Caleb's Crossing

by Geraldine Brooks

  I thought the interview concluded with that almost apology. But then Makepeace surprised me. “You will not mind, I trust, finishing out your month and a half with Master Corlett here alone? I should have liked you to have come away home with me directly. But it just came to me now that I might apply to Merry for a place on his sloop, rather than continue to wait here, week following week, for that tardy ship on which I have bespoke a passage.”

  At once I was alarmed for Anne. It would be impossible to transport her secretly with my brother in tow. “Does Noah Merry have room for you?” I said, trying to keep my voice level. “It is likely that the passenger list is already subscribed.”

  “I am sure I do not know why you should assume so.” He looked at me oddly. “In any case, I go forthwith to ask him.”

  I misdirected him then, saying that Merry had planned to go directly to the town landing. In fact, I knew full well he was returned to the Blue Anchor. As soon as Makepeace had left, I went myself in search of him, once again braving the stares of the alehouse haunters.

  “I can hardly prevent him from taking ship with me,” Merry said. “But if he does so, we shall have to tell him about the girl. I see no other way,” he said.

  “It is not in his nature to flout authority. I doubt he has the temperament for this business. I foresee a great difficulty in it.”

  But there I was wrong. I had become so accustomed to look at my brother through the one, clouded lens of our own fraught relations that sometimes I could not see him as he truly was. When he returned from his fruitless walk to the landing, I screwed up my courage and drew him off for a private conference. I told him I had a grave favor to ask of him. He listened calmly to what I had to say, his brow cleaving itself into a deepening frown as I spoke. I had girded for any reaction—doubt, wrath, chastisement—any reaction other than the one I got.

  “As I see it, this child has suffered quite enough at English hands,” he said. “If what you say is true—and I do not question it, I know you made a study of these things with Goody Branch, though I must tell you at the time I thought it most ill judged, a girl of your age—but that is neither here nor there at the present. The fact is, this child has been used most infamously. As to what the midwife’s motive might be, I cannot imagine, but it is clear that you will be exposed to grave censure if you voice an opposite opinion. And another matter, of which you do not seem to be sensible: the girl was with you, was she not, all night and most of every day? If you make the matter hot with your claims, they might claim in turn that you acted as her bawdress.”

  This had not even occurred to me. As repellant as it was, I could see how my brother might be right in this. It would be hard to imagine a way that the girl could have been forwhored while she was at Corlett’s school without my being party to it.

  Makepeace let that prospect play upon my mind for a moment, then said, “I know you better than to suppose you might let the matter drop?”

  Since he had answered his own query, I gave no reply. He nodded to himself. “As I thought. And I do not ask you to do so. Do not conceive that I do so. This girl has suffered, at the very least, from a reprehensible degree of neglect at the hands of those who would now sit in judgment over her and try to compel her to give testimony. And at the worst—no, I cannot even give it voice—depravity in such a degree. Whosoever did this—a sinner of that stripe—will go to any length to hide his fault. If Merry has already consented to this scheme, then I will do nothing to sink it. Let us by all means deliver her to people who might be able to provide her a measure of protection. Even a band of salvages could hardly do worse than our own have done.”

  And thus, with Makepeace as the most unlikely of conspirators, the plan went forward. Anne, pale and weak, grasped my hand when I told her what was afoot. At first, the thought of a clandestine escape and a sea journey with my stern brother and a strange man only added to her terrors. But I spoke to her of the island that lay at the end of the journey: of the rainbow bluffs and the cool sweet brooks; the verdant woods and gentle, watery light. I told her of good people and ample providence and at the end of what I had to say the tears of longing for my home were upon my cheek, and her dulled eyes were lit again with a spark of hopefulness.

  Her only grief was in parting from her friends, Joel and Caleb. I contrived a brief, secret leave taking, and since I had to remain in the room, for propriety’s sake, I could not help but overhear what passed. It was clear that a definite bond of affection existed, though if there was some special understanding with one more than the other, I could not make it out. I heard them reassure her about the journey. The two of them also waxed fair about the island, and how it would gladden them to know she was safe there, where they promised faithfully that they would find her when their circumstances allowed.

  Two days later, Makepeace took his leave of Master Corlett privily, and what words of thanks or regret passed between them I do not know. In the deepening dimmet, I walked out with my brother and kissed him, the hatred I had felt melted all away by the warmth of his concern for Anne. He climbed up to ride beside Merry. I raised my hand, and bade them a fond farewell. I put my whole heart into my good wishes for their safe and easy journey, knowing my words carried to that other passenger, hidden under a burlap in the cart.

  XIX

  “You might have consulted me.” Samuel Corlett’s countenance was severe. “You put my father in a most difficult position. The governor’s protégée, a runaway…”

  “I do not know that I have given you cause to think I was in any way involved in Anne’s departure from this place. In any case, I hardly think the governor will like to consider her his protégée, still, given his signal failure to protect her.”

  “Have a care. That wit of yours mayn’t always prove a blessing.”

  “So I have been reminded, all my life.”

  We were walking in the apple garth, where the fruits were beginning to swell on the boughs. Samuel gave a great sigh and turned to me. “All my life, I have waited, hoping to encounter someone like you….” His face was at odds with his words, his expression haunted and joyless. An impish spirit seized me, and I decided to try to lighten his mood.

  “What do the sages say? Be careful what it is you wish for, lest your wish be granted you.”

  He did not answer my smile, but only sighed again. “My mother was an excellent woman. Pious, virtuous. Kind. But she was not the intellectual equal of my father. Not by any means.”

  “It would have been strange if she had been,” I said, “seeing that your father had the benefit of two degrees at Oxford and she was the unlettered daughter of a yeoman.”

  “I do not speak of book learning,” he said. “I speak of a certain innate quality of mind, a superior understanding. Because she had it not, their companionship was—diminished. Father looked to his books, rather than to his wife. She tried, oh how hard she tried….” His face clouded, as if at some particular memory. “It was pitiful, sometimes, to observe how she would struggle to form a remark to the purpose of some study that engaged him. You know him. You know he is not an unkind man. He has patience enough with these mewling schoolboys, because he sees their promise. But he never had that degree of patience with her. He would dismiss her attempts in a most painful and belittling way. I observed this, even as a lad, and even before I could have given the ground for it, I swore to myself that I should not make such a marriage. So I have reached the age that I must now own in a single state.” He pulled a bough of apples down and stared at the beginning fruits, but l did not think he was seeing them.

  “Bethia, when father first spoke of you, when you came to him, he was loud in praise of your understanding. He told me how he looked forward to converse with you each evening. At first I did not credit it. Knowing how he had been with my mother, leaving her to a lonely silence, night following night. He is become old, I thought, and fond. He would not be the first, in his dotage, to find pleasure in gazing at a fair young face. But I took note of you, ther
eafter. I admired what I saw. I felt regret, when father allowed me to know that you already had a suitor. Then, when father confided that you were minded to refuse that suit, I began to fan a hope. And of course, there was the trouble with your brother, and there you were, at meeting, in the sinner’s box, standing under accusing eyes, confessing to weighty faults. And yet there was a luminance about you as you spoke. You admitted your sin, but even as you did, it was with such eloquence and dignity that those with ears to hear must know it was no true evil, what you did, but necessary and justified.”

  He fell silent. I said nothing. I had no such fond recollection of myself in that hour. Luminance, indeed. I had never in my life felt so extinguished.

  We continued walking. His eyes regarded me, slantwise. “Three days ago, I asked you a question. We were interrupted before you could give me an answer.”

  “Quite a lot has happened, since.”

  “Exactly so.”

  “And I think it troubles you?”

  “Indeed.”

  “May I ask in what—?”

  He had cracked a switch from a low-hanging branch, and was picking the young leaves off one by one. He tossed it aside, turned suddenly and grasped my shoulders.

  “It had not occurred to me that strong-minded also meant headstrong!” His voice was raised. I took a step back, detaching myself from his grip. Although the trees were in full leaf, I was not sure what might be seen from the college windows, and I had no wish to be the object of boyish gossip. Nor could I afford to be.

  My wisk was creased where he had gripped it. I raised a hand and tried to smooth the marks upon the linen. He grabbed my wrist mid-gesture, to force my attention.

  “Bethia, why must you involve yourself so intimately with the affairs of these salvages? What are those boys to you, that you take up such cudgels in defense of their reputation? You sat there in my father’s schoolroom, and I saw that you were prepared, if necessary, to blacken the name of the highest in the colony in order to defend them. A defense, I might add, that would have put you at great risk. I see, dimly, how they might represent your father’s work to you, which you would not have besmirched by the evidence of so great a moral lapse, and I begin to grasp an edge of it. But then I think of that girl—whom you have not known above three months. What can she possibly be to you, that you would abet her flight? Oh, do not trouble to deny it”—I had opened my mouth to protest—“She was in no state to affect such a thing without assistance and you are the only one person she trusted in the least degree. Nor do I think the act wrong in and of itself. She faced harsh treatment, which she likely did not deserve—”

  “Likely?” I spat the word back at him and pulled my wrist away from his encircling fingers. I could contain myself no longer. “How say you so? That child did nothing to ‘deserve’ any of this. It is calumny to suggest….”

  He threw up a hand and shook his head impatiently. “Hear me!” His voice was quite loud. I, unaccustomed to being addressed so, was briefly surprised into silence.

  “You risk bringing down the ire of the General Court upon yourself, for obstructing the functions of justice.” His complexion had darkened beyond its usual olive cast. He began to look like a Moor.

  “You really think the General Court will be anything other than grateful that she is gone? You have an exalted view of their dedication….”

  “And you have an exalted view of your own opinion!”

  I considered for a moment before replying. I could see the blood beating in a vein at his temple. It had become engorged in a most uncomely fashion, and writhed there like a worm.

  “You are right. I do. Since God has seen fit to take my parents from me, I see no one left above me whose views on my conduct matter more to me than my own.”

  “You see? That is the very—What sort of speech is that? No dutiful wife should utter such—”

  “You forget yourself. You may have asked me to wife. I have not accepted you. And from what you now say, it seems that such a match would be most ill-advised. I think it best for all concerned if we wind the clock back and forget that the question was ever put.”

  I turned then, and made off quickly in the direction of the school.

  “Bethia!” he called. I did not turn, but quickened my step. He was running after, and with one or two long strides drew close enough to reach out and lay a hand on me. His grip was hard, and this time I could not pull free. His ruffian’s face was close to mine. I turned my head away from him. He reached out with his other hand and dragged off my cap and dug his fingers into my hair, pulling my head back so that I had to look up at him, right into the deep of those ink-black eyes. His voice, when he spoke, was low and urgent. “I love you,” he said, and kissed me.

  XX

  I do not pretend to know what would have happened to me had I in fact been wrong in my predictions about the General Court. But in the event, I was not wrong. With the girl out of sight, so vanished the scandal. There had been no appetite on the part of the governor to investigate her whereabouts with any degree of vigor. I was not even questioned in the matter. If Master Corlett shared his son’s conviction as to my role in Anne’s departure, he elected not to raise the subject with me. He had never wished to have her under his roof, and all that had followed her coming had justified his view of the thing. Having her there in the midst of his male pupils had been as unsettling as a snake set loose in a stable. Master Corlett, more than anyone, seemed relieved that the matter was behind him. The whole sorry affair had been let fall like a plummet down a well shaft and forgotten, by all except those three of us who cared for her.

  Caleb, particularly, pined after justice in the matter. “It beggars belief, that this goes unpunished,” he said one evening, as he carried in bavins for me from the yard. “If she were an English maid, raped by an Indian, that man would have been swinging from the Common’s gallows long since.”

  Since what he said was true, I did not attempt to contradict it.

  “Caleb, you know well what the price of such justice would have been. I do not think Anne could have withstood that court and its cruelties. And had they flogged a name out of her, do you think such a devil as would forwhore a child would thereafter scruple to traduce her? She would have stood there, tarred a liar. And even in the unlikely event his part in the act was somehow proven, he would cry off the charge of rapist and make her out a jade and a Delilah who seduced him. Truly, a man so pressed might say anything….”

  “I would discover him, if I could….”

  “Caleb, no. You must put it behind you. I do not say forget it. Who could forget so horrible a crime? But set it by, for now, and get you to your books. That is the best thing you can do for her. Distinguish yourself, and then, one day, you might take your place among those whose word shapes justice here.”

  He looked up at me as he bent to the hearth, stacking the wood. I could see him, entertaining some dim notion of such a future. But his face remained drawn, his looks entirely sorrowful.

  “God knows who did this thing,” I said. “Leave it now in his hands, and trust to him for justice.”

  “I will pray for it,” he said. There was a dull, rote quality to his response. He stood up, and walked out into the garth. I saw him, standing there, gazing up at the waxing moon.

  Two nights later, the moon was full. I turned on my pallet, stirred from sleep by a shadow passing over me in the dark.

  “Caleb?” I whispered.

  “Hush! Go back to sleep.”

  I sat up. The moon was so bright, I should have been able to make him out, but I could not descry his features. Then I knew why. He had taken a coal and blackened his face below the line of his cheekbones. He was wearing the master’s long black gown.

  “Caleb!”

  “Quiet!” he hissed. “This is not your affair, Bethia.” He passed through the door, silent and invisible, into the dark. Even if I had summoned the courage to follow him, I could not have done so. He had vanished entirely, as if conju
red away.

  I lay there, fretful, sweating with anxiety and oppressed by a sense of doom and helplessness. My first thought was that Anne had indeed confided the name to him and that he had set forth thinking to administer some rough justice, an exploit that likely would cost him his life. Then, as clouds scudded across the luminous disc, riding high now in an inky sky, the truth of the thing fell into my heart. I had told him to pray, and he was doing so. But not necessarily to a just and loving God.

  He was back within the hour, his face scrubbed clean and the master’s purloined gown folded neatly in his arms. I did not speak to him as he passed by my pallet, nor for the next sennight. I could not look him in the eye without the greatest agitation of heart. But to the extent that my spirit was roiled, so his seemed calmed. The heaviness about his brow had lifted, and he applied himself to preparing for the coming examination with a renewed diligence.

  Then came the morning when Master Corlett was obliged to suspend instruction at the school while he attended the burial of the governor’s second son, who had served as his father’s clerk. As I helped the master prepare his mourning dress, he reflected that the loss was a heavy providence, since the young man left a widow and two babes. He had been carried off quite suddenly, after an uncommonly violent bout of flux.

  I do not know if it was my ungoverned fancy, but later that day, when I passed by Caleb in the hall, it seemed to me that his face was lit by an expression of ardent satisfaction. By coincidence, the next day I heard from Makepeace, in a letter, containing the news that the “gift” for the Takemmy sonquem had been well received, and that “the squa in his household in whom I had once taken interest” was in good health.