It would be hours before his dinner if he wished for deer, but that was his wish, and so few of them went fulfilled that he would allow this one. His stomach ached, shrunk inward by the eight hours he had gone without.
He came upon the crowd forming on the two roads to the meetinghouse. All those hypocrites, smiling and laughing, their bellies soon to be full. The smell of venison wafted over to him.
You have it nicely here, don’t you, Master Billington? said a voice behind him.
John Billington turned to see Thomas Weston. Weston was a compact man and the errant white strands of hair were one of the few things that revealed his age. His chin jutted out, which gave the impression of being slightly perturbed, a physical feature that benefited him in negotiation.
Your letter caused quite the stir amongst investors.
John Billington let the barrel of his gun touch the ground and leaned against it. The drinks with Tom had left him more unsteady than he realized. He paused before replying.
We signed away seven years to be in Virginia, amongst English people. Not these devils, disguising themselves as devout.
You are a landowner, are you not, Master Billington?
John Billington looked away.
Quite a step up from London, eh? There you’d be in debtors’ prison or more likely dead. If I were you I would count your blessings.
You know what you promised us.
So you want me to take you back?
John Billington shifted his weight off of his gun.
As I am sure you know, Master Weston, Bradford burned down Morton’s house. For trading fur better than he could. Of course Bradford lied and blamed the house-burning on Morton’s merrymaking. Hypocrites, murdering and destroying property as it suits them. Sundays here you would think the town had the plague.
Weston was smiling.
Are you saying you wish to sell your land and go back to London, Master Billington?
You knew they were going to take us north, not to Virginia.
I agree it is not fertile land, won’t get you much, but if you need it taken off your hands … Might pay for you and your family to return.
For the work I’ve done here, you should have paid me. My son dead.
John Billington was not keeping the promise he made with himself to stop letting these people bother him.
My whole family nearly died, and you’ve yet to acknowledge your lies. Sold those children to those hypocrites. Two years old, that youngest. You’ll do anything for a profit, but what will a profit do for you in the afterlife, Master Weston?
If Billington’s claims had an effect on Weston, no one observing Weston could have seen it.
So you want me to take you back?
John Billington stared at Weston.
In a flat voice, Weston said, What do you want. It was not a question.
Billington adjusted the weight of his gun.
You know what I want. I’ve said it.
Myles Standish stood in the doorway of the meetinghouse. The crowd was filing inside. Thomas Weston looked over to him.
What I want, Master Weston, is an admission and an apology. Tell the truth and be absolved from your sins. You knew where you were sending us.
Dinner, Standish called to Weston, his voice a little higher than usual. He did not set his eyes upon Billington.
As if Billington had not spoken, Thomas Weston said, Good day, Master Billington, and started toward the meetinghouse.
You are a lying rascal and a rogue, Thomas Weston, Billington called out.
Weston turned. He walked back to Billington and only stopped when he was close enough to bite Billington’s ear.
Listen, you knave. I could have you dead by nightfall. No one here would know who did it and every single person in this colony would celebrate.
Weston adjusted his cuffs. Nay, you are not worth the gunpowder it would take.
Weston then called to Standish, What have your fine women prepared for us? and strode into the meetinghouse.
John Billington walked quickly past, tipped his hat to the guards, moved through the palisade, then out, at last, past Plymouth proper and in the open air of his property, where he could think.
Dumping out their shitty chamber pots, burying their dead, thatching their roofs before he had finished his own, had he not given them enough? Had he not done enough, for seven years as their servant? No, it seemed, he hadn’t. He would always be a servant, always be the man—barely a man—they told what to do. Had he not tired his back and arms building their houses by day, then dragged himself to his small square of dirt and hammered at night on his own? Chopped their firewood, as they demanded, before his own, poured their beer before his own, ate only the table scraps they deigned to give him. Indentured servitude was stale bread and watery stew they fed him last. He had lost a stone that first year from the labor. It would have been better if more of them had died. He had risked, in caring for them, dying himself. Still they called him the most lascivious man, patriarch of the most profane family. Those precisionists believed in God’s plan and though they claimed no one knew who God chose, who were His Elect, you could see it on their faces, how much they thought it was themselves, who were chosen, how much they thought God would never choose a man like himself, a John Billington. But maybe it was he who was chosen, if there were such a thing. Maybe it was him. God had not killed him, not yet, and wasn’t that a sign of God’s favor, Captain Shrimp? A sign of God’s good grace, Governor Bradford? Billington kicked up a heavy stone with his boot. Nay, nay, he would always be below them.
He would go again to Standish. This evening, in front of the newcomers. He would demand Shrimp give him the land he was due.