But he could not fight the sob that burst from his chest or the tears that finally came.

Eaton, on the other hand, seemed unable to stop a pleased expression from becoming a smile, which grew into a grin. “Come, lad. You’ve known for months that he was dyin’. ‘Tis a mercy.”

” ‘Tis hard, still, sir.”

“You lose a friend, Isaac, but our lives as scholars are assured. I planted this seed in Harvard’s mind when I saw how sick he was.”

Eaton mounted his horse. “Books be a rare flower in this land, but money be the blossom that bears fruit we can eat.”

Isaac realized that Eaton had not hurried to Harvard’s bedside out of anything but self-interest. And he had gotten there in good time, for two days later, on September 14, John Harvard died of the consumption. He was thirty years old.

 

 

iii

 

All through that glorious autumn and bitterly cold winter, Nathaniel Eaton continued to teach his students, and to beat them, and to beat his servants and his children, and perhaps his wife, too, all in the name of Christian knowledge and obedience.

Isaac Wedge grew inured to the beatings and learned to remove the pain from his mind. Whether receiving a rap on his knuckles for an incorrect response, or a caning across his back for some greater transgression, he would think on higher things, on the Passion of Christ, on the gifts of Master Harvard, and on the beauty of a girl named Katharine Nicholson, who appeared to him as out of a vision one brilliant January day.

Isaac was returning from Reverend Shepard’s when the Nicholson sleigh stopped in front of Peyntree House, and Isaac was smitten straightaway by a bright smile, milk-white skin, delft-blue eyes, and strong black brow. The whiteness of the day served only to complement her coloring, and if winter could enhance her so, he wondered, what would summer do?

“Good afternoon,” said her father. “Be this the home of the new college?”

“Yes, sir. I’m a student. My name is Isaac Wedge.”

“And we be the Nicholsons,” said the father.

“The family of James?” asked Isaac. “James Nicholson of Boston?”

“Do you know him?” she asked.

And Isaac found that months of recitation under the threat of Eaton’s rod made it easy to find words before a beautiful girl. “Miss, there be only ten of us. We are all acquaintances, and I’m pleased to say we are all friends.”

He wished for more talk, but Eaton appeared now in the doorway, and Isaac, knowing his place, excused himself with a polite bow.

The Nicholsons bore gifts of food—ten packages for ten young men who had eaten too little beef and too much spoiled fish at the School of Tyrannus. Each package contained molasses cakes, hardtack, a small round of cheese, and a jar of pickled oysters.

Eaton did not object to their distribution, since the Nicholsons brought a larger basket of food for the master and his wife. He did, however, object to the attention that several of the boys paid to Master Nicholson’s daughter.

“This be a godly school,” he shouted after the Nicholsons had left. “I will not have any of you slobbering over a young lady of such quality as Jamie Nicholson’s sister. Any further slobbering will be met with punishment.”

But for the next month, Isaac Wedge could not erase her image from his mind. To his disappointment, when she and her father returned in February, Isaac was cutting firewood at Reverend Shepard’s, so he missed seeing her. When they came in March, he managed to speak with her briefly before Eaton appeared and scowled at him.

That night in commons, James Nicholson told Isaac that Katharine wished to be remembered to him and that she would look forward to meeting him on their visit in April. Nothing in his life had ever made Isaac Wedge happier.

 

There was an assistant at the college named Nathaniel Briscoe, who slept in the upper chamber with the students. Most nights, after the candles were snuffed, he would call out, “Remember Onan, boys. Remember that his sin be a hangin’ offense, so banish temptation from your mind.” But most nights, there would be furtive movements and sounds that suggested someone was ignoring Briscoe’s words. And most nights, Briscoe would ignore the sounds.

But one March night, Briscoe was in Boston. So Master Eaton paid a visit to the upper chamber. He came on stockinged feet and masked his lamp, so it gave off no telltale shadows. He silently climbed the ladder from below and stopped when only his eyes and ears had risen through the attic hatchway.

Isaac did not see him, for Isaac was busy. The only person Isaac saw at that moment was a certain young lady.