Flight of the Sparrow

by Amy Belding Brown

  Mary remembers James’s description of Captain Moseley’s tortures and tastes a dark bitterness on her tongue. She stares at the logs of the palisade. Bark has been stripped away in places, and woodpeckers have made holes in the wood in their search for insects and grubs.

  “Come,” says the squire, taking her arm. “We must go in and prepare ourselves, for I soon expect guests who I know you will want to see.” He is smiling at her in a way that tells her that he has some surprise in store. She turns her head away from his gaze. She thinks of James, standing by the rock where she was redeemed. His sorrowful eyes.

  Squire Hoar leads her into a room with a table and bench set before the fire. Two small windows slant triangles of sunlight onto the floor. He tells Mary to sit on the bench, leaves the room, and returns with a woman who carries a bundle in her arms. Her hair is long and straight; she has a triangular face with a sharp chin. She could be sister to some Indian women Mary has seen in camp. She sets her bundle on the table.

  “English raiment, combs, shoes, everything you will need to refresh your appearance.” The squire gestures to the bundle. “Delores will help you.” He leaves the room, closing the door firmly behind him.

  Delores smiles and looks deferentially down at her hands. Mary rises, curious to see the clothes, wondering if they will fit her. As soon as she moves, Delores leaps to unwrap the bundle and within minutes has spread out a new shift, bodice, skirt, apron, cap and a pair of latchet shoes.

  Mary fingers the skirt, which is the deepest shade of indigo she’s ever seen. Someone has paid many pounds to have these clothes made. She looks at Delores. “Where did these come from?”

  Delores shrugs. She has not spoken a word. Mary suspects she is one of the Praying Indians that Squire Hoar sheltered.

  She unties her pocket and lets it fall to the floor. She feels a wave of tears and has to swallow them down as she removes the deerskin dress and then her shift. Quickly, she pulls the new one over her head. The linen is cool and smooth against her skin. A moment later Delores is lacing Mary into the new bodice, buttoning her skirts. When she ties a fresh white apron around her, a faint whiff of lavender rises from the cloth and Mary almost sighs with pleasure.

  Delores steps back and studies her. Then she makes a motion with her hand, fluttering her fingers over the cap that covers her own black hair. It occurs to Mary that she does not speak because she cannot.

  Mary nods. “Aye, I suppose my hair must be presentable now that I am back in civilization.”

  A smile blooms on Delores’s face, and she quickly produces a wooden comb from her pocket and begins to unbraid and comb out Mary’s hair. It reminds Mary of the intimacy and comfort she felt the night Alawa braided it. It takes some time but after a while Delores seems satisfied. She hands Mary the linen cap, so white it reminds her of winter, and Mary settles it on her own head. It has been three months since she wore a cap and it feels both comforting and confining.

  Delores looks her up and down, and solemnly nods her approval.

  Mary runs her hands over her new apron and smoothes her skirts. “My pocket!” she says suddenly, and plucks it from under the discarded deer-hide dress. She straps it on, though the linen is filthy with grease. But she will not be parted from it, for it holds all she now owns in the world—her scissors and needles and the little Bible that James gave her.

  “Thank you,” Mary says. “I believe I am respectable now.”

  Delores nods, gathers up the old clothes, hurries to the door, teases open the latch with her elbow, and leaves Mary to face the squire.

  • • •

  They eat a simple meal of bread and milk, seated beside each other on the bench. “I would feed you more heartily,” he says, “but the goodwives of Concord cautioned me that your stomach will be too tender for rich fare just now.”

  Mary’s stomach roils as if in agreement with the unseen goodwives. Her hips and thighs ache. During her captivity she has grown accustomed to sitting on the ground; perching on a bench is no longer effortless. She shifts back and forth, trying in vain to find a comfortable position.

  She asks about Delores and the squire confirms that she is a Praying Indian—a Nashaway who was widowed several years ago when her husband took a fever and died. “She took a vow of silence,” he says, “and has not, to my knowledge, broken it.” He shakes his head. “But I fear for her health. She does not have the usual stamina of Indians. Which is why she is still under my protection.”

  Mary would like to learn more about this woman and starts to ask, but the squire begins talking about his wife, who has gone to Ipswich to stay with her cousin. Many in Concord have moved close to Boston, he tells Mary, for with the burning of Sudbury, Groton, and Lancaster, Concord has become a frontier town.

  Before she finishes her meal, Mary hears voices and then a knock on the door. As Delores hurries to open it, the squire rises expectantly. A group of four men and seven women come into the room. The squire welcomes them enthusiastically and encourages them to partake of their simple meal. Delores places a platter laden with bread before them. Mary resists the urge to hide some in her pocket and forces herself to smile back at the women, who crowd around. They speak to her soothingly, as if she is ill, making sympathetic sounds. She thinks she recognizes one of them, but cannot recall her name. She feels a moment of panic as they close in, as if she is about to be trapped and suffocated. Instinctively, she rises, moving away from the table, stepping back. But the women follow her deeper into the room and she realizes with distress that she’s placed herself even farther from the door and its promise of freedom.

  She steps to the side, bumps into a tall man, apologizes, moves the other way. She suddenly feels desperate to be outside in the air. She heads toward the front door and is halfway there when it opens and two more men step over the sill.

  Mary cries out and claps both hands over her mouth. Abruptly, she is swept into the arms of her brother Josiah.

  “Mary!” His voice is raw, almost a sob. He releases her, steps back, holds her face between his hands. “Praise God; you are alive!” His gaze is so filled with worry that her entire impulse is to soothe and reassure him.

  “I am well, brother.” She smiles, though her eyes are stinging yet again with tears. “And you? And our sisters, Joanna and Ruth?”

  “We are all well. They are eager to see you face-to-face. But, sister, I have brought with me someone most keen to be reunited with you.” For an instant, Mary is sure he is speaking of Joseph. Her heart thumps in her chest and her palms dampen. Then Josiah moves to the left, revealing the man who entered with him.

  It is Henry Kerley, Elizabeth’s husband. He stands by the open door, his long arms hanging at his sides. There is a pleading look on his face.

  Mary frowns in confusion and looks at Josiah. “But where is my husband?” she asks. “Did he not come with you?”

  Josiah touches her shoulder. “Nay, Mary, he had duties to attend. But you may rest assured he is most impatient to see you.”

  Not impatient enough to travel to Concord, she thinks, then pushes the unseemly thought away, for Henry is now standing before her, beseeching her with his dark eyes.

  “Henry.” She reaches out and puts both her hands in his outstretched ones. Already her eyes are brimming with tears.

  “Mary,” he says, with a quiet desperation in his voice, “pray tell me—have you news of my wife and daughters—and Henry? Do you know how they fare?”

  She stares at him. She cannot think of a way to frame an answer. “Henry and the girls were captured when we were attacked,” she says slowly. “But I have not seen them since.”

  “And Elizabeth?” He is holding her hands so tightly that she fears he will break the bones of her fingers.

  She slips from his grasp and whispers, “Oh, Henry,” choking on his name. She is vaguely aware that the room has gone quiet around her, that everyone
is watching, listening, waiting for her response. She shakes her head and takes a step backward. She cannot continue to look into his fearful eyes. And so she stares at the floor as she tells him, in halting words, that his wife—her sister—is dead.

  He says nothing, though his hands clench and unclench as she recounts Elizabeth’s valiant defense of the garrison. She tells of the fire and the suffocating smoke that drove them out of the house. She explains how they gathered the children and she watched the Indians butcher John Divoll before her eyes. She describes Elizabeth coming out of the house carrying someone else’s babe in her arms, demonstrating both charity and courage. As she speaks, Mary begins to tremble.

  “She was struck down at once,” she says. “The moment she stepped over the threshold, she fell. On the very doorstep.”

  Henry’s shoulders sink so deeply into his chest that Mary thinks he will collapse. His face looks pinched and sickly. “Pray, continue,” he says in a ragged voice. He has turned his face away.

  “I am assured she died on the instant,” she says. “She did not move. Soon after, the fire engulfed her.”

  He sways sideways and Josiah catches him before he falls, easing him onto the bench. Henry looks up at her, dazed. “I was there,” he says hoarsely. “With the other soldiers. The house was still smoldering when we arrived. Bodies were strewn all over the yard. I saw two of my children—William, Joseph—stripped and mutilated—” He places his hands over his face. “I did not find the others or Elizabeth, so I hoped—I fancied—they had been taken captive.” He is silent for a long moment, swallowing sobs. “It must have been she whom I buried,” he whispers. “I did not know.” His hands fall away. “There were two bodies burned beyond recognition—one lay before the door. I did not imagine—how could I have known?” He stares up at Mary, his eyes wide, as if he is looking through her, as if she is not there. “She was charred black as the earth itself.” His voice is broken and raw. “A piece of her arm broke off when I lifted her.”

  Mary is pierced by a bolt of horror. She goes to him and takes his hands in hers. He bows his head and his tears fall onto the floor. She can think of nothing that will bring him comfort except to whisper that she wishes she had died in her sister’s place.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Josiah and Henry offer to take Mary to Boston, where she will finally reunite with her husband. The squire lends them his wagon and two horses to draw it, and Mary arranges herself on the wide seat, tucked securely between her brother and brother-in-law. She tries to provide what comfort she can to Henry, who is miserable with grief. He cannot rid himself of the horror of having buried Elizabeth unknown. For three months he had held to the hope that she was alive among the Indians, and the destruction of this prospect devastates him.

  They pass many signs of Indian raids—barns and houses lying in charred ruins, fields left unplowed. Josiah plies her with questions. Did she know that Indians were carrying out these depredations against good and gentle English people? Was she aware that they butchered people as if they were swine at harvest time? Mary shakes her head, though she vividly recalls the celebratory dancing around the circle fire after a battle. How she took pleasure in the wild drumming. She examines her heart for the shame that should stalk there, but feels only numbness and a general lack of sensation. She is as one dead, being carried through a foreign land.

  As they draw near Boston, she recognizes the long stretch of gray salt marsh on their left and Gallows Bay on the right. Yet the town seems unfamiliar and strange. She pulls the blanket tightly around her although the sun shines brightly and the air is mild. Josiah repeatedly assures her that Joseph is eager for their reunion. Yet she keeps wondering why he did not accompany Squire Hoar to the ransom site. Why did he not, at the very least, go to Concord and meet her there?

  She shifts to find a more comfortable position on the seat. The rhythmic creaking has chafed the backs of her thighs even through her thick skirts. Her hand strays to her pocket, where she finds her Bible and her needles and scissors, still secure, ready for when she might need them again.

  The rock fortifications and Boston Gate loom up ahead, the towering wooden gallows standing just outside the gate. It is late afternoon. Mary is aware of a constriction in her chest as they ride through the gate, as if she is bound with heavy rope. She tries to dismiss the feeling, for there is no sense to it. She is not a prisoner or a slave. She is seated between two people who love her. She should feel free.

  Yet her heart pounds frantically. Foolishly. Her face feels raw and sore though the breeze is gentle. There are few people abroad—an old man driving five swine along the road, a woman sitting in her doorway, three children running through a field, laughing.

  She thinks suddenly of James and feels an astonishing wave of grief. Only a week has passed since she lay beside him in the dark, talking, as he warmed her with his body. A few days ago they embraced so tightly it seemed they would never be apart. Then he arranged her ransom. Now he is gone from her life. Forever.

  She manages to find her tongue. “Where is Joseph staying?” Her voice is husky and strained. “Does he live with you, Josiah?” She wonders why she has not asked this before.

  Her brother turns to smile at her. “I will bring you to him directly,” he says. “He lodges with Mr. Mather, who has been kind enough to shelter him in his distress.”

  Mary nods. Increase Mather is her husband’s friend and counselor, renowned throughout the commonwealth, renowned in a way that Joseph has always wished to be.

  The meetinghouse comes into view, its tall square walls gray against the sky. Mary notices that clouds have come up and now cover the sun. It seems like a bad omen. She smoothes her apron and, as Josiah turns the wagon into the Mathers’ yard, she begins to shiver.

  Both men leap off the wagon and Josiah helps her down. She hears the rattle of a latch and the squeak of a hinge. She turns to see Increase Mather standing in the doorway, his narrow body bent forward. Toward her. He smiles and reaches out a welcoming hand. Yet despite his pleasant manner, Mary cannot make herself step forward. Instead, her body stiffens as if a freezing rain has suddenly borne down upon her.

  Standing behind him in the shadows is her husband.

  Mary feels shackled to the cobblestones. She knows her heart should rejoice. A prayer ought to fly from her lips, praising God for bringing her out of the wilderness. Instead, as she looks at her husband, a pain sears her skull, so jagged it is all she can do to keep her eyes open.

  “Mary!” Joseph slips past Increase, smiling and opening his arms in a wide arc that reminds Mary of a pulpit gesture. “Praise the Lord, who has given you safe passage through the wilderness!” Sunlight glints off his skin and makes his face look sallow and pasty.

  “Squire Hoar gave me passage,” she murmurs, but he does not seem to hear. He takes her face in his hands and kisses her forehead. She recognizes both alarm and pity in his eyes. She knows that weeks of hunger have transformed her, yet she has not realized until this moment that she wears the countenance of the dying.

  She is dimly aware that Increase is talking with Josiah and Henry and calling for a servant to water the horse. His wife, Maria, appears in the doorway, a babe riding her hip. She is a plump, sweet-faced woman whose gray eyes seem charged with compassion.

  “Come inside.” She smiles at Mary and holds out her free hand. “You must take refreshment at my table.”

  Mary takes an uncertain step toward the door.

  “We must give thanks to the Lord where we stand,” Joseph declares loudly, in a voice intended to carry down the street. “Mighty are His works!” He bows his head and begins to intone a long prayer of thanksgiving and supplication, praising God for His mercy and begging Him for more.

  Soon after the prayer, Josiah and Henry take their leave, and Joseph guides Mary to the door. She leans on his arm, for what is left of her strength has deserted her and she moves as jagged
ly on her legs as a new calf.

  “How fitting that the Lord has returned you to us on the Sabbath,” Joseph says, as she steps across the sill. She hears the triumph in his voice and suddenly she is choking on fresh tears.

  “Sarah is dead,” she whispers.

  “Hush!” He takes both of Mary’s hands in his. His palms feel warm and smooth. “The time for tears is past,” he says. “You have been redeemed.”

  She stares at him. “Sarah,” she says, pushing the name past her tongue, so that it will not catch in her throat again. It sounds like a hiss in the air.

  “I know, I know.” He pats her hand. “’Tis the Lord’s will, Mary. She rests in His care now.”

  So he knows. It is a shock—and a deliverance. Mary feels as if her spine has turned to dust; she sags against him as he leads her to the single chair at the table. At once, she begins to weep.

  Maria presses a clean napkin into her hand and sets a steaming posset pot ornamented with blue vines and birds in front of her. The perfume of the ale and cream mingles with the spices, provoking in Mary a dreamlike state. She stares at the painted birds, suddenly remembering a particular afternoon when she had watched a sparrow hopping about the trees as she sat knitting outside Weetamoo’s wetu. In the near distance a cluster of pine trees had risen dark green against the sky and beyond them a line of blue hills rolled away like the sea.

  “Mary, you must eat.” Maria’s words startle Mary from her reverie. “Poor woman. Your skin lies upon your bones like linens set out to dry.” She picks up the pot. “Come, drink.” She puts the spout to Mary’s lips. “Gently now,” Maria whispers. “Gently. ’Tis over, Mary. You are free now.”