John Goodman
Pocasset Wampanoag Land (Present-Day Rhode Island)
John Goodman’s black leather boots crunched in the January snow as he rounded the edge of Punkatest Pond. He was not exactly thrilled to have to make this journey in the cold, but at the very least, the Governor had allowed him to spend Christmas at home with his family. Still, that was not as much of a blessing–John, like all Puritans, saw Christmas for what it really was: a pagan invention that bastardized Christ’s birth. Before the King imposed this tyranny that was the Dominion, the men and women of New England spent Christmas day as if it was any other. Now, though, the new guard of English invaders turned the holiday a public affair, as the Europeans did. Men staggered drunkenly through the streets, women danced whorishly. All the while, the good Puritans of New England could do nothing but watch.
It pained John Goodman to think about, to feel so powerless in it all. His family and his neighbors had all crossed the Atlantic to be free from the Crown and its popish ways in the first place. For fifty years, they enjoyed that sweet freedom. They formed their own government in the way God would want, run by a council of Puritan men. They minted their own coins, traded as if they were their own nation. Of course, they had faced opposition, from Gorges, from the Masons. But God had thwarted their foul machinations each time, granting his chosen people this respite for all these decades.
It was no surprise to John that it had taken this long for England to bring them to heel. He believed, like his brethren, that they were chosen by God to receive His salvation. They were the Holy Elect, predestined at the Earth’s creation to be the only ones to be saved. Everyone else was a reprobate, destined to receive their judgment in eternal damnation. God, being all-knowing and all-powerful as he was, determined the events and fates of every soul on this earth before he even gave them life. Some would be welcomed into the eternal garden of heaven. Some would be damned even before they were born, and nothing they could do could save them from their lives of sin.
Still, despite being a pious man, he still carried his doubts. It was these lands and the people who lived in them that first roused them in his mind. Many of his colleagues believed that all the Indians were reprobates, and could never have been elected by God to ascend. Yet so many of them had seen the Lord’s light and love since the pilgrims’ first arrival, so many had converted and pledged their lives to His good works. There was something troubling further–those good works meant nothing in the grand design. Everything was predestined, predetermined. No act you could do on Earth would change your fate once you died. The only reason John and the other Puritans did those good works in the first place, then, was to feel assured in their own election. Through those works one could feel God, converting themselves from a dead life of sin to one of holy redemption and humility. Still, that begged the question: why do any good, if it did nothing else? Why read the Bible, go to church, help your neighbor, if it did not change your fate? What was the point? To help you believe? To convince you that yes, indeed, God had chosen you to join him in His kingdom?
The man he was to meet today, Isaac Alderman, was a perfect example of this strange contradiction. He was one of many praying Indians, the term used for those that had come to join God’s flock, forsaking their former ways and embracing Christianity. Isaac himself went so far as to become ordained, and preached to other Indians in the town of Dartmouth nearby. He had not only seen the light of God, but spent his days trying to shine it on the other men and women of his tribe. And yet so many of the Puritan oligarchy believed he was destined for eternal damnation, simply because he was born a man of the Wampanoag. John, however, was not convinced.
John finally reached the front door of the small lakeside house that Isaac lived in. He knocked on the door, and Isaac’s son, of the same name, opened it.
“Morning, young Isaac,” John said with a smile. “Is your father around?”
“I’ll fetch him,” the young man said. “Come on inside.”
John stamped the snow off his boots, then entered. He had visited a few times over the years, but never as much as he’d liked to. It was a small, humble home, fitting for an Indian man of Puritan ways. For his help in tracking and killing King Philip and thus ending the war, he had been given a parcel of a hundred acres. Not soon after he was awarded it, though, he sold it. That was just the kind of man Alderman was—he was born to a simple life, and that was the way he liked it.
John stood in the living room as the junior Isaac went out back to find his father. His eyes drifted to the mantle atop the fireplace. There were a few books, including the Bible, though not enough to call it a bookshelf. It was not the books that caught his eye, though, but rather what was serving as a book-end. It was a large glass jar filled with vinegar, and in it, a black and mangled hand. The hand once belonged to King Philip, the greatest Sachem in these lands had ever seen. He was the man also known as Metacomet, who had almost formed a pan-tribal union and drove the English and French from these lands for good. He had injured his hand prior to his death after a pistol exploded in his grip, which explained its deformities. After his death, that hand and his head were given to Alderman as gifts, while the rest were split up and hung as decorations and warnings to any other Indians who would dare follow in Philip’s footsteps. John didn’t see the head anywhere, which was probably a good thing. The sight of it alone always made him want to puke.
“Still jealous?” He heard from behind. He turned to see his old friend standing there, a smile spread across his wrinkled face.
“Ha,” he replied sarcastically. “Still the humorist, after all these years. I’m surprised the labor of raising a son hasn’t taken it from you.”
“Are you kidding? He’s more of a cynic than I am.”
The Indian clapped John on the back, and the two shook hands.
“Where’s the head?” John asked, even if he didn’t really want to know the answer. “You usually display it rather prominently.”
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“Sold it,” Alderman said, matter-of-factly.
“Sold it? Just like that?”
The man shrugged.
“Plymouth wanted to mount it on their wall. Paid good money for it.”
John just chuckled. It was just like him, actually, to do something like that.
“Come now, let’s sit,” Alderman beckoned. “And you can tell me the reason for your visit. If you’ve come to my door, it can’t be good news.”
“You hurt me,” John said, as the two took a seat across from another on the wooden chairs by the fire. “Though I wish I could say you were wrong. I wish even more that I was here on a better occasion.”
“Speak it, then. You know I hate beating around the bush.”
“Andros has summoned me. I am to travel to the land of the Abenakis and speak with a woman there. He fears a war will come soon with the French, and he wants me to try and suade the Abenakis to our side.”
“Hah! Good luck with that. They are cousins to the Wampanoag, and their cousins are the Anishinaabeg, who are allied with the French. They have no reason to side with the English, and every reason to despise them.”
“I need you to come with me, Isaac. I think it is hopeless as much as you, but I have no choice in the matter. You understand them, speak their tongue better than I ever could. I have entreated the Governor to allow your accompaniment.” “And he granted you it, I assume, before even knowing whether or not I would agree?”
John sighed.
“I cannot even picture making the journey without you,” he said. “And I know you. You are too kind a man to make me endure it.”
“Hah! It’s been six years since you last saw me, my old friend. A lot can change in six years. I am fatter than I’ve ever been, and I enjoy my simple life of solitude and fatherhood. You would have me abandon my boy for this futile little quest of yours?”
“Oh, come—he’s hardly a boy. How old is he now?”
“He’ll be fifteen come March.”
“And you can’t leave him alone for a month?”
Alderman just sighed. He produced a wooden pipe from his pocket and lit it, sticking it in his mouth as he watched the fire.
“I am an old man now, John,” he said, taking a drag of his pipe. “We both are. Hell, we were not that young when the war started. Young in spirit, perhaps—bright-eyed, hopeful souls who thought they could save the whole world.”
John thought back to that time. It was only twelve years ago, but it felt like a lifetime. So much had changed since then–not just for them, but for the whole continent. The Wampanoag, once the mightiest people in these parts, had had their leaders killed, their successors shipped off to the Caribbean. Now, they were fractured and lost, and the New Englanders were glad to be rid of that threat.
The fire crackled, and John watched in silence as his friend puffed on his pipe, ruminating on the choice in front of him. He knew Alderman felt some guilt over betraying his people, killing his King. Still, it was not done from greed or desire for power. He was a counselor and close advisor to Phillip once, working against the colonists. Alderman’s brother, however, disagreed with the King on many things, and would argue them openly and loudly. What was honest dissent was seen as treachery in the King’s eyes, and he had the man put to death. It was his brother’s death that led Alderman to the turncoat’s path—he deserted the Wampanoag, and thus changed the tide of the war.
It was a cruel twist of irony, to be sure. Phillip had started the war in the first place to avenge his own brother, who had died in unlawful imprisonment at the hands of the colonists. Then he was killed by his own advisor, to avenge the brother Philip had killed. How odd it was, that eternal cycle of violence. Ever-avoidable, if the ignorant souls who started it just took a moment to look at themselves in the mirror.
“Fine,” Alderman suddenly said. “But you will owe me after this. And I expect to be compensated by Andros.”
“He has already agreed to it,” John reassured him. “And thank you.”
“Hmph.”
John twiddled his thumbs anxiously.
“There is one other… complication.”
Alderman raised a curious eyebrow. “How smart of you,” he muttered. “To only mention it after I’ve accepted.”
“I do not mean to keep this from you,” John protested. “If I did, I would not be telling you now. And I want you to know and understand: this brings me no pleasure. Rather, it boils my blood, but I am powerless to do anything to change it. I have already voiced my opposition to Andros until I have run out of breath, and still he insists on it.”
“Well, damn you, speak of it. You always run around the point. Get to it.”
John sighed. “The Governor has decreed that we are to be accompanied by William Marley.”
At the very mention of his name, Alderman’s face soured. John could not blame him–he felt the same way.
“Believe me,” John began. “If I had my say, I would not stand within ten miles of that devil. Andros is twisting my arm, and so I must twist yours.”
“This isn’t twisting,” Alderman shot back. “This is breaking. Do you remember what happened the last time? I made a vow—the next time I saw that man, I would shoot him dead. And you would have me break my word?”
“I would, but not of my own choice. I hate him just as much as you.”
“No. No, you don’t. But that’s fine. I’ll come with you anyway.”
Isaac stood, walking over to the cupboard in his kitchen. He stood on top of a wooden stool, reaching for something on top of the cupboard. He strained a little—he had always been a short man. After a few seconds, managed to grab his musket from up there, wiping the dust of nine years off with his shirt.
“Mark my words, though,” he said solemnly. “If that bastard tries anything, and I mean anything, I'll remember my promise. I'll gun him down like the dog he is, and you'll just have to make peace with it.”
John nodded. That was the best he could hope for, and likely the only way Alderman would agree to this. The possibility troubled him, though, if only because he was almost certain Marley would try something. Then again, it might turn out to be a strange blessing. After all, if Marley was shot and killed, the world would no longer have to bear the weight of his unending malice.