They hurried along, and she managed to match his pace. Soon he could smell the salt air, and he scanned the right side of the road for the marker Wequashcook had promised to leave. He stopped in front of an overturned log that was mostly hidden by the underbrush. He knelt next to it and ran his hand down its length until it stopped at a branch rising from its center.
“Are you mad, then?” Margaret asked. “This is no time to rest.
“This log has been dead a long time,” he said, and pointed to the places where the bark had been peeled off and the wood was rotted.
“We must be off,” she said. “I’ll go me own way, then.”
He took her arm as she started to leave.
“Do you see this branch?”
She nodded.
“Do you see its leaves?”
“Yes.”
“A branch newly lopped from a different tree, still holding its leaves, growing out of a dead log, very strange, do you not agree?”
She shuddered and made that strange movement with her hand, which she let stay clutching her left shoulder.
“The devil is hereabouts,” she said.
“No,” Massaquoit replied, “only an Indian friend of mine. Step this way.”
He took her arm again and pulled her toward the log.
“Step over,” he said.
The branch was angled toward the woods, as though to point a direction. He sighted along the line suggested by the angle of the branch, and then he lifted it out of its hole in the log and tossed it into the underbrush.
“This way,” he said, and she followed. After a few steps, they found themselves on a narrow path that led them deeper into the woods.
CHAPTER NINE
The maidservant, a young girl whom Catherine recognized as a member of a recently arrived family, opened the door at Catherine’s knock and turned her head to the bed at the rear of the front room where Magistrate Woolsey lay.
“He says he cannot rise,” the girl said.
“Not at all,” Woolsey said, but he made no effort to get up. The girl shrugged and disappeared into the rear of the house.
Catherine sat on a stool next to the bed. Woolsey tried to lift himself, but his face contorted in pain, and he clutched at his right arm before collapsing back onto the mattress, which shuddered under his considerable weight for a moment but held.
“I tell you Catherine, that woman walked by the front of my house yester evening, and I have lost the use of my arm, it pains me so.”
“Psaw,” she replied. “Do you think you are bewitched, then?”
He started to nod, and then he shrugged.
“I know not. But people say Goody Hawkins is to be feared.”
“What people say is not always to be believed. That poor girl, in the prison, convicted before her trial.”
Woolsey frowned.
“Some people also say that Goody Hawkins bewitched that baby and caused it to die out of spite, as she was not invited to attend the birth.” His expression turned darkly serious, and he reached a hand to touch Catherine’s arm. “And let us not forget who was at that birth. Some say you have something to hide.”
“I trust you know better than that Joseph Woolsey.”
“I do, but I must ask you what you know of what happened last night. The constable was here at dawn to tell me that your Indian, Matthew, was drunk last night and when he was quite rightly put in the jail, he attacked the jailor and made good his escape. And, it seems, the girl took advantage of his action and fled into the night.”
“That is right in part.”
He looked hard at her.
“This is a serious matter, Catherine. Do not speak idly to me.”
“I do not. The girl did not flee when the opportunity arose. She fled with Matthew, because I sent him there to free her.
Woolsey shook his head slowly from side to side.
“Catherine,” he said and then again, “Catherine. Why? You were an impetuous child, but you are a woman of years now.”
“I needed the time,” she said.
“But to disobey the magistrates of this town. Not that I take offense. I have known you too long. But as your magistrate, I must be offended. Do you not see? As the Lord, Jesus, is the father of the church, and the husband the father of the household, so is the magistrate...”
Catherine had heard her mother say that she must obey her father, as head of the household. She had heard her father say she must obey the minister, because as head of the religious community he was another father. She had heard the minister say she should obey the magistrate, because as head of political community, he was yet another father. And the magistrate had talked of the king as the father of the nation. But only the first of these held a place in her heart, while she was not all sure how she should consider the surrogates.
“Joseph, you are not my father, nor is the governor, or any other official of the colony. As you well know, as you were at his grave with me when I was a little girl, the man, my father, to whom I might have shown disobedience, is in the ground these forty-five years.”
“It was,” he stuttered, “just a manner of speaking.”
“Well, then, a very poor manner, I should say,” she said with a stern voice, although a smile played on the corners of her mouth as she saw Woolsey’s discomfort. She reached across to touch his arm. “Let us not lose the point in these words,” she said gently. “The girl was going to hang, and you know as well as I that she is innocent.”
He shook his head.
“I do not know that. I do doubt, to be sure, but I do not know.”
“Well, then, is not that enough for you, to doubt? Would you see her on the gallows while your heart doubts? And she with child?”
“Why,” he sputtered. “She did not appear so. Who is the father?”
“Joseph. Does that matter? But as for that I do not know.”
“Why of course it does. I heard what Jailer Drake said.”
Catherine felt her anger rise, and she fought to quell it.
“His words are bought, one by one.”
“Can you prove that?”
She shook her head violently.
“No, not that or the other for that matter. You must take my word.”
He took her hand.
“I can do nothing else, and you well know it.”
“I know your heart opens easily,” Catherine said, “but that I have to knock that much harder at the door to your reason.”
“It is not just me, you know,” Woolsey said. “For I am in no hurry. But the governor hears the clamor of the people who desire vengeance.”
“Can you not hold him off, then?”
He nodded.
“If I put my whole weight against his motion I can, for a little while.”
“Then I will have to be prompt.”
He settled himself back against his pillows, his face wrinkled with exhaustion.
“Did you not sleep?” she asked.
“No,” he replied. “I could not find a place for my arm where it did not plague me.”
“Let me have a look, then,” she said, and without waiting for his reply, she leaned toward him and ran her hand from his wrist to his elbow. He winced. She pulled his arm out, but it would not straighten. She pushed it back to a forty-five degree angle.
“Is that comfortable?” she asked.
“Tolerable,” he replied.
“Your arm is like a dry old branch on an old tree. It no longer bends.”
“Psaw.” He swung his good arm. “Do you not think I should find a way to bring Goody Hawkins here?”
“To lift her charm from you?”
“Yes.”
“And then what? Hang her for a witch?”
“I do not know.”
“Think you on it. But I think if you did, that poor arm would still ache.”
* * * *
Martha ’s oldest daughter, Ann, was waiting in the shadow of an ancient oak tree several hundred yards up the path from t
he magistrate’s house. Catherine recognized her at once, even before she stepped fully into the sunlight. The girl’s face had been imprinted in her memory from the night she stood by her mother, buttoning her gown, and then leading her back into the house, as though their roles, mother and daughter, had been reversed.
“May I speak with you Mistress Williams,” she said, as she joined Catherine on the road, and measured her stride to keep up.
“Yes, certainly, Ann.”
She looked up the road for a moment, and then she raised herself on her toes so that she could whisper into Catherine’s ear.
Catherine felt her breath against her ear, but heard only a faint buzzing.
“Why child,” she said. “Speak up.”
“I am afraid,” Ann said, but in an audible voice. “My father sent me to talk to you.”
“What does Henry Jameson want from me?” Catherine said, unable to soften the edge in her voice as she remembered Henry’s testimony at the hearing.
Ann raised herself again and spoke into Catherine’s ear again but more loudly.
“It’s about my cousin.”
“Ned?”
“Yes.”
“Why what does your father want to tell me about Ned?”
Ann shook her head, and again stared up the road.
“Nothing,” she said. “He wants you to tend to my mother. It is myself that wants to tell you about Ned. And my father, as well.”
Catherine stopped walking and took Ann by the child’s thin shoulders.
“Make sense, child,” she said.
Ann wiggled to get free from Catherine’s grasp so she could keep her eye on the road.
“Who are you looking for?” Catherine asked.
“He will be along soon.”
“Your father? Perhaps we should wait right here for him, if you cannot remember what you are supposed to tell me.”
The girl’s face reddened her eyes flashed.
“I am not a silly girl. I know very well what I am supposed to say to you.”
“Well, then.”
“Well, then, it is this I must say to you. My father wants you to see if you can make my mother speak again. And to eat again.”
“She does neither?”
“Not since our babe died. Her tongue remains fixed between her teeth. She sits by the cradle all the day long. She moans sometimes, and my father has made her to drink some water, but that is all.”
“I will do what I can,” Catherine said, as she felt herself responding to the poor woman’s misery. Why, Catherine thought, she must be blaming herself for the babe’s death. That idea argued against Catherine’s sure sense that she would be wise not to let herself become involved in the Jameson family any further than she already was.
The girl seemed to relax now that she had delivered her father’s message, and could tell him that help was on its way. They walked together in silence for a few moments, and then Ann stopped.
“He will be here around the next bend in the road. I am sure of it.”
Catherine pointed toward an overturned log on the side of the road.
“I am feeling a little tired,” she said. “Let us sit down so I can recover my breath.”
Ann permitted herself a quick smile that vanished the moment she sat on the log.
“It is about that girl and my cousin Ned. I saw them once. At night. We were all sleeping in the same room. They thought I was asleep, and would not hear them. But I did.”
“What did you hear?”
“Why them talking in her bed. He was next to her. Then there was a thud as one fell to the floor.”
“Which?”
“I do not know. I was afraid to open my eyes. I only heard what I heard.”
“And what was that?” Catherine was trying not to become impatient with the child’s halting story. She was clearly very afraid of something, or somebody.
“I heard her say, ‘First your uncle, and now you.’ That is what she said. I am sure of it.”
“Do you know what she meant by that?”
Ann looked at Catherine in disbelief.
“Do you not?”
A loud step surprised them coming around the bend, and there, as Ann had predicted, was Henry Jameson.
Catherine looked up and smiled, as though she were ashamed.
“I was feeling tired,” she said, “and your daughter kindly said she would bide by me until I recovered myself.”
Henry looked hard first at Catherine and then his daughter.
“Did she tell you about my poor wife?” he asked.
Catherine nodded, while weighing his words for sincerity and finding them a little light. It might be that Henry was surprised to come upon them sitting there, and had surmised that they were talking about something other than his wife, or it might be that he did not worry as much about his wife as he would like her to believe.
“Are you coming, then?” Henry asked. He reached down and took his daughter by the arm and yanked her off the log so hard that the child’s feet left the ground. Without waiting for Catherine to reply, he started back down the road he had just walked. He did not let go of Ann’s arm, so that she had to trot to keep up with her father’s longer stride. Catherine watched them until they turned the bend, and she could no longer see them. Then, she rose to her feet and walked after them. She was in no hurry to catch up, or to arrive at the Jameson house where she knew that she would encounter something bizarre in Martha’s behavior, something she might well not be able to remedy.
Ann was sitting on the ground in front of the door. Catherine heard the sound of an ax, and followed it to see Henry at work at the wood pile on the side of the house. He did not look up from his labor, although she was quite sure that he was aware of her presence.
“He said for you to go right on in,” Ann said, “for there is nothing he can tell you more than your own eyes shall see.” The girl stood up and opened the door. Catherine followed her in to the house. She waited for her eyes to adjust to the dimness inside, for the one window in the front room was covered with a heavy piece of black cloth, and the only light came through the opened door. Before she saw Martha clearly, she heard her labored breathing. Ann scurried by and pulled back the cloth to reveal her mother sitting on a stool in the corner of the room. Martha blinked as the unexpected light hit her eyes. She turned toward Catherine, but she did not say anything. It was apparent that she could not have spoken had she wanted to. Her tongue, swollen and dark red was thrust between her teeth.
Catherine walked over to Martha and cupped the woman’s chin in her hand so she could examine her more closely. Martha’s mouth was firmly shut so that, Catherine surmised, her teeth must be pressing painfully against her tongue.
“Can you not say hello to me?” Catherine asked.
“She does not speak,” Ann said.
“You say she does not eat either?”
The girl shook her head.
“Father has tried forcing her. He has been able only to get her to drink some water, which she then spat out right away.”
Catherine stroked Martha’s cheeks.
“Do you not want to talk with your old gossip?” she asked.
For a moment it looked as though Martha might respond. Her eyes seemed to focus on Catherine, but then they resumed their blank stare. She rocked back and forth on the stool, tipping first its front legs and then its rear off the floor. Catherine found the place on her cheeks where she figured the jaw hinge must be. Martha’s mouth opened a crack, and then clamped shut. She rocked more vigorously until it looked as though the stool was about to fall over. Catherine stepped back.
“Can you leave us?” she said to Ann.
The girl shook her head.
“My father said I must stay with you while you are here.”
“I see,” Catherine replied. “But I must talk with him, and he will not hear me if I call him. Go ask him to come in so I can talk to him.”
Still, the girl hesitated.
�
�Go child,” Catherine said. “I will tell your father that you are doing my bidding, as you ought.”
The girl took a slow step backward, and then another, her eyes on her mother. When she reached the doorway, she spun around and dashed out.
Catherine now put her mouth close to Martha’s ear.
“Talk to me now,” she said, “for we only have a moment.”
Martha opened her mouth and Catherine could see flecks of fresh blood on her tongue. Martha moved her lips but the only sound that came out was a grunt, or a moan, like pain that could not be formed into words.
“Here, now,” Henry’s voice boomed. “Has she spoken to you?” He strode through the door and placed himself next to his wife, on the side opposite of Catherine. He was still holding his ax, and he let its head drop to the floor. Its edge bit into the plank.
“Not a sound that I can understand,” Catherine replied. “But I think she wants to say something concerning you.”
“She can have nothing to say about me. I didn’t call you here so you could listen to idle tales from my wife’s poor tongue. Why look at it. It cannot stay in her mouth, and yet she says no word from day to day.”
“Perhaps if you withdraw again, I can coax a word or two from her.”
“No, that I will not, but if you can have her speak, she can do so in my hearing.”
“As you like,” Catherine shrugged. She took Martha’s hand. It was clammy with sweat.
“Can you tell me what ails you?” Catherine asked. Martha’s fingers squeezed hers, but she shook her head. Catherine returned the pressure and stood up.
“I will be back with something for her.”
“Will it loose her tongue?” Henry asked.
“It might.”
He took a step and towered over her.
“It would be well for you, if she did.”
Catherine held his gaze until he turned away.
“And for you, as well, I warrant,” she said.
Henry picked up his ax and swung it onto his shoulder.
“I have work to do,” he said, “and no time to be trading barbs.”
After he strode through the door, Ann, who had been crouching in the far corner of the room, where the light did not reach, emerged and hurried to Catherine.
The Dumb Shall Sing Page 13