This Thing of Darkness

Sonnet 66

Tired with all these, for restful death I cry,
As to behold desert a beggar born,
And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity,
And purest faith unhappily forsworn,
And gilded honour shamefully misplac'd,
And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,
And right perfection wrongfully disgrac'd,
And strength by limping sway disabled
And art made tongue-tied by authority,
And folly—doctor-like—controlling skill,
And simple truth miscall'd simplicity,
And captive good attending captain ill:
Tir'd with all these, from these would I be gone,
Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.

~ 1 ~

The Wild and Wasteful Ocean

Somewhere in the Atlantic, April, 1619

The dead man cowered in his bunk as the ship about him lurched and groaned on the storm-churned sea. The hull growled, the timbers whined, and the masts protested endlessly. Between blasts of thunder and the crashing of waves upon the deck above, the man could hear the shouts and cries of the crew and his fellow passengers. Wouldn’t it be ironic if we all went down? He thought. And for me, of all people. Full fathom five, indeed. Not that anyone would mourn his loss, since most who cared about him had already shared their grief back in England. Still, it would be sad to sink to the bottom of the Atlantic unnoticed, except by his bastard son, struggling to sleep in own bunk, and the other men on board, who couldn’t tell him from their favorite tapster for all the gold in America.

Abruptly, the ship rolled to starboard, throwing the frightened passenger onto the rough-planked floor of his cabin, where he lay, panting, like a terrified house cat, until the vessel corrected itself and he tumbled back in the other direction. He locked eyes with his now-awake son for an instant and saw his own terror reflected back at him, despite the darkness of the room.

“All’s well!” the man exclaimed, as he dragged himself back into his bunk. “Happens all the time!” If only he could sleep – not the eternal sleep threatened by this angry ocean, but simple sleep, sleep that knits up the raveled sleeve of care and so forth. He’d have paid any amount to doze through this tempest and awaken on the other side, in calmer seas, with a bit of blue sky overhead. He knew he owed God a death; he just hoped it wasn’t due yet.

Still, as much as he feared for his life and that of his boy, he was even more concerned for the safety of his books. His body, after all, was merely a vessel – much like this ship – but his books! His books were the children of his spirit, and…there the metaphor fell apart, like bread in wine. He would like to have gone into the hold, to ensure that his cargo was secure and dry, but candles and lamps were undoubtedly out all over the boat and, with its violent jostling, the man didn’t think such a journey likely to end in success.

As if on cue, the ship listed dangerously to port. A dog, belonging to one of the other passengers, yelped in terror, and the frightened passenger ruminated on how fear was a great equalizer amongst animals, making a man no better than a rat, or, alternatively, making them comrades-in-arms, in their battle against a common, implacable foe. If only they could take arms against this sea of troubles and by opposing, end them. Or it.

There came a blast of thunder so loud that he nearly soiled himself. It would be a wonder if the masts hadn’t been shattered to kindling. He’d had many a long night over his fifty-some years, but he promised the gods above and below he would never take His or Their names in vain again, if only they’d see him safely to shore this one last time.

Fretting and sweating in his bunk, he finally fell asleep.

He was awakened sometime later by a sharp noise at his door. With a glance, he confirmed the sound had likewise roused his son, and that someone had forced his way into their presence amidst a veritable cloud of Rhenish vapors.

"Do as I say, and no one gets hurt!" the shadow commanded.

Will frowned in disappointment. “That’s the best you can do?”

"Shut up and toss your purse my way, along with anything else o' value."

“You are drunk, sir. How do you expect to escape justice on this wee boat with nowhere to hide?” the dead man demanded incredulously.

“That’s my concern. Now, I won’t ask again. Your valuables. Now.”

Once more, the dead man glanced over at his son, who huddled quietly in his bunk. With a long-suffering sigh that projected a confidence he did not feel, he pulled his pistol from beneath his blanket and fired at the intruder, who flew backwards into the wall and immediately collapsed. Frightened by the blast, the boy leapt to his feet.

"Don't trouble yourself, lad. I'm just ridding the ship of its rats. One of them, anyway."

Anon, there came a stern knocking on the door. "That's the Captain and his men, I expect," he said to his son, who had returned to his previous position. In the next motion, he crossed to the door and pulled it open. In the corridor, the First Officer and several of the crew stood with weapons ready.

"We heard gunfire," the First Officer deadpanned.

~ 2 ~

So Quick, Bright Things Come to Confusion

Virginia’s Jamestown Colony, April, 1619

There is something enormously gratifying about splitting firewood, about using an axe with such violence and precision, about exercising one’s muscles in the out-of-doors, providing one’s family with the fuel necessary to cook its food and keep it warm. All in all, it was one of Jamieson’s favorite tasks, and this evening was no different. To his left, his eldest picked up and stacked the newly split logs under the eaves of the family home, that they might age and dry until needed. Well off to Jamieson's right, his two daughters frolicked amongst the wildflowers, far enough away to stay clear of the axe or any of the splinters its work might send flying, but near enough that Jamieson might reach them should the need arise.

He paused in his labors to wipe the sweat from his brow with the back of his left arm.

"Are we done, papa?" his son asked hopefully.

Jamieson smiled. Terrence reminded him of himself as a boy, always looking for a chore to be done as quickly as possible. "I'll cut a few more, yet," he responded. He still had some minutes before sunset, and he wanted to accomplish as much as possible before that nonnegotiable deadline.

Terrence sighed just loudly enough for his father to hear, but said nothing. He, too, was aware that sundown would bring an end to this task and the welcome advent of dinnertime, card games, and stories. Some of those stories, no doubt, would be about what happened to those who dared to stay out after dark, for it was well known that although the Powhatans were not the most aggressive of the local natives (nor yet the most agreeable), there were others who might think nothing of capturing or killing a settler's child. These stories terrified his sisters, but Terrence loved them. He wasn't afraid of the natives, at least not while he was indoors, and his father's musket stood ready for firing.

Long, long seconds later, Terrence heard his father lay the axe against the stump he used for splitting. He turned to see him take in the lowering sun.

“It’s about that time,” he said regretfully. Lord, how the man loved to work! “Girls!” he called. “Let us go inside. Terrence, be a good lad and bring the axe, will you?” Without waiting for a response, Jamieson looked over at the cottage and began to walk towards it.

His daughters, Meredith and Alice, were quick to obey their father’s commands, but Terrence was a bit slower in complying. He wasn’t allowed to use the axe just yet, but with his father’s back turned, he could not resist an errant swing or two. Just let one of the natives try him now! He’d chop ‘em to kindling.

“Terrence!” his father barked from the cottage door.

Of course. The man heard and saw everything. It was a blessing, his mother said, for the family but certainly a curse for young Terrence. He lowered his eyes sheepishly, slumped his shoulders, and carried the axe as he’d been taught. A lecture was coming, he knew, and a stern one at that.

Inside, the children’s mother was laboring over the stew pot when she suddenly cried out in pain. Jamieson, who’d just begun the process of barring the door, rushed to her side to determine the cause of her distress. The ladle, it seemed, had been too close to the flames, so that when she picked it up, she seared her fingers and the palm of her hand but good. Her husband poured cool water upon the burn and carefully wrapped the hand in linen.

“Wash up, now,” Terrence’s mother told him and his sisters, who stood by gawking. “It’s just a burn. Happens all the time.”

Salted pork. How Terrence hated it. He would have given anything for a bit of venison. Alas, salted pork was what there was, and it was that or nothing, as his father so often reminded him. Still, Terrence would rather have eaten his shoe. He glanced across the table and saw his father glaring at him — did the man ever do anything else? Hoping to appease him, Terrence shoved a goodly bite of meat into his mouth and chewed, careful to keep any sign of disgust from his face.

“I was thinking,” said Jamieson to no one in particular, “of building a smokehouse, ‘twould give our meat a bit more flavor and make the fish and fowl last longer. I’ll be needing some help, of course…” He let the last trail off, but his son knew exactly who the help was meant to be and couldn’t have been happier.

“I can do it!” he volunteered, a little too lustily.

His sisters giggled and his mother fought back a chuckle herself, even as she winced at the lingering pain in her hand. “Just you finish your supper first!” she scolded gently.

That task accomplished and everything tidied up, the family gathered near the hearth, to enjoy a few songs and fables by the fire. Only, Jamieson could not locate his pipe for his customary postprandial smoke. He checked and rechecked his pockets. He searched the table. He scanned the hearth.

“Ye left it outside, papa!” Terrence reminded him. “By the chopping block.”

“Did I?” Jamieson asked in obvious disappointment. “Well, I suppose I’ll have to do without —”

But his son, eager for his father’s approval, rushed to the door Jamieson had never quite finished locking, threw aside the bar, and rushed out into the darkness.

In a panic, Jamieson and his wife dashed after their son, calling his name and demanding he return. They were stopped cold by a terrible roar unlike any sound they’d ever heard. “It’s a bear!” Jamieson cried out, but he didn’t believe it. As he turned to fetch his musket, he was hit in the back by something heavy and hard that knocked him onto his belly. His wife and daughters screamed and continued to scream. Jamieson rolled over and saw Terrence’s bloody head on the floor to his left, gazing over at him with a look of utter confusion and be-damned if the lips weren’t moving! “Shut the door!” Jamieson yelled to his wife, the only one close enough to manage it.

But it was already too late.

~ 3 ~

Ripeness is All

The Atlantic Ocean, April, 1619

The fact that he woke up the next morning struck him as nothing less than miraculous. In the first place, he was astounded to discover he’d actually fallen asleep again; in the second, the ship was still afloat. His left knee ached, but that was nothing new. And his belly burned something terrible. That little concern would kill him in earnest someday, he’d no doubt, but evidently today was not that day.

He glanced about his cabin. It was little more than a closet, but that ‘little more’ was much more than the rest of the passengers enjoyed. Such, the prerogatives of wealth. He pondered that wealth, his son, and the time ahead. He knew the days of his second life were dwindling rapidly, and that his next death would be final. And so, he wanted to live, truly live, in the time remaining to him. After his funeral (which he’d attended in disguise), he traveled, just as he had in his youth, in his salad days. But although unknown to him, everywhere he went was nevertheless known by and to someone, and he left each location a little dismayed at the lack of surprise. America, on the other hand, was full of still-unexplored forests, mountains, meadows and lakes. The dead man wanted to see the ‘ugly’ mermaids of which he’d heard tell. He wanted to see the savages who skulked about the primordial woodlands. He wanted to see trees that had never known the axe and rivers that had never been fished. And to greet this New World, he had become a new man.

Nowadays, he called himself William Kemp. He was comfortable enough with William, and being William Kemp made him laugh, as the real William Kemp never had. Not that anyone on board or in the New World would know the difference, and, in fact, the new William Kemp was counting on it. He was somewhat disappointed to discover no women dressed as men amongst the other passengers (a favorite fantasy of his), but he did encounter a man dressed as a woman who called herself Margaret. Will had seen many such men in his time, and Margaret’s effort was especially refined, despite her rather hulking size. He thought, whimsically, that he might marry her, if only to cement their two disguises with further authenticity. Nothing convinced like the veneer of domesticity.

Such musings naturally put him in mind of his actual wife, the poor, forlorn victim-of-all victims he’d gradually learned to despise, largely because of how she made him feel about himself. He had been – was! – a man of great accomplishment, but in her eyes, he was a faithless husband, a poor father, and a terrible drunk, which insult hurt worse than the other two combined. In his mind, he was an excellent drunk. Quam bene vivas referre, non quam diu.

She was a right Christian martyr, though – at least she thought herself to be, never mind that he’d brought much wealth and luxury into her life, wealth and luxury she could never have expected at the time of their marriage. As a provider, he’d exceeded expectations to the same degree that the sun exceeds a candle. But she always wanted more of him – more intimacy, more time, more conversation and, most especially, more frequent attendance at church. He was like his father in that regard, however, and would rather have listened to the slaughter of swine for all eternity than spend another moment in the pews. Besides, he’d spent the better part of his life listening to the greatest orators in the land; the pastor at his local church was a poor substitute.

He’d been glad to say goodbye to his town, as well. In retirement, he’d been beleaguered by folks angling for loans, for gifts, for his benison. None of them really seemed to know him or his work, none seemed to have any genuine feelings for him outside of jealousy. As a boy and young man, he’d always thought his town too small, too provincial. He was more than sorry that his retirement had confirmed it. And so, he was saddled with a wife, a home, and a town that no longer brought him the least bit of satisfaction, of joy. What was to be done? Now a man of title and reputation, he could not simply leave. The scandal would have been too great for someone whose continued income depended upon public adoration. Fortunately, his own works instructed him, and he contrived to fake his own death.

*****

“Good morrow, Master Kemp,” the first mate said as Will emerged onto the deck.

“As I am still alive to see it, yes, ‘tis very good, indeed. And please, there’s no need to call me Master Kemp. Will is more than adequate.”

“As you say, Will. The captain would like a word.”

He was no seer, Will, but he’d been expecting as much and imagined he could probably predict the ensuing conversation to the last detail.

“Master Kemp,” the captain would say. “You shot and killed a man aboard my ship last night.”

“Only after he broke into my quarters and threatened my apprentice and me.”

“That’s as may be,” the captain would offer, “but I cannot have my passengers murdering one another, even in self-defense. Why didn’t you shoot him in the shoulder, or the leg? How am I to question his corpse?”

The actual conversation was little different, save for one small but vital detail: the dead man was one of parolees from Newgate Prison, and was sure to have had friends both onboard and in Jamestown.

Will, it seemed, had kicked the proverbial hornets’ nest.