“Now,” she said.
Phyllis unclasped her arms and extended her hands. In them, she held the carefully folded blanket. Catherine took it from her, and waited for Henry to return. The night was becoming darker.
“Go inside the house, and fetch a torch,” Henry said, “so I can see what she is holding there that has struck everybody dumb.”
Ned looked up.
“The moon,” he said, “it was bright as day just now.”
“What are you talking about, lad? A cloud nothing more.”
Ned continued looking up.
“I don’t see any clouds. And the moon is disappearing.”
“Get the torch.”
Ned walked back toward the house. A few moments later he returned, carrying a blazing brand. Several paces behind him came Martha, followed by Ann.
“Now then, Mistress,” Henry said, taking the brand from Ned, “what do you have here?”
“Only the babe’s blanket,” Catherine said. “And it is right that your wife see it, too.”
“Humph!” Henry said. He turned and held the torch toward the house. Its flame cast a weak and flickering light on the expressionless face of Martha, who stood looking without seeming to see. “Get you back into the house.”
Martha did not respond. Ann tried to turn her, but Martha remained still.
“Well, then, I guess it don’t matter,” Henry said.
“Good,” Catherine replied. She snapped open the blanket and held it high above her head. “Come and have a look. Bring the torch close and see how the babe’s blanket calls out against its killer.”
* * * *
From where he stood in the shadows on the hill overlooking the Jameson house, not far from where Ann had led him to the blanket, which had been shoved beneath a pile of brush, as though in haste by someone who intended to return to do a better job of concealment, from that place so thick with associations that he seemed drawn to it as the water answers the call of the moon, Massaquoit stared at Ned. He noted, of course, how Catherine held up the blanket he had given her, and he knew that somehow that piece of cloth was going to declare Margaret innocent, and he saw the old English man, Catherine’s friend, and in the crowd behind them he could make out the round form beneath the skull cap of the minister, and the towering figure of the governor beneath his wide brimmed hat, but none of these held his interest to nearly the same degree as the boy who had fought with him on the beach, who had insulted him in the tavern, and who had hurled dung at Minneseewa as she rode in her crude cage. So absorbed was he in directing his silent rage at Ned that he almost did not hear the soft footsteps coming up behind him. He whirled about just as a firm hand reached his arm.
Wequashcook took a step back and released his hold. His beaver cap slid down his forehead, and he pushed it back.
“They gave you your hat back,” Massaquoit said.
“I bought it back, with more wampum than it is worth.”
“You are fortunate to still have a head to put it on.”
Wequashcook offered a trace of a smile.
“I am useful to them. When I came upon you, you were staring at that English boy, as though your eyes could send arrows through his heart.”
“Yes,” Massaquoit said. “Can you deliver him to me like you delivered Minneseewa to the English so that boy could amuse himself with her?”
Wequashcook recoiled as though he had been slapped, and then he shook his head with exaggerated slowness.
“You should believe what you see with your eyes.”
“I saw you in chains. And now I see you here.”
“And I am come to tell you that Minneseewa waits for you on the beach.” He looked up. “She said to tell you that you must come to her before the moon goes to sleep.” The moon was now more than half covered by the moving wall of blackness. The air, too, was cooling down as though warmth were being lost with the light. “Do you not see?” he asked. “The English boy is like a fly nibbling on the flank of a horse. Come with me and Minneseewa back to Munnawtawkit. Let the English do what they want to each other. It is none of our business.”
“The old English woman saved my life.”
Wequashcook spit on the ground.
“I know you too well, Massaquoit, it is the boy’s blood you want” He reached beneath his coat into the waistband of his breeches and pulled out a knife. He handed it to Massaquoit, handle first. “If it is blood you want, here is a weapon for you. I got it in trade.”
Massaquoit took the knife from him, and tested its balance. Then he held it out for Wequashcook to take back.
“It is good. Do you not need it?”
Wequashcook shook his head.
“My warrior days are over. Fight the English if you must.” He looked up at the darkening moon. “But I am not so foolish.” And he was gone into the shadows of the trees. Massaquoit listened for his footsteps to disappear. When they were gone, he placed the knife in the waistband of his loin covering, and then he turned his eyes back to the scene unfolding below. The English boy was holding his torch near the blanket. It almost looked as though he intended to set it afire.
Catherine took the torch from Ned and held it a safe distance from the blanket. She turned to the crowd. Those closest leaned to get a better look, and then those behind pushed forward as well so that a wall of people advanced toward Catherine. Phyllis placed herself between the crowd and her mistress, and Woolsey motioned for the people to retreat, but they did not.
“Minister Davis, “ Catherine said, “I know you are there. Can you step forward.”
The crowd murmured and the minister as though pushed along by the energy of the people’s voices stepped toward Catherine. A narrow path opened for him, reluctantly.
“Mistress Williams,” the minister said, “you have summoned the people, and they grow impatient.”
“Do you not see the moon retreating?” Catherine asked.
“I do indeed,” Minister Davis replied. “And what signifies it? What has it to do with this man, and this family?”
“Why, just what I hoped you would open for us.” She turned to Henry. “Do you not have something to say to us?” she asked.
Henry shook his head.
“Do you not see this very blanket that swaddled your babe?” Catherine demanded.
“It is dark, in truth,” Henry said.
“Why, then look closer,” Catherine demanded. “Do you not see the spots of your babe’s blood? Do they not call out to you, as they did on the night you brought us all here to see your dead babe bleed when Margaret touched it? Why she is in the jail tonight, and you are here. Will you touch the blanket, Henry?”
“What means this Mistress?” Minister Davis asked.
“Why no more than what is just,” Catherine replied. “Henry knows what this signifies. Don’t you Henry? You know what your wife Martha whispered in my ear not two days ago, when I came at your bidding to loose her tongue.”
Henry let out a grunt as though he had been hit.
“Why, Mistress, you know well that you would not repeat her words to me.”
“That I would not until I had confirmation, and now I do. Come Henry touch the blanket, as you had your servant girl touch the babe. She is in jail facing the gallows. What fear you?”
“Why, I, nothing do I fear.”
“Then touch!” The cry came from one voice in the front of the crowd, and then it carried like a wave rolling over a succession of rocks, pausing to gather at each one, until the whole assembly of citizens demanded, “Touch the blanket Henry Jameson.”
Ned edged a step or two away from his uncle. His movement caught Catherine’s eye and she pointed the torch in his direction.
“Where go you, Ned?”
“Why, nowhere.”
“It was you that hid this blanket, was it not?”
“I never hid nothin’, Mistress,” Ned replied, although the tremor in his voice belied the confidence of his words.
“He did no wrong,” Henry s
aid. “If you spoke with my Martha, you know that.”
“Tell us about it then,” Catherine demanded.
“Tell us,” the crowd echoed.
It was now almost completely dark except for the uncertain glare of the torch. The breeze was both cooler and stronger, and the flame bent before it.
“There is blood and there is dark,” Catherine said. “Is that not providential Master Davis?”
“Why, what blasphemy woman?”
“None at all, for it is written, ‘I will show wonders in heaven above, and signs in the earth beneath blood, and fire, and vapor of smoke. The sun shall be turned into darkness, and the moon into blood.’”
“Yes,” Minister Davis said, “‘before the great and notable day of the Lord’ What has that to do with Henry and Martha Jameson and their dead babe?”
“A sign, Master Davis,” Catherine said, and then she raised her voice to a shout, “a sign indeed that the Lord will have us see the truth amid this dark and fire and smoke and blood.” She waved the blanket in front of Henry. “Touch it,” she said, and the crowd echoed, “A sign, touch it.”
Minister Davis shook his head, but it was clear he would not contest the mood of the people.
“Touch it Henry,” he said, “you have nothing to fear.”
“What say you?” Henry replied. “Why listen to the people.” He took a step toward Martha and embraced her. He leaned to whisper in her ear. She did not seem to respond. He pushed her toward the house. “Take her inside,” he said to Ann. The girl took her mother’s arm and walked her few steps toward the house, but then Martha stopped and would not proceed. Henry shrugged and turned back to Catherine.
“She that killed our babe is in the jail.” He looked up toward the moon, now invisible behind its black shadow.
“Put your hand on it, then, Henry Jameson, and let the truth be revealed,” Catherine said.
Henry began to extend his hand and then put it down. Master Davis touched Catherine’s arm.
“A word with you, Mistress,” he said in a voice just loud enough for her to hear above the expectant murmur of the crowd. Catherine took one step back, but she kept her eyes on Henry
“What do you think you will show?” Davis said, his voice a nasty hiss between teeth open just enough to permit egress to the words he spat into the dark air.
“Why no more than what was proved the night Margaret Mary Donovan was made to touch the skin of that dead babe.”
“Psaw. You know what I think of such superstitions.”
“So you say to me in a voice only I can hear. I did not hear you say so that night.”
“There was no point. The girl was to be tried.”
“And so she was. And now if you will excuse me, I am trying to undo the damage done that night. That is what I intend to show.” She stepped back toward Henry and waved the blanket before his face.
“I say again, you must touch it.”
And he did. With a motion as tentative as though he were placing his hand into a pot of boiling water, which he knew would scald him through his skin to the bone, he reached forth his hand, and loath though he was to bring his flesh against the cloth that had swaddled his dead child, still he did, and then as though he actually felt the heat of the boiling water he only imagined he yanked his offending fingers back. Catherine held the blanket in front of her for several moments, and then she pulled her face into an expression of astonishment.
“Blood appears, do you not see it Henry Jameson?” she said, and she thrust the blanket at Henry.
“I see nothing but the same cloth I touched a moment ago.”
Catherine brought the torch closer to the blanket.
“Master Woolsey, what do you see?”
Woolsey peered at the cloth, bringing his face to within several inches.
“I see several red spots,” he said.
“Blood! There is blood!” came a voice from the darkness.
The crowd pressed closer. A young woman in front said again, “Blood on the blanket.” An older man, his eyes tearing from the strain of looking through the darkness toward the cloth he could barely make out, nodded his head. “Aye,” he said. “To be sure, there are stains of newly risen blood on that blanket.” There was a shuffling of feet, and a cry of “Make way, make way for the governor,” and Master Peters made his way to stand next to Catherine.
“You, too, then governor, “ Catherine said. “Do you not see the red spots of the babe’s blood on that blanket?”
Governor Peters bent his long frame into a stoop so that he could examine the cloth, and then he nodded very slowly.
“Yes, but I know not what it signifies.”
Catherine looked past the governor to the crowd that seemed, in the darkness, to have formed itself into one common body with a hundred heads, speaking a constant hum flowing past Peters and to Henry Jameson, and she understood that the governor, politic as ever, would not offer a significant impediment to the will of the crowd.
“You know well enough, I believe,” she said.
Just then another voice, rose plaintive above the crowd’s muttering.
“”Mother,” Ann said, “mother, what ails you?”
Martha Jameson’s face was contorted into a twisted grimace, and her mouth opened as though to emit a shout that remained silent. Her mouth closed and then opened again, and her face contorted even more so that it appeared that her left eye had risen an inch higher than her right. Her nostrils flared, and then the sound started. It began as a giggle, almost like the laugh of the little girl she had been thirty years before, and then it deepened into a genuine guffaw, and finally it metamorphosed into a moan of despair such as would more likely come from an animal whose legs felt the iron teeth of the hunter’s trap than from the mouth of a woman. And as the moan grew into a howl, the murmurings of the crowd ceased, as all stood with eyes fixed upon her. Henry’s body shook with tremors of muscles in spasm as he strove to control his anguish. Catherine lowered her torch, and clutched the blanket to her chest. Ned slipped into the enveloping shadows. When Catherine lifted up the torch he was gone. She handed the torch to Phyllis and embraced Martha. She held the woman until the howl lowered into the moan and then the moan softened into an almost gentle laughter, and then Martha allowed herself to be led back toward her house by her daughter. Catherine accompanied her for several steps and then she turned back to Henry.
“Tell us, then,” Catherine demanded.
He reached out his hand and took the blanket from her. He held it in his powerful, workman’s hand as gently as though it were made of fragile glass.
“We have no money. We never have enough to eat. My poor wife could not care for the babe. She has not been herself since the birth. She could not give it suck. We had no way to pay a nurse. We were all so tired. We just wanted to sleep. I picked up the child. Maybe I shook it. I do not recall. Then I put it down. Later I saw that girl hovering over it. I lifted my dead child up, and she was saying those strange prayers of hers, and then I sent Ned to get help. You know the rest. I have no more to say. I must tend to my wife.”
He strode toward his house, and nobody thought to detain him.
* * * *
Massaquoit, his eyes fully adjusted to the growing darkness, focused on Ned. He heard the clamor, and his stomach tightened against the howls rising from Martha, but his eyes stayed steady on the boy as though he were a deer that would startle at the slightest disturbance. So he saw Ned as he slipped out of the crowd while everybody else watched Henry lead his wife back into the house. He saw him retreat into the tree line behind the house, and a moment’s thought gave him the clue as to where the boy might head. He would seek the water. He would not venture too far into the woods. That is why the blanket had been stowed beneath the brush not twenty yards into the trees. The English thought that strange and marvelous creatures inhabited the woods, but they felt secure with sand beneath their feet and the smell of water on the breeze. Ned would have no other place to run, even if
he did not know what he would do when he reached the beach. And Massaquoit would be there waiting for him.
* * * *
Catherine and Phyllis walked behind the dispersing crowd.
“God does show us the way,” Phyllis said, looking up at the moon, again fully visible.
Catherine brought her fingers to her mouth to lick off the strawberry juice.
“That he does,” she said. “And He shows how to help Him.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Governor Adam Peter’s new mansion stood on a low hill overlooking Newbury’s town square. He had been living in a more modest house not far from Catherine’s, a little closer to the town center than hers. In England he had been a lawyer living partly on fees, but primarily on income from his family’s lands in Suffolk. The Peter’s estate sat on property, which the governor’s grandfather had bought from the crown, after King Henry VIII confiscated it from the Catholic Church, as part of England’s reformation. In New England, however, having left his family fortune behind, he had abandoned his profession as lawyer to become a merchant, importing English manufactured items and exporting the cod that swam in abundance off the coast of Newbury. He had, as it turned out, a better head for business than he ever did for the law, and he had become, in a short time, very wealthy, and at the urging of his wife, who reminded him of the manor house they had left behind, he contracted for the construction of the mansion where he now sat at his large desk as he talked with Minister Davis, Magistrate Woolsey, and Catherine.
From her place on one of the few upholstered chairs in Newbury, if not New England, Catherine was more aware than she had ever been before of the governor’s transformation from devout Puritan seeking a place where he could worship his God as he chose to a business man, and not incidentally, politician, who seemed to care at least as much for his purse as his soul. An oil painting of the governor’s stern grandfather looked out from the wall behind the desk, and linen curtains of regal blue hung before the two windows, on the east wall of the room, in bold contrast to the whitewashed walls. An oak chest with two large drawers and three smaller ones sitting on a frame of elaborately turned legs occupied the spaced between the windows. Two tall candles on the chest, and another two on the desk flickered from silver holders, reminding Catherine that Governor Peters had introduced forks to Newbury, and had presented a silver one to her husband as a token of their friendship. Now, however, she was quite sure that the memory of that ancient friendship had been strained, if not eradicated, by the evening’s spectacle in front of the Jameson house. He bent his long frame over the desk top and toward Catherine, giving to her mind the impression of a snake uncoiling at the mouth of its lair.
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