Reverend Zachariah Goodall
Reverend Zachariah Goodall, now entering his early sixtieth year, is the senior Protestant divine of Port Dominion, having stood in the pulpit since the colony’s earliest days under the English flag. He has long preached to the faithful on the evils of sin and the wages of iniquity, his sermons filled with solemn thou-shalt-nots and stern reminders of the torments awaiting the unrepentant in the flames of perdition. Yet unlike his newly arrived colleague, the fiery Reverend Solomon Task of Massachusetts, Goodall delivers his warnings with a tempered steadiness rather than unbridled fury. He has grown seasoned in the ways of this island, and has learned that moderation—and a touch of diplomacy—often carries as much weight as thunderous zeal.
It is the excessive zeal of Task that troubles him most. The younger man is consumed by his suspicion of witches and devils at every turn, seeing Port Dominion as a den of sorcery and abomination. Goodall himself, though not dismissive of such dangers, has in truth never once laid eyes upon any true act of witchcraft in all his years here. He suspects there may be a handful—whether among the enslaved Africans, the wandering Irish, or even some idle and wanton women—who have trafficked in darker arts, yet he finds it unwise to cry witch where no fire burns. In this matter, he believes fervor must be tempered, else it risks breeding fear, disorder, and worse—the disfavor of the Lord Governor.
For Goodall has cultivated a careful balance: to thunder against sin with enough force to remind both rich and poor of their mortality and their souls, while keeping a wary eye on the politics of the town and the sensibilities of the upper class. He has made it his business to work upon the social graces of those in high position—courtiers, merchants, and most of all the Governor himself and his family. To the common eye, he is a shepherd guiding his flock toward righteousness, yet behind the pulpit he is also a tactician, ensuring that neither word nor sermon stirs discord where the Governor demands peace.
Of late, he has heard whispers—rumors of Lady Eleanor Whitehall’s coquettish and libertine ways, tales passed slyly among servants and repeated with knowing smiles in the marketplace. Goodall receives such reports with grave reserve, neither repeating them nor openly acknowledging them, yet he notes them carefully. In his estimation, such indulgence among the elite, though cloaked in silks and fans, differs little from the sins of sailors down on Red Row. But here lies his subtle craft: where Task would thunder accusation, Goodall provides the balm. He knows that sin weighs heavy on conscience, and he knows also that a steady stream of silver coins into the church’s donation box soothes many a troubled soul.
Thus he delivers his sermons with pointed generalities, reminding his congregation—be they merchants with their ledgers, officers in scarlet coats, or fine ladies glittering with jewels—that indulgence comes at a price. Yet he leaves them with a way to buy peace, not by absolution as the Catholics do with their papist rituals, but by offerings to the work of God in Port Dominion. A good word here, a solemn blessing there, and a reminder that generosity may cover a multitude of sins, keeps the coffers filled and the church’s position secure.
Still, Reverend Goodall is not free from his own prejudices. He mistrusts the Catholic French and Spaniards tolerated by the Governor’s lenience, disdains the Dutch for their mercenary ways, watches the enslaved Africans with suspicion of heathen rites, regards the Indians as heathens half-tamed, and keeps a particular contempt for the Irish, whose very presence he finds distasteful. Such views he tempers publicly, for the sake of peace, but privately they feed his sense of vigilance.
And so he stands, a man of the pulpit and of politics alike—between the worldly lenience of the Governor and the wild zealotry of Reverend Task. To his mind, his calling is not only to save souls, but to maintain order, protect the church, and ensure that Port Dominion remains under the steadying hand of Protestant decency. Another Sunday of fire, brimstone, and a firm shake of the donation plate, he reckons, shall serve the purpose well.
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