Puritan

by David Hingley

  ‘As so you gave it to me?’

  ‘I was not thinking. I thought perhaps you … you would want it. Straightaway I realised it would only upset you. Giving you the code was supposed to help make that right.’

  ‘Oh, Vic.’ She looked on him with great pity. ‘Then help me again. Tell me what you saw that night. Those footsteps.’

  ‘Yes.’ He sniffed, wiping his pockmarked cheek. She leant forward, waiting for him to continue. ‘I was hidden. Too distant to see clear.’ He looked up, and his eyes were as red as his forge. ‘But … it wasn’t a man.’

  ‘What?’ She jerked back her head.

  ‘Not one man alone. It was two.’ By now his voice was regaining its strength. ‘Two men, wearing hooded cloaks. One of them … one of them holding a rope.’

  ‘God’s death,’ swore Nicholas. ‘What did he think they were going to do in there?’

  She scuffed her boot on a stone as they walked. ‘He says that when he saw them, he thought they were after her medical help. It seems people often sought her assistance because she knew herbs and remedies.’ She set her face. ‘They only ever dared come after dark, of course, too ashamed to be seen wanting help.’

  ‘The secrecies of village life! But two men with a rope … and he never said anything later?’

  ‘He was scared his wife would learn of his visit. Of his mania.’

  ‘A big man like Vic Smith?’

  ‘Even so.’

  He shook his head. ‘I’m not convinced.’

  ‘Then he was putting on a good show.’ A sorry guilt came over her. ‘He seemed terrified after I accused him of being in love with her. May the Lord forgive me for treating him like that.’

  ‘You are not one to appeal to heaven.’ Nicholas looked at her askance. ‘You have some useful information now. Why not use your wits?’

  They passed the meeting house steps. ‘I would if I could. After all that, all we know is there were two of them at Clemency’s cottage, not which two.’

  ‘But that doesn’t mean there were always two of them at each of the killings.’ He turned in the street, walking backwards as he continued to talk. ‘For the other murders, one of them could have played lookout while the other … carried it out. One could have nailed Silence’s head to that spike while the other made sure no one came near.’

  She screwed up her face at the awful image. ‘You are right,’ she said. ‘Or perhaps they are alternating.’ She grabbed his arm, bringing them to a halt. ‘Making sure one of them is seen elsewhere while the other is … and then swapping roles for the next. A different man for different murders, while we have always assumed it was one killer present at each.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Nicholas scratched at his neck. ‘Maybe not. But ’tis a thought.’

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  That more than one person was involved in the murders was only part of the worry Mercia was feeling. Sooleawa had vanished, the Indians fallen quiet. Panic and paranoia were besieging the town. All the discipline of Godsgift’s drills threatened to become undone, the tight-knit community of pioneers at risk of degenerating into a squabbling of individual families, terrified by their self-induced fear.

  Percy, the veteran of Cromwell’s government, was doing his best to rally the people, but his father seemed at a loss in the face of the disorder, ill-equipped to handle a group of rowdy disparates. But although some listened, within a short time they had found new ways of distrusting their neighbours, new tales from years past resurrecting from the grave. And so the bird of rumour returned, flitting from rooftop to picket fence, hay bale to palisade, cawing its portent of ruin around the hitherto prosperous town.

  Yet there was one other leader at hand. One fine morning, Renatus Fox stood on the steps of the meeting house, calling to the people to join him in prayer. His words drifted through the streets, fighting the screeching of the bird of rumour, beseeching the townsfolk he would make his flock to seek God’s deliverance from their trials. Little by little the number around him grew, adding their voices to his own, until a merging of their pleas rang out, willing heaven to reply to their faith. And for those who had come, for that moment, the comfort of that unity was enough.

  She watched them at a distance, surveying the nervous faces, wondering if the murderers stooped among them, affecting a pretence, or if they had stayed away, not all the town so easily reposed. Close to Renatus, some of the younger town members had been among the first to join: Amery, bowing his head; Remembrance, doubtless praying for her brother’s soul; Kit, adding his own prayers, his hands clasped tight on his chest.

  Then another joined the praying crowd, the outliers shuffling aside to let Nathan in. She was not surprised, all told, for she knew his sympathies lay with the Puritan cause, but she realised that it saddened her, although she knew it should not, as though he was choosing to be with them instead of with her. But did it truly matter, when she had a call of her own, the ceaseless pull of more earthbound justice? She was her father’s daughter, as John Dixwell had observed. Of that, she had little doubt.

  She wandered into the fields, walking to the waterfall, listening to its babbling flow. She touched the trees as though drawing inspiration from their roughness, the long-lived witnesses of all they surveyed. Unlike the communal prayers, she wanted to be alone, the scent of the grasses infiltrating her soul. Inhaling deep, fresh air, she closed her eyes, imagining for a moment this tranquillity could last. But she could not keep her eyes shut forever. After a time she climbed back down the path, and she left the forest, hoping to speak with Nathan.

  The meeting house steps were empty, the prayer session over. She went back to the cottage, but he was not inside. She sought out Nicholas instead, finding him near the eastern gate with Amery.

  ‘He went for a stroll too,’ he said, feigning an innocent expression she saw right through.

  ‘So why the strange look?’

  He sighed. ‘He’s with Remembrance. They’ve been an hour or so. I’m sure ’tis nothing, but I know you don’t like her, and—’

  ‘Nicholas, I have no feelings about it at all.’

  She continued her walk, ambling clockwise around the palisade with Nicholas now at her side, but neither said much to the other. Caught up in her thoughts, the northern gate had only just come into view when a man – Seaborn Adams – peered through the open gap. He craned his neck forward, looking out towards the forest.

  ‘I can see them,’ he shouted back. ‘Coming this way. I think it is – yes, Remy and the Englishman – Keyte. But I still can’t see why they’re running so fast.’

  Now at the gate, Mercia turned to face north herself. True enough, Nathan and Remembrance were running towards the town. She frowned, looking at Nicholas, but when she turned back to the field, the determined steel in Nathan’s fast-approaching face scared her.

  ‘Ready the defences!’ he shouted as he drew near. ‘The Indians have massed in the woods!’

  A sharp combination of terror and failure pierced her. ‘My God, Nicholas,’ she said. ‘The sachem has lost patience. He has sent his warriors to take his revenge.’

  As Seaborn dashed back through the gate, Nathan skidded to a halt. ‘Mercia,’ he said. ‘Thank God. You have to get out of here.’ He looked at Nicholas. ‘Will you take her? I have to stay to help.’

  She shook her head. ‘No, I should help too. It is my fault they are—’

  He grabbed her shoulders, cutting her off. ‘Damn it, Mercia, there is no time for this. They are armed, and not just with bows and axes. They have muskets, guns.’ He stared into her eyes with unshakable conviction. ‘It is not your fault if they choose to attack. It is not your fault that some unholy bastard is killing their friends.’ He glanced to her side. ‘Nicholas, if I need you once it is now. Get her away from this place. Do you hear?’

  He reached for her arm. ‘Of course.’

  ‘And quickly. Take Remy with her.’

  As he disappeared into the town, the shrill sounds of the alarm bell rin
ging out, Remembrance ran up to join them. She leant forward on her thighs, the hems of her dress splattered in mud. When she looked up, the terror in her eyes was absolute.

  ‘Mrs Blakewood!’ she panted. ‘You must leave now!’

  Mercia took in her fearful expression, but then she started into the meadow, ignoring the shouts of warning to come back. Behind, in the town, she could hear the cries of uncertainty start up, voices cut through with fright. In truth she shared their fear, but she needed to see for herself. For if the Indians were coming, whatever Nathan argued she would blame herself, her failure to assuage the sachem the clear reason for the assault. Or so her irrational mind would say, and she was in no temper to dispute it.

  Not far from the gate, she paused. The sun was behind her, but the day was bright, and she raised her right hand to her forehead, shielding her eyes so as better to see. Squinting towards the forest, at first she could make nothing out. But then yes, a slight tremor to the left, a long, dark pole sticking from the undergrowth. She took another step forward, and yes, the pole became a musket. Then a shaking of bushes quivered to the right, and a party of young men leapt out, still a way off, but even from here she could tell their faces and chests were covered in red paint. They began a shrill cry that carried across the open field, and as more Indians broke cover, the massing warriors began a violent dance, as if taunting the townsfolk with their brazen display.

  A hand on her shoulder made her jump, but it was only Nicholas come to fetch her back.

  ‘Humility says there is a plan for taking the women and children to a safe place. He – I – think you should go with them.’

  ‘And you, Nicholas? Will you run also?’

  ‘Of course not. This is not my town, but I will not let men die if I can fight.’

  ‘But still. I should not want you to suffer here, not like that.’ A sudden panic took her, her chest heaving with shallow breaths, a hollow twinge of guilt. Nicholas and Nathan were only in Meltwater because of her need to find Clemency’s killer. If they were to die, to be hurt …

  ‘Come.’ He placed his arm around her back, steering her inside the palisade. ‘Humility told me where the women are being taken.’

  In a daze, she allowed him to shepherd her through the town and the southern gate until they merged into a procession of women and children, all making their way to the half-finished fort atop the low hill. The worry on the faces of the women was obvious, but they stepped aside to allow her to join their line, staring in suspicion at Nicholas until he gave her a grim nod and ran back towards the town, at which the women gave a satisfied nod of their own. Mercia arched her neck to watch him disappear through the gate, then carried forward with the rest of the women into the wooden fort.

  There was one man come with the nervous group, and unlike with Nicholas they did not find his presence unwelcome, for he was in charge of the solitary mortar, the larger cannon beside it too unwieldy for one gunner alone. Fearing Davison, his daughter at his side, stood looking over the town towards the northern meadow. Mercia paused beside him, straining to get a glimpse, but the far view was inadequate. With the attack coming from the opposite side of town, the mortar would be more or less worthless.

  ‘What will happen?’ she said. ‘How will the town resist?’

  Fearing was chewing on a blade of grass, seemingly unafraid. ‘They will fight them, and they will fall back here if they must, do battle from the fort. If they do, I am to fire this to scare the bastards away.’

  She looked at the small mortar. ‘With that alone?’

  He spat out the grass. ‘This fort was meant to defend against the Dutch, if ever it was needed. We were due to get more of these guns, but they never came. Now we must use whatever we have.’

  One of the women behind them was pacing up and down. ‘Why are they attacking now?’ she fretted. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because of that Indian boy, why do you think?’ snapped another. ‘Because of Godsgift.’

  Unwilling to join the fractious crowd, Mercia stayed with Fearing. ‘Are the men organised? In the town?’

  ‘Well …’ His eyes dropped.

  ‘Mr Davison?’

  Remembrance looked up. ‘With the constable in bed, there is nobody to lead them. Mr Lavington is not a soldier, and Thorpe … he may be one of the captains, but the men will never follow him. Vic too is no real proxy. This attack is well timed. The Indians must have known.’

  Sooleawa, thought Mercia. She must have told the sachem what happened in the woods.

  ‘You want to know the truth, Mrs Blakewood?’ Fearing narrowed his eyes. ‘You who wish to know all truths?’ He lowered his voice so the others could not hear. ‘We are in trouble. The men have no strong leader when they need one most. A saviour from heaven.’

  Mercia looked over the town, the anxious shouts of men drifting up from the palisade. ‘He is not from heaven, perhaps, but Nathan was a soldier once. He has led men into battle. But these men are so terrified, they need a general to—’ She gasped. ‘Think, Mercia, damn you!’ She turned back to Fearing. ‘Is Percy still in the town?’

  ‘He will be with the other men, but he is no—hey! Where are you going?’

  She was already through the unfinished fort gate. Sliding on the grass, she began to descend the hill, weaving her way around the straggling flow of women and children, their pale faces finding pause to stare as she dodged them, heading the wrong way.

  At the bottom of the hill she jarred her ankle as she misjudged the last bit of slope; she tripped over a stone in her haste, but she managed to keep herself upright, squeezing sideways past Humility Thomas just outside the southern gate. The innkeeper was calling the final women through, herding them towards the fort, although his corpulent frame was more hindrance than help. He frowned as she ran by, but then she swivelled on her boot heel and stopped.

  ‘Where is Percy?’ she demanded. Humility stared, his face pure bewilderment. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Probably at the practice ground,’ he mumbled.

  ‘And Godsgift?’

  ‘Still abed. When we need him most he is—’

  She set off for the eastern gate. Despite the exodus, the streets were full of noise, men darting in and out of houses, grabbing muskets and axes, any weapons they could find. Some were milling around, looking uncertain what to do, even when more coherent minds shouted out instructions. One or two cursed when they saw her, ordering her to leave with the other women, but most just ignored her, or looked up only briefly. The fear in their eyes made her stomach cold, but she had an idea.

  Coming out onto the practice area an assemblage of men was lined up, muskets at their sides. On the edge of the field a mound of closer-contact weapons was forming, the dulled points of worn swords protruding from the violent mass. At the front of the line, Percy was standing with Nathan, both attempting to inject order, but their task was hopeless: some of the men were clearly panicking, not listening to Percy but staring at the Indians’ position.

  ‘What now?’ he shouted at Kit, the sawyer climbed halfway up a tree.

  ‘They are still dancing,’ he called back.

  ‘Perhaps that is all they will do.’ Amery was shaking, barely able to hold his gun.

  ‘No,’ said Percy, more controlled. ‘This time I fear they will attack. But the dance could take hours. We must stay ready for when they come.’

  His eyes roved the field, studying the haphazard preparations until he caught sight of Mercia. Nudging Nathan, he nodded in her direction. Nathan looked up and with an expletive marched across.

  ‘What in God’s name are you doing here?’ He glared at the line of men. ‘Nicholas! What did I tell you?’

  Nicholas had been facing the other way, but at Nathan’s angry words he walked across.

  ‘I took her to the hill,’ he said. ‘But we both know how she can’t resist trouble.’

  She ignored them. ‘I need to speak to Percy.’ Nathan grabbed her by the elbow, but she shook him off. ‘It is important.�
��

  He fell in beside her as she strode across the field. ‘Why can you not once, just once, do as I ask? Do you not understand how dangerous this is?’

  She maintained her pace. ‘Which is why I need Percy.’

  ‘And me? Do you not need me any more?’

  ‘Nathan, this is not the time.’

  ‘It never seems to be.’

  She shook her head, but by now they had crossed the field. She got straight to the point.

  ‘Percy, the men need a leader. With Godsgift injured, they are a mess.’ She lowered her voice. ‘And I think we both know who.’

  He looked at her with a quizzical stare somewhere between surprise and admiration. And then he laughed.

  ‘Mercia, you are astounding. I should have known you would reach the same conclusion I have.’

  Nathan frowned. ‘What conclusion?’

  Percy’s smile dropped. ‘You see how the men vacillate, Nathan, how they yearn for the constable.’ He drew them both aside, away from the townsfolk. ‘The longer the Indians delay, the more the men think about the attack, and the more they panic. I have already heard muttering about abandoning the town, but then the Indians will burn everything and we will be nothing more than cowards. We have to defend ourselves.’

  Mercia nodded. ‘You need someone used to dealing with such wavering. Someone used to war, who can hold troops together, body and mind. Someone the men know of, and who they trust.’

  Nathan’s eyes lit up. ‘Of course!’

  ‘I did not want this to happen.’ Percy’s face had turned sombre. ‘But people could die. And not just the men, but the women in the fort. The children.’ Rhythmically, his chest rose and fell. ‘I shall have to ride to them. In spite of all my secrecy, damn it!’

  ‘They can judge the risks,’ said Mercia. ‘It seems folly not to ask for their help. But you should stay. You said yourself the men are panicking. They will need your reassurance in the meantime.’ She looked him in the eye. ‘No, I will go. I will fetch Whalley and Goffe.’