He stood next to a young oak tree, no more than twenty feet high. One substantial branch diverged from the trunk at a height he could just manage to reach if he stretched himself full length. He grasped the branch and pulled himself up. The branch was wet, but free of snow, as it faced the east and the sun was now falling full force onto it. He slid along the branch until he was sitting in the crotch formed by its intersection with the trunk.
The gulls were up and circling the still dark waters. They swooped and cried to each other as they searched for food. A sailor appeared on the deck of the ship and tossed the contents of a pot into the water. One gull, and then another, and finally all of them dove to whatever scraps floated on the surface. They landed on the water and menaced each other with thrusts of their bills as they snapped at the morsels of garbage. The spectacle, as natural as it was, filled Massaquoit with unspeakable sadness.
For a half hour, the lone sailor, who had now disappeared back into the bowels of the ship, and the cantankerous gulls, were all that rewarded Massaquoit for his efforts to reach the harbor. But then, coming from different directions he saw a lone figure, pulling a sled, on a footpath that approached the harbor from east, and two others on the wider path that came down from Master Worthington’s house. It did not take him long to make out the distinctive beaver hat on the lone figure. Wequashcook seemed to look in his direction and nod. Massaquoit studied the other two figures. One was short, seemed to walk fairly easily through the snow, and carried a sack over his shoulder. The other appeared to be laboring more with each step, and was taller. As they neared, Massaquoit could see that the taller figure was wearing a full bodied great coat and wide brimmed hat, while the shorter one was bare headed. So, it seemed, Wequashcook was coming to make his peace with Worthington and to see off Frank Mapleton.
Something in the scene unfolding in front of him struck him as wrong, and then he realized that the squat, powerful figure of Lieutenant Osprey was not at the merchant’s side, as he almost always was except on those occasions when the soldier had been sent on a mission. Worthington looked in his direction, and Massaquoit pressed himself flat against the trunk of the tree. He looked about him, half expecting to see the grinning face of the lieutenant staring back at him behind the pistol clenched in his hand. But the tree was in a clear space, and all he now saw was snow, and the only impressions in it, those made by his own feet.
He turned back toward the ship in time to see the short figure start to climb up a gangplank that had now been lowered to the dock. The gangplank was a crude affair, not much more than a couple of rough boards nailed together. The ship rolled a little as a wave lifted it, and the figure struggled to keep his footing. His right foot came down to the side of the gangplank, and his body started to follow it into the black water between the dock and the ship. As he fell, he uttered a loud cry. He managed to grab the gangplank with his left hand. A sailor, not moving with any great haste, made his way toward the man, seized his shoulder, and then helped him back to his feet. Massaquoit could not see his expression, but his head moved in a jerky motion that suggested he was either agitated or enjoying the spectacle of a landlubber almost tumbling into the water.
Massaquoit noted Worthington’s indifference to this incident, as the merchant only turned his head once as he was attracted by the cry of the man as he began to fall. Then he had turned back to Wequashcook, and bowed his head toward him in earnest conversation. That indifference, along with Osprey’s absence, struck Massaquoit as very odd indeed. The man was now standing on the deck, moving his arms in excited gestures toward the gangplank. The sailor who had helped him nodded and then pointed toward a door. The man disappeared behind that door.
Wequashcook and Worthington were still talking. The merchant walked over to the sled, which Massaquoit could now see was carrying a pile of goods covered by a heavy cloth. Wequashcook lifted up the cover and Worthington knelt to examine the items. The sun glinted off the metal of axes and pots and knives and other trade goods that could be exchanged for furs or perhaps wampum. Wequashcook pulled the cover back over the goods. He waved toward the deck of the ship, and two sailors came down the gangplank. Each took one end of the sled and they began hauling it up the gangplank. Worthington offered his hand to Wequashcook, but the Indian bowed without taking it. The merchant shrugged, nodded his head, and then turned back up the path leading to his house. Wequashcook watched the merchant leave, and then yelled something to the two sailors who were still struggling to bring his sled aboard. Once they succeeded, and the merchant was out of sight, Wequashcook strolled, as though aimlessly, to the base of the hill beneath Massaquoit. He looked around, then up at the sun to test its warmth. He made his way up the hill, stopping beneath the tree.
“You make one ugly bird,” he said to Massaquoit.
Massaquoit lowered himself from the branch. He landed in knee deep slush, and raised a spray of snow that reached to Wequashcook’s face.
“And what kind of bird are you?” Massaquoit asked.
Wequashcook raised his hand to his face and wiped the melting snow from his cheek and chin.
“One who knows when to fly and when to nest,” he said.
Massaquoit looked toward the ship.
“You are about to fly, then.”
Wequashcook shrugged.
“My trade goods are on board.”
“The young English, he is on board too.”
Wequashcook shook his head.
“The young English who almost took a swim is some kin to Master Worthington. The one you seek must be elsewhere.”
Massaquoit studied the other’s face. He had been duped. The question was whether Wequashcook was part of the show.
“No, I did not know,” Wequashcook said. “I saw you perched in your tree when I came here to make my peace with Worthington. He is not a man I want to have as an enemy. But he likes money above all other things, so when I offered him half the profits from my trading goods, he was happy to oblige me.”
“He thinks you may have had something to do with the killing of his son.”
“I told him that I did not. He seemed to accept my word.”
“Maybe he waits for you to make some money for him, and then he will decide that he does not believe you.”
Wequashcook smiled.
“You are beginning to think like the English.”
“They did not invent deceit,” Massaquoit replied.
“No, but perhaps they have perfected it. But consider this. The ship sails for Barbados. It will stop at Long Island so I can trade my trinkets for wampum from the Montauks. Master Worthington knew I would meet him this morning, and he brought along somebody who looks like Frank Mapleton, in case somebody like you was watching.”
“Why would he go to that much trouble?”
“When you find this Mapleton, you can ask him yourself.”
“Did you tell Master Worthington that I sought this boy?”
“I did not.”
“Are you going to Barbados?”
“I do not know. But if you want to find that boy, you should look that way.” He pointed to the north, away from the harbor and up the river valley. Then he made his way back to the ship and climbed up the gangplank.
* * * *
Massaquoit watched the preparations for the ship to get under way. The wind blew gently off shore, just enough to fill the sails, which were turned to catch it. The anchor was lowered onto a platform attached to two longboats, which then rowed out a hundred feet into the harbor. An officer tossed a piece of wood onto the water and nodded as the outgoing tide carried it away from shore. When the longboats reached their position, the captain emerged and barked an order The sailors aboard the longboats tilted the platform so that the anchor dropped into the water. The anchor cable ran through hawsers toward the bow of the ship and then to the capstan on the quarter deck. The sailors on the longboats signaled the anchor was in place, and others on board threw their shoulders against spokes on the capstan. Massaquoit
could hear the men grunt, and the heavy anchor cable grate as it wound about the capstan. Ever so slowly, the bow of the ship began to turn, and then as it gained a little momentum, and the wind continued to push into its sails, it turned faster until it now faced the open water.
By noon, the anchor had been hoisted up again, the longboats returned to the ship, and The Helmsford, having been turned to face the mouth of the harbor began to glide over the placid waves toward the sound that separated Newbury from Long Island. Beyond was the Atlantic Ocean and Barbados. Wequashcook was aboard. That part of his story might be true. As for the rest, he would accept it as long as nothing contradicted it.
The ship was now reduced to a square black dot on the horizon. Massaquoit went down to the water’s edge and found the path, just emerging from the melting snow, which hugged the river as it headed north. If Frank Mapleton was not on board the ship, he would be some miles ahead on this path. And with him, in all likelihood, would be the powerful little English officer who had left his brass button outside Isaac Powell’s farm.
As he walked, he felt perspiration gather in the corners of his eyes and begin to trickle down his cheeks. Each time he stepped, his foot sloshed down through melting snow that was rapidly becoming a layer of icy water. The sun shone on the waters of the river, turning them from black to blue, and streaking them in places with gold. He almost expected to hear the song of returning birds, but it was too early for that.
It did not take him long to find two sets of impressions, side by side, that had been left by individuals walking at a fast pace some time before. He judged the speed by the generous space between the footsteps and the time by the fact that the impressions, which should have been deep in the slush, were barely visible as the snow had almost melted enough to obscure the tracks. Soon there would be no way he could track his quarry. He would have to trust the word of Wequashcook, whatever his motives might have been for pointing him in this direction. Yet, somehow he felt that he would overtake Frank, and in all likelihood, lurking somewhere near when he did would be Lieutenant Osprey. If he was following a baited trail, he had flashed his own bait for the lieutenant when he had permitted Osprey to see him hand the officer’s brass button to Catherine that night at the meetinghouse when Nathaniel died.
Within an hour, he could barely see the tracks, as the sun now well overhead rapidly melted the snow, creating dozens of rivulets that crisscrossed the path in intricate patterns, obscuring all other indentations and lines. When the path passed in the shadow of a pine the snow crust retained its integrity for a few feet, and he could sometimes find a footprint or two that encouraged him to think that those he was following had indeed passed this way. But even those occasional tracks eventually disappeared, and in some places the snow gave way to a soft mud whose surface was virginal.
To his left was the slowly flowing river, released from the ice of winter. To his right were the dense woods where the snow still lay deep between the sheltering trees. The woods offered no path branching off the one he was on until several miles further on where a narrow way cut through the trees to the village of praying Indians at Niantic. He did not think that Frank would have stopped there, but perhaps he, himself, should.
He almost missed the path leading to the village, as he had been concentrating on the ground in front of his feet, hoping to find at least one more set of footprints on the ground, which was now largely mud, and only occasionally still covered in snow. He looked up just in time to see the marker tree whose trunk had been trained to grow almost at right angles to the ground so that it pointed to the entrance of the path. He approached that spot with great care, examining the ground for any sign of some other person’s feet on the slim chance that Frank, either because of fatigue or hunger, or just contrariness, had decided to visit these Christian savages. But no such tracks were visible, and so he started toward the village.
He had not worked fifty yards when he saw a wisp of smoke curling up between the trees. He slowed his pace so that his steps became virtually soundless, and he worked his way behind the trees that lined the path. He moved so that a tree always stood between him and the point at which the smoke rose. He strained to hear voices, but heard none. He peered around yet one more tree, and found that he was looking into a small clearing, no more than ten feet around at the edge of the path. In the center of the clearing sat an Indian boy of about twelve or thirteen in front of a fire, holding a small animal on a branch, serving as a spit, over the flame. On the ground next to him was a bow, with an arrow ready on the string.
Massaquoit picked up a handful of snow from and shaped it into a ball. He threw the snowball so that it splashed against a tree to the left of the clearing while he approached from the right. The boy dropped the branch and picked up his bow in one very fast motion. He sighted the tree on which the snowball had landed. Massaquoit approached him from behind. The boy heard him at the last moment, and as he started to turn Massaquoit held his arms so that he could not bring the bow around to menace him. The boy struggled briefly, but furiously, against Massaquoit’s far superior strength.
“I mean you no harm,” Massaquoit said. “But I did not want you, mistakenly, to harm me.”
“Let me go, and we can see who wants to hurt who,” the boy replied.
Massaquoit released his grip on one of the boy’s arms, and with his free hand he seized the top of the bow. Then he let got of his hold of the other arm. The boy stepped back with the bow still in his grasp. He dropped the arrow, and Massaquoit relaxed enough for the boy to free himself. Massaquoit placed his foot on the arrow just hard enough to drive it most of the way into the snow. The boy looked down at the fire.
“My dinner is burning.”
“Then you must rescue it,” Massaquoit replied.
The boy picked up the branch and showed it to Massaquoit. On it was skewered a skinned, headless and tailless squirrel. The skin on the upper body was charred black, and the short forelegs were twisted together as in supplication. Massaquoit took out his knife and held out his free hand. The boy passed the stick to him. Massaquoit cut the squirrel in two. He gave the burnt half to the boy and kept the other for himself.
“It is polite,” he said, “to offer your guest refreshment.” He pointed to the half animal in his hand. “And the offer should be the best of what you have.”
Massaquoit heard the steps behind him. They were barely audible, made by somebody being very careful, as he had been, or by another child. He whirled about. Standing in front of him was a boy, a year or two older than the first. He was holding a bow aimed at Massaquoit’s chest.
“You do not need to instruct my brother,” he said.
“Somebody should,” Massaquoit replied. “Put down your bow. My name is Massaquoit. I seek only information.” He handed the good half of squirrel back to the first boy. His brother lowered his bow, but held it in front of him in a position that would enable him to raise it again in an instant.
“We know your name,” the older one said. “You were the sachem the English chose to live while his brothers died.”
Massaquoit felt the rage rise in him, a red fury that deprived him of any response but to put his hands about the insolent neck of the boy who would so distort the truth and cast him as a villain in a scene in which he had been a victim. How convince this stripling that he would have preferred to die a thousand times rather than live the sole survivor of English treachery? He took a step toward the boy, whose face spread in a grin that showed he was pleased to have found the button that would evoke Massaquoit’s anger. The boy raised his bow and pulled its cord half back, an arrow now aimed at Massaquoit’s heart. His brother reached for his bow, but Massaquoit put his foot back on it. He thrust his knife hand out in front of him, and crouched.
“I do not think you dare,” he said.
The older boy started to pull the cord to its full tension, Massaquoit dove at his feet and rolled against his shins. The boy pitched forward, as his legs were taken out from underneath h
im. As he fell, he released the arrow, which shot harmlessly into the snow. The boy landed on his knees, but before he could regain his footing, Massaquoit was behind him, his knife pressed against the boy’s throat. The boy struggled for a moment until Massaquoit pressed the blade a little harder into his flesh. His brother retrieved his bow and strung an arrow.
“That is not wise,” Massaquoit said. “Put it down. You are boys. Do not again tempt the anger of a man.”
“Do as he says.”
Massaquoit had not heard the approach of the woman who now stood behind him. She was in her thirties, wrapped from head to toe in a heavy blanket, but her head was uncovered so that it revealed shiny black hair that reflected the sun. Her dark brown eyes, though, shone even brighter with an intensity that seemed almost palpable. The boy lowered his bow, his face still darkened into a prodigious scowl. The woman strode to Massaquoit and put her hand on the wrist holding the knife. She had small, delicate fingers, yet they exerted considerable pressure. He looked hard into her eyes, but she did not turn away, or ease the pressure on his hand. He pulled the knife away from the boy’s throat. She released his wrist, and he and stepped away.
“Massaquoit,” she said, “do you not recognize me? And is that why you threaten my sons?”
He studied her face, her long, slender nose, high cheekbones that seemed almost to push through her skin, and her delicate lips. He still felt her small hard fingers on his wrist. Then he remembered.
“Long ago,” he said, “I saw you in Uncas’s house.”
“I was a girl then. I looked at you, but you did not see me.”
He recalled the visit to the Mohegan sachem. He had left the wife he had recently married home, and his heart was with her while his head was preoccupied with his failed attempt to secure an alliance with Uncas. It is no wonder he paid no attention to this woman at that time, but looking at her now he realized that in other circumstances he most certainly would have noted her.
“I am Willeweenaw,” she said. “I married a Mohegan. He was with Uncas at Mystic.”
The Blind in Darkness Page 17