The Blind in Darkness

by Stephen Lewis

  Catherine started to comment on the order of worship but stopped herself. In this place, among these men, she was probably the only one to note the reversal of the usual notions of power flowing down from God, through the secular authority to the man as head of household, a hierarchy that had never made particular sense to her although she recognized its pervasive influence.

  “If it please you, then,” Catherine said, “what charge do you impute to me?”

  Worthington looked at Goody Blodgett.

  “I know not these women’s matters, such as birthing a child. To that, Goody Blodgett can testify. I can only aver the result, which is a sickly babe I thought we would bury ere now, if it were not for Goody Blodgett’s ministrations after Mistress Williams was discharged.”

  Catherine clenched her jaws to stay the words of rebuttal that rose in her throat. Instead, she looked to Joseph. Woolsey cleared his throat loudly, a mannerism that she knew announced his intention to say something portentous.

  “Master Worthington,” he said, “you claim to know naught of these matters, and yet you have concluded that Mistress Williams is the cause of your grandson’s distress, and you rest your conviction on the word of another woman whose art is as mysterious to you as is that of Mistress Williams. Is that not so?”

  Catherine relaxed her jaws and uttered a silent thank you to her old friend, who had raised his arm toward Worthington as he finished his question, and now waved his hand as though to encourage an answer.

  “I speak only of the result,” Worthington said. “Goody Blodgett can attest the cause.”

  “Goody Blodgett, then,” Governor Peters said. “Can you do so?”

  Goody Blodgett rose slowly to her feet and looked at the powerful men who now demanded her testimony. She shifted from one foot to another, and when she spoke, her voice was barely a whisper.

  “That what I seen Mistress Williams do is,” she paused as though to remember what came next in a prepared speech, and then she continued, “contrary to the usual practices of midwifery.” She twisted her face in concentration. “Causing the babe to be born before its time.”

  “And what were those practices?” Governor Peters asked.

  Goody Blodgett blushed.

  “I am unable to say.”

  “What, woman?” Woolsey demanded. “Come you here with such a charge, and you cannot say?”

  “It would not be right and proper. It is fit I tell this to a womankind who would understand me rightly.”

  “But,” Peters interjected, “the only woman here is the one you accuse. Surely, you do not expect Mistress Williams to lend credence to your accusation against her.”

  “Pardon, sir,” Goody Blodgett said with a thrust of her jaw, “she would if she spoke truth.”

  “And what would I say?” Catherine asked.

  Worthington rose and held out a feather.

  “This was on the floor after the babe was born. Goody Blodgett can testify to it being shoved down my daughter’s throat to force her travail, a cruel and unnatural procedure that causes much harm.” He looked at Goody Blodgett. “Speak woman. The governor has demanded the specifics that are in your power to reveal, not mine. All I know is that my daughter, more precious to me than any but my wife and son, was delivered of a babe by Mistress Williams, and then fell into a fever that nearly put her in the ground where I expect any moment to see the poor babe interred. The result, therefore, is clear. You must provide the cause.”

  Goody Blodgett who had sat back down after her brief statement, relieved not to have to say more, now rose reluctantly to her feet.

  “The truth is that the birth was not dangerous . . .” she began. Worthington looked at her as though his eyes were daggers, and she stopped. “Not dangerous until Mistress Williams arrived. And then she had Felicity drink a tea made from I know not what, but no doubt some evil potion, instead of the blue cohosh that all midwives know would bring on proper pains. And then the feather to cause gagging, why I never saw such a thing before.“ She paused to gather her breath. “Then there is what she did to that poor girl’s breasts, which I was treating right and proper with honey. There, now I have said it. Let it be there in the air in front of us all.””

  “ My daughter,” interjected Worthington, “cannot give the babe suck, and it languishes. Her breasts are ruined by Mistress Williams’ cutting them. I ask you, is it right and proper midwifery to cut open a woman’s breasts?”

  Governor Peters and Magistrate Woolsey stared hard at Catherine, and she had to think how little these men knew concerning these matters. Worthington, even if he spoke only out of genuine and immediate concern for his grandson, and not out of ancient grievances against her and her husband, still saw only a sickly babe whose mother could not nourish it. So, he looked for someone to blame, and she was available as a target for his anger. The other two men knew only that birthing was a dangerous business, that sometimes the mother and sometimes the babe, and sometimes both died, and they were then bereft of wives and children. Further, they were men who saw God’s heavy hand in all matters of this world, and this encouraged them even more to look outside themselves for the source of their losses. Blame the midwife, or some poor old hag that they could call a witch, or anybody but themselves, for they would not want to countenance the thought that an angry God was punishing them for their transgressions by taking their loved ones from them. No, much better, to think that God was using their loved ones as innocent victims to show His displeasure with somebody handy, like the midwife, and then they could content themselves with their piety, and tell themselves that God had chosen to use this wife, or that babe, as a reminder of His terrible vengeance when His wrath was provoked by human frailty.

  All of this, Catherine knew very well as she looked back at the stern faces of her Puritan inquisitors, even that of her Joseph, whom she had known her whole life. He, too, would feel threatened and at sea when confronted by the mysteries of reproduction. And in his eyes, she saw a despairing look as he, along with the governor, awaited her answer. Well, then, she must educate them.

  “She died else,” she said with as much force and simple clarity as she could muster, short of shouting this truth to the high roof of the meetinghouse.

  “Aye,” Worthington said. “She surely would have died. From your ministrations.”

  Governor Peters, who had had his own disagreements with Catherine in the past and whose business interests were deeply entangled with Worthington’s, leaned forward, his head tilted as though to hear more. He looked at Catherine.

  “Does it please you now to give me leave to speak?” Catherine asked.

  Governor Peters nodded his head slowly.

  “All that Goody Blodgett says is true, true I used a tea to relax Felicity when she was worn to exhaustion with an unprofitable travail, true that after she rested I caused her to gag with a feather, an unusual procedure that Goody Blodgett in her limited experience would not have seen, and true that after the babe was born and Felicity’s breast turned red and painful from bad blood that I opened it, which I did but to permit the bad blood to escape. And then she did mend.”

  “The honey?” Governor Peters asked.

  Catherine glanced at Goody Blodgett. Even though the woman was impugning her reputation, and threatening her profession as midwife, she could not find it in her heart to be truly angry or vengeful. The woman was weak, in need because of her husband’s illness, and she had been bought by Worthington. She turned back to Peters.

  “A good remedy for certain problems. But not in this case.”

  “Would it not have sufficed?” the governor asked.

  “It would not have. Indeed, I taught Goody Blodgett that remedy.”

  “Then perhaps you should have listened to your student,” Worthington said.

  Catherine was about to respond when a muffled sound of drums worked its way through the walls of the meeting house, and all eyes turned in the direction of the sound.

  “The troops must be retur
ning,” Governor Peters said. “I pray with fair news.”

  The drum beat got louder and louder. All inside were quiet, their eyes on the door. It swung open. There stood Osprey, and next to him Massaquoit. Worthington took a couple of quick steps toward the door and stopped. He peered hard at Osprey.

  “Nathaniel?” he asked.

  Osprey turned and pointed behind him where four soldiers stood, each holding one corner of a litter on which lay the young officer. Behind him, on another litter, was Thomas. He tried to rise, but could do no more than support himself on one elbow as he stretched his other arm toward Nathaniel. Then he let himself fall back flat onto the litter. It rocked for a moment until the soldiers supporting it could regain its equilibrium. The soldiers carried both litters inside the meetinghouse and set them down on the floor. A rush of cold air accompanied them.

  “Shut the door,” Governor Peters demanded.

  One soldier rose to do the governor’s bidding. He shut the door, and the litters were in darkness. Worthington made his way toward the litter where his son lay. He walked with uncertain step as though he knew that he did not want his eyes to confirm what he already feared was true. Before he could reach his son’s side, Osprey placed his bulky body in his path.

  “There was nothing we could do,” Osprey said. “The savages slipped into his tent. Cut them both up.”

  “Is he dead?”

  “No, not yet,” Osprey said. “But I believe he is beyond help. I have seen many hurt like him.”

  “But my son,” Worthington said, “my son.” And he pushed by Osprey who stepped aside rather than offer any further resistance. Alice followed her husband. Father and mother stood looking down on their son.

  “None of them lived,” Osprey continued, as though he had not been interrupted, and then under breath, “nor will he.”

  Worthington, though, was not listening to Osprey. He was kneeling at his son’s side, holding his hand, and pressing his ear to the young man’s lips. He stayed in that position for several moments, and then his eyes filled with hope.

  “He still breathes,” he said. He rose to his feet and turned back to the governor and Woolsey who now standing next to Osprey. “Call the surgeon.”

  “He is at Niantic,” the governor said.

  “Niantic?” Worthington’s tone was incredulous. “When my son lies here dying?”

  “He was called there to tend the sachem there, a goodly Christian man, he is, even if he is a savage,” Woolsey said.

  Worthington stood to his feet and grabbed Massaquoit’s arm.

  “You, then, go. To Niantic. Bring back the surgeon.”

  Catherine, who had been left standing alone, pushed her way past Osprey and approached the litter. Alice stepped aside and she leaned over Nathaniel. She placed one hand on his forehead, and the other on his chest where the blood had dried on his shirt. She held her hand there until she detected a faint heart beat. When she lifted her hand it was warm with fresh blood.

  “Can you . . .?” Alice began.

  “I do not know,” Catherine said. “But I can surely try.”

  “Have you not done enough to my family?” Worthington said. “Be gone with you.”

  Catherine looked at him, and then at Alice, who nodded her head.

  “Phyllis,” Catherine called, “haste you home and return with my comfrey poultice. You know where to find it.”

  “That I do,” Phyllis said and she bustled toward the door, pausing just for a second to stare hard at Worthington, but just then Thomas moaned and the merchant turned in that direction. Catherine saw his expression harden. Massaquoit inched toward the door. He felt the tension among these English rising. Catherine noted his movement. “You go with her, Matthew.”

  Catherine kept her hand on Nathaniel’s wound. Then there was a stir in the column of soldiers who still stood before the door. They separated to permit the young woman pass. She was followed by another holding a babe wrapped in a blanket.

  “Oh, Nathaniel,” Felicity cried, and stumbled to her brother’s side. She took his hand and squeezed, but the young man did not respond. She cast her eyes from her father, to her mother, and finally to Catherine.

  “Father. You must permit Mistress Williams to tend Nathaniel. She saved my life.” She looked toward Goody Blodgett. “That one was more like to let me die.”

  “Felicity,” Worthington said, “I told you to stay at home. You are not well. You know not what you say.”

  “I heard the drum. I looked out the window. I could not see who was being carried, and yet I knew. I summoned Elizabeth, and she carried my babe here, even though she knew she would earn your wrath for so doing.”

  “Aye, and that she has,” Worthington said.

  “Samuel,” Alice said, “listen to your daughter. The surgeon is half a day away, and your son lies here. Go you and seek Minister Davis, and permit Mistress Williams to tend Nathaniel. I know well enough that she saved Felicity’s life.”

  Governor Peters frowned.

  “Mistress, why then did you not so testify?”

  She looked at her husband.

  “He forbade me, but I am not sure I would have held my tongue after hearing the untruths coming from Goody Blodgett’s mouth.”

  Nathaniel’s litter now lay on the table behind which the governor and Woolsey had been sitting. Catherine stroked his forehead with one hand while continuing pressure to his wound with the other. The table was just long enough to hold the one litter, so Thomas was still on the floor. Catherine glanced down at him. His wounds were serious but not mortal, slashes on his left arm and leg as though he had been trying to defend himself from a blade that hacked at him. His moans were barely audible, and saliva dribbled from his open mouth. Catherine covered him with a thin blanket, but still he shivered in the drafts of cold air that swirled about his thin body.

  “He should be lifted off the cold floor,” Catherine said, but Worthington shook his head.

  “Leave him be. It was him that ran away. And my fool son had to go after him.” Leave him be, I say.”

  “Samuel,” Governor Peters said, “the boy may be the cause but perhaps he can disclose the attackers.”

  “Why, we know that,” Worthington replied, “the savages, as Lieutenant Osprey says.”

  “Yet, we can profit by confirmation,” the governor said, and without waiting for further reply, he motioned to two soldiers who lifted Thomas’ litter and placed it on the foremost bench. Thomas lolled his head, opened his eyes, and grimaced in pain. Worthington watched with a scowl on his face.

  “He will live,” he said. He turned to his son and lowered his head.

  A blast of cold air announced the opening of the meetinghouse door, and it was followed first by Massaquoit, who took one step inside and then stood aside, and then by Phyllis, who bustled in, a small jar clutched between her hands. She made her way straight to Catherine and held out the jar. Catherine looked at her own hand, still pressed on the wound.

  “Yes, I see,” Phyllis said. She pulled the stopper out of the jar and wrapped a clean cloth about her index finger, which she inserted into the jar and rotated until the cloth was well coated with the comfrey poultice. She handed the cloth to Catherine. Catherine tore Nathaniel’s shirt which she had been using as a compress against the wound, which ran deep and wide across the young man’s chest. She packed the wound with the poultice, pressing it firmly between the edges of the jagged skin. As she worked, she looked at his eyes. She knew the pressure of her hand in the wound should be causing pain, perhaps sufficient to produce a response, and perhaps that response would enable him to cling to life a little longer. She had no greater hope. She pulled his shirt back over the wound and then covered him with a blanket provided by one of the soldiers.

  His eyes opened, bright and clear, and he began to move his lips.

  “Thomas,” he said.

  “He is here,” Catherine replied. “He is hurt, but not badly.”

  “Thomas,” he said again, but
he made no effort to follow Catherine’s hand, which was pointing toward Thomas. “Thomas is . . .my friend. I love . . .” He stopped as though unable to continue, but Catherine noted that his breathing seemed, for the moment, a little stronger. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Osprey advancing toward her.

  “He should be quiet and save his strength, should he not Mistress?” the lieutenant asked.

  “He wants to speak, and we must let him,” Catherine replied.

  “My friend I love as I should . . .” Nathaniel said, his voice barely audible, and his chest heaved.

  Osprey, now at Nathaniel’s side, blocking Catherine, leaned over, and cupped his hand to his ear.

  “What’s that lad?” he said. “What’s that?” he said again, and his voice, louder than it needed to be swallowed the sounds barely escaping from Nathaniel’s lips.

  “What says he?” Catherine demanded, but Osprey did not reply. There was silence and Osprey stood up.

  “He has done, mistress,” he said.

  “Thomasine,” came from Nathaniel, and then he closed his eyes, his breathing barely perceptible now. Osprey stepped aside to permit Master Worthington to take his place at his son’s side.

  “Is there hope?” the merchant asked.

  Catherine shook her head slowly from side to side.

  “I think we have heard his last word, the name of his intended.”

  “Aye,” Osprey said pointing to Thomas, “that one’s sister.”

  The door opened again and Minster Davis, his short, rotund figure well wrapped in a heavy cloak, which he held before his face, hurried in. He took one look around the meeting house, over which a funereal silence had now descended, and he stepped to Worthington’s side. He looked down at Nathaniel, squeezed the merchant’s arm, and knelt beside the young man.

  “We must pray,” he said. “The Lord is my shepherd,” he began, and soon, one by one, the other watchers moved their lips, repeating the words articulated by the minister. Catherine, as was her wont, closed her eyes and concentrated her thoughts on a silent prayer of her own while she mouthed the familiar words.

  She kept one hand Nathaniel’s chest, feeling the feeble beating of his heart as it became fainter and fainter. When it stopped, she opened her eyes, stood up, and motioned for Minister Davis to cease. She pulled the blanket up over his face.