Later, as I turned a pot over the biscuits for baking, the fire flared, sending out sparks of copper and gold, in precisely the same shades that had laced the sunset the evening before.
The captain thought I knew all the right answers but not the right questions? Who was he to judge? He was a stranger forced upon us who would soon be leaving. What did he care about who I was or what I thought?
I was Susannah Phillips, aged twenty years, soon to be betrothed to John Prescotte, an able and honorable man. I could see no questions there.
Least none worth asking.
I heard Thomas’s axe ring out just as I finished shaping my biscuits. After scraping dough from my hands, I stepped outside. Swiping at flies from the chickens’ coop, I walked around the back of the house toward the smithery.
Thomas had stripped to his shirt and was chopping at the woodpile.
I knew a moment’s regret for causing him undue work. He might have ordered his logs from Simeon Wright and avoided some of the chopping of it . . . and all of the hauling. Indeed, he had spoken to the man about it, but the price that had been quoted was much too high. Thomas had called it extortion. Though I had agreed with him, I begged him not to bring it to the attention of the town’s deputy.
The less notice Simeon Wright took of me . . . of us . . . the better.
And so, Thomas had acquiesced.
But if the need for chopping wood were my fault, then at least I could help him with it.
As he took a pause to wipe his brow with the forearm of his shirt, I handed him a cup of ale. After he handed it back to me, I placed it on the stump before him and bent to collect an armful of wood.
“Do not bother yourself with that.”
“You bothered yourself with me. ’Tis the least that I can do.”
He moved and bent to squat across from me, taking one of my hands in his. “ ’Tis that what you think of yourself? A bother?”
I pulled it free and added another length of wood to my pile.
“You will ruin your hands with splinters.”
“And why should I save them?”
“Because they are beautiful.”
Beautiful? My hands? I nearly smiled. Wanted suddenly to laugh outright. My hands were work-scarred. My palms calloused from carrying heavy pots and pans. My forehands scarred from encounters with the pressing iron. My knuckles reddened and raw from the lye soap I used for washing.
He placed a hand on top of my pile, to stay me from rising.
“They are.” He reached out to touch the back of one of my hands. “Your fingers are so . . . slender. Hands so neat . . .” He was looking at them as if he wanted to kiss them. But he did not. He raised his eyes and caught me looking at him. “Thank you for using them, for putting them to work on my behalf. Both inside the house and out.”
My eyes darted toward the ground. I knew not what to say.
At length, he withdrew his hand and rose. Took another gulp of ale.
I added one last piece of wood to my pile and went to stack it next to the smithery.
When Thomas had completed his work and I had finished helping him, I returned to the house. Taking some unguent from a pot in the cupboard, I rubbed it into the calluses of my palms. Placed some on the cracks of my knuckles and around the dried edges of my nails.
My hands. Beautiful. Imagine that.
11
AS JUN E TURN ED INTO July, the men’s labors turned to the harvesting of hay. Town ordinance decreed that it be brought in no later than the tenth of the month. But thickening skies and the threat of rain ordered it be harvested as soon as was possible.
A frenzied labor by all in town over the course of several days led to a speedy harvest. And as the last sheaf was placed atop the stack and the roof lowered upon it, thunder rumbled in the distance and lightning split the sky.
It was with thankful hearts we came that night to supper. And with hungry stomachs we devoured the food. None spoke until the meal was finished. And even then, it was the captain who broke the silence.
“What is it you people hope to do here?”
Father answered as if he were asked such questions every day. “Live as God commanded.”
“Aye. ’Tis that which I’ve been told over and over and over again.
But to what end?”
“To make here a new Zion. To live as a City on a Hill to which all may come and know of God’s great love.”
“Even the savage?”
“Certainly the savage.”
“Even though he skulks in the wood and wishes you harm?”
“ ’Tis expected when a man has not had his heart renewed. He is less than he might be. As are all of us. But he is a man. Like you. Like me. He wants only a reformed heart.”
“And then what?”
“And then what . . . what?”
“And then what would he do? Once his heart is reformed?”
“Live in harmony with his fellow man. Leave behind his heathen ways. He would do what we all must: work for the glory of God.” Father said it as a pronouncement. A conclusion to a matter, and it was taken as such. At least by me. And Mother and Mary and Nathaniel.
But the captain would not let the matter expire. “Has there been much success? In converting the savage?”
“Some.”
“Perhaps more would present themselves if there were some merriment. Some laughter in this City on a Hill.”
“Small is the gate and narrow is the path, Captain.” Though Mother’s words were pointed, she said them with a smile.
“Aye, Goody Phillips. ’Tis well known, that. But I must say that your City on a Hill will find itself bereft of citizens if there is no happiness, if no gaiety can be had within its walls.”
“There is a time for laughter—”
“Aye. After all the work is done and all the labor finished. In the moment between wakefulness and sleep once one is abed. ’Tis well and good to be about work and to do it earnestly, but is it not said that the master himself took a rest from His labors? Even He feasted.”
“Aye, He feasted, but it was as He was about His business, Captain. ’Twas always holy work that He was about. And we have our feast days. And corn huskings and stump pullings.”
The captain threw up his hands. Pulled his pipe from a pocket. Then he rose and walked to the door. “I surrender. Even your merrymaking is couched in work. You have worn me out with all the talk of your labors. Farewell. Work well. For I am certain you will do nothing else this night!”
He probably never heard it, poor man, over the noisome rains, but we burst into laughter—all of us, Father included—once the captain had taken himself outside to smoke his pipe.
The next morning after breakfast, Father and Nathaniel went to Thomas Smyth to see about some tools. Mary and I began on the morning’s tasks. As I was kneading dough, the door flew open and Nathaniel came in at a run. “Savages! The savages have come!” He dove underneath our bed, pulled out the drum, and disappeared through the door before we could react.
He must have started drumming as he ran, for that ominous, imperative beat was heard scant seconds later.
“To the garrison house!” Mother swept up the child with one hand and grabbed Mary’s arm with the other.
“But the—”
“To Wright’s hill. Now!”
But the fires and the mending and the dough! And what about a blanket for the babe and food for the rest of us? And the Bible and . . . and the captain’s pipe? I could not save everything from the savages, but I could take one thing. I grabbed the pipe from the mantel, concealed it within my skirts and then ran out the door.
Mother and Mary had already taken to the road along with the portion of the town that was to rally at Wright’s hill. I raced to catch up with them. And then, together, we sped up the hill, passing those less agile or more aged. The door to the Wrights’ was already open by the time we reached it. Several others had gained that fortress before us, but the rest were behind us. We were thrust
through a small sitting room and into the kitchen and we did not stop until we reached the back wall. Once there, we had need to push back against the crowds that were pressing in upon us.
The Wrights’ servants worked to close up the shutters. The men among us in the garrison took up their muskets and pounded up the stairs to the second story.
The child started to cry and that set all the other babes in that place to crying. Mother tried to soothe him, but we soon realized that pleas were useless. The babe had soiled itself.
“And me without any clouts! You did not think to bring any, Susannah?”
She had said it with such hope, but I could only disappoint her. “I did not think to grab any.” In truth, I had scarcely thought at all. Not of clouts. I clasped my hand tighter about the pipe, unwilling that she should see it. Unwilling that she should discover how truly thoughtless I had been.
“But did you put out the fires?”
“There was not time!”
The same conversation was being repeated between mother and daughter all around the room. And now, everyone strained for a sniff of outside air, hoping that the scent of woodsmoke would not soon be curling from the roofs of houses caught fire. To our terror of savages, fear of being rendered homeless had just been added.
In that crowded, dark place, we stood straining for some news, some indication of attack. Some gasped as the logs in the fireplace crackled. Others jumped as the men on the floor above us began to pace.
We knew that Nathaniel had taken refuge at the meetinghouse. ’Twas where he had run with his drum. Father did not appear among us, so I could only assume that he had gone there as well. Mother seemed confident of both our safekeeping and theirs, although she kept glancing toward the sitting room. My own gaze kept sliding in that direction too, but mine was in search of the captain. What if he had been discovered on his watch? What if the savages had already taken him?
Simeon Wright was among us and he was captain of the guard, at least until the king’s man had come. But his presence did little to put my fears to rest.
Goody Baxter, Abigail’s mother, found us and stayed for some moments to talk. Before she left to return to her own family across the room, she squeezed my arm and leaned close to whisper in my ear. “I have seen you glancing toward the door. Do not worry. The Prescottes have probably taken refuge in the meetinghouse. ’Tis closer.”
The Prescottes? But why would . . . John! I had not thought to think of him before that moment. My cheeks flushed with shame. My first thought ought to have been of him, but it had not. My first thought, my only thought, had been of the captain. And his pipe.
Some goodwife I would be!
I vowed that my thoughts would not be far from John for the rest of the day. And, indeed, I whispered a prayer on his behalf. And that of his family. If his father’s house was burnt, then John’s attentions would have to go to rebuilding his family’s home, rather than ours. And who knew, then, when he would find the time to wed?
After several hours the children began to grow restless. Mischief began to break out among siblings. And then it seemed that all of them became hungry at once. Mother left the child with Mary and me as she moved to help Mistress Wright at the fires.
At length, a blessing was pronounced, we were bid to sit, and food was passed round the room. Dinner came from several buckets filled with dried blueberries from which everyone took a handful. And another filled with biscuits, one for each family with the promise of more to be provided later.
With their hunger sated, many of the smallest fell asleep. Without any apparent threat, without any sightings of savages, a festive air began to prevail. Mary slipped away after the babe fell asleep in my arms. I watched her wend her way through the crowds to talk to her friends. With the child breathing heavy and with the air growing stuffy and stale, I must confess that I, too, fell into a sleep.
Being confined to the meetinghouse during an Indian attack was even worse than being confined there of a Sabbath. The windows had been shuttered, the door secured. There was little space to be had and no air. I tucked myself into a corner and made myself as small as possible. Even so, it did not stop sweat from damping the back of my neck nor dripping down the front of my shift. But at least I was not at Wright’s hill. I would fain discover myself in the middle of a band of savages than to find myself locked up there.
The babes might have been crying, the children working all kinds of mischief, but for the captain. He had tasks for all to do. While the men kept watch, muskets at the ready, the women were intent upon making food for dinner. Without the convenience of a fireplace, the meal was compiled from all any had thought to bring. The boys were set to work dividing up gunpowder and counting out musket balls; the younger girls were put in charge of the babes. Though the mood was grave, there was no panic and little anxiety.
I woke with the echo of a strangled snore sounding in my ears. My strangled snore. From my position on the floor, I scanned the crowd for Mary, hoping that she would soon return to relieve me. I could not see her for several moments, but then back in the corner the door to the Wrights’ lean-to opened. Mary’s head appeared, her gaze darting round the crowded room. There was something furtive in her look.
I kept myself still, wanting to see more than to be seen.
She emerged from the doorway, cheeks in high color, her coif riding far back on her head. She nodded to Goody Metcalf as she pulled the door shut, then stopped to talk to one of her friends. Eventually, she worked her way round to us. I began to stretch out my arms to give her the child but stopped. “Your shift.”
“What of it?”
“The strings.”
She looked down and saw what I had seen. Her strings had come undone. She shrugged and then took up the ends and tied them off in loops.
“You ought to be more careful.” I gestured her to lean down and took hold of the edge of her coif, pulling it forward.
She looked at me then with the most uncommon stare. I might have called it brazen. Her gaze wandered to the lean-to door, and as it did, the door opened once more. Simeon Wright stepped through it and headed up the stairs to the floor above us.
Simeon Wright? Had he . . . and she . . . ?
I turned to find Mary watching him and it seemed to me that there was a sort of hunger in her stare.
It was not long after that we heard the sound of a musket’s report. And then a second and a third. There was a moment when the room went completely and utterly silent, and then the children began to wail and the mothers began to hush them. The rest of us waited. And prayed.
After those first three shots, there were no others. No shouts from outside, no exclamations from inside. There was simply . . . nothing. Hours followed. Hours of straining to hear something, anything, in that near silence.
Eventually word got round that it was Simeon Wright who had begun the fusillade. He had spied a savage creeping up the hill and had killed him.
Supper was long in coming and when it did, it was pottage eaten from the kettle and the biscuits that had been promised earlier. Mothers bedded down their infants afterward and curled up on the floor beside them. I passed the night in uneasy sleep, waking often to the sound of restless shifting all around me. And once in a while to the scuff of boots upon the boards above my head.
The next morning a knock pounded upon the door. “Open up! ’Tis Captain Holcombe! ’Tis safe. There are no more savages.”
Praise God! It was a thought echoed by all in that place.
I cannot say that I was sorry to depart the Wrights’ house. Grand though it was, I would happily leave it for another goodwife to possess. With no occupation, save waiting, and nothing to do but wake and sleep, I might have soon gone mad. And there was a feeling about the place, a sort of moroseness that did not rest easy within me.
Though Mary dragged her heels, we left among the first, before the savage’s body could be hauled from the path. We had to step around him as we walked down the hill. His flesh was bared,
though his waist and loins were wrapped in some sort of animal skin. It could be seen quite plain that a hole had been drilled through his heart. But he had no weapon, save an axe.
’Twas that axe upon which the captain was gazing as he knelt beside the body. “Why do you suppose he brought an axe to an attack?”
His question was put to no person in particular, but it seemed to me a daft one. “ ’Tis lethal in the way of weapons.”
“For a tree, perhaps. But not for a person. ’Tis gruesome work to hack a body to its death. And dangerous.”
“Perhaps an axe was all he had. ’Tis forbidden to sell them muskets.”
“Aye. But . . . he was just one? Alone?”
I shrugged. “The only one killed.”
“ ’Tis strange . . .”
As the captain stood, I cast one last glance at the Indian. His unseeing eyes gazed at the rising sun with such peace. It was hard to find anything disturbing about him . . . save the thought that his fellows might, even now, be lurking in the wood.
I was grateful to spy our home in the distance, still standing. Through some deft maneuvering, I succeeded in slipping the captain’s pipe from my skirts and replacing it upon the mantel without his notice. But that evening as I passed him on my way to the necessary, he paused in his smoking and raised it by way of a salute. “My thanks.”
I nodded and continued on my way before he could say anything more.
As we walked the road from the meetinghouse to the smithery, Thomas was told it was Simeon Wright who had prevented the Indians’ attack. It was his shot that had broken their courage and sent them fleeing through the wood. Though I did not think much more about it, Thomas came into supper that night with thoughts to spare.
“I might have thought with all of us in garrison they would have tried to burn the town.”
I was used to Thomas’s strange ideas. His long hours at the forge gave him plenty of time to think. Burn the town? That would have required some work and many torches.
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