Harvard Yard (8 page)

The ploy had worked. By turning the court’s attention to his own transgression, Isaac had distracted them from the book. After chiding him for what he had done, they moved on to the beating, the earlier beatings, and never once did they ask for the title of the work that inspired Eaton’s anger. Isaac’s conscience was safe for the moment.

“As the young man who started all this”—Governor Winthrop pointed his chin whiskers at Isaac—“what would you say of Master Eaton?”

Isaac could not see Eaton behind him, but he knew that he should choose his words carefully, for Eaton could be a vengeful man. Then he breathed deep and remembered breathing his own blood through his broken nose, and he decided that no man would ever frighten him again, vengeful or not. “I would say, Your Honors, that a man given such charge should know of Christ’s mercy as well as God’s wrath. What I have learned at the college has been in spite of him, not because of him. Were it up to me or my classmates, we would banish him tomorrow . . . good sirs.”

As Isaac stepped down, someone began to clap his hands. An instant later, every student was applauding and the governor was pounding his gavel.

Not a one of the students left before the testimony of Eaton and his wife.

First, Mary Eaton stood, her hands still twisting her apron. She admitted to denying cheese to the students, for which she humbly begged pardon. But she claimed never to have served mackerel with their guts in them. “And as for goat’s dung in the hasty pudding, ’tis utterly unknown to me.”

“And beef?” asked a magistrate. “And beer? ’Tis stated they had little of either.”

“I . . . I confess that we live on a cow yard, but I cannot remember that ever they had beef. As for their wanting beer, betwixt brewings, a week or half a week, I am sorry that it were so, and should tremble, good masters, were it to happen again.”

But the magistrates were more interested in the husband, who came next to the bar and stood rocking on the balls of his feet, in an attitude of utter defiance.

For every beating, he gave a reason and finally, when he tired of the questions, he said, “Gentlemen, I had this rule—and a good one—that I would not give over correcting until I had subdued a student to my will. Students are recalcitrant beings, as you know.”

“So are some schoolmasters,” said Governor Winthrop.

“And so must they be,” answered Eaton. “For they seek to restrain beings whose minds are yet weak and whose morality is unformed. ’Tis a hard job.”

Two days later, Eaton and his wife stood before the bar to hear Governor Winthrop read the court’s decision: “For the cruel and barbarous beating of Mr. Nathaniel Briscoe, and for other neglecting and misusing of your scholars, you are to be discharged from keeping school, with or without a license, and fined sixty-six pounds.”

Then Winthrop lowered the paper and looked at Eaton. “One of your students put it best, sir, who said that a man given such charge should know of Christ’s mercy as well as God’s wrath. Now, what have you to say in response to our justice and clemency?”

And to the amazement of all, Nathaniel Eaton turned his back on the magistrates, saying, “If sentence be passed, then it is to no end to speak.”

Within a week, the college was closed. The students were sent home, having been charged to continue their study with the ministers in their respective communities. And Peyntree House was left empty but for the Eatons, who awaited a second trial before the members of their own Cambridge congregation.

Isaac Wedge, however, had been engaged by Reverend Shepard to whitewash the meetinghouse. He also hoped to finish work on Harvard’s library, once the Eatons had departed. And most important, the Nicholson family, drawn to Cambridge by the eloquence of Reverend Shepard, had settled in a fine house overlooking the new wharf.

Most days, before morning prayer, Isaac would walk down Water Street, past the wharf, around the sweeping curve of the town creek, through the town square, and back to the home of Reverend Shepard, where he lived in the attic.

On fine mornings, Katharine would rise to offer a greeting, a bit of conversation, perhaps a cup of beer. But if the clouds lowered, she would stay abed and Isaac would simply walk, ruminating on the closing of the college and on the fate of the Shakespeare play. Sometimes he even wondered about the fate of the characters in the play.

It happened to rain on the last day of September, the day that Eaton’s church trial was to begin. So Katharine was abed and the morning dark.

But as Isaac came round the corner of Water Street and looked toward the wharf, he saw a vessel he recognized as
Nell’s Bark,
out of Piscataqua. He went closer to see what the men would be loading in the gray dawn. And there on the wharf, flinging sacks of belongings aboard, was Nathaniel Eaton.

At first, Isaac thought to run for Reverend Shepard or the constable, but Eaton saw him and growled, “Stay there, boy, or this time I’ll finish you, so help me God.”

“But you are to appear before the congregation this morning.”

“And so I will, boy. So I will. You have my word.”

Isaac might still have run, but this was the first time he had seen Eaton since the trial, and there was something he had to know. So he drew closer. “I also have your word that you will be my ally in protecting the Shakespeare book.”

“Never trust a man better versed in God’s wrath than in Christ’s mercy, as you say. I could sustain no further censure from the colony, which surely would follow if they found a play in my possession. So I burned it.”

“Burned it?” Isaac felt as if he had been struck.

Just then, the captain of the sloop said, “Hurry up about it, Eaton. The tide turns.”

On impulse, Isaac grabbed for Eaton’s bag. Eaton pulled back, and as he did, the bag tore open, spilling onto the wharf a jumble of clothes, a box of iron nails, glass trinkets such as white men might use in trading with the Indians, and—yes—several books.

In the dim morning light, Isaac could not tell if one of the books was the play, nor did he see the walnut cudgel appear in Eaton’s hand. But he felt it strike the side of his head, and his world went black. By the time he awoke,
Nell’s Bark
had slipped down the creek and turned for Boston.

Isaac rubbed the lump rising under his hat.

Then he heard the gentle voice of Reverend Shepard in his ear. “Let him go.”

“But the trial?”

“We know enough about him. It took me far too long to see his sin. My own ignorance is a sin I repent of, and my lack of watchfulness over him—over all of you—is a sin I shall mourn.”

Some men were cruel and some were kind, thought Isaac. And as there were few as cruel as Nathaniel Eaton, there were few as kind as Thomas Shepard.

Isaac resolved to know better such as Shepard. He also resolved that someday he would track down Eaton and find the truth about
Love’s Labours Won
. And if the book had not been destroyed, he would restore it to John Harvard’s library, for he had made John Harvard a deathbed promise. No man had ever been as kind to Isaac, and the kindness of John Harvard had to be known by future generations, and a man would best be known by his books.

Chapter Four

G
AME
D
AY
in Cambridge.

No one would ever mistake it for game day in South Bend or Ann Arbor, not for the quality of the football or the intensity of the fans. But Peter Fallon loved it. He loved to hear the band play “Harvardiana” on a crisp October afternoon, to meet old friends at tailgates, to sit in the stadium and pass a flask as the shadows lengthened and the air went from crisp to cold. And he loved bringing his son.

They were part of the crowd flowing down JFK Street, and Peter was saying, “Did you know that there was a wharf near here in the seventeenth century?”

“Cool,” said Jimmy Fallon.

“It was on a creek that bubbled up in the Yard, took a right in the Square and came around in a big semicircle. Eliot Street follows it exactly.”

“Cool.”

They were passing Hicks House, a little white Dutch Colonial that served as the Kirkland House library, one of the last relics of eighteenth-century Cambridge.

“Near here, the creek turned for the river,” Peter went on.

“Cool.”

“Imagine a sloop sailing down this street, instead of all these cars and people.” Peter pointed ahead, through the shallow brick canyon created by the Kennedy School on one side, Kirkland and Eliot Houses on the other.

“Yeah . . . Cool.”

“Is that all you can say? Cool . . . cool . . . cool?”

Jimmy shrugged. He was taller than his father, but he had the same black hair and dark brow, the same scowling first impression that faded as soon as he smiled. “I’m more interested in Harvard’s future than its past, Dad.”

Peter knew why. The kid’s head was still spinning. They’d started the day at an alumni seminar: “Who Gets Into Harvard?” Peter had wanted Jimmy to hear about his chances, which Peter thought were pretty good. Jimmy, however, had only heard about the competition, which was also pretty good.

So Peter started pep-talking. “Harvard has its pick of the smartest kids in America. You’re one of them. That means you have as good a chance as anybody. Your SATs are—”

“Harvard rejects people with sixteen hundreds all the time, Dad.”

“Your grades are all A’s.”

“They turn down four-point-ohs all the time.”

“Not from high school track stars.”

“They have four-point-oh stars in everything. And I go to Boston Latin. I’m also a white male from Boston, and no matter what they say, they have quotas—”

“Because eighty years ago, most students were white males from New England and New York. Pretty boring.”

“No more history, Dad.”

They kept talking across Memorial Drive and onto the Larz Anderson Bridge, a graceful span choked most of the time—not just on game days—with cars, cyclists, and pedestrians. The Charles River sparkled below, and up ahead two flags fluttered atop the stadium. One was crimson with a white
H,
the other green with a white
D.
Harvard vs. Dartmouth, fourth Saturday in October, as always.

“Listen, Jimmy, you’ve got the goods. If they don’t let you in, it’s their fault.”

“They get nineteen thousand applications. They admit eighteen hundred.”

“So at some point, it’s a coin toss. Just stop worrying and apply.” Peter clapped his son on the shoulder. “Now let’s go find the Wedge Woody.”

“The Wedge
what?
”

You couldn’t miss it: a 1934 Ford beach wagon floating in that sea of SUVs, minivans, and BMWs around Harvard Stadium.

In his student days, if Peter didn’t have an invitation to a tailgate, he’d just cruise. He could walk down a row of cars, past picnic tables and charcoal grills, and before game time, he’d have sampled steak sandwiches, lobster, shrimp as big as his fist, along with all the hot spiked drinks he could hold. And if he’d kept his ears open among the alums, he’d have picked up hot rumors from politics, business, and publishing, too.

Back then, the Wedge Woody had been presided over by Harriet Webster Wedge, who played her role like Bette Davis—the accent all broad
a
’s, the bourbon straight up, the Camels as unfiltered as the opinions.

And she was there now, standing by the old station wagon, puffing away, giving orders, acting as if she were still in charge, even though it was her son who was now master of the pregame revels.

That was Will Wedge, the guy in the crimson-colored pants, greeting, pouring, laughing out loud at the lamest jokes—a man for whom life was good, or who wanted it to seem that way. He had sandy blond hair graying at the temples and the same kind of long face and toothy smile his mother had, a physiognomy so familiar in New England that it might have been sculpted by the last glacier. He was also six-four and seemed to know the first lesson of good height: make them look up to you.

A mug of bourbon and hot cider appeared under Peter’s nose, in the hand of Ridley Royce, who didn’t even say hello. He just whispered, “The story of the Wedges . . . eleven generations from noble Isaac to a guy wearing pants the color of cranberry sauce.”

“Hello, Ridley.” Peter took the mug. “Meet my son.”

Ridley gave Jimmy the once-over. “Apple didn’t fall far from the tree. Can he have a beer?”

“No, thank you,” said Jimmy. “Against track team rules.”

“A Fallon turns down a beer? I take back what I said about the apple.”

Ridley’s great-grandfather had bred a few short genes to the Wedge strain, so Ridley didn’t resemble any of the Wedges around him. Bald had also been part of his legacy, but discreet little plugs of hair defied that bit of Wedge DNA. And after four generations, there really wasn’t much Wedge in him. But Ridley was still family. “Drink up, Peter,” he said. “You’re about to get what I call ‘the Full Wedge.’ Here comes Will.”

“What does he do these days?”

“Venture capitalist, former president of a bought-out bank, tireless Harvard fund-raiser. Nicknamed Williwaw at prep school because he reminded friends of a whirlwind . . . always spinning from one thing to the next.”

“And he really
does
look good in crimson pants,” said Peter. “As long as he wears a blue blazer to tone them down.”

Will was within earshot now, hand extended. “Mr. Fallon, I presume.”

Peter introduced his son, who was shoving his hands into his pockets and pulling them out and shoving them back, miming the nervous boredom that came upon most kids caught in the midst of grown-up greetings.

Will Wedge looked Jimmy over. “Do we have a legacy here?”

“It’s up to him,” said Peter.

“Can’t go wrong at Harvard,” said Wedge to the boy. “Now go get yourself some food, and say hello to some of my nieces around the grill.”

“And be polite,” said Peter.

“So”—Wedge turned to Peter—“what brings you to the Wedge Woody?”

And Ridley intervened. “He’s an old friend, Will.”

“Who also happens”—Wedge’s voice lost some of its good cheer—“to be one of the best-known antiquarians in Boston.”