The Sea Hath Spoken

by Stephen Lewis

  “He called you his whore of Babylon,” Grace now said.

  “Would you not want to know what he told me of you?” Jane replied.

  “Quite enough,” Governor Peters declared.

  “Yes it is,” Jane said. “But remember you how I played the part and bore your whip on my back. And then he was to leave me. For her.”

  “You must have wanted him dead,” the governor prompted.

  Jane shook her head vigorously.

  “I wanted only the letter. It was all about the letter.”

  Magistrate Woolsey now cleared his throat, announcing his intention to say something he had weighed in his mind and found of sufficient gravity to demand his most thoughtful utterance.

  “Know you the hand of those letters, Mistress Williams?”

  Catherine shook her head.

  “I cannot say. My correspondence with the Whitcombs was most occasional. They were my late husband’s associates, more than my own.” She placed the two letters side by side on the table. “But anyone can see that they look very much the same.”

  “I heard her say,” Henry now interrupted, “that she could copy a hand as well as any man.”

  “Is that so?” the governor asked Jane.

  “I say many things,” Jane replied, “but I do not always mean what I say.” She stroked the ends of her red hair that protruded from beneath the edge of her bonnet. “But the poor bird did not have such bright feathers as I.”

  “It seems to me,” Catherine now declared, “that I can put some of this story together.”

  “If you please,” Woolsey requested, “for I fear my head begins to spin.”

  “This woman stowed away on my ship, for reasons she has only just revealed to me, and which I will tell you about later. While on board, she hears of the sickness and impending death of Jane Whitcomb, and she makes herself,” Catherine paused looking for the least pejorative term, “makes herself available to Roger, who in his grief and weakness, permits himself to be seduced by her. In short, they become lovers. She must have told him her story, the one I will reveal to you, and he was sympathetic.”

  “Like Delilah, no doubt,” Minister Davis intoned, unable any longer to sit quiet in a building where he was used to presiding.

  Catherine scanned the rear of the building and saw Timothy there, as he had said he would be. She gestured and Timothy stood up.

  “Know you that man?” Catherine demanded.

  Minister Davis looked over his shoulder.

  “I do not think I have seen him at meeting,” he declared.

  “Come now,” Catherine replied. “Do not force me to bring him forward to tell your relationship.”

  “I did talk with him once,” the minister conceded. “I told him of my concerns that this Quaker, this Master Whitcomb, was a pollution among us, and that he had bewitched my niece.”

  “Did you seek him out?” Catherine asked. Out of the side of her eye she saw the governor’s back stiffen, and she knew that she should not pursue this line of questioning much further. Still she wanted to take it one more step.

  “Did he not have your coin in his pocket when he assaulted Roger?”

  “He did work for me,” Minister Davis said, “and I paid him for his services, but I know nothing of any attack.”

  “Have you proof, mistress?” the governor asked.

  “Only that I stitched his wounds, and heard his words.”

  “Uncle!” Grace exclaimed, and stood up. “You promised me.”

  “I did only what was best,” the minister replied.

  “For you, no doubt,” the young woman declared and sat back down, but further away from her uncle.

  “Return to your story, mistress,” the governor now said, “and desist impugning our good minister’s integrity.”

  Catherine bit down on her lip, but realized there might be satisfaction, but no advantage, in laying out how she had contemplated the minister’s possible responsibility for Roger’s death. She would have, of course, to explain how she abandoned that theory, but in the process she could indicate how the minister’s poisonous contempt toward all Quakers, and Roger and Jane in particular made him guilty of creating an atmosphere in which Roger was fair game. Further, she could present her belief that the minister was more than willing to let Timothy perjure himself in his accusation of Henry. But she also recognized that attacking the man of the cloth would only harden the governor, and probably Pendleton against her, and therefore Jane, as well. She looked back at the Martins, and saw in their faces that they, too, for different reasons, would have her leave them out of this affair.

  “As you please, governor,” she said. “There is not much more to tell. It is clear that the sailor Billy asked that his silence be bought, and to protect himself, he stole the original letter. When he was killed to make sure of his silence, his killers did not know that he had stolen the original, incriminating letter, and kept it close about him in a leather pouch. I have learned from Matthew that he saw that very same pouch lifted by a seagull from the dead body, and then dropped down the beach. It fell into the hands of an Indian woman, and then to Jonathan Peters.” She again paused, and thought better, at least for now, of touching upon Jonathan’s attempted rape. “It was stolen from Jonathan by somebody and whoever it was returned it to Roger, no doubt for a price, and Roger had it when he was killed, and it was because of it that he was slain.” She watched the governor and Woolsey’s face as she spun this tale. She saw Woolsey struggle, and then lose the thread, but the governor stayed with her.

  “And who, precisely, did kill him?” Peters asked.

  “For that,” Catherine said, “you must inquire of Ninigret. Perhaps he can tell you.” She said this with one eye at Jethro Martin. He returned her glance with a nervous nod.

  “Bring in the savage called Ninigret,” the governor declared.

  Outside the meetinghouse, Lieutenant Waters conferred with Rawandag. Massaquoit stood between them as a buffer. Wequashcook had withdrawn a short distance away, well within earshot, to sit in the shade of a tree. He had his hat on his knees, and he was examining where the fire had singed it black. The smell of burned animal hide was acrid in his nostrils. He appeared not to be paying attention to the transaction, but Massaquoit knew that the old Indian was following every word and gesture.

  “I need to bring him in now,” Lieutenant Waters said.

  Rawandag pointed at Jonathan, still surrounded by half a dozen braves, variously armed with knives, bows and arrows, and one musket.

  “I understand,” the lieutenant said. “I will bring him back out in safety. If there are further negotiations, they are beyond my orders.”

  Rawandag scowled.

  “The English want their priest back,” Massaquoit interjected.

  “I do not trust them,” Rawandag replied.

  “You do not have to,” Massaquoit rejoined.

  Waters gave the order, and four soldiers detached themselves from the group and formed a square about Ninigret. Massaquoit walked to them.

  “Are you ready?” he asked Ninigret.

  “I will tell what happened,” Ninigret answered.

  Massaquoit nodded and took a position at the head of the group. Waters motioned them forward, and Massaquoit led them into the meetinghouse.

  Inside, Catherine felt the tension sap the air from the building. The door swung open again, and she felt a moment’s relief as she saw Massaquoit enter. Then the onlookers began an excited and hostile murmuring as Ninigret, surrounded by the soldiers, followed. She recalled how these same people enjoyed watching Roger’s back laid open under the whip, and now directed anger at the man they wanted to believe had killed him. The soldiers led Ninigret to a position in front of the table and withdrew, but only a few feet. Ninigret looked around them, his expression proud and unyielding until they backed a little further away.

  “We have heard various testimony that points at you as the man who took Roger Whitcomb’s life,” the governor said, withou
t preamble. “What say you to that supposition?”

  “I say it is true,” Ninigret declared, and a hush fell over the audience on the benches.

  “You confess then to the murder?” Magistrate Woolsey asked.

  “No,” Ninigret responded.

  “Explain yourself,” Governor Peters demanded.

  “It is not murder, as you English use the word, when a man has a knife at his throat, and turns that knife against the one who holds it.”

  “I see,” Woolsey said. “You say you acted to defend yourself.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why would Roger Whitcomb attack you?” the governor asked.

  “He did not. I stopped him on the river road. I sought only the letter that was in his pouch. He would not give it to me. I said that my woman wanted it very much. He laughed at me. I reached for his pouch, and he pulled the knife I had in my belt. We struggled. He was a strong man, but I was quicker.” He looked toward Henry. “I saw that one over there, and I ran.”

  “With the letter?” Woolsey asked.

  “No.”

  Governor Peters whispered something to Woolsey, who nodded his agreement.

  “Take him back out,” the governor said. After he was marched out, Peters beckoned Catherine forward.

  “Believe you him?” he asked.

  “I do,” Catherine replied.

  “What is to be done, then?” Woolsey asked.

  “Nothing until we hear from one more witness,” Catherine declared.

  “Indeed,” Peters rejoined.

  “Yes,” Catherine replied, although had she listened to her heart, she might have let Ninigret’s testimony be the last heard.

  “And who might that be?” Peters demanded.

  Catherine looked toward the Martins.

  “One of those Quakers?” Peters asked, his voice incredulous.

  “Yes.”

  “They will offer nothing on oath,” he said. “What good, then is such testimony?”

  “Only that it offers the truth,” Catherine answered.

  “Let us hear it, then,” Woolsey added.

  “Jethro Martin,” Catherine called.

  The boy, still clutching the hat he was carrying when he entered the building walked very slowly to the front and stood, eyes fixed on his feet, before the table. Catherine took the hat from him and examined it.

  “I think I know this hat,” she said.

  “Thou should,” the young man replied in a voice that was barely audible.

  “Speak up,” the governor demanded.

  “It is not your hat, is it?” Catherine coaxed.

  “It is not,” Jethro replied in a louder voice, although he kept his eyes on the floor.

  “And where did you find it?” Catherine asked.

  “Next to the body,” Jethro said.

  “Of Master Whitcomb?” Peters asked.

  Jethro stiffened a little at the term and raised his eyes to look at the governor.

  “At the side of Roger Whitcomb, who was a member of our community. We know not masters.”

  “Let us not argue about name,” Woolsey soothed. “You say at the side of the body, which was dead, no doubt.”

  “He was dead, and the hat was lying there. I took it. Not to steal, but I cannot tell you why. I was distraught by what I had seen.”

  Catherine hesitated, and then took the plunge.

  “Which was?”

  Jethro turned slowly toward Henry and Jane.

  “I saw her,” he said. “Kneeling over the body. Putting something on his face.”

  “Was he moving? Did he struggle?” Peters asked.

  “I saw no motion from him,” Jethro replied.

  “He was dead,” Jane declared, rising to his feet. “I wanted only to cover his face, for let the world know I did love him until he betrayed me.”

  “By your hand?” Governor Peters demanded.

  Jane looked down and when she lifted her face again, her eyes glistened.

  “His face,” Jane said again, “only to cover his face.”

  * * * *

  “The rest of the story, mistress,” Governor Peters demanded. He and Woolsey were still in their seats. Will Best handed a sheaf of papers to the governor, bowed and left . Abigail remained on the bench, suckling her baby. Jane and Henry had been led back to jail, and the rest of the meetinghouse was now empty, although Catherine fancied that she still could hear the echoes of the shocked reactions to Jethro’s testimony and Jane’s statements.

  “It is a simple tale,” Catherine replied, “of a young girl forced into a marriage by a desperate father to an older man who beat her rather than loved her, starved her, rather than fed her, and treated her no better than a servant.”

  Governor Peters frowned.

  “From what I have seen and heard, I have no doubt that the husband had just cause.”

  “I imagine you would,” Catherine replied.

  “There is no proof,” Woolsey interjected.

  “Only her word,” Catherine conceded, “only what she told me knowing full well that the gallows might await her.”

  “A pretty story, then, no doubt,” the governor responded, “to cheat the rope.”

  “I do not think so,” Catherine rejoined. “I do not see such fear of death in her. Her life has hardened her.”

  “Proceed, then, if you must,” Peters said.

  “She fled him. That is all. And stowed away, as we have heard.”

  “She was not one of them, then, was she?” Woolsey asked.

  “A Quaker? No, although perhaps with her rebellious spirit, she might have been comfortable in that community. She saw in Roger a wealthy young man, and an opportunity to escape her plight. For what did she have to look forward to when the ship arrived in Newbury. The sailors who harbored her made it clear that they wanted payment from her body if she had no coin. Roger made no such demands. He fell in love, perhaps because he was distracted by his sister’s death. They planned to stay in Newbury only long enough to establish themselves here to the satisfaction of Roger’s parents, who would then settle the family business on this side of the ocean on him. They would move after a while. They talked of various places, New Amsterdam, or Charlestown in the Virginias. He talked of marriage. I do not know what she intended. But after some time, his ardor for her cooled, and he began to regret the fraud he was perpetrating. The whipping rekindled his faith, contrary to the intended effect. He turned to Grace who seemed a more genuine lover. She despaired. She saw her life unraveling. She imagined being sent back to her husband. She chose a desperate plan to escape with the Indian Ninigret beyond where we could harm her.”

  “One man after another, it appears to me,” the governor interjected. “She is no better than a harlot. Who should be hanged.”

  “On what evidence?” Woolsey asked. “The Quaker boy will not offer testimony under oath as you yourself said. And it is unclear what he saw.”

  Catherine took a deep breath.

  “What he saw is uncertain. What she told me is that he was bleeding, perhaps mortally wounded, and she saw her opportunity to free herself. He was going to unmask their deceit. She could not have him do so. She took the knife, which still lay there, cut a piece of her gown off, and held it over his face until she was quite sure he would breathe no longer.”

  “But,” Woolsey said slowly, “you say he might have died anyway.”

  “I was not there, of course,” Catherine said. “But I did see his wound. It was grievous.”

  “And she did not confess just now, and might not given another opportunity,” Woolsey declared.

  “I doubt she would say to you,” Catherine replied, her eyes on the governor, “what she has told to me.”

  “But still...” Peters began.

  “But still,” Catherine continued, turning toward Abigail, “there is the matter of your nephew, still held by the Indians.”

  Governor Peters’ face darkened to purple, but he struggled against his rage.

&nbs
p; “He is, mistress. What do you propose?”

  “A trade.”

  “And justice?” the governor demanded.

  “Will be served well enough, under the circumstances,” Catherine replied.

  “Terms?” Peters asked, his voice resigned.

  “She is banished. Ninigret is sent back to his people, and forbidden to appear in Newbury. Perhaps they will live together. Jonathan is released to you, but...”

  “Careful, Mistress Williams,” the governor said.

  “But,” Catherine continued, “he acknowledges Abigail King’s child as his own.”

  “He will not marry her,” Peters said with emphasis.

  “I would not have him do so,” Catherine replied. “But he can pay for the child’s keep.”

  “This acknowledgment...” Peters said slowly.

  Catherine understood.

  “Need not be public. He can avow his responsibility in private to Abigail herself, and then the necessary papers can be drawn up. Will Best can do so.”

  “I would serve that office,” Woolsey said. Peters offered him a withering look, but then sat back in his chair.

  “Is that all mistress?”

  “Yes.”

  “It is quite sufficient,” Peters declared. He rose, and Catherine walked over to Abigail.

  “Thank you,” Abigail said. She turned her baby, now asleep toward Catherine. “And young Jonathan here thanks you as well.”

  * * * *

  From his position next to Jonathan, Massaquoit watched as Governor Peters and Magistrate Woolsey, followed by Pendleton whose stepped mimicked that of his elders, walked with stately gait out of the meetinghouse and joined Minister Davis. The four men stood between the two groups of English soldiers and Indian braves, each still keeping close watch on Ninigret and Jonathan. The citizens of Newbury, who had attended the hearing in the court house, now formed a long semi-circle at the edge of the common across from the governor and beyond the two lines.

  The governor separated himself from his companions and spoke in a voice loud enough to reach every person on the common.

  “The magistrates, having heard the evidence presented, and having obtained the counsel of our minister, have reached several decisions.