John took out the tomahawk, carefully, and wiped off a little dirt. But this time it was only the piece of leather that he dropped back into the hole.
He filled in the soil and put back the layer of dead leaves. Nobody would know that anything had ever been buried here. He put the handle of the axe through his belt so that it was hidden under his jacket. Then, quietly, he went back to the barn and left the spade. He looked round carefully to make sure nobody was watching him and he ran out of the house, down the track, down toward the salt marsh and the sea.
He had always felt that when he left this place he should take the tomahawk back to me. But now the leaving was almost upon him, and in the light of the day I would not be there to tell him what to do with it. He knew only, as he ran, that he wanted somehow to say a farewell.
He reached the low ridge at the head of the salt marsh, and walked along it to the island. He could see the footprints of deer disappearing into the trees, through the fringe of scrub oak. Beyond the island the salt marsh was half-covered with silver water as the tide crept in, and he could just make out an osprey wheeling toward the sea, a brief dark silhouette against the grey-white sky.
John took the tomahawk out of his belt and looked down at it, perplexed. Then, beside the track, barely visible through the leaves, he saw the memory hole he had made for me.
He thought, Of course.
He knelt down. Nobody was in sight anywhere, on this damp grey day. Using the blade of the tomahawk, he scraped out all the carefully laid small stones from the bottom of the memory hole, and set them aside. Then he dug out enough soil to leave a space for the tomahawk, and laid it gently down in there.
He looked down at it for a moment, remembering many things. Then he covered it with soil and set the small stones firmly back on top, so that the memory hole was just as it had been before.
He stood up, brushing the dirt from his britches, and he looked up at the island, into the shadowy trees.
He said aloud, “Good-bye, my friend Little Hawk. Thank you. Remember me. I shall always remember you.”
He was speaking Pokanoket.
* * *
Very early the next morning, John bundled up all his belongings and steeled himself to make his farewells. Goodman Bates sat up on his wagon, waiting; they would go from here to the Kelly house to pick up Huldah. Everyone was gathered in the yard of the house. The children cried. Willie shook John’s hand. So did Ezra, and clapped him on the shoulder. Mistress Medlycott hugged him as she had when he first arrived, though now John was taller and broader than she was, and gave her a warm, grateful embrace of his own.
To John’s surprise, Master Medlycott hugged him too. “Th’art a good craftsman in spite of thy perilous ideas, John,” he said, the old accent strong again for a moment, “and I wish thee well, wherever it may be. Here are the tools you cut your teeth on, as is our tradition.” And he gave John a large handsome bundle that held all a cooper’s tools that could be carried, fitted into a folded leather carrying case.
“Thank you, Master,” said John. “I thank you with all my heart. For this and for much, much more.”
“One other thing,” said Master Medlycott. “It was a thought of Priscilla’s, of which I heartily approved. We have two young replacements for Aaron, as you know, but he has some hearty years in him yet. He is an early marriage gift.”
He whistled, and out of the barn came Thomas leading Aaron, who was a horse: a sturdy, handsome, broad-backed horse who had patiently carried panniers of casks to customers for years, or sometimes both Thomas and John at the same time.
John opened and shut his mouth, but no sound came out. This was an astounding gift, particularly for a young couple faced with the prospect of walking seventy miles to Roger Williams’s trading post.
Thomas grinned. “And tha can shovel up after him,” he said.
* * *
Huldah and John rode to Plymouth sitting high on the bench seat of the wagon next to Goodman Bates. The horse Aaron plodded behind, his bridle tied securely to the back of the wagon. Goodman Bates devoted himself to giving his rural passengers the ominous news from England, where, he said, the arrogant King Charles had ruled with no Parliament for ten years now.
“No wonder so many good Englishmen sell their lands and goods to bring their families to our colony,” he said. “Plymouth grows apace, you will scarce recognize it.”
John said, “Have you heard news of Master Roger Williams since he left the colony?”
“Oh yes,” said Goodman Bates amiably. “Your hero is the governor’s ear to the Indian tribes south of here, they say. He was always a great talker, as you recall, and he talks in the savage languages too. But he has a good head on his shoulders—there is much trade established with his new settlement. Some younger men have joined him in his town of New Providence. They say a fair piece of land is to be had there for thirty shillings.”
On the bench, Huldah’s hand crept toward John’s and squeezed it. He gave hers a squeeze in return, though he had no idea how they could acquire thirty shillings.
In Plymouth there were more streets than before, more horses and carts, more storefronts, more noise—and they saw Indians here and there among the English faces. Most of these were from my people. Our sachem Yellow Feather had forged a stronger relationship with the colony in the past few years, selling them land in exchange for cloth, metal tools, and other goods from overseas. But even though the whites now bought the land instead of simply taking it, it was they who set the price, and each sale was registered by their court.
Cattle grazed on the common, and the crowing of roosters punctuated the day. Plymouth sounded and smelled like a farmyard. Down by the harbor there was the smell of the sea instead, but John and Huldah’s families lived inland, at different ends of the main street. In their snatched talks over the years, the two of them had come to realize that their parents all knew each other from the days of their first arrival, and that as a small boy John must have played with Huldah’s eldest brother Edmund.
It was at the Bates house that Huldah’s uncle Goodman Bates first stopped; it was set back a little way from the road, behind the workshop of Huldah’s father, who was a carpenter. Huldah jumped down and ran into the workshop, and John slowly followed, finding her clasped in the arms of a big bearded man who, to John’s great relief, held out a hand to him even before letting his daughter go.
“So this is the man who would steal my beloved daughter,” said Master Bates, shaking John’s hand. “Welcome to our family, John Wakeley.”
And so it went, as everyone at this warmhearted house welcomed John, from six-year-old Dauntless, who looked startlingly like Huldah, to his former playmate Edmund, now a journeyman blacksmith as big as his father. John left Huldah to spend the night with her family, and set off eagerly for his own home. Goodman Bates had taken Aaron away to be stabled with his own horses overnight. Tomorrow John would fetch Huldah to meet his mother. He and Margaret had exchanged letters, but he hadn’t been home for almost a year and he ached to see her.
He strode happily along the wide Plymouth street, still marveling at the way the town had grown during his seven-year absence; even in late afternoon it was bustling with people, horses, carts. Ahead, a large group of people came walking toward him, and he saw with surprise that they were Pokanokets, formally dressed; there were feathers on a few of the heads.
He gazed at them, thinking of me.
A wagon drawn by four horses came rattling toward him on the other side of the street—and suddenly John saw a very small boy run into its path from the group of Indians, in pursuit of a lumpy leather ball. Instinctively he dived forward to grab the child, and caught him just in time. The wagon rattled past, with an angry shout from the driver.
John rolled in the dust and scrambled to his feet, clutching the child, who was whimpering softly. “It’s all right,” he said to the boy in Pokanoket, “it’s all right, don’t be afraid, everything’s all right. . . .”
H
e was still soothing him as the child’s mother reached him, taking the boy from his arms, scolding. She was young and pretty, dressed in soft deerskin, and very upset. “You must never do that,” she babbled to the boy, “never, in this busy town—”
“He’s not hurt, I think, just frightened,” John said.
“Thank you,” she said. “Thank you so much. You saved his life.”
“Be more careful with that ball, little man,” John said to the boy.
The girl was still too shocked to smile. “You are very kind,” she said.
They were both speaking Pokanoket without thinking about it, and a deeper voice broke in, this time speaking English.
“Thank you, my friend. I thank you for my foolish son.”
It was an older man, much older than the girl. He was the center of the group, and clearly a person of importance. He had lines painted on his strong-boned face, as did several of the other men, and two splendid red-tipped eagle feathers in his hair.
“You are welcome,” John said. “Children do these things.”
“Who taught you to speak my language so well?” said the man.
John smiled. “A good friend,” he said.
The man hesitated; he was curious, but could sense that John was eager to be on his way. “I am in your debt,” he said, “and I thank you again.”
They gave each other a little bow and went in their separate directions. John strode the last few yards to his mother’s house, and the group of Pokanokets made its measured way along the street. They were headed for a visit with Edward Winslow, a former governor of Plymouth Colony, who had a farm in Marshfield not far from the Medlycotts but was often in Plymouth to help his successor, Governor Bradford. Two or three of them looked back from time to time at John.
And I was caught in amazement at what I had just seen. Although John did not yet know the man he had just met, I was filled with wonder at my first sight of the great sachem of my people, our father Yellow Feather.
* * *
When John arrived home he was dusty but happy, and even happier to find that Daniel Smith was away for a few days with Walter Kelly. Both were trusted lieutenants in Captain Standish’s militia, and Standish had taken them to Boston for a meeting with the Massachusetts Bay General Court.
As John walked through the door, his mother looked up from her baby’s cradle, stared at him, and burst into tears. She held out her arms, and whispered into his collar, “You look so like . . . for a moment I thought you were Benjamin back from the dead.”
Both John’s sisters had left home to marry. The baby in the cradle was the third child his mother had had with Daniel; their first son, Samuel, had died of a fever when he was four years old, and there was a daughter, Rebecca, who was now three. John played with his half-sister Rebecca, and after a first bashful half hour she was fascinated by the big brother she didn’t remember having seen before, and kissed him good night before she went to bed.
John and Margaret sat up late, talking by firelight.
“I remember Huldah Bates as a child, she was a sweet little girl,” Margaret said. “God be praised that you have found each other. And you are a true trained cooper now, John. I am so proud of you. Master Hawthorne is the only cooper in Plymouth, down by the harbor—there is more than enough work for another. Or perhaps you think of working for him?”
John looked into the fire, then took a deep breath and told her of their plans to travel to New Providence and join Roger Williams.
Margaret was silent for a moment. Then she reached out and took his hand.
“You must follow your conscience, my dear,” she said. “Sometimes indeed the Lord tells us to do things we might not have chosen ourselves. But I hope you and Huldah will first marry in Plymouth—yes?”
“Of course,” John said. He smiled. “Otherwise I fear you and Mistress Bates would never speak to us again.”
But the next morning, things changed.
He had slept in the back room that had been added as a workshop; he had been out to pump some water for his mother; he was sitting at breakfast with her and Rebecca. The door of the house opened abruptly, and there silhouetted against the morning light was Daniel Smith, carrying his musket, with Walter Kelly close behind him.
John got to his feet, still chewing a piece of bread. His mother jumped up as well. Rebecca remained contentedly seated.
“Father!” she said. “Look, my brother John is here!”
“So I see,” said Daniel Smith.
“Welcome back, husband,” said Margaret. “Master Kelly! Will you break your fast with us?”
“We have eaten. I thank you,” Kelly said.
John stood there. He had swallowed his bread, but he couldn’t speak. His mother knew nothing of his confrontation with Walter Kelly in the Marshfield meetinghouse. And the sudden sight of these two men together had rushed him back through the years, to the terrible moment of their first encounter.
“John has finished his apprenticeship!” Margaret said proudly. “He is a journeyman cooper, out in the world. And he is to be married!” She pulled out the bench beside the table. “Pray you, come and sit down.”
Daniel came in, leaned his musket against the wall, and gave a fatherly pat to Rebecca’s small bonneted head, but Kelly remained in the doorway, looking at John. He stood tense, holding his musket; his face was flushed.
“And who do you intend to marry, John Wakeley?” he said.
John said, “Now that she too is out in the world, by courtesy of Mistress Kelly and yourself—Huldah Bates.”
“Never!” Kelly spat the word out like a gunshot.
Margaret looked from one to the other of them in alarm.
“You are not worthy of that good God-fearing girl!” Kelly said loudly.
John stood up tall, trying desperately to be calm.
“Begging your pardon, Master Kelly,” he said. “Huldah is a free member of this colony, able to choose who she shall wed, and her family approves of the match.”
“Huldah is part of my household!” Kelly shouted.
The baby woke up and began to cry. Margaret went to the cradle.
Daniel looked at John, frowning. He said, “If you wish to be a craftsman in this community, do not offend one of its most respected elders.”
John said, “But Huldah is no longer living in Master Kelly’s house. She was not an indentured servant, it was a private agreement between families. She is twenty years old, and she is here in Plymouth, and she and I are to be married.”
“You’ll not marry here!” snapped Kelly, furious. He stalked out of the door. Daniel went after him.
John turned to his mother and kissed her on the cheek, then reached for his bundle of tools.
“Good-bye, mother,” he said. “God bless you.”
And he was out of the door after them, leaving Margaret unhappily rocking a screaming baby.
Kelly was marching down the street, with Daniel hurrying after him. “Master Kelly!” Daniel called.
Kelly paused, and swung round toward John. “There is a price to pay for attacking your betters!” he said. “Marshfield wouldn’t have you, and no more will Plymouth! I’ll take good care of that!”
Now John was losing his temper too. “And you’ll do us no harm,” he said, his voice rising, “for we are bound for New Providence and Master Williams’s tolerance!”
“Art mad?” cried Daniel. “That troublemaker? He lives with the Indians! Do you want to raise savages?”
“Of course he does!” said Kelly violently. “They are all idolators! They care more for the heathen than for the chosen people of God!”
Something in John’s brain snapped.
“And did the Lord God ordain one of his chosen people to shoot an innocent man?” he shouted. People passing by were staring at them. “To kill one who was trying to save a life?”
“Hold your tongue!” Daniel said in panic. His eyes darted around the street, as if looking for escape.
John shouted, ?
??And then to hide the body so that none should see?” Anger was flooding through him, bursting out of its long suppression. “If you had been honest men, you would have confessed your mistake openly to all, and asked forgiveness of God!”
Now people were pausing, curious, alarmed.
Daniel grabbed him, pinning his arms to his sides. “Stop!”
John stopped. He stood still; he took a deep breath. He looked hopelessly at his stepfather, a God-fearing, bigoted man who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time nine years before.
“It was an innocent mistake,” Daniel said. His eyes held John’s for a moment, and perhaps there was a hint of a plea in them. But it was too late.
Kelly stood facing John, quietly now, but his quietness was more ominous than his rage. Though he was a head shorter, he had an icy confidence.
“You ignorant young fool,” he said softly. “Get out of this colony! You know nothing of the intentions of the Lord for his Saints, nor the treachery of the savage peoples. Go to New Providence and be damned. And an Indian shall wear the scalps of your children at his belt!”
TWELVE
So John and Huldah left Plymouth, riding their gentle, sturdy horse. John did not visit his sisters, and he did not see his mother again. Huldah’s family put them on their way, with tears and loving wishes, and with as many tools and as much food as would fit into the panniers across Aaron’s broad back. Walter Kelly was a powerful member of the Governor’s Council, and there was danger in his ill will.
John and Huldah rode for a long time along the road southwest from Plymouth, an English road made from one of my people’s old tracks. Late in the day John worried that the weight was too much even for Aaron, so he dismounted and led the horse. Huldah sat above him, sidesaddle, swaying uncertainly. Her only experience of horses at Master Kelly’s house had been to sit behind one in a wagon.