My insides churned as I listened to this news. I came into the room then, and asked the question that was eating me alive: “I—I heard tell the sonquem had two sons? What of the other?”
Tilman shrugged. “No one spoke to us of a second son. They counted the loss of Nanaakomin so grave I cannot think there is another.”
It was Makepeace who noticed that mother was pale and sweating, and ushered her up the stairs to lie down upon the bed. It should have been me. But I was full of thoughts of Caleb, and negligent of those nearest me. I could not rid myself of the idea that Caleb was already perished. How else would his mother and kin lie dead and unattended? I plunged into a private grief at that moment, unable to unburden myself to any person as to why my heart ached so.
“Where is their wizard in all this?” Makepeace asked Tilman, once he returned from seeing to our mother. “I pray God has finally stricken him, or else how is it that you and father were permitted entry?”
“They say he yet lives. He spent himself, according to one who was able to tell of it, in all manner of sorceries, trying to turn the sickness away. And then, when his powers proved worthless, he went off, to do some other, stronger, secret rite—or so they think. For my part, I think it likely he made covenant with Satan, and left the place to save his own accursed skin.”
How often do we say that God works in mysterious ways his wonders to perform. As God sent plagues upon the people of Egypt to free the captive Hebrews, so many here say he sent this plague upon the people of Nobnocket to free the souls of those enslaved to paganism. It is exceeding hard for me to agree that much good came from this terrible rain of death, so I say nothing when it is discussed. But the facts are these: The few who yet lived among the Nobnocket band saw the pox as a sign of God’s power, a punishment of Nahnoso, and testament to the rightness of my father’s preachments. All the more so since, through the marvelous providence of God, not one of the English who came to their aid was in the least measure touched by the sickness.
As they recovered, one by one, and then severally, most of those who survived defied Tequamuck, left their Nobnocket lands and joined the settlement at Manitouwatootan. Among them, at last, came Caleb. I learned much later that he had never been in Nobnocket during the season of sickness, nor even heard of it until its fury was spent and all his family killed. Tequamuck had gone to him in the woods and lived with him there through the long nights moon, performing heavy rituals, but not disclosing anything of the scourge that afflicted their kindred.
That spring, mother went to her childbed and did not rise from it. We entered our own season of mourning, all the heavier for me who knew I was to blame for mother’s death. During that time, our minds were turned from the losses of others. It was only much later that I learned that Caleb had come to Nobnocket at last. While I prayed at my mother’s grave, he walked the ruined remnant of his village and sought out the makeshift burying places of his family. His grief was great and his wrath at Tequamuck, for keeping the truth from his ears, waxed strong. He stayed with him only long enough to perform the death rites he deemed owed there. Then he went his own way, as he ever had, and removed to the praying town, saying he would know the English God better, before he judged whether to accept him or no.
When my father was in heart to return to his preaching, and went again to Manitouwatootan, Caleb sought him out there, to thank him for the mercy he had shown unto the sick and to ask what reward he might offer on behalf of his dead father, the sonquem. Father, much amazed by his proficiency in English, said that allowing his people to hear the gospel was reward enough. It was hard for me to prepare my face when father came home full of the miraculously wise youth who had walked out of the wilderness. Relief and joy brimmed up in me, so that I had to go out from the house and pace about before I could compose myself.
I had once yearned to take credit for Caleb’s instruction; now, in guilt at what my furtive doings had brought us to, I dreaded lest the connection be discovered. I said nothing, as father speculated as to how the youth had learned his English. It had got into his head that one of the mainland Wampanoag from Mashpee or Plimoth must have come here and instructed him. I let Makepeace question, although it cost me dearly to stay mute and feign only ordinary interest in the matter. There was one moment when I almost gave myself away. When father first announced that the young adept called himself Caleb, and wondered where the son of Nahnoso might have happened upon a Hebraic name, I let out a snort, and made as if I had choked upon a piece of bread.
Father commenced at once upon a course of instruction with him, and after every encounter the talk at board would be of the young man’s ready wit and remarkable progress.
And now Caleb is to quit Manitouwatootan to come here and live with us, so that father may increase his hours of instruction. He will take lessons alongside Makepeace and Joel, the young son of Iacoomis. Joel is two years the junior of Caleb, but he has been raised among the English and set to his book at an early age. Father has found him a quick study and says he is already well begun upon his Latin. Father came to me, just two days since, to give me, as he thought, the first news of our intended boarder. He had been anxious and diffident, thinking, as I suppose, that I would mislike to be in such close quarters with an Indian lad. He had prepared a long speech about how we all of us must carry our portion of the Cross, but I cut him off at the first opportunity and told him I would be very glad to help him further his mission in such a practical way, and that I looked forward to having the young man in our household. He was relieved at that, and has been giving me kind looks ever since.
It is father’s intention that, if Caleb and Joel prove themselves as able to profit from his instruction as he expects, they will remove to the mainland with Makepeace, to be examined for matriculation to the Harvard College. It seems the college has built a second house there, alongside the English one, exactly for the education of Indian youths, with the aim to make them into instruments for the propagation of the gospel among the tribes.
The hour is late. My eyes are sore, and my hand cramped. I can write no more. I will place this page with the others, in a pocket I have fashioned in my shakedown. But I cannot say if I will sleep this night.
Writing this confession has put my sins plain before me, and I do repent them. Since these matters of which I have written, and most certainly since mother’s death, I have kept far from all the Wampanoag save for Iacoomis and his son, who are in every significant particular just as the English. I have felt no corrupt promptings towards idolatry such as formerly ensnared me.
But Caleb is coming this day. And what will become of me thereafter, I cannot say.
Anno 1661
Aetatis Suae 17
Cambridge
I
I had not thought to take up this pen, having laid it down so long since. But my mind is afire and I feel I must make some relation of these past months and my present troublesome condition, far from home, in this unwholesome place.
I dream of mother now. For the first year after her death, this was not so. My guilt kept her from me, perhaps. But now she comes. On the coldest nights of this past winter, she would visit me, turning from the hearth and beckoning me into arms that were warm and enfolding. And then I woke, on my cold pallet in this stranger’s kitchen, with ice winds from the cracked window fingering my flesh and a snowflake melting slowly on the fireless hearth.
I have longed for a visit home, but my situation does not allow for it. Those in my position may not come and go as they wish. Makepeace returns as often as he might—more often, indeed, than my master, his tutor, willingly countenances. I have seen in his face, although he strives to obscure it, a certain relief that I must be left behind, each time he has departed this place. I suppose he feared that once there I would say that which would not profit him. Makepeace judges all by the harsh yardstick of his own temperament. It does not occur to him that if I was minded to complain of my condition, or of his, I could have done so, in a letter, at
any time. But I accept my lot here, and his predicament is his own affair. He must know that a word from me would have sunk this plan before its launching. But I did not choose to say that word.
My thoughts run on apace, so disordered is my mind. I mean to set down how it is we are got hither, to Master Corlett’s school in Cambridge town and all the strange events since then. To this end, I must resume my relation where I last left off, on the eve of Caleb’s coming to us. I have those scattered sheets and pages here assembled, having unpicked the seam of my shakedown and gathered them up in haste, before I quit the island.
The island. As I tally my losses, it figures large there. If God takes a beloved one unto himself, we feel that loss in our heart. Yet we know well enough that nowt will quicken the dead, and so we must strive to be reconciled. But the island—its briny air, its ever changing light—these things yet exist. There, the clean and glassy breakers still beat upon the sands, the clay cliffs still flare russet and purple each sunset. All of this goes on, but I am not there to rejoice in it. It is a loss I feel on my very skin. Here, I scan the flat fens and the dung-strewn pastures in vain for the beauty that once was my daily portion. In that way, my condition is like a little death; this place, a little purgatory.
One thing, at least, I have aplenty, and that is paper. While the boys scrape upon slates in the schoolroom, the master is liberal—one might even say wastrel—in his own use of paper. The better for me. I may take all the crumpled discards and part-written sheets when I clean his chamber, refresh his ink, and mend his pens each day. And so provided, I will go on….
That Lord’s Day when finally Caleb came to us was bright and glistering. It was one of those pet days in early March that tease the senses, promising spring when in fact much bone-cracking weather must yet be endured. But that day had brought the first sudden mellowing of the brute cold, and little rivulets of icy melt water marked the pathways and welled up through the leaf litter, seeping and trickling along their way to refresh the ponds. The hard white ice had given way in places, making a shelf for the otters, who hauled themselves out of the dark water to bask and slide in the unaccustomed brightness.
Father had fetched Caleb the day before, from Manitouwatootan, and brought him to grandfather’s house to pass the night. Grandfather’s manservant had been charged with bathing and grooming him fit for Sabbath meeting. Grandfather has jested that the young man must learn “the gospel of soap” before he joined us for the gospel of the Lord.
Although father related that jest to us, when he returned from delivering Caleb to grandfather, I could sense an unease in him. He had not confided to the community his intention to bring Caleb to live with us, and he could not be sure of their reaction to this news. Or perhaps I should say rather that he could be sure of the Aldens’ reaction; that it would be unfavorable and perhaps provide cause, such as Giles Alden was ever in want of, to discredit our family and challenge grandfather’s position. It became clear to me, as I considered it, that father had chosen with deliberation to introduce Caleb at meeting, where he had a measure of control over what might be done and said. But there were risks, still. An outburst from the Aldens, at meeting, on the Lord’s Day, would bring grievous upset to the community, and perhaps cast a harsh and unfavorable light on father’s judgment.
They say the Lord’s Day is a day of rest, but those who preach this generally are not women. Even on the Sabbath, a fire must be laid, water drawn, victuals prepared, infants washed and dressed in meeting clothes. Those in purse to have a cow must see to it, for no one has preached to the cow that she must not let down the milk that stiffens her udders. So it is a great rush to get all in order and be at the meeting house in good time for the first service. None has leisure to linger and exchange greetings. All simply hasten hence, heads bent, and take our assigned benches. And so we did that day. Father went to the front and took up his book, ready to lead us. Makepeace went alone to the foremost bench to await grandfather, and I took my place with Solace in the women’s seats. I tried to compose myself, but I could not forebear from turning to look who had arrived, as each new party entered.
As hard as it may be to credit this, I did not recognize Caleb when he came through the door. Even on a bright day, it is dim there at that time of year, when the sun is still low to the horizon. My first vague and half-formed thought was to wonder that an unknown young man had come to Great Harbor unremarked. Then he cast off his mantua and turned his face. The beam of light that shafted through a gap in the planking fell direct upon it, and I gasped. His chief distinguishing feature—his long, elaborately dressed hair—had been shorn away.
He was wearing a good plain doublet and jerkin that had been grandfather’s, cut in at the waist and let out in the shoulders, to fit his different build. His white linen collar, starched and spotless, set off the copper of his skin and the glossy black of his short-cropped hair. His nails were clean and trimmed. Only his boots marred what was otherwise unexceptionable grooming. These were old, and hard worn, got from I know not which large-footed person among us, and no amount of buffing could conceal their defects. Caleb made to join Iacoomis and his sons, who by custom sat on a small and rickety bench at the rear of the meeting house, but grandfather signaled no, and walked him to the front, to sit between himself and Makepeace. This was a bold stroke and I caught some murmurings, for where one sat in our meeting house was fixed by age, sex, estate and dignity, and those who cared for such things were ever trying to get themselves into a better seat. Of those present that morning, only father and I and the Iacoomis family—and perhaps grandfather—recognized that Caleb, son to the sonquem of Nobnocket, had grown up as a princeling among his own people and was therefore due some precedence. Makepeace, of a certain, did not fashion it thus. From my place with the women, I watched him shift to his left, so as to leave a speaking gap between himself and Caleb. Father glared at Makepeace, and seeing this, he moved back an inch or two, but held himself stiffly.
Father commenced the service as he generally did, lining out a psalm so that the flock might sing it after him. To my surprise Caleb’s voice rose with our own, clear and confident, giving the words from Ainsworth without difficulty: “Showt ye to Jahovah…”
It is our style to worship with our palms and eyes lifted to heaven, not bowed over clasped hands as they do in England, as the Bible often refers to the faithful lifting up their gaze to God. But this day, eyes were more upon the new occupant of the Mayfield bench than upon the celestial realm. I saw the younger Alden children nudging and whispering, while Patience Alden, who is my age, wore an expression as if something in the meeting house smelled bad. Her parents scowled through the hymn as if they were bilious.
Morning service is a lengthy business for us. As I have said, father holds that the commandment “a day to be kept” means exactly that. After many psalms came many prayers, and then readings from the scripture. I have said that father was a mild man; he was also strong at his core, and fast in his convictions. When it came time to read from scripture, he called forth his chief antagonist, Giles Alden.
My heart fluttered. Why did father call on that man, of all people? I had heard Giles Alden rant against grandfather, saying he did wrong to pay the sonquems for their land. The money would be better spent, he said, hiring musketeers “to clear the woods of these pernicious creatures, to make way for a better growth.” As he walked to the front, he glared at Caleb with naked hatred, his brow drawn and his mouth twisted into an angry scowl.
As father held out the book, Alden snatched it from his hands. Then he stared down at the passage father had marked. His head dropped down between his shoulders and he looked up at father with a face distorted by suppressed rage. He reminded me of a ram about to charge. I shrank in my seat, fearing the denunciation that I felt sure was coming.
If father feared it too, he gave no sign. His face was bland and expressionless as he announced the chosen text. Giles Alden, with the book open to the place, already knew the trap that fathe
r had sprung upon him. When father announced that Alden’s reading was from the Book of Ruth, I tried to keep my countenance. Truly I was tested that day, as I watched Alden choke out words of praise and welcome for the stranger, who has left a native land and come “to a people whom you did not know before.” Giles Alden had a full, rich voice, and was a good reader, but one who had not heard him before that day would not have said so. He fumbled through the passage, stopping many times to clear his throat, I suppose because the words he was compelled to utter stuck in his craw: “The Lord recompense you for what you have done, and a full reward be given you from the Lord, the God of Israel, under whose wings you have come to take refuge….” When he had done, he slammed the book shut. I could see the dust motes rise in the thin shaft of sunshine.
After Alden, father bade Makepeace read from the gospel of Luke concerning the ten lepers, where only one of them, the Samaritan, comes back to Jesus to give thanks: “Was no one found to return and give praise to God except this foreigner?” Makepeace gave out his reading with a better grace than Alden: for all his flaws he was a devout soul and strove his best to take the word of God into his heart. He also took note of the fifth commandment, and was a dutiful son.