Caleb's Crossing (12 page)
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
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 father 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.
There were several more like readings. I marveled at how father had contrived to gather so many texts to reinforce his message, so that without risk of contradiction he gave forth the spiritual ground on which Caleb’s inclusion among us rested, and also let it be plain that he would brook no dissent over the matter. Well and good; father had a tight hand over what transpired in morning service, when we read the texts and prayers he had selected. Afternoon devotions were another gate’s business, for there we gave confession and prophecy. Those who wished to speak were obliged to come before father or grandfather, our elders, ahead of meeting, so that their thoughts might be properly shaped into what was fitting for all to hear. But it was always possible that someone might flout this custom.
Father did not seem in the least concerned. With the morning service safely negotiated, he stood in the dooryard, greeting everyone and introducing Caleb as he would any other newcomer amongst us. I stood with him, and noted that most people, if not warm, were at least civil. The Aldens of course did not tarry to be introduced, but gave us their backs as quickly as they might, hurrying off to their own cottage, where I am sure the iniquity of my family was much discussed.
Father was in a merry mood as we walked the short distance home to take our meal. I had made a hearty chowder and some cornbread with a browned crust; I also set out some dried fruits and nuts from the last season’s gathering. As I put a dish of huckleberries and hazels before Caleb, he glanced up at me. I knew that he recalled the day he had shown me where to find them. He smiled, and said a mannerly thank you, and I turned away, blushing.
Father engaged Caleb right away in conversation, asking him what he thought of the service compared with those he had attended at Manitouwatootan. Caleb said that he enjoyed the hymn singing with English voices all in unison, “for at Manitouwatootan, there is always some newcomer who
will
sing, even if he knows not the words or tune…” and then he commenced to give a parody that made father laugh with recognition. Makepeace passed the dishes in silence, and took no part in the conversation unless father addressed him directly.