Flight of the Sparrow

by Amy Belding Brown

  She is living in another woman’s house and cooking in her kitchen, and though Anna Shepard says nothing unkind, Mary knows from her frequent glances that the woman is scrutinizing her for signs of coarse and uncivilized behavior. Mary helps as she can, making bread and keeping the fire, washing clothes and bed linens, and spinning linen. She assists in tending the kitchen garden, and in plucking the geese of their soft down to make pillows and feather beds. But her fingers are strangely clumsy and the geese loudly squawk their complaints. The bread sometimes does not rise, and Mary’s bodice and apron are often spattered with grease.

  She eats with a solemn desperation. For the first few days, she wondered if her appetite would ever be restored, yet the time soon came when it seemed she could never get enough food. There is wantonness in her eating now, a hunger that goes beyond food, as if she yearns to consume life itself. She remembers eating horse liver at the Indian camp, remembers the blood smearing her chin and dripping onto her clothes. She recalls how deeply she rejoiced in the unseemly meal, how she cared nothing for her appearance or that she had grown wild as the forest beasts around her.

  Joseph is patient, allowing her time to modify her behavior, to rid herself of what he calls the “savage ways” that have infected her. He insists only that she join him for prayer every morning and evening, certain that returning her to that discipline will ensure a correction in her spirit.

  Then he begins to frown at her, and Anna comments on how agitated she seems. Once, after Sabbath morning service, she takes Mary aside and warns her that people are beginning to whisper that she was bewitched during her captivity. Some say the Devil himself possessed her while she was in the wilderness.

  Mary’s cheeks burn in fury, much as they had when Weetamoo ordered her about. Yet she holds her tongue, bows her head and thanks Anna humbly for telling her. As the days pass, Mary begins to realize that she will never be restored to her former self. The way is blocked, not only by her disordered nature, but by the citizens of Charlestown. Everywhere she goes she sees their wary looks and hears their mutterings. She comes to welcome her husband’s search for a new and distant parish. The prospect of living in a town far from the Bay Colony’s gossiping tongues appeals to her. She thinks of it as a new redemption.

  • • •

  Her constant concern—her obsession—is the recovery of Joss and Marie. She insists on journeying with Joseph as he travels through the Bay Colony towns north and south of Boston to earn a few shillings preaching as a guest in other ministers’ pulpits. But the wilderness, like some great beast, has apparently swallowed their children and is not yet ready to spew them out.

  When Increase Mather suggests that they seek ways to negotiate with the Indians, Joseph meets with Daniel Gookin, the man responsible for supervising the Praying Indians. He returns discouraged and anxious, fearing what neither of them dare say—that the children have been slain and, like Sarah, lie dead in some place they will never find.

  Then comes a day when Joseph tells her that John Eliot, the minister of the Roxbury church, wants to meet her. “He has befriended the Indians and is familiar with their ways,” Joseph explains. “He would know their actions, for he has striven to bring them to Christ.” She thinks immediately of James and what he had told her of John Eliot, how he had visited Hassanamesit when James was a boy. How James had helped him with his Indian Bible. How much James admired him. Not only did Mr. Eliot baptize and befriend James, but he had secured his education in an English home. Mary shares none of this knowledge with Joseph, but eagerly agrees to the meeting.

  Mr. Eliot calls on them the next day. He is a quiet, portly man with a small beard and graying hair that he wears to his shoulders. He sits easily in the Shepards’ great chair by the hearth and smiles at Mary throughout the interview. Joseph perches beside her on a wooden settle, yet he is curiously silent as Mr. Eliot gently inquires about her thoughts and memories.

  She does not say much, for she does not know how to answer his questions. She does not believe that anyone, including Mr. Eliot, can understand her experience. And she dares not ask him about James while she is in Joseph’s presence.

  “I have found Indians, on the whole, to be honorable men,” Mr. Eliot says. “They are always willing to explain their practices, and are full of curiosity about our Lord.”

  Mary nods, trying to keep her hands still in her lap, though they twitch incessantly, even as her feet move beneath her skirts. “In truth, I have not found the Indians very different from English,” she says.

  Joseph’s eyebrows vault upward. “I thought it common knowledge that they are overfond of mischief, much given to sport and dancing.”

  She struggles to hold her tongue, to prevent herself from contradicting her husband as Mr. Eliot leans toward her. “I know you were largely among the unconverted, and no doubt you oft feared for your life, but I trust you felt the Lord’s providence through your many trials. And I would know, in particular”—he pauses as if uncertain how to best phrase his question—“I wonder—did you encounter any Praying Indians?”

  She thinks at once of James. As heat rises into her bosom and neck, there is a choking sensation in her throat. She looks down at her hands twisting in her lap. Joseph is frowning. He takes her hand to prompt her response, but she begins to shake so badly that he doesn’t persist.

  Instead, he apologizes to the minister. “Pray, forgive her,” he says. “She has been subject to such fits since her redemption.”

  Mr. Eliot expresses his concern, and soon leaves, after praying aloud that the Lord will unstop Mistress Rowlandson’s tongue so that His light can shine more brightly for all.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Mary’s silence—her “fit,” as Joseph insists on calling it—in the face of Mr. Eliot’s question troubles her. She thinks about it constantly, worrying it as she might worry a bit of thread in her fingers. She knows that her inability to speak was born of her guilt at wanting to stay among the Indians. No, it was more specific than that—she wanted to stay with James. Even after she learned that her husband was alive.

  She spirals into depression and fear. Her distress is so monstrous that she soon finds herself unable to speak to anyone at all except Joseph and her sisters. Each morning, when Anna Shepard wishes her “good day” in her mournful voice, Mary can only nod and try to smile. Joseph apologizes for her and tries to explain that her strange behavior is due to the shock of her weeks in captivity. But Mary senses that not even he is convinced of this.

  Joseph warns her that Mr. Eliot is only one of many who have requested an audience. She must find her voice so that she can answer their questions. Thomas Parker, Urian Oakes, Daniel Gookin, even Governor Leverett himself, have all asked to hear her tale. She begs Joseph to put them off, at least until she learns the fate of their children. She tells him that her tongue was stopped by some malevolent spirit during the audience with Mr. Eliot; that she fears she will be unable to do more than smile and nod in answer to their questions. Silence has descended on her like a heavy snowfall, muffling even her tears.

  Her husband’s fame has risen since her release. People are sympathetic to a man whose wife has spent so much time among the Indians. Who knows what depravities she has been subjected to, how tainted she is from living among heathens? They consider him noble for taking her back. He has been paid to preach in many towns throughout the colony, and people fill the meetinghouses, curious to learn what he will say. Mary accompanies him when she can, hoping to hear news of their children. They travel to Salem and Rowley, to Ipswich and Salisbury. Though Joseph is warmly received, people’s curiosity is fixed on Mary. She is constantly plied with questions she is unable to answer.

  Then, one afternoon as they travel to Rowley, they are overtaken by William Hubbard, the Ipswich minister. He is flushed with excitement as he tells them that Joss has been released in Portsmouth. Mary is rapturous. She begs God to forgive her for doubting
His mercy. She promises Him that, if He restores her children to her, she will answer every question presented her.

  As if in answer to her prayer, on the eve of their journey to reunite with Joss, word comes that Marie has come into Providence. Mary cannot contain her joy. She takes a brisk walk along the riverbank, listening to the bird chorus and watching the reflection of clouds in the water, just to clear her head. She gives thanks to God again and again. The distress she has felt since her return vanishes like dew on summer grass.

  • • •

  They travel to Portsmouth in a creaking wagon drawn by a hired horse. Mary has never felt so impatient in her life. She can hardly remain seated on the wagon bench.

  Portsmouth is a jumble of houses clustered near the water. Several large wharves jut into the harbor, where three ships lie at anchor. Mary is surprised to see so many dark-skinned people in the crowded streets. They put her in mind of Bess Parker’s son, and she resolves to locate Bess and pay her a visit. Joseph makes inquiries at a local tavern and learns that Joss is staying at the home of Major Richard Waldron, on the outskirts of town.

  Major Waldron greets them with stately aplomb and requires that they take tea with him before sending a servant off to fetch Joss. The servant is clearly an Indian—he has the height and facial features—despite his formal green livery.

  Mary leaps from her chair when Joss steps into the room. He is as thin as a skeleton. When he looks at her, his eyes widen and he stops and blanches, as if he has seen a ghost. “Joss!” She runs to him, takes his head in her hands, pressing his face to her bosom. Long after Joseph pries him away, tears run down her face and she cannot stop saying her son’s name. She refuses to let him out of her sight. Through the rest of the afternoon and late into the evening, she watches him. She cannot stop touching him, patting his shoulder, dabbling her fingers in his hair, sliding her palm across his cheek. He is beginning to grow the fuzz of a beard and she repeatedly runs her finger over it, as if she expects it to disappear. She presses what food she can on him, yet her tongue can form no words other than his name. At times, she thinks she detects a crazed look in his eye, which causes her tears to flow again.

  They take him home the next day. Joss, who is not stricken with Mary’s reticence, talks all the way back about his captivity, describing it as a great adventure. Mary rides sideways on the wagon seat so that she does not have to remove her gaze from his face for even a moment.

  • • •

  As soon as they are back in Charlestown, Mary is desperate to be reunited with Marie. She does not even want to take the time to rest from their journey before leaving. But Joseph says they cannot go. “There are rumors that the savages are gathering in that area for yet another assault,” he tells her. “I have been advised it is unsafe to travel that far from Boston. So we will wait for the soldiers to bring her.”

  “But Marie needs us!” Mary cries. “She will require her mother’s succor.”

  “She will have it soon enough,” he says. “We will discuss this matter no more. You must pray for patience and self-control, Mary. I fear heathen ways have tainted you.” And he turns away. She wonders suddenly if it is fear of the Indians that prevented him from rescuing her, and she is too ashamed to continue her supplications.

  Under English guard, Marie is brought to Dorchester, where Joseph meets her and returns with her to Charlestown. When the cart draws up in front of the door, Mary runs out and pulls Marie into her arms. Her daughter’s face and form are even more skeletal than her son’s, yet there is a cheerfulness about her that assures Mary her mind is not disordered.

  Marie reports that her captor was a Wampanoag warrior who gave her to his sister. She was not beaten or bound though, like Mary, she was forced to carry heavy baskets as the woman and her family moved from place to place. For several weeks Marie feared she might be killed at any moment, but gradually realized that her captors treated her no differently from their own daughters. She asks what became of Sarah. As Mary describes Sarah’s suffering and death, her voice grows hoarse and words fail her and soon she collapses into silence. She draws Marie close against her, clasping her for so long that the girl begins to protest.

  As with Joss, Mary cannot draw her gaze from her daughter. She touches her face and arms and shoulders again and again throughout the day, to reassure herself that Marie is before her in the flesh, and not the phantasm of some sweet dream.

  That evening, they sit before the hearth, a reunited family. After Joseph delivers up many prayers of thanksgiving, Marie confesses that she was not rescued by English soldiers, but by a Wampanoag woman.

  “I was walking on the trail with the other women,” she says. “I was last in line. I had my basket on my back and it was heavy.” She touches her forehead, where the line of her basket strap still marks her skin. “One of the women—Motuckqua—came back to walk with me. At first I thought she meant to scold me, but when the others went round a bend and out of sight, she took my arm and dragged me off the trail into a thicket. We hid there for hours. I was frightened, but she made me understand she meant to take me back to the English.”

  “Surely, she risked her own life to do so,” Mary says. “The Indians would regard such an act as treachery.”

  Marie nods. “I would not be alive without her help. She gathered food and found shelter and led me to Providence.”

  “I wonder what prompted her to such benevolence.” Mary feels her eyes burn with tears.

  “It was the Lord’s doing,” Joseph says. “A miracle of His grace.”

  Mary bows her head as he offers yet another prayer of thanksgiving, but she cannot stop thinking of the Wampanoag woman and her courage. She doubts she would have risked so much for an Indian child.

  • • •

  Late on a Wednesday afternoon, a week after the children’s return, Joseph insists on taking Mary to visit Daniel Gookin at his home in Cambridge. He tells her Mr. Gookin is an assistant on the Council of Magistrates and has the ear of Governor Leverett. He is now writing a book on the doings of the Praying Indians during the hostilities and wishes to question her. Although Mary does not want to be separated from Marie and Joss for even a few hours, she obeys her husband. As he reminds her, the Lord has shown her abundant mercy by bringing her out of the wilderness and restoring her children. Mary should feel obliged to thank Him not just in word, but in deed.

  She has never met Mr. Gookin, yet the name is disturbingly familiar. She remembers that James mentioned it and she also heard it several years ago in a darker context. It is the name of the man who first owned Silvanus Warro, Bess Parker’s lover.

  As they draw up to the stately house, set back from the lane behind a sturdy fence, Joseph says he hopes she will find her tongue this time. A pretty servant girl greets them at the door, and takes their cloaks. She is about Sarah’s age and her movements remind Mary of her daughter’s quiet grace. They follow her into Mr. Gookin’s parlor—a long clean room with freshly whitewashed walls and a sand-scrubbed floor. A wide table is situated before the hearth and a cupboard carved in ebony and oak stands against the wall.

  Mr. Gookin is a tall, thin man with gray hair and a cheerful countenance. Mary judges him to be well into his sixth decade, despite his obvious vigor. There is an uncommon sadness about him, yet he greets them with a warm smile and a gracious manner, bids them sit at the table, then signals for the servant girl to bring food. Mary’s eyes follow her as she bobs in and out of the room, bearing plates of small cakes and bowls of hot broth.

  Joseph eats heartily, but Mary can do no better than pick at a cake and touch a few crumbs to her lips. Mr. Gookin smiles benevolently and speaks directly to Mary. “I want to be plain, Mistress Rowlandson,” he says. “I am still seeking news of some friends—Praying Indians who were under my tutelage before these terrible hostilities started up last summer.”

  Mary nods. She wonders if James was one of his student
s, tries to carefully phrase a question. But before she opens her mouth, Joseph starts to speak on her behalf. He explains her late speaking disability, his concern that the Indians bewitched or corrupted her. She stares down at her lap in silence, though she longs to contradict him.

  Mr. Gookin listens politely to Joseph, then addresses Mary again. “I am particularly curious to know if you encountered one Indian who goes by the name of James Printer.”

  She looks up at him, startled. “I met him,” she says cautiously.

  “Ah!” His face brightens and he runs his hands across his knees. “Tell me, how did you find him? I would know particularly of his loyalties. Were they clear in his dealings? Has he remained true to the English cause? Or has he gone over to Philip?”

  Confused feelings tumble within her. She does not know what her answer should be. She is not even sure what the truth is. Finally, she says, “I did meet him, but I fear I could not discern his loyalties.”

  “Ah,” says Mr. Gookin, nodding solemnly. “’Tis no surprise, in truth. He’s crafty. One of the cleverest Indians I ever met, but not fully converted, I warrant.”

  Mary’s impulse is to protest, yet she restrains herself, knowing that a passionate reaction would stimulate questions she does not want to answer. She says nothing, glances away at the small west-facing window, where she sees dark clouds rolling up the sky, lengthening the shadows in the room. She is surprised that Mr. Gookin does not light a candle or a lantern. Joseph asks him a question, and they embark on a long conversation about Indians, the hostilities, and the terrible toll the war has taken on English resources and lives, until Mary is no longer able to discern how one word is fitted to the next.