If I am going to my grave, I’m going to it honestly. The Billington way. Take down a peg those who think they are better than us.
They left my husband beneath the meetinghouse and fed him only the fallen, fly-munched ears of corn, which everyone knows kills the calves.
He’s thirsty, I said to Standish, whenever I found him milling about.
He’s hungry and needs meat, I’d say.
Why? Standish asked. To keep him alive longer? He’s chosen the rope, mistress. Day’s cold corn will not kill him. His own temperament did that.
No respect for the living or the dead.
So I spoke it aloud. All of it. Right after the dinner bell. As the newcomers and colonists made their way to the meetinghouse, I stood at the top of the hill. I waited for the crowd. When there was enough of them, I spoke.
Hear, ye! My husband was not the first murderer of this colony! That was him!
I pointed through the people, straight to Governor Bradford.
And him! I pointed at the Shrimp.
I said what should have been my husband’s final words to William Bradford.
I wish to speak of Dorothy Bradford.
The crowd was rapt, staring at me. It wasn’t that I cared about Dorothy. If Bradford were to bring shame on my family, I would bring shame on him.
Governor Bradford charged forward, no longer a false smile across his face.
He was before me, yelling, Stop!
He had me pinned. The crowd was behind me and he was before.
Francis stepped betwixt us.
William Bradford stared at me. I was what he wanted to remove from the world. But he could not. He could not remove differing opinion. He could not remove truth.
Let them stare, thought I. I would not scare.
I said more and more, rising in spirit and wrath as I spoke until Myles Standish pushed me into the meetinghouse.