“They left,” he glanced up at the sun and held his hands about a foot apart, “some time ago. I was making my morning meal.”
“How left they?”
“There was an argument. The English girl and Phyllis.”
“What about?”
Massaquoit shrugged.
“I cannot be sure. But I believe it may have had to do with her clothing.”
Catherine sensed what he was to say next, recoiled from her suspicion, but knew she must ask.
“What exactly can you tell me?”
“Only that she bared her chest, and Phyllis insisted she cover herself.”
“I see,” Catherine said, and then hesitated.
“How was she when she left?”
“Covered,” Massaquoit replied.
Catherine looked toward Edward.
“And him?” she asked.
“He hoed,” Massaquoit replied.
“I must haste after. Will you attend me? I must talk to you about another matter, and I cannot pause to do it now.”
“I am content to hear of other things,” Massaquoit replied.
They headed down the path. Edward looked up from his beans for a moment as they hurried by, and then he finished pulling the weed he had in his hand.
* * * *
A cart sat in front of the meetinghouse. The ox attached to it rooted in the dry grass at the edge of the town common. A small crowd of Newbury citizens idled nearby, and others strolled toward them.
“Why do they gather to look at an empty cart?” Massaquoit asked.
“Because they know what purpose it will soon serve.”
Constable Larkins stood with his arms across his chest before the heavy oaken front door of the meetinghouse.
“The governor and the other magistrates are inside,” he said. “He says he has heard how these Quakers sometimes has been known to put on a show at their trials, and he do not want to give them that opportunity here in Newbury.”
“How very thoughtful of the governor,” Catherine said. She looked over her shoulder at the crowd. “He does not seem to mind putting on a show himself.”
Constable Larkins nodded.
“But this be his show.”
“Those two young people are under my roof and are my responsibility.”
“Aye, Governor Peters said you would make that very point, and he instructed me to direct you to enter through the rear of the building.” His voice had dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, and he motioned them toward the back of the meetinghouse with a quick gesture of his left arm and then resumed his pose, arms crossed in front of his chest. Then he leaned forward. “He did not say nothing about him.” He looked toward Massaquoit.
“He is, of course, with me,” Catherine replied, and stepped onto the narrow dirt path that led around the building.
They slipped into the meetinghouse through the rear door. Roger and Jane were standing before a table, behind which sat Governor Peters, Magistrates Woolsey and Pendleton. Next to them was Minister Davis, a gnarled figure with prominent eyebrows beneath his skull cap. The governor was reading from a document in front of him. Roger was holding his large brimmed hat in his hands, spinning it slowly in what appeared to be a nervous gesture. Catherine noted the dark brown cloth of Jane’s bodice drawn tight across her back. The eyes of the men behind the table shifted from brother to sister without especial attention to one or the other, and Catherine felt relieved that the immediate crisis had not occurred. Woolsey looked past the two young people to offer a quick nod to Catherine as she made her way toward the front of the meetinghouse. Massaquoit, as was his wont, sat down on the rearmost bench, the place assigned to him to attend services to learn to worship the English god he could never accept as long as the memory, now more than ten years old, of his drowned comrades remained vivid in his recollection.
Governor Peters paused in his recitation from the document and fixed his eyes on Catherine. Then he looked toward the prisoners and continued.
“Roger and Jane Whitcomb, you are adjudged to have violated our statute against the promulgation of the doctrines of your pernicious sect, the Quakers, which our learned doctors have declared have no sanction in Scripture and which run counter to our well established beliefs.” He paused and looked to Minister Davis as for confirmation.
The minister rose slowly to his feet and adjusted his skull cap.
“The doctrines of the Quakers is but the opening of that vast and horrid sink such as makes the land to stink in the nostrils both of God and man, more than the frogs that sometimes annoyed Egypt.”
Roger’s back stiffened, but much to Catherine’s relief he held his tongue. Minister Davis sat down, and the governor offered a nod to him before turning his gaze back to the document from which he had been reading.
“The punishment prescribed by law for your sect’s refusal to observe our customs, most particularly the showing of respect to superiors and the interruption of our services, which together undermine the authority of both the civil government and destroys the authority of our churches, is whipping at the tail of a cart and banishment.” His voice slowed as he uttered the last words, pausing on each element of the judicial remedy. He now lifted his glance again to Catherine, who had remained standing near her accustomed place in the foremost bench.
“Your arrival is most timely, Mistress Williams,” he said, “for you have missed the recitation of these young people’s offenses, which could only have caused you pain, and can now hear how we intend to deal with them, and that is a matter most close to you.”
Catherine leveled her gaze at the governor, a man who more often than not played the part of her adversary for reasons that had nothing to do with personal antipathy. On that basis they neither liked nor disliked each other; rather they were indifferent. Where they came into conflict was on the broader, impersonal stage of social and religious vision, for there Governor Peters, in alliance with Minister Davis, insisted on a centralization of religious and secular power to produce a theocratic state in which the individual must always bow a knee to the interests of the community, while she stubbornly, although mostly silently, insisted that the individual be permitted to listen to his or her own heart. In the present instance, much as she disapproved of the deliberately provocative acts of the two young people about to receive the harsh punishment of the community, she felt she must stand firm against the pervasive and invasive reach of the governor as he sought to impose his vision on these young people. She did not have many weapons at her disposal, but the one she did possess could be potent, if she did not overplay her hand too soon, and this she had no intention of doing. Rather, she would show the governor the card and then place it discreetly back into her hand.
“I beg forgiveness for my tardiness,” she said in measured tones that insisted her words be attended to with appropriate seriousness, “for I was at Abigail King’s childbed.” She paused for a reaction from the governor. He, practiced politician that he was, contained the grimace of displeasure that for a moment darkened his features. That was all Catherine needed to see, as she watched the forced smile return to his face. Perhaps she should tap the card on the table, face up, before turning its back. “As is my duty, you well know, I inquired as to the babe’s father.”
The smile froze on the governor’s face and then metamorphosed into magisterial disdain.
“I am sure you understand, Mistress Williams, that is a matter for another day, should it ever reach the attention of the court, which I do not think will happen.”
“As you like,” she replied, “I meant only to show how faithful a servant I am to the town’s laws.”
“We know well your service in that way,” Magistrate Woolsey said, “and do commend you for it.”
“Indeed we do,” Magistrate Pendleton echoed, restrained as he always was by his relative youthfulness, being a man of thirty as opposed to the white hair of the others, as well as his status as newly elected to be the third magistrate in accord with the town
’s growing population.
Governor Peters looked from Woolsey to Pendleton, and then back to Catherine.
“If we might then proceed,” he said.
Catherine sat down.
“I wait on the court’s pleasure,” she said.
“The court’s pleasure is to decree that Roger Whitcomb and his sister Jane be tied at a cart’s tail together, both to be naked to the waist down and severely whipped. The constable shall apply the lash as they walk, thirty stripes to Roger and fifteen to Jane, until they come to Mistress Williams’ house, where they will be left to her pleasure.”
Roger clenched his hat until his knuckles turned white, and then he took a step toward the table.
“Is it not your law that a gentleman cannot be whipped. I have money in my purse to pay a fine.”
Governor Peters fought to repress the smile that formed on his face, but after a few seconds he could not, and his expression had the contented air of a cat with its paw on the trapped mouse. Jane meanwhile glanced askance at her brother with the look of one betrayed, making her pretty features ugly with derision.
“Indeed, that is our law. But is it not a tenet of your sect to deny such civil distinctions?”
Roger offered only a mute nod.
“I see,” the governor continued. “Therefore, as you see no such distinctions as valid, as such would require you to doff your hat to your superiors, and have your inferiors bow before you, it is the judgment of this court that your claim to a gentleman’s privilege is forfeit, and you are to be whipped like the commoner before Christ you profess to be.”
Jane stepped in front of her brother, her eyes bright.
“And am I to be stripped naked like a common whore?”
“Indeed, you are,” Minister Davis intoned, “for like the Whore of Babylon you do threaten to corrupt our churches.”
The governor waited a respectful second for the minister’s point to settle.
“If you were only a whore,” he said, “we would have you clean up the offal in our streets. But you are a graver threat.”
Jane looked from the governor to the minister as though they were two flies buzzing about her head. She threw back her head and shook her long red hair.
“Thou said thy law requires that thou banish us as well, does it not?” she asked.
“Child,” Catherine said, rising to her feet, “you would do well to govern your tongue.”
The governor’s face hardened.
“The law does so state, but,” he paused and nodded toward Catherine, “in view of your youth and in deference to Mistress Williams’ interest in your welfare, we have decided to tolerate your stay among us a while longer. After you are whipped, the Court places you under the governance of Mistress Williams to see if she can open your minds and mend your ways of walking. Be it so ordered, and let the punishment be executed forthwith.”
As though by a prearranged signal, the front door of the meetinghouse swung open, and Constable Larkins entered. He held a short whip in his right hand, and he swung it in a tense arc in front of him as he walked. He was followed by four soldiers who wore corselets and helmets, carrying pikes on their shoulders. Massaquoit sitting in the back of the meetinghouse watched the men enter. He saw how the sun glinted off the blades of the pikes and the steel of their armor, and for just a moment the ancient rage filled his chest. He forced it back with an audible sigh, which went unremarked by everybody else in the building save Catherine who turned to the sound. She looked from the soldiers to Massaquoit, her eyes sad with the shared memory, and then she turned back to the front of the meetinghouse where the soldiers had now formed a tight box around Roger and Jane.
Governor Peters and the other magistrates stood while the soldiers led the prisoners out. They joined the small procession, and then Minister Davis, taking his time, rose and followed. Grace walked a couple of steps behind. The sun shone into the meetinghouse through the open door, and so Catherine sensed more than she saw the crowd that had gathered outside waiting for their entertainment. She heard the drum start to beat, and that was followed by a murmur of excitement rising from the unseen multitude as the prisoners walked out the door and into the sunshine.
Massaquoit waited until he was alone in the building. He understood that the two young people were to be punished because they prayed to the English god in a way that the other English did not approve. Even after living among the English for many years, he still found situations such as this hard to fathom. He had seen warriors tortured to prove their worth as enemies, their skin flayed or burned, their fingers and toes amputated one by one, but this made sense to one who judged the value of his conquest in battle against the measure of his victim’s courage and ability to withstand pain. But to whip young people such as these, especially the woman, was to subject them to a humiliation that brought no honor to those wielding the whip.
He rose from his bench and walked slowly to the front of the meetinghouse drawn by his curiosity although repelled by the concept. As he approached the door, he heard the drums reach a crescendo and then stop. He shielded his eyes from the sun as he reached the doorway just in time to see the constable place his hands on the young woman’s shoulders. She recoiled as though touched by something evil, and then clasped her arms in front of her chest. Roger started to come to her aid, but a soldier stopped his motion with the blade of his pike.
Constable Larkins took slid his hands from her shoulders down to her wrists and pulled until he had straightened her arms against her side. He then motioned to another soldier who stepped forward. At a nod from the constable, the soldier seized the girl’s wrists. Larkins then began to unlace her bodice. Jane threw herself into a paroxysm of resistance, straining against the hands of the soldiers and jerking her body from left to right. The constable’s face darkened and he muttered between his teeth. He could not manage to hold onto the tip of the lace. The crowd’s murmuring grew impatient and angry.
Catherine stepped forward.
“Permit me,” she said.
Jane looked from the constable to Catherine. The constable dropped his hands. Catherine motioned to the soldier who released his hold on Jane’s wrists. The girl relaxed her body and permitted Catherine to unlace her bodice, and then pull down her shift exposing her bare upper torso. The constable motioned for Catherine to step back. Roger pulled his shirt over his head. He hesitated and then tossed it high in the air, over Catherine to Grace. It fell at the young woman’s feet, and she picked it up.
“We would not want it stained with my blood,” he said.
“Give it here, girl,” Catherine said, and Grace handed her the shirt.
Meanwhile Jane stood with her arms across her chest for a moment, and then swung them down to her sides hard. She turned about in a tight circle, a bright smile fixed on her face, as a murmur arose from the onlookers.
“Now, have you seen enough,” she said. She turned to face the constable who was holding a length of rope. She held out her hands and he tied one end of the rope about her wrists, and the other to a ring on the back board of the cart. A boy who had positioned himself besides the ox swatted it now hard on the flank with a stick and the beast looked around to see the source of this attack. The boy yelled “Giyyup, you,” and hit the animal again. It took a step forward, pulling the clumsy cart forward, enough for Jane, now tied to the tail to be yanked off her feet. She fell to her knees onto a steaming turd left by the ox minutes before. She got to her feet, her eyes filled with manic exuberance more than anger.
“Again,” she said, “if thou darest.”
The boy raised his arm, but a soldier stepped forward and stayed the motion.
“Enough,” the constable called, and the boy stepped back, his face sullen, but then he permitted himself to share a knowing smirk with his friends.
The constable tied Roger with quick motions, and then picked up the whip that he had placed on the ground behind the cart. It was a short, vicious affair, made of hardened leather, with three thon
gs, on each of which were three nasty looking knots. He spat on his hands, rolled the whip handle between his palms, and looked to the governor.
“Begin,” Governor Peters said.
The drummer, a boy of ten or twelve, raised his sticks and brought both down. Then he struck the drum, first with one stick and then the other in a slow, rhythmical beat, such as might accompany the condemned to the gallows. The crowd quieted in anticipation. Constable Larkins lifted his whip high over his head and held it there as though waiting to join the rhythm of the drum. Roger cast a wary eye over his shoulder, and saw the whip poised over his back. He sucked in his breath and stiffened his arms. Jane kept her eyes closed. The whip came down with a whoosh and a thwack across Roger’s back. The crowd let out its collective breath. Roger grunted his pain and fell to his knee. The knotted cords left three parallel lines of torn flesh between his shoulder blades. The welts reddened, but there was no blood. Grace stepped to him, looked down at his back, and then covered her eyes. Minister Davis took his niece’s arm and led her away.
Constable Larkins moved a step or two to his left so as to position himself behind Jane. She still kept her eyes closed. She had flinched just a little as she heard the whip whistle down and strike her brother, but she offered no other response or preparation. The constable lifted his whip above her bare back and brought it down with as much force as he had applied to Roger. Again there was the whoosh of air cut by the descending whip and the echoing slap as hard leather corded knots bit into flesh. Jane’s eyes started open in the sudden realization of pain, and she staggered to both knees. She began to cry out but bit down on her lips until her teeth caused blood to gather, but she remained mute.
“One,” the constable called out, and the crowd nodded. The boy who had provoked the ox, held up one finger. He walked to the rear of the car and stopped a few feet away from Jane. He stared at her back and then her breasts. She returned his look, holding his eyes until he turned away. Again, he held up his one finger, and returned to his position near the head of the animal that was once again fruitlessly trying to find something to graze on in the barren dirt.
The Sea Hath Spoken Page 6