Manchaug - Love and Loss during King Philip's War

by Lisa Shea

  Machk nodded, his eyes shining with pride. “Great Spirit has blessed our new family.”

  Prudence’s father spoke. “You mean God, of course.”

  Machk’s gaze was peaceful. “Great Spirit is God.”

  Her father opened his mouth –

  Prudence gently took her father by the arm. “These people have just been through a great scare, and they are probably exhausted from having to build a fresh set of wigwams from scratch. Come, let us find a place to hobble Arah. And you must be starving.”

  He relented and followed along behind her as she brought the horse to the far edge of the clearing. Prudence brushed Arah down while her father removed the saddle and bridle. Together they cleaned those in the lake. At last those chores were settled and they moved back to the edge of the campfire.

  Morning-Dove made a place for them and handed across two wooden bowls with beans. “Thanks to Askuwheteau’s warning we were able to bring nearly all of our supplies with us. Thank God that we had finished much of the harvest before the attack. We will be able to move to our winter hunting grounds and be safe there.”

  Prudence took a spoonful of her beans. They were delicious, seasoned with sage and pine nuts. She trusted in Morning-Dove’s wisdom and put voice to her fears. “But will anywhere be safe? Your winter grounds are a mere thirty miles west. This war is not just one of Plymouth Colony or Boston. In June the militia of those two areas swarmed all the way down to Bristol, in Rhode Island, to destroy the Wampanoag town there. Given the escalation since then, I worry that nowhere is safe.”

  Morning-Dove gently waved a hand. “The issue is between those two tribes. The English of the coastline and the Wampanoags. They will resolve it through raids, as is always done, and then we will have a new peace.”

  Prudence looked down at her beans. “That is not the way the English think,” she murmured. “Many who live in fine houses in Boston or Plymouth do not see you as equal rivals for land, as they might the French. They see you as …” She struggled to find words for it. “As lesser beings. As unintelligent, uneducated, inferior creatures who do not belong in the company of proper folk. They would exile you to swamplands to the far west.”

  Morning-Dove stared at her for a long moment.

  Then she burst out in bright laughter. The smile wreathed her face, drawing a brightness to her eyes. At last she found her breath. “But how could they think such a thing! Have they not seen our fine beadwork and our elegant weaving? Have they not heard the rich tales of our ancestors? We have been in these lands a full five hundred years, traveling up from the warmer regions to our South along a great river. We build sturdy canoes which many acclaim to be the best in the land.”

  Prudence nodded. “You have good reason to be proud of your culture. Sadly, many English do not see it that way. When you talk of canoes they look at their own great sailing ships, capable of crossing large oceans. At their mirrors and magnets which allow them to navigate vast distances.”

  Morning-Dove’s eyes twinkled. “What need have we for mirrors and giant ships? What would we use them for in Lake Manchaug? We have no need to sail away. Our fields of maize and bean are here. Our flocks of turkeys and herd of deer are here.”

  Prudence gave a soft smile. “That is where the two cultures are so different. You have found contentment with what you have. You take only what you need and you are full of gratitude for that.” Her eyes drifted to the east, and her gaze shadowed. “The English have a different mentality. They see possession of land as a sign of power. They take in as much as they can to build up their position in their society. A wealthy merchant’s wife doesn’t want just one fine dress to wear on Sunday. She wants an entire wardrobe stuffed with fine dresses so each day she can be envied by those around her. So she can showcase how she is better than the others and take pride in her status.”

  Morning-Dove’s gaze twinkled. “I hear Sokw is busily adding beads to yet another dress. She claims she needs a new one to handle her growing girth in the winter months. But I have a sense she would be working on it regardless of her condition. So perhaps our two cultures are not that different.”

  Askuwheteau came over, and Morning-Dove slid so there was room between her and Prudence. “Come, lad, take a seat. You have done well these past few days. Our tribe owes you great thanks.”

  His eyes shadowed as he settled himself between the two women. “I only wish we could have saved our village.”

  Morning-Dove shook her head. “We would have been leaving it soon enough in any case. And we were able to save our tribe as well as our supplies. That is all that matters. Wigwams are rebuilt each year. Summer growing grounds are left; winter wigwams are renewed. It is the cycle.”

  “But now the other tribe will feel that our summer grounds belong to them,” pointed out Askuwheteau. “What shall we do when spring comes around again?”

  “When spring comes, we will discuss it in council then,” Morning-Dove calmly pointed out. “That will be for Great Spirit to decide.”

  Prudence glanced over at her father, but he had not caught the mention of Great Spirit. Indeed, his head was drooping and his empty bowl was at an angle in his lap.

  She gently took the bowl and laid it on the ground. “Father, you should get some rest. It’s been a long day.”

  He blinked awake. “Yes, yes, I’ll just go prepare the wagon –”

  Askuwheteau spoke up. “You and Prudence will have my wigwam for the night. In the morning I will escort you back to your wagon and you can head to Marlborough. You will be safe there.”

  Her father’s brow creased. “But we have only just arrived. We are here to minister to you.”

  Askuwheteau shook his head. “Now is not the time for ministering. You need to get to safety, and I need to bring my people to our winter grounds. Perhaps when the snows come it will cool the flames and bring peace again.”

  He pointed to a well-built wigwam tucked at the edge of the clearing. “It is right there. Enjoy your rest.”

  Minister Lockwood wearily pushed himself to standing and nodded to the group. “Rest well. Maybe God be with you.”

  Murmurs and nods swept the circle, and then the older man moved off toward his shelter.

  Prudence turned to Askuwheteau. “But where will you sleep?”

  His gaze was shadowed. “Tonight is not a night for me to sleep, Prudence. Our tribe is now in a precarious position. The other Nipmuc seek to drive us out because we are Christians. The colonists seek to drive us out because we are Nipmuc. No, I will not rest well until we are safely nestled into our winter grounds and deep snow has blanketed the earth. Maybe then there will be peace.”

  He glanced at the rising moon. “But I must head out to start my rounds. You go and be with your father. We can talk more in the morning, when I escort you back to your wagon.”

  Prudence’s heart twisted. She wanted to stay with Askuwheteau, to talk with him long in the night as they used to do. But she knew he had greater responsibilities. The safety of the entire tribe depended on his sharp eye.

  She bit her lip. “I just wish …”

  He took her hand, his gaze holding hers. “You wish what, Prudence?”

  A figure loomed above them. It was Sokw, her dark hair glistening in the firelight. “Askuwheteau. What are you doing still here? It is your duty to protect our tribe.” Her hand lowered to rest protectively over her abdomen. “Now more than ever.”

  He nodded and drew to his feet. “Of course.” His gaze moved to Prudence and softened. “Rest well, chickadee.”

  She blushed at the endearment. He had given her that name when they were children, when her black-and-white outfit stood out so clearly against the browns of the tribe.

  Her voice was hoarse. “And you – stay safe.”

  He nodded. Then he turned and slipped into the shadows. A heartbeat later and it was as if he’d never been there.

  Sokw glowered down at Prudence. “You do him harm, you know,” she snapped. “He is of the age
to find a wife of his own. To bolster our tribe’s numbers with more children. And yet no potential mate is ever found to be suitable. Have you any guess as to why?”

  Prudence’s cheeks flared red. It had been her deepest fear, on the wagon ride here, that she would arrive to find Askuwheteau married. Tied to another with bonds which could not be broken.

  To hear instead that he, like her, was resisting …

  Sokw’s gaze sharpened. “The sooner you are back with your kind, the better. For your sake – and for ours.”

  She turned and strode back toward her husband.

  Prudence glanced around. It seemed every member of the community was now watching her. Some faces held compassion, others amusement – and some held a sterner emotion.

  She awkwardly gathered up the empty bowls and brought them over to the cleaning area. That task done, she added them to the stack and slipped into Askuwheteau’s wigwam. Her father was already snoring in one corner, his thin face peaceful. Undoubtedly his prayers had brought him solace.

  Prudence moved to the other side of the wigwam where Askuwheteau’s blanket was spread. She still remembered his tenth birthday when his mother had presented it to him. The pattern had faded over the years, but Askuwheteau’s good care of it had done her efforts justice.

  She knelt down before it, bringing her hands to her chest. She strove to fill her thoughts with gratitude. Gratitude that the village was safe and unharmed. Gratitude that she and her father had not been caught up in the growing chaos.

  Gratitude that Askuwheteau was unmarried.

  She fought off the wild thought. She could not do that! Askuwheteau deserved a fine wife. One who would adore him. One who would give him strong, healthy sons and daughters –

  Tears slipped down her cheeks.

  She quickly brushed them away and finished her prayers. Then she lay down on her side, nestling into the blanket.

  It carried the scent of him. His muskiness and leather; his pine and moss. If she could but curl up in this forever …

  *

  Someone was urgently shaking her by the arm. “Wake up, Prudence! Quickly!”

  She blinked her eyes open – but still she did not see anything. The wigwam was pitch black. Only the faintest outlines of shapes presented themselves to her.

  Morning-Dove’s voice resolved into recognition. “You must get up. The tribe is moving.”

  Prudence wearily pushed herself to sitting. “Father?”

  “He is outside talking with Machk. He is trying to convince our sachem to stay.”

  Prudence could now hear the murmur of voices outside. She quickly found her feet and strode out, Morning-Dove right behind her.

  The entire tribe was gathered in a shifting mass around the campfire, bags packed and carriers loaded. At the center was her father and Machk, with Sokw and Askuwheteau close at hand.

  Machk shook his head. “I have heard your words of recommendation. And I appreciate the depths of your feeling. But my decision is final. We are leaving now. If you wish, you are welcome to join us.”

  Sokw’s mouth turned down. “They cannot move quietly as we do! They will endanger our entire community.”

  Askuwheteau’s lips pressed together. “No more than our carriers will, traversing the trail in pitch dark. And having them with us might do us well should we be encountered by the colonial militia.”

  Sokw’s tone turned sharp. “We wouldn’t have this problem at all if the English had stayed where they belonged! If they had never cursed our lands with their presence!”

  Machk shook his head. “It no longer matters how we have reached this point. What matters is the survival of our tribe.” He looked out across the group. “We go.”

  A wave of nods followed this statement, and the gathered turned toward the west, forming into a line and delving into the forest.

  Minister Lockwood pressed his staff into the ground. “Then I shall stay. I will talk with the English once they arrive here. If nothing else I can assure them that you are peaceful and should not be chased down. It will help ensure you reach your winter grounds without trouble.”

  Askuwheteau’s gaze was shadowed. “The English did not seem as if they were in the mood to talk,” he warned the minister. “I believe they are on the warpath.”

  Lockwood’s eyes blazed. “We do not go on the warpath! We are civilized folk.”

  Askuwheteau turned to Prudence. “At least you should come with us, as your father attempts his negotiation. He can then catch up to us when he is done.”

  She shook her head, moving to stand alongside her father. “I have been a part of my father’s ministry from the moment I could crawl. I will not leave his side now.”

  Askuwheteau’s shoulders tensed. “If you two are going to remain –”

  His father spoke over him. His voice held the tone of command. “Then, Askuwheteau, it is time you help the elderly with their packs. I want not one villager within sight or earshot by the time the English arrive here.”

  Deep emotion billowed behind Askuwheteau’s dark eyes, but he nodded. “Of course, Father.”

  He turned to Prudence, his jaw tight. “Be careful, Prudence. The English seem out for blood. They may not care whose it is.”

  Minister Lockwood raised his staff. “I am a minister! I will talk with them and we will get this all sorted out. Just you wait and see.”

  Askuwheteau gave one last, long look to Prudence. Then he turned and set into motion. It seemed a heartbeat before the last of the praying village had slipped into the deep shadows of the woods, lost wholly to sight.

  The silence pressed in on Prudence. Usually in the woods there were the soft calls of the crickets; the occasional cry of a coyote. But it was as if the very Earth held its breath. The darkness lay on her like a heavy blanket, and she was suffocated … suffocated …

  There. A noise.

  It came from the direction of the summer grounds. Where now only the burnt-out husks of wigwams and cabins remained.

  The party moved like a herd of buffalo crashing through the forest. As they approached she saw the occasional glimmer of lantern and heard the sharp swears as someone tumbled over a root or was hit by a branch. The group grew closer … louder …

  A party of about fifteen stumbled into the clearing, their faces bright with satisfaction. They appeared to be farmers and shopkeeps, armed with pitchforks, knives, and a few guns. Their clothing was rough and well worn. The red-headed one spoke up. “See! I told you we’d track them down. Now we torch their homes while they sleep!”

  Minister Lockwood stepped forward, his hands raised in a sign of peace. “The tribe which traveled through here is a praying village. Manchaug. They are good Christians and have not caused any harm.”

  Red rounded on him. “And who are you, injun lover?”

  Prudence’s father serenely nodded. He added richness to his tone, as if he were giving a Sunday sermon on brotherly love. “I am the Minister Lockwood, and these lands you travel are my pastures. I tend to my sheep here. The Manchaug are good, fine Christians. My daughter and I have been visiting them for nigh on seventeen years now. They study the Bible and believe in the Word.”

  Red’s brow creased. “Those injuns are tricky folk. They claim to do this or that to lure you in. And then when your back is turned – wham! They drive a hatchet deep into your heart.”

  Minister Lockwood shook his head. “My Nipmuc are not like that,” he promised. “They have good souls. They are a peaceable group.”

  Red nudged his head toward a greasy-haired, thin man with long, dark hair. “Josiah here says several of your peaceable group headed south to join up with Metacomet. They were seen at the crossing.”

  Prudence’s heart hammered against her ribs. Indeed, Askuwheteau had mentioned that several of the warriors had decided that fighting was the only solution.

  Minister Lockwood was not perturbed. “There will always be a small divisive element in any community,” he pointed out. “That is why they are no lo
nger with the praying village. For the village promotes peace.”

  Red barked out a laugh. “Peace? From the Nipmuc? Tell that to the slaughtered at Brookfield.”

  Prudence gasped. Brookfield was a regular stop for them in their travels. The tavern keeper’s wife had always been especially kind to her.

  She stepped forward. “What happened in Brookfield?”

  Red leered. “After the Wampanoag heathens attacked Swansea, Boston sent Curtis and his men west to meet with Muttawmp of the Nipmuc. To make sure our peace with them still held strong.” His eyes narrowed. “But Muttawmp was a lying cheat.”

  Prudence could barely breathe.

  Red seemed to enjoy the attention he now had. He strode forward and spread his arms, much as her father often did during his sermons. “Muttawmp deceived Curtis and said he would maintain the peace. But when Captain Hutchinson journeyed to New Norwich just two weeks later, the heathens had deserted their village. Captain Hutchinson pressed forward to where he thought the Nipmucs were.”

  He paused for effect, his smile wide.

  “Without warning, without cause, our forces were ruthlessly ambushed.”

  Prudence staggered back and shook her head. “Maybe it wasn’t by Muttawmp’s tribe.”

  Red grinned. “You would say that, you injun-lover. But those who survived the ambush retreated to Brookfield. They gathered up the townsfolk and took shelter in the strongest building in the town. It wasn’t long before Muttawmp and his gang arrived. They burned the entire town. Tried to break into the building, too, but thank God the colonists held strong. Muttawmp lay his siege for four long days before help finally arrived and scared him off.”

  Prudence wrapped her arms around herself. “Was anybody in Brookfield killed?”

  His teeth shone in the lamplight. “A few of ours, and more of theirs.” His gaze darkened. “We’ll make sure they learn their lesson. They’ll learn that decent, honorable folk will rise to band together and wipe them off the face of the earth.”

  Her father’s face shone red. “No! We must come together in peace! This madness must stop.”