The Blind in Darkness

by Stephen Lewis

  “Thomas says you saved his life.” He turned to the trio of Wequashcook, Osprey, and Massaquoit, who stood within an uneasy foot of each other. “William, of course, agrees with that account while Osprey, whose judgment I must respect, expresses doubts. He thinks that you, Matthew, are not to be trusted, that you have somehow, I know not how, placed Thomas, who is a sensitive youth, in your power and have thus gained control of his tongue.”

  “I can take you to where a dead Iroquois lies hardening in the snow, but . . ..”

  “Into a trap, I warrant,” Osprey offered.

  Massaquoit continued as though he had not been interrupted.

  “It would not be a good idea. His companions may have come back for him.”

  “The murderous dogs,” Lionel said.

  “Are they not the very ones we seek?” Nathaniel asked.

  “No,” Massaquoit said “They are not.”

  “Traders,” Wequashcook added. “Those Iroquois have finished their business and will be on their way back to the French in Montreal. Unless . . .” he shrugged as though hesitant to express the obvious.

  “Unless,” Massaquoit finished the thought, “they now seek him who killed their friend.”

  Nathaniel looked from one to the other as though weighing the credibility of each.

  “We will set careful guard tonight,” he said. “They may be traders as you say, and if so they have nothing to fear from us, or we from them. Or they may be the ones who murdered Isaac Powell.”

  “It was no Indian killed that old man,” Massaquoit said, and Wequashcook looked at him as though he had betrayed a confidence they shared.

  “Do you mean that he cut off his own hand, and then tried to lift his own scalp, holding the hatchet in his bloody stump?” Osprey asked.

  “At another time, in another place, I can speak of these matters, but I tell you no Indian killed Isaac Powell.”

  “So say you,” Lionel said.

  “I do,” Massaquoit replied.

  “Leave us now,” Nathaniel said his eyes on the young man still on his haunches in the corner. He beckoned him to rise.

  “Thomas stays here with me. To recover from his ordeal.”

  Massaquoit felt the body of the short, stout English man coming up behind him as he stood on the same crest he had occupied with Wequashcook that afternoon. In front of him, two nervous, young English soldiers, no more than boys, stood resting their long pikes on their shoulders, blades glinting faintly in the weak light of the moon. The temperature had continued to fall in the hours after sunset, and a stiff, biting wind had risen, chilling anybody not near a warming fire. Massaquoit pulled his blanket about him, and observed how the young English soldiers held themselves, so stiffly and crippled with anxiety that it was unlikely they would be able to react to an enemy, even one that strolled before them with deliberate and slow moving menace. The man now breathing heavily after his climb, however, was another story. Massaquoit fully realized the violent capabilities, and talents, of Lionel Osprey, who now nudged his arm hard enough to cause him to struggle to regain his footing on the ice encrusted ground.

  “I can relieve you,” he said, “so you can warm yourself with your brother in his tent.”

  Massaquoit pointed to the shivering soldiers. Neither had turned at Osprey’s approach, and only now the one on the right slowly swung around, his teeth chattering to challenge the newcomer.

  “They are the ones who need to be relieved. I await the dawn.”

  Osprey pulled his heavy coat tight about him as a blast of frigid wind cut through the small group. The two young soldiers struggled to steady themselves and to maintain something like a military posture, even while their shoulders shook so hard they could scarcely keep their pikes steady. Massaquoit turned his side to the wind and clenched his teeth. He took note of how Osprey’s thick hand held his coat together at the spot where it was missing a button.

  “I pulled that coat off a dead man,” he said. “I would not wear it if I had nothing else and the north wind was blowing even harder than it is now.”

  “Savage superstition,” Osprey said. “The dead mean nothing to me.”

  “His spirit . . .” Massaquoit began.

  “You must have missed Master Davis talking about how in his learned opinion you savages have no more soul than a hog.”

  “And no less.”

  Osprey squinted his eyes into a scowl.

  “I must have lost my senses in this cold, to be talking theology with such as you”

  “Still that coat does not warm you although I have held it in my hand and it is a fine, heavy coat.”

  “It is no more than the wind.”

  “The wind, too, is a spirit. Along with those of the dead.”

  Osprey shrugged and stepped past Massaquoit to the two soldiers. He put his hands on their shoulders, turned them around, and pushed them, none too gently in the direction of the camp. They started walking, slipping now and then on the ice as they balanced their heavy pikes.

  “It’s you and me, then, Matthew,” Osprey said. “I’ve sent those poor lambs home.”

  Massaquoit nodded.

  “If we both try to watch the night through, sooner or later we will not see anything. The cold and weariness will be a blanket in front of our eyes.”

  “Do you propose we take turns, then? And how do I know I can trust you?”

  “Stay awake yourself then. If they are going to come it will be near dawn. I will sleep now.”

  While Osprey stared at him without comprehension, he knelt before a snow drift of about six feet. He scraped away the hard crust toward the bottom, and then scooped out the softer snow behind it until he had carved out a space just large enough to accommodate his body. He wrapped his blanket around him and worked his way in. He closed his eyes and smiled as he heard Ospey’s muttered cursing and the crunch of his shoes on the snow. He knew it would not be long.

  Osprey, however, was more stubborn than Massaquoit had figured, and it was over an hour before he stood before the snowbank.

  “Matthew,” he said, “for God’s love . . .”

  Massaquoit rolled out of the drift and looked up at Osprey.”

  “No,” he said, “not for the love of your English God.” He stood up and beckoned for Osprey to take his place.

  Osprey shook his head, but crawled into the space.

  After a while, Osprey’s breathing became regular, and then he began to snore. Massaquoit moved away from him into the shadow of the trees. He did not expect the Iroquois to attack, but if they did out of anger at the death of their comrade, it would be better for them to find this fat English pig first. He did not intend to wake him up to ask for relief. The wind was blowing from the camp toward the Iroquois. He found a thick oak and crouched in front of it so that its trunk sheltered him from the wind while his position still afforded him an unobstructed view of the possible breaks in the woods through which an attacking band might come. He waited, motionless and alert, willing his body to ignore the cold that made his bones feel brittle enough to snap if he moved too quickly. Just above the steady roar of the wind, he heard a faint howl. It continued for a few moments, seemed to move further away, and then disappeared.

  The snores coming from the sleeping Englishman had settled into a steady, low hum that barely reached Massaquoit in his position in front of the tree. The howl began again, this time louder and closer. It pierced the cold air sending ripples of plaintive sound through the trees, and the wind rose in its own intensity to combine with the cry of the hungry animal. Wind and howl reached a crescendo and then stopped. After a few moments, the wind roared again, but the animal remained silent.

  The wind died for a moment and the woods were silent, too silent, Massaquoit realized, for he did not hear the snoring of he Englishman. He stood up and stretched the cold engendered stiffness out of his muscles. He listened hard. He heard a dull crunching sound, and he knew that the Englishman had rolled out of his snow burrow and was coming toward him.
He relaxed and waited for the steps to arrive. They passed a few feet away from him, and then stopped.

  “Matthew,” Osprey whispered. “Where are you?”

  Massaquoit stepped toward the voice.

  “Here,” he said.

  Osprey turned toward him, his arm extended, holding his pistol.

  “Did you not hear it?” Osprey asked.

  “Of course,” Massaquoit replied.

  Osprey waved the pistol in the direction from which the howling had come. As if in answer, the animal began raising its plaintive cry.

  “He’s closer,” Osprey said.

  “I do not think so,” Massaquoit answered.

  Osprey steadied his pistol as though to fire it. Massaquoit stepped in front of him.

  “Step aside,” Osprey said. “A shot will keep the beast away.”

  “Maybe, but it will also tell any Iroquois scout exactly where we are.” He pointed through a break in the trees to the east where the first glimmer of the sun could be seen. “Leave the wolf to find the Iroquois.”

  Osprey nodded, and he started back toward the camp. He had not gone more than ten steps when a shout came from that direction followed by more voices raised in a confused uproar.

  Osprey urged his short legs into a trot. Massaquoit saw that the Englishman had again drawn his pistol and so he followed at a safe distance behind. They arrived in the camp to find soldiers rubbing their eyes and stumbling about, some with pikes or muskets, others unarmed. Half a dozen were gathered in front of Nathaniel’s tent. Osprey headed toward them.

  “Lieutenant,” a soldier called to him. “Murder.” He pointed toward the tent. Another soldier looked into the darkness beyond the tent and pointed. Osprey ran clumsily until he reached the second soldier, peered in the direction he had indicated, raised his pistol, and pulled the trigger. The sound echoed through the camp and brought everyone to a stunned halt.

  “Go see,” Osprey said to the soldier who had pointed. Without much enthusiasm, the soldier gripped his long pike, thrust it in front of him, and walked into the darkness. Osprey did not wait for him to report, but instead stooped and crawled through the flap.

  When Massaquoit reached the tent, Osprey emerged.

  “Have a look inside,” he said.

  Massaquoit waited for him to step out of the way. He pulled back the flap. Nathaniel lay on the floor. Blood ran out of the wound on his chest, leaving a dark red circle on his white shirt. A knife was on the ground next to him. A gray haired soldier, with a full and unruly beard, pressed his hands on the wound. He looked at Osprey, and then held up his hands, palm out, to show the lieutenant how red they were.

  “Do what you can, man,” Osprey said, and the soldier again pressed his hands on top of the wound, which nonetheless continued to ooze bright red blood. In the corner, also bleeding from wounds on his leg and arm was Thomas. He moaned as Massaqoit approached him, and then he lapsed into unconsciousness.

  The back wall of the tent had been slit in two places. Massaquoit pulled the fabric apart. It spread only six or eight inches, and no more than a foot in length. The sun now lit the ground behind the tent. Massaquoit looked, but he did not expect to see the assailant, and he did not. He was about to let the torn fabric fall back into place when something dark lying on the white snow caught his eye. He shook his head and pulled the torn canvas together.

  Osprey was at his shoulder.

  “Did you see anything?”

  “Nothing but the snow.”

  “There are tracks out there.”

  “Many tracks,” Massaquoit said, “from many English feet. But I will go out and look more closely.”

  “That is the way, Matthew,” Osprey said. “I have to tend these two.”

  Massaquoit walked deliberately out of the tent and circled to the rear. He made a show of kneeling at the point where the wall was ripped and looking at the footprints in the snow. Two soldiers watched him, and he rewarded them by lowering his head to an inch or two above the ground. One soldier nudged the other. He got down on his knees and crawled about until the soldiers lost interest in him and joined the others waiting for news at the entrance to the tent.

  Massaquoit stood up and without haste walked to the dark object protruding through the snow. He bent down and picked up a beaver hat. He looked around before standing up, and as he did, he slid the hat beneath his blanket.

  Chapter Seven

  Joseph Woolsey was waiting in front of the meetinghouse as Catherine made her way through the drifts raised by the strong winds of the night before. She fought to catch her breath, and her lungs complained as she drew in the cold air. Phyllis, also breathing hard, labored behind her.

  “Catherine did you hear them all the night? People do say the witches held a sabbat in the woods last night.”

  “Do you mean the wolves?” she asked.

  “I mean the devilish howling that everybody heard.”

  “I warrant even the devil would not venture out on such a bitter cold night,” she replied.

  “Catherine, it would be well for you not to utter such blasphemies.”

  “Indeed, I heard such a noise that I was afeard and could not sleep the whole night,” Phyllis said.

  “You must surely have dreamed your fear,” Catherine replied.

  “Why I did not. I recall it very well.”

  “But it was I who did not sleep well last night and as I walked by your room, I did hear you snoring.”

  “In fear, I say.”

  “Yes, no doubt,” Catherine replied.

  “It is time, I am afraid,” Woolsey said, and he helped her through the last drift before the steps of the meeting house.

  They mounted the steps and paused before the door.

  “I am indeed sorry for this,” he said, indicating the door, and those waiting inside.

  Catherine put her hand on the knob. The cold of the iron radiated through the thin cloth of her glove.

  “It cannot be helped. I did what I ought to save the babe, as God is my witness.”

  “Aye, God, but He is not going to be called as witness.”

  The rejoinder, almost blasphemous by the strict Puritan standards of Newbury, surprised and amused Catherine, and she started to smile. But a more serious thought froze her lips.

  “Is this not God’s house?” she asked.

  “Yes, of course,” he responded.

  “And who is inside today?”

  “Ah, Catherine, well you know.”

  “Is not that passing strange how God’s house is so quickly transformed into a place where man’s justice is served?”

  The thought furrowed Woolsey’s brows as he tried to find a compartment in his well ordered brain in which to place it. Failing to do so, he reddened and began to stammer a reply.

  “Never mind, Joseph. Another time, perhaps. They wait for us.” She pulled the door open.

  Inside, she saw Governor Peters leaning his long arms on a table placed in front of the pulpit. He had his heavy cloak bundled about him against the chill of the drafty and unheated building. Catherine stepped toward him, and felt the cold wind blowing across the empty benches. Master and Mistress Worthington, flanking Daniel Rowland sat on the front-most bench, occupied during service by the most prominent male citizens. Their breaths hung in the air in front of their faces. On the same bench, but a few feet from her betters, was Goody Blodgett.

  Catherine took a seat across from the Worthingtons. Catherine eyed each in turn and noted how Goody Blodgett would not meet her glance while Samuel returned her stare with his customary arrogance. Alice Worthington’s eyes expressed regret and impotence while Daniel alternated looking at the governor and his father-in-law, as though unsure which of these masters he should obey this day if they chose to differ. Phyllis took a seat on a bench several rows back.

  Woolsey held Catherine’s shoulder for a moment before taking his place beside the governor behind the table. Peters acknowledged his presence with a nod, and then he held out his
right hand, palm up, toward Samuel.

  “Mistress Williams has arrived, in the company of my distinguished colleague, Magistrate Woolsey.”

  “And therein we have a problem,” Worthington said, almost before the governor was finished. “For too long Mistress Williams has been shielding herself behind one man or another, first her husband, and now her husband’s surrogate.”

  Woolsey took a deep breath.

  “Worthington, you forget yourself,” he said.

  “Indeed, I do not.” He shrugged. “But well enough. That is not our present purpose, which is to question Mistress Williams’ practice of midwifery, to the extreme danger of my grandson, who even now clings to his life.”

  Catherine looked at her old adversary, not surprised, for she had long ago reconciled herself to the simple fact that Samuel Worthington was one of those creatures God endowed with a nature both stubborn and vindictive, as though to represent how base human nature could be when not admixed with His grace. From the moment she had recognized the fragile condition of Felicity’s babe, she had known that Samuel would try to lay the onus on her. The sad thing, she realized, was that the man did not recognize his own bias, and believed he was acting in the interest of justice rather than small minded antagonism. At the moment, however, none of this mattered. Whatever his motivation, Master Worthington was making a very serious charge, against which she would have to offer a vigorous defense.

  “And where is the child’s mother?”

  “At home. This does not concern her.”

  “Does it not? Was she not there when I delivered her babe?”

  “She was insensible then, and now remembers nothing of that night.”

  “So says she?”

  “Yes, and so I represent.”

  “Wondrous father,” Catherine began.

  “Mistress, your tongue,” Governor Peters interjected.

  “Wondrous father,” Catherine repeated, “to so know the heart and mind of his daughter that he can so speak for her.”

  “No wonder, mistress,” Samuel said, “when a child is raised with a proper respect for her father, her governor, and her God.”