Billington jabbed the barrel of the gun into the thin ligaments of Newcomen’s neck.
Not a move, Billington said, and slid the gun barrel down the man’s spine. He took two paces back.
There was a twitch of the neck, or a movement, or perhaps John Billington was seeing things. His eyes registered motion.
He pulled the trigger.
The shot echoed off trees and startled the birds. Three deer bounded toward the brook. The beavers dipped into the water, swam farther upstream, going against the current as fast as they could.
He’d done it, hadn’t he, Billington? Under pressure, he was. The elders’ curse against him had proven them right. A body of a newcomer, dead.
At the shot, he himself jumped. He knew his rifle, its work on deer and geese and even beavers, though the shot ruined the pelt. He knew his rifle but not the man before him, nor the weight of fifteen stones he would now have to drag across the forest to somewhere.
Was his name not Jim?
He could call for help. Say an Indian had done this or say he’d seen him fall. That would cause a fine stir in Governor William Bradford, now wouldn’t it?
The forest was indifferent, as indifferent as it had been when Bradford ordered the men to drag the dying colonists’ bodies out into the woods, prop them up against trees, and put muskets in their arms so that Plymouth appeared to have far more healthy colonists than it did.
Nature did not notice.
John Billington paced. Three birds flew out from a pine tree. He heard the rustling of a larger animal making haste away. Then the wind and just him, Billington, alone with a dead man, blood blooming through his tunic.
Aye, no one would say this was an accident. Certainly not Bradford, who had it out for him, ever since he’d refused to move on the Mayflower and give his space over. One must challenge men who think they are better than the rest. It all could be blamed on these wretched puritans, ruining courageous adventurers such as himself.
Billington lifted Newcomen’s right leg. Heavy. Damn it, he’d done it. Think, Billington. Bradford won’t want news of a murder. He’ll have no choice but to pardon him, otherwise word would spread to England. Word of a murder would equal fewer colonists and therefore less money for Bradford.
Billington dragged the body of Newcomen by the arms. John Billington was fifty, newly aware of the limits of his body, and weaker than he thought he would ever be. Newcomen caught on a log and then on a root. His cloak caught, then his boot. It was no use. Billington let go of Newcomen’s heft. His head was as floppy as a newborn’s, but significantly heavier. It dropped against a fallen tree.
The day had been beautiful until he saw Newcomen. This place would have been bountiful if he were a free man. He should have been free seven years earlier, when the Mayflower went off course. Had the hypocrites been fair-minded, this would have never happened. The King’s Charter was invalid. They weren’t in Virginia, as the charter granted, so he should never have been an indentured man to them.
He would not say this man’s death was an accident. He honored himself to never descend to lies, like the hypocrites and Captain Shrimp. No, he’d say he shot him. That’s what he’d done and he would say it.
Billington picked up the body, again, and continued to drag him. But what would he do once he got to the palisade? Carry a dead man through it? Even if he wanted to, he was no longer strong enough.
Newcomen was not due the acre next to his field. That land was Billington’s land. Standish had put him there to threaten Billington. He’d given another man his land to provoke. Standish thought he was above the law he set. He did whatever he pleased because he was the Captain.
Billington propped the body against his oak tree and walked toward his house.
At the palisade, he tipped his hat to the guard, a Miller boy. It would not be long before that Miller boy would be coming for him.
When Billington arrived at the gate of his house, he called to his wife.
Eleanor yelled back from inside, What ye want!
How soon their lives would change. He hesitated.
The goats brayed. Inside the fence, a young goat cried and cried and cried.
Billington looked out to see the goat’s mother, hurtling herself down the hill toward them.
She’s coming, he whispered.
The female goat propelled herself forward across the colony with the reckless speed of a new mother. She pushed the gate open with her long nose, and placed her body and her udders near the infant. The baby goat banged his head against his mother’s udder, until he found her teat, and gulped for milk.
Billington’s wife stepped onto the threshold.
What did ye do? she said.
She had her hands on her hips and blew the curl that fell into her face, a gesture he loved. Oh, how he hated what he would have to tell her.