"Bedtime Reflections at The Inn of The Kings Arms...."

 

From the journal entries of Benedict Marlowe.

The Inn of the King’s Arms, Port Dominion.

Sunday, the Lord’s Day

This Lord’s Day now draws to its quiet end, and I, having returned from my supper, sit once more at my desk in the King’s Inn, the candle guttering low beside me. It is meet to set down what this first Sabbath in Port Dominion hath shown me, for I deem much may be gleaned of a people from the manner in which they gather for worship.

The morning, as I set down before, began with a modest breakfast: a slice of fried salt pork, coarse bread, and stewed plantain, with a cup of small beer. Thus fortified, I made my way along Middling Way to the small Protestant church — plain, weathered, yet not without dignity, and this day filled to its measure.

(St. Dominion Protestant Church)

The congregation was of all sorts: merchants in fine coats, their wives stiff in stays and silks; middling folk in their plain garments; sailors smelling of tar and salt; a number of Negro servants and Irish laborers, who, though admitted, sat apart from the gentry. I noted, too, a few figures of the better sort — clerks and overseers — who came with an air of respectability, nodding gravely to one another as they entered.

This was my first sight of both the preachers of this colony. Reverend Goodall, the elder, spake first. His discourse upon the Wages of Sin was grave yet measured, his voice steady, his eye kindly though stern. I saw many nod with comfort, as if accustomed to his manner and pleased to hear again the familiar thou shalt nots that bind society together. He struck me as a man who would rather guide than chastise, and though I marked in him a certain severity, it was tempered by the air of long habit and experience.

Reverend Task, however, presented a different spectacle altogether. Younger by a score of years, with a face set as flint, he mounted the pulpit with fire in his eye and voice. He railed upon the snares of Satan, and with especial fervor upon witches — declaring that the very soil of St. Albion may harbor the Devil’s handmaids, who bring ruin upon the unwary with spells and carnal deceits. His words fell like thunder, and though the air was close with heat, many shivered beneath their coats.

 

(Reverend Zachariah Goodall)

(Reverend Solomon Task)

I marked the congregation keenly. The merchants and gentry nodded grimly, some with the look of men who enjoy seeing the lash laid upon others while themselves remain unwhipped. A few even smiled, though such smiles were cold things, as though they relished the thought of rooting out sinners in their neighbors’ houses rather than in their own. Among the middling sort, there was more unease: wives who cast down their eyes, maidens who fidgeted in their seats, and men who shifted uncomfortably, perhaps fearing their own households might be brought under such suspicion. The Irish laborers sat stone-faced, while the Negroes looked more wearied than troubled, doubtless accustomed to the harsh judgment of their betters.

Most telling was the look in certain women’s eyes. A handful listened wide-eyed, clasping hands to their bosoms as though in holy terror; yet more than a few wore a different air — unease, even indignation, as though they felt the Reverend’s words fell upon them more heavily than upon their brothers and fathers. I confess, I too wondered whether Task’s zeal may in time make witches of those who are but innocent, if they but raise his suspicion by look or circumstance. Yet who can say? The world is full of strange deceits, and who is to declare there be none such creatures here?

When the sermon ended, the people spilled into the bright sunlight, gathering in knots to whisper their judgments. I lingered long enough to catch a few. One merchant muttered to another that “Goodall would soothe men to sleep whilst Task would set them afire,” and his companion replied, “Aye, but it may be fire we need in such a wicked place.” A matron, clutching her shawl, said to her neighbor, “That Task stares too hard at the young girls when he speaks of witches — I mislike it.” The neighbor only shushed her. I saw, too, a clerk whisper that the Governor himself would not long stomach such outbursts, and that Goodall, wise as he is, must rein his fellow in. Thus the gossip of the Sabbath spilled as freely as on any market day, though couched in lowered tones.

Returning to the King’s Inn, I found dinner laid: boiled fish with a sauce of limes, rice, and a dish of peas, with weak rum to wash it down. It sufficed well enough. The afternoon passed quietly, the town subdued as befitteth the Sabbath. Dominion Square, so full of life upon other days, lay still but for the splash of the fountain, where the bronze maiden glimmers green in the sunlight, and the soft chatter of children playing about her basin. Shops barred, stalls empty, carts stilled — it seemed a different town altogether, touched for a brief span by a solemn hush.

At supper, I had roasted fowl with yams and bread, served in the inn’s common room. A stew was offered, but I had no stomach for it. The room was fuller than I had yet seen: a table of sailors dice-playing softly in the corner; two merchants talking in low tones of prices and ships expected; a soldier from Fort Hemmerly nursing ale; and the innkeeper himself wiping down the tables with his wife. Both passed by my seat, and she, with a knowing look, said, “So, sir, you’ve heard our preachers. Goodall is the steady hand, and Task the scourge. Best pray the one tempers the other, else it’ll not go well for the town.” The innkeeper only grunted and added, “Aye, Task’ll have us all witches ere long, if he keeps on.”

(Evening suppertime thoughts...)

I smiled politely, though I kept my thoughts within. For my part, I cannot yet decide if Task’s fervor be the fire of heaven or the madness of zeal. Goodall I judge to be a man of sense, keen enough to know the dangers of stirring too many hornets. Whether he can bridle his companion, time will tell.

And so I end this entry, my door fastened, the candle burning low. This first Sabbath in Port Dominion hath revealed more of its spirit than any day of commerce could: a people striving toward godliness, yet divided in their hearts; preachers who pull in contrary directions; whispers of sin, suspicion, and danger beneath a cloak of piety. I pray I may keep my wits and soul safe amidst it all.