Eight were hanged in all, Johnny and seven from a second ship that sailed north with Black Bellamy.
One of the few mercies of Serenity’s imprisonment was that she did not see the hanging, though she was able to hear it in the noise of the crowd that lined the route. When their roar loudened, she knew the prisoners had reached the gallows. When it ceased, she knew that the end was near. She imagined the nooses being fitted and the Reverend Mr. Mather reading a final psalm. Then came the bloodcurdling cry that was part cheer, part shriek at the sight of eight men sent to God.
She buried her face in her hands and cried bitterly. She tried not to imagine the twitching legs, the blackening faces, the grotesque erections that rose as the men died. She tried to think only of that day in the dunes when they had first made love.
There would be no more love for Serenity. She had been given five years’ hard labor. When her child was weaned, he would be taken from her, and she would be sent to a workhouse to serve out her sentence. Keweenut was deemed innocent. Despite her reputation as a witch, Goody Daggett was given the mercy of the court.
The women’s jail was a rat-infested old house close by the waterfront. There were bars on the windows, but in deference to the softer sex, there was clean straw on the floors and some privacy in the small rooms.
Serenity had been given the room closest to the keeper’s fireplace, so that her baby would get a bit of warmth. Prostitutes and those taken in gaming were farthest away. Women who failed to keep holy the Sabbath or who neglected their husbands occupied the middle rooms. And those who had somehow lost grip on sanity, who tore at their hair or tossed horse dung at passersby, were put all in a single room and left to thrash.
But Solemnity Hilyard would not shun his sister, and he visited her on the night that Johnny was hanged.
“Oh, Lem, this life can be misery.” Serenity threw her arms around her brother’s neck and began to cry
He did not recoil at the touch of her dirty clothes. He was two years older, decades beyond her in demeanor. His jaw and forehead seemed to have been smoothed by a sculptor to remove any traces of passion. His brown frock, matching waistcoat, and breeches were the image of probity for the putative minister.
He stroked her snarled hair. “Our Lord knew misery in this life, Rennie. He is our example.”
“No sermons, Lem. I’ve the Reverend Mr. Mather for that.”
His eyes filled with warmth, as though he remembered that this was his sister, not some parishioner come for counsel. “No sermons, then. You were never one for sermons.”
“How’s mother?”
He shook his head. “This comes hard to her.”
“No harder than to me.” With the back of one of her fingerless gloves, she wiped her nose.
“Father is wounded as well. And your brother prays for you.”
“No prayers.” She pushed away. “Except for little Ned.”
The baby, now nine months old, slept on the pallet in the corner. Solemnity sat beside him.
“Watch for bedbugs,” his sister warned.
He touched the baby’s black hair. “The Lord makes them so beautiful.”
“Even a pirate’s child?”
“He loves ’em all.”
“Father doesn’t. He’ll not take little Ned in. I must give him to the colony to care for.” She drew a tattered shawl tight around her shoulders. “What’ll he become then?”
“Might you also ask that if he is raised by Pa.”
“Pa, he’s blood, no matter how sour.” She sat next to him. “Besides, Pa did good enough by you.”
He took her hands in his. “Now that you’ve a child of your own, you may know how unquestioning is a parent’s love, no matter what the child may do or the parent may say.”
She looked down at her filthy fingernails and tried not to cry. She was sorry for nothing, but she would have given anything to be back on the plains of Nauset.
“I will persuade Father to care for the child, if Mother has not already,” said Solemnity.
She looked into his eyes. “Thank you, Lem.”
“If I can’t persuade him, I’ll care for the child myself.”
“I love you, Lem, no matter how different we are.”
“We may be more similar than you think, sister.” He drew her once more to his arms. The lone candle cast a huge dancing shadow on the wall.
“Not in faith,” she whispered.
“In our passions… in our questions.”
She pushed back from him and looked into his eyes. “What questions have you?”
He laughed, as if he had revealed too much of himself to her. “What were you doing in Truro the night you were arrested?”
And in the guttering light, she told the only man she trusted of the journey to Cornhill and of the book she had found buried there. She told him more than she had told the court, far more than he asked.
viii.
The journey down from Barnstable was a long one for an old man, but Brewster Bigelow had dreamed of making it many times, and as Ezekiel had told him, there would be no better opportunity than the present.
“I can serve you tea,” said Jeremiah Hilyard, inviting Brewster and his son to sit in his great room, which was merely the largest room in a very small house.
“Tea will do.” Brewster Bigelow daubed a handkerchief at his running nose and took the Bradford chair by the fire. He removed his hat, but he left his cloak around his shoulders. His father had many times described the debates among the Saints who wished to sail to Virginia and those who thought the Guianas would be the place for settlement. His father said that those who went to warmer climes lacked the industriousness to build godly colonies. In this Brewster disagreed, but in most things, the child had become the man.
He had inherited the faith, the faith in the faith as an instrument of betterment for those around him, the commitment to colonial service, and the consuming desire to own land. And there was one parcel he had wished to own since the day that his father sold it.
“Where is your wife, Mr. Hilyard?” asked Ezekiel.
“Taken to her bed.”
“Fever?” Brewster Bigelow pressed his handkerchief to his nose and began looking for the door. An old man could not be too careful.
“Sadness.”
“We saw the boy out by the marsh, clutching the skirts of a goodwife.”
“Goody Daggett.” Jeremiah’s voice sounded softer, older.
“You trust her?” asked Ezekiel.
“She proves her charity, even if she is a witch. She’ll go home when my wife can care for him.”
Ezekiel, who was thirty years old, showed all the patience of an older man in his dealings. “We are heartfelt sorry for what you have suffered, Mr. Hilyard. Most indeed.”
Brewster, who was seventy-six, had the impatience of a man who sensed that his time was short. “The child is a blot upon your family shield.”
“He’s my grandson, like it or no.”
“True enough. True enough.” Brewster coughed several times. “If you have honey, I’ll take it in my tea.”
Jeremiah put three spoons of tea into the pot, then poured steaming water from the kettle.
Ezekiel drew closer, squinting slightly as the steam rose around his face. “Your grandson is God’s child before all else. But in a family such as this, with aspirations such as yours for Solemnity, the child may prove an embarrassment.”
“Indeed.” Brewster hacked several times more. Then he picked up the poker and pushed at the fire to raise more flame. “A man whose sister has fornicated with a pirate and brought his bastard—”
Jeremiah Hilyard slammed the pot on the table. “I’ve suffered enough on this. And my wife even more. We need no more visitin’
friends
like you two.”
“You do, if we bring advice.” Brewster raised something to his mouth and spat it into the fireplace.
“You’ve brought nothin’ ever before. I’d not even see you were you not a Harvard overseer.”
“A task my father takes most seriously,” said Ezekiel. “After all, Harvard was founded to advance the ministry and increase our understandin’ of Holy Writ. Its honor must be jealously guarded.”
At the mention of Harvard, shining star in the firmament of America’s ministry, Jeremiah calmed his anger and poured the tea. “What is your advice?”
“Solemnity has a bright future,” said Ezekiel. “Perhaps at Harvard, perhaps in the local ministry. But his family connections will stand against him, now that you’ve taken Black Bellamy’s bastard into your house.”
Brewster rose from his chair. “You will need to go far to make amends in the eyes of the world. But if you do, you may guarantee Solemnity’s future.”
“See that no future comes to the bastard child,” said Ezekiel. “Allow Serenity no inheritance to pass on.”
Jeremiah Hilyard let a rare smile cross his face. “You want me to sell Jack’s Island.”
Brewster waved his hand as though the remark were an insult. “Your girl must have no inheritance. Only through hard work and honesty can her child atone for his father’s sin and prove that he is worthy of the community.”
Jeremiah’s smile faded. “You do not speak in jest?”
Ezekiel leaped in to close the breach his father was opening. “Sell the land as assurance to the people of Cape Cod, to the people at Harvard—”
—“whose ear we have”—
—“that you believe firmly in the education of Solemnity Hilyard. Give
him
the money. Let it not fall into hands that were fathered by evil.”
“Then you want me to sell it… to you?”
“We have not only Harvard’s ear, but the church’s as well.” Brewster Bigelow began to cough, a face-reddening, eye-watering attack of catarrh that almost drowned out the words that mattered most, as though they mattered not at all to Brewster. “A word from us, and Solemnity will be called to the First Parish of Harwich.”
“Harwich?” whispered Jeremiah. “A ministerial call to Cape Cod?”
The coughing ceased instantly. “Aye. Harwich.”
And Jeremiah agreed, for his piety was great, as was his dream for his son. And his spirit was broken. The seventy acres of upland and fifty of marsh were sold for the princely sum of one hundred pounds. The buyers were the family who first had owned it, the Bigelows of Barnstable. And within a week of assuming the deed, they ordered Keweenut and the other Indians who lived there to leave.
ix.
Serenity spent the next five years living in the barn of a man named Gideon Glint, who oversaw seven women, renting them out to the rich merchants of Boston as scullery maids. Her brother visited from time to time. By horseback, the journey from Cambridge to Roxbury took less than two hours. And he wrote to her regularly, though his letters often brought bad news.
November 30, 1717
Dear Sister,
Hope you are well. I must tell you that Father has sold Jack’s Island to the Bigelows. It embarrasses me to say that he intends to donate the money to my education and the upkeep of the Eastham parish. I begged him to do otherwise, but he was adamant. I am sorry for you and for little Ned. I will try, in some way, to see that some of this comes to you.
Serenity burned the letter, scorned her father, and cursed the Bigelows. Lem she forgave.
February 9, 1718
Dear Sister,
With overwhelming sadness, I report the death of our mother. Shortly after you left, she took to her bed and never rose again.
This leaves Goody Daggett as the only woman in little Ned’s life. She stays now in Eastham to be with him. She is surely no witch but an angel of mercy.
As for mother, Father says she died of a broken heart. I urge you not to believe this or to blame yourself. I think she died of consumption. We shall miss her, but the Lord works in strange ways.
Serenity blamed herself for nothing and thanked God for Goody Daggett. Her father she blamed for his unbending belief that every storm was a sign from God and every sin received quick retribution. Was God punishing Serenity by Arbella’s death? Or Jeremiah? Or was it simply Arbella’s time to die?
October 10, 1718
Dear Sister,
Good news. I have been called to the parish of Harwich, to assist the Reverend Mr. Stone in his pastorate. This is a fine position for someone only recently ordained. I am told that Ezekiel Bigelow was most vocal in my favor. The townsfolk have deeded me ten acres of woodland and a small house, plus a tax on all drift whales. I admit to you, though to no others, that my ambition reaches somewhat higher than this. Before I finish, I will preach in Boston, perhaps in London. But this is a fine situation for the nonce.
I pray that I may serve them well and that I may now be a stronger influence on little Ned.
She prayed for his happiness, and she prayed for her boy. Lem would realize his ambitions. Of that she had no doubt. But would her boy ever come to know her? How could he when he visited her only on the rare occasions when Solemnity could come to Boston?
April 9, 1720
Dear Sister,
I once told you that we were more alike than you thought, in our questions and our passions. And just as your passion undid you, mine has undone me.
I will be blunt. There was in the parish a young woman named Samantha Kittredge, formerly of Yarmouth. She is the wife of Captain Hezekiah K., who works the coastal trade ’twixt Boston and New York and is away for many weeks at a time.
In her loneliness, she came to me for Bible study. I was smitten, as, it seemed, was she. One night, while endeavoring to study Ecclesiastes, we came to study each other.
I would have been the wiser to have taken her to some bower of bliss in the woods. But—here I speak frank—her hair was the golden color of marsh grass in September, and her lips, as they formed the holy words, were a communion I could not resist.
The Reverend Mr. Stone discovered us in flagrante delicto. Samantha now wears a scarlet letter upon her breast and has moved to Truro. Her husband will not have her, and she is too mortified to return to Yarmouth. I was forced to beg public forgiveness and step down. I am undone and drifting. Father is devastated.