Milton in America, page 23
“It is human nature, Charles. Fallen nature.” I could endure this talk no more. “May I see the library now?”
“Of course. Do you know we have the first part of Poly-Olbion, annotated by Selden?”
“Truly? How did it make its journey across the ocean?”
“I carried it with me.” He laughed. “Come.” So we walked across the green from Charles Chauncy’s house and, as soon as I entered the library, I sensed the presence of the books around me. It seemed to me that the words were flying about the room. I could almost hear them, dear Reginald, as they whispered to me of truth, presence and consanguinity. “John, take this.”
He gave me a book, and I passed my hand across its binding before caressing its frontispiece. “I know it. De Antiquitate Britannicae Ecclesiae. It is Matthew Parker’s work.”
“Excellent.”
“It was the first book to be privately printed in our realm. Where do you keep it?”
“In a cabinet filled with other rarities.”
I put it to my nostrils. “Beware the beetle, Charles. I sense something strange within the leather. What else do you have for me here?” I was introduced then to many of my old and good friends, among them the De Nuptiis et Concupiscentia of Augustine, Cicero his De Fato, and the Metamorphoses of Ovid. There was a scholar working at a desk near to us, and I approached him. “I hear your pen upon the page, good sir. What is it? Some worthy treatise?”
“No, sir. A poem.”
“A poem?”
“Young Mr. Thornton is our epic poet, John. He celebrates his country according to the sweet rules of Aristotle.”
This interested me strangely. “Do you deck out its title in classical dress?”
“It is called America, sir. Or Paradise Regained. I am following the model of The Faerie Queen.”
“In rhyming iambics?”
“No, sir. In six books. I am using heroic verse without any rhyme.”
“Very good. It is the old measure of Homer and of Virgil. May I hear a little of it?” He recited to me the opening passages of his America; I listened carefully, and pronounced it good.
On the following morning I spoke to those six scholars who were proceeding to their bachelorship. At the end of my oration, of course, I alluded to the occasion of my journey to them. “Populum nostrum tyrannicide pressum, miserati (quod humanitas gratia faciunt), suis viribus Tyranni iugo et servitute liberent.” Charles Chauncy coughed, with some contagion of the throat, while the scholars of Harvard naturally remained grave and silent.
FOURTEEN
So Milton persuaded the settlers of New England to join his great cause; within two weeks of his mission, bands of soldiers from Salem, Boston, Ipswich, Roxbury and the other towns were encamped in the fields beyond New Milton. From the beginning Ralph Kempis had known of the blind man’s plans; as soon as Goosequill had heard the declaration of war in the hurriedly gathered assembly, he had ridden secretly to Mary Mount. Kempis could scarcely believe the news. “He suspects me of plotting with the Indians against the other settlers? It is madness. Nothing but madness. Why should I kill my own kind?”
“He says that you wish to be king over all.”
“Oh yes. And no doubt make all bow before horrid idols?”
“That seems to be the general plan.”
“Lies and folly, Goose. Farted wind and fury.” But he had become more agitated, and started walking nervously around the parlor of his house.
Goosequill noticed a small volume on a side-table; it was bound in black leather, and had a metal clasp, like some bible or missal. He walked over and took it. “Do you see this, Ralph?”
“Of course I do.”
“Will you swear upon it?”
“If you wish. Why?”
“Swear an oath, Ralph Kempis, that there is not one jot or tittle of truth in any of these reports.”
Kempis solemnly placed his hand upon the book. “I do so swear.”
“Solemnly?”
“Very.”
“Will you kiss the book, please, Ralph Kempis?” So he bent over, and touched the volume with his lips. Then he started laughing. “This is not solemn at all, Ralph.”
“But it is indeed a sacred book, Goose. Look.” He unlocked the metal clasp, and revealed to the young man a manual on the cure of venereal diseases. “We could do nothing without it.”
That evening Kempis and his closest associates met in one of the taverns of Mary Mount. Goosequill had already alerted them that Milton planned to gather military reinforcements from the towns and villages of New England, and the tone of the discussion was accordingly somber. Goosequill was also sure that the brethren of New Milton intended to attack the papists as soon as they had sufficient numbers of soldiers. What, then, could be done? Theophilus Skelton, a pastry maker, suggested that they should leave the settlement and return to Virginia. But Kempis was vehemently opposed to any such action; he would not be oppressed by tyranny, he said, or flee like some trembling colt from these Puritan tormentors. No, they should build a fortification around Mary Mount while there was yet time. There were seven hundred men among them, including the Indians; they had their guns and mortar pieces, while the Indians still had their deadly bows and hatchets. “It is Milton,” he said, “who has disturbed our blessed peace and brought misery into these territories. He has instilled malice into thousands, but it will redound upon his own head. We may not be equal to them in number but, with Christ and His Holy Mother beside us, we will drive them away!” The matter was to be decided by general assent, English and Indian voting alike with ivory tokens, and it was eventually agreed that Mary Mount would be fortified and guarded.
Two weeks later, only a few miles away, John Milton addressed the brethren. There had been accusations that the soldiers of New England, encamped on neighboring fields, had been eating the corn and other staples of the community; the price of commodities had been driven up, and the settlers were understandably aggrieved. It was the first occasion when Milton felt obliged to assert his authority after the general call to arms, and he took it willingly. He spoke of their common pagan enemies, and of the devastation and desolation which would surely follow if Ralph Kempis were allowed “to wallow up and down.” “I understand that there are some just causes for your complaints,” he went on. “But do you understand the impious malice that transports our adversaries? Down with them! Down with them! Even to the ground!” This shamed the brethren into fresh fervor, and they began singing snatches of “The Cobbler’s Silver Trumpet.” “In my imagination,” Milton continued, calming them with a motion of his hand, “I see a forest huge of spears, and serried shield in thick array of depth immeasurable. This is the army of Christ’s soldiers marching towards its destiny!”
In the course of that day Milton declared that the settlement should be encompassed by earthworks as well as a broad trench; every point of access was then guarded by heaps of stone and by a permanent band of soldiers. Ralph Kempis had taken his own precautions. Along the bank of the river which ran close to Mary Mount he placed sharp stakes, and he protected the settlement itself with trenches and fortifications. He had also decided that the women and children would flee to the safety of the swamps at the time of any confrontation. In this interval before battle, however, he decreed that high mass should be celebrated each morning. In the same period, Milton ordained a day of solemn humiliation.
All of these preparations were soon completed and, in the final weeks of 1662 there followed some sporadic and inconclusive activity. If one party set out to forage, the other party set upon the foragers and beat them back. At dawn one morning the barns just beyond the fortifications of New Milton were discovered in flames—with the evidence that the soldiers of Ralph Kempis had caroused there all night. In retaliation the Puritan soldiers, under cover of darkness, drove spikes into the bed of the river to catch the horses of the enemy. Neither side set out in great hordes, or in close order, but in small divisions; they also made their various assaults with secrecy and speed so that, for the time being, they remained quite safe. There were skirmishes among the woods, when bullets were fired among the rocks and trees without inflicting serious injury, and on one occasion a band of Kempis’s soldiers was confronted in a pea field by men from Salem and Dorchester. But there seemed a reluctance on both sides to begin hostilities, and a truce was negotiated which allowed all of them to march away without a shot being exchanged.
Then, a week after this last encounter, the situation became more dangerous. The “Praying Indians,” and those natives who worked as laborers in New Milton, escaped from the settlement and made their way across the fortifications to Mary Mount. Once they arrived in the presence of Ralph Kempis they fell upon their knees and asked for sanctuary; they proclaimed their hatred for the elect, and described in vivid terms their life of labor and privation. Now they wanted vengeance upon their former employers. “Nickqueentouoog,” one cried out. “Nippau-quanauog.” Which was to say, I will make war upon them and I will destroy them. The others took up the refrain, “Niss-nissoke!” Kill, kill them!
The clandestine departure of the Indians seemed to confirm all of Milton’s warnings, and it became generally agreed among the brethren of New England that Ralph Kempis was indeed planning to mount a vast insurrection against them. Military maneuvers were intensified, while bands of troops now made regular forays into the area around Mary Mount as if daring the Catholics and the Indians to advance against them. A regiment from Roxbury were the first to suffer from this strategy. At first light they had glimpsed a party of Indians apparently fleeing from them into the forest; the soldiers, some thirty in all, pursued them and traveled a little distance into the forest before realizing that they had become lost among the trees. In fact they were in a worse predicament. They found themselves suddenly surrounded by the natives who, taking advantage of the undergrowth, shot and killed several of the men. The soldiers fired back among the trees without noticeable success, and so they took up a square formation as the best possible form of defense; then they charged through the forest, shouting, and were fortunate enough to find a trail that took them back into open country. They assumed that the Indians were pursuing them, and their commander decided that they should make their way to a barn just visible on the horizon; here, at least, they could keep watch and defend themselves against further attack. The barn had once been used to store corn, and seemed solid enough to withstand assault. So they hastened towards it, and took cover.
Within an hour the Indians had once more surrounded them. The men of Roxbury fired, but drew no response. Then, a few minutes later, flaming arrows were shot through the openings in the side of the barn; the soldiers took off their shirts, and managed to extinguish the flames before any serious damage could be done. For two hours there was silence; but then, through the same openings, wooden poles were hurled; rags, dipped in burning brimstone, had been tied to them and began to smolder on the floor of the barn. They could scarcely breathe in the heat and acrid smoke, but they knew that escape would expose them to the arrows and hatchets of the enemy. They fell to their knees and began to pray out loud for the salvation of their souls; they had only just intoned “Amen” when they heard a volley of shots. It came from outside, and within seconds the sound of horses and Englishmen was all around them. These were soldiers from Lynn who, on routine patrol, had seen the smoke and flame issuing from the barn—they had ridden up quickly, firing all the time, but the Indians had retreated to the forest.
When John Milton heard of this skirmish, and of the death of six Roxbury men, he stood very still. He bowed his head and, within the hearing of those around him, murmured, “Some different blood must be drawn before this commonwealth is healthy once again.” His demand was met a few days later, when two spies from the camp of Ralph Kempis were seen crossing the river in a shallow-bottomed boat. They had been noticed by a young recruit from New Plymouth who had gone hunting for squirrel—he took the precaution of hiding himself within a bush, and then ordered the men to halt when they had reached the bank. They took out their weapons and so he fired, nervously, at them; one of them dropped dead upon the ground, but the other escaped into the trees. The recruit did not try to pursue him; he was so dismayed at the sight of the body by the riverbank that he sat down beside it and wept.
Two days later one of the “Praying Indians,” who had absconded from New Milton, returned. He was arrested immediately, and taken to Milton himself. “What is it, reprobate, that you can say to me now?”
“Neenkuttannumous.”
“Speak English. You know our tongue well enough.”
“I will guide you.”
“Guide me? I have no need of guides.”
“To the Englishmen.” He pointed in the direction of Mary Mount. “Matwauog. Soldiers.” His meaning was clear enough and, on being questioned further, he revealed that he knew of an undefended path from which the fortifications of Mary Mount could be breached. Asked why he was willing to assist them, he affirmed his respect for his old employers as well as his love for the English god; he had left with the other Indians only after threats of punishment and torture. He was a true Christian. But this was not enough for John Milton. He took his Bible from a private drawer, and placed it in the native’s hand. “You know this book well enough, I believe?”
“Weekan.” By which he meant “It is sweet to my taste.”
“Then swear the truth of what you have said.”
“I swear. True.”
This satisfied the blind man, and a few days later the Indian led a party of twelve soldiers on a reconnaissance of the area around Mary Mount. He first guided them two miles downriver where, as he had reported, there was a stone footpath across the water which led to an undefended and unfortified track. They soon came in sight of the wide trench built around the settlement itself, and the guide motioned them to their position behind an outcrop of rocks in case they were observed. They did so, willingly enough, but they had just stretched out upon the ground when they were disturbed and astonished by the sound of loud laughter. Ralph Kempis was standing on the rock above them, his hands upon his hips. “So these are the soldiers of Christ! Boys, come and see.” At once they were surrounded by a party of fifty or sixty men, dressed in a bewildering variety of hunting outfits, colored breeches and plumed hats. “Where do you hail from, soldiers?” The leader of the party, Ozalius Spencer, gave no reply. “Let me take a guess. Boston? Watertown? Or are you New Plymouth brethren, perhaps?”
“We are the soldiers of New England.”
“Yet it is not new at all. We are at war with one another in the good old fashion.”
“It was not begun by us.”
“Oh, no games for boys, please. No apportioning blame. You know the truth of it.”
“Our consciences are good.”
“I do not ask you to look into your own conscience. I ask you to look into that of John Milton.” They were all silent. “Enough. Escort them away, and keep them closely tied.”
Ralph Kempis rode off alone, while they were bound in thick ropes and taken into Mary Mount. In fact he returned to that part of the river where the Indian guide (who had been working on his behalf) had led the unfortunate soldiers. He dismounted by the path, and strode over to the small footbridge of stone; he whistled softly, and waited for a reply. It came a few moments later, and two huddled figures walked up to the bridge. “Halloo ahead,” Kempis whispered.
“Halloo. All well?”
“All well.”
Then Goosequill and Katherine, holding the two children in their arms, crossed the bridge to the other side. Their journey had been planned for some days. As soon as Milton had declared war on Mary Mount, and begun the work of fortification, Goosequill had determined to leave New Milton. He discussed it with Katherine through the night, and finally agreed that they would stop briefly in Mary Mount for horses and provisions—before traveling westward towards new lands or new settlements. They would strike out for the interior! So on this evening, at a prearranged time, Goosequill and his family walked across the bridge into the territory of Mary Mount. It was the first day of the new year.
Milton guessed at once where they had gone. He had already learned of the Indian guide’s trickery and of the capture of his soldiers; when he was told of Goosequill’s disappearance, he immediately suspected his former secretary of also having some part in the ambush. Then he raged. “Consider,” he said to Seaborn Jervis, “how this filthy groom, this pot of piss, has taken your sister and your daughter.”
“As well as my lovely niece, sir.”
“Was it well done? Was it justly done? Oh no! By God and God’s Mother I shall have him back here.”
“What then, sir? What will you do to him?”
“I shall whip him so that he limps through life with no more wholesome skin than a leper.”
“Not burned, sir? Or hanged?”
“You speak more piously, Mr. Jervis, and remind me of my duties. I will, of course, hang him.” And, even as he spoke, he determined that the moment had come to launch his long-prepared assault against Mary Mount itself.
“The papists will be cut to pieces,” he told Preserved Cotton that day. “I shall have them scorched and rolling in their own fire like the devils they are.”
“They will burn in hell, too, sir.”
“Oh, Preserved, they must also be burned on the earth. Do you not see it? From godly fire to everlasting flame. We cannot allow their slaughtered carcasses to pollute our good land.”
On the following morning he addressed the captains of the various New England troops. “You know well,” he said, “that soldiers generally conduct themselves in the manner of their commanders. So consider your righteousness before the struggle as much as your demeanor in the field itself. We know already that these savages and Jesuits fight without due order, and that they do not willingly give battle except by stealth and ambush. When we come against them, no doubt they will disperse themselves into several rambling and raging parcels like so many unkenneled wolves or mad bears. So we must circumvent them. Come.” They followed him to his house, where they proceeded to draw up their plans.
