John Goodman
Penobscot Land (Modern-day Maine)
On John went. Through the woods and the mud, through the wind and frigid rain. Trudging through the snow of late January, lingering into mid February. Bits of it still survived, though it was nearly March, clinging to one another in desperate clusters only to be squashed beneath two pairs of leather boots. It was a miserable and arduous slog, their trip to the Dawnlands. The landscape was mired in dull grays and browns, awash in one another, a bleak and depressing tableau.
The weeks went by quietly—it didn’t take long for John and Isaac to grow tired of reminiscing on the good old days (that weren’t all that good or all that old). Their travels were no longer interrupted by the grievances of the Pennacook or other spectres of the Great War come to haunt them, though John couldn’t shake the feeling that they were being watched. He reassured himself by thinking it must have just been Marley. He had distanced himself even further from the other two since the encounter with the Pennacook, sometimes disappearing for days at a time. Neither John nor Isaac complained. Best to be rid of him as long as possible.
Still, there was an uneasiness that permeated his mind. His nights were restless, and his days were spent impatient and cranky as a result. He had lashed out at Isaac more than once, and more than once he had apologized for it. He prided himself on being a kind and level-headed man, but that good will had worn thin after weeks on the road alone with bland tack for food and little sleep. Most days, he just wished his trek would end, that he could return home to his family.
He wondered after them often. He had always worried for his children especially, perhaps even to the point of obsession. They, after all, were ultimately a reflection on him, on his capacity to be a parent and model for them. And though it was a selfish thing to view his progeny, who were their own individuals, through this lens, he found it an impossible vice to avoid, despite his usual resilience. How could he not care about his children? What was the line between caring and control? It was an impossible balance to strike, and John found himself overcompensating often. Perhaps that was why Grace still acted like a child, and why Mercy was the opposite, seemingly possessed to rebel against him and her mother. But these truths were hard to swallow, and John had enough else on his mind as it was, so he never dwelled on them.
His largest worry, of course, was his upcoming meeting. Something was brewing in Indian country. The Pennacook’s return to their former lands was a sign of a larger change–though disconnected from the world at large and its events, John could not know what that was. Still, he felt something coming. Something big. And though he knew he should prepare for it, it was of course an impossible task however long he remained in the dark.
They crossed into Penobscot territory in the earliest hours of Sunday morning, and by mid-day, they had reached the town. Isaac spoke for them both—John’s knowledge of the Algonquian tongues was still rather rudimentary, and he hardly trusted himself to be understood without misinterpretation (and that they could hardly afford after the mess with the Pennacook). The villagers acquiesced to their entrance, though not without some wary looks at John. He could hardly fault them, though he was determined to prove himself the exception among his people. Hard to do, he thought, when he fought in that despicable war just the same as the rest.
The two were led to a wigwam, no larger or smaller than any other in the village. John thought on this, as anything and everything could be a clue when he had so little information. It could be a sign of humility for a leader, but it could also mean she hadn’t quite been appointed as leader yet. That could be good or bad, depending on the circumstances.
The inside lacked the normal furnishings one would expect for a home—it seemed they had been removed for the purpose of this meeting. That meant they had known they were coming. This was not entirely unexpected, and strangely, it provided John with a sense of relief to know they were allowed this in-road—a more hostile tribe could have just killed him and Isaac while they slept.
The woman John had come to know as Gentle Wind stood in the center of the wigwam, standing tall and serene. She smiled gracefully and bowed slightly.
“Kulasihkul,” she said (this word John knew). “Welcome.”
She gestured for the two to sit, and they obeyed. The young man who had guided him there stood in the doorway, blocking their egress, though his wiriness betrayed him if it was intended as a threat. John chose to take it in stride. He and Isaac sat next to each other, and the Gentle Wind across them.
“We come bearing gifts,” Isaac began, and he rifled in his bag before producing two large belts of wampum. They had gone through great lengths to find some proper-made ones—though its worth as a gift was not what it used to be, it would have had even less value if they had brought one of the factory-made ones.
“How now?” John asked, eager to be clued in.
Isaac chuckled.
“She hopes we did not travel all this way just to deliver some beads.”
John nodded.
“Please tell her my name, and inform her that many years ago, I used to visit and speak with her late husband. And please pass on my condolences.”
Isaac did so. John watched the way Gentle Wind listened. She hadn’t changed at all in these years—there was a tremendous thoughtfulness to her. The way she carried herself, the way she nodded. Everything was calculated, yet subtle. She would be a remarkable politician—or a terrifying enemy. But this was the way she always had been—John remembered her even from back then, when most of that time was a blur to him now. How powerful would she be, now that she was untethered to her drunken fool of a husband? What would she say, now that she no longer had to whisper through him?
“I remember you,” Gentle Wind said, through Isaac’s translation. “You are here to pay your respects, then. You can see him on your way out—he’s buried just up the hill.”
Isaac bristled as he relayed the message. They had misstepped somehow—offended her.
“I will be sure to do so,” John returned. “Though that is not the reason for our visit. Rather, I would speak with you, that you would, in turn, entreat to speak with me on important matters concerning the future of your village.”
“And who are you, to profess to know the future of my village? How could that be, unless you plan to threaten it?”
“Forgive me, for I mean no threat. The future I speak of is a possible one, through no guarantee. But it is one of mutual relation and understanding, of a glad correspondence between your people and mine.”
John felt a bead of sweat begin to gather on his brow. He was already getting off on the wrong foot. Worse still, he was negotiating half in the dark—why had they sent him in the first place? He still wasn’t sure. What’s more, the confidence this woman exuded did not seem to be feigned—rather, it radiated out from her, surely the result of something that she knew. He would never have the upper hand here as long as he remained ignorant.
“And what relation would that be? I have seen the shapes your agreements take. They are weak, feeble things, torn apart at a moment’s whim, whipped away by the shifting of the winds. Tell me: how long will this one last? Or is it simply a pretense?”
John swallowed. It was an impossible task, to represent all New Englanders when he could not control their behavior, their history, their deceit. How could he protest when she had every right to distrust him? In her position, he would feel the same.
“I understand your misgivings,” he said. “They are not unfounded. But I am determined, at least, to try and prove my own trustworthiness. An agreement between our peoples would be beneficial for the both of us. These are unpredictable and troubling times. Many things are shifting, changing. We should all work to protect ourselves.”
“Yes, many changes. Many battles, I hear, though none loud enough to reach our lands. And have you yet spoken to your friends who fight in them? Perhaps they would be more interested in these protections than we.”
John shifted in his seat, his cheeks and forehead flushing warm.
“We—”
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“Tell me something,” Gentle Wind interrupted. She spoke with a casual air, but her words were cutting, even through the mire of Isaac’s translation. “Since you are, as an Englishmen, already aligned with the Five Nations, what exactly would an agreement with my people look like? Say a war broke out between us and them. What would you do, Englishman? Who would your people fight with?”
John could only answer honestly.
“I… I don’t know.”
Gentle Wind nodded, though not to accept his answer–it was a somber, condescending nod, the kind you made when a child spilled something all over itself.
“Another question, then,” she continued. “Maybe you’ll be able to answer this one. There are over a dozen villages in this area alone. Why did you come here, to this one? Why choose to speak to me?”
Because they told me a woman would be easier to sway, he thought, though he dared not speak it aloud. How foolish they were, the men who sent him on this errand. This woman’s will was iron. It would be easier convincing the hill her husband was buried on.
A bead of sweat gathered on John’s forehead, and he prayed for it to leave him, or at the very least, to not be noticeable. He suddenly felt like a mouse in a fox den, and he hated every second of it. Worse, still, he could not shake a deeper uneasiness in his gut. Gentle Wind was one obstacle, but she was, at the very least, forthcoming. He, on the other hand, was here with this cryptic missive from his superiors, with no clue as to what exactly he was supposed to be doing or why. There was something going on—something sinister, something—
An answer. A gunshot rang out from outside the walls of the wigwam. Then another, then another. John and Isaac leaped up, startled by the sound. Gentle Wind, strangely, remained seated and calm.
“What’s going on?” John asked. Beyond the wigwam, the sounds of metal clashing and battle-cries filled the air. The two took a step towards the door to leave, then stopped. But the wiry young man still stood there, and now he held a musket in his hands. John froze, his heart beating faster and faster. This is it, he thought. My comeuppance. This is where I will die. God have mercy on me.
Behind him, he heard Gentle Wind say something. Isaac turned, his face growing pale.
“What?” John asked him. “What did she say?”
“It… it’s Marley outside,” Isaac said. “She says he’s brought near two dozen men. They came to sack the village, John.”
“What?!” The fear and apprehension in his blood boiled into anger. Of course he had. That was the reason for this farce. The “in-road” Mather and Andros wanted was nothing more than a front, a sham. Something to lower the Penobscot’s guard, letting Marley and his men attack the place. But to what end? Even if they took the village, a mere force of two dozen couldn’t even hold this for a week before the other villages took it back.
John paced back and forth, his anger overwhelming any desire to protect or save himself from what unfolded around him. He expected this duplicity from Andros, but not Mather. Well, Mather was no saint, to be sure, but he was a good Protestant, and God-fearing. Did he know the truth? He must have. What did that mean, then? And what was supposed to happen now?
Another thought occurred to John. He turned to Gentle Wind, who continued to stay seated and calm, despite the chaos unfolding outside. The man in front of the door continued to stand there, only taking occasional peeks at the fighting. Why? Even if their scouts saw Marley and his men coming, a village this small couldn’t fend them off easily. Not unless—
Words from the man in the doorway. John was ashamed of how much he didn’t understand. What was said, what was really meant—all of this. Gentle Wind smiled, and stood.
“Come,” Isaac said, the woman speaking through him. “The mess should be over by now. Let’s have a look.”
The two men had no choice but to follow her. The man at the door turned to let them pass, but followed behind as they went, keeping his grip on his musket.
By the sounds he heard, John expected carnage. Wigwams destroyed, people killed. What he saw instead shocked and frightened him. He saw Marley, that deceitful worm, as well as his coterie of greedy opportunists. All of them lay on their stomachs, their hands bound behind their backs. They had been stacked together in a neat little line on the ground, and behind them, a full force of Dawnland warriors. John guessed at least eighty among them, likely more.
Gentle Wind passed each of the bound men on the ground, nodding thoughtfully after each one, like she was counting stalks of corn for a harvest. John took a step forward, wincing as he felt the cold steel of a musket press into his ribs. He stopped, but continued to speak.
“You must understand we had no knowledge of this,” John pleaded with her. “Isaac, tell them. I… we… we had no intention to attack you.”
Isaac just stood there. He was either dumbfounded at the scene before him or scrambling for the right words to spare their lives. Gentle Wind finished her count, rounding on her heel back towards the two men. She stopped in front of John, patting his cheek with a mocking affection.
“I know,” she said, in English, to his surprise. It was not perfect, and carried a thick accent, but he was unaware that she even spoke it at all. He doubted Andros or Mather knew, either.
“I pity you,” she said. “I do not know what I would feel if my own countrymen betrayed me. If I was used as bait for a trap.”
The words stirred in his gut like barbs, pricking at his pride. He still had it, despite everything, and more than fear at his fate, he felt ashamed that he fell into that trap so easily. He knew Marley was up to something—every considerate bone in his body screamed at him in warning. John thought himself to be different than his peers in many ways, smarter than some, and more compassionate towards the Indians. Is this why Mather chose me? Because I’m obedient? Because I’m gullible? The thought of it humiliated him.
“You say you are not with these men,” Gentle Wind said. “You say you want to be a friend to me. To my village.”
“Yes,” John said, nodding fervently. “It’s true. I swear it.”
“Do not swear. Prove.”
One of the men stepped forward. He held a pistol out to John for him to take. John shuddered at the implication. Another man dragged Marley to his feet, kicked him forward. The man coughed, spitting out dirt and bits of grass.
Gentle Wind stepped to the side, gesturing to Marley.
“This man is our enemy,” she explained. “If you are our friend, he is your enemy, too.”
John looked at the pistol in his hands. The feel of the wood, the steel—it was familiar to him, in a way that was both haunting and nostalgic. Strange tricks they play on you, weapons. Whose idea was it to make them so beautiful?
John played with the hammer, examining it. But he could only admire so long. He took the pistol, pointed it at Marley, and cocked the hammer. He would not die here, not if he could help it, and as much as he hated needless bloodshed, he saw no other way forward. Nor was it needless, really.
“Wait, John,” Marley began, scooting towards him in the mud. “John, fer God’s sake, have mercy. It’s not— y’don’t understand, y’see, it—”
The shot rang out like a thunderclap, piercing through the tense air of the village. Marley slumped to the ground, and John, for reasons he could only half explain, felt no great sorrow or pity. In truth, he wished he could have done this years ago, back in that miserable fight in the swamp. If he had, things could have changed. They would be different. Maybe they wouldn’t have led to all this misery.
Marley writhed in the mud beneath him, gasping for air as the last of it left him, blood spilling from his face. His men began to tremble and cry, knowing they were next.
Gentle Wind took the gun from John, handing it off to another man.
“I believe you now,” she told John. “That you did not wish to hurt me, as these men did. For that, I will let you live. You are a man who knows us, who respects us. I need men like you alive—there are not enough of you yet. But listen well, John Goodman. If you make this mistake again, I will kill you. I have no use for a fool.”
John could muster nothing but a solemn nod. Gentle Wind smiled in a way that sent a chill down his spine.
“I am glad we can agree,” she said. “And I am glad for our new friendship. I have so many new friends, you see. Look!”
She kept walking, stepping over the men tied on the ground. She took her place by the dozens of Dawnland men and women who stood tall and proud, the energy they exuded palpable and awesome. From her still limited grasp of his tongue, John understood what she really meant. ‘Friend’ meant ally, and thus this friendship of hers was an alliance. The ones here were from all different villages—maybe even different tribes. Then, the truth of it hit him. They were all different tribes. He even recognized some of the older men, past sachems from among the Maliseet and Passamaquoddy. And all of them had come here, to one of the smallest villages of Penobscot, all to quash a mere force of two dozen. They had united under one banner, and this battle was a message. Attack one village, you attack them all.
“Return to New England, John Goodman,” Gentle Wind commanded, and those around her hooted and jeered. “And tell your masters what happened today. Tell them we are coming for them. We are fragments no longer—we are one! We are Wabanaki!”