“Is he the one from the boat?” asked the soldier holding the pike
“Yes,” said the lieutenant, “didn’t I just get through saying that?”
“I wasn’t sure at all what you were saying.”
The soldier lifted his pike and poked at the pouch that Massaquoit still wore around his neck.
“Who’d you steal that from?” he asked.
“Never mind that,” the officer said. “What we want to know is where the girl is. Maybe if you tell us that, we can forget that we found you on this island. I didn’t have much stomach feeding your friends to the fish.”
“I do not know anything about a girl,” Massaquoit said. “It is true I belong to the English woman. She gave me the pouch.” He slid his hand beneath the flap and pulled out the paper. “And she gave me this to show anybody who might question what I am doing.” He extended the paper to the soldier with the pike. He took the paper and held it in front of him.
“I thought he said he lived here,” the soldier said.
“What does the paper say?” the officer demanded.
“By Jesus, I don’t know. I can’t read, you know. Here you have a look, then.”
The lieutenant took the paper from the soldier, and squinted against the sun at Catherine’s gracefully formed letter.
“It says here that the bearer of this paper, one Matthew, an Indian, is doing her bidding and should be permitted to finish the errand on which he is engaged.” He handed the paper back to Massaquoit.
“Are you this Matthew, then?”
Massaquoit shook his head, and then looked past the lieutenant toward the water and the mainland in the distance. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the soldier with the musket lighting the match on his weapon with a smoldering stick from the campfire.
“Maybe I am.” He pointed to the mainland. “Over there.”
“I see. Stubborn as ever,” Lieutenant Waters said, not without a trace of respect in his voice. “And just what is that business you are on for Mistress Williams?”
“I say he stole that pouch,” the soldier with the musket now offered. He grabbed the pouch and shook it so that the coins in it clanged together. “Why, you hear that? There’s the King’s good coin in that pouch. Ask him where he got that money, who he stole it from.”
“Give him his pouch back,” the lieutenant said. The soldier released it, and as Massaquoit took it, he leveled his musket at him. The match now glowed red, and the soldier opened the pan, exposing the powder. Lieutenant Waters extinguished the glowing match between his thumb and forefinger, and then pushed the weapon down.
“None of that,” he said. He turned to Massaquoit.
“You see how it is,” he said. “It would be better if you told us where the girl was, and then maybe I can manage to get you out of here alive.”
“I do not know,” Massaquoit said.
The color rose in Waters’ face.
“I am not that patient a man, Matthew,” he said.
“And I am not Matthew,” Massaquoit replied. “Matthew is somebody in the mind of the English.”
“I am going to walk over there a bit,” the lieutenant said, motioning vaguely down the beach away from the campfire and the beached shallop, “and when I come back you will tell me what I want to know, or I’ll turn my back on these two.” He pointed to the two soldiers, and then he walked ten or fifteen paces away.
Massaquoit knew he had stalled and prevaricated as much as he could. He needed now to get them to chase him without being caught. He lifted the pouch and shook it so the coins jangled.
“You can have the coins,” he said, “if you let me go.”
The eyes of the soldiers widened, and the one with the pike put down his weapon to extend his hand for the pouch. As he did, Massaquoit lifted it off his shoulder and then swung it as hard as he could so that it slammed into the side of the soldier’s head with enough force to drive him into his companion. As they struggled to untangle themselves, Massaquoit grabbed the musket and then in two strides he was racing at full speed toward the spot where his canoe was hidden. Something whizzed by his feet and then the pike skidded past him on the sand. He strained to increase his pace. He heard the confused shouting of the English soldiers on the rocks as they became aware of his flight. Lieutenant Waters’ voice rose above the others until they quieted.
“Shoot him,” the lieutenant screamed.
Massaquoit heard the familiar explosions as the muskets ignited powder and then the sand rose in fury around his knees. He stretched his legs even further and gasped for breath. He would soon be out of range as the soldiers reloaded their clumsy weapons. For the moment, he was very glad that they did not have bows and arrows which could be shot with much greater speed to greater effect in a situation such as this.
“If you can’t hit him, then run him down,” Lieutenant Waters shouted.
Massaquoit glanced over his shoulder and saw three soldiers ahead of the rest throw down their muskets and begin to run after him in earnest. They labored to keep up with him in their heavy armor and clumsy footwear that seemed to find difficulty in obtaining purchase on the sand. One soldier slipped to a knee and another was falling further and further behind. Only one, and he the smallest of the three, seemed able to keep up. Massaquoit looked past the three and saw that two soldiers had stopped running, and the others were doing no more than a half hearted trot. He did not want them to get too discouraged too soon, so he slowed his pace as though he were breathless. He leaned over, his hands on his knees, and made a visible show of gasping for air. The small soldier now closed to within twenty feet or so, and Massaquoit started to run again, but slower than before. The soldier kept pace but did not gain. Suddenly, Massaquoit spun around and lifted the heavy musket to his shoulder. The soldier froze and then fell to the ground. Massaquoit raised the barrel to point at the sky and pulled the trigger. The match came down into the firing pan and ignited the powder in a loud puff. All the soldiers in pursuit stopped in their tracks at the sound. Massaquoit staggered against the heavy recoil that pounded into his shoulder. He threw the weapon on the ground. It had not been loaded with a ball, and the shot would have been harmless, even had he not taken the precaution of making sure that the only thing he would hit would be a seagull. He threw the musket down and started off again, this time a trot. He looked back, and saw that the soldier had gotten back to his feet and was after him again. More importantly, the shot seem to have angered his comrades so they, too, had rejoined the chase with renewed vigor. He needed one more ploy to lure them on.
He stumbled and rolled onto the sand. He started to get up, but collapsed back to one knee. The soldier now quickened his pace. He was brandishing his sword, swinging it in wide arcs as he ran. The others were still a distance behind. Massaquoit figured he would have just enough time if this little man with the sword did not prove to be more difficult than he looked. The soldier was now upon him, thrusting his sword toward him. The soldier’s eyes were wide and sweat glistened on his face. His chest heaved beneath his corselet and his helmet slid down over his forehead almost blocking his vision. He swung his sword with the energy of a man possessed either of tremendous anger or fear.
Massaquoit kept himself just out of range of the sword thrusts. The soldier was clearly not very expert with his weapon, as he took no measures to mask his motions with feints, so that Massaquoit only had to wait for the sword to start toward him and then rock back on the balls of his feet to avoid being struck. The soldier’s face reddened, and this time he took a long step toward Massaquoit before jabbing his weapon at him. Massaquoit dodged as the blade rushed by his side. The soldier’s momentum pushed him off balance and Massaquoit drove his fist into the nape of the man’s neck between his helmet and corselet. The force of the blow drove the soldier face forward into the sand where he lay still, stunned and exhausted. His arm holding the sword stretched away from his body. Massaquoit stepped hard on his wrist and the hand opened. He picked up the sword. The others wer
e within twenty-five yards and they were calling to their fallen comrade and cursing Massaquoit. He started to run again, and by the time he reached the stand of cedar behind which his canoe was hidden, he was fifty yards ahead of them and pulling away.
He trotted into the trees and reached his canoe. He placed his shoulder against its back and dug his feet into the muddy sand. The canoe was sitting on the incline pointing down toward the narrow beach over which the surf, now at high tide, was swirling. With two shoves, he moved the canoe into the surf. One more push and it was in water deep enough to float and he was sitting in it, paddle in hand. Two of the English soldiers were close enough to kneel and fire their weapons. The musket balls fell well short of him. He saw them gesture to the others who reversed themselves and started running back, just as he had hoped.
He paddled slowly out into the water and watched the English soldiers as they traveled over the ground they had just run over in their pursuit of him. They arrived at their shallop and he paddled a little faster. He saw the man in the beaver hat gesticulating and pointing toward the mainland. The soldiers buzzed around the shallop in confusion for a few moments and then they organized themselves into two parties one on each side. By the time they had their clumsy boat in the water, Massaquoit was paddling in earnest, heading for the mainland and the beach from which he had left.
He could only hope that Minneseewa had heard the musket shots and so was warned that the English had arrived.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Catherine heard the knock at her door although it was well past sundown. She was not expecting ordinary visitors, but she was not surprised to see Massaquoit standing in front of her. She knew that Lieutenant Waters had been sent after him and Margaret.
“You had better let me in right away,” he said. “The English soldiers will be here before long looking for me.”
As he walked through the door, he clutched the pouch she had given him to his side, and in so doing, be brushed against the frame. He winced and brought his hand up to cover the wound.
“Come here into the light, then,” she said, pointing toward a candle on the table in the front room where she had been sitting.
“Do not concern yourself,” he said, but he let himself be led into the room. She ran her fingers over the raw scab.
“I have something for that.”
“Do not bother.” He pointed to his head. “I am more concerned about keeping this attached to my neck.”
“You should not have come back here,” she said. “I thought you would have fled to your people.”
He handed her the pouch.
“You didn’t come back to give me this, did you?” she asked.
“No. I came here because I was playing the hare to the English dogs.’
“This is not the time for riddles. Come with me while I attend to your arm. You can explain yourself later.”
Her tone, which he had come to understand, did not permit refusal, and so he followed behind her as she led the way holding the candle through the darkened hallway of her house and into the kitchen. There she lit another candle on the shelf where she stored her medicines and placed the candle she had carried onto the table. She motioned for Massaquoit to sit at the table while she ran her hands over her jars until her fingers found the one containing the paste made from comfrey leaves. She dipped her fingers into the jar and found the paste had dried. She gathered saliva in her mouth and wet her fingers before putting them back into the jar.
“Is that what you used on the man whose nose was cut?” Massaquoit asked.
“It is,” she replied, and applied a generous daub to his wound. Her fingers traced the outlines of the scab and then worked to the center. “He will never breathe the same way again, but you should be fine ere long.”
“My mother on the island would have tended to me, but I had to leave before she could gather what she needed.” He noted the confusion cross her face. “My wife’s mother. She is skilled as you are in these things.” He paused as though reminding himself of something. “I left the girl with her while I tried to lead the English away.”
“Playing the hare?”
He nodded.
“Sometimes when I walk in the forest I will see a hare jump into my path as though he wants me to see him, and I understand what he is about. He thinks he can outrun me, and he wants me to chase him.”
“To lure you away from his burrow?”
“Exactly. He cannot fight me, for I am too strong for him, but he can try to trick me, to save his young. That is what I did. And some of the English followed me, and they will seek me here.”
“And the others?”
“I fear they stayed on the island and will find my mother and the girl. After I arrived here, I hid my canoe and waited for some time, and then the English who had followed me in their boat came. They talked together on the beach. Then some of them got back into their boat. They looked to be going back to the island. The others will be here before long.”
“They cannot just come into my house. They will go to a magistrate to get permission to approach me here.”
“Are you that powerful then?” he asked.
“My husband was, and I, although in his shadow, retain some of his light.”
He slid the pouch across the table to her.
“You should have this back. It was his.”
She opened it up and pulled out the paper.
“Did you show them this?”
“They did not care what it said.”
“And the money?”
“They were more interested in that than me, for a moment or two.”
“You are a clever man, Massaquoit.” She lingered over his name. “I will use that name in this house.”
“I am sorry that I could not do better for the girl.”
“You have done more than I could have expected. I will wake Phyllis. You can sleep in her room tonight.”
“By tomorrow, the English will surely be here.”
“By then we will have decided how to prove the girl innocent, and in so doing, we will lend the color of justice to your actions which now seem black with rebellion.”
“I think I might be able to help you. There is something I saw the night they took the girl away.”
“Can you find this something again, do you think?”
“If I am safe here tonight, I will leave in the morning before the sun rises. I will be back if I am successful.”
“And if you are not, you will not, is that so?”
“There will be no further reason for me to stay.”
“Then for the girl’s sake, if not your own, I hope to see you.”
“I will send word, if I cannot come myself.”
“I will pray for you.”
“To your English god?”
“Of course.”
“Your soldiers said that your god helped them to kill my people.”
“They are mistaken. They did that by themselves.”
* * * *
“Giving my bed up to a savage,” Phyllis complained in the morning. “And he did not even sleep in it. When I went back to my room it was as though he had not been there, and would that he had not been.”
“He needed it more than you.”
The sound of drums rolled into the house.
“Wasn’t yesterday the Sabbath?” Phyllis asked.
“It was.”
“Then why are they drumming us to meeting, when my poor head aches so.”
“Come with me,” Catherine replied. “It is not a meeting they are summoning us to.”
They followed the sound of the drumming down the road and toward the village square. With each step, the drumming got louder, and Catherine’s apprehension grew apace. The drummer was called out only for meeting or to summon the townspeople to witness some significant expression of communal action, such as bringing a condemned person to the gallows. “I fear they have captured him,” she said.
Phyllis only grunted in response, and they contin
ued toward town in silence. The drumming was quite loud as they rounded the last curve before the road straightened on its way to the square. As they reached the square they saw the source of the drumming arriving from the other side. A sizable crowd of fifty or sixty, drawn by the drumming, had already formed in front of the meetinghouse and stood watching the approaching columns of soldiers. Catherine hastened into the crowd, and people, in deference to her position, grudgingly yielded space to her so she could pass through them to the front. The same people, however, closed ranks immediately after Catherine passed so Phyllis had to force her way through amid a fair amount of grumbling. Catherine looked back.
“Let her pass,” she said, and the people did. Phyllis arrived, red faced, by her side.
“You would think they would know their betters,” she said, and then her eyes followed Catherine’s to the spectacle unfolding in front of them.
Lieutenant Waters, sword drawn led two groups of soldiers as they marched onto the square and toward the jail. Their gait was measured to the slow thumping of the drummer at their front. In the first group, six soldiers walked in rows of two. In the middle of them, her steps hobbled by the heavy chains holding her ankles no more than a foot apart, and her hands behind her back in irons was Margaret. The legs irons were also fastened to a heavy log that she had to drag behind her. Her cap was askew on her head, and her hair hung undone and matted down her back. Her face bore purple bruises on her cheeks, and one eye was swollen shut.
Behind this group came another eight soldiers in two columns. The first six held long poles that supported a wooden platform on which sat a makeshift cage formed out of freshly cut branches tied together with heavy rope. Inside the cage sat Minneseewa. Her face was covered with mud, and the dried blood of an English soldier crusted beneath her fingernails. That soldier walked directly opposite her cage, and his face bore the tracks of her nails from his forehead across his right eye and down to his neck. He wiped the sweat from his wounds from time to time and glanced at Minneseewa with murderous hatred. At the very rear of this second group, flanked by the last two soldiers, in slow dignity walked Wequashcook. His head was bare so that the jagged white scar was clearly visible in the bright sun. His beaver hat was held aloft on the end of a pike by one of the soldiers.
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