1. October 1702-2

2116 Words
Patsy arose and immediately made for Sir James journal, quill and ink bottle. He returned shortly with the same and laid it before Sir James, who had finished his meal and his second bottle of wine. Patsy moved away from the table and stood instead in front of the fire and warmed himself while Sir James made his entry. When he had finished, he dropped his quill and arose from the table. Patsy immediately collected Sir James' property and then led the way to the room where he placed the supplies away and then undressed his master and made the bed ready. When this was done, Sir James bid Patsy good night and fell immediately asleep. Patsy took this cue to take Sir James' boots and made his way back to the barn, but first, he stopped by the common room to see if there was any turkey left. There wasn't, as the trappers made short work of the remains. Patsy did, however, manage a small, overlooked yam. An hour before dawn the stable boy shook Patsy awake and he was soon seeing to Sir James’s toilet and dressing, so by the time the sun rose, they were leaving the stockade and on the post road once again. Onward they rode all that morning and into the late afternoon before they came to Providence town. When they arrived in town, Sir James went to the local garrison. There he found the sergeant in charge and made inquiries about Northwood and the m******e. The Sergeant called for the corporal who had actually been on the scene and made preparations to take the corporal and a squad of ten men on the morrow to Northwood. Once again at dawn Sir James and Patsy, now accompanied by eleven regular dragoons, made their way south by southeast towards the Narragansett Bay shore. There was no broad avenue here. Barely an unrecognizable track that was gone more than present, but fortunately, the Corporal knew the way and late in the afternoon, they arrived at the little village of Northwood. They marched on through the village and into the wood until they came to the old Indian town of Sowams. There was nothing standing now, but even after 30 years you could see that a town had once stood here. Through Sowams they went until they came to the sacred grove. The heads were gone as well as any trace of the bodies. All that remained was the three stakes the heads had rested on and the ashes of Canonchets pyre. Alderman took the last swig from the jug and then threw it on the ground. He had been on a twenty-five yearlong drunk. Ever since betraying his people for a handful of silver and the hand of his enemy, the man that the praying Indians called Judas had been telling and retelling his story for a drink to anyone who would listen from Manhattan to Boston. He was a familiar figure in every bar and roadhouse in New England. The mummified hand of Metacom still hung from a leather strap around his neck. Shunned by everyone who knew him except the great moralist and preacher of his time Cotton Mather who knew a good thing when he saw one. Much like Alderman, Cotton Mather had for years used the story of Metacom for his own advantage, becoming a very powerful man in New England. Had for over twenty years taken friends and important visitors to Metacom's head and using it as a puppet, caused much laughter and gaiety among the drunken rabble of Plymouth. Unfortunately, someone had stolen it under the noses of the town guards. The praying Indians had become nervous for some reason and had started to spread rumors about the resurrection of Metacom. Although Cotton had tried to get them to see that surely this could not be, no one since Lazarus had ever come back to life, especially after 25 years, but the rumors persisted. When the news of the three soldier's death reached Plymouth, the Indians were seen to become agitated and many had left the town for parts unknown. Cotton had just finished and published his "Magnalia Chrristi Americana" where in he droned on and on about how God, in his perfect wisdom, had given these lands to the white folk of Europe as the Indians were not worthy to live in them. Much like his father, Increase Mather, who had just stepped down as president of Harvard University, he saw the Indians and their lands as just some more tools for the white man to use. Alderman stumbled down the beach toward Plymouth harbor and another boatload of colonists from England, which even now was docking a mile away. Even though he was dead tired, he dared not go to sleep. For the last several months he had been having strange, horrible dreams of his old enemy Metacom. Alderman knew what the praying Indians were saying was true and he had no doubts that Metacom was coming for him! For as many times as he had thought of throwing Metacom's mummified hand away, his lust for the white man’s liquor always overrode such urges. For without Metacom's hand Alderman was nothing. With it he was a hero of sorts to the white man and, therefore, important. Important enough or free drinks and copper coins. Once a chief of the Great White Mother had given him a golden sovereign for his tale. He had stayed drunk on that one coin for a month. Yes, more white men were good. For they had never heard his tale, of his heroic stand that saved the entire Massachusetts Bay Colony from Metacom's treachery. For over the years the story had changed with the telling. He had gone from a cowardly traitor to a mighty Sachem who saved hundreds of white captives when he alone dared enter Alderman's camp. He had killed the mighty Metacom and thirty of his best warriors single-handily before setting the white captives free and leading them to safety. Over the years Alderman began to believe this nonsense and told the story with great relish. Only now did the truth come back to haunt him and haunt him it did. Sometimes even when he was awake, he could just catch the great blue-eyed timber wolf out of his peripheral vision. He even found the beast’s footprints once, though they quickly faded away. When he slept, the nightmares came. From out of the sky came a warrior, and at his back a great host of tribes came. At first, faintly, they called his name alderman...alderman... alderman. If he was lucky, he would awaken, his pulse racing, his heart pounding. If he couldn't escape from the dream, the chants would increase in volume until the whole world shouted ALDERMAN... ALDERMAN... ALDERMAN... ALDERMAN! He would try and run, but his legs wouldn't move. He was stuck to the ground. When he looked into Metacom's bright blue eyes, he could see the torment that awaited him upon his death. Metacom wore a necklace made up of the 20 silver coins that Alderman had been paid for his treachery. When they came face to face, he would pull off this necklace and throw it at Alderman. The silver coins were like bees that stung him to the bone. He would then take back his hand and then the real horror would begin. Even wide-awake, those thoughts would make him shiver. Often when he awoke, his hands were covered in blood and washed them though he might with water or sand; they would not come clean. He had walked half a mile and when he looked up, the wolf was there standing in front of him. Its lips were pulled back, showing its fangs, and slowly it began to move toward him. Alderman stopped in his tracks and slowly began to move away from the wolf. When he backed up, the wolf would stop, but if he moved toward Plymouth, the wolf would counter his steps, all the while growling and making deep throat noises. To an observer Alderman was dancing with himself. No other mortal eyes could see the wolf except Alderman. Alderman had seen strange things on the white man's drink, but he knew the wolf was no mere hallucination. The wolf was real as death and, like death, would not be denied. The wolf's bright blue eyes glowed like embers and penetrated Alderman to the bone. He tried to look away but couldn't. Something pulled him into the wolf, and as he stared, he found himself falling, falling deeper and deeper into a deep sleep. No sooner than he had closed his eyes than he could hear them chanting his name, alderman... alderman... alderman. He realized he had been tricked into sleep by the wolf. Again, from the sky came a warrior followed by a great host. As they approached, he could see a vision of every death his treason had caused. Every warrior's face stared at him. Every woman and every child's death was replayed for him until he screamed at the top of his lungs to see no more, but still, they came. He tried to look away but couldn't. He felt every musket ball, every knife cut, every slice of the sword, every torture that had been inflicted because of his treachery. He was insane with pain and the agony of every torture that he had caused. All through that afternoon and all that night long he saw the faces and felt their pain as they came one at a time to stand in their disfigured bodies before him and told him their tale and shared their pain with him. By the thousands they came, seemingly without end. Every man, woman and child sold into slavery in the Caribbean or taken back to Europe who had died came, told their story and gave him their pain. Only with the coming of the sun did they cease, but before the hosts had departed, the last to stand before him was Metacom. Metacom spoke for the first time and said that with the coming of the full moon, he would return to claim what was his and to repay Alderman for his treachery. Alderman awoke with a start, staring into the sun slowing rising above the Atlantic. Alderman's heart was pounding, and he was soaked in his sweat. His bowels had loosed themselves, so when he arose, he stumbled into the surf to cleanse himself. The cold water brought him back to reality and after washing his clothes as well, he left the ocean. After putting his wet clothes back on, he made his way toward Plymouth. His costume had changed over the years from his native dress until 25 years later; he now wore a British army great coat, a Naval officer’s hat, gray slacks and stocking that had one time been white, and a pair of French made riding boots. To top this off, Metacom's hand around his neck on a leather strap. Needless to say, he was quite a sight for the uninitiated. A few of them couldn't believe their eyes as he approached. He was too late to catch the new arrivals at the dock as they had all left. Dockhands were now loading the ship with America's greatest asset slaves. These were in chains and being whipped aboard for their journey to the plantations of the Caribbean. Along with the slaves, tobacco, hewn lumber, Indian corn and in cages several hundred turkeys for the palettes of England. His head was splitting from the rum the night before, as much as from his spirit vision. He could hustle the new arrivals later. What he needed now was another jug. He made his way toward the other side of the village, where strong spirits and other loose morals were tolerated. The Puritans had been, amongst other things, a very randy bunch. Though they spoke of morals and such in church on Sunday and were very pious in public life, inside their houses were quite different. Everyone slept in the same room, and it wasn't uncommon for the master of the house to sleep with all the women and girls as well as the slaves or servants of both sexes. But before the coming of the British army, the only spirits allowed were for the churches. Of course, most folks had been brewing beer from the beginning. After the army arrived, things changed radically. The total control of the church had gradually been replaced. People still went to church for appearance’s sake, but since the crackdown by the army after the Salem "Witch Trials," things had begun to loosen up, even in staid Plymouth. The fact that Alderman could openly buy rum spoke volumes of this.
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