The Sea Hath Spoken

by Stephen Lewis

  Towards dawn, she heard the floor boards in her front hall creaking under somebody’s weight. She turned her head away from the noise for a moment until her mind cleared, and then she got up. She heard the door shut again. She looked out of her window, which was directly above the door. She saw a figure loping off into the darkness.

  She went downstairs and looked in on Roger. He was gone, leaving behind a fresh red stain on the settee. Whoever’s voice she had heard in what she thought was a dream had brought a summons to which Roger had responded.

  * * * *

  For some reason, Massaquoit was not surprised to see the young English woman whose back had been whipped sitting on a boulder at the edge of the path as it left the river bank and veered toward the harbor. She was in an intense conversation with a young man who kept shrugging his shoulders and shaking his head as though to indicate his inability to tell her what she wanted to understand. A small wooden shipping crate lay at his feet. Jane pointed at it, and the young man shook his head vehemently.

  “I needs must talk to her,” Jonathan said. “About the letter. It would be a courtesy, one more than I deserve perhaps, but I will be in your debt.”

  “You are now.”

  Jonathan snorted a half laugh.

  “You are an arrogant savage,” he said. “But you are also right.”

  Massaquoit chose to ignore the term. He was well used to the English habit of designating what they did not understand as beneath them.

  “For a moment, only, with me in attendance,” he said.

  “That is all I ask.”

  “Good,” Massaquoit replied, “for that is all that you get.”

  Massaquoit had been keeping his eye on Jane and her companion as he fenced with Jonathan. He saw the young man now strap the crate to his back and walk toward away from the dock where a newly arrived ship was tied up and in the direction of the town center. Jonathan, too, watched this bit of business. He shrugged and turned back to Massaquoit.

  “I can make nothing of that,” he said. He presented his bound hands. “Can you untie me, now?” he asked.

  Massaquoit took out his knife and sliced through the rope in one swift motion. Jonathan stretched his hands out in front of him and rubbed his wrists. He started walking toward Jane, and Massaquoit followed a few steps behind. Jane looked at them as they approached, her glance switching from one to the other, and then remaining fixed on Jonathan. He arrived at her side and bowed his head toward her. Massaquoit stood a few feet away, a look of bored indifference on his face as they spoke in hushed whispers.. He knew what they were talking about as well as if he were part of their conversation. He waited for the exclamation to come from the young English woman when her disappointment would move her to speak loud enough for him to hear. When it came, it was short and very much to the point.

  “Thou art a damnable fool,” she said. “Thy folly will be my ruin.”

  “Peace,” Jonathan said in his best ministerial tones, which Massaquoit had come to recognize as the English men of god’s way of soothing with style more than substance. “All is not lost, only misplaced.”

  “Indeed,” Jane said. She looked at the ship. “But I have run out of time.”

  Massaquoit stepped forward and seized Jonathan’s shoulder.

  “Your time, too, has run out,” he said.

  Jonathan looked almost relieved.

  “You see how it is,” he said to Jane. “This savage is now my master.”

  Jane contemplated Massaquoit as though seeing him for the first time.

  “I would not have thought so a little while ago, but it is not so terrible to have a savage for a master.”

  Jonathan’s face expressed dismay, but Massaquoit understood.

  “In the first place,” he said, “I very much doubt that any man, white or red, can claim to be your master. And in the second, Ninigret has enough difficulty mastering himself.”

  “Then you know my friend?” she asked.

  “Is that what he is? A friend?” Jonathan interrupted, but Jane kept her eyes on Massaquoit.

  “Yes,” Massaquoit replied.

  “Well?” she insisted.

  “Well, enough,” Massaquoit said.

  “Then next you see him tell him I am fond of him still.”

  “In spite of his failure?” Massaquoit asked.

  She only offered a bright smile, and turned to leave. She walked away from the town toward the river and Ninigret.

  “She is disappointed in you,” Massaquoit said to Jonathan.

  “So you understand...” he began.

  “Of course,” Massaquoit said, his hand rubbing the bump on the back of his head. “She wants from you what everybody seems to be looking for. Who do you think now has it?”

  “I do not know,” Jonathan replied. He did not blink or look away, and yet Massaquoit was quite sure he was not telling the truth. Lying was so natural to this English, Massaquoit thought, that he probably does not any longer know the difference between truth and falsehood. He seized Jonathan by the arm.

  “I am to take you to Magistrate Woolsey,” he said.

  Jonathan tried to pull away, but Massaquoit only squeezed his arm harder.

  “Why the magistrate?” Jonathan asked.

  “I do not know,” Massaquoit answered, in a voice as flat and opaque as Jonathan’s denials. He could have told the English minister that he was going to be questioned about fathering a bastard child, but then he might try harder to free himself, and he had already been quite enough trouble.

  * * * *

  Catherine stiffened when she heard the knock at the door. She heard Phyllis greet a woman. She relaxed a little. She did not think a woman would be sent to tell her that Roger had been arrested again. The woman struggled to articulate her words, and Catherine knew that Charity, the servant in Minister Davis’s house, was at her door. Charity was given her name by the minister when he had taken her into his household as a slave at the conclusion of the war with the Pequots. She was a child of ten whose legs had been badly burned when the English had attacked her village. She had bitten through half her tongue in her agony. For a long time thereafter she would not speak. Minister Davis’s persistence paid off, finally, when she relented and learned to speak the words of those who had so badly hurt her, even evincing sufficient ability to form the stump of her tongue into the words of her catechism and so be baptized with her new name, one which Catherine had always thought to be more than passingly ironic. She hurried to the door to find what Charity, now a young woman of twenty, wanted. Charity stood there, her head bowed. She took a shuffling step forward on legs that had healed imperfectly from their burns. She looked up and spoke slowly. Her mouth searched for the right alignment of lips and stump of tongue.

  “Minister Davis asks that you attend his niece on a matter of great urgency and delicacy.”

  The words, clearly a speech carefully memorized at the minister’s direction, with a vocabulary no servant would have ever used, came haltingly. Charity’s eyes again sought the ground in front of her feet. Catherine understood the meaning behind the words, and in that moment of comprehension her gravest fears seem to have been realized.

  “Go, then,” she said, “and I follow.” She looked out of the window toward the field of corn behind her house where Phyllis was hoeing the weeds with Edward. She decided not to wait for Phyllis. Charity still stood in the doorway, her glance following Catherine’s out to the fields. “Go on,” Catherine said, and Charity, without a word, turned and walked away at a pace almost fast enough to smooth the limp caused by the imperfect healing of her feet after they had been scorched by the English fires.

  * * * *

  Minister Davis’s wife had died in birthing their first child. He had married late, and he chose to remain a widower. The child, a son, returned to England to study at Oxford, and much to the father’s displeasure turned Anglican and remained in London. Thus, the minister lived alone except for Charity and occasional young relatives who wer
e sent to him by their parents to profit from his guidance. Grace was the most recent of these.

  His house stood across the town center from the meetinghouse. It was a modest structure at a time when many New England clergy were beginning to shake off more austere years of colonization and were building formidable houses to match their status as members of the ruling elite. Minister Davis took his calling very seriously, too seriously in fact, to live in a grand house. He chose instead a decent but restrained comfort in his dwelling, which Catherine and Charity now approached. Catherine saw him peering out of the front window, but when Charity opened the door and ushered her into the hallway he was nowhere to be seen. Charity led the way to the small bedroom to the left of the entrance hall. She stepped aside to permit Catherine to pass and then stationed herself against the wall next to the door. In the corner of the room was a never used cradle. And lying on the bed in the middle of the room was a very pale Grace.

  Next to her, her ample size filling the bright, deep blue gown, trimmed in lace, and balanced uncomfortably on a three legged joint stool, sat Francine Peters, third wife of the governor. Both she and he had lost their second spouses after their children were all grown, and so they married, more out of economic ambition than romantic interest. Their union brought together two of the richest Newbury families into an even wealthier combine. The governor was fond of Francine for the money she added to his fortune, and she was grateful for the protection he offered in securing her widow’s inheritance. They were civil toward each other, but did not spend overmuch time together. As a result, Francine often sought company elsewhere, and she had become a kind of surrogate mother to Grace, not trusting the minister to provide adequate counsel to a young woman. She pressed her fingers to her lips now, with a nod toward Grace who was sleeping a fitfully, and with some difficulty she lifted her bulk from the stool. Her expression mingled concern for Grace with a recognition that she had been right in fearing for the young woman living in a house presided over only by a man, albeit the minister, and a sad acknowledgment that her attempts to provide the necessary feminine guidance had been too little and too late.

  “She bleeds,” Francine said to Catherine, “where she should not.”

  Catherine nodded.

  “I feared as much,” she said.

  She lifted the rumpled bedclothes from Grace, and raised her shift. A napkin which had been pressed between the young woman’s legs was stained a dark brownish red with dried blood. In only one place did it drip bright red. Catherine removed the napkin and daubed the fresh blood where it gathered on Grace’s inner thighs. Catherine replaced the napkin and covered Grace again. She beckoned to Charity who limped to her.

  “Go back to my house,” she said, “and tell Phyllis to come immediately. Tell her that Grace is losing her babe and to bring what is necessary. She will know what to do.”

  She and Francine watched Charity hobble out. Grace groaned as a cramp convulsed her. She pressed her hands to her belly.

  “Can I not keep it?” she asked.

  Catherine hesitated, choosing between a truth the young woman would not want to accept, and a lie that would offer her temporary comfort.

  “The Lord must decide,” she said.

  “Then I am ruined, for I have sinned,” Grace said, “and now He is taking my babe from me.”

  “The Lord’s will be done,” Francine intoned.

  Catherine rebuked Francine with a sharp glance, and then stroked Grace’s hands, which were still pressed against her belly.

  “Hush,” Catherine said, “I am here now, and all will be well.”

  Grace nodded and lay back down, her eyes closed. A few minutes passed, and then another cramp, not quite so violent, seized her. Catherine continued stroking her hands while Francine cradled her head. When the cramp subsided, Francine leaned toward Catherine.

  “I should not say so, but some say her uncle has put her in this bed.”

  “Do you think it?” Catherine asked.

  Francine leaned a little closer, and Catherine could smell the beer on her breath.

  “Indeed,” she said, “with no proper woman here for guidance.”

  “Surely the minister can watch over one lamb,” Catherine replied, surprising herself by defending Minister Davis.

  Francine bent even further toward Catherine so that their noses almost touched.

  “Some say,” she whispered, “that he was a little too close to this lamb.” Then she threw herself back as though dismayed at the very thought. “I, of course, do not believe such idle and vicious talk.”

  No, Catherine thought, but you do not hesitate to repeat it.

  Grace stirred. Her face reddened and her mouth quivered in anger.

  “Do not say such things about Uncle,” she said.

  Francine smiled as though she had seen the mouse take the cheese in the baited trap.

  “I meant nothing,” she said. “Fault me for my idle tongue.”

  Grace was not mollified. She looked at Catherine.

  “Mistress Williams, I think you know right well enough that my uncle is blameless. He only did what he thought right in keeping Roger from me. He failed in that, as all the world can see, but as for the other suggestion, that he, himself, why that is unspeakable.”

  “Yes, child, I do,” Catherine said, as her eyes noted the new red stain on the napkin. “Now, lie still. I am sure Mistress Peters does not intend to upset you further. Is that not so Francine?”

  Francine shifted away from the bed as though to signal her compliance. Grace again closed her eyes. After a few moments, Francine leaned toward Catherine.

  “What I do mean to tell you, and not in the way of gossip, is what I have seen with my own eyes, and that involves your young woman guest.”

  “Jane?”

  Francine nodded.

  “She has been often a visitor in my house, seeking the company of my nephew.”

  “Your Jonathan does seem to find his way among the women of this town,” Catherine added.

  She expected a defensive response from Francine, but the governor’s wife only chortled.

  “He is an energetic young man, he is,” she said.

  “And he will have much to answer for,” Catherine replied. “I have taken the liberty of informing Magistrate Woolsey about his desertion of Abigail King. I have sent for your nephew so he might answer.”

  “He is the governor’s nephew. I do not claim him. I only say what anybody can see that these young men, Jonathan in my house and Roger in yours, this poor young woman here, and Abigail bearing a bastard child. ”

  Catherine felt the sting although she would not for a moment place Roger and Jonathan in the same category. She stared hard at Francine for malice in her expression but found only the weary wisdom of a woman who had managed to prosper in a world dominated by rich and powerful men who routinely took advantage of poor and powerless women. On that level, Catherine could not disagree. She chose, instead, to seek information.

  “You were talking about Jane. Did you mean to suggest that Jonathan and she...”

  “Oh, no, not at all. I am quite certain their relationship was a matter of business.”

  “Indeed. Of what sort?”

  “That I cannot tell you. But I have seen them together often enough. They talked like two merchants negotiating the price of goods, not lovers deciding where next they might meet.” She again leaned close enough for Catherine to smell her breath “I do not know what they were trading, but I can tell you this. It involved a young savage.”

  “Who might that be?” Catherine asked.

  “For that, you can ask your own Matthew. I warrant he knows.” She settled back on her stool with a contented smile, but with a motion too sudden for her weight, and she nearly lost her balance. Catherine reached a hand to steady her.

  “Thank you,” Francine said. “I am sometimes too exuberant.”

  “You are not the only one.”

  The voice came from the doorway where Minister Da
vis now stood. His face was dark beneath its skull cap, and his tone carried an anger that Catherine could not remember hearing.

  “Mistress Williams,” he said, “it is the exuberance of your young ward that has not only ruined my niece’s reputation, but now threatens her life. Surely, it is the Lord’s hand upon her for her sin. And his.”

  At least, Catherine thought, the good minister was not placing the full blame on the woman, on the model of Eve and all those other temptresses sprinkled about the Bible that ministers so liked to point to as examples of woman’s perfidy. On the other hand, Minister Davis’s placing responsibility solely on Roger showed the depths of his anger and feelings of betrayal. He seemed to understand what she was thinking.

  “You should have looked to him, as he was in your house. But now I have taken measures. He will not again bother my niece.”

  “I have seen the results of your measures,” Catherine replied.

  Unexpectedly, Minister Davis smiled.

  “Good,” he said, “then it has been done. I trust he has been lessoned well.”

  “The whip did not seem to do that office,” Catherine replied.

  “We will chastize him until he permits himself to be corrected,” Minister Davis said, and left as silently as he had come.

  Francine had shifted her glance from one to the other during this exchange. Now, she rose to her feet.

  “Perhaps it is well for me to leave now, as you have arrived, and can tend to Grace far better than I.”

  “Indeed,” Catherine said, as Francine peered out of the window. “I need only wait for Phyllis.”

  “As for that,” Francine said, “I do believe I see her coming up the walk now. I leave Grace in your excellent care.”

  * * * *

  Phyllis stood on one side of Grace’s bed, stroking her arm, and Catherine sat on the stool on the other, pressing Grace’s fingers between her own. Grace looked from one to the other, her eyes expectant. She removed her fingers from Catherine’s grasp and ran them over her belly.