The Sea Hath Spoken

by Stephen Lewis

  “The soldiers here have explained the circumstance, how the young man attempted to flee as he was being arrested and did struggle so mightily,” Catherine replied.

  One of the soldiers, no more than a boy of sixteen stepped next to Jailor Drake and then turned to face Catherine. His lips were puffy and one eye half closed. He held out the blade of his pike, which was encrusted with dried blood.

  “He did that, as I have told in truth to Mistress Williams. My face bears the imprint of his fists, as you can surely see, but he did not profit from his encounter with me, I warrant.” And with that, he thrust out the pike blade. “It caught him between the ribs, and that is a fact.”

  The other soldier, a grizzled man in his early forties, a head shorter than the boy, who was tall and lean, shook his head.

  “I do believe he will be telling the story of how he captured that lad inside to his grandchildren.”

  “That I will Nathaniel, and you can tell yours how you watched from the ground where he did shove you.”

  “Enough of this chatter,” Catherine said in exasperation. “You say the boy is near death, so let me pass to see what I can do.” She stared hard at the young soldier. “Step aside, if you please,” she said.

  “Let be, Oliver, that’s a good lad,” the grizzled soldier said, and the boy shouldered his pike and moved away from the door.

  “This way, then, Mistress Williams,” Drake said and he motioned Catherine inside. Phyllis followed, and after a moment so did Oliver.

  There, lying on a thin blanket on the floor next to the table on which Drake took his meals was Henry. His face was pale, his eyes closed, and he had his hands pressed against his left side. Catherine knelt next to him and gently lifted his hands. He opened his eyes and moaned. Oliver peered over Catherine’s shoulder until she looked up at him.

  “My pardon, mistress,” he said.

  “No doubt you hope to see the reward of your efforts,” Catherine snapped.

  “I thought only that he might die,” Oliver said.

  “That is what I meant,” Catherine replied. “Now stand back.”

  Oliver retreated to a position by the door. A hacking cough preceded the entrance of a wizened little man, who pushed by Oliver and walked toward Henry, stopping a few feet away. Henry looked past Catherine and then shook his head with enough force to cause him to grimace in pain. Catherine stood up and faced the visitor who was a little taller than a dwarf with wispy white hair and beard. The little man held a foolscap sheet of paper in one hand, and a quill pen and small jar of ink in the other. His white beard was smudged here and there with ink stains.

  “I trow the governor has sent you, Will Best,” Catherine said.

  “Aye that he did,” Will said, and pointed to Henry. “His excellency wants a record of anything he might say.”

  “You are wasting your time then,” Henry said, “if you believe I will say anything worth your writing down.”

  Catherine pointed to a corner of the room.

  “If you hear anything it will be from over there, Will, for I will not have you in my way, or causing this lad any discomfort.”

  Will scurried to the corner and sat cross legged with the paper on his knees. He uncapped his ink jar and dipped his pen.

  “As you like, Mistress Williams. I serve my masters and mistresses each as well as the other. Unless,” he cackled, “of course they be of different minds, and then it is the master I heed, as any wise man would.”

  “Your master is not here to contradict me,” Catherine replied. She gestured toward Oliver who stood there. “This is a small enough room, with little air to breathe.”

  Oliver’s face expressed his disappointment, but he shuffled through the doorway. Catherine turned her attention back to Henry.

  “Never mind Will Best,” she said.

  “I fear,” Henry replied.

  Catherine lifted Henry’s bloody shirt and probed the wound on his side with her forefinger, pressing it in until she encountered resistance. Then she ran her finger the length of the gash and found it to be about six inches. The wound had bled copiously and that was the danger as it did not appear that the blade of the pike had struck any vital internal organ. If Henry were given a decent chance to recover, given his youth and strong constitution, the wound would not prove mortal. However, she concluded, he was far from out of danger since he had lost so much blood.

  “Drake,” she called, and the jailor who had remained outside came in, scratching his chin. “Have you any water about?” she demanded.

  Drake ambled past the table to the far end of the room where a pitcher sat on the floor. He brought it back to Catherine and handed it to her. Then he walked back through the door and out into the sunshine. Catherine looked into the pitcher and saw a dead beetle floating in it on its back. She grabbed the insect between her fingers and tossed it aside.

  “Phyllis,” Catherine said, and her servant handed her a clean piece of rag from her midwife’s bag. Catherine dunked the rag into the pitcher and then ran it over the wound, washing off the congealed blood. Henry bit down on his lips.

  “That’s a good lad,” Catherine said. Phyllis, in the meantime, took out another piece of rag, which she dipped into a small jar containing the goldenrod poultice. She handed the rag to Catherine, who applied it to the wound.

  “There, now,” Catherine said in a her most reassuring tones, “A couple of stitches is all I need to close this. You should mend before long.” She looked toward the door through which Oliver had departed. “I am sure that one would be disappointed so to hear.”

  “You are fooling me, are you?” Henry demanded. “I do not want to die.”

  “No,” Catherine said. “You may die, surely, but not from this wound.” She eyed the little man across from them. “That one poses you are a far graver threat.”

  “But I am innocent,” Henry said.

  “Innocent, he says”, Will cackled. “Why who did say you did anything? Why, then, you must therefore be guilty, else why would you protest your innocence?”

  “I know well you think I killed that Quaker,” Henry said. “Else why would you be here.”

  “Only to record,” Will said. “That is what I do.”

  Henry, now clearly agitated, started to sit up, but then the color drained from his face and he clutched at his wound. He collapsed and the back of his head thudded against the hard wooden floor.

  “Phyllis,” Catherine called.

  Phyllis lowered herself onto the floor next to Henry and cradled his head in her ample lap. Catherine lifted his hands from the wound. The rag was red with fresh blood. She removed the rag and threaded the fishbone needle through the catgut thread. With quick and deft movements, she held the flesh together and pulled the needle through. Henry jerked each time the needle entered his flesh, and Phyllis cooed in his ear while leaning her weight on his upper body to keep him still. After the last stitch, Catherine rummaged in her bag and removed a long strip of cloth. “Just lift yourself a little,” she said, and when he did, she passed the strip under his back and then over the cloth on top of the wound forming a bandage.

  “Now lie back down and stay still,” she said.

  He nodded, but his eyes darted back and forth toward the little man.

  “He is going to see me hang,” he said.

  “Hang,” Will repeated. “I do not hang men. I only write down their words.” He held his pen poised over his paper. “Now, lad, what words can you give me, for you must speak, now or later.”

  “You need say nothing while you regain your strength,” Catherine said. “I am witness to your condition.”

  Just then the door, which Oliver had shut behind him, swung open and Timothy barged in. He looked down at the wounded sailor, and then he clutched his own side.

  “Ah, Mistress Williams is a good one with her needle and poultice,” he said. “I can vouch for that. But she is wasting her talents on a murderer.”

  Charity’s words flashed in Catherine’s mind.


  “Be careful,” she said to Timothy, “for the Lord hates a false witness and will not abide your lies.”

  “Begging your pardon, Mistress Williams, but I knows what I have seen with mine own eyes, and there is no lying that way. And I saw him kill that Quaker.”

  Will Best dipped his pen in his ink and wrote rapidly. “Words,” he murmured as he wrote. His pen made a quite audible noise. Henry started up, and Catherine pressed her hand on his chest. When he settled back down, she moved her fingers to his lips. He nodded. She stood up and stepped toward Timothy.

  “There are fresh coins in your purse, I warrant,” she declared.

  “Only honest wages,” Timothy replied.

  “Jailor!” Catherine called out, and Drake entered.

  “Remove this man, or instead of a prisoner you will soon have a corpse.”

  “That is what I know full well,” Drake said. “But then corpses don’t eat very much, do they?” He took Timothy by the elbow, and whispered something in his ear. Timothy hesitated, and then followed the jailor out of the room. Henry watched him depart and then looked first at Will and then Catherine.

  “With respect, mistress,” Henry said, “he has written those lying words that will put my neck in a noose. I do not know how I may mend, or what may befall me, so words he wants, words I will give him while I have a little strength.” He rolled toward Will. “Hear me now, you troll.”

  “Troll, he calls me, and he the one facing the hemp,” Will sneered. “Speak, my pen awaits.”

  “Then write first that I killed nobody. It may be that someone might say I was nearby, and that is no lie, but I did no harm to him what is dead. You would do well to look for his sister, for she was there, along with her Indian lover. I saw them there. From a distance. I never went near him that got killed. I wanted only to retrieve a piece of property I knew he had.”

  He paused and the air was again filled with the scratching of Will’s pen, which he moved with marvelous efficiency over the paper, pausing only long enough after several words to dip his pen into the ink. Henry glared at him until he again held his pen suspended over the paper.

  “Do you not have questions for me?” he demanded.

  “Question? I only record, have I not said to you that is my only function?” Will replied.

  Catherine put her fingers to Henry’s lips.

  “I can no more,” he said.

  After a few moments, when he did not continue, Will closed his ink jar and folded his paper with elaborate care, creasing it once in half with his blunt fingernail, and then once again before tucking it into the top of his breeches.

  “Pity,” he said. “I do think he has more words for me.”

  “I think not,” Catherine replied. She ran her hand over Henry’s eyes and saw that he was asleep. “Leave him now,” she said and stood up. Will nodded and scurried out as suddenly as he had entered. A moment later Drake came in.

  “Are you through with that one?” he asked, pointing at Henry. “I do want my living quarters back. There is a room where I can lock him up proper.”

  Catherine reached into the bottom of her bag and pulled out a couple of coins. She held them out to Drake.

  “Put him where he will be comfortable, and feed him what he will eat when he awakes.”

  “Are you sure you want to feed a dead man?” Drake asked.

  “Do what I say,” Catherine snapped. “It is not for you to be saying who will die.”

  Drake offered an insincere smile.

  “Why, mistress, of course such be in the hands of God.”

  “Remember that,” Catherine replied, “and tend to that lad.”

  “Speaking of God,” Drake said, “Minister Davis waits outside.”

  “I do not doubt it,” Catherine answered.

  She saw the minister and Timothy leaning over Will, as the little man glanced down at his paper. Minister Davis nodded and stroked his chin. Timothy looked confused, and it was clear to Catherine that he could not read. He looked up at her, said something to the minister who motioned him away, and he left. Then Will folded his paper again and he scurried after Timothy. Minister Davis held his heavy Bible clutched under his arm. He took off his skull cap and wiped the sweat from his forehead. Catherine strode toward him.

  “Are you here to offer that boy comfort?”

  “You tend to his wounds. I will provide balm for his spirit,” Minister Davis replied.

  “I have done what I can for him,” she said.

  “He has told an interesting tale,” Minister Davis said. “About that whore you entertained in your house. I believe she conspired with that lad inside, and now she appears to have run off with an Indian. Will is even now on his way to the governor. Timothy goes with him to complete the part of the story the boy did not tell.”

  Catherine felt the heat rise in her cheeks and so took a deep breath. It would do no good to confront him at this time and place. Perhaps later with Magistrate’s Woolsey’s support she could pierce the minister’s aura of self-righteousness. For now, she saw a net being dropped over both Henry and Jane, and she could not help but feel that the minister was holding one end of it and the governor the other, as both men, for different reasons, were more concerned with preserving their family’s honor than with discovering the truth. The minister’s niece had been deflowered in his very own house by a man who had now himself been murdered after having tried to pass off another woman as his sister. The governor’s nephew had given Abigail King a bastard child, had raped an Indian girl, and had somehow become involved in the deceit of Roger and Jane. She looked hard at the sweating man of God and wondered if the perspiration came more from the heat of the sun or the anger in his blood.

  And then restraining as best she could any tone of irony, she said,. “I leave him to your tender care.”

  * * * *

  Massaquoit sat with his back against the tree next to his wigwam. He had chosen not to follow Catherine on her mission of mercy to nurse the wounded sailor. He would be of no use there, and his mind was heavy with confused thoughts that he hoped an hour or two of solitude might help clarify.

  Two English were dead, and they were linked by a piece of paper. And that piece of paper had passed through Wequashcook’s hands. Massaquoit did not think that Wequashcook would kill for that paper, for the old Indian preferred commercial transactions that did not involve spilling blood, on the very sound theory that violence often turns back on itself. But Ninigret was another matter. He remained, to some extent, the angry boy Massaquoit had first met some years before. That anger had alienated him from his own people and had also made it impossible for him to adapt himself to the ways of the English. He lived on the line between the two cultures, much as Massaquoit and in his own way Wequashcook did, but Ninigret absorbed only the hostility between the two peoples and none of the occasional reconciliations or accommodations.

  Thinking of Ninigret filled his mind with the scenes of slaughter he had witnessed since the English arrived. When he looked up at the setting sun it was ringed with a reddish aura as though his imagination was casting its bloody thoughts onto it. A cloud with a ragged edge drifted in front of the sun, and it looked like it, flesh torn asunder and bleeding. The cloud moved on and Massaquoit stared hard at the ground beneath his feet until he felt he had cleared his mind, and when he again looked up at the sun glowed pale yellow.

  Yes, he concluded, Ninigret was capable of such violence. And then Massaquoit recalled the deft handling of the knife in the sailor’s hand as he killed the rat, and he figured that the young English could use that skill just as well on a human target. He sat until his back felt the rough surface of the bark of the maple tree through his shirt. He closed his eyes and sat forward so that he could clasp his knees with his hands. He remained that way until he heard the steps of Catherine and Phyllis as they made their way up the hill toward the house. He stood up and walked to meet them. Phyllis continued on to the house, carrying Catherine’s midwife bag, while Cat
herine remained with Massaquoit.

  “Will the boy live?” he asked.

  “He will recover from his wounds,” Catherine replied. “But it is likely that he may live only to die at the end of a rope.”

  Massaquoit was surprised at the feeling of relief that surged through him. He had not realized how strongly he wanted to believe that the sailor would be found guilty and so, at least this one time, spare an Indian from being held responsible. Still he felt he must ask.

  “Do you think that just?”

  Catherine did not answer right away, and then she shrugged.

  “I cannot say. But he thought he was near death, and he was being hounded by the governor’s scribe and the minister’s witness, who I think is lying for pay, and so he maintained his innocence.”

  “What else would a man say who is looking in the eyes of his own death?” he asked.

  “Truly,” Catherine replied. “But I have seen the fear of death straighten a tongue that otherwise would lie for a farthing or a drink of beer.”

  “Ah, I understand, I think,” he said. “Your English god’s punishment in the life after death.”

  “Yes,” she replied. She studied his face. “I see that you hope he is guilty, whatever his reasons for denying it.” She hesitated, for she knew what next she must say, but she could not shield him. “Not only did he insist on his innocence, he pointed his finger at Jane. And Ninigret.”

  “To save his skin,” Massaquoit replied. He, too, paused, as he considered what next he would say. He realized, as she no doubt had done, that the relationship they had established over the years was like planks suspended over the embers of a fire. Most of the planks were solid and had shown their ability to withstand the weight of misunderstanding or suspicion. But there were some, perhaps weakened by contact with the ancient flames, that would snap if asked to bear too much. Yet, he felt he must try their strength. And his own. “I have known Ninigret for some years,” he began.