Free Harvard Yard by William Martin

the Eatons had departed. And most important, the Nicholson family, drawn to Cambridge by the eloquence of Reverend Shepard, had settled in a fine house overlooking the new wharf.
    Most days, before morning prayer, Isaac would walk down Water Street, past the wharf, around the sweeping curve of the town creek, through the town square, and back to the home of Reverend Shepard, where he lived in the attic.
    On fine mornings, Katharine would rise to offer a greeting, a bit of conversation, perhaps a cup of beer. But if the clouds lowered, she would stay abed and Isaac would simply walk, ruminating on the closing of the college and on the fate of the Shakespeare play. Sometimes he even wondered about the fate of the characters in the play.
    It happened to rain on the last day of September, the day that Eaton’s church trial was to begin. So Katharine was abed and the morning dark.
    But as Isaac came round the corner of Water Street and looked toward the wharf, he saw a vessel he recognized as Nell’s Bark, out of Piscataqua. He went closer to see what the men would be loading in the gray dawn. And there on the wharf, flinging sacks of belongings aboard, was Nathaniel Eaton.
    At first, Isaac thought to run for Reverend Shepard or the constable, but Eaton saw him and growled, “Stay there, boy, or this time I’ll finish you, so help me God.”
    “But you are to appear before the congregation this morning.”
    “And so I will, boy. So I will. You have my word.”
    Isaac might still have run, but this was the first time he had seen Eaton since the trial, and there was something he had to know. So he drew closer. “I also have your word that you will be my ally in protecting the Shakespeare book.”
    “Never trust a man better versed in God’s wrath than in Christ’s mercy, as you say. I could sustain no further censure from the colony, which surely would follow if they found a play in my possession. So I burned it.”
    “Burned it?” Isaac felt as if he had been struck.
    Just then, the captain of the sloop said, “Hurry up about it, Eaton. The tide turns.”
    On impulse, Isaac grabbed for Eaton’s bag. Eaton pulled back, and as he did, the bag tore open, spilling onto the wharf a jumble of clothes, a box of iron nails, glass trinkets such as white men might use in trading with the Indians, and—yes—several books.
    In the dim morning light, Isaac could not tell if one of the books was the play, nor did he see the walnut cudgel appear in Eaton’s hand. But he felt it strike the side of his head, and his world went black. By the time he awoke, Nell’s Bark had slipped down the creek and turned for Boston.
    Isaac rubbed the lump rising under his hat.
    Then he heard the gentle voice of Reverend Shepard in his ear. “Let him go.”
    “But the trial?”
    “We know enough about him. It took me far too long to see his sin. My own ignorance is a sin I repent of, and my lack of watchfulness over him—over all of you—is a sin I shall mourn.”
    Some men were cruel and some were kind, thought Isaac. And as there were few as cruel as Nathaniel Eaton, there were few as kind as Thomas Shepard.
    Isaac resolved to know better such as Shepard. He also resolved that someday he would track down Eaton and find the truth about Love’s Labours Won . And if the book had not been destroyed, he would restore it to John Harvard’s library, for he had made John Harvard a deathbed promise. No man had ever been as kind to Isaac, and the kindness of John Harvard had to be known by future generations, and a man would best be known by his books.

Chapter Four
    G AME D AY in Cambridge.
    No one would ever mistake it for game day in South Bend or Ann Arbor, not for the quality of the football or the intensity of the fans. But Peter Fallon loved it. He loved to hear the band play “Harvardiana” on a crisp October afternoon, to meet old friends at tailgates, to sit in the stadium and pass a flask as the shadows lengthened and the air went from