John Billington, on his horse, nodded to the guards standing at the palisade, and rode through his field, on his way to meet the man he would trade with. But as he approached his field, he saw the newcomer had not heeded his earlier warning. An acre away, the man was, far too close, on Billington’s own property, chopping down his oak tree still.
What’s this? Billington called from afar, forgetting for a moment his vow with himself to begin with pleasantries. It was a recent vow he’d made after an unfortunate evening in the room beneath the meetinghouse, when a hypocrite had claimed he was inebriated. He was not, but that did not stop Captain Shrimp.
Newcomen, the man said, as if he, John Billington, had forgotten his name the first time.
This man was only a boy, the age his eldest son would have been. But this did not lend Billington any kind feelings toward him, rather it was an irksome reminder.
Newcomen’s hand was outstretched, but Billington did not take it. John Billington folded his arms.
I told you, that’s my land.
Newcomen apologized, said that Standish marked specifically this place, and the tree, as his. Newcomen said he was not to blame, that he was newly arrived, et cetera, et cetera.
Billington heard the name Standish and heard little else after that.
That man is set against me, doing this to provoke! Billington thought.
He saw yet again how Standish was intent to kick him out of the colony before he got what was due to him. Billington had been tracking his days and his land, suspicious the governor and elders were looking to take away what little they’d promised.
Here’s what we’ll do, Billington heard himself say. That tree’s mine, and we’ll say your stake begins on the other side.
He pointed just past the parcel he wished to purchase.
Newcomen seemed to think on it.
But it’s not, Newcomen said. Or rather, that’s not what Captain Standish has told me.
Billington smirked.
I don’t want trouble, Newcomen said and went back to his chopping.
Billington took longer than he wished to regain his composure. When his breath was steady he told Newcomen to be careful and rode hotly onward to Billington Sea.
He met the young Wampanoag man at the eastern edge of the lake named after his son.
The two nodded.
The young man said, Hello.
He spoke in English, likely informed by two decades—his entire lifetime—of contact with English fishermen, trappers, seamen, and traders.
Billington brought out the powder and motioned for a show of payment.
But something gave Billington pause.
Billington was not sure how much English the young man would know, but he asked, anyway, How will you use it?
Was Billington’s concern valid or was this the colony speaking, was this some English loyalty, the disastrous loyalty that never gives anything back, beat into the lower classes? Was this the fear, the wretched fear the hypocrites had so much of, leeching into him?
For defense, the young man said. The clear, obvious answer.
No matter, Billington told himself, when the beaver pelts were in his hands. Over went the powder, over went the pelts and wampum, and none would be the wiser.
The two men nodded, and each man turned back toward the way they came—Billington on horse, the other man on foot.
He’d done it. He’d saved enough to purchase the parcel adjacent to his property out in the fields. But that elation was short-lived. He was struck with fear. What if they’ve already given it away?
He finally had the means to pay for it. Of course it would disappear.
He had to go at once to Standish, or Bradford, and as kindly as he could muster—given their wretchedness—inquire about purchasing the land.