But Morton was a jolly old drunkard and had enough money to do what he pleased. He had no understanding of the daily needs of us commoners. He was a man for celebrations. And he was charged himself, and liable to be the next murdered the first chance they could blame something on him. A passage back to London would cost me the value of this land and house. I was stuck here, you see.
I climbed into bed and thought of how this was the first time I’d slept in a bed without John since the eve of our wedding day, twenty-five years before. Francis joined me. I watched my young son sleeping so close next to me, lightly snoring. The mother and baby goat leapt in, too, their barnyard smells something soothing. Our bodies pressed together, warming the cool evening air.
Yes, I resolved, or yes, I was resigned to it. Here I would stay and here I would watch the colony kill my husband.
Alice Bradford
That night, Billington was committed to the fort. John shared William the younger’s bed, and William, sweet boy, offered his blanket, eager as he was to have an older brother.
In haste, my husband wrote to John Winthrop, the new Massachusetts Bay Colony governor, seeking his advice. But he was not seeking his advice, exactly, as much as he was confirming his good favor with the King by including the King’s favorite into his decision. What, he asked Winthrop, would be a firm discipline but not lose him favor with the colonists? He wanted to send the message that Plymouth was not a colony to come to if you were a criminal.
And how to do this without news getting to London and rumors spreading that Plymouth was unsafe? William would have liked—we all would have then—to see Billington dead. He also told Governor Winthrop that the outlawed Morton had arrived on the Gifte.
I trust you’ll know what to do with him, William wrote.
Our house was full. Quietly, my husband complained that the food we needed to feed all the newcomers would cause our own daily supply to be cut in half. There was also Thomas Morton to reckon with. William asked the price Morton had paid for the passage, and what portion of the fee the colony would receive. Weston said the accountant applied it to our debt, but he would have to check with him upon return to London. My husband was distraught by this, at the costs of it all, and the timing of Billington’s murder.
But now, at least, we will be done with him, I said.
I lit a candle to do a bit more needlework—my hands needed to be kept busy—and William looked at me askance.
That did not stop the wick from burning so he said, Good Wife, why must you cost us so?
I put out the candle and reached for him. I wanted to press together all that I had and all that I loved and all, I knew, I would one day lose.
He touched me, betwixt my legs, and looked at me with fondness. His intention was not, as I had thought, to chastise me. A look from him that only I knew. And Dorothy. The cool air and our warm bodies.
This was not the time for God’s earthly blessing—the room was too full this evening—but I thought of other days. Always at the brink I held my breath.
Once he was nearly there, he would give a small gasp—a favorite sound—but also, too, from there he was no longer mine. His body would urge him onward, his muscles would tense, his flat palm would seem as if it could push through the wall. I would squeeze him closer into me. It was always him I was after.
I put my finger to my body, discreetly, and circled there. Him hard and deep inside me, his stubble rough against my chin, him bent down in prayer to my body, no sweat, not him, rarely sweat, and in that wave and crest I felt the ocean rise and then slowly, slowly creep away.
In the morning, the men buried John Newcomen in the soft dirt atop Burial Hill. No one knew him enough to speak of him, but we said we hoped it pleased God to bid him rest.
We’ll have a trial, my husband said that afternoon. My husband and Susanna’s husband culled the names of the twelve most honest men in the colony to serve as jurors.
John Billington stayed a week beneath the meetinghouse.
On the morning of the trial, I woke to the sound of wolves howling at the edges of the colony. I’d seen a pack kill one of its own once. At sunset, in the clearing, I had gone to the brook. The rushing water disguised all sounds around it. When my pitchers were full I started back home. I saw it. A wolf lying on the ground, still lifting its head to bite back, its body in bloody tufts, some innards beginning their decline outward through a lesion in the stomach. Three wolves around it, barking, baring teeth, biting and tearing. The weakest killed: That was nature. Divine providence was everywhere present.
My husband and I held hands to the meetinghouse. Little William ran up alongside us, said, Three hands, and broke the chain betwixt us. I turned for John, sensing his eyes on my back, and urged him to join us. John gave the smile of one unaccustomed to such inclusion, then shook his head no, as if to remind me he was no longer a boy, and too old for such shows of affection. We outgrow it, don’t we, the expression of that fierce edge that is always a part of love?
Eleanor Billington
The news of my husband’s trial spread out of Plymouth, north to Boston and Salem, through the trading posts and towns in between. The law said twelve honest men would be chosen as jurors. The law said a fair trial, and instead Bradford chose hypocrite jurors who hated us to decide the fate of my husband.
Bradford chose twelve he called the most honest men, but they were just his friends, all of whom hated my husband as much as Bradford. There was nothing fair or honest about the trial of my husband, just as there had been nothing fair about how these hypocrites regarded us since the beginning. William Bradford did not want honesty. He wanted collusion. He wanted us to go along, just go along, his flock of sheep, and never speak the truth of our ill treatment.
At my husband’s trial, the meetinghouse was full, perhaps even fuller than at Pastor Lyford’s trial. The hypocrite women fanned themselves. Men set down their guns and rolled up their sleeves. Everyone’s eyes were on my husband, then the people glanced back at me. I caught their stares and held my chin high.
And what happened, Master Billington? Captain Shrimp asked him.
It was in defense.
And what were ye defending? Captain Shrimp asked, incredulity in his voice.
They would have called the deer to the witness stand, if they could, before believing my husband’s good word.
Billington land, my husband said.
I put my head in my hands. That Good Husband could have at least tried to lie to save himself.
The trial took a break for the jury to deliberate.
When Pastor Lyford was found guilty he had six months to arrange his exit. I knew they’d never be so kind to my husband, no matter how many tears he shed. He was not of wealth or clergy. But my husband shan’t shed tears, because he was not an actor nor a pastor, but a man of truth.
Not even an hour had passed. All hearsay. No one was alive who saw what happened, save my husband. And he was being tried for killing a man so valuable to the colonists they did not even know his surname.
And how do thee find Master Billington? Bradford asked the jury.
Guilty, Edward Winslow said, and that self-righteous crowd cheered.
My husband lowered his head.
Don’t do that, I thought. He had to look out at them, like an honest man, never stoop or bow to them.
Might I go home to gather my things? my husband asked Bradford.
Myles Standish answered for Bradford.
What things, Master Billington, will you possibly need at the gallows?
The crowd laughed.
Take him away, Bradford said, and the crowd cheered.
I looked at those who had benefited from my husband. My husband had said and done what they wished to. The former indentured servants were not cheering, bless them, but they were not arguing against the rest, either. They admired my husband but they wouldn’t speak out here, for him, in public. They would not risk their lives. Cowards.
There was one exception. A yo
ung man, holding an infant girl, chubby and pink, looked to his neighbors and said, Stop! His one voice was not enough to do anything against the ocean of the crowd, but I heard it.
I pushed my way forward and held tight to Francis’s hand as I did. He was approaching manhood himself, but I held on to him as if he were still the younger boy I imagined him to be. I reached my husband, touched his weak arm, squeezed.
I love ye, I said. I will always love ye.
Myles Standish pushed my husband forward, and away from me.
It was lunchtime on Friday and the hanging was scheduled for the following Wednesday. Just enough time, I knew, to properly advertise the execution to the neighboring towns. Anything to get more of a profit.
I knew what I had to do, my last chance. I must go to Mistress Bradford. My husband, failing to convince toads, had wrecked his chances by blaming those with power. Those hypocrites hate most any criticism that gives them embarrassment. I had to get to Alice, alone, and plead his case.
Alice Bradford
I had slept little the night before Billington’s trial. After the trial, I lay down with Joseph. Mercy was with Susanna. I could hear the children’s high-pitched laughs. William the younger was working with his father.
But no sooner had I closed my eyes when at my door there was a knocking. The warming air sauntered in and along with it, Eleanor Billington. Previously, I had conversations with her only when passing through the colony—to the brook with buckets, while milking the cows—and the one time I went to her house to speak with her about her husband. Never at my door. Never so forwardly had she addressed me, the governor’s wife.
She carried a loaf of bread in one hand and yelled back to her son and two goats to stay put in the garden. Where would they go? It was a command she said in habit, I imagine, when one assumes their child will cause trouble.
I came to see that threat we feared was not the Wampanoag—our treaty with Massasoit had been long-standing—nor the unknowns beyond the colony’s fences. Instead, the threat came from within our own community. Her husband would have his punishment in five days. The sight of her stirred fear in me.
What did Eleanor Billington wish to speak to me about? From the anger directed at her son, and the bread in her hand, I sensed that she was nervous. Did the bread indicate she wanted something? I could not pardon her husband.
Tea? I asked.
Eleanor nodded.
The teapot was Dorothy’s, after it was her grandmother’s, with one fine, hair-thin crack, a white teapot with red English roses. I filled it with hot water, set it down. Such a long time it seemed to take for the tea to steep.
Eleanor took little time to tell me her request. She wanted a pardon for her husband. She said it was a momentary imbalance of bodily humors.
I thought, but did not say, The momentary lapse has lasted ten years.
I feigned thinking on it. I apologized to her for her husband’s outcome.
It was not a fair trial, she said. Every juror was one of you. None of us.
I raised my eyebrows. She was not practiced in niceties, had no training at persuasion, only force.
Our son, she said.
That was it. The thing I had nearly forgotten, so ungodly I was. But also, God has his methods.
My husband wasn’t thinking right, she said.
My house was dark. The windows were covered to keep out the insects, particularly mosquitos and horse flies, and to keep the air pleasing. The humming of the insects was the only thing I ordinarily hated in summer.
We are a body politic, I said, reminding her of our original compact. We are one in the same, I said. There cannot be murderers in our colony. Surely you understand.
Her face went grave and she looked down. When she looked up again, she was wearing a smile. What I said had given her insult.
If he were not your husband—but I stopped short of saying more.
Eleanor wore a look similar to the one I had in my childish years, when the sermons were boring to me. I sat in church pews and practiced the appropriate way to look enrapt, and after church, the way to speak to mothers and cousins when telling them I was sorry for their losses.
I heard Mercy cry from outside, but more than hear, I felt the tether betwixt us. I should have rejoiced if God chose her to be spared from the grief of this world. And yet there was great difficulty in reconciling what I should feel with what I did feel. I said then and there to God, Prithee keep her safe and let her life be a long and prosperous one. That prayer, in vain, went unfulfilled.
Eleanor complimented the teacups. So perhaps she did know some manners after all.
I thanked her and said they were Dorothy’s.
The one who jumped off the ship?
She slipped, I corrected, sending her a certain missive I did not myself fully believe. I set down my tea too quickly on the saucer and it rattled. I tried to muffle the sound by covering the cup. My hands where Dorothy’s had been, and her mother’s, and her grandmother’s.
Self-murder, Eleanor said. Not a thing your husband would wish to speak of.
It was then that something occurred to me. With William’s standing, Dorothy’s self-murder would not only be scandalous, but it would be cause to give her possessions to the King. A person who self-murdered had committed a grievous crime against the state and, like all criminals, had fines to pay. The family of a self-murderer owed their belongings to the King in penalty. No matter, of course, of God’s view, who tells us it is the worst of sins.
I suddenly knew I must get Eleanor out of my house, for I was not well. One mustn’t cry, I repeated to myself.
I’m sorry I cannot help you, I said, and stood from the table.
Eleanor took a gulp of tea and started for the door. But she stopped. She turned to me. Over her shoulder, I saw the heavy door begin to creak open on its own accord. By wind or by spirit, I could not say.
She opened her mouth, then closed it.
You’ve never loved or understood anything, she said. He married you because you are simple.
I knew I was a governor’s wife then, for I smiled placidly at her and wished her well.
She walked out. Surprisingly, she closed the gate gently in her exit.
Eleanor Billington
If I am going to my grave, I’m going to it honestly. The Billington way. Take down a peg those who think they are better than us.
They left my husband beneath the meetinghouse and fed him only the fallen, fly-munched ears of corn, which everyone knows kills the calves.
He’s thirsty, I said to Standish, whenever I found him milling about.
He’s hungry and needs meat, I’d say.
Why? Standish asked. To keep him alive longer? He’s chosen the rope, mistress. Day’s cold corn will not kill him. His own temperament did that.
No respect for the living or the dead.
So I spoke it aloud. All of it. Right after the dinner bell. As the newcomers and colonists made their way to the meetinghouse, I stood at the top of the hill. I waited for the crowd. When there was enough of them, I spoke.
Hear, ye! My husband was not the first murderer of this colony! That was him!
I pointed through the people, straight to Governor Bradford.
And him! I pointed at the Shrimp.
I said what should have been my husband’s final words to William Bradford.
I wish to speak of Dorothy Bradford.
The crowd was rapt, staring at me. It wasn’t that I cared about Dorothy. If Bradford were to bring shame on my family, I would bring shame on him.
Governor Bradford charged forward, no longer a false smile across his face.
He was before me, yelling, Stop!
He had me pinned. The crowd was behind me and he was before.
Francis stepped betwixt us.
William Bradford stared at me. I was what he wanted to remove from the world. But he could not. He could not remove differing opinion. He could not remove truth.
Let them stare
, thought I. I would not scare.
I said more and more, rising in spirit and wrath as I spoke until Myles Standish pushed me into the meetinghouse.
Alice Bradford
I was on my way to the field when I saw Myles Standish pull Eleanor by her right arm.
She turned, yelling, All you righteous righteous righteous.
She looked at me and spit on the ground.
Captain Standish led her toward the meetinghouse. She only had so far that her voice would carry to my ears, and the ears of the men and woman stepping down from ladders, out of their gardens, closing the gate, walking toward the commotion. Soon she would be in the room adjoining her husband, beneath the meetinghouse.
No one will say it. God’s plan, you all say.
She had the audience she wanted. Twenty people were turned, watching her, more were stepping away from their labor and toward her spectacle.
Her son, fifteen, grabbed hold of her arm and spoke something to her. She yanked her arm away.
Get out of here, I imagined her saying.
Let her speak, someone behind me said. It was Richard More, the only surviving More child. He had been recently released from servitude. As a man of no power, he needed my husband’s good favor.
I wish to speak of Dorothy Bradford. Ask him of his first wife, Eleanor said, pointing to my husband. His very own wife. Ask him what happened to her.
Myles Standish opened the door to the meetinghouse. He tried to cross the threshold but Eleanor gripped the frame.
You think my husband was the first murderer. But I’ll tell thee. His—at this she pointed to my husband—first wife, offed herself. Took one look at what he’d dragged her to—
Enough! William yelled.
I could see he was shaking.
—and jumped off the ship.
Back and forth she was swaying, as Standish tried to push her into the meetinghouse. She gripped the doorframe and pulled herself back out.
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