On that morning Father and Nathaniel left the house, clubs in hand. Mary and I trailed them, taking a half dozen sacks and our own clubs with us. They went to trap a single bird; Mary and I went in hopes of clubbing its brothers.
Pairs of men and boys spread through the wood looking for a bird to snatch. Some, like Father, did it by launching a net over a nest. Others did it with persuasion, by laying out a line of grain and enticing the creatures down from their nests.
Once Nathaniel had clambered up a tree and brought down a bird, Father took a needle to hand in order to sew its eyes shut. But once needle had pierced skin, the creature shrieked and beat its wings in panic.
Nathaniel clutched the bird tighter.
Muttering, Father finished the job. And then he fastened the bird to a platform by its feet. “You can let him go.”
Nathaniel dropped his hands as the bird’s wings beat a tattoo against the air.
Father looked round at Mary and me. “Grab your clubs and hold yourselves still.”
We did, all of us, until at length the birds began to stir from their nests, to rid their wings of sleep and take to the air. At that moment, Father raised the platform up above his head and then dipped it down toward the ground. Upon the going down, the pigeon fluttered its wings, looking for all the world as if it were coming to rest.
Seeing one of their own flapping toward the ground, the group of pigeons decided that he knew something they did not. And, as a group, they dove and joined him, settling themselves down upon the ground. And it was at that point the slaughter began.
’Twas not difficult in the way of sport. The birds followed each other as a group. Too late they learned of their folly. They were easily entrapped by a net thrown over them and then just as easily felled by the blow of a club. From that first group alone we must, all of us, have bagged a dozen or more birds.
After a long morning’s work, we returned home for dinner. Mother met us in the yard, hefted the bags from our hands, and placed them beside the door. “They’ll rest there well enough until we’ve readied for them.”
We had turned to go inside when Nathaniel spied a woman hurrying in our direction. We waited until she made her approach.
It was Mistress Wright, Simeon’s mother, come over to offer us her bag of birds. “From Simeon, my son.”
Mother smiled. “We have some bags already.”
“And we have five. Loaves and fishes. Feed the masses.”
As Mother did not move to take it from her, she pressed it into my hands.
I could do nothing other than take it. As I did, I saw that Simeon Wright was watching us from the road. And so I tried to smile in his direction.
I handed the bag to Mother, and she placed it with our own. After dinner Father hauled a board from his shop and set it upon two trestles. Mother doled out the sacks, one for Mary and me, another for herself. Then she turned her pigeons out upon the board and began plucking the feathers from them. “Such small birds to cause such devastation.”
“If only the trapped bird could warn them off.” It seemed a piteous end to a creature so sleek and soft. Even if they did try to eat our grain.
Mother snorted. “And a good thing that it cannot.”
“They can see the slaughter, but they follow one another to it anyway. Why can they not see they have judged incorrectly?”
She shrugged. “Because the scene is so deceptive. They cannot fathom that things are not what they seem.”
“ ’Tis pitiable.”
Mother bid me back to work with her nod.
She finished her sacks and Mary and I finished ours soon after. That left only the sack from Mistress Wright.
Mother clucked over it as she lugged it to the board. “As if we did not have enough of them already.” Mother frowned. And then she shook her head. “The poor woman. She never has been quite right. But at least her nonsense is from God’s Holy Word.” She threw the sack up on the board and then took it by the bottom corners and dumped it. A dozen birds fell out, but they were strange in the way of pigeons. They had been clubbed so hard that they were, all of them, rendered nearly flat.
Mother looked at them askance. “I do not know what I should use these for. There seems to be hardly anything left of them!”
In the end, we could think of naught to do but bury them. And I wondered what Mistress Wright, in her fine house on Wright’s hill, had done with all of hers.
14
IN THE COMING DAYS , Mary and I worked with Mother to dry and pickle food for the winter. As I walked about on errands here or there, I could see the men tying shocks of Indian corn together. They would winter there, those shocks, like companions in arms, autumn mists swirling around them, winter snows drifting down upon them. And they would emerge, in spring, wizened old men.
It gladdened me to ponder the coming spring. To think of all the celebrations it might yield. A new marriage . . . and even, perhaps, the possibility of a babe growing in some secret place within me. Chased about town by an autumn breeze, I both savored the coming months and worried over them. If John Prescotte did not soon do his asking, then I might be doomed to spend another year as a maid.
And so, the weeks of September came and went. And with them, my dimming hopes of marriage.
One morning Mother put a tray of biscuits on the table before us, cast a glance to see that we all had what was needed, and then sat in her place on the bench. “Can you spare me Nathaniel?”
Father grunted.
“ ’Tis a good day to go a-leafing.”
“A better one would be some day in the next week. He’s to be helping me turn spoons in the shop.”
The captain was looking with some interest between the two of them. “Of what do you speak? And where is it to be done?”
Mother turned her attentions from Father toward the captain. “The leafing? Why, it must be done in the wood. Where there are oak trees. ’Tis children’s work. They collect them in the common.”
He was already shaking his head. “Not this year. Not with savages about.”
“Then you’ll be arguing with all the goodwives in this town.”
A shadow of a doubt passed over his face. A chink in the mien of his normal confidence. “Perhaps, if they were accompanied. And stayed closer to town.”
“Aye. Perhaps. Though you’d have to do a bit of persuading to make it so.”
The captain tore a piece off from his biscuit. “Perhaps the Indians will quiet for the winter. Is it not a thing that can be delayed until then?”
“Not if you want to keep eating those biscuits. ’Tis those leaves they will be baked upon. And my supply has dwindled. At an alarming rate.”
He looked down, with apparent regret, at the portion of biscuit that remained. Then he looked up, acquiescence written in the sag of his shoulders. “I will see what can be done.”
That Sabbath, he stood before us all in church. “There will be one day on which the community will go a-leafing. Myself and John Prescotte will take the children into the wood—”
Simeon Wright shot to his feet like a spark. “ ’Tis folly! They must not go to the common! ’Tis too far, the threat of savages too great. I must protest this dangerous scheme . . . for the sake of our youth.”
The captain was watching the man with seeming curiosity.
“Aye. I agree with Mister Wright. And the children will not go to the common. I have located a grove of oaks much closer to town, and ’tis from there the harvest of leaves will be gathered. But just on this one day. I cannot guarantee any person’s safety who wanders the wood alone. We leave at first light and will return as soon thereafter as possible. Perhaps the millwright would like to come with us. For purposes of protection.”
Despite appearing an advocate for the children’s safety, Simeon Wright looked very much as if he would like to forego that pleasure. But after looking round at the gathered townspeople, he agreed.
Beside me, Mother muttered. And beside her, Goody Ellys did as well.
The morning of the leaf harvest I kicked at Nathaniel to push him from bed.
“Why do you hurry so?”
“If we do not meet the group at the meetinghouse, we will not be allowed to go.”
“I know plenty of oaks in the wood. We can go where we want.”
“ ’Tis not safe and you know it. Get your lazy bones from bed!”
He sat up, then thrust his arms into the air in a leisurely stretch just to vex me. I thrust out a finger and poked it between his ribs in response.
“Susannah? Mary! Be up and about before the captain returns.” Since the captain had come to stay with us, our mornings had begun somewhat earlier than before, did we wish to avoid his presence while we dressed.
At least he took his time outside. He claimed to be looking for signs of savages. I do not know what he expected to see each morning. I wondered if he weren’t a bit disappointed each day to see smoke curling out of our neighbors’ chimneys in the way it always had. They were annoying, these Indians, even in their apparent indifference. Surely if we had not seen them since the attack, the threat could be said to have diminished.
I stood beside Nathaniel as Mary swung her legs over the edge of the bed. We took our clothes from their pegs, pulled up our hose and tied them on, stepped into our petticoats and then our skirts, hers a watchet blue, mine a murrey red. We re-tied the strings of our shifts and donned our matching russet-colored waistcoats. I was just fastening the last of my buttons when the captain stepped in through the door. I took Mary by the hand and pulled her into the parlor so we could pin up our hair in privacy.
“Why the hurry? I wager—”
“Wager!” No one in our town, no one in the colony, had any right to gamble.
Mary rolled her eyes. “All right. Fine. I . . . imagine that he’s seen a head of hairs uncovered before. Or several.”
“It makes no difference. He is a man.”
“Though not one of ours. So ’tis not as if he would decry our virtues.”
That such words would come from my sister’s mouth! “ ’Tis not about him. ’Tis about us. And how we might be modest.” Though now I wondered. Had he? Had he seen a woman’s head uncovered? When? And whose was it?
I stared at nothing for some moments before clearing my head with a shake. I was wasting my time on debased thoughts. Time which had been gifted me from God. I chose to direct my thoughts instead toward higher places. Toward how very low I had fallen. Had not once nakedness been our glory? But with Adam’s fall, it had turned to shame. I thought on how very good God was to appoint creatures to aid us in covering ourselves. On how in clothing myself, I covered my shame. . . .
I did not know when she had left me, but Mary was nowhere to be seen in the parlor and everywhere to be heard in the kitchen. And so I had allowed my thoughts, as pure as they might have been, to overtake my responsibilities. Responsibilities which were, in themselves, a form of worship. Why did righteousness have to entail such work? And why was it I always failed when I tried to be good?
It was going to be a long day, indeed.
“Are you ready, then?” The captain took his musket to hand and waited for Nathaniel and me. As my brother went to walk out the door, laden with sacks, the captain held him back with a hand. Leaned his head out and looked round. Then he stepped to the side of the door and motioned us to follow. “ ’Tis safe. There are no savages about.”
We walked, the captain and Nathaniel together, me slightly behind.
The captain looked over his shoulder to speak to me. “How much time will the children want?”
“They are to take as long as they need.”
“For being under threat of Indian attack, you people seem to take your safety quite lightly.”
“Whether you choose to believe it or not, our time is in God’s hands. ’Tis He who will determine the length of our days.”
He had slowed in his walk so that Nathaniel was now ahead of him and ’twas me he walked beside. “And never have I doubted that. But ’tis I who will keep you alive while He does the deciding. Is one hour long enough?”
I stopped in my steps. “One hour? For each family in town to gather enough leaves for each day’s baking?”
“Two?”
“The work will take as long as it takes.”
His mouth turned grim and his grip tightened on his musket.
We met John Prescotte and Simeon Wright at the meetinghouse, and all of the children with them. Several of the goodwives, women like Small-hope who had no children, or those with children too small to be of use, like Abigail, were also in attendance.
I approached my friend with hands stretched toward her child, determined to put past offenses behind me. I missed Abigail and was saddened that the sweet friendship of our youth had altered in the wake of her marriage . . . and my continued maidenhood. I prayed it would not remain so.
“Do you want me to hold him for you? To free your hands for your sacks?”
She smiled. “Many thanks.” She looked round at the crowd. “I see John Prescotte goes with us.”
I did not say anything but could not keep a blush from spreading across my cheeks.
“Is it only the children he wishes to keep an eye on?”
I shrugged. “And how would I know?”
“I have the feeling—”
Her words were interrupted by the approach of Simeon Wright. He nodded to me, lips curving into a smile. “Have no fear of savages this day, Susannah Phillips. I will be watching you closely.”
Abigail looked up sharp at his words.
Watching me closely? I hoped not. At least not too closely. I wanted to exchange a few words with John if the moment presented itself.
Simeon moved off and Abigail stepped closer. “Perhaps Simeon Wright has an eye on you as well.”
“Simeon Wright? I cannot think so. He has his eye on every girl.”
“But actually speaks to very few.”
“Then I shall let some other girl have him.”
“Will you, now?” There was a queer note to her words. But as I tried to discern the nature of it, the captain shouted for everyone’s attention.
Susannah Phillips could not know the depth of jealousy hidden inside her friend . . . if friend, Abigail Clarke could still be called. A jealous woman could do much harm and no good. ’Twas what a suitor for my father’s hand had taught me. She had seen how reviled I was of my father, how he shamed me, and instead of rescuing me, she abandoned me. Bereft of her attentions, she had left me in worse straits than before. Beware the reach of a jealous woman. Her suspicions, though rarely justified, are never satisfied.
The captain shouted for our attention, and now all had gone still.
“There is no one—not one woman, not one child—to be wandering about the wood. If you cannot see me, you have wandered too far. You must gather all the leaves you can as quickly as you are able. If you see a savage, you are to send up a shout. At a shout from any person, all women and children are to rally to John Prescotte.” John looked surprised and pleased at those words.
“ ’Tis Simeon Wright and myself who will defend you.” Any pleasure John Prescotte had taken in those first words was dissolved by those following. Poor boy. ’Twas not that he was incapable. Nor that he was incompetent. It was simply that he had not had a chance yet to prove himself a man. He was tied to his father’s estate. But the loyalty of a woman like Susannah Phillips could do much to aid him there.
Looking at Simeon Wright studying her, I wished—and not for the first time—that Susannah and John were already married. He was a strong lad and a good one, but too untested to unders
tand the danger that lay before him.
If they did not marry soon, I feared they would not marry at all.
15
WE WALKED, ALL OF us, into the wood. The captain at the lead, Simeon Wright at the end, and John Prescotte in the middle. Next to me. “Good day, John Prescotte.”
“Good day, Susannah Phillips.”
“Do you—”
“Would you—”
John laughed. “You first.”
I shifted Abigail’s babe away from us to my other hip so that I could speak to him more easily. “How is your father’s health?”
“ ’Tis . . . not what we had hoped for.”
Oh.
“But I am convinced that he shall soon regain his strength.”
Then he had more confidence than I.
Around us, the children scampered up and over a rocky rise.
John climbed a few steps, sliding a bit on fallen leaves, then turned and offered me his hand. I took it, noticing its strength and its warmth. But when the climb was over, I let it go. We walked on together into the wood, John, the babe, and I. I could not help but hope that John was right—that next year, the scene would be real, and John and I might be joined by our own babe. That the next time I went a-leafing, it would be for baking biscuits at my own hearth.
Once we arrived at the captain’s grove, he stood in the middle of it and put the children to work picking up leaves. It was easy work and the leaves, still glossy brown, slipped underfoot, but this year there was no singing and little talking. The children picked, but as they did, they looked round the wood with wide eyes. Their actions were hasty, flustered, and most of them pulled twigs and other debris into their bags along with the leaves.
“You do us a disservice.”
The captain turned his head toward me, though he kept his glance trained on the wood before us. “How so?”
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