enough to give him a man’s weapon, and pride overcame his fear.
Just before nightfall, they reached the north bank of a tidal river that snaked from the bay into the pine-covered hills. They were at the shoulder of the Cape, in the sachemdom of the Scussets. And here the boy saw his first Indians.
They came on the flood tide, driving their canoe upstream through the last red glow of dusk. The canoe was laden with pelts, but the Indians did not labor at the paddles. They steered with short, powerful strokes and let the current sweep them toward the campfires glimmering in the valley.
This world belonged to them, thought the boy. They rode like spirits on the water. One wore a loose deerskin shirt, the other nothing more than a coating of grease, as though neither felt the cold that made Christopher’s knuckles ache. And the colors of the canoe and the deerskin and their copper adornments, indeed the color of their very flesh, seemed to be drawn from the reds and deepening browns of the dusk around them.
This world belonged to them, he thought again. And they belonged to it.
At the bend of the river the Indians were met by others, who helped them lift the canoe out of the water and carry it up the valley.
“What are they doin’, Pa?”
“Makin’ a portage, it looks like.”
“Where are they goin’?”
“With all them pelts, they must be traders. May be an easy way to get that canoe into the water on the other side.”
Not far beyond the hills were the headwaters of another tidal river that flowed southwest. But Jack’s thoughts were on another place.
He pointed beyond the mouth of the river, to the beach that ran east into the gathering night. “Once it’s dark, we’ll take to the strand. And keep to it we will, so’s not to miss the place or stumble into any villages. In a day and a half, we’ll be there.”
“Will the Indians let us stay where the whales beach?”
Jack gave out with a short laugh. “I seen what a piss-poor job they done flensin’ a blackfish. When I show ’em how to do it proper, they’ll make me lord bloody mayor.”
v.
February 15, 1621 . Seas calm, air cold, damp mist freezes on rigging and decks. This may prove the worst month yet. Three more have died, another half dozen have taken to beds. Even William Bradford is laid low, feverish and unmindful of anything but his own misery.
And Simeon Bigelow now brings distressing news. The day after his wife’s burial, Jack Hilyard and his lad went hunting, promising return when they had a full sack of ducks. After four days, Simeon grew worried and went to Jack’s house, where he found missing Jack’s hand tools and other truck which would not have been taken hunting. Simeon reckons that Jack and his son are run off and asks me to fetch them back.
Had Hilyard jumped ship, I would have punished him myself. But Simeon is made of kinder stuff. He says only a man who has lost a wife can know the pain of a man who loses one, and this colony cannot lose strong males like the Hilyards.
These words do not move me, but Simeon believes Jack has gone to a place where whales strand. If I am to whale here next year, I must needs know where the beasts are to be found, ’specially stranders, which are good as gold sovereigns on the beach. So I send word ashore that I go on another seal hunt. In truth, ’twill be a manhunt.
vi.
It had been several days since Autumnsquam went into the woods, to a place of tall trees near a creek. He had chosen a pine with a wide girth and chopped it off as close to the ground as he could. He had stripped it of bark, which he could use as covering for his wetu , pushed the log into the creek, and floated it to the beach where he had fought the white men. There he had spread dry pine boughs and wood chips across the top of it and started his fire. Ever since, the fire had been smoldering into the log, slowly hollowing out the center, while he shaped the outside with a stone ax.
He was sharpening one of the
Just before nightfall, they reached the north bank of a tidal river that snaked from the bay into the pine-covered hills. They were at the shoulder of the Cape, in the sachemdom of the Scussets. And here the boy saw his first Indians.
They came on the flood tide, driving their canoe upstream through the last red glow of dusk. The canoe was laden with pelts, but the Indians did not labor at the paddles. They steered with short, powerful strokes and let the current sweep them toward the campfires glimmering in the valley.
This world belonged to them, thought the boy. They rode like spirits on the water. One wore a loose deerskin shirt, the other nothing more than a coating of grease, as though neither felt the cold that made Christopher’s knuckles ache. And the colors of the canoe and the deerskin and their copper adornments, indeed the color of their very flesh, seemed to be drawn from the reds and deepening browns of the dusk around them.
This world belonged to them, he thought again. And they belonged to it.
At the bend of the river the Indians were met by others, who helped them lift the canoe out of the water and carry it up the valley.
“What are they doin’, Pa?”
“Makin’ a portage, it looks like.”
“Where are they goin’?”
“With all them pelts, they must be traders. May be an easy way to get that canoe into the water on the other side.”
Not far beyond the hills were the headwaters of another tidal river that flowed southwest. But Jack’s thoughts were on another place.
He pointed beyond the mouth of the river, to the beach that ran east into the gathering night. “Once it’s dark, we’ll take to the strand. And keep to it we will, so’s not to miss the place or stumble into any villages. In a day and a half, we’ll be there.”
“Will the Indians let us stay where the whales beach?”
Jack gave out with a short laugh. “I seen what a piss-poor job they done flensin’ a blackfish. When I show ’em how to do it proper, they’ll make me lord bloody mayor.”
v.
February 15, 1621 . Seas calm, air cold, damp mist freezes on rigging and decks. This may prove the worst month yet. Three more have died, another half dozen have taken to beds. Even William Bradford is laid low, feverish and unmindful of anything but his own misery.
And Simeon Bigelow now brings distressing news. The day after his wife’s burial, Jack Hilyard and his lad went hunting, promising return when they had a full sack of ducks. After four days, Simeon grew worried and went to Jack’s house, where he found missing Jack’s hand tools and other truck which would not have been taken hunting. Simeon reckons that Jack and his son are run off and asks me to fetch them back.
Had Hilyard jumped ship, I would have punished him myself. But Simeon is made of kinder stuff. He says only a man who has lost a wife can know the pain of a man who loses one, and this colony cannot lose strong males like the Hilyards.
These words do not move me, but Simeon believes Jack has gone to a place where whales strand. If I am to whale here next year, I must needs know where the beasts are to be found, ’specially stranders, which are good as gold sovereigns on the beach. So I send word ashore that I go on another seal hunt. In truth, ’twill be a manhunt.
vi.
It had been several days since Autumnsquam went into the woods, to a place of tall trees near a creek. He had chosen a pine with a wide girth and chopped it off as close to the ground as he could. He had stripped it of bark, which he could use as covering for his wetu , pushed the log into the creek, and floated it to the beach where he had fought the white men. There he had spread dry pine boughs and wood chips across the top of it and started his fire. Ever since, the fire had been smoldering into the log, slowly hollowing out the center, while he shaped the outside with a stone ax.
He was sharpening one of the
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