The Dumb Shall Sing

by Stephen Lewis

  “He will not,” Catherine said.

  “But what can I say to him?”

  “That the woman whose wits he thinks are gone has spoken to me.”

  “Yes?”

  “And that in a day or two I will have proof of the girl’s innocence.”

  “If not the girl, then who?”

  “I cannot tell you that yet.”

  Woolsey shook his head slowly from side to side.”

  “Catherine, you give me a twig when I need a stout log to shut the door on the governor’s rage.”

  “Clothe it in a Latin phrase, if you must, to stay him.”

  The magistrate furrowed his brows as the idea came to him.

  “You await something from somebody,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “Matthew? Is he not fled?”

  “Go, Joseph, and see if you can be my shield a while longer.”

  “The Psalmist says, ‘The Lord shall cover thee with his feathers, and under his wings shall thou trust; his truth shall be thy shield and buckler.’”

  “I do trust the truth, Joseph,” Catherine said, as she led Woolsey to the door, “and I trust you as well.”

  * * * *

  Massaquoit concentrated on the pain. His calves had passed into numbed indifference an hour ago, and his back muscles had spasmed into tight pulsing knots, so he focused on his thighs where the pain now radiated down toward his knees and up toward his hips. It was not quite symmetrical. The ache in his right leg was both more intense and quicker moving than that in his left.

  He savored the pain. It seemed right that he should be feeling it. All else was confused. He did not know which way to direct his steps should he straighten his legs, so he remained squatting until muscles screamed in defiance and demanded a decision that would permit him to stand up and straighten them. All afternoon he had vacillated. A dozen times he had begun the search in the woods behind the Jameson house to put himself in the service of Catherine and her efforts to save Margaret, but after a few vague steps he had stopped. Then he had turned in the opposite direction toward the water and the implausible possibility of safety if he could recover his canoe and paddle it beyond Munnawtawkit to Paumonok, beyond the reach of the English and their muskets and pikes. But each step in that direction took him away from Margaret and, just as importantly, from Minneseewa. He had never been so paralyzed by indecision.

  He pressed his fingers into his thigh muscles to increase the pain. His eyes closed against it. He saw the face of his wife, the little scar on her forehead from her childhood fall from a low hanging branch of a young oak, her prominent cheekbones, her eyes as bright as the fire that danced in the night, and her lips curved into a smile of pleasure. He studied this image, drawn from his memory, and so he did not hear the soft footsteps in the underbrush until a twig snapped, and he was brought back to the present. He opened his eyes expecting to see a muzzle of a musket, or the blade of a sword. He would rise and present his chest to the English weapons, and so wrench himself from his confusion.

  What he saw was the face of an English girl staring curiously at him, without the fear he was used to seeing.

  “Why are you here?” Ann asked.

  He struggled to his feet, and she took a step back.

  “Are you lost or hurt?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “I have seen you with Mistress Williams going to meeting. They say you helped the girl escape.”

  “I am Massaquoit. I am looking for something that Mistress Williams needs to keep that girl from the gallows.”

  “Oh,” she said, and her face brightened. “I know what you seek, and I know where it can be found.”

  Massaquoit remembered the small figure he had seen that night of the torches and angry voices. It had been just visible darting in the shadows. He now knew that it had been the girl standing in front of him.

  “Will you show me?” he asked, for in the child’s face he read something that blew his indecision away like a clearing wind driving a storm cloud over the horizon.

  * * * *

  He waited until dark and then he approached Catherine’s house. As the moon rose, he remembered what Minneseewa had told him that night he spent on Munnawtawkit. He did not know if the English woman would find Minneseewa’s prediction credible or interesting, but he would tell her anyway. The clouds were gathering in front of the moon, just as Minneseewa had said they would. The next night they would collect in even greater force.

  He stayed in the shadows and worked his way to the rear of the house, where the kitchen door led out to the back garden. The window next to the door glowed a faint yellow from a candle inside. He strode to the window and peered in from the edge. He expected to see Phyllis or maybe even Edward, but he did not want to be surprised by finding some other English visiting Mistress Williams.

  Edward was sitting at the table with a knife in one hand and a stick he was whittling in the other. The old man seemed to sense his presence at the window for he looked up and stared in his direction. Massaquoit knocked loudly on the door and watched as Edward stood slowly to his feet. He put down the stick, but he held the knife in front of him as he walked toward the door. He disappeared out of Massaquoit’s line of vision, and so he waited for the door to swing open. When it did not, he knocked again.

  “Open up old man,” he called.

  “Who is it?”

  “Matthew,” he replied. “I must talk to Mistress Williams.”

  Catherine was on her way from the front room, where she had been going over an account book before Massaquoit had knocked a second time.

  “Open the door Edward,” she said.

  “He says he is Matthew, but I do not think so.”

  “Open the door, and we will see, won’t we?”

  Edward turned the door handle and pushed it open while in the same motion he stepped back.

  “It’s that savage,” he said. “He wants to talk to you, he says.”

  “Come on in,” Catherine said. “You can return to your carving, Edward.”

  “He can’t have my knife,” Edward mumbled and walked back to the table.

  Massaquoit followed Catherine past Edward and into the front room. She sat down at her desk and stared absently at the figures on the page. Then she closed the book. Something in her manner told Massaquoit that she was uncomfortable.

  “Do those numbers have anything to do with the Good Hope?”

  She nodded.

  “I am afraid so. But I do not apologize for my business.”

  “I did not come here to talk to you about your ship, but to give you this.” He held out his hands. In it was a small blanket. “The little girl led me to it. She followed her cousin that night.”

  Catherine shook the blanket open. It was woven of coarse wool that might once have been white but was not gray. She held it to the candle, and examined one side and then the other. Then she folded it back into a small square.

  “Henry will recognize this, and so will Martha. And most especially Ned.”

  “Are you going to return it to them?”

  “Yes.”

  “And that will help the girl?”

  “It will.”

  He took the blanket from her and held it to his cheek.

  “I think I feel the coldness of a bad spirit living in this blanket.”

  “I truly hope so. But if it is not, I will help it seem as though there is.”

  “You might want to make haste to give it back to him, then, by tomorrow night. Minneseewa has told me the moon will hide then.”

  “Did she indeed?”

  “Yes. And I do not think she is ever wrong about such things.”

  “Then tomorrow night, it will be. Will you be there?”

  He had prepared for this question.

  “Yes, but not where you will see me.”

  “I have spoken with Magistrate Woolsey about Minneseewa. She will be released. The soldiers should not have taken her.”

  “I do not thi
nk she gave them a choice.”

  “I saw what young Ned did. But you must not take vengeance on him. He is a foolish boy.”

  “I cannot forgive him his insult.”

  She put her hand on his arm.

  “Do not do his work for him, for that is what you will do if you strike out at him.”

  He handed the blanket back to her.

  “I will sleep outside as I am used. It is the safest place I can think of. The English soldiers will not look for me there.”

  She felt herself smile at his audacity.

  “You are probably right.”

  “And I will be gone before the sun rises.”

  She conducted him to the back of the house. Edward still sat at the table working his piece of wood. She closed the door behind Massaquoit, and then she turned to Edward.

  “The first thing in the morning,” she said, “I want you to gather the ripest strawberries you can find.”

  He did not look up.

  “Did you hear?” she asked.

  “It is early for strawberries,” he said.

  “Find some that are ripe. The girl’s life depends on it.”

  “I thought you wanted some for breakfast,” he replied, and dug his knife into the wood.

  * * * *

  Catherine stood at the back door staring in the early morning sun at Massaquoit’s wigwam. She walked across the dew laden grass and pulled back the woven reeds that formed a flap over the entrance. He was gone, as he said he would be. When she returned to the house Phyllis was waiting for her.

  “Magistrate Woolsey is in the front room,” she said.

  “Did you ask him to join us for breaking the fast?”

  “He says he has already done so, and needs to speak a few words with you.”

  Woolsey was pacing back and forth between the fireplace and the doorway to the front room.

  “I am on my way to the grand jury inquest,” he said.

  “I have no doubt as to the outcome. It is foreordained.”

  Woolsey shook his head in disapproval.

  “By the evidence, Catherine, by the evidence.”

  “Yes. The evidence.”

  “Do you have anything to present to the jury that might change their decision?”

  “I will have, by tonight.”

  “That will be too late.”

  “You are not telling me that the girl will hang before tonight, are you?”

  “Too late for the grand jury. You know there are steps between that and the gallows.”

  “Steps Governor Peters will happily abridge.”

  “I can make sure he pauses on each.”

  “At sunset tonight, I will be at the Jameson house. Let that be known after the jury does its business.”

  Woolsey turned his head vaguely toward the back of the house.

  “Will Matthew be there?”

  “I cannot say.”

  “I see,” he replied. He picked up the wide brimmed hat, which was on the table next to the door. “Will you walk with me?”

  “No,” she said. “I follow after.”

  * * * *

  “Here will be just fine,” Catherine said, and Phyllis placed the two chairs she had been carrying down onto the grass in front of the meetinghouse inside of which the grand jury was convening. Phyllis was breathing hard and she wiped the sweat from her brow.

  “We could have waited at home, couldn’t we have? Master Woolsey said he would come right by and tell us what happened.”

  “Yes, he did. But I know what they are going to do. They are going to find a good bill and indict that girl. I want to be here to look them in the face as they come out.”

  Phyllis opened her mouth as though to continue the conversation, but Catherine motioned for her to be quiet. Her mind was refining the scene she had been inventing since her conversation with Massaquoit the night before. She had gone to sleep and dreamed it, and now this morning she kept playing it over and over. It was not working. All she heard was laughter coming from Henry and Ned Jameson while Martha sat mute in the shadows with Ann at her side stroking her forehead and rubbing her shoulders. The laugh began as a snicker and built to a howl as it merged with the contemptuous roar of the townspeople who witnessed her failure. She moved her lips to explain, but the laughter swallowed her words. High above the pitch of the laughter, she heard a thin, buzzing, insistent, but distant. Then something tugged at her sleeve. She turned to see Phyllis’ mouth moving and her hand tightening on her arm.

  “Mistress Williams,” Phyllis said, “do you not hear me?”

  “Of course, I do.”

  Phyllis glanced up at the sun. Perspiration gathered on her upper lip, and he ran her tongue over it.

  “Perhaps we should move over there,” she said, and pointed to the shade cast by a huge maple.

  “Go, if it suits you,” Catherine replied.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Go.”

  Phyllis picked up her chair and carried it to the tree. She set it down near the trunk and leaned her head back. Catherine closed her eyes to try again. This time, she added an element that had been missing before and there was no laughter, only stunned amazement on all those laughing faces. She knew what she had to do, and she could only hope this last element would appear tonight as clearly as it had just manifested itself in her thought.

  * * * *

  The large, oak door of the meetinghouse swung open and Woolsey emerged. He glanced once at Catherine, and then he looked down at his feet. Catherine strode over to where Phyllis still sat beneath the maple.

  “We can go home now,” she said.

  Phyllis looked toward the magistrate, who was talking to a knot of people, including Governor Peters, and Minister Davis. The crowd around him thickened as more people walked out of the meetinghouse.

  “Do you not want to talk to Master Woolsey?” Phyllis asked.

  Catherine shook her head.

  “I know what the jury has said. I do not need to hear it spoken.”

  Phyllis’ face registered her usual confusion.

  “Is he telling them, then?” she asked, pointing to the small crowd that grew as people continued to emerge from the meetinghouse.

  “No, I trust he is giving them an invitation from me.”

  “Indeed,” Phyllis said, as she struggled to her feet and picked up her chair. “I did not think you would be inviting people to our house at a time like this.”

  “Not our house,” Catherine replied as they walked back to where she was sitting. Phyllis shifted her chair to one arm and picked up Catherine’s. “To the Jameson house, this evening,” Catherine continued.

  “I see,” Phyllis replied, but it was clear that she did not.

  “And as soon as we reach home, we must be sure that Edward has gathered the strawberries as I asked him to do.”

  “Yes, strawberries. I am hungry,” Phyllis said.

  Catherine began walking down the road, and Phyllis stumbled after her trying to balance the chairs evenly on each side of her body as she hurried to catch up.

  “The strawberries are not for you,” Catherine said. “They are for the babe’s blanket.”

  “I see,” Phyllis said. “For the blanket. What else would we want strawberries for?”

  “Exactly,” Catherine said.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  That evening, beneath a bright full moon, Catherine and Phyllis made their way toward the Jameson house. Henry and Ned were waiting some twenty yards in front of the house. A number of people had already reached the spot where they stood, both with their arms across their chest. The road was narrow, so that they blocked passage. An expectant murmur arose from the crowd as Catherine and Phyllis approached.

  “Here she is, as she said she would be,” one said.

  “And why does she come here, bothering the family in their grief, that is what I want to know. She plotted with that savage, you know she did,” said another.

  “Aye, so they say.”

  C
atherine heard these murmurings, but walked through the crowd with her eyes fixed on Henry. She knew more people were following behind, and among these, according to rumor being bruited about, were Governor Peters and Minister Davis. A few steps behind her, and hurrying to keep up as evidenced by his labored breathing, was Woolsey. Phyllis remained a few feet to her side, standing with her arms clasped over something that she held to her chest.

  “Henry, where is your wife?” Catherine asked.

  Henry, his face dark with anger, turned his head back toward his house.

  “Is she sick?” Catherine asked, “for I have come to talk with her, as well as you and young Ned here.”

  “If that is why you have come, you can turn around. We do not have nothing to say to you.”

  Catherine glanced up at the moon. A few moments before it had been perfectly round. Now one curved side was flattened ever so slightly as though a giant hand had just begun to slide a piece of black paper across its surface. She breathed a mental sigh of relief at the confirmation of Minneseewa’s prediction. Still, she would have to be careful. The timing of what she was about to do would be delicate, and made much more difficult by the sullen intransigence already exhibited by Henry, and the insolent ill temper she could anticipate from Ned, whose color was heightened and who was finding it difficult to stand still.

  “Will you not bring your wife out?” Catherine asked.

  “No,” Henry said. “She is in her bed where your medicine put her.” He turned his back to Catherine and took a step toward the house. “Come, lad,” he said to Ned. “Magistrate Woolsey is here, and he can see that we are left in peace. We need not talk more.”

  Catherine felt a cool breeze float across her face, and she looked up to see that the black paper sliding over the moon had now quite definitely squared one side. Several people near her followed her eyes upward. There had been a constant murmur of conversation among the people watching the confrontation but now that buzz stopped. The silence fell over them hard, like a crack of thunder rattling down from the heavens, and as if he heard the hush, Henry stopped. Ned kept walking for a step or two, and then he too paused as though in the grasp of an invisible hand. Catherine motioned Phyllis forward.