A cold finger runs down Mary’s back and she moves away from him. “You were among those who attacked the outlying farms?” she whispers.
“No. It was a false charge contrived by Captain Moseley.”
“I have heard the name,” she says. “’Tis said he is an excellent soldier, though his disposition is hard.”
His eyes narrow. “He is more than hard. He is a cruel man. A devil. With a special hatred for Indians. He slaughters people as mindlessly as a deranged wolf, and with less reason. It is said he once ordered his soldiers to stake a grandmother to the ground and set hungry dogs upon her. A grandmother!” He looks at her closely. “While she screamed and begged for mercy, the dogs tore the flesh from her bones and devoured every morsel. Moseley looked on, laughing, though even his own soldiers turned away, sickened by what they had done.”
“I cannot believe this,” Mary says. “’Tis some lie invented by his enemies.”
“’Tis no lie,” he says, “for I witnessed his cruelty myself when he tied one of my friends to a tree and burned his flesh with brands from the fire because he would not speak a falsehood.”
Mary closes her eyes against this image.
“In Boston they kept us chained in a filthy cell for a fortnight,” he continues. “We could not see the sunlight or the stars or any green, living thing. We were not allowed to wash ourselves. They gave us tainted water and bread infested with worms.” He leans toward her. “Do you know what happens to an Indian’s spirit when he is confined? It withers and dies. We all sickened toward death. When we finally came to trial, the judge found us innocent. He said we must be sent to Deer Island until the war is over.”
Mary tries to remember what Joseph told her about Deer Island, a barren strip of land in Boston Harbor used to contain friendly Indians during the hostilities. “I warrant it was for your protection,” she says. “A safe haven where you would not fall victim to the attacks of enemy tribes.”
He shakes his head. She notes the way the late winter light plays over his face, warming and softening his expression. “’Tis no protection. Deer Island is a sentence of death. The people sent there have not been provided food or shelter.”
“I am certain the General Court has guaranteed their safety,” she says, though she has no such certainty. “And surely the Lord will protect them.”
He makes no response.
“Still, none of this explains why you live among Philip’s warriors,” she says. “Why did you not go back to your home village and live in peace?”
His eyes narrow. “That is what I wished to do. Tried to do. I fled Boston and returned to Hassanamesit. But in November Nipmuc warriors came and took all our stores and warned us that if we did not go with them, the English would seize us. The entire village followed them, save one family, which fled to its winter hunting camp.” He strokes the scar on his neck and smiles. “Thus you see how it is. Though the Nipmuc captured me, I am able go about freely, for they understand that a man’s spirit is free and will wither when confined. But the English do not understand the spirit and think it can be bound and caged.”
His words trouble her. “True freedom lies in Christ,” she says.
“No matter that an Indian is converted to Christ, to the English he will always be Indian.” He gives her a sad smile. “I have lived many years among Englishmen. I have studied their books and worn their clothes and lived in their houses. But that does not mean I understand their ways.” He leans in. “Your ways, Chikohtqua. Perhaps you will be able to explain them to me.”
To her surprise, Mary finds herself smiling back at him. “I welcome the opportunity.”
• • •
A few days after this conversation, Mary wakes to the cries of birds and the smoke of cooking fires. Though it is not yet light, the camp is already coming to life. She hears footsteps outside, the sound of voices. She is alone in the wetu. She sits up and pushes the heavy skin away; she can sense that the camp is already moving. There is no predicting how long they will stay in one place. Sometimes it is days, sometimes hours. More than once, when the word is passed, they have begun marching almost immediately.
The hide covering the doorway snaps open and Weetamoo steps into the wetu. “Peyau yeuut,” she says, gesturing. Mary has come to recognize Weetamoo’s urgent tone and nods to show she understands she must go with her. Weetamoo touches her forearm with two fingers and surprises Mary by speaking English. “Today we cross big river. Meet Massasoit Metacomet. Philip.” She spits the English name as if it is an epithet, but Mary has already grasped her meaning: She is to be taken to meet the leader of the Indian rebellion. Her heart contracts as she thinks of Ann Joslin’s cruel death and wonders if a similar fate awaits her.
But Weetamoo will not acknowledge any of her questions. She pushes Mary out of the wetu, straps a basket filled with rolled furs on her back, and leads her up a hill to a rock outcropping.
A wide river lies below, twisting through a long valley. “Quinetukqut,” Weetamoo says. Mary realizes she’s saying the name of the river. She has done this before, offering her the names of places, as if they are gifts, a practice Mary has failed to appreciate. For the first time she understands how these names give a shape and significance to her new life as an Indian.
She feels an odd flutter in her chest and closes her eyes against the thought. She is not an Indian. She is an Englishwoman and a Christian. It is evil to embrace heathen ways.
Weetamoo slaps her cheek. Mary’s eyes fly open and she stumbles after her down the hill to the river. Many Indians are standing on the shore; some have already boarded the heavy wooden vessels carved from tree trunks that they call canoes. Weetamoo points to an empty one that three warriors are putting into the water.
“Go,” she commands and gives Mary a shove.
Mary is now certain that once she crosses the river the Indians will kill her. She is going not to meet Philip, but to her own death. She reminds herself that if God has ordained this day to be her last, she ought to welcome it. She should not shame herself or her faith by fainting. Yet she is shaking as she climbs into the canoe.
There is a sudden clamor downstream. A man roughly pulls her from the canoe and pushes her back onto the shore. The warriors begin to herd people together. With shouts and gestures they urge everyone north along the river. Then Mary hears a woman scream, “Ynglees,” and she understands that English troops have been spotted nearby.
Everyone is moving close together in an urgent, jostling mass. She wonders briefly if she can slip away in the midst of the confusion and find her way to the soldiers. She looks around, seeking cover under the nearby trees where she will be able to shed the heavy basket. She pulls her blanket tighter and steps sideways, toward a likely copse of bushes.
She catches a glimpse of James, walking with another man several rods behind her. Though he does not look in her direction, she knows he has seen her. She has the distinct sensation that he is watching over her. That he knows where she is at all times.
She hesitates. James continues walking toward her, talking with the man, but not looking at her. Yet she is certain he saw her step away from the group. Her legs and arms are weak and her stomach fills with bile. She slips back into the hurrying crowd.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
They walk beside the river for miles. When the warriors halt them at noon, Mary takes off her basket and sits with her back against a boulder. She is grateful for the chance to rest. A childhood memory comes unbidden—tending the fire while a young pig roasts slowly on a spit. Her mouth waters violently. She thinks of all she has cherished and lost—the plentiful stores of food, the comfort and security of her home. Her beloved sister Elizabeth. Her children. The support and love of fellow Christians. Yet in her hunger, she believes she would exchange all of them for a mouthful of sweet roasted meat.
“Mother?”
The familiar voice startles her. Jos
s! She looks up and cries out, for there he is—standing right in front of her. For a moment she thinks it might be a trick of her mind. But no—it is truly her son. She leaps to her feet and embraces him.
“How is it with you?” She holds him out at arm’s length and then pulls him back in against her. Tears surprise her and she has to blink violently to check them. “Are you well?” She cannot stop touching him—his shoulder, his arm, his face—though she can see that it annoys him. His features are gaunt and he is bony from hunger, yet he tells her again and again that he is fit. He moves restlessly as he speaks, jamming his hands into his sleeves and pulling them out again, almost dancing on the balls of his feet. He asks no questions, and she does not tell him she fears she will be killed once they cross the river.
It seems that only a few moments pass before the Indians begin to march again and Mary knows that she must put on the heavy basket and stagger along the trail with them. She embraces Joss one more time, and off he runs, disappearing so quickly into the trees that their encounter seems as insubstantial as a dream.
• • •
They come to a broad, flat place, where they sleep on blankets on the ground. All night Mary lies awake listening to the water tumble and roll. At dawn, two warriors pull her to her feet and put her in a canoe. She sits very straight, as if strapped into iron stays. She is determined to keep her faith in the Lord, but when she sees the crowd of Indians gathered on the far shore, her resolve turns her spine to water. She grasps the gunwales, clenching them so tightly that her fingernails leave crescents in the wood.
As they draw close to the far bank, she sees Weetamoo standing onshore. When the sachem makes a small gesture with her right hand, the warriors roughly push Mary from the canoe. She stumbles and falls, soaking her dress and blanket in the icy water. Weetamoo motions for her to hurry and then turns and walks into the forest, as if Mary’s obedience does not matter to her. The Indians laugh as Mary rises and staggers out of the water. When she reaches the bank, her legs buckle and she sprawls on the sand.
She begins to weep—great, rolling tears—fortitude running out of her like the water that drips from the hem of her apron. She is exhausted, spent. She cannot go on any longer. Someone touches her shoulder. She raises her head and finds Quinnapin kneeling beside her.
“Why you cry?” His voice is gentle. She feels the weight and width of his fingers through the deer hide of her sleeve. She smells the bear grease on his skin and in his hair.
She sits up and wipes her face. His image blurs and shimmers before her. “Because I fear my hour has come,” she whispers. “You are going to kill me.”
“No.” He shakes his head. “No one hurt you.” He rises and gestures to someone behind him and a young woman comes forward, holding a scrap of meat. It is a moment before Mary understands the woman is offering it to her. She takes the meat and eats as another woman approaches with a small bowl of finely ground meal, followed by one who drops a handful of withered peas into her wet apron. Mary can make no sense of it. The Indians who just mocked her are now generously sharing their food. A moment ago, they stood in a circle around her laughing, yet now they are filled with kindness.
She sees James standing at the far edge of the crowd, watching. After a moment, he disappears into the forest. She feels oddly bereft, as if he has rejected her and is no longer her friend. She wants to go after him, but two warriors stand between her and the trees, and when she pushes herself to her feet, they glare at her so fiercely she sinks back to the ground.
The Indians gradually drift away, leaving her alone on the shore except for the warriors. She continues to sit where she fell, eating the food she was given, waiting for some vigor to flow back into her body as she ponders what will happen next.
• • •
Late in the afternoon, the warriors pull her to her feet and lead her up the hill to a wetu so long it has three smoke holes. The camp is a haze of sound and color. Smoke rises from hundreds of wetus. Sunlight slashes through trees and makes puddles of light on the ground. Snow has melted from the clearings, leaving patches of wet earth. Children squat in the mud, fashioning tiny animals from clots of black earth: deer, rabbits, dogs. Women come out of the wetus to watch Mary.
Inside, the two warriors squat on the ground and Mary finds herself standing in front of a man who sits cross-legged on a platform covered with many skins. She assumes this is Philip. He wears an English shirt and breeches. He looks to be about her age, though there is an extraordinary weariness in his gaze. He has a well-shaped head and wide shoulders. His chest is draped in a bone necklace and three wide belts of wampum. He has only one attendant—a short man whose right forearm is wrapped in a serpent tattoo and who looks at Mary with more curiosity than cruelty.
Philip surprises her by speaking English. He asks her to sit next to him and offers her a pipe to smoke. She looks at it longingly. For years, she has been fond of tobacco, yet she knows she cannot consent to sharing a pipe with an Indian, no matter how powerful, without compromising her honor. She notes the flicker of displeasure that crosses his face when she refuses. Yet it is quickly gone, like a flash of light on a river, replaced by a look of mild amusement.
He draws on his pipe and leans back comfortably against a reed mat decorated with feathers that hangs behind him. She notices that his right hand is misshapen. “You know Mohawk?” he asks, watching her.
Mary frowns, wondering if he is setting a trap. She remembers Alawa telling her she was born Mohawk and that James had once referred to the Mohawk as a savage, warlike people. “I have heard of them,” she says cautiously.
“Mohawk foolish people,” he says. “Do stupid things. Listen. One time, long ago, Mohawk people go to sachem and ask, ‘Will winter be cold or not?’ Sachem does not know but says go gather wood for winter fires and then he goes to visit pauwau. It is long walk to pauwau’s wetu. Sachem must go up mountain and down again, over many stones. When he finally reach him, pauwau says, ‘Yes, winter will be cold.’ So sachem goes back to people and says people must hurry, gather much wood.” Philip draws again on his pipe; white smoke curls from the corners of his mouth.
Mary wonders why he is telling her this story. She wonders if it is true. The two warriors are watching him with little smiles on their faces.
“Ten days pass,” Philip continues, “and sachem thinks again about winter and goes back to pauwau. ‘Will it be very cold winter?’ he asks, and pauwau says yes, it will be very cold winter. So sachem goes back to people and tells them hurry, gather every stick of wood in forest. Ten days more pass and sachem travels again to pauwau. He is weary from long walk. ‘Are you sure winter will be very cold?’ he asks pauwau. Pauwau says, ‘Yes, I am sure it will be very cold winter.’ Sachem asks, ‘Did ancestor spirits tell you this?’ Pauwau says, ‘Not ancestor spirits.’” Philip pauses; his eyes flash. “‘I am sure because I see Mohawk people gather so much wood!’”
He smiles and the warriors laugh, as does his attendant. Philip draws on the pipe, releases the smoke and laughs out loud. It occurs to Mary that his story must be a jest and, though she cannot see much humor in it, she forces herself to smile.
Philip shifts on the platform, leaning toward her. Apparently his jest was a customary pleasantry because his amused expression disappears and he begins to quiz her. He asks if her husband is wealthy, and when she says he is not, that he is only a poor minister working in the Lord’s service, he laughs again. He says something to his servant that she cannot understand. Then he leans toward her. “I have plan,” he says. “For you.”
A ripple of alarm runs up her spine. “What plan?” she asks, but he does not answer. Instead he tells her that, as long as she proves herself a good captive, she will remain alive.
She bows her head, in what she hopes is a suitable gesture of deference. “My master treats me well,” she says, thinking of Quinnapin’s kindness on the shore.
Philip’s
smile disappears. “Weetamoo is sister.” He pats his chest. “You honor Weetamoo.”
She dips her head again.
“You not run away home,” he says. “You live. Maybe we sell you back to English.”
She feels a jolt of confusion. “You mean to release me?”
He does not answer. Instead, he tilts his head and asks, “Do you sew cloth?”
Mary slides her hand into her pocket and wraps her fingers around her mother’s scissors. “Aye,” she says.
“You sew shirt for my papoose?” he says. “I like English cloth.” And he plucks at the sleeve of his shirt.
“Yes,” she says, smiling. Relief washes through her. “I will gladly sew a shirt for your babe.”
He smiles back before dismissing her with a flick of his hand. As she leaves, his servant presses a folded square of muslin into her hands, enough to make a child’s shirt. The warriors escort her to Weetamoo’s wetu, where she is immediately ordered to skin a freshly killed rabbit and scrape the hide clean. She obeys with suitable diligence. Yet she senses that her prospects are better than they were an hour ago because Philip has taken notice of her. Whether or not he decides to ransom her back to the English, he has opened the way for her to profit from her skill with needle and scissors.
She knows that Joseph would tell her that this new opportunity is God’s guiding grace, but Mary has seen so little of God’s succor since her capture that she has come to believe, like Ann Joslin, that He is absent from the wilderness.
• • •
They remain in Philip’s camp for nearly a fortnight. When Weetamoo fails to assign her a task, Mary sits and sews, which gives her long hours of contemplation. She watches people come and go, notices that some of them exchange possessions for food—small baskets, belts, squares of cloth, fox furs, necklaces of feathers and bone. She thinks about Joss and Marie and frets over their welfare, praying that they have not been bewitched by Indians. When she is not thinking of them, she grieves for Sarah. She recalls the terrible burden of carrying her fevered and wounded body on the trail. She remembers thinking that very burden kept her alive. She thinks about Joseph and wonders what he is doing. Is he courting another woman? Is he married as the rumors say? She begins to accept the fact that he will not come for her and her affection for him shrivels.
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