Black Bird
Massachusetts Bay Colony
Standing in that room, Black Bird could not help but feel like a lamb in a den of wolves. It was nearly summer, and the air was thick and hot after the morning rain, but the hairs on the back of his neck pricked and stood, an occasional chill shivering down his spine. Sweat beaded on his brow at an annoying rate, adding to the discomfort he felt in his English pilgrim’s suit. Long sleeves, thick collar, tight shoes—it was a stifling, smothering nightmare.
The four men at the table stood upon his entering—Black Bird followed his patron, Robert Dalton, letting him take the lead. Anne-Marie trailed carefully behind both men—if she felt as nervous as he, she gave no sign of it. That’s a diplomat’s stoicism, he thought, half-jealous.
The men each shook hands with Dalton—seemed cordial enough.
“Gentlemen,” Robert said. “Thank you for arranging this meeting. This is the pupil I mentioned: the Indian prodigy, Black Bird. He hails from among the Ottawas of the Great Lakes.”
Robert turned to Black Bird.
“Black Bird, may I introduce you to the Harvard panel.”
Black Bird took note of each of the four men as he was introduced to them and shook their hand one by one. The first was John Leverett—small face, sable hair and goatee. Dark eyes that bore an air of condescension. Then there was Thomas Hollis, a pudgy, chalk-faced man who wore an extravagant wig and reeked of perfume. Charles Morton had a sleek, fox-like face and an inscrutable glint in his green eyes. And lastly, there was a half-gruff man with a plain brown beard and bags under his eyes. He introduced himself as John Goodman, and Dalton’s eyes bore a slight hint of surprise at the man’s presence here.
The panel took a seat at the other end of the table. With no chair near him, Black Bird remained standing, though he was unsure if this was the right call. Dalton stood next to him too, though, which put him at ease a little.
“The Ottawas,” John Leverett mused, stroking his goatee. “That’s a kind of Abenaki, isn’t it?”
“The Ottawas are cousins to the Abenakis,” John Goodman corrected. “But they are different peoples. The Ottawas live much further from here.”
“You have come a long way, then,” Charles Morton remarked. “The journey must no doubt have been an arduous one.”
“Yes, sir,” Black Bird said, though he could only half-guess what the word arduous meant. “It took many weeks by canoe.”
“And who is this lovely girl in your company?”
“That would be his betrothed,” Dalton replied. “The lady Anne-Marie of Parthenay. She has come to speak on his behalf.”
“A French girl marrying an Indian? And a lady of noble blood, at that? The mystery doth thicken.”
Morton leaned back in his chair, an amused smile spreading on his face. Anne-Marie simply curtsied. Black Bird shifted, swallowing the nervousness that began to collect like cotton in his throat.
“But that is rather odd, is it not?” Leverett asked.
“If you ever visited the frontier,” Goodman remarked. “I promise you would not find it such an oddity.”
Black Bird observed the men intently as they went back and forth. It would do no good to speak out of turn, and there was much he could learn just by studying their speech, the way they carried themselves.
Leverett seemed to hold the most power here—he sat up straight and tall, and exuded a certain authority. But there was a slight uneasiness in the midst of all that surety—his seat of power was either new, temporary, or both. Whatever it was, he seemed to relish in it. Good to know.
Goodman, on the other hand, stuck out like a sore thumb here. There was a slight agitation in his voice and posture, though it didn’t seem to be directed at Black Bird. He supposed it was that perhaps Goodman’s post here and his presence at this meeting was not his choice, but rather a duty imposed on him. If that was true, though, it meant he had no true or official standing in the college, which could be a help or a hindrance, depending on his attitude towards Black Bird. Yet it also meant that he was free to speak his mind without retribution, and speak it he did.
“Yes, well…” Leverett continued. He turned to Dalton. “I must say, I was intrigued to receive your letter, Robert, but I am perplexed by it. I see no reason why this meeting needs to take place. Your pupil, if he has the knack for it, is welcome to take the entrance exam like all the other hopefuls.”
“That’s just the issue. Black Bird has no interest in attending the Indian college. His skills are far past that. He wishes to take classes as an Englishman would—as we did.”
A few murmurs among the men.
“Young man, step forward,” Leverett said. Black Bird complied.
“You wish to attend classes here? To graduate a Harvard scholar?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you do not wish to do this alongside others of your kind?”
“No, sir.”
“Why not?”
Black Bird took a moment to ready his words. Thankfully, he had prepared for this question. “This is no insult to them,” he explained. “But those at the Indian college study more rudimentary subjects. What I wish to learn is not available to them.”
“And what is it exactly that you wish to learn?”
“Everything.”
A few chuckles about the table. Only, Black Bird wasn’t laughing.
“What do you mean, everything?” Tom Hollis asked.
“Everything that Harvard has to offer. I want to learn it all. Medicine, History, Law. There is so much to this world—I want to understand it as best I can.”
“A frequent ambition of the overzealous,” Morton said. “Though not an unwelcome one. You must believe, then, that you have the capacity to learn all these things.”
“Yes. I do.”
“And I assume, then, that you are prepared to take an entrance exam? The more rigorous one?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And what experience has endowed you with such confidence?”
Another question he was ready for.
“I have studied much already,” he replied. “I have been taught of the great thinkers—Aristotle, Plato, Socrates. I have learned about the world beyond my own lands, across the great ocean. I am familiar with your history, with your culture and faith. I know it may not seem so, because my words might betray me—forgive me. English is my fifth language, and I am still adjusting to it.”
Morton smiled at the admission—half apology, half boast. Goodman too seemed amused. Those two leaned forward slightly when Black Bird spoke—there was a curiosity in them, an interest in him. I should impress upon them more, he thought. They could be the key to my admission.
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“Faith in mind,” Leverett said. “Let us speak of yours. You are a Christian, aren’t you?”
“Of course,” Black Bird lied. “I learned English and Latin from reading the Bible. And I plan, with your blessing, to marry my betrothed in one of your churches here.”
“Latin, you say? Well, that is a surprise, to be sure. Since you’ve learned the tongue, perhaps you can help me with a certain passage. Dominus et magister noster Iesus Christus dicendo `Penitentiam agite’ et cetera, omnem vitam fidelium penitentiam esse voluit. Does that mean anything to you?”
Black Bird took a moment.
“Yes, sir,” he said finally. “It means 'when our lord and master Jesus Christ said ‘repent’, he made it his will that all believers live a life of repentance.' I believe it is from the man Martin Luther. From his... thesis.”
“Theses,” Leverett corrected. Still, he nodded. He looked impressed. “And what is your interpretation of his theses?”
“A positive one, sir. He declared the church for what it was—corrupt. The church was selling salvation. That is wrong. Good cannot be bought.”
Tom Hollis chuckled at that, though Black Bird could not place why. He had said little so far.
“And this bible that you learned from,” Leverett continued. “What version was it?”
Black Bird didn’t understand.
“Sir?”
“Which version of the bible have you been reading?”
Black Bird hesitated a moment. The question made no sense to him. Heat started to rise in his throat and cheeks. He looked over at Dalton, whose eyes offered him no answer.
“I… I do not know, sir,” he admitted. “Forgive me. I do not know this word.”
“Ah. Of course. Well, you know, of course, that the bible was not originally written in English. Or in Latin, for that matter.”
“Yes, sir,” Black Bird said. He did not.
“And I’m sure you can understand, as a speaker of five different languages, that translation is an imperfect art.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well… there have been multiple translations of the bible, then. We’ve even made one for the Indians, in the tongue of the Massachusetts. Do you know what translation you’ve been reading?”
The other men looked expectantly at Black Bird. If this was an important question, Black Bird did not know why. Nor did he know the answer. He weighed his options, but ultimately, it was not worth it to him to try and lie in the off chance that his guess would curry some favor with them.
“Forgive me, sir, I do not know,” he repeated.
Leverett nodded. Black Bird could not glean whether this was a true acceptance or not.
“Let us move to other matters,” Tom Hollis said. This was the first time he had said much. “Tell me, young man, what do you plan on doing with all this schooling if you receive it?”
Must knowledge have an end to justify its pursuit? Black Bird thought, but he held his tongue.
“I will use it to help my people,” he said, choosing to speak both vaguely and honestly.
“I see.” The man stroked his double chin. “So you will be taught by the brightest minds of Harvard, the best we can provide here in the New World. And once it’s all said and done, you’ll scurry back off to your village. What exactly, then, does the college gain from your admission? This seems like an unequal exchange, does it not?”
Ah, thought Black Bird. This is who he is. A man of transactions above all else. He understood now why Hollis laughed earlier–he thought perhaps, if given an opportunity, this man would sell an indulgence to the highest bidder.
“It is not unequal, sir,” Black Bird said. He considered his words carefully in this foreign tongue, but he had to defend himself. Set the precedent now for all the doubts and wonders to come. “I carry knowledge too–so do my people. Knowledge even the teachers here do not have. It is an exchange, then—my knowledge for theirs.”
Hollis simply chuckled.
“Fair enough,” he said, though there was a dismissive haughtiness to his voice. Black Bird was not all surprised. None of the men here seemed to believe that an Indian would know anything of import, and certainly nothing that the bright minds at Harvard did not. None of them except for the odd one out—the bearded man, John Goodman. He did not scoff or smile at the response. His face read as it always had—stern and serious, discerning. He looked deep in thought.
“What knowledge would this be, exactly?” Charles Morton asked. “Just curious.”
“Of my peoples’ medicinal practices,” Black Bird said. “Of our language, history, culture. Of our relationship with the French.”
That last sentence piqued the curiosity of Leverett and Hollis—they sat up straighter at the mention of their enemy. Black Bird suppressed a smile. Like clay in my hands.
Morton nodded.
“I have a question for you, son,” John Goodman suddenly said. His words carried a gravity with them, enough to unnerve Black Bird more than all the others.
“Yes, sir?”
Goodman leaned forward in his chair. The others watched in anticipation.
“You have come a long way to get here,” he began. “And that journey, no doubt, came with its trials and dangers. All to learn from us, to learn here, at the only proper University on the continent. And yet, half our knowledge is of no use to you. You want to study medicine, you claim, but there is a society of healers among your people who could teach you better than we. You want to study history, law, but ours are not yours. What pertinence would the happenings of some distant land across the sea have to you? Why have you really come here, all this way?”
The question gave Black Bird pause. He had only half-prepared for this line of inquisition—the other half relied on a member of the panel actually believing, as Goodman seemed to, that his people carried valuable knowledge already. The other three assumed, as Black Bird had prepared for, that he knew little to nothing coming in, and certainly not the level of a colonial student here. And as he took a moment to process Goodman’s question, Black Bird realized he could not, in fact, tell the whole truth. I have come to learn how to destroy the Iroquois, the nation with which you English are allied, and to find a cure for the pox, so you can no longer hold it like a cudgel over my people’s head, to bend us to your will and your faith. A part of him wanted to speak it, if only because he had always been the kind of man to speak his mind, even to a fault. But he could not even hope to muster the eloquence a declaration of this magnitude deserved in the clunky English tongue. No, he had to be smart—he had to secure this man’s favor. The stakes were too high—the future of his people was worth far more than his pride.
“My friend died,” Black Bird found himself saying. The best lies were always couched in the truth. “He was the closest person to me. If I had known more, I could have saved him. My people carry knowledge, yes—but it has limits. Maybe even this place does.”
Goodman’s eyes grew sullen—it was clear that he knew Black Bird’s pain. He nodded, accepting the answer.
“One more thing, sir.” The words sprang from the boy’s subconscious, despite his best instincts. At the end of the day, he just couldn’t help himself.
“You said that learning your history and laws would have no… pertinence for me,” he continued, trying to choose his words carefully. “But that is not really true. When your people came to these lands, you brought your laws with you. It was your King that told you which lands to build your houses on, even if they were not your lands. It is with your treaties that we understand each other, and it is your laws that you have chosen to break, when it has suited you. It is important then, for myself and all my people, to know these, and know them well.”
A silence fell in the room. Black Bird chided himself for overstepping. Just as he swallowed his pride a moment before, it could not sit in his stomach idly. Here it was, spewing out from him again. Idiot! How foolish are you, to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory?
He looked at the other men in the room. The air had shifted. His accusation had not landed well with Leverett and Hollis—their faces, jovial before, had soured. Behind him, he could practically feel Anne-Marie’s nervous gaze.
His gaze finally fell on John Goodman. The two shared a look—deep and intense, one of knowing. Then, the strangest thing happened. A smile formed on the stoic Goodman’s face, just underneath his brown beard. Then he laughed—a deep, hearty laugh.
“A true answer, young man,” he exclaimed. “And a right one, too. You are brighter than all of us had assumed. You will have no problem, I reckon, keeping up with your fellows in class.”
The man’s laughter cut through the tension—Leverett and Hollis unstiffened, sinking back into their chairs. Only one man was unperturbed throughout this whole exchange—the last man on the panel, Charles Morton.
“You have been quiet lately, Charles,” Goodman remarked. “Do you have any final questions for the student hopeful?”
“No more for him,” he said. “I do not foresee any issue with his attendance, as long as he is of good character and passes the entrance exam. I do, however, have a few questions for her.”
He gestured to behind Black Bird. To Anne-Marie.
“Gentlemen,” he said, referring to Black Bird and Robert Dalton both. “Would you mind giving us the room? I am ever so interested in her tale.”
“Of course,” Dalton said, answering for the both of them. “If you’ll excuse us.”
Dalton bowed lightly, and Black Bird mimicked him. The two made their way to the door. Black Bird flashed a look to Anne-Marie, though he could not tell if she saw it in her periphery or not. He hoped she did, and that it could convey an ounce of his thoughts to her. Please, he begged. My fate and future lie solely in your hands.