When we got to the north bank of the Charles, there was another dock at which the boat was roped, and two boys there waiting. I’d watched them splashing water at each other as we approached, and laughing merrily, but now they were all business. I envied them the freedom to frolic in the river—it looked wonderfully cooling. The palisades came down to the river’s edge a stone’s throw to either side of the landing, creating a sense of urgency and purpose, the pretense of a city without any sign of one from here. I’d have to walk several hundred yards up the slope, nearly to the future Harvard Square, before I’d reach actual civilization.
One of the boys quickly counted the barrels of corn and squash, and nodded, looking satisfied. He turned and ran up toward the town. The other lad helped the two ferrymen to unload the cargo. I disembarked, glancing one last time at the older rower. He was already staring at me, and our eyes met again. Again he smiled; again I smiled; again he blushed, and turned away. I am not one to make eyes even in my own era. Only an hour in this strange new world and already I was contemplating pulling a Hester Prynne! How very disorienting it all was.
I began to walk up the wide dirt path to the village, using the shovel as a walking stick.
Of all the skills I’d had to learn for success in this DTAP (Destination Time and Place), the hardest of all was thievery. Language was no issue, nor was my accent: settlers were coming through Boston from all over England, and the English regional accents of the time were even more diverse than today’s. Learning to dress myself had been simple enough. I’d found a stable at which to practice riding horses for the first time since I was ten, although I was quite certain I’d have no chance of it here. A trip to Plimoth Plantation had felt almost like a cheat sheet, supplemented by a visit to the Americas wing of the Museum of Fine Art. A costume shop that kitted out Boston theatres rented us a colonial outfit—smock, stays, petticoat, skirt, waistcoat, stockings, garter, collar, coif—which I’d practiced lacing and buttoning myself into and out of until I could do it fluidly. I’d memorized and practiced quoting certain passages from the Geneva Bible (very popular among the Pilgrims), and taken a crash course in celestial navigation from an MIT grad student, whom Tristan signed to secrecy and paid well not to ask any questions. This was only the first of many whom we would later call HOSMAs—Historical Operations Subject Matter Authorities—and whom we would end up hiring to teach DOers things they would need to know.
All of that had been a cinch. Harder by far was to work out how to steal a book from under its owner’s nose. First, there was my own moral and ethical conditioning to overcome. Then there was the matter of simply how to do it. Having so little recon to rely on, Tristan had proposed five possible schemes, and I’d memorized all of them step by step. They all seemed preposterous. Especially now that I was here.
I reached the village—a loose collection of small thatched-hut buildings, some wattle-and-daub, but many full-timbered, and many with second floors. A subtle but pervasive odor of waste wafted about the hot, dusty streets, and I felt the porridge curdling in my stomach. There were no street signs, but having memorized the map of Cambridge for this era, I knew the bookseller would be on the right at the first intersection I came to, at Water and Long Streets (or as I knew them, Dunster and Winthrop). A block farther up Water would be the Meeting House, which was also the church. We had considered my taking a copy of the psalter from the pews there, but decided that in such a small community a newcomer would be eyed ceaselessly, and perhaps suspiciously, at church. I would have to pinch it from its secular source.
There was the bookseller’s, just ahead. It was a two-story building with planks lying on the ground in front of the threshold to approximate a front stoop. The door was open, and two front-facing windows were unshuttered. I saw a wooden floor within, and a long table, and many barrels and crates: it was not specifically a bookshop, but a shop that happened to sell books. I leaned the shovel against the building and went to the doorway. I wiped away a layer of grime and dust from my face, using the sleeve of the waistcoat, and looked in.
Behind the long table (his position suggesting he was the proprietor of the place) was a round-faced, proper-looking gentleman of perhaps five and twenty, frowning up at a taller fellow on my side of the table. The taller fellow was frowning back down at him. The proprietor looked unaccustomed to frowning. The tall fellow looked quite used to it. They were both in grey doublet and breeches. The shorter man also sported a canvas merchant’s apron. Between them, on the table, was an impressive stack of leather-bound books.
“It will destroy my profit to reprint them,” the tall fellow was complaining. “Let alone rebind all the reprints. I have created an errata to go with it, that suffices. ’Tis selling well enough for you, isn’t it?”
“’Tis selling very well, but the errata misses half the errors and I am forever deflecting comments about it from the people who have given me their money for it,” said the merchant, in the tone of a parent issuing a firm but gentle rebuke. He had a benign energy to him. Instinctively I liked him more than the other fellow. “It makes them disinclined to give me their money for other purchases.”
“It’s the only book you’re selling,” protested the printer.
“I’ve got Bibles coming over from England, due next week,” said the merchant. “And there is plenty I sell here beside books.”
The printer looked taken aback. “Why be you importing Bibles from England when you have finally got a printer in your own backyard?”
“Maybe he is not a very good printer,” said the merchant, as kindly as possible. “Also there is a new book written by a doctor, about the circulation of blood. ’Twill be here on the next ship.”
“Yes, I’ve heard about the blood, ’tis a ridiculous rumor,” said the printer, quite put out. “And nobody decent will ever want to read about such unsavory subjects. Especially in this town, where we have a college!”
I decided this was a fortuitous accident, and that I could use it better than any of the scenarios Tristan had proposed for the theft. So I stepped into the shop.
The merchant gestured to the pile of books. “They are no good to me, Stephen. Reprint them. I’ll buy them from you at a higher price if that will help keep you from ruin.” At that moment, they both saw me, and paused from their discourse to examine me. The merchant nodded and then returned his attention to the books, while Stephen the Printer ogled me a moment longer, before saying hurriedly to the merchant, “You’ve a wife and babe to feed and another due this leaf-fall, Hezekiah. ’Twould be wrong of me to take money from your children’s mouths.” He said it not as if he really meant it, but as if he knew he must because there was a witness present.
“’Twould be wrong of me to sell any more of this printing,” said Hezekiah matter-of-factly.
“Is that the new psalter?” I asked.
“’Tis,” said the merchant, looking at me with some skepticism. “You’re not here to purchase one, are you?”
“No, sir, I am here to purchase three. My master sent me to fetch them up,” I added, since nobody dressed as I was dressed would be in a position to buy one for personal use.