Puritan

by David Hingley

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  She rode quickly; it was fortunate the sun was bright, for if the Indians had arrived at nightfall she would easily have become lost in the darkness. She strayed from Percy’s directions several times as it was, missing the pile of rocks here, the cleaved branch there. For the fourth time she reined in her horse, retracing her steps until she once more picked up the path using the instructions he had hastily scrawled. For all his agreement, she knew how this course must dismay him, for if the regicides agreed to help it would mean revealing they were near, notwithstanding Godsgift’s words of support for Percy’s actions. But he was to move them on again soon, and perhaps that was what had swayed him. That, and the massed Indian ranks in view.

  The last time she had come this way, she had not much noticed the landmarks Percy used to find his path, but with the instructions they seemed obvious. The final marker was the hardest, a wide trunk with a black heart-shaped carving where the sound of the river was most prominent. She leant forward on her horse to check every tree, hearing plentiful water, but not seeing what she needed. And then she found it, an easy matter from thereon in to turn right at the heart-shaped marker and so arrive at a convenient stabling post, a large, lichen-free branch.

  She jumped quietly from the horse. She was near now, and she wondered whether the regicides had set a watch, or worse, traps. She kept her eyes trained on the ground as she crept towards their hollow, but it was strewn with fallen leaves, and her going was slow. When she arrived at the hollow’s entrance she paused, a quiet sigh of relief shuffling her forward towards the cave.

  She was less nervous now than last time, but when a twig snapped behind her, just as before she jumped, laying an alarmed hand on her chest. She pressed against the enclosing rocks, and although nobody was there, she waited several minutes before she dared proceed, hearing no further sounds save the close-by river and the rustling of the last few leaves hanging on their branches.

  She reached the cave, easily missed even when nearly upon it: Percy had chosen his hideout well. She put her head into the opening, wondering whether to stoop and enter or to call into the black. Then her mind was made up as a hand reached out and grabbed her wrist. The action was unexpected; in the tense environment, she screamed.

  ‘Shh!’ whispered a man’s voice. ‘Is Percy with you?’

  ‘You scared me.’ Her heart was beating hard. ‘No. I am alone.’

  ‘You are sure?’

  Involuntarily, she looked behind her. ‘Nothing there.’

  The hand released her wrist and a head of grey hair emerged, the man bending to fit through the low gap. He took his time to stand up straight, and although he smiled, his piercing eyes were full of question.

  ‘Welcome back, Mercia.’ He looked over her shoulder. ‘’Tis a pleasure to see you again.’

  ‘And you, Colonel Dixwell.’ Focused, she returned no smile of her own. ‘Are the others inside?’

  ‘Indeed they are.’ He inclined his head. ‘But I sense you are not here for conversation.’

  ‘No.’ Even the short word caught her breathless; she realised she was somehow panting, although she had ridden most of the way. ‘Indian warriors have gathered on the edge of Meltwater. We need your help.’

  ‘God save them.’ Whalley dragged himself from the cave, his son-in-law Goffe close behind. ‘You need our help how?’

  She looked at the veteran general. ‘The people need a leader, sir. They are in trouble. They need your valour to help them defend their homes.’

  It was a magnificent, almost holy sight. As Lavington was dithering; as his son was striving to rally the men; as the women and children looked down from the half-finished fort, a strange figure appeared, riding on horseback from the forest. The sun glinted off his tarnished breastplate, as though approved by heaven, his head hidden by a well-worn helmet from years gone by. As though an angel he circled the palisade, reining in his horse where the men had gathered, and the breeze picked up in the leaves as they turned to stare at this soldier, dressed for battle, come into their midst.

  The newcomer sat up straight on his horse – Mercia’s horse – looking at the men now encircling him. One of the men – the magistrate’s son – took a step forward and saluted, holding open his arms in a gesture of submission and welcome. Still the horseman uttered no word, and in his stead, the magistrate’s son turned to his fellows and declared that here was their saviour, come to win their victory and their lives. The men stood still, uncertain, until one – the sawyer – looked to the skies and cried out thanks. Then the English yeoman stepped forward, and the schoolmaster, and the smith, and the farmers, the tanners, the everyone, and all yelled a great cheer of deliverance. Although distant, the women in the fort took up their cry, as amazed by this apparition as their menfolk, but they accepted it, believed in it, for whether human or no, it was certainly sent from God.

  And then the old general dismounted his horse, and he spoke, and the men listened, and they learnt, and they did as they were bade. Muskets were taken up, swords buckled, a purpose firing in their hearts where before there had dwelt fear, the men ready to follow this hero from England, who had sought the sanctuary of his American brothers when he needed their help and who now, here in Meltwater, had come to repay them that salvation, the old general into battle once more.

  From the edge of the field, Mercia watched as Colonel Whalley inspired the men, wondering at his words, his skill, and feeling a great pride at what he did, at what her father must have done in situations before, and she knew, though the Indians were concluding their dance, that the town would be safe, that this saviour would lead them to victory. Not a savage victory, for she had told him how the Indians had reason to be angry, but a victory of defence, of preservation, and soon, with the anger abated, the hope for reconciliation. But that, she knew, would be the hardest-fought victory of all.

  The regicides had not spent long in discussing Mercia’s request, knowing there was only one answer: that they would agree to help. They chose Whalley to be the man the people needed, for one leader was what was required, not three, and if aught went wrong, and Whalley was reported, there was no sense in giving up the other two as well. So he went into the cave and he fetched his old armour, carried across the ocean all this way.

  And now the town was abuzz with preparation. Even Lavington deferred to Whalley’s leadership, and Godsgift Brown, infirm as he was, took strength from the Englishman’s presence, allowing himself to be carried to the practice ground to look upon his amassed militia. The men, fired up, gave him a welcoming cheer, and the constable, usually so gruff, permitted himself a smile. Mercia found she could not tear herself away from the animated scene, so different to the moroseness of earlier, but finally Nathan came over and insisted that she leave; she supposed he was right, in the end, that she should return to the fort and await the outcome of the day. Yet before she had been frightened; now, if still uneasy, at least she felt uplifted, tingling with the thrill her husband must have felt every time he was encouraged by the words of a respected general.

  It was hard to tell looking down from the fort how the defence went, for the fight was swift and frenzied. As Whalley lined up the men, she saw an Indian scout running back from his hiding place near the town. Reaching his fellows, the red-painted warriors ceased their war dance and looked towards the palisade, perhaps made aware of the change of mood. But whatever the scout reported they were undaunted, and she felt the cold shiver of fear anew as they picked up their muskets and ran for the town with a resonant cry.

  She held her breath, willing casualties to be light, hoping Nathan and Nicholas would be unharmed. When the first shot rang out, the ring of women around her gasped, an odd, aspirant sound that seemed louder than any gun. Those women with children held them close, shielding their young senses from the fear and the onslaught. Those who did not drew comfort from each other, and Mercia was glad her own son was safe in Winthrop’s care.

  Gunshots resounded, arrows
twanged, the high-pitched calls of the Indian men filled the air with rage and bloodlust. As the two groups clashed, she turned her face from the low-fenced wall of the fort, but she made herself look back: if she was unable to fight, the least she could do was listen and watch. It was not like this was the first time she had known the anguish of battle.

  And now two Indians appeared from the left side of town, circling the palisade fast. Distracted by the women’s clamour, they looked up at the fort, but then they put down their heads and raced on, hoping no doubt to surprise the townsmen from the rear. Some of the women screamed out, some of the children cried, most everyone called on Fearing to let loose his mortar, but the farmer refused, and Mercia was glad: the sound would have deafened them while missing their swiftrunning target.

  ‘Why will you not fire?’ shouted Sarah Thomas. ‘They will come up behind the men! Poor Humility!’

  Fearing stood firm. ‘I will fire this if they run up the hill, not otherwise. It will scare them and make them run back.’

  I doubt that, thought Mercia, but she smiled at Sarah all the same. Then two musket shots rang out, and she looked down the hill to see the Indian men, not yet disappeared around the right side of the palisade, both fallen: Whalley, the veteran, had made certain his flanks were secure.

  So the battle – more a fight – continued. At first caught against the palisade, soon the townsmen succeeded in pushing the Indians back, until the clashing of blades and the bellowing of muskets could be seen from the fort above the town. Seen indeed, for the smoking guns and the shining swords hammered into the women’s eyes.

  The colonists formed into a line, forcing splits in the Indian ranks as they resisted their attempts to break forward. At the same time, three men atop the palisade brought down their enemy with a precise firing of their muskets. All the while, his armour gleaming in the setting sun, Whalley strode amidst all, rallying his men; Mercia could feel the strength of his presence even from the fort. With his firm encouragement, there seemed a purpose to the defence, a hope, and so it prevailed. Unable to breach the townsmen’s resistance, when two more Indians were felled the warriors turned and ran, the pniese who had led Mercia to Hopewell firing off a parting shot as the last to leave the field. The Puritans raised their own guns, ready to fire at the retreat, but Whalley roared a command, holding up a restraining arm, and the muskets were lowered, allowing the Indians to return to their homes unscathed.

  A great cheer of victory from the town; a great cheer in response from the fort. Fearing slumped against the mortar, his hand on his chest, breathing deeply out. But the day was not yet over. Whalley ordered the men to stay watching the forest, but when the Indians did not return, he dismissed the majority, detailing a small group to remain on guard. Some of the rest made straight for the fort, their children running to meet them. Mercia walked down more gently, feeling uneasy relief that the attack was over, but guilt that she could have prevented it all.

  Nearer the town, the mood became sober, for the victory had not been bought without cost. A limp body was being carried inside the palisade: Seaborn Adams, his chest shot through with a musket ball, his days on Earth over. Yet Whalley’s leadership had ensured not only the town’s survival, but that of all the other men too. Still, the pleasure of victory soon vanished, for Seaborn’s death reminded them all of the real tragedy gripping the town.

  As for Whalley, there was no sign. When Mercia looked for him, the old general had gone, vanished back into the air from where he seemed to have come.

  ‘Have you seen Thorpe?’ Percy’s face was riddled with worry. ‘I haven’t seen him. Have you?’

  Thinking of Seaborn as she sat on the meeting-house steps, Mercia looked up. ‘No. Was he with the men in the fight?’

  Percy’s eyes darted about. ‘Behind the rest of us, but yes. He should be thankful Whalley posted those sentries at the side, for he may now be dead if he had not. But that will count for naught with him. He saw Whalley, and he knows full well who he is.’

  She bit her lip. ‘Did Whalley go back to the cave? I gave him your directions.’

  He sat beside her, lowering his voice. ‘If he has any sense. I will have to go there myself when things have calmed down here.’

  ‘Do you think Thorpe followed him?’

  ‘I hope not. If he did, I trust Whalley will have lost him on the way. But they will have to move tomorrow. I will have to take them to their next hiding place earlier than I had hoped.’

  ‘He saved the town, Percy. He would think his revealing himself worth the risk.’

  ‘I know.’ Percy sighed. ‘I have not thanked you for bringing him here today.’

  ‘You are welcome. But now – we have to end this. Somehow or other, before the Indians come again. If you are to move them, next time they will not be here for the townsfolk.’

  ‘Did you see? God sent us an angel!’ A large crowd was making its way down the northern street, Kit West walking backwards at its head. He turned as they reached the meeting house, a joyful smile on his freckled face. ‘Percy! The angel came, just as I said would happen.’

  Percy glanced at Mercia and stood. ‘That you did, my friend.’

  Kit turned back to the crowd, the small gathering hanging on his words. ‘You see! The Devil used his minions to pierce Godsgift through, but God indeed gave us a better gift, for He would not allow us to perish, and He sent us His own messenger for our salvation!’

  ‘The Devil indeed! Except the Devil was what was sent!’

  A familiar voice boomed out from their right. Mercia rose to her feet, gripping Percy’s arm.

  ‘Thorpe!’

  Wearing his broad sash, Thorpe stood directly in front of Kit, the intrigued crowd formed up behind the sawyer. Thorpe towered a good foot over the younger man, but Kit was broader, the outline of the muscles in his arms much more defined. Mercia knew who she would bet on in a fight, if one took place.

  ‘You dare say that?’ bridled Kit. ‘It was an angel sent from God. It came when we needed and then it left.’

  ‘An angel, hah! Something much more earthly-bound.’ Thorpe narrowed his eyes. ‘A traitor.’

  The growing crowd murmured, shaking many heads. Clearly they did not like what Thorpe was saying.

  ‘Take care, physician.’ Kit pulled at the cord around his neck, yanking a locket from under his shirt. ‘That angel now walks with my brother.’

  ‘He does indeed?’ Thorpe’s lips twitched. ‘Then they are two traitors together.’

  Kit clenched his fist. ‘My brother was no traitor.’

  ‘Your brother rose up against the King. I should say that was treason. The hangman’s noose certainly thought so.’

  Kit’s eyes blazed. He swung his fist, punching Thorpe to the ground. Rubbing his sore hand he leant over the fallen man. ‘Never talk of my brother again. Do you hear?’

  Thorpe staggered to his feet. ‘I will talk of whom I wish.’ He wiped at the side of his mouth, a lazy stream of blood flowing from the corner. Then he glared at the crowd. ‘Look at you all, encouraging him. And not one of you loyal to the King. Well, friends, mark this: the King’s men are near, in New York, and they will no longer allow you to keep your precious colonies untouched. And you.’ He turned to Percy. ‘We all know what you do, who you hide. You think me a fool? ’Tis obvious who your so-called angel was.’ He licked at his bloody lip. ‘And one day soon, it will not be me who is scorned here, but you, and I will be the magistrate and you will be where you belong: on a gallows in England, for helping the traitors to the King.’

  The crowd snarled. Lavington had appeared at the back, looking for all the world amused. Then a stone flew over the heads of those at the front, but it landed to Thorpe’s left, bouncing on the dusty street.

  ‘You will see,’ he said, standing his ground. Despite his words, Mercia admired him for that, but then he shattered that respect when he turned to her. ‘Ask this woman what the King does to traitors. Her father should know.’

  ‘Get
out of here, Thorpe,’ shouted Vic, in the crowd. ‘What do you think your Joanna would have said to hear you speak so uncivilly with strangers?’

  Thorpe glowered, wiping again at his cheek, but then Nicholas burst through, and the certainty in his eyes faded. He strode away, yet holding his head up high.

  ‘Pity,’ said Nicholas, joining Mercia at the steps. ‘I should have liked to bring him down some more.’

  ‘No doubt.’ She looked at the now dispersing crowd, their lingering anger unsatisfied; at their edge, Kit was standing alone, the melancholy in his eyes a contrast to his previous ecstasy. She walked up to him, feeling an affinity from his words about his brother.

  ‘Kit, I hope you do not mind, but … I am sure what he said must have hurt.’

  Kit rounded on her. ‘What business is it of yours?’ She stepped back, for his eyes were once more aflame. ‘I know my brother will have begged God to send us the angel, but I suppose you do not believe that either.’ He shook his head. ‘Heathen folk, all of you!’ Then he too walked away.

  ‘You will have to forgive him,’ said Percy as she retreated to the steps. ‘His brother is a difficult memory.’

  ‘Is that the suffering from his past we have discussed?’ She raised an eyebrow; Kit’s unexpected reaction had displaced any decorum.

  He hesitated a moment. ‘Well, we are better acquainted now … so yes. He has a drawing of his brother in that locket of his. His brother … who was with the Fifth Monarchists.’

  She widened her eyes. ‘Surely not?’

  ‘Kit wanted to join them. But when they were broken and his brother was taken, he sailed to America instead. I met him in Boston, and later he came here.’

  ‘I’ve heard of the Fifth Monarchists,’ said Nicholas. ‘But I don’t know much about them. Other than they ended up dead.’