Notice:  Includes adult themes and violence not suitable for young readers.

Chapter 1

A scream pierced the heavy early morning air.  The panic-laden shrills exploded in waves.  The screamer sucked air in convulsive gulps.  Everyone who heard it also felt it.  Robert Carter smashed his thumb with a mallet.  Directly above her, seaman Butten peered down and nearly fell from a yardarm.  Mistress Hopkins jumped off her seat, almost dropping infant Oceanus feeding from her breast.  

Just moments earlier, Mistress Elizabeth Winslow had been strolling along the starboard main deck when she noticed something strange floating in the water.   A longboat’s length from the Mayflower’s hull she could see what seemed to be a flowing white dress.  She squinted, discerning a darkness top and bottom.  Mistress Winslow leaned over the rail.  Shoes caused the darkness at one end and splayed black hair the other. 

It was then that she had become hysterical.  Chaos followed.

Sarah Eaton, the first to reach the screamer, looked over the side, then fell to her knees.  Mistress Winslow looked down at Sarah, swallowed her last scream, and joined her friend in prayer.  Edward Fuller arrived next, viewed the floater for a moment, ripped off his jacket, fumbled removing his high-top, buckled shoes, threw them aside, and jumped overboard. 

            Fuller swam to the body, turned it over and pushed the lifeless woman to the side of the vessel.  By now most of ship’s passengers and crew who had heard the commotion gathered at the rail.  

Last to arrive, the Mayflower’s Master, Christopher Jones, shoved his way through the crowd.  “Back away,” he commanded.  “Move back.  Let me through.”

            Those blocking his path stepped aside.  He called down to Mister Fuller treading water next to the woman.  “Is she alive?”

“No, Master Jones.” Fuller’s voice shook from extreme disappointment and the glacial waters of Cape Cod Bay.

Master Jones turned and faced the assembly.  “Be on with you.  Back now to your places.  Let us bring up the poor soul in private.”  

The passengers dispersed, while the crew remained in place.

Jones pointed at two sailors nearest him.  “Seaman Parker, Gardiner --lower a hammock over the side and hoist her out.   Seaman Trevor, throw a rope ladder over for Mister Fuller.  He gave Trevor a push on the shoulder.  “Hurry lad, before he freezes to death!”

   The three crewmen sprinted away.  The others filled their empty places along the rail, eager to watch the morbid action.

Master Jones looked back over the side and shouted.  “Mister Fuller, do you recognize her?”

With quivering, bluish-purple lips, Fuller answered, “Yes, Sir.  It’s Mistress Bradford, Dorothy Bradford.”

* * *

Wekinash squinted, trying to see beyond his yard-long strides.  The early morning, fog, chest-high enveloped his lean, hard frame.  A single eagle feather adorned his long, black, braided hair and a loincloth hung from his narrow waist.  A premonition caused his stomach muscles to tighten. Perspiration ran down from under his muscular arms.  

He looked up at the overcast sky.  The sun wouldn’t make an appearance this morning, he told himself.  His mind flicked back to the time long ago when his father took him on a first hunt, as he was doing for his youngest son today.  He pushed away the painful memory, and placed his right hand on the head of the stone tomahawk at his waist. 

He stopped abruptly.  Listened hard, then took his hand off the weapon and raised his arm straight up.  The six hunters who followed behind in single file froze in place. 

Unseen, but clearly audible, a swiftly-moving animal streaked between a row of oak trees thirty yards ahead.   

Wekinash lowered his arm then moved it from side to side behind his back.  The men and the one boy slid slowly, silently to the ground.  Down low, they hugged the cold, damp earth.  Soggy leaves stuck to the near-naked bodies. 

Pompion, on the hunt for the first time, laid his head down and closed his eyes.  Today was his twelfth birthday and he’d promised his mother attuck for dinner.  The deer were beginning to migrate farther inland as winter approached, but Wekinash, his father, had seen a small herd grazing near the great cold spring only yesterday.  The trail they had followed thus far led directly to it.  They were almost there.

Pompion was fourth in the line of hunters.  He opened his eyes to look around.  All he could see were the moccasins of his older brother directly ahead of him.  He pulled his arms close to his body so he could leverage up.  He snapped a twig.

A dog barked. 

Pompion reclosed his eyes and dropped back down.  He felt the weight of his brother’s foot come to rest on his head. 

The unexpected barking raised small bumps on Pompion’s forearms.  He lifted his shoulders and, tightened his arms to his body trying to make himself smaller, melt into Mother earth.  This dog’s barking was more frightful than a growling bear.  More fearsome because the animal emitted a sound so much louder and deeper than any dog that he’d ever heard before.

Besides, there were no dogs here.  None.

Then, scarier yet, he heard men yelling excitedly in a strange tongue. His fright seemed to suffuse the fog blanket that he hoped completely hid him.  He wondered if a new tribe had moved into their hunting grounds.  His father would know and he’d chase them away, far away and for good.  He took a deep breath and slowly exhaled.  This exercise calmed him somewhat but the goose bumps on his arms refused to subside.  His brother’s foot grew heavier.  It hurt his ear.  He reached up and gently pushed on it.  The foot stayed in place.

Chapter 2

Cape Cod juts into the Atlantic Ocean like a crooked, witch’s finger curled upward.  Its end comes to a point not unlike a filed fingernail.  Located in what would eventually become the Massachusetts Bay Colony, its northern shore formed a near perfect harbor.  On November 11, in the Year of Our Lord 1620, the large merchant ship Mayflower dropped anchor after a grueling sixty-six day voyage.  The mostly Christian travelers named the point Provincetown – an appropriate designation after many passengers had doubted that they’d ever see bountiful landfall again.

Shortly after dropping anchor, sixteen men had rowed a longboat ashore in search of fresh water, food, and firewood.  Two of the men immediately began to chop cedar trees that lined the shore just beyond the sandy beach.  The rest marched off to explore.  The group split up again after a few miles.  Three followed deer tracks that headed east, while the main body searched for a suitable site on which to build a new settlement. 

Three Pilgrims arrived at the great spring just as Wekinash, Pompion, and their unseen hunting party, drew near.  A one hundred and sixty pound English mastiff had followed deer scent to the spring.  The Englishmen had only to chase the huge animal.

Wekinash and his companions belonged to the Nauset tribe of the Wampanoag Nation.  They had lived on this cape since earliest memory.  Today back at the village, the tribe labored hard preparing to move inland for winter.

            Wekinash motioned for his eldest son, Weenat, to lead everyone behind him away.  Pointing to his eyes, then toward the spring where the newcomers and the dog had gathered, Wekinash made it clear to Weenat that he and his uncle Sumhup would watch the intruders before they returned to the village.

            Weenat lifted his foot off Pompion, placed his right index finger to his lips and motioned for the other hunters to quietly retreat.

As soon as Pompion guessed that they were out of earshot he grabbed his brother around the neck, “I want to go back.  I want to kill deer.” 

Weenat pushed him away.  Pompion brandished his bow high above his head and appeared ready to yell a defiant war cry -- but he didn’t. 

Weenat began walking again.  Pompion remained standing on the trail and stomped his foot.  Weenat turned and studied his young brother, then made a fist and shook it at him.  The young boy kicked dirt in his brother’s direction, then obeyed the silent order to continue walking.  As they slowly made their way back to their village, Pompion lagged farther and farther behind; then, when he felt certain that no one was paying attention, he slipped away and headed back toward the spring.

__________________

Nuh-auchaumen attuck.   Nuh-auchaumen attuck.  I hunt deer.

Pompion chanted the words under his breath as he jogged back toward the spring.  After a few yards he left the trail.  He didn’t want to bump into his father and uncle returning; or anyone else, for that matter.  He glanced off to his right where he knew that he could circle around a marsh to get back to the spring.  A few yards off the trail, the ground gushed under his weight.  A cold wet, soupy, slush engulfed his legs.  He sank up to his knees.  A putrid odor seeped from the muck.  He struggled back out but one of his moccasins stayed.  He reached down with his arm and pulled it out.   After placing the smelly, soggy moccasin back on his foot he climbed to higher, dryer ground. 

He felt a cold spot on his wrist, then another on the back of his neck, then one his nose, and then three on his arm.  Soft snowflakes floated down on him and instantly melted; but they began to spread a white coating on the ground.  The first snowfall of the season had arrived.  Pompion smiled.  The Cold Spirit would now cover his tracks as long as it kept snowing.  He felt that it would.  A look at the heavy gray sky confirmed his judgment. 

With renewed confidence, he pressed on toward the spring. 

Pompion managed to stay on the higher ground as he circled the marsh.  He arrived at the clearing where the hunting party had stopped earlier.  No one seemed to be around.  He stood motionless and surveyed the entire area.

As he prepared to cross the field, a ten-point buck leaped into the clearing.  It moved to the center where tall grass still showed above the rapidly-falling snow.  Pompion’s eyes widened.  He realized how cold it had become, but the thrill of the moment temporarily steeled his senses.  He pulled an arrow from his quiver and knelt beside a pine tree.  His hand trembled, but he managed to ease the arrow into the bowstring.  He pulled back as far as he could, aimed, and let go.

Two flashes of light caught his eye, from across the field and simultaneously he heard a double thunderclap.  He rocked back, lost his balance, and fell over.  A small branch split off the tree above him.  Pain rippled down his back when the limb glanced off his shoulder. 

The blasts, one nearly on top of the other, had reached Pompion just as he let loose the arrow.  At the same moment, the deer dropped to the ground.  In his excitement, Pompion had aimed too high and his arrow sailed three feet over the deer’s back even before it fell.  

The wooden missile streaked across the meadow.  As it began to lose altitude, it struck John Miller in the only place on his upper body that wasn’t protected by a metal breastplate.  As his musket recoiled, the arrow pierced his left side, just under his outreached arm.  Its tip had enough thrust to nearly reach his heart.  Miller dropped to his knees as his two comrades rushed toward the deer.   Thinking that he had stopped to offer a thankful prayer, the two men kept moving. 

“It could have been my shot,” shouted Edward Brewster.  He looked over his shoulder and laughed.

“Tell Sarah, I ... ” Miller pitched forward face down in three inches of fresh snow.

The two Pilgrims swung around as Miller fell.  Under his arm, a crimson puddle contrasted against the whitened earth.  The blood oozed in a widening semicircle against his outstretched arm.  They hastened back and bent over their comrade.

Pompion had not seen the men until two had run out of the woods toward the deer.  He watched them stop at the deer then turn back to where the third man had fallen.  He saw the men kneel over the prone hunter.   One pulled out the arrow.  Pompion let out a soft grunt as he watched blood run faster and spread wider.  The second man removed a shiny vest, took off his own shirt, and then tied it under the man’s arm and around his right shoulder.  He placed his ear to the man’s chest, looked up at the one standing, and raised his shoulders.  Pompion heard them shout in the foreign tongue then one ran off into the woods with the largest dog that Pompion had ever seen bounding after him.  The remaining man stood, grabbed a long, black metal pole and looked all around.

Pompion had seen enough.  He crept into the cover of the forest, then rose up and ran.  His legs wobbled and almost gave under him.  He staggered, nearly fell but regained his stride.  He threw the bow aside. 

Realization flooded him.  He might have killed a man.  A vivid image of the bloody pool against the white snow filled his mind.  He ran faster, wanting to lose the picture, but it stayed frozen in place.

By the time he reached the edge of his village he could barely stand.  He bent over and gasped for air.  His body glistened, wet with snow and sweat.  After a few minutes, his breathing eased.  He felt scared, cold, and confused. Unsure what he should do next, he lowered his spent body onto the damp ground under a tree.  The wind swirled, blowing fist-sized clumps of snow off the limbs and down his bare back.  He pulled his knees up, wrapped both arms tightly around his legs, and lowered his head between his thighs, fighting off the cold.

Over and over he asked the question: Why did I disobey?  Why did I go back to the spring?   He didn’t hear an answer. 

Tears trickled down, creating a small icicle on the tip of his nose.  Mucus formed a frozen mustache above his lips. 

He remained there, stiff, unmoving, tormented by the mental picture of a dead man laying face down, while the steady snow slowly covered his body in a soft cocoon. 

Pompian shivered from the cold and from the agony camped in his heart.

Chapter 3

Snow floated down dusting helmeted-heads, muskets, shed clothes, and newly dug up bounty scattered throughout the area. 

Captain Myles Standish, military leader of the expedition, cocked his head when he heard musket fire.  “Was that one or two?” he asked no one in particular.  The men with him stopped digging and looked at one another.  The scouting party had come across mounds of loose earth, and at Standish’s orders had stopped to investigate.  Standish had sent John Miller and two others off with the mastiff to follow deer tracks an hour and a half hour earlier.  He also had sent Dr. Samuel Fuller leading three others on a mission to look for water.

“Two, I think,” answered Mister Hopkins, standing closest to Standish.  A few murmured in agreement.

Their prearranged signal called for one shot if someone ran into hostiles.

The men returned to their digging.  Moments later, Jeremiah Wilson shattered the quiet, “DEAR GOD ABOVE!  WHAT HAVE I DONE?”  Wilson lifted a human skull from where he had dug.  He held it up for all to see then dropped it back into the hole. 

Standish and the rest gathered beside Wilson and peered down into the hole.  The skull settled next to a leather strap.  Standish reached down and pulled on it.  The strap, attached to a flat board, resisted his tug.  Clumps of damp earth clung all around the object.  Now he could see that a blanket had been tied to a board covering a bulge the size of a small melon.  When Standish freed the object and held it out, a low groan rose from the men who had crowded around. 

The object that Standish had pulled out proved to be an Indian cradleboard.  Strapped to it were the remains of a child that must have died well after the body that belonged to the skull. 

Standish eyed the half-decomposed body for a full minute.  Many men turned away.  Recovering the child with its blanket, Standish gently placed the cradleboard back into the grave.  He motioned for Mr. Wilson to once again rebury the dead. 

Mister Bradford, the first to kneel, prayed in silence.  The entire party joined him on their knees.  Finding a hairless skull proved gruesome, but seeing the recently dead child troubled most.

After a few minutes, Standish stood and announced, “Back to work -- but don’t dig if you find bodies.”  A few of the man glanced sideways at one another.  Some already had desecrated a number of graves before Standish’s warning and they had no mind to stop.  Most would obey but by now many had become eager grave robbers anxious to recover anything of value.  Before the discovery of the child and skull, the group had dug up four bows, ten arrows, jewelry, articles of clothing, a headdress, and a mortar with grinding stone.

An hour later, a breathless William Brewster broke through the woods and hurried to where Standish knelt digging on his hands and knees.  Brewster waited behind him in silence.  Sensing his presence, Standish raised up and faced him.

Visibly distressed, Brewster leaned over the diminutive Standish and whispered into his ear.  Standish’s head back jerked back and he laid a hand over his eyes.  A few of the men stared, but Standish gestured at them to continue with their work.

 He returned his attention to Brewster, and motioned for him to walk away from the graves and inquisitive ears.  “What happened?”

Brewster blurted out his report.  Just as they had felled a deer, he and Mister Carter had turned to see Miller collapse – shot with an arrow under his arm.  “We didn’t see the natives, nor did they any come after us.  I left Mister Carter with the deer carcass and Mister Miller and ran back here as fast as I could.”

Standish closed his eyes and pondered the situation.  Then he looked hard into the face of the distraught Pilgrim.  “Calm down,” he ordered.  “ Take a deep breath.”  He placed a hand on Brewster’s shoulder.  “Now, I don’t want to alarm the others.  And, don’t tell anybody.  I’m sending Mister Wilson back with you.  Gut the deer and drag the carcass to the beach.”  He pointed back to where the men were still digging.  “I’m going to tell everyone that Mister Miller has wandered away from your hunting party and that we’ll look for him in the morning.  It’s starting to get dark and the snow’s getting heavier.  Be gone now.”

Standish called for Wilson, the biggest, strongest of the group and explained the situation, with a stern warning not to speak of Miller.  He watched until the two men until they were out of sight.

Standish gathered the men together.  At five foot four, Captain Shrimp, as the men called him behind his back, stood on a log so those in the rear could see him.  He avoided eye contact by looking over their heads.  “I have just learned that Mister Miller has wandered away from the hunting party.  Given the snow and approaching nightfall, I suggest we pack up and go to the beach.  Almost nonchalantly he directed, “Mister Smythe, post guard to the rear, I’ll take the front – natives have been seen in the area.”  He paused, then added, early tomorrow we’ll search for Mister Miller.”  After an even longer pause the men who were gathering their gear looked back up, “Oh, the shots we heard; Mister Brewster killed a deer.  Praise the Lord.”

The party picked up their weapons, and shouldered their packs, some of them made heavy with the treasures dug up from the graves.  As they prepared to march out of the burial ground, Dr. Fuller and his party who had explored farther east marched in.  Seaman Allerton walked up to Standish with a big smile.  “Look what we found.” he said loudly so all would hear.  He carried a metal cooking pot.  A layer of snow hid its contents.  “We discovered better than gold, Captain Standish.” 

Standish looked in the pot.  He brushed the snow away and grabbed an ear of corn.  He pulled down the husk; bit into it, and spit four hard, kernels into his palm.  He carefully inspected the precious blue, red and yellow maize, bouncing them in his hand.  “Congratulations men -- a good start for next year’s planting.”  

“The pot must mean other Europeans have been here and traded with these natives,” said Allerton.  His broad smile stretched the very limit of his mouth.

Standish shook his head.  “Perhaps.  Or maybe the devils killed the previous owner.”  He stared back at Allerton.  “Did you ever think of that?”

Allerton didn’t respond, but his smile evaporated before Standish finished the question.  Standish patted Allerton on the back then addressed Dr. Fuller, “Take the water and corn back to the ship.  We’re camping on the beach tonight as planned.  And be careful, there’ might be hostile near by.”

The men formed up and followed Standish as he led the way down a trail leading back to the beach, five miles from where the Mayflower lay at anchor.  There, Standish envisioned a big warm fire, roasted deer meat, and a good night’s rest in preparation for a very difficult morrow.

Dr. Fuller and his men continued along the beach toward the Mayflower that would have been clearly visible were it not for the continuing snowfall.

Chapter 4

Pompion couldn’t endure the cold any longer, as the gray sky darkened, he got up brushed the snow off his head, bent over and trotted toward the half deconstructed village.  He approached unseen and his spirit rose higher still when he found his family’s hut empty.  He threw his quiver aside with a reminder to go back for his bow in the morning.  He crawled beneath a bearskin cover on his mat, removed his soaked moccasins and welcomed the warmth.  Sleep easily overcame the worried warrior.

            Four lodges away, Wekinash, who had returned to the village an hour earlier having observed the foreigners most of the day, had called for a meeting of the tribe’s elders.  Eight men, including his brother Sumhup, sat along the outer edges of the round lodge. 

Although anxious to hear what Wekinash had observed, the men quietly smoked their carved, hardwood pipes, as was the custom before serious discussion.  By reaching out an arm, the men were able to light their pipes with long twigs that they extended into a small fire pit in the center of the room.  The hut smelled of sweet Cherokee tobacco, grown three hundred miles to the south.  After smoking three pipe-fills, Chief Aspinet nodded to Wekinash. 

            Wekinash rose up to his full height, nearly a foot taller than an unstrung bow, and nodded toward his chief.  Glowing amber light from the fire highlighted his bronze skin.  His large hooknose cast flickering shadows across his face changing it from his normal placid appearance.  His mood was somber, his voice soft, “My brother and I have witnessed evil this day.”  He leaned over and gently touched Sumhup’s shoulder; a silent gesture to signify that he too, now suffered from these sights.  “I wish I did not have to speak of these things, but you must hear me.”  He inhaled deeply.  The air around his head swirled with tobacco smoke making him cough.  He composed his thoughts. 

“At the Great Spring” -- he waved a hand in its general direction, then folded his arms across his chest, “many men from across the big water gathered.  They carried thunder sticks and wore metal vests and shiny headdress.  At the spring, they filled animal pouches with water and carried it away.  They split into three groups.  We followed the men with the water.  The snow fell heavy.  We walked in their tracks.  They did not see us and could not later tell that we were ever there.” 

Chief Aspinet closed his eyes and tilted his head.

Wekinash continued.  “They led us to where we had buried our planting corn.  They dug it up and took all that they could carry.  Then they joined another group at the place of our dead.” 

Wekinash shifted his weight.  “Some men walked to the beach.  We followed four with the water and corn to their floating island.  It was far bigger than the few that I have seen before.  It sits two arrows shots from the shore, at land’s end point.  Standing on it, were more men, women, and children then we could number.”

Hearing this, many members of the council shifted in their seats and looked to one another.  They spoke in hushed voices and looked to Chief Aspinet.  The chief opened his eyes and looked up at Wekinash, but did not speak.

The murmuring stopped.  Wekinash waited for a moment.   He lowered his head slightly.  “We walked back to the sacred place.  They had all gone but we saw where they had dug up our graves.”  He paused again and looked directly into his chief’s face.  “When they departed they left the bones of our dead scattered above the earth, like wolves leave the remains of their kills.”

            Hearing this, council members shouted angry threats.       Motock, the youngest council member stood up.  “Why didn’t you stop them – kill them?”

            Wekinash waited until they quieted.  Motock took his seat at a silent urging of Chief Aspinet.  “We started back to the village.  Along the way we pass the Great Spring.  When we approached the opening where we had first seen the foreigners, we saw one man removing a deer’s innards and another on the ground bleeding.  He looked badly hurt.  A bloody arrow lay on the ground next to him.” 

Motock stood again.  “Good.  This is good.  One of our tribe has killed one of their tribe.  We should slaughter them all.”  His outburst broke the quiet once more.  Others nodded and spoke in agreement.  Motock defiantly looked down on Aspinet but returned to his seat before being ordered.

            “This is what we saw.”  Wekinash concluded then sat down.  He too, looked over at Aspinet.

The chief puffed on his pipe.  “I will think on it.”  He stood and waved his hand toward the doorway signifying that the council had ended.  Aspinet nodded to each as they departed.  The chief’s placid expression gave no indication how he would react to the crisis suddenly delivered to his wigwam.

"Back Stairs"   15" x 30" oil on canvas

Note:  All art in this website by my wife Judith Redner,
please visit www.jdiart.com for more of her work.

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Copyright ©2009 Charles J. Redner
Manuscript excerpts provided for review purposes only and may not be reproduced without  written permission from the author.