The Wolves of Andover (23 page)

Mary followed quickly into the bedroom and, with only the briefest of examinations, whispered for Martha to begin feeding Patience the cohosh. They dosed Patience every hour for three hours and Mary was soon satisfied that the roof of the womb was finally opening sufficiently for the head. With the birth pains coming every few minutes, Patience shrieked and cried, and Martha knew that she herself would be coming undone without the soothing presence of her sister. She watched Mary’s assured movements, admiring her calm, but Patience’s face had taken on the color of old ivory, with black bands underlying her swollen lower lids, and when Martha caught Mary’s eye, she saw the press of wary concern on her sister’s face.

Mary took up the slippery elm and applied it with gentle fingers into the birth channel, all the while encouraging Patience with how fine her son would be, how proud would be his father. Martha crawled onto the bed behind Patience, raising her up into a sitting position while Patience thrashed her head from side to side with increasing violence screaming, “No more, no more, no more…”

Mary said quietly, “Martha, we need to dose her again.”

Patience went suddenly limp and still, a look of renewed panic growing on her face. Through cracked lips, she croaked, “What’s that you say? What’s that?” She looked first at Mary and then up at Martha bending over her shoulder, and whispered with rising hysteria, “You’re poisoning me. You’re killing me! Murder! Murder!” Her eyes rolled towards the door and she pleaded, “Help me, they’re poisoning me!”

Martha followed Patience’s gaze and she saw Roger standing at the door. He said, “Christ on the cross, but you can hear her out
to the barn.” He paused, regarding the women unsteadily, and offered, “She needs to be bled and heartily.”

Patience reached out to him with grasping fingers and shrilled, “Yes, let him take it. Open my veins and take this pain from my head.”

“Husband,” Mary said quietly, “you are tired. Rest more and let us do our work.”

He paused for a moment, assessing the pregnant woman on the bed, observing her pallor, her swollen limbs. He asked Martha, “How long has she labored?”

“Since yesterday morning late.” Martha wiped at her cousin’s face with a cool cloth, clenching her teeth. Roger’s answer to everything—every bruise, every pustule, every boil—was to aggressively bleed the patient until the sufferer was as white as lambs’ wool.

“She is phlegmatic…,” he began.

Martha clapped her hands over her cousin’s ears and snapped, “She is not phlegmatic, she is exhausted.”

He shrugged, but before walking away, he said to Mary, “I have brought castor oil, if it comes to that.”

Patience covered her face, sobbing into her hands, saying she would surely die, and Martha held her in a rocking embrace. Castor oil was tricky and vile; it was certain to bring on powerful labor, but too much of a surgeon’s distillation, the castor beans having been soaked in the oil for months, and the laboring woman would indeed be poisoned. Mary put her ear to Patience’s belly, listening for the sounds of life within, and when she raised her head, she said urgently to Martha, “Help me get her up.”

It took the two of them to lift Patience out of bed and they
eased her down squatting onto the floor, both of them holding her arms, pleading, exhorting, bullying Patience to push and push and push again. After another few hours, Patience began a shuddering fever, her body lathered in sweat. When Patience began to rave incoherently, she was eased back onto the bed with pillows propped under her head. Beckoning for Martha to follow, Mary walked into the common room. They found the men eating a cold midday dinner of day-old porridge and meat, their faces strained from the sounds of a woman’s agony. The children sat on a bench, their hands interlocked in terrified silence.

Mary beckoned to Roger and, when he stood in front her, whispered, “She has no more strength left to labor. If the babe is not pushed out of her womb very soon, they both will die.”

He walked to his saddlebag and sorted through some bottles until he pulled out a small brown vial. Lifting the stopper out, he carefully poured a tiny measure of the syrupy oil into a cup of ale. Pausing a moment, he added a drop more. Swirling the mixture in the cup, he said, “She must drink it all at once.”

“She’ll not do it willingly,” Martha warned, wondering how they would pry open her cousin’s jaws to swallow the oily drink.

Carrying the cup, Roger followed them back to the bedroom where Patience lay panting, her hands gripping at the torn sheets, her eyes fixed on the ceiling. Advising the two women to hold Patience down, he leaned over the bed, saying, “You must swallow this down, Goodwife Taylor. It will help you in your labors.” He said it pleasantly, matter-of-factly, but when she began to shake her head wildly in refusal, clamping her lips more tightly together, Roger reached out, pinching his fingers over her nose, and waited. She soon gasped for air and he poured the liquid over her tongue,
quickly palming his hand over her mouth, forcing her to swallow or be drowned.

Before he left to resume his dinner, he gently stroked Patience’s hair, cooing to her that all would be well, that the babe would now soon come. Patience smiled up at him and Martha marveled that for all of Roger’s weaknesses, his passion for drink, his carelessness with his wife, he could at times show kindness. She admonished herself to have more charity where her brother-in-law’s shortcomings were concerned.

The action of the oil worked quickly and within a few hours, Patience, howling and bucking, had been delivered of a boy, his forceful passage soaked in a spill of blood and water running in rivulets over the mattress onto the floor. While Mary worked to clean up the afterbirth, washing Patience with practiced hands while she slept, Martha swaddled the infant and held him close to her breast. He was the most perfect infant Martha had ever seen, each finger, every toe creased and rounded in rosy flesh, the nails crescented and silvery. His head was gently domed, neither flattened nor marred, despite the many long hours of the labor. She examined the infant skin, looking like cream and marigolds, stroking the cheeks, full and dimpled, the lashes still dark and segmented with the fluid from his mother’s womb, the lashes that would never crimp or dampen with crying, the curved and protruding lips that would never part with laughing, for he had been born without a breath to waken him, and with never a breath he would be lowered into the ground.

From the Private Journal of John Dixwell

Catalogue XXIII

New Haven, Connecticut, Anno 1673, 28th day of July

In primis:
the following code, dated 19 July, was received this morning by courier from my agent in Boston and is hereby re-created from the original:

3012272622271022253016272218

312135211522181030161433211113101121272334

3121192710181228131024192310112110131614342313

27222319271116111410242113232111

121832161322101211181027223035103119111813

The cipher translates as follows:

Parker expired. Followed pigeons north 4 days but no sightings. Returning Boston. Advise and replenish funds.

Faciendum
: a courier should be sent to the constable in Boston with funds for the Boston agent in the amount of fifty shillings, to include remuneration for Mrs. Parker’s burial, along with directives to friends in Woburn and Haverhill to observe and report, taking no tumultuous action against Brudloe and Cornwall,
pro tempore
. It may be our English pigeons have misled us about their going north up the coastal roads.

However, the courier from Boston has informed me that, as there is plague in Springfield, the post road towards Boston is now barred, as well as ships coming into Boston Harbor, to keep contagion and death from entering the city. My agent must make his way home from Boston as best he can, with no word soon from me. I fear the foul wind of sickness may have already settled in New Haven, as my wife has been downed with a troubling fever. I have bled her three times, but the fever rises with the hours.

Further to this difficulty there are Indian raids to the west. Seven people have been murdered, their bodies hacked into suet, at a settlement in Danbury thirty miles from here and we are left for only God to defend us, as our stores of powder have been neglected, our garrison only basely built.

It may be weeks before we can alert our Massachusetts friends who have for so many years lived in our care and under our watchful eye. It is for me only a little thing, sitting and watching and cawing like an alarming parrot, repeating and passing on those communications uttered by careless and odious Royalists—some of whom have meant
to do harm, others who’ve merely loved the sounds of their own voices—when those I seek to warn have sacrificed so much for the sake of common good: they who have given up land, family, and the most modest of pleasures to keep on living; they who are now only a few and who have, from the first instant of the Struggle, done what others were not willing to do. And though I may count myself a part of that struggle, it is doubtless not so great a sacrifice having affixed my name, one name out of many, to a king’s death writ, when others have taken up the mask, the rope, and the ax.

If any in our care are captured and brought back to England as traitors alive, here is what awaits them upon judgment from the king, this purveyor of ancient justices and charitable acts: they will be taken from their place of imprisonment, bound and dragged on hurdles, to the place of execution at Tyburn or Charing Cross. There they will be hanged by a short rope for only a little while, just shy of death. Then will they be cut down and dragged again to a long table where the executioners will saw off their privy parts and throw them to dogs to be eaten. A long cut will be made in the bellies of the newly hanged; the entrails spooled out slowly upon a rolling pin.
This in full sight of the sufferer
who screams in agony to a crowd of leering subjects fed by oranges and sweetmeats provided by the king’s men. Each organ in turn will be pulled out and burned and, if the executioner is practiced and skilled, the dying man will not go to his end until he has smelled the charring of his own tender flesh.

I have lost close to a dozen confederates in just such a manner, myself escaping the noose of betrayal and capture solely by God’s Grace and the advantage, at times, of only an hour’s head start.

Those in our care have damned themselves to their native country, and have given up their own unfettered liberties for the right to go on breathing; a few even now hide in cellars and attics as though they were thieves. But a new country, and a new people, baking in the slow fire of brutish energy and stirred with the infant zealotry of practical idealism and independence, have claimed them.

In these late days, I am often reminded of the lament of Dante in his sublime
Paradiso,
who knew full well the torment of the exiled:
Tu lascerai ogne cosa diletta più caramente; e questo è quello strale che l’arco de lo essilio pria saetta
.

You shall leave everything you love most; this is the arrow that the bow of exile shoots first.

M
ARTHA SAT ON
the threshold, fanning her face with a dampened apron. The heat had become burdensome even at that early hour, but there was an eastward breeze which would last until midmorning, and she watched the men moving through the fields, testing the grain heads with their fingers and teeth, preparing for the summer harvest. She had come outside to escape the Reverend Hastings, who had been with Patience, still confined to her bed weeks after the burial of her infant, praying for hours. His visit had started gently enough with a passage from Romans: “If God is for us, who can be against us?” But then he moved on to the book of James and the sick, who should “call upon the elders of the church night and day until evil is cast out.” And finally, he raked her over the coals of Deuteronomy, wherein “sinful, unrepentant men, women, and children perish and are cast into the sulfurous pit.”

Before the reverend had barely climbed off his cart for the visit, he had taken Daniel solemnly aside and mouthed a few words into his ear, no doubt, Martha thought, encouraging
Daniel to begin the plowing of his wife as soon as was seemly, giving her another babe to forget the one only recently lost. As John passed Martha on his way to the fields, he had murmured, “By God, I know lowland Presbyterians more cheerful than that one there.”

Daniel had returned to them a week after the delivery and truly mourned for his dead son. But his concern now was for his wife, who lay in bed, refusing most times to eat or drink, ignoring the demands of her two living children. At night Will and Joanna kept close to Martha in bed, despite the suffocating heat, Will twirling strands of her hair around and around his fingers into ever-tightening coils.