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Authors: Parris Afton Bonds
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mouth, a mouth as thin and lipless as an iron bear trap. "I do."
Mad Dog rubbed his jaw, wrinkled his forehead. “Now I am very confused, friend, because I have a witness who will testify otherwise. Wilt the Chesapeake maid Palantochas come before the bar?"
All heads turned toward the back of the room as the young Indian woman made her way to the front. Short of stature and slightly fat-padded, she was well known in the predominantly male community. Her deer hide moccasins made a soft thud against the floor's oak planks. Her limpid eyes flashed Mad Dog a searching glance.
“Palantochas," he said, “will you tell us what you were doing the night in question?" His words were distinct and deliberate.
She bit her lip, lowered her head, and her single black braid swung forward across her shoulder.
He nodded encouragement, hoping his backwoods diplomacy was paying off. He had learned ancient and modem languages, shone at math, read Francis Bacon and Christopher Marlowe, and studied under William Shakespeare at Blackfriars Theatre. Yet, here he was, defending an unscrupulous wench in a cow dung of a town.
In a tremulous voice, Palantochas said, "I spent the night . . . in the company . . . of him." Her finger pointed out Radcliff.
Murmurs erupted. The room sounded like a beehive. Although many of the men had lain with the native women, few admitted it. To do so was as much as to declare oneself infected with the malady the Irish called the Country Duties.
'"Tis a damned lie!" Radcliff said.
Mad Dog spread his hands. "Do any of the burgesses wish to question my witness?” He was counting on the members’ reluctance to being possibly identified as one of the maiden’s midnight customers.
“No one would believe the word of a misbegotten creature like this against mine!" Radcliff snarled.
"I am finished with the prisoner’s defense,” Mad Dog said. “It hath been a pleasure to serve the Assembly.”
Chapter Six
"Mad Dog Jones, doth thou take this maid to be your wife?"
"Aye, I do."
What a name! Mad Dog Jones! Modesty did not know whether to laugh or to cry.
While the minister read the sacred rites, she stood shorn of hair, barefoot, and dressed only in her smock—all because Mad Dog Jones was taking no chances. He was adhering to an old legality which Modesty knew dated back to medieval times that said a man was not liable for his wife’s debts, provided he married her in nothing other than her smock. Even shoes and caps were prohibited.
"Modesty Brown, doth thou take this man to be your husband?"
How had she gotten herself into this mess?
One moment she was camouflaging a stolen snuffbox in London, and the next she was consigning herself to a living hell here in the New World.
The old minister cleared his throat. "Ummh . . . Mistress Brown . . . doth thou?"
Beneath raised brows, Mad Dog eyed her as curiously as she had the New World food called maize. She could guess what he was thinking— that she ought to be rejoicing that she wasn't going to be burning like an All Hallow’s Eve bonfire.
As for herself, she was thinking hard. She was still required to fulfill her bridal contract with the Company or spend a year in the gaol. Having just spent a fortnight there, she doubted that a human could survive for a year. It was said even the freepersons who survived the year of seasoning were full of maggots and rotting above ground.
God rot the pious citizens of Jamestown!
There was also the bargain she had made with Mad Dog. She had the distinct feeling he wasn’t the kind to give up easily what he felt was his. Nevertheless, he had another thought coming if he expected her to remain in this English colony long enough to rot.
"Mistress Brown? Did thou hearest me? Doth thou takest this man to be your husband?”
She sighed. "Aye, I suppose I do.”
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
"I cannot take me commissions with me?” Gingerly, Modesty seated herself and her portmanteau of meager belongings in the
Mad Dog rubbed his jaw, wrinkled his forehead. “Now I am very confused, friend, because I have a witness who will testify otherwise. Wilt the Chesapeake maid Palantochas come before the bar?"
All heads turned toward the back of the room as the young Indian woman made her way to the front. Short of stature and slightly fat-padded, she was well known in the predominantly male community. Her deer hide moccasins made a soft thud against the floor's oak planks. Her limpid eyes flashed Mad Dog a searching glance.
“Palantochas," he said, “will you tell us what you were doing the night in question?" His words were distinct and deliberate.
She bit her lip, lowered her head, and her single black braid swung forward across her shoulder.
He nodded encouragement, hoping his backwoods diplomacy was paying off. He had learned ancient and modem languages, shone at math, read Francis Bacon and Christopher Marlowe, and studied under William Shakespeare at Blackfriars Theatre. Yet, here he was, defending an unscrupulous wench in a cow dung of a town.
In a tremulous voice, Palantochas said, "I spent the night . . . in the company . . . of him." Her finger pointed out Radcliff.
Murmurs erupted. The room sounded like a beehive. Although many of the men had lain with the native women, few admitted it. To do so was as much as to declare oneself infected with the malady the Irish called the Country Duties.
'"Tis a damned lie!" Radcliff said.
Mad Dog spread his hands. "Do any of the burgesses wish to question my witness?” He was counting on the members’ reluctance to being possibly identified as one of the maiden’s midnight customers.
“No one would believe the word of a misbegotten creature like this against mine!" Radcliff snarled.
"I am finished with the prisoner’s defense,” Mad Dog said. “It hath been a pleasure to serve the Assembly.”
Chapter Six
"Mad Dog Jones, doth thou take this maid to be your wife?"
"Aye, I do."
What a name! Mad Dog Jones! Modesty did not know whether to laugh or to cry.
While the minister read the sacred rites, she stood shorn of hair, barefoot, and dressed only in her smock—all because Mad Dog Jones was taking no chances. He was adhering to an old legality which Modesty knew dated back to medieval times that said a man was not liable for his wife’s debts, provided he married her in nothing other than her smock. Even shoes and caps were prohibited.
"Modesty Brown, doth thou take this man to be your husband?"
How had she gotten herself into this mess?
One moment she was camouflaging a stolen snuffbox in London, and the next she was consigning herself to a living hell here in the New World.
The old minister cleared his throat. "Ummh . . . Mistress Brown . . . doth thou?"
Beneath raised brows, Mad Dog eyed her as curiously as she had the New World food called maize. She could guess what he was thinking— that she ought to be rejoicing that she wasn't going to be burning like an All Hallow’s Eve bonfire.
As for herself, she was thinking hard. She was still required to fulfill her bridal contract with the Company or spend a year in the gaol. Having just spent a fortnight there, she doubted that a human could survive for a year. It was said even the freepersons who survived the year of seasoning were full of maggots and rotting above ground.
God rot the pious citizens of Jamestown!
There was also the bargain she had made with Mad Dog. She had the distinct feeling he wasn’t the kind to give up easily what he felt was his. Nevertheless, he had another thought coming if he expected her to remain in this English colony long enough to rot.
"Mistress Brown? Did thou hearest me? Doth thou takest this man to be your husband?”
She sighed. "Aye, I suppose I do.”
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
"I cannot take me commissions with me?” Gingerly, Modesty seated herself and her portmanteau of meager belongings in the
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