A Company of Rogues, page 23
He knew better than to ask Francis and Peter if either of them had taken a wife or had thoughts of settling down ashore. Neither of them had interest in a life on land, and Ned knew, though he did not fully understand it, that neither of them wanted a woman either—not for a lifetime, or even for a night. The only steady companionship either of them wanted was each other’s.
Dermer’s men dined aboard the Treasurer that night, welcomed by Daniel Elfrith, who was also glad to see Ned. “Never had a ship’s carpenter as reliable since. Are you sure you’ll not come back to the sea, Perry?” the captain asked.
“Nay, he’s a wife and a tidy little plantation awaiting him up in the New Found Land,” Red Peter said.
“That barren place? ’Tis so far north, man—not fit to live in!” Elfrith protested. “If you’ll not come back to sea, come back to Virginia—or to Bermuda. Like as not I’ll head there next, for the masters here are making trouble for me. Little matter of my letter of marque no longer being valid. I managed to sell a handful of the slaves I took, but the rest will go to Bermuda.”
“Begging your pardon, Captain, but for all you say of the harshness of the New Found Land, you could do worse than to set your sights there—at least for this cargo,” George Whittington said. “Fishing and making fish is hard work, and the Africans might be well suited for it. ’Twould be worth seeing, at least, if the governors in Cupids Cove and Harbour Grace might buy some off you.”
“Nay, Whittington,” Captain Dermer said, “Captain Elfrith and I already spoke of this. I told him, I doubt there will ever be much market for African bond-servants in the New Found Land. Their breeding is ill-suited to the climate, and the fishery, though ’tis hard and back-breaking work for those who do it, hardly requires the sheer volume of labourers that tobacco and sugar do.”
“That may be, but surely we ought to think of—”
Dermer waved off Whittington with a gesture. “I daresay the odd English settler may have a private Negro servant or two in the New Found Land in time, but there’s no money to be made in importing them in large numbers.”
“And ’tis too far to go for a gamble,” Elfrith said. “I know I will have better luck in Bermuda. As for you fellows who want a passage home, there’s a ship called the Fair Isle in port here. You might speak to her captain. I hear he’s bound north for the New Found Land.”
The next morning, Ned said goodbye to Francis and Red Peter. “I’d say we’ll not meet again in this life, but I thought the same when I bid ye farewell in London two years ago, and here we are again.”
“Aye, the great thing of life on the sea is you never know where you may end up,” said Francis. “Someday we may even sail into your little cove in the New Found Land, and you and Nancy and your half-dozen children will have to give us supper at your table.”
“I’d like nothing better.” Ned laughed. It had lifted his spirits to see these old friends, he thought, as he stood on the dock watching the Treasurer lift anchor and sail away from Point Comfort bound for Bermuda.
Ned remembered how Elfrith had once brought a much-needed cargo of grain to sell in that colony, not knowing or caring that it contained a swarm of black rats that plagued the island for years afterwards. Daniel Elfrith knew it was a privateer’s business to capture and sell whatever cargo would make him a profit, and he wasted no worry on what might happen once that cargo was ashore. No doubt he thought of his human cargo in much the same way as his rat-infested grain.
Meanwhile, Captain Dermer was having better fortune with the Virginia merchants than Elfrith had. His patron’s credit was good enough that he was able to give the New Found Land men each a small purse of coins before they set sail for home aboard the Fair Isle. If seeing Francis and Peter had cheered Ned, having a pocketful of money did even more so.
Twenty-Eight The Innocent are Slaughtered
Musketto Cove, August 1619
An eagle rose, and in her seres did truss
A goose, all-white, and huge, a household one…
—Homer’s Odysseys, Book 15, 206–7
At the end of August, the weather turned chilly, recalling the fog and northerly breezes of June. Nancy wrapped a cloak around herself and a shawl around Lizzie before they left the little house in the morning.
Already, the fishing boats were out on the water. Nancy pointed out at them as she carried Lizzie across the beach. “Look, someday papa’s ship will come into the cove there. It might be today.”
“Papa?”
Would Lizzie even remember Ned when he came back? He had been gone three months, an eternity to a child whose entire life encompassed only fifteen months. “Down!” said Lizzie, and Nancy put her on the ground, to toddle along the beach.
The older children were running about outside the Guys’ house, despite the cold wind, the bigger boys waving sticks in the air. “Lizzie!” cried Alice, who had recently decided that she was Lizzie’s guardian and best friend. She came over, enveloped Lizzie in a hug, and then with some effort picked up the child and carried her to where they were playing.
Jonathan Guy ran towards them as well, but he was interested in Nancy, not in the baby. “Auntie Nan, do you know what papa said? When I am seven years old?”
Nancy squatted down to the boy’s level. “No, what did papa say?”
“When I am seven, I can be breeched, and we will have a celebration. I will wear breeches like papa and all the men do!”
“And I will too!” shouted Will Tipton.
“Not until you are seven! I will be breeched first, because I am oldest, and because my papa is the master!”
“Well, it will be six months yet—half a year—before you are seven, and then your papa and mama will decide what to do about breeching,” Nancy said. “But you know, when you are a big boy rather than a little one, you will have to work hard, just as the grown folks do.”
“I can work hard!” Jonathan insisted, and Will echoed, “Me too!”
Nancy remembered this ceremony of putting on breeches for the first time, that ritual of growing up, from long ago in Bristol when Kathryn’s little brother had gone through it—young John, now dead. How quickly time turned, she thought. The little boys at Musketto Cove ran about in the same homespun petticoats that Alice and Lizzie wore, but that would soon change.
Kathryn came out of the house, a basket over her arm. “Ooh, the wind is in off the water,” she said, coming down the steps to join Nancy. “It will rain before the day is over, I’ve no doubt. Boys, be careful with those sticks now, we’ll not have anyone hurt today.”
“Rain is not so bad. We’ve had such a hot, dry spell, it will be good for the gardens.”
“If only ’tis not cold enough for a frost.” Kathryn was on her way to the henhouse to feed the chickens, and Nancy fell into step beside her.
“Surely we’ll not have it that cold—not yet.” Nancy did not like to think of autumn coming; she wanted Ned safely home before the chilly weather closed in.
They were almost at the henhouse when Nancy realized that something was wrong. The sounds of the morning were the same as always—the chatter of the children at play, the crash of waves on the rocks, the cries of seagulls, the snorting of the pigs in their sty. But this close to the henhouse there should also be the frantic clucking and squawking of hens waking to a new day, ready to be let out into the yard. They were silent, even the cock, who had not crowed since Nancy had come across the beach to the Guys’ property.
She felt a sudden, sick pang of apprehension as Kathryn opened the door to the henhouse.
It smelled bad. Of course, it was a henhouse, and would smell of chickens and their dung. But it should not smell of the heavy, metallic tang of blood. Nor should it be so darkly, deeply silent.
Sixteen hens, and one proud cock. Some on their roosts, and some on the floor of the henhouse—every one of them dead. Not with their necks wrung, as one killed a chicken for the pot, but with their throats cut. A slaughter.
The two women stood frozen in the doorway, trying to take in the fantastical scene before them. Blood, feathers, and the still bodies of chickens that had been alive the evening before.
“God in heaven,” Kathryn said, her voice shaken. “What—who could have done this?”
Nobody here, Nancy knew at once, though she did not say it aloud. There was not a person in Musketto Cove who could or would do such a thing. “Could—might a wild animal have got in? A fox, perhaps?”
It was the sensible guess, though how a fox might get into a barred henhouse with a sturdy door, built to keep out just such predators, Nancy did not try to imagine. The bodies did not look torn apart, as an animal might do to its prey: when she knelt to look at the chickens on the ground, their necks looked as if they had been cut by a knife. All the same, she said, “Perhaps the door blew open, and a fox got in.”
“I heard something—late in the night,” Kathryn said. “Some clucking and squawking. I did think some creature was on the place, perhaps prowling around outside. But then they were quiet again, and I thought whatever had scared them was gone.”
Any thought that this was a natural disaster was dispelled when they turned back to the door. On the door of the henhouse—not on the outside, where they would have seen it first, but on the inside, to show that an intruder had been here—a piece of paper was stuck to a nail.
Kathryn took the paper, and Nancy followed her outside, away from the scene of carnage. Already Nancy’s mind was working, wondering what could be salvaged from this slaughter. Would chickens killed in such a manner be fit for the pot? But Kathryn had eyes only for the paper she held in her hands. After a moment she stopped walking.
“’Tis addressed to my husband,” she said. “Master Nicholas Guy.”
“Who would do such a thing, and then leave a letter? There was no strange boat in the cove last night, was there?”
“Remember the letter that came to Governor Hayman in the spring, and the thefts from Harbour Grace last autumn?” Kathryn said. “All done during the night, by someone who came unseen through the forest.” Her voice trembled.
“What does it say?”
Kathryn began to read aloud. “O Jerusalem! How often I would have gather’d you under my wings lyke a hen gathering her chicks but lo you would not! ”
“That is Scripture, is’t not?”
“I believe it is. Hens and chicks.” Kathryn drew a deep, shuddering breath, then went on. “Poor hens! But lyke to Jerusalem in our Lords day you folk of Musketto have hard Hartes, that will not yield to gentle…” She hesitated over the next word, shaping it with her mouth before she read on. “I think it says supplication—will not yield to gentle supplication. So I must take a Firmer Hand. Like Mother Hen will doe all she may to Protect her Chikins, so any Mother will Protect her childe, even the blue-eyed Girl Childe that looks not like the Others. Your good wife I know is a good Mother to all her Children, and knowes best what is her duty towards her Lorde and Master. I ask only what I have askd before, that I bee Free to carrie out my Trade, and that No-one shall Interfere. Leeve me bee—or you will loose more Chikins than these.”
“It sounds…in truth, it sounds like the ravings of a madman,” said Nancy.
“Does it?” Kathryn turned the paper over in her hands.
Nancy said nothing. She thought of the other message from the pirates, the one that also made mention of a fair-haired girl child. “This one is not signed by anyone styling himself a prince or a duke,” she said.
“No, it does not need to be. Look at the bottom. The same little sketch—like a crown. It was on the other letter too, and carved into the wall of the pigsty at Harbour Grace.”
“Stealing a pig—now that, I can understand,” Nancy said. “I could have understood someone stealing some of our chickens, even. But killing them like this? And leaving such a strange message?”
“Oh Nan. What if Nicholas had found it first? Would he have understood? Thomas came by night to do this deed, and left this letter for my husband—but the message is meant for me. He wanted to remind me that he still has the power to ruin me by revealing that he is Alice’s father—”
“Yes, I understood that bit.”
“If Nicholas had read this, surely he would know, surely he would suspect—”
Nancy took the paper from Kathryn’s hand and studied it, though the marks on the page meant little to her. Likely Thomas thought Kathryn would not have been able to read it either, for he could not have known of her lessons with Master Hayman. After a moment, Nancy folded the paper and handed it back.
“’Tis no matter to say, what if Nicholas had read it,” she told Kathryn, with more firmness than she felt. “He did not. By great good fortune, it fell into your hands first.”
“But what am I to do with it? He says that we should not interfere with his business, but we have interfered already, if the Pikes have truly broken ties with Thomas. What more does he want, except to ruin me?”
“You told me that he asked you—twice—to leave your husband, and come be his mistress. Do you think he might be mad enough to believe you would truly do such a thing?”
Kathryn put the paper in the pocket of her kirtle. “I thought him many things—handsome, once upon a time. Reckless, certes he was that. Dangerous, even. But I never thought him mad.” She did not look at Nancy, but down over the little slope of grass to where the children played, Alice’s golden head bright against the rest. “What if Nicholas had gone to the henhouse this morning? What if Nicholas had noticed how quiet it was, and gone to see what the matter was?”
Then Daisy came out of the house, and Nancy could see the effort with which Kathryn pulled herself together, arranged her face. “Daisy, ’tis terrible news, and all my fault, I am sure, for I was last to the henhouse last night.” Her eyes met Nancy’s for a second, and Nancy knew what Kathryn would say next. “I must not have latched the door properly. I believe it blew open in the night, and a fox must have gotten in. It is a terrible loss, Daisy. All our chickens are dead!”
By the time the little bodies had been collected, and what could be salvaged had been saved to eat, everyone had heard the story. Nancy and Kathryn took care of disposing of the bloody evidence themselves, so that no-one else need examine the scene and notice that it did not look like the work of an animal, nor that none of the bodies had been carried off for the fox’s dinner. Kathryn played her part as well as any player on a stage: she was shocked and horrified at the loss, but gave no hint of a human hand at work.
“Is’t not best your husband knows, at least?” Nancy asked her when they were alone. “And the governor, perhaps? If Willoughby is making threats against us, surely they need to know.”
“How can I tell them? What can I tell them, that will not lay bare my shame? Nicholas must never see the letter, for I cannot explain what is behind it.”
“Then what will you do?”
“What will I do? I will—with your help—have all these poor birds buried before Nicholas comes in for his dinner, while Daisy makes chicken broth. And then—not today, but next week, when I know Nicholas means to go down to Cupids Cove for night or two—I will go to see Thomas Willoughby.”
“You are mad! What good can come of that?”
Kathryn looked up from the letter. She had been staring at it all this time, and when she met Nancy’s eyes she looked strange, faraway. Like someone fairy-led, Nancy thought. “What good? None, perhaps. But you must see, Nan, there is no other way out of it. I cannot tell my husband the truth about this, nor can we ignore it. Either way, Nicholas will find out that I was unfaithful, and cast me aside.”
“And what will happen if you go to Willoughby? He will take advantage of you—or worse, he may hurt you. No good can come of it, Kat.”
Kathryn crumpled the letter in her fist; Nancy took that fist in her own hands.
“I must try, Nan. I must make him see reason. He does—he did—care for me, some little bit. I can use that, whatever fondness he feels for me.”
“No. That will never work with a man like him.” Nancy knew that much. If a man like Thomas Willoughby found a woman beautiful and desirable, that would not dispose him to be kind towards her. Desire would not make him gentle.
“Mama!” The inevitable cry came from the clutch of children near the doorstep of the house, and Kathryn stood up. “We’ll talk no more of this. My mind’s made up,” she said.
They did not talk more of it—not during the day, when they were busy about their work. But in the evening, Kathryn walked across the beach with Nancy as she took Lizzie home. “I hope you have changed your mind,” Nancy said.
“Not a bit. I have been thinking of it all day, and I see no other way about it. I will tell everyone I am going berry-picking, or some such thing. I know the path to Carbonear. It leads all the way around the harbour to the Pikes’ plantation, and that is a good half-day’s journey, but I need not go so far. Willoughby’s place is at the mouth of the river, so Sheila Pike told me. I can get there in two hours.”
“You have planned your excuse and the path you will take, but you do not know what you will do when you get there.”
“I told you—plead with him. Make him see sense.”
“It will not work.”
“Perhaps not!” Kathryn’s voice was so sharp it sounded as if she were about to cry. She walked ahead of Nancy, so quickly that she turned her ankle on one of the round beach stones, and then she did cry out. When she looked back at Nancy there were tears in her eyes. “Perhaps it will do no good, but I must try! What else can I do?””
“Is your ankle hurt?”
“No, ’tis nothing.” She stumbled on across the beach, limping a little. Nancy hiked Lizzie further up on her hip and hurried to catch up with Kathryn.
“Very well. I know I cannot change your mind, once you have made it up. But there is one thing I do insist upon—you’ll not go alone.”
