“Perhaps. But I know much of the baseness of men. I was the king’s man once, ’tis true. But more than that, I was a man of wrath bent on destruction. ’Tis one thing to follow an order and ’tis another to find pleasure and delight in it. To kill because I was . . . skilled. ’Tis why I left England. There is a madness brewing there that I want no part of.” He stood from the bench, nodded to Mother. And then he moved to leave the house. But not before one last word. “And perhaps there is a sort of madness here as well.”
“ ’Tis God alone who saves!”
The captain’s reply was a salute.
It only served to enrage Father the more. “He is a heathen.”
The babe fussed on Mother’s lap. “Then perhaps God has brought him here for the saving of his soul.”
Father glared at her.
Perhaps not.
The captain kept himself from our presence during the next few days, coming back only for meals and to retire in the evenings. He did nothing to interrupt our routines and gladly gave himself over to Mother’s hand during the week’s nitpicking, and so we ignored his presence when we could. But during meals it was impossible. He assailed Father with questions.
“There is an area far to the east of the town that looks to have some industry at work upon it.”
“Across the river?”
“Aye.”
“ ’Tis the common.”
The captain ate in silence for a while, examining our faces as he did so. Finally, after Nathaniel looked at him with blank face, he laughed as if he were at the receiving end of some familial joke. Then he turned back to Father. “The common what?”
“The common wood.”
“But it must belong to some man in particular. There were signs of recent work done there.”
“Nay. ’Tis no one man’s, but the town’s. There might have been some work done there this spring past, but it has been made quite clear that no one is to venture so far as that. Not with the threat of savages.”
“But what if someone did wander that far? And cut that wood?”
Father shrugged. “ ’Tis for the cutting, but ’tis also for the paying.” He shook his head. “And one would have to pay dearly for those old oaks. . . .”
“I saw no oaks.”
Father looked at him sharply.
“What would happen if someone did cut them? Without paying?”
“You saw no oaks?” Father pierced him with his gaze for a moment, but then his mien relaxed. “Then you must not have known on what you looked. There are oaks aplenty there, and I will have to pay to cut some of them myself this winter . . . or would have before the savages made themselves known. ’Tis Simeon Wright who supplies me now.”
“Have you no woods of your own? I would think a carpenter—”
“I did have. They were destroyed by fire in the spring.”
“Just your own woods?”
“Mostly. The wind blew the flames into the neighboring plot. But mine was the only one completely destroyed.”
“Before or after the Indians were seen?”
Father thought about it for a moment. “Before, it was . . . I might have petitioned then to cut wood from the common, but ’twas March and then April, the busiest of the year’s months. And by then it was too late. The savages had come.”
“Must you get your wood from Simeon Wright?”
“From where else would I get it? Boston is too far, and we have been banned from our own wood.”
“Yet he has wood enough to spare?”
“ ’Tis his profession, though he charges a—” Father broke off speaking.
“He charges . . . ?” The captain seemed as interested as the rest of us in what Father had meant to say.
“Aye. He does.”
“A miserable piece of work that you are left with none.”
“ ’Tis the way of it. Once the threat of savages is lifted, I will trade what’s left of my woods for someone else’s land. ’Tis certain one of these farmers will be glad to get it.”
“Tell me about that threat.”
Father’s lips pressed into a thin straight line. “If you have ques– Love'sPursuit_ tions about the savages, then ask Simeon Wright. ’Tis he who saw them and he who put us all on watch. With double the men.”
“Is he the tall one? With eyes that could freeze a sea?”
“Aye.”
“Was there no one else with him when he saw them?”
“Nay.”
“So he saw them . . . one time? And that was it? And then a report was made in Boston?”
“Aye. And you were sent.”
“Pardon me for asking, but why should the governor—”
“Why should the governor respond to a cry for help from such as us?”
The captain nodded.
“If he does not, then ’tis only a matter of time before the savages that wander through our wood wander right into his mansion. ’Tis that the reason why. If we do not stop them here, then what is to prevent them from going there? We are the first and last defense for Boston. But building a Zion was never meant to be easy. We must press on to fulfill our high calling. God prepared the way for us. Now ’tis our duty to take it. Both the land and its people.”
Following his business with Thomas, I had seen the captain often about the township. He was always peering about, looking around. And once, when I had been on the ridge walking the hay meadows, he had looked right at me.
It had surprised me. Astonished me. Usually no one saw me. And never unless I was with Thomas, when they were required to greet me for reasons of civility.
I relied upon my invisibility. It was my protection. My refuge.
But though he had seen me, the captain simply nodded. Smiled. Walked by without speaking.
I turned to watch him after he had passed by.
He had a remarkable way of being. Of walking. A confidence that appeared unshakable. A self-assurance that bordered on the extraordinary. And he seemed completely unafraid of the savages.
One could feel safe in his presence.
I felt safe in his presence.
In fact, the temptation was strong to follow him and revel in that feeling.
Nay. Some things were better conquered alone. Fear was one of them. Just two years ago I would not have even left the house by myself, never mind climb the ridge entirely and utterly alone. But my convictions did not stop me from watching him until he disappeared from my view.
There was a man to stand up to Simeon Wright.
The essence of him was good. And honest. While Simeon’s was pretense and deceit. The captain would never surrender to one such as Simeon Wright, but if the two clashed . . . when they clashed . . . I did not know who would triumph. Nor what would be the outcome.
5
I DECIDED TO VISIT Abigail one forenoon after having tended the garden. Before she had been wed, Abigail had lived just two houses down from ours and been my dearest confidante. Now she was at the opposite end of the road, a good two dozen houses away. It was not often I could afford the time to visit her.
Mary begged to accompany me, and since she had finished scouring the pots, Mother allowed it. I toted the child on my hip while Mary walked beside me.
As we passed the first house, Goody Ames’s, she stepped out of her door to greet us. “I saw that captain of yours today.”
Mary answered before I could. “He is not Susannah’s captain.”
“Nor should he be! He was up to Mister Wright’s, pacing atop that hill where their house sets. He had his musket up to his shoulder. What do you think he was doing? Drawing sights on something?”
I shrugged. How would I know?
We passed on by Goody Baxter’s but were stopped at Goody Turner’s, three houses down. “Do you know where I saw the king’s captain yesterday?”
I jounced the babe to keep him from complaining.
“He was down to the river, climbing all over the bridge. His breeches were wet. Do you think he fell in?”
“If he did, it was his own fault.”
“Mary!” Though propriety made me scold her, she had only said what I had been thinking. And good thing, for if she had not said it, the words might have slipped right off my tongue. And then I would have been known for what I truly was.
Mary turned from Goody Turner to me. “If it was not his fault, then whose was it?”
The child began to squawk and so we turned away and continued on. But not long, for we were slowed once more as we reached Goody Hillbrook’s.
“That captain sure gets around. I sent my girl to the pond for scouring plants after her lessons and she said the man was there, ducking behind trees and then wading right into the water. What do you suppose he was doing?”
This time we had not truly stopped, and so, walking backward, we both pled ignorance.
Once Goody Hillbrook had gone back inside, we set our faces toward Abigail’s and picked up our pace. But the questions galled me. “If this is the thanks we get for boarding that man . . . ! Now everyone will know our business.”
A frown set a crease between Mary’s eyes. “And what will have changed? They have always known our business.”
Perhaps I should have kept my sentiments to myself.
As we approached the next house, Goody Blake stepped out.
Mary linked an arm through mine. “Quick! Turn your head.
Pretend you do not see her.”
But it was too late. I lowered the child to the ground, keeping tight hold of its leading strings. Since Goody Blake was a gentle soul, we paused. But we were soon joined by Goody Ellys and her daughter Goody Metcalf, who were walking toward us down the road.
“That captain has been skulking through the wood. Nearly frightened Goodman Ellys to death.”
“My boy told me he saw him down to blueberry barren where he first appeared.”
“And I heard he was down to the brook.”
I smiled, nodded, and tried to disentangle ourselves from their conversation. “If we’re to see Goody Clarke before our mother needs us, we should be about the doing of it.”
“Abigail? She has a pale look to her.”
“That babe of hers might be teething. He’s gone red in the face and drippy in the nose.”
“ ’Tis about the time for it.” Goody Blake turned to me and reached out to pat our babe. She reached wide and I turned so that her hand could fall on its head. “Still and all, don’t let your little one linger there too long.”
“Tell her to spread some ale on the babe’s gums.”
“Or press her thumb up to the top of the child’s mouth at night.”
A none-too-gentle tug on my arm from Mary led to us taking our leave.
“If one more person asks me what the captain might be doing, I might just tell them he’s getting ready to kill them all. And I know it because I watch him clean his musket every night while Father reads the Bible!”
I could not save myself from laughing at Mary’s words.
The rest of the length of road we received reports on the captain’s whereabouts. He had been to the brook and down to the pond. He had visited the minister’s way down at the end of the south road and had been seen at the top of Newham Road. It was evident that in all his wanderings, he had walked the extreme limits of the township. From the swamp in the north, to the brook in the south; the river and the blueberry barren to the west and the sawmill to the east.
And then, finally, there was only one house left to pass: Smallhope Smyth’s. We slowed our step, expecting at any moment to be stopped, though I don’t know why. She was rarely seen. She never went anywhere, never spoke to anybody. ’Twas Thomas who drew their water and went to the grist mill for meal.
Past Small-hope’s house stood Abigail’s. My friend’s door, like all the others in town, was open in an attempt to entrap a breeze. I stepped in the door. “Greetings, Abigail! We have come to—”
She came at me with the hiss of a serpent, pushing me right back out the door. “Hush!”
“We wanted—”
“I just got the child to sleep. He’s been crying and shrieking and wailing and . . .” She paused, an ear cocked toward the door, then sighed. “And now all my work is for naught.” She turned on a heel and went back through the door.
I glanced at Mary.
She pulled a face.
I shrugged. How was I to have known? I followed Abigail back inside. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I could see her in the corner by the bed, holding the babe to her chest, turning first this way and then that with him. The little mite was crying so hard, he choked on his own tears.
“Abigail, do you want me to—”
She spoke without stopping, without turning. “Go.”
“But we could—”
She did turn then and walked toward me. “What? Do you think you can stop him from crying?”
Surprised by the harshness in her tone, I found I did not know what to say. And if I was not mistaken, Abigail herself was on the verge of tears just as hot and heavy as her babe’s.
“Just go.”
“But—”
“Please.”
As I looked around I saw much that I could have done. Put dishes away, tended to the cooking, done the mending. Stoked a fire that had almost extinguished itself. If she had asked, I would have stayed. And Mary and I together could have worked wonders.
Abigail’s hands, gripped around the bundle of the child, were trembling.
I extended my arms toward the babe.
She only clutched it tighter, shaking her head. “Go.”
Why should I fight her when she was in such pitiful a state? But then, how could I not? I stood there, undecided, until Abigail turned her back on me and began singing to the babe.
I gave up. Turned on my heel and nearly walked right into Mary on my way out.
She picked up our own mother’s child and hurried to catch up with me. “What is it? Is the babe sick?”
“I do not know.”
“Is Abigail sick?”
“I do not know.”
“Is—”
“I do not know!” It seemed I knew nothing about my friend anymore.
“And so now what are we to do?”
“About what?”
“About going home. I have no wish to be questioned once more like some prisoner before the king’s bench about the goings-on of the captain.”
Neither did I. The road that unfurled before us seemed more like a gauntlet than a simple path leading toward home. “We could go by the hay meadows.”
Behind the road we had just walked, the earth rose steadily up to a ridge. On the other side of the ridge lay a vast meadow that the town had divided into hay lots. If we kept to the meadows and fashioned a path through the hay, then we would, God willing, meet no man or woman intent upon asking unanswerable questions about the captain.
And ’tis that which we did.
With the child straddling my waist, it took some work climbing the hill and clomping through the grasses, but at least we did it at our own speed, without being stopped every twenty paces. Wresting our skirts from the clutches of the grasses behind us, we held them up before us as we walked.
Crickets jumped now and then through the hay, pursued by sparrows. But aside from that activity, it was a lonely, desolate place.
It came to me of a sudden, that though the hay lots were not forbidden us, no one knew we were there. The hairs on my arms stood on end as I realized that a shout given up from the ridge might not reach the houses down below. And a spider began to creep up my spine. A sure sign of being watched.
By a malignant eye.
Perhaps my lack of moral fortitude and laziness in wanting to avoid the townspeople had resulted in bad judgment. I knew a sudden, desperate urgency to descend the ridge for the relative safety of the road below. Even spurious questions were preferable to being discovered defenseless in the hay lots by a savage. Especially when charged with the safety of the babe.
&n
bsp; I lowered my head to kiss the sweat-dampened curls at his neck beneath his cap, and he squealed in response and reached up with both hands to grab the rim of my hat.
“Mary?” No need to alarm her; I simply wanted to be freed of the child to find the quickest route toward home.
“Aye.” The sound of her voice came from behind me and to my left.
I held out the child toward where I supposed my sister to be. “Could you take him?”
When I felt her take him up, I worked at his tiny fingers to pry them from my hat. Cries of protest came as I was finally released.
“Hush-a, hush-a.” Mary held the child out in front of her and pulled a gruesome face to make him laugh.
I turned forward and began to walk at an angle that would intersect with the ridge, intent on finding a path down to the house. After several minutes, I realized that my unburdened strides had taken me far ahead of Mary’s encumbered ones. I paused for a moment on the ridge, looking down at the houses below, and then I pivoted, intending to rejoin my sister. Instead of striking earth when I set my foot down, I encountered a stone. With my balance thrown off, my weight fell onto my other foot, the one anchoring me to the incline. But it collapsed, causing a sudden burning pain, and pitched me down the slope.
I landed hard on my shoulder. The suddenness of the fall cast my legs over my head, and I rolled several times before I came up against something hard and stopped.
That something wobbled.
Looking up, squinting against the brightness of the sun, I saw a form waver for an instant above me, and then it bellowed and threw up its arms.
A savage!
They had finally come.
6
I TRIED TO SHOUT, to send up some warning, but my breath was expelled by the force of the savage as it pounced atop me.
I squeezed my eyes shut. Waited for death.
To my amazement, instead of words spoken in a heathen tongue, I heard laughter. “And here I was, waiting for savages!”
I opened my eyes and found myself looking straight into the captain’s.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
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