Crow Hollow (2 page)

“You won’t see him today. It’s almost sundown, and he’ll do no business on the Sabbath.”

“Very well. I’ll wait until Monday.”

“You have lodging? Or shall I arrange it?”

“I thought to stay in the Windlass and Anchor. It’s on the waterfront, isn’t it?” James scanned the wharves for sign of the inn.

“A sinful place, fit only for sailors and Dutchmen.”

“Then find me a suitable establishment.”

“Reverend Stone has a room he lets to visiting ministers for a modest sum. You may stay there.”

Sir Benjamin Cotton—the king’s dead agent in the colonies—had mentioned a minister by the name of Henry Stone in his reports. James would have to double-check the papers in his trunk, but if memory served, Stone was a dissenter whose father had come over during the migrations of the 1630s. Better still, he had some sort of connection with Benjamin Cotton’s widow. An uncle? Cousin? This might be a way to get to the woman. James had read her account of captivity during the war and thought she might have useful information.

“About this Stone fellow,” James said. “How will he feel about an Anglican and a Quaker lodging under his roof? Is he one of these thin-lipped fellows who stands like he’s got a blunderbuss up his bunghole?”

The men grumbled at this. These Puritans were priggish.

Knapp looked like he’d had a drink of sour milk. “Hold your tongue. Reverend Stone is a Godly man and I won’t have you abusing him.”

“No abuse intended. I merely inquired after his nature. Is he of good humor?”

“He is a sober man who does his duty,” one of the other men spoke up.

It was the first time any of the others had addressed James directly, and he sized the man up. The speaker was an older man with long, graying hair, tidily kept. Like the rest of them, his clothes were clean and in good repair. His voice was clear and proud, but the man didn’t sound particularly hostile, either.

“And you are, sir?”

“I am Reverend Stone.”

“Oh, I see. Well, I suppose your lips don’t look overly thin. May we rent lodging for the night?”

“You may, if you behave in a sober manner,” Reverend Stone said.

“Both of us? Including the Quaker?”

Stone’s jaw tightened, but he nodded without comment. The effort must have cost him, given the strict laws against Quakers in the Bay Colony. But James had his papers, and though none of these men had seen them, the fear of royal power was sufficient to cow them. For now.

“Good,” James said. “Ah, here are our sea trunks and other personal effects.”

He paid each of the dockers two shillings. He let everyone present see how full his purse was before tucking it back into a pocket in his cloak, where it would be safe from cut-pockets and greasy-fingered urchins. Then he spoke to the dockers about hiring them to haul the goods through town to the reverend’s home. According to Stone, it lay a half mile up the muddy alley from the waterfront. Given the generous pay, the dockers readily agreed.

When that was arranged, James turned back to Samuel Knapp. “It seems that I am in the capable hands of Reverend Stone. Good day to you, sir.”

A look passed between Knapp and Reverend Stone. Then, without comment, Knapp led the other armed men into town, while Stone remained behind.

“Churlish fellow, isn’t he?” James said.

“Pray keep a temperate tongue,” Stone said. “Especially when you reach the house. My wife has a delicate and righteous temperament.”

That
was
the temperate version. Heaven forbid if James had voiced what he’d really been thinking about Knapp.

“Apologies, Reverend,” James said. “Of course I will.”

James and Peter followed the reverend at a languid pace as they stayed with the dockers hauling the heavy oak chests. The waterfront was littered with refuse: broken barrels; rotten, barnacle-covered planks stripped from the keels of boats as they put in for repair; sodden ears of Indian corn, their kernels gnawed away by mice and rats. Bits of rope and scraps of nets washed against the dock pilings or gathered onto the shore. Gulls lurked overhead, eager to plunder the fishermen hauling their catch from the holds of two-masted doggers.

The wooden shacks and log houses closer to the waterfront gave way to sturdier homes, packed shoulder-to-shoulder, as the men climbed into town. Some of the newer buildings were timbered with greater care, and some were even made of brick. Most were small, square structures, but a few boasted a second floor.

The sodden ground near the waterfront turned to hard, frozen mud. Reverend Stone’s clogs clomped noisily with every step. There were a surprising number of people in the streets, hauling handcarts or leading horses that pulled wagons. Some of them seemed to be loading up from houses and moving out.

“It’s
Henry
Stone, isn’t it?” James asked. “Born in England, if I remember.”

Stone glanced at him with a curious expression. “That’s right.”

“And you know Sir Benjamin’s widow? Is she a relation of some kind?”

“She is in mourning. And not your concern.”

“My concern is what I make of it,” James said sharply.

“I haven’t seen your commission, Master Bailey. Until then, I will reserve judgment.”

“Hmm. Very well.”

“There will be no strong drink under my roof,” Reverend Stone said a moment later as they stepped across a rare cobbled street and passed down a lane so narrow that a man living on one side could have opened his shutters and shaken hands with the fellow in the opposite house. “And you will not speak in a loose way to the unmarried servant girls.”

“Of course not,” James said. “Who do you take me for?”

“And this Indian is forbidden to speak his heresies. That I will never tolerate.”

Peter spoke up. “My name is Peter. Not
the Indian
or
the Quaker
. And I’m not fond of
the heretic
, either.”

“I can’t simply call you Peter, Goodman—?” Stone began.

“It’s Peter Church,” James said. “But he won’t answer to Goodman or Master. He prefers ‘friend,’ or his whole name, if you can’t bring yourself to call him by his Christian name alone.”

“I will not hold the Indian part against you, Peter Church. That was your birth, but not necessarily your nature. Your parents were simple people, but you were introduced to the truth.”

“That I was,” Peter agreed.

“But why, having seen this truth, did you embrace the Quaker heresy?”

“The Lord spoke to my heart, friend. He shall speak to thine own heart, if thou wilt open it.”

“What makes you think He hasn’t?”

“Hast thou felt the inward light?” Peter asked.

“I have been convicted. I am attentive to the will of God, and He has chosen to save my sinful soul and gather me into the body of visible saints. Can you say the same, Goodman Church?”

Peter looked away.

“I told you,” James said, “he won’t answer to titles.”

“That’s hardly a title.”

“It is to him.”

Stone let out a long-suffering sigh. Ahead of them, two of the dockers heaving trunks flashed each other grins.

“The body of saints is the church of all believers,” Peter said after a moment of sufficient duration to emphasize his peculiarity with names and titles, “be they English or Indian, bonded or free. Any man—or woman—can be called by the Lord. There is no need to prove ourselves before such abominations as popes, priests, bishops, or ministers.”

“Enough.” Stone’s voice was harder than the frozen mud at their feet.

“Can I note, Reverend,” James said, “that
you
initiated the theological dispute, not the Quaker?”

“And you brought him to our shores.”

“I was
born
on these shores,” Peter said.

Reverend Stone stopped in front of a sturdy two-story house, square, with good windows and straight lines. It was wood but had a solid brick chimney and was painted gray with a red door. The bit of color gave it an unexpectedly whimsical air. A small brass bell hung from a chain next to the door.

Stone lifted the wooden latch and pushed the front door open. As he did so, he gave the bell a chime. “What cheer! I have returned.”

The voices of women and many children sounded from inside. Before they appeared, Stone said to the dockers, “Set down your chests. I won’t have you in the house.” The reverend turned to James and Peter. “Remember what I said about the servant girls.”

James opened his mouth to protest, but then two beautiful young women emerged. He couldn’t tell if they were the reverend’s servants or his daughters, and at the moment he didn’t care. The first was a comely lass of sixteen or seventeen, her chaste clothing—head rail tied over her head and under her chin, woman’s doublet, and looped petticoat—doing little to conceal a voluptuous figure. Blond hair and large green eyes. The second woman was several years older, perhaps early twenties, and similarly dressed, except she wore a laced bodice instead of a petticoat, and a bit of green ribbon at her throat that stood out all the more against the blacks and whites of her clothing. She was even more striking, with raven-black hair, curls bursting out from beneath her head rail, and dark eyes.

Peter looked off to one side, as if taking no notice of the young women, but after eight weeks at sea, James couldn’t tear his gaze away.

“Alice, Prudie,” Stone said in a sharp voice after casting a hard glance at James, then an even more severe look at the dockers, who were gawking behind them. “Fetch the boys. Ready the attic room. We have lodgers.”

James knew he looked and smelled a fright. He was unshaven, and his clothes were dirty and reeked of the close living quarters below deck. But both women looked at him a moment too long before they turned away to do their master’s bidding. The younger woman touched her tongue to the corner of her mouth, while a hint of a smile crossed the face of the older one. Interesting.

You will not speak in a loose way to the unmarried servant girls.

Had he promised that?

C
HAPTER
T
WO

James and Peter waited upstairs while Stone and his family ate their supper.

“Is that beef I smell?” James asked. “And onions too. Fresh bread, no doubt slathered with butter. It’s torture.”

“All the more satisfying when it’s our turn to eat,” Peter replied. He sat on a raised bed with a mattress on drawn ropes. The bed had several blankets and two large goose-feather pillows.

James sat on a smallish stool by a tiny, rough-hewn desk, where he was shaving and washing up. “Are you sure they’re going to feed us? Maybe we’re expected to gnaw on hardtack from the ship.”

The guest room apparently doubled as a study room for children. One of Stone’s many young sons had cleared the desk of a primer, a children’s Bible, and papers and ink, while a girl of eight or ten had brought in a wooden pitcher of water, a basin, and a pair of chamber pots. The pitched ceiling was child size too. James could only stand upright next to the door.

Below came the muffled sounds of Reverend Stone saying grace, then the clank of dishes and murmured conversation. The other voices hushed as a child spoke up in clear, even tones. No way to parse out the words through the floor and walls, but it sounded like she was reading from the Bible.

“A fine, disciplined family,” Peter said when she’d finished. “And Stone is a righteous, Godly man. It’s a pity he’s living his life in error.”

“Were those older girls his daughters? Or servants?”

“I did not pay them particular notice. Mayhap one of each.” Peter said this as if it were the least interesting subject imaginable.

“Better a servant than a daughter,” James said. “Assuming she is discreet.”

“Put those thoughts out of thy head, friend.”

“The flesh is weak, and the Lord forgiving. Moreover, you don’t know what it’s like. You’re older, never married. Have you even been with a woman before?”

Peter said nothing, but looked uncomfortable.

“Oh, I’ll wager you haven’t, have you?”

“That would be a faulty assumption, friend.”

James brightened. “Pray tell.”

“That would be loose talk.”

“I won’t touch the servant girls,” James said in answer to Peter’s disapproving expression.

And he meant to keep that vow. He would leave for England within the fortnight, triumphant and ready to claim the newly opened position of chancellor of agents for foreign affairs and internal dissent. It was a great prize—and he was the youngest, strongest man reaching for it. But it was only his if he avoided stumbling here. That meant no entanglements of any kind.

Peter kept staring at him, the frown deepening. “I don’t entirely believe thee.”

“I’m not a fool, Peter. They hang fornicators in Massachusetts. Or force them into marriage.” James leaned back in the chair. “I don’t know which is worse.”

The door swung open, and Reverend Stone stood in the doorway. He was frowning as if he’d heard some of the conversation, and the grin died on James’s lips.

“I dismissed the children,” Stone said. “There’s room for you at the table. Come.”

Downstairs, it occurred to James that Reverend Stone might have kept them upstairs not through lack of hospitality so much as for lack of space at the table. He had eight or nine young children running about, all seemingly healthy and bright eyed. The youngest three had long, curly hair and wore wool biggins to keep their heads warm, and because they all wore doublets and petticoats, it was impossible to tell the girls from those boys who were not yet breeched.

Some of the children were leaving the table as James and Peter came in. Others were helping the servant girl clean the table under the direction of Stone’s wife, a handsome woman of about forty whose hair had not yet started to gray. She kept things moving in a firm but gentle manner as dirty plates left the table and clean ones appeared. The family ate on pewter, with fine spoons and knives. Enough of it that they had sufficient for the servants and guests without washing those already used by the family. Several pale-green bayberry candles burned with a cheerful light and smell. The hearth gave off additional light, plus a fine heat for such a dark, cold December evening.

A few minutes later the family had departed, leaving James and Peter at the table with three servants: an older man and two girls. The man sat next to the newcomers, while the women sat at the far end. One of the girls was the pretty blond who had greeted them at the door. The other looked so similar that she had to be the first one’s sister, perhaps two or three years older. Both girls were comely, with healthy skin and shiny hair. No sign of the dark-haired girl from earlier. The girls conversed in quiet, breathless tones, occasionally glancing at James and sharing secret smiles. He was certain they were talking about him.

Peter bowed his head in silent grace, then hefted his spoon. James was already eating.

The meal was a rich, meaty pottage. This being America, the bread was a golden color, apparently made from Indian corn, and there was an enormous corn pudding as well. James cut a hunk of the crumbly corn bread and slathered it with butter, then ladled the pottage into a pewter bowl. He lifted his mug, filled with small beer, wishing Reverend Stone hadn’t proscribed stronger drink.

“To the end of a long sea voyage, and the first good meal in months.”

“It is sufficient for our needs,” Peter said, mouth full.

“It’s a good sight more than that or you wouldn’t be stuffing your face like a starving goat.” James waved his mug at the girls. “To your good health, my ladies.” They giggled and looked down at their food. He nodded at the old man. “And to you, sir.”

The old man cupped his hand at his ear. “Eh?”

“He’s quite deaf,” the younger girl said.

“And not much use around the house,” the other said.

“But he has served with the family these thirty years,” the first one added. “Since England. They won’t turn him out now.”

James said the toast again, louder this time and mouthing the words clearly. He clapped the old man on the shoulder as he said it.

The man roared back. “AND TO YOU, SIR!”

“Where’s the other woman who greeted us at the door?” James asked the girls. “I didn’t see her leaving the table. Is she one of the reverend’s daughters?”

“James . . .” Peter warned, with a nod toward the door. Two of the Stone boys stood there, looking in with curiosity at the two strangers. “Loose talk.”

“My apologies, good mistresses. I misspoke.” James considered the subjects he might legitimately broach. “Do either of you know Goodwife Cotton? Sir Benjamin’s widow?”

The girls looked at each other and giggled. Then they turned their attention to their food, and James did the same, disappointed. These two might have breasts as ripe as fresh peaches, but they seemed to lack any other distinction. Only pure animal instincts kept him interested in them at all.

The pottage was delicious, made with beef, barley, peas, leeks, and plenty of savory spices. The corn bread was even more divine after weeks of stale, moldy biscuits. And the butter so good. He considered the pewter and the brightly burning candles. This Henry Stone was a prosperous fellow.

James could think of nothing else but eating for a stretch. When he dished up the corn pudding, he’d gathered his wits enough to consider his strategy. He had only a short time before he was in bed, then rising early to attend services with the Stones.

He’d glanced through his papers before coming down. He now removed a few sheets from a breast pocket. It was Prudence Cotton’s captivity story, from her time with the Nipmuk Indians during the war. Sir Benjamin’s widow enjoyed a certain fame in both the colonies and England for the hardships she’d endured at Winton and Crow Hollow and the masterful way she’d written about them.

He looked at the old man, who was gumming his food. Convinced he was indeed deaf, James lowered his voice so neither the servant girls nor the eavesdropping Stone children could hear.

“What about services in the morning?” he asked Peter. “Will you go?”

“That is the law in Boston. Everyone must attend.”

“It’s also the law that Quakers not enter the Bay Colony under pain of death. If you feign illness, nobody will drag you to the church by one ear.”

“As a point of fact, I am feeling a little strange.” Peter gestured with his spoon to the pottage, which was only half-eaten, though he had downed his beer and poured himself more from the pitcher. Then he shrugged. “Everything is still swaying from the ship.”

“You too? I can still see the heaving deck when I close my eyes. Should be gone by morning, I’ll wager.” James mopped up the last bit of broth with a hunk of crumbling bread. “My question is what you’ll do when you get there. Disrupt the meeting again?”

Quakers had been known to stroll naked into the services of other congregations, be they Anglican, Papist, or dissenters. More likely, they’d interrupt the sermon to argue scripture with the dumbfounded minister.

“I have no intention of doing so. But I speak as the spirit prompts, friend. As thou knowest.”

“Well, if you must, you must.”

Perfect. An Indian at services, when the wounds of the brutal war against King Philip and his fellow sachems were still fresh. And a Quaker too. It would take little to foment chaos. Perhaps James could make contact with Sir Benjamin’s widow if he could identify her at services. He glanced down at the widow’s tale to see what else he could glean from the pages.

Peter made a sound deep in his throat. “I truly feel ill. ’Twould be strange if I’d crossed the ocean in all that filth only to breathe bad airs on my first day in Boston.”

“It’s probably the rich food. You’ll feel better after some sleep.”

James wasn’t particularly worried. True, Indians were even more susceptible to agues, fevers, chills, and poxes than Englishmen, but Peter was no ordinary Indian. He’d lived more than a decade in England, come over with three other Praying Indians to study with a Puritan minister in Tonbridge. The other three Indians had died of European illnesses within three years. Peter claimed he’d never once fallen sick. Except for the spiritual plague of the Society of Friends, that was.

Of course, James hadn’t recruited the man for his health or his religion. No, it was his ability to speak Abenaki and Nipmuk. Still, he’d worried how the man would fare in the cramped, unhealthy quarters of the
Vigilant
.

James had soon had other worries. Two hours out of Weymouth, the waves were already so choppy that he was heaving up his breakfast. The seas surged for the next ten days until almost every passenger was ill, together with several members of the crew. Not Peter Church, though. The man’s guts were made of iron.

Somewhere in the middle of the ocean, the waves had calmed. Then disease swept through the passengers. They were mostly farmers and craftsmen from Lincolnshire, strong and hale, not sickly—yet they’d proved helpless against the bloody flux that roared through their midst. James had counted himself fortunate not to fall ill, but he was more worried about his companion. Still, Peter remained healthy.

They’d come into no contact with any disease or bad air since coming off the boat. No illness or death. No, James wasn’t worried about Peter.

“It seems to me,” Peter said, “that thou art the one planning to disrupt the Puritan services, not I.”

“Why would you say that?”

“Friend, after all of our discussions, thou remainest suspicious, thy heart hardened. Thou stopped me three separate times when I tried to testify on board the boat. So why allow me to speak now if not to put my plain speech to thine own purposes?”

James kept his face blank. Peter was so sincere in his misguided faith, and it was a hard thing to purposefully manipulate a man to one’s own means. Especially when it might put him in danger. But that’s what it meant to serve the Crown. It justified hard measures.

“You know what I think of your heresies, but they’re harmless enough. These Puritans, on the other hand—Cromwell and his ilk—nearly destroyed the Church of England. They’d overthrow every bishop and tear down the cathedrals if they could.”

“As would I.”

“Aye, but don’t delude yourself. The Quakers are small and powerless.”

“Power is an earthly term.”

“Exactly. And you have none here, regardless of where you stand in the eternities. So go ahead and disrupt, should you feel so moved.”

“Thou art scheming, my friend.”

“Of course I am,” James said. “That’s my sworn duty.”

Peter studied James’s face, and it was all the Englishman could do not to turn away from the Indian’s piercing gaze.

“When do we leave Boston?” Peter said at last.

“As soon as I present my commission to Fitz-Simmons. Of course, I want to speak to Widow Cotton first, if possible.”

“Then ask to see her. She’s probably here in Boston.”

James made sure he kept his voice low and avoided looking at the servant girls. “You know what will happen. As soon as I express interest to Reverend Stone, it will turn out that the widow had pressing business in Hartford or Providence.”

Goodwife Stone appeared in the doorway, and the two servant girls rose to their feet and began to clear away the dishes. The old man tried to do the same, but the mistress shook her head, pulled up a chair next to the fire instead, and handed him a whetstone and a pair of knives to sharpen.

“YOU ARE TOO KIND, MY MISTRESS.”

The old man lit a long-stemmed pipe. It dangled from the corner of his mouth while he slowly pulled a knife back and forth across the stone with his gnarled hands. The scrape, scrape, scrape joined the crackle of the fire. Goodwife Stone snuffed all the candles but two. She moved the hanging candleholders to the hearth, above a double-wide wooden bench. Here she sat to mend stockings. A few minutes later, Reverend Stone came in without a word, carrying a big Bible, and took his place next to his wife.

The sight of the reverend reading his scripture had a predictable effect on Peter Church. He fetched his own, smaller Bible from upstairs, and the two holy strivers sat across from each other, reading almost competitively by the light of the bayberry candles. James tried to study Prudence Cotton’s captivity story but was too distracted by trying to make sense of everything he’d seen and heard so far. Instead, he smoked his own pipe and watched the reverend and his wife. No sign of the children; they must be in bed already.