Preface
The cool autumn air
refreshed his lungs as he hiked through the forest towards the top of the small
mountain. His backpack was lighter than usual—he only carried six seedlings
today. The shovel and two gallons of fresh water he carried presented most of
the weight. His legs were still strong and he relished the climb.
He stopped at a small
clearing at the midway point and admired the view. He was in the southeastern
part of the Big River Management Area, near Henry Brown Road. The busy city of
Warwick was to his left. To the south, he could see North Kingston and the
Jamestown Bridge in the distance. Narragansett Bay stretched out before him,
east towards Prudence Island and south towards Newport and the open ocean. Even
this far inland the salty ocean breezes mixed with the clean smell of freshly
fallen leaves. He breathed in deeply, letting the orchestra of his senses
intertwine with his memories.
It was still early
morning, the overnight fog had not yet completely dissipated, the town of North
Kingston, now considered a full-fledged city, was waking up to another noisy
day. He could hear the sound of traffic even though he was more than five miles
from nearest highway. The commute for thousands to Cranston and Providence had started
before dawn. The drone of an occasional airplane making their approach into
Wakefield airport, added to the background noise. He was grateful for the
buffer that the hills and forests provided. He stood amazed at their ability to
absorb the impurities modern civilization produced.
Further out on the bay,
closer to the ocean break, but still several miles inland, Narragansett's many
piers and wharves were bustling with activity. Most of the boats had left
before dawn and were far out into the bay and salt ponds, but the processing
and packaging houses were busy. The harvest was good this year. It was just his
third harvest since retirement, so not being a part of the action was difficult
for him. His shoulders ached to be pulling in a large catch bag or lied of
oysters. He longed to be the first to gauge the ripeness of a large oyster. His
sons and grandsons had that honor now.
However, being here in
the forest was therapeutic and allowed him to continue to participate in the
life of the bay on his own terms. He turned to face the top of the mountain and
resumed his leisurely climb. The forest was younger here, less than twenty
years old. He recognized the trees by name—Maple, Birch, Aspen, Oak, Poplar, Elm,
Dogwood. He had planted most of them. Their brilliant autumn colors added to
the older growth forest further down the mountain. He breathed in the oxygen
they created and bent down to examine the decaying layers of leaves on the
ground. He brushed away the newly fallen yellow, orange, and red leaves, and
dug his bare hands deep into the soft compost surrounding the roots of a Maple
tree. The soil was heavy with moisture, life, and nutrients. The rich earth had
a sweet fresh smell to it. This was his harvest now—he was satisfied with the
forest's progress.
The trail opened into a
wide meadow. He had reached his destination. There were only a few pine trees
here, none older than a couple of years. The rest of the meadow was grass and
low bushes. No indigenous trees had taken root here since they were clear-cut over
forty years ago. He veered off the path and came to a place where the grass was
less dense and the bushes had been cut back. In this patch of about fifty
square yards, twenty young trees were thriving. He set his backpack down and
rested for a moment.
He looked across to the
neighboring mountains and hills. There was still plenty of work to do. Forests
were slowly making a comeback, but there was still too much open land. Almost
every mountain and hill in this region had been clear-cut during the last few
centuries—the lumber had been used to build the cities and towns of New
England. Cleared acreage had been needed for pasture, farms, and suburban
sprawl. Humanity's insatiable appetite for development had reshaped the
landscape.
Over the last fifty
years, some of the land had been reclaimed by slow growth forests. Unfortunately,
however, fast growing Pine trees dominated most of the forests that were
repopulating the hillsides. They were easy to grow and a favorite of the
commercial lumber industry. Pine, to him, looked out of place here. The tall,
straight evergreens belonged in upper elevations and colder regions. Their pine
needles covering the forest floors looked clean and inviting, but they didn't
hold the rain and nutrients that a thick layer of deciduous leaves could
manage.
Some of the native
forests were returning, like the one on this mountain, and some old growth
forests had survived. He felt optimistic—if he did his part, and the Sierra
Club and Arbor Day Foundation movements continued with their efforts,
eventually indigenous forests would reclaim their proper place surrounding this
beautiful bay.
He checked the young
trees that had been planted over the last several months. They were growing
well. He trimmed away some of the grass and weeds around their slim trunks and
gave each one a drink of fresh water. He talked softly to the saplings as he
tended them. He enjoyed the solitude of the moment and contemplated his place
in this ecosystem as he worked. In some respects he felt as if it was his
divine duty to plant the trees—an ancient tradition practiced by native and
colonial fishermen long ago. They knew instinctively what he now understood
scientifically. The health of the forest is intimately connected to the health
of the bay.
Satisfied, he moved to
the last young tree facing the west side of the meadow. He carefully removed
the six saplings from his backpack and began to prepare the ground for
planting. Out of the quiet forest below him he heard the sound of voices. A
couple of hikers were approaching, enjoying the beauty of the mountains and
forest on a cool autumn morning. He was not a possessive man. He welcomed
visitors to the forest. Nor, was he a solitary man—he treasured the joys that
friendship and working together could bring.
When the grandfather
and his grandson emerged from the shade of the forest into the bright sunlight
of the meadow and greeted him, he responded cheerfully.
"Good morning to
ya."
"We have a few
trees to plant, can we join you?" The grandfather asked.
"Of course, I see
you've come equipped," he responded, noticing that the grandfather was
carrying a well-used steel shovel and his grandson had a worn looking combination
rake-hoe.
"I'm Jackson
Hazard, very pleased to meet you," the grandfather said, "This is my
grandson Jamie."
"Jackson Hazard,
of the Hazard Bank in Newport?" He asked, as he stood up and reached out
his right hand in greeting. His family had kept their money at Hazard's bank
for generations. He had met Hazards from Kingston at various functions and even
the occasional holiday party, but he rarely mingled with the extended family
from Newport or towns further north.
"It is a pleasure,
I'm Wilson Williams."
"My grandfather
founded Hazard Bank, and my son runs it now. Call me Jack."
"A fine bank and a
good family," Will said smiling at the young boy.
"Thank you. We have
three Red Maple saplings to plant today. Can you direct us to a good spot for
these beautiful trees?"
Will sensed something
familiar about Jack as he guided them twenty yards or so up the meadow. His
memory had never been that great, but now that he was pushing eighty it took
much longer to pull up faces and names from the past.
"This would be a
great spot for some Red Maples, plant them in a triangle about twelve yards
part," Will said with confidence, "ten years from now this will make
a beautiful spot for a picnic."
"Great, and when
were done we'll give you a hand."
"I always accept
offers of help when it comes to preserving the forest," Will said as he
turned to go back to his saplings.
"Hey, aren't you
Will Williams of Narragansett?"
"Yep, I sometimes
go by Will."
"Do you remember
me? We worked together over forty years ago to purchase land for Tom Beaufort's
Christmas tree farm near Rome Point. We were able to stop the nuclear power
plant from being built."
A
broad smile came to Will's face, "Yes, I remember you now, very
well."
Part
One: The 1600s
Chapter
1
The oyster and twenty
of her brethren were ripped from the oyster bed with a rake-like instrument and
shoved into an open-mouthed basket woven from dried strands of Sweetgrass. The
basket, attached to a thin cedar pole and a length of hemp rope, was pulled
fifteen feet to the surface of the bay and dumped into a flatbed canoe. She was
quickly separated from the shells, rocks and mud that had been her home for the
last three years, washed clean in the brackish water and dropped into another
basket. The crabs, sea anemones, shrimp, barnacles, mussels and other small animals
that lived in the nooks and crannies of the oyster bed with her, were thrown in
another basket or tossed back into the ocean.
Her razor-sharp cover
valve did little to deter the human hands that were now examining her. She
instinctively constricted her abductor muscles tightly closing her bivalve
shell. At the same time she blew out any excess water from her gills creating a
vacuum affect. She was impenetrable now to even the most efficient predators. There
was a sharp tap on the top of her shell and then a moment of silence as if the
human was expecting an answer. Suddenly, the slightly curved end of a short,
thick knife was forced into the hinge holding her two valves together. The
blade vibrated slightly and twisted, popping her shell apart. She didn't feel
any pain—oysters don't have a central nervous system.
The knife slid upward
and cut the abductor muscle, completely opening the shell. Her flat top valve
was tossed away. She was fully exposed now, lying helplessly on her slightly
concave bottom shell. Her body, soft and tender in appearance, was dominated by
her abductor muscles and mantle. Her small three chambered heart continued to
pump colorless blood through small thin-walled vessels to all parts of her
body. Her gills continued to exchange gases across her mantle. Her two kidneys
located on the underside of her muscular body never stopped removing waste
products from her blood. She was still alive.
The knife slid under
her belly and severed her body from the shell. A few seconds later, as her
heart continued beating, she was crushed by the human's molars and swallowed. Her
death had all taken less than ten seconds. As far as an oyster is concerned,
being shucked and swallowed whole by a human being was actually a quick and
easy way to perish. Being smothered by silt, suffocated by algae, dissected by
a blue crab, smashed to bits by a hungry otter, or slowly digested by a
starfish, were much more traumatic ways to die.
She had lived a good
life and grown to a large size for an Eastern Bay oyster. She had been spawned six
years ago in the month of June when the waters in the bay had warmed. She had
been one tiny egg amongst several hundred million floating in the shallows of
the salt pond. Her cilia had propelled her through the water into a massive
cloud of sperm. The odds of being fertilized and developing into larvae were
not that high, but she was lucky, and her precious journey through life had
begun.
She developed into a
healthy larva and swam through the brackish water for couple of weeks, growing
daily, but still infinitesimally small compared to the world around her.
Somehow she had avoided the shoals of fish, shrimp and other feasting predators
of the bay. She finally attached herself on the decaying flat shell of a large
grandfather oyster that had been a part of the natural oyster bed in the salt
pond for generations. In a few days, she had transformed into something called
a "spat"—a baby oyster about .25 millimeters long. She had begun her
life as a filter feeder.
In a healthy ecosystem
the life of the filter feeder is a good one. She spent every hour, of every
day, drawing water over her gills using her perfectly adapted cilia. Delicious
plankton and other edible organisms in the water were trapped in the mucus of
her gills, and from there the food was transported to her mouth, where it was
efficiently eaten and digested. She grew quickly and within a year, she reached
maturity. By that time, she was filtering over a gallon of seawater per hour.
During the first couple
of spawning seasons she had participated as a male, sending clouds of sperm
into the water. By her third year, she began producing eggs—releasing millions
of them each season. Even though she started out as a male, she identified
herself as feminine. Her life was devoted to the survival of her species—creating
sperm as a young male, and then producing eggs as a mature female. Over the
course of her lifetime she brought life to thousands of oysters.
Her existence was "keystone"
to the entire ecosystem where she lived. She filtered the water in the bay,
keeping it free from impurities. She devoured the plankton that flourished in
the water and converted it into energy. At the bottom of the food chain she
provided nourishment for countless animals. Her outer shell combined with
thousands of other oysters to create reefs and beds where hundreds of animals
lived and thrived. She ensured the propagation of her species. As the oysters
thrived, the bay prospered.
The Narragansett native
that swallowed her whole said a short prayer of gratitude for her life and the
nourishment she provided the people and animals of the bay. As her life energy
combined with his, her spirit was released to once again nurture the natural
world.
Chapter
2
Manatauk's senses of
touch, smell, sight and taste all became sharper after eating the first oyster.
He was fully present and engaged. He felt the pulse of the oyster's heart
beating in his stomach as he absorbed its abundant nutrients—the result of six
years filtering the water of the bay. He was alive to the world and receptive
to the signals the bay was sending.
He indulged himself and
expertly unlocked another oyster. He let his fingers glide over the razor-sharp
edges of the top valve before tossing it into the salt pond. He observed the
slight pink, green and purple hues mixed within the shiny pearl finish of the
bottom shell. He checked the ivory flesh for the appropriate plumpness, and
admired the animal's firm freshness. The contrast of the tender flesh against
the hardness of the flat shell was striking. The anticipation of the oyster
sliding down his throat created a flood of saliva and a slight pain in his
stomach.
The oyster was at its
strongest. The cool waters of autumn had turned on its instinct to feed
voraciously before the icy cold waters of winter arrived. During the winter, it
would have lived off the stored reserves it garnered during the fall season,
but instead, Manatauk and his family would now claim the energy.
He preferred the
oysters of autumn, but the catch in the spring and summer also had their
satisfactions. Oysters in the spring were less plump and had a richer butter-like
taste because of the fat produced by the warm waters during the spawning
season. If they were collected at just the right time, the shells would be
filled with eggs and sperm, making a delicious and nutritious culinary delight—a
perfect addition to Spring Harvest soups. Later, in summer the oysters were
thinner and more muscular, making them tougher to chew raw. However, they were
often laced with spicy or sweet algae, which offered further explorations of
taste and texture.
He tilted the shell at
just the right angle and let the still living oyster slide into his mouth.
After the initial sensation of salinity and ocean freshness, he chewed to get
the full body of the oyster. At first the springy texture of the oyster
resisted, but then it surrendered to his molars, releasing its full flavor.
A mature oyster takes
on the taste of their environment. The waters of Narragansett Bay offered the
perfect mixture of fresh and salt water, making these autumn oysters an
excellent addition for tonight's festivities—not too much salinity and not too
diluted by the freshwater. Oysters with too much salt are crunchy and
overpowering, you cannot eat too many at one sitting. Oysters without enough
salt, taste flat and unfulfilling. This catch was ideal, offering a wonderful
salty ocean taste at first, and then allowing the body and earthiness of the
bay to come through.
He swallowed, and let
out a breath of pure satisfaction. A slight aftertaste of the salt pond filled
his mouth as the oyster slid smoothly down his esophagus. Then, and only then,
did the full body of the oyster reveal itself. Next to the salinity of the
ocean and the freshness of the bay, strong flavors of copper, zinc and iron
mixed together to give the flesh a pleasant metallic taste. Manatauk believed
this is where the power of the oyster was revealed. It was strong enough to
absorb the minerals of the land, minerals that energized his system and made
him a fertile and potent lover.
Manatauk was pleased
with today's catch. The oysters would make perfect appetizers—no one fills up
on them alone, but they are an excellent pre-dinner snack. Manatauk and his
family ate oysters for the energy they provided and sheer enjoyment of the
experience. They were not a staple of their diet like corn and fish. Oysters
were a special treat, a luxury enjoyed during feasts when visitors arrived, or
on cool autumn nights when his wife would be receptive to the aphrodisiac
symptoms the delicacies provided. The oysters would go down well at the Wigwam
tonight.
Chapter
3
As dusk settled over the
bay, the men sat cross-legged around the fire near the front of the wigwam. The
women stayed busy cooking and chatting around the larger fire in the back of
the shelter. The children, still full of energy after a long day, ran in and
out of the wigwam playing games of tag. The open design of the wigwam allowed
the cool autumn breezes to enter undeterred and provided ample room for the
children to dart to and fro, deftly avoiding each other. Manatauk's home was
comfortable, open and inviting. The Narragansett generously welcomed strangers at
any time of the day. If the family is eating they will always ask visitors to
partake, even if there is little to sustain themselves. It doesn't matter if the
visitors arrive late at night or early in the morning, they are offered
hospitality, tobacco and food.
It was a typical
evening for the clans residing on the southwestern point of Narragansett Bay.
Throughout the summer months and into early autumn, families would gather in
the evenings and share the catch of the day in the larger houses of the village.
Manatauk had one of the largest wigwams as was fitting his position as the
brother of Minnetonka, one of the eight Sachems of the Narragansett tribe.
The chill of winter was
present this evening, so the men covered their usually bare shoulders and
chests with blankets, deerskin jackets, and vests or robes made of beaver,
otter or other skins. Manatauk wrapped himself in an especially comfortable
throw made of cougar and beaver. As the evening progressed the chestnut and
birch bark walls to the wigwam were lowered to keep the cold out, the entrance
was left open, so that the children and visitors could come and go freely. The
small gathering of men smoked and ate the raw oysters Manatauk had harvested
earlier in the day with still warm strawberry flavored cornmeal biscuits his
wife had made. They discussed the news brought by messenger the evening before
and sought Manatauk's counsel.
Manatauk was proud of
his older brother, the Sachem Minnetonka, and when he was not present, Manatauk
graciously accepted the honor and responsibility of leadership. The men, women
and children of the neighboring wigwams were always welcome into his home. He
offered sincere hospitality and sound counsel. Narragansett people take the
bond of brotherhood seriously, so he shared his brother's status, wealth and
power. The people of the tribe listened to him and gave him the respect he had earned.
Conversely, when his younger brother could no longer pay his debts or behaved
disrespectfully, which he did on occasion, Manatauk had to step in and make
things right.
When the messenger had
arrived late in the previous day, shouts and howls were sent from house to
house along the coast for several miles. The men were invited to attend a
meeting at the central fire pit next to Manatauk's house. Within a couple of
hours forty to fifty men sat side-by-side around the raging fire. Each man
smoked, most with small pewter or brass pipes of their own making. The Narragansett
had become quite adept at forging delicate pipes from the pewter and brass
utensils the English settlers provided. A pewter plate or brass cup was a
prized possession, but made even more valuable when molded and combined with
hardwood into a tobacco pipe. While waiting for the messenger to share his news,
the men compared tobaccos and talked about the upcoming move inland to their
winter homes. Clouds of tobacco smoke mixed with smoke from the huge fire.
Tobacco was an
important plant for the Narragansett men. It was the only plant men cultivated;
all other planting was done by the women. Tobacco was used as a medicine to
fight rheumatism and soothe toothaches, as well as a substance used to revive
and refresh the body throughout the day. Sharing special blends of tobacco and
comparing strains to others was a frequent pastime, and especially enjoyable at
large gatherings like tonight. If one man's tobacco was deemed especially
potent or tasty, it would be loaded into Manatauk's largest pipe and shared—passed
from man to man, garnering extravagant compliments.
Tonight the great pipe,
given to Manatauk from a Seneca chief, was loaded with strong European tobacco
reportedly imported from islands far to the south. The pipe was more than two
feet long, carved from wood and stone, with a large engraved brass bowl at the
end. Decorative animals, bear, deer and several types of birds adorned the
beautiful instrument. After several bowls, Manatauk stood up and introduced the
messenger to the gathering.
"We have important
news, brought to us by messenger from my eldest brother, our Sachem, who is now
residing at our winter home near the English settlement of Providence."
The smoking and talk politely resided, only the fire continued to speak.
"Listen, then, as
is our custom, each man will have his opportunity to question or speak."
The messenger, a young
man, slender from his occupation of being a runner for the Sachems, stood up
proudly and addressed the gathering. His voice was clear and strong from
several years of practice speaking in front of large crowds on behalf of his
revered Sachems.
"Your Sachem,
Minnetonka, elder brother of Manatauk, sends greetings. He prays that you and
your families are doing well and that the summer season has been good for
all." He paused before continuing.
"The Pequots, our
rivals living to the north of our beautiful Bay and west of our inland
territories, have once again been making trouble with the white settlers.
Warriors from the Niantic and Pequot tribes have murdered an English trader and
his crew from the settlement of Boston. This unfortunate incident happened a
few moons ago on Block Island, just to the south of our summer homes," he
said as he pointed south. Murmurs of acknowledgment rustled through the
gathering.
"The Pequot, as
you know well are a troublesome people. We have had to beat them back from our
lands on several occasions. The English are full of anger and our Sachems
believe this could lead to war. If war comes, it may be difficult for our
people to stay neutral, but this is our Sachems' current thinking."
"He speaks true!"
Several men shouted, giving praise to their respected Sachem, Minnetonka.
"Minnetonka and
the other seven Sachems, are asking the great Narragansett tribes to be alert
and begin the migration towards our winter settlements as soon as possible. A
great meeting of all the Sachems and secondary chiefs will be held in one
month's time at Minnetonka's winter home. At that time we will take counsel
with Roger Williams of Providence, and the leaders of the Nipmuck, the Niantic,
Wampanoag, and Manissean bands living within our territories. The Sachems of
our friends the Mohegan tribe have also been invited."
"Minnetonka sends
this message to you with his love and respect. Prepare well for the winter
months to come and travel safely," the messenger concluded.
The voices of the
gathered men broke into lively conversation. Manatauk let them converse and
argue amongst themselves for a while. Then, he stood up and asked for silence.
"The messenger has
brought us great truths. Now, that you have had time to think about this
message you may address the gathering or ask any question on your mind,"
he said.
"Can we stay
neutral in such a war? The Pequot hate us and will use a war with the English
as an excuse to attack us or take our lands," one warrior explained.
"The English,
sometimes have difficulty distinguishing between the tribes, they may declare
war on all the native peoples," another man said.
"You speak true,
but we hate the Pequot, let's join the English and defeat them once and for
all," another shouted.
"We should punish
the Niantic tribe for their part in the murders. They don't deserve our
protection anymore." Several Warriors shouted their agreement.
"Yes, let's
capture the perpetrators and turn them over to the English in Boston."
"But, we cannot
trust the English, they have stolen lands and treated neighboring tribes
dishonestly since they have arrived. I don't trust them. I trust our native
brothers more easily, but still with caution," an older man lamented.
The discussion went
back and forth for almost an hour, each side giving ample evidence for not
trusting the English or the Pequot. But, it also became quite apparent that
staying neutral in such a war would be difficult.
Finally, Manatauk said,
"It is up to our Sachems to decide. The conversation is good and I have
faith that they will listen to all arguments and make the right decision for
our people. For now, I say this gathering is concluded. Do as our Sachem,
Minnetonka, has asked. Prepare for winter and move to our winter homes as
quickly as possible. Thank you for coming and lending your allegiance to my
brother," he said as the meeting ended.
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