John Goodman

Boston, Massachusetts Bay Colony

Like all God-fearing men, John Goodman strived to espouse many virtues, to fulfill many roles. As a Harvard-educated lawyer and former member of the Council of Assistants, he sought to help his countrymen, to preserve justice and order in the colony. As a family man, he strived to perform those duties—a good husband to his wife Pleasance, and a good father to his two daughters, Grace and Mercy. But most of all, he wished to serve God, to live in a way that would uphold the Lord’s teachings, each and every day.

Only, as the years passed, those ideals grew more and more distant. As it turned out, ‘justice’ and ‘order’ were not clear-cut, but rather fickle things that ebbed and flowed with the law, while the law itself was not always just. Nor was there a guidebook on parenthood, or how to deal with the burgeoning emotions of teenage daughters. And sometimes, to John’s great dismay, God was terrifyingly silent, and often when he needed His guidance the most.

Then came war. War like these lands had never seen, war that John could never have imagined. War that made beasts of good men, and devils of wicked ones. Once-beautiful fields and forests, great landscape’s sprung from God’s paintbrush, battered and defiled. Women and children butchered in their homes, babes ripped from their mother’s arms. John witnessed horrors he would not wish upon any of God’s creatures.

It was war that caused his fraying ideals to finally crumble. There was no honor or justice to be found on the battlefield. Rather, it was a war borne of injustice, of a hasty trial and hanging of three Indian men, of a false arrest of an Indian King. On the battlefield itself, the only law was that of animals—kill or be killed, eat or be eaten. His family became an abstract memory for him, an ideal that kept him going on the coldest winter nights and through the most grueling of battles. And God was nowhere to be found. He could not be here, among the scattered corpses, the awful stench of blood and death. But no, that wasn’t quite right, was it? God was omniscient, omnipotent, omnipresent. God had preordained it all—the hanging of those three Indians, the death of King Alexander in prison, the massacres of innocent women and children. And what could that possibly mean?

By the time he returned from those three years of hell, his whole life had changed. His eldest daughter was now of marrying age, and the younger Mercy was not far behind. The Council had been dissolved and reformed with the formation of the Dominion, leaving him jobless unless he submit himself to the Crown’s yoke. Old England’s influence and false religion spread through these Puritan lands like a disease, with old churches turning to Anglican ones, popish and profane.

Worst of all, the devil had come to New England. A wolf in sheep’s clothing, he wore the skin of a man, the invisible crown of England lingering like a blasphemous halo above his head. He had conveniently come to this place a year before the war began, and used it to propel himself to the highest seat of power. In its latest attempt to squeeze the last drop of independence from its fledgling colonies, the Lords of England had united all the colonies of New England north of Pennsylvania, called the Dominion of New England. This wolf in sheep’s skin, the devil named Edmund Andros, was named its governor, to tighten the iron grasp of Mother England on all the people who had worked so hard to escape it. And it was this man that John Goodman found himself at the behest of, and who had summoned him for a meeting today.

John’s breath fogged as he made the walk down the Boston Common towards Sam Willard’s Church. Only it was Sam Willard’s church no longer, having been commandeered by Andros to perform the Anglican church’s rites of popery. It was also the building Andros used for his meetings whenever he came to Boston. The governor’s summons were vague, leaving John with little idea why he was here, but his arrival was always an ill omen. John suspected it likely had something to do with whisperings from the north, from the rumors of French aggression into Seneca territory.

An attack on the Five Nations was, to a certain extent, an attack on England, who had allied themselves with the Iroquois. To John, though, he did not care much. He was not fond of dealing with the Iroquois—if he had his way, he would have never broken relations with the Wampanoag and the Narragansett. But relations were broken, bridges burned that could never be rebuilt. John was there when their former allies’ proud king was shot in the back, gunned down in the swamp like an animal. He was there when his body was quartered, his head hung on a pike, the rest of him draped from tree branches like macabre ornaments to some pagan fête. He was there when the man’s wife and children were put in irons and shipped off to Bermuda as slaves, along with all the other captives.

No, there was no going back now. The tribes who were once the New Englanders’ greatest allies were dead or scattered, the few that remained now bitter and resentful. Meanwhile the colonies had latched onto the support of the Iroquois, regardless of the consequences. And Andros, in a way, was behind much of it. Back before the Dominion, when he was merely the governor of New York, he managed somehow to convince the nearby Mohawk to attack King Phillip, and join the war on their side. What followed was the first turning point in the fighting, a move that finally put the Wampanoag and their allies on the back foot. But at what cost? It was impossible to tell. No one seemed to know how it was that Andros convinced the Iroquois, and it was far too early to know what fruits their new alliance would bear, and what thorns would grow along with them.

At the very least, there was one thing John Goodman was certain of: the loss of the Wampanoag was something huge, like dropping a boulder in a lake of still water. Years ago, John helped serve as an interpreter, learning their language to help mediate negotiations. He made many friends among the Indians, some of them closer than any he had made among his own people. Now, all but one were dead, ghosts that haunted his dreams and conscience.

The large wooden door of the Third Church creaked open as John entered. As expected, Governor Andros was there, sitting in the wooden pulpit like it was a lofty gazebo. The pulpit was one of several recent additions since the genesis of the Dominion, a blasphemous Anglican addition to this once-righteous place of worship.

“Ah, there you are,” the Governor said as John entered. “Evening, Goodman!”

It was a play on words, one that always brought a stupid smile to Andros’ blocky face. Every man was a Goodman here, when addressed politely, and every woman a Goodwife. John, then, was Goodman Goodman, if you were strictly technical about it, an ironic little repetition which Andros loved to point out.

John just raised his hand in acknowledgement, mustering the bare minimum required to keep the Governor satisfied. He took his seat in the front pew by the pulpit, and nodded to another man who was seated in the lectern opposite. His name was Increase Mather, named for the never-to-be-forgotten Increase of God’s favor upon his birth. As one would expect from a man with such a name, Increase was a man of Puritan godliness, which of course put him at odds with Andros and the Dominion. Despite this, he always managed to find out about informal meetings and summons like these, and he always managed to show up at them, even though he no longer held any power. John wasn’t sure why Andros kept allowing his presence, given that he was so adamant about eschewing the rest of the status quo. His best guess was that it was some kind of secret olive branch, an attempt to placate the Old Guard of Puritans who were constantly fighting against his reforms. Of course, it would never work. The only thing that Increase and the others cared about was re-establishing their Puritan theocracy, one that shut out false religions that undermined the law of God.

“I hope your trip was pleasant enough,” John said to Andros.

“It was rather awful, actually,” he replied. “I don’t need to tell either of you how cold it is this time of year. And worse, I received the most disturbing letter upon my arrival. Governor Denonville has broken the treaty I worked so hard to broker between us, and is marching into Seneca territory as we speak. I even sent him another letter of warning, which must have never reached him, because he would know better than to ignore me.”

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John shifted uncomfortably in the hard wooden pew. The newest Governor of New France had proved to be an increasingly large thorn in the side of England’s colonies ever since his appointment. A year ago, he had sent marines to assault and seize three outposts in Hudson’s Bay, effectively cutting New England off from the fur trade in the north entirely. Now, he was invading the territory of their sworn allies, and the Seneca would expect New England to honor their alliance.

What’s more, tensions were growing back in Europe. King Louis had just emerged victorious over the Dutch, and was ever-gluttonous for more power, to extend the borders of his grand empire. He had already begun encroaching into the territories of Spain and the Holy Roman Empire, and England would surely be next. Given that the Kings of both France and England were staunch Catholics, they shared an uneasy alliance, but one that could easily be broken. It was hard to know everything that was going on in the motherlands, so far away, but there were always rumors and distant rumblings. If things continued the way they were, it could lead to a war between England and France, which would no doubt spill over to its colonies. That would be nightmarish for John and all the other Puritans—to be made into warrior-puppets, fighting for the glory of a nation and ruler they had crossed the Atlantic to escape from.

“I hope that’s not the reason you summoned me,” John said.

“No, of course not,” Andros said. “What on earth would I have you do with the French, let alone the Iroquois? That’s not your skillset. Although, the task I have in mind is not completely unrelated, either. What I need from you, Goodman, is to take a little trip north to visit the Abenakis of Acadia.”

“Why? Have they joined the quarrel between the French and the Iroquois?”

“No, not yet. But we don’t really want them to change their mind about that, do we? I don’t need to tell you that the Abenakis took the side of our enemies during the last war, and that their warriors almost swung the pendulum to their side. I am not about to risk that again if France decides to extend this little excursion of theirs into a full-fledged offensive.”

“What makes you think they will be swayed to our side?” Mather cut in. “We have nothing new to offer them, and they still resent us for defeating them in the last war.”

“As I understand it, you had a point of contact with the Abenakis,” Andros said.

“Yes,” John said. “His name’s Great Runner. He did seem amenable to supporting our side, though I imagine his support would come with a price. The issue was not with him, however, but with the others. Getting one chief on your side is one thing, but the Abenakis do not have just one ruler. And from what I could tell, Great Runner is not a persuasive chief, and holds little power among the others. We’ll need many more than him if we’re going to convince them.”

“Well, if my informants are correct, we may have been granted an opportunity. Your contact, as it seems, has died. His wife is apparently set to replace him, and therein lies our opportunity. Your old chief couldn’t convince the others, but a woman might have more sway with men, and better yet, she might be looking to remarry into a family with a little more political weight. Have you met her?”

John thought hard.

“I remember her, I think,” he said. “He always brought her with him, to consult with her. But she never spoke with me, not directly. She would whisper to him, and he would speak to me. I don’t know if she’ll be agreeable or not.”

“Well, that’s what your little trip will be for, won’t it? Oh, and you’ll be accompanied by a William Marley. I believe you’re already acquainted.”

“What!?”

John suddenly stood from the pew, his fists balled so tight his knuckles whitened.

“Is there a problem?” Andros asked.

“Yes, there’s a problem,” John hissed. “You’re not sending me on a diplomatic mission. You’re sending me as a distraction. Anything that

John had to resist the urge to spit on the ground in this holy place, eager to rid the name William Marley from his mouth. While he and his countrymen saw many horrors during King Philip's War, and even committed some, he walked away knowing most of those men still had a conscience. That did not apply to William Marley. He was the type of man who relished in others’ pain, who sought to cause as much misery and suffering as he could. The battlefields of King Philip’s war had been his playground, one that awarded his penchant for pure brutality.

“You don’t have anything to worry about,” Andros said. “Marley is just there to be my eyes and ears, and as a failsafe if things go south.”

“Marley will cause things to go south,” John said adamantly. “There will be no negotiations if he’s there. If you truly cared about winning the hearts of the Abenaki, you will keep William Marley far away from them. And I will not travel by his side.”

All of a sudden, the governor’s usual coy demeanor turned sour.

“Am I to understand that you’re disobeying a command from your Governor?” He asked.

John stiffened. At the end of the day, he was still a subject of the Crown, and it was errands like these that kept his family fed since the dissolution of his old job. He turned his eyes to Mather for aid, who had been sitting there quietly this whole time.

“You must understand John’s hesitation,” the man mused. “After all, Marley does carry a rather brutal reputation from the war. But of course you will need an emissary to represent you at such meetings, and we can provide none for you. Why don’t we send a third man, then, to help put John’s poor soul at ease during his travels. Someone he can trust, who can help in the negotiations as well. What about Sam Appleton?”

“You’re joking,” Andros scoffed. “You know that Sam Appleton is currently in prison, don’t you, Mather?”

“Well, he could be pardoned, just for this excursion.”

John reeled at the suggestion. Not that he wouldn’t love to travel with an old friend like Sam Appleton, and certainly he would be glad if he were freed from his unjust imprisonment. But that was not why Mather suggested it. After all, Appleton was arrested in the first place for defying Andros, for possessing, as his warrant stated, a “seditious inclination”. His arrest was a warning against further opposition, a message to all the other rebellious Puritans to know their place. Mather wasn’t really trying to help John—he rarely did. He was here to further his own agenda, to start chipping away at the armor of the Dominion he so vehemently opposed.

“Absolutely not,” Andros said. “It’s out of the question.”

“I understand,” Increase replied, conceding the point immediately, to John’s surprise. “But surely we can find some compromise, then—some middle ground. Is there another you could trust, John? One who would put your mind at ease about this whole Marley situation?”

Now, both the men turned to John, who tried his best not to squirm under their intense gazes. Both of them sat on opposite ends of the church, like an angel and devil upon his shoulders. Only it was not that simple, for Mather was not an angel. In many ways, he was just as scheming and manipulative as Andros, the only difference between them being their faith. To John, one could not espouse the virtues of God through subterfuge, a belief which Increase and many of the other Puritans who used to hold power did not share.

John could not help but feel like a puppet whose strings were being pulled in two opposite directions, slowly tearing his body apart. Still, he was more than a mere puppet. Andros would want him to select some Anglican sympathizer, while Increase would want him to bring a theocrat. But he would do neither. He would not kowtow to Andros or the Dominion, and he did not trust Mather, despite their religious kinship.

“Isaac Alderman,” he said. “He knows the area better than I do, and he has family among the Abenaki.”

The suggestion surprised both Andros and Mather alike. Isaac Alderman was an Indian, of the Wampanoag, no less. He had been an advisor to King Philip before the great chief turned against him, causing him to flee and join the New Englanders. It was Alderman, in fact, that landed the fatal shot against King Philip, ending the war once and for all. And unbeknownst to Andros, he was one of John’s closest friends.

“Fine by me,” Andros said. “I’ll not deny you a war hero to guard you on the road, and having an Indian along for the talks will surely help smooth things over. You can fetch him on your way north.”

“Thank you,” John said. He mustered a quick bow to the Governor, though it made him want to puke, then turned and walked towards the door.

“Oh, and do tell him to bring the hand with him when you all return for debriefing,” Andros said with a wave. “I’ve never gotten the chance to see it.”

John ignored him, walking out of the church and into the cold winter air. A nausea rose in the pit of his stomach. It was a feeling he always got before something went wrong, a feeling of imminent dread. It was not a perfect prescience, but at the very least it told him one thing: this trip would be far more trouble than it was worth.