He blinked his eyes away from the light and then buried his face in his arms.

  “He belongs to Mistress Williams,” the constable said. “It is late. I would prefer not to disturb her sleep.”

  “He can stay here, right enough,” Drake replied.

  “Do you need help with him?” the constable asked.

  Drake nudged Massaquoit’s knee with his foot. Massaquoit rolled into a fetal position on the floor.

  “No, I think not,” the jailer said. “I will just roll him into his room.”

  “His name is Matthew,” the constable said. “In case you have occasion to address him, when he wakes up.”

  “ I will call him ‘Devil,’ I will, and that will do, for that is what he is,” Drake said. “But who is going to pay me for his keep?”

  “Mistress Williams. She has the money.”

  “To feed savages,” Drake said.

  “Aye, to feed savages, just as Scripture commands us, ‘if your enemy is hungry, feed him; if he is thirsty, give him drink; for by so doing you will heap burning coals upon his head’."

  “Can you open that passage for me?” Drake asked.

  “If I could do that, I would be preaching on Sunday,” he said. “But I will tell you this. There is something strange about this one here. I was aboard the Good Hope, you know.”

  “So why do you tell me that?”

  “Only this. I saw this savage here never lose his composure while his comrades were sent into the ocean, and whilst he was sore tried by one of our soldiers thrusting a blade against his chest, and he never blinked an eye. So I wonder how he comes to be like this so sudden.”

  “Why, man, there is a simple enough answer. He was not drinking spirits when he was on board that ship.”

  “Aye, that be true. Still I wonder.”

  “Wonder is for Sunday meeting,” Drake said.

  “That it is, but still I do it betimes.”

  “Take it with you, then, and good night to you.”

  Drake waited for the door to shut behind the constable, and then he placed his shoe on Massaquoit’s cheek. “Burning coals on his head,” he muttered.

  Massaquoit slid away from Drake’s foot, but he did not get up. The jailer leaned over him and felt the pouch. He lifted the flap and slid his fingers in until they could gather the coins. Massaquoit rolled over so that his weight trapped the hand in the pouch. Drake struggled to free his hand, but to no avail until he let go of the coins, flattened his fingers and then slid his hand out of the pouch.

  “Well, keep your money, then,” he said. “I am sure Mistress Williams will reward me well enough.” He nudged him hard in the ribs with the toe of his shoe. “Get up now. I will not be lifting you.”

  Massaquoit placed his palms flat on the floor and pushed himself up to a sitting position. Drake unlatched the door to the inner room, and pointed to it.

  “In you go,” he said.

  Massaquoit made as though to get up, but collapsed onto his knees.

  “Come on, then,” Drake insisted. “You will have a ten
der head in the morning.” Massaquoit crawled toward the open door. Drake started to step out of his way, when Massaquoit wrapped his arms around the jailer’s legs and with a sudden motion rose to his feet while upending him. The jailer crashed against the door, and he slid down to the floor.

  “Well, you are the devil, then, aren’t you?” he muttered and started to rise to his feet. As he did, however, Massaquoit grabbed him by the ears and pulled his head down while bringing his knee up against his jaw. Drake’s head snapped up, and his eyes lost focus for a moment. When they cleared, he launched a wild swing, which Massaquoit avoided. His momentum spun him around. Massaquoit grabbed his hair and drove his head hard against the wall three times, until he collapsed to the floor. Massaquoit waited, but the jailer did not stir. All was quiet. Massaquoit peered into the dark room, but he could not see the girl.

  A moment later, though, he sensed something hurtling towards him, and before he could move out of the way, a hard object crashed into his stomach, and he bent over, unable for a moment to catch his breath. He managed, however, to grab the object that had buried itself into his belly. It was Margaret’s head. He pushed the girl back and held her at arm’s length. Her white bonnet had been pushed back so that it hung over her right ear.

  “I have come to take you away,” he said. “You could have given me a friendlier greeting.”

  She tried to pull herself free for a moment or two, and when she could not, she stared hard at him, her eyes glinting. She opened her mouth as though to spit at him, and he turned his face.

  “I know what you want from me.”

  “And what might that be?” Massaquoit asked, although he knew what she feared.

  “Why, to take your liberties with me,” she said. “I have heard what people say about you savages.”

  “I had a wife,” Massaquoit said slowly, “that I would not have traded for a hundred of you English women, and then your English soldiers killed her.”

  “Well, there you are mistaken,” Margaret said. “I am not English, any more than you are, and as for that, I hate them as much as you do.”

  Drake stirred on the floor. “I do not have time to argue with you,” he said. He reached into the pouch and pulled out the beads. “Mistress Williams want you to have these.”

  She grabbed the beads and held them to her breast. She looked down at the jailer and then back into the darkness of the room where she had been lying awake, as she had done every night.

  “You could run this one through,” she said. “Do you have a knife about you?”

  “No,” Massaquoit said, “and I came here to take you out, not to kill this poor fool.” He took her arm and pushed her toward the outside door. She stumbled but she did not resist. When she was outside, he remained in the doorway. He pointed toward the road leading to the shore.

  “You start walking that way,” he whispered in her ear.

  “Not likely,” she said. “I will get lost, I will.”

  “Just stay on the road, follow where your feet take you. I will be with you before you have a chance to stray too far.”

  She started to walk on the road, and Massaquoit stood still in the doorway. After no more than five minutes, he heard the footsteps he had anticipated. As the constable hurried by, Massaquoit stepped out of the doorway and grabbed him by the shoulders. He spun him around, and pushed him toward the door. They struggled for a moment, but Massaquoit was soon too strong for him, and he shoved him into the room.

  “I had my suspicions,” he said.

  “Yes you did,” Massaquoit replied, and then he closed the door. He had noted the pile of firewood stacked against the jail when he arrived, and now he took two of the sturdiest logs he could find from the pile, and he jammed them against the door. Then he trotted down the road after Margaret.

  After a few minutes, when he had not yet overtaken her, he stopped running so that he could peer into the half darkness. A breeze had risen and it shook the trees lining the road, causing their shadows to dance to the rhythm of the wind, casting long, black fingers across the yellow glow that gilded the road.

  He waited until his eyes adjusted to the latticework of lights and shadows. He satisfied himself that all he saw were shadows. There was no sign of Margaret. He considered how much time had elapsed since he sent her down the road, and he calculated the speed he had traveled. He was sure that he should have caught up to her by now.

  If he retraced his steps, he might lose any chance of overtaking her. If he hurried on, he might miss he in the dark. She could have run off into the woods on either side of the road. He entertained the thought of just forgetting about her, and making good his escape to the shore. But he rejected that idea. He had to find her before she decided to take her chances with the English rather than him, for if she did that, the English would redouble their efforts to capture him, and he did not want to play the hunted deer being pursued by the clumsy but admittedly persistent and numerous English hunters.

  He walked slowly up the road. He paused after every third step to study the underbrush. It did not take long for his patience to be rewarded. Several feet past an obvious break in the line of low growing vegetation, he saw the white of her bonnet stand out against the black shadow of the huge pine next to which she had sought to hide.

  He saw her lying next to the knee high plant, covered in thick red leaves. She did not respond to his presence, even when he brought his foot down hard enough to make a discernible thud not six inches from her ear. He knelt down next to her. She was breathing, but her eyes remained closed. He touched her cheek, and she rolled her head toward him. Saliva dribbled out of the corners of her mouth. She snapped her eyes open and parted her lips, but said nothing.

  Her left fist was still clenched. He knew what he would find when he pried her fingers open, and there they were, two of the poisonous white baneberries. He did not have much time if he was to keep her alive, and in preserving her life, protect his own, for if she were found dead, the English would not rest until they had his head on a pike while his body was fed to the dogs that roamed the town looking for scraps.

  He forced her mouth open and rammed two fingers down her throat. Her teeth clamped down on his forefinger, but he grimaced the pain away. He held his fingers against the back of her throat until he felt it begin to spasm. Then, he removed his fingers just as she started to retch. She turned her head to the side and vomited. He waited for her to finish, and when she had, he cradled her head in his lap. She opened her eyes now, and he thought he saw gratitude in them. That expression turned to terror when he again pried her jaws open.

  “You must. Again,” he said.

  She shook her head, but he wrapped his arm around it to stop the motion while his fingers sought the inside of her throat. She retched again, her chest heaving, her bile spilling onto his thigh. She lay back exhausted and did not protest when he had her vomit a third time. She heaved but could bring up no more from her stomach.

  He left her lying where she was, too weak, he knew, to move. He crawled back to the edge of the road. Nobody was coming yet, but it could not be long before the English figured out which way to hunt for them.

  “We must move from here,” he said, when he returned to where she lay, but she did not respond. He squatted next to her and put one arm under her knees and the other behind her shoulders. He started to lift, grunted, and then straightened up. She rolled her head against his chest. After it bumped against him a couple of times, her body stiffened and then struggled to free itself.

  “Where? What?” she said.

  “We have to leave this place,” he said again. “Or the English will capture us.”

  “Oh,” she replied, and he saw her make that strange gesture that only she did, and not the other English. She touched her forehead, and then brought her hand down to her midsection, and then up to her right shoulder and then across to her left, a series of rapid motions, to which she apparently placed great significance. Her body relaxed, and he was able to shift her ove
r his shoulder, the same way he would carry a deer, only she was much heavier.

  He made his way down the road for a quarter of a mile, looking to right and left for a natural break in the woods. He did not think the English could track very well, but they would surely convince some other Indians to help them, just as they had employed Wequashcook to lead them to Mystic where his wife and son lay sleeping their last sleep. He tensed his shoulders at that memory, and Margaret’s weight shifted so that he had to stagger to keep her from falling.

  He righted himself and saw what he was looking for, a narrow break in the undergrowth, already beaten down, leading between two young pines whose needles had been nibbled to just about the height of a deer’s mouth. He sidled through the opening, being careful not to disturb the branches of the trees, or to trample the underbrush where it was not already lying flat. After a few steps, he found a clearing behind the trees, screened from the road, and he eased Margaret off his back. She looked up as she hit the ground, but then closed her eyes again. He did not know if she were sleeping or preparing herself to die. After a few moments, he heard her breath become regular, and he squatted beside her.

  * * * *

  The sun was just rising when she stirred. She opened her eyes, let them close, and then opened them again. She stared hard at him as though trying to remember. Then, she looked down at her palm, which was still stained by the berry juice.

  “I was hungry,” she said.

  “It was almost your last meal,” he replied.

  “It will be that soon enough,” she said.

  “Are you strong enough to walk?”

  She rose unsteadily to her feet, and nodded.

  “Good,” he said, and guided her back to the road. She looked down the road toward town.

  “They will be coming soon,” he said.

  She took a wobbly step in the other direction, toward the shore, and looked at him over her shoulder. He strode next to her and then a half step ahead.

  “Stay with me,” he said, “for your life.”