by Megan Chance
PART FOUR
LUCAS
—Redemption—
Long is the way
And hard, that out of Hell leads up to light.
—John Milton
Paradise Lost
Chapter 38
I DID AS SUSANNAH BADE ME, THOUGH ’TWAS WITH A WRETCHED heaviness in my soul that I crept out the door while Jem’s back was turned and slipped into the night. I sensed that I would not see her again; the feeling added an urgency to my flight that made me run more quickly, though to run from her was the last thing I wanted to do.
The back door of the prison led to the muddy banks of the river. The tide was out now; the fetid mud of the river flats filled my nostrils; it seemed forever since my lungs had filled with anything but the stench of jail. The night was soft and warm; I heard the sounds from a nearby tavern, the creak of the ships on the harbor, the gentle tug of wind through their riggings.
I stayed hidden in shadows, a fugitive in my own town—the irony of it was not lost on me as I raced as surreptitiously and quickly as I could to the road leading to the village. At every sound of hoofbeats, I hid myself in the reeds and grass. Once, my efforts roused heath hens that flew squawking and frightened into the road. They so startled the rider that the man cursed and pulled up his horse, his breathing broken and anxious as he searched the fields for signs of Indians or thieves.
I had little time; ’twould be soon enough that the magistrates were told of my escape, and they would be searching for me. ’Twas very dark when I finally reached the outskirts of the village, only a short distance from my home, and I resisted the urge to go there, to see what damage they’d done to the land where I’d spent sixteen years sowing my sweat into the soil along with seed. Instead, I took the path I knew well enough to tread even in deepest darkness. I made my way to the Penneys’.
’Twas not without nervousness I did so. I had trusted Hannah with my children, but George Penney was still a toady to Hannah’s father, and he to Nathaniel Putnam—their sympathies would lie with Parris and his supporters and the relentless search for witches. By now, the story of my recantation would be well known. They could not help but realize where I stood.
Yet my fears for my children had been a singular darkness the weeks I’d spent in that foul prison. I would not leave without them.
As I came closer, I saw the dim glow of light from within, and when I went to the door, I stopped, hearing a child’s cry, a baby. Faith or Hannah’s boy? I hesitated, suddenly frightened, and then I pounded the door with all my strength.
“Hold, hold!” came a voice from inside. George. I heard the creak of his footsteps, the pull of the latch, and then the pause. “Who is it? Who comes now?”
“’Tis your neighbor,” I said, my voice rough from exertion. I did not sound myself, and I prayed he would not recognize me and bar the door. “I’ve news.”
The door opened. “Wha—”
George’s eyes opened wide; he gulped like a drowning fish, and then he was pushing the door closed again. Before he could, I shoved my foot inside. “Let me in,” I said, pushing past him into the small house, which was loud with the sounds of children. From the hearth, Hannah looked up in fear as she bounced a child feverishly on her knee. It squalled louder.
“Oh, dear God,” she exclaimed, rising, holding the child tight. ’Twas not my babe, but her own. “Lucas. My God, what have you done? What spell have you used to—”
“Where are my children?”
George stepped between me and his wife. He frowned, his corpulent face breaking into a dozen wrinkles. “Have they released you? We’ve heard nothing of it.”
“No doubt the news will come tomorrow,” I told him, and saw his skepticism as he scrutinized me. I had been in jail for several weeks; I could smell the foulness of it on my skin. “Where are my children?”
Just then, I heard running footsteps down the stairs; I saw a rush of white, and then there was a slam against me that nearly stole my breath, little arms going round my waist, a child pressing herself to me as if she could not hold me tight enough. “Father,” Jude said. “Oh, Father, you’ve come!”
“Aye, I’ve come,” I told her. “Get yourself dressed, child, and show me to your sister. We must go.”
“Shall we go home, then?” she asked me, and I was held mute by the fullness of my love for her.
Finally I found my tongue. “We’ve a new home to go to. Hurry now, we’ve not much time.”
“You cannot mean to take them,” Hannah said. “They’ll find you, Lucas, and then what? What will happen to them then?”
“’Tis my job to worry over that,” I said.
George nodded. He said to Hannah, “Fetch the babe and their clothes.” When she hesitated, he said curtly, “Quickly now.”
Hannah looked ready to protest. Her hold on her own child grew tighter, but then she pressed her lips together and hurried up the stairs.
“Thank you,” I told George.
He looked grim. “I’ll say nothing of this for as long as I can. But I will tell them eventually that you were here. You know I must.”
“All I ask is that you give me a few days.”
“If I can.” He jerked his head toward the door. “Is she with you?”
The thought of Susannah brought a sudden despair. “No. I’m alone.”
“Where will you go?”
“Come, George, you know I cannot tell you that.”
Hannah came into the room again. This time, her child was gone; in her arms was Faith, newly awakened, still sleepy. Jude was behind them. She carried a canvas bag that bulged with what was left of her clothes and Faith’s.
“She’s not yet weaned,” Hannah said worriedly. “You will have trouble with her.”
“There are goats along the way,” I said.
“She’s not used to it—”
“I will not let her starve, Hannah.”
I saw she did not want to put the babe into my arms, but then George nudged her, and she did it. Faith gazed up at me for a moment, and I felt her little sigh, the settling of her contentment; she closed her eyes again, drifting into sleep.
I looked at Hannah. “You visited Susannah once before.”
She looked wary. “Aye. We were friends.”
“I would ask you to do one thing, if you would.”
“She cannot, Lucas,” George said. “You have already put us at great risk. If they knew we had seen you, helped you—”
“Aye, of course.” I motioned to Jude. “Let’s go, child. Are you ready to walk?”
“Aye, Father.”
“Then say good-bye.” To Hannah, I said, “I have never thanked you for caring for Faith. I’ll say it now. I appreciate all you’ve done.”
George went to the door, impatient for us to leave, and I turned to go. Hannah grabbed my arm. “Let me say good-bye to the child,” and as she leaned close to kiss Faith’s downy forehead, Hannah whispered to me, “I’ll go see her.”
I whispered back, “Tell her I’ve gone to the place we talked of.”
She looked puzzled, but she nodded.
George said, “You’d best hurry.”
I shuffled Faith into one arm and reached my other hand for Jude, who took it—such a simple act of faith, and one I hardly deserved. Together we hurried into the darkness. The door closed firmly behind us, and she crept close to me and said, “I will not be afraid, Father.”
“We’ve not far to go tonight, Jude,” I reassured her, hoping it was true. I had one more task, and ’twas a job I would need help for. The village had changed so much, I could not be sure of anyone, and I tried to hide my apprehension from Jude as I pulled her with me to Sam Nurse’s home.
We stumbled through the rows of Sam’s cornfields, dark, leafy shadows, the rasp of sharp-edged leaves against our shins. The plants were stunted; already the summer looked to be a droughty one. When we reached the end of the field, the front door opened as if he’d expected us. I stopped so quickly that Jude r
an into me, and I motioned for her to be quiet, and then saw Sam in the square of light. Slowly I came out of the shadows.
His gun was in his hand; at my approach, he lifted it. “Who goes there? Who is it?”
“’Tis Lucas,” I answered quietly.
“Lucas?”
“Aye.”
“But you were—”
“No longer,” I said, staying my distance, keeping Jude behind me for safety. “I would know, Sam, are you friend or foe?”
A profound disgust crossed his face, and he lowered his gun and said, “Friend. Friend, of course. How can you ask otherwise?”
“I take nothing for granted any longer.”
“No. No, you should not. But you are welcome here. More than welcome. I would shoot anyone who came to get you, so tired am I of this brutal business.”
I came forward, bringing my daughters with me. “I would not have endangered you this way if I did not need to.”
“There are worse kinds of danger. I would rather be shot for defending a friend than be safe and witness innocent people die. Dear God, what Hell is this?” He motioned for us to come in, and then he shut the door tightly behind us and called out, “Mary! Come quickly.”
Sam’s wife hurried down the stairs. When she saw us, she paused; her hand went to her cap in surprise. “Oh…Lucas…thank the dear Lord; have they released you, then?”
“Susannah bought my escape,” I told her.
Mary took Faith. “Let me put the babe to bed. Come as well, Jude. You look exhausted, poor dear.”
Jude gave me a questioning look, and I nodded. “Get some sleep, child. Go on with Mary.”
“Will you be gone when I wake?” she asked me fearfully. What this town had done to my children—what I had done.…
“I’m going nowhere without you and Faith,” I told her.
“Promise?”
“Aye. ’Tis a promise.”
“And Charity too?”
I glanced up at Sam, who watched me carefully, and said, “I intend so.”
Jude went willingly with Mary after that, and when they were gone, Sam said, “What are your plans?”
“We cannot stay here, not longer than tonight,” I told him. “They’ll come looking for me. Perhaps they are already looking; I have no way of knowing.”
“Mary and I will watch the children until you can send for them, if you wish.”
“No. I won’t leave them again. I have already been remiss in my duty to them.”
“It could be dangerous to take them.”
“Any more dangerous than it would be to let them stay?”
Sam was somber. “I wish I could say aye, but we both know that what you say is true. Dorcas Good is four years old. My sainted mother—” His voice broke, and he paused a moment to right it. “There is no safe place in this village.”
“I hate to do it, but I must ask one more thing of you, my friend.”
He met my gaze. “Charity.”
“Aye. I cannot leave without her.”
“’Twill not be easy to fetch her from Ingersoll’s without anyone knowing.”
“And I must not be seen. I would not ask this of you, but there is no one else I trust, and I will not leave her here to be destroyed.”
He looked at me sorrowfully. “It may be too late for that, you understand. She has not eaten more than broth for days. She does not speak, but only stares—”
I closed my eyes against my sorrow and regret. “Aye. But if she dies, she will be with me, and not these other men who care for her only to use her in their war against the town.”
Sam nodded. “We should go, then, before Sarah Ingersoll is abed.”
Our plan was a simple one. We would take Sam’s horse and mule, but no cart to slow us or make noise on the path. When we arrived, I would hide around the back, near the swamp and the stables, while Sam talked with Sarah and the two of them decided how best to spirit Charity away from the tavern.
“You had best be prepared to ride without her, if you must,” Sam counseled me as we rode into the village. “If you do not keep safe, we have no hope of ever rescuing her.”
I agreed to that, though I did not think I would be able to leave her.
’Twas growing late, and there were still lights glowing from the windows at Ingersoll’s. Most men of the village had gone to bed. In times past, those wanting a game of shovel board or cards would have gone to Bishop’s Tavern on the Ipswich Road, which dealt in such things, but I doubted ’twould be so now. Already the village felt different to me, not home, not any longer. Now I wanted only to take my daughters and go far away, to leave behind Judith’s grave, and the graves of all those small souls she’d borne. I had been in mourning for most of my life, I realized suddenly, and this village was as a graveyard, my own charnel house, and I longed for a breath not scented with dust and bones.
There was a movement beyond the windows, and Sam jerked his head at me and whispered, “Go now. Quickly.”
I led the mule around back. The smell of the swamp mud and skunk cabbage was strong, and newborn mosquitoes swarmed in helpless clouds around our heads. I could see nothing from here, so I listened, but the hum of insects and song of peepers mating in the waters beyond filled my ears. I glanced to the darkened windows on the second floor, to the one I thought was Charity’s.
When I heard rapid footsteps, I drew the mule back farther into the shadows.
“Lucas?” came Sam’s whisper.
I dismounted quickly, and stepped around the corner. Sam came hurrying to me.
“William Allen would not leave,” he explained. “Sarah finally shooed him out. Hannah’s abed, and Nathaniel’s at Tom’s. Sarah has no idea when he’ll be back, but it should be shortly. We’ve very little time.”
Together we raced to the front door. Sarah had blown out all but one lamp, and she waited for us uneasily. When she saw me, she smiled—but ’twas not a greeting, more a sympathetic motion.
“Oh, Lucas, ’tis glad I am to see you,” she said. “I’m so sorry, what happened to her—”
“We’ve no time for this now,” I said. “I know you’ve done your best.”
“Aye. She’s nothing but skin and bones—” She cut herself off and shook her head, handing Sam the lamp. “You know where she is. Mama’s a light sleeper, so you must be quiet. I’ll keep watch at the door.”
Sam took the stairs quietly and quickly. I was right behind him. He paused at the top, and I went past, leading the way to my daughter’s door, pushing it open. I rushed to her, falling to my knees at her bedside, listening for her breath. When I heard it, soft and too shallow, I closed my eyes in relief.
“Come,” Sam said, looking back at the open door. “Wake her and let’s away.”
I shook her gently. “Charity. Charity, ’tis your father. Wake up.”
She did not move, but lay as one drugged with sleep. I shook her again, more urgently this time, because Sam filled the space with tension, and I could not help but listen for Nathaniel’s step inside the front door.
I whispered again, “Charity, you must wake.”
Still, she did not move. I wondered if this was part of her cata-tonia, and finally I lifted her, blanket and all, into my arms. Sarah was right; she was a bundle of bones, nothing but sharp joints and limbs too lanky to hold well. She would have been hard to carry in any case; she was sixteen, not a child to cuddle in my lap.
She woke then. Her eyes went wide; I heard her intake of breath, and I clamped my hand over her mouth and said, “Charity, ’tis nothing to fear. I am your father.”
She arched against me, trying to escape—and I felt a desperate fear that my words had not calmed her. But there was no time to waste. Sam turned and went down the stairs, and I followed him, while Charity pushed and fought me. Sarah hurried over with the lamp.
“Quiet, child,” she murmured. “All is well. You are safe.”
My daughter reached out for Sarah, who said again, “You are safe, my dear,” before ur
ging us to hurry. “Go now. ’Twould be best to be far from here.”
Sam and I rushed out the door and to the back of the ordinary, where I’d left the mule. I put Charity onto the saddle, and she tried to jump off the other side. She would have managed it too, had I not mounted quickly after and taken her tightly into my arms.
“You must be quiet,” I said into her ear. “If we are caught, ’twill be worse for all of us.” Again I put my hand across her mouth, holding her tight as I dug my heels into the mule. I heard the hooves of Sam’s horse pounding behind me as we fled the green, back to the road, riding without pause back to the house. Charity did not fight me as we rode, or if she did, I could not feel her above the jarring of the mule. I had hoped perhaps that she would know me then, that ’twas only that we’d awakened her so suddenly that she was afraid, but the moment the mule halted, Charity wrenched from my arms and threw herself from the saddle.
I was stunned at how quick she was. Once she was on the ground, she ran, only a pale white shadow in the darkness. I leaped off the mule, racing after her, not daring to call out. I overtook her within yards, grabbing her so she stumbled and went down; I went down with her, pulling her to my chest and rolling while she beat upon me with her fists. She cried out, “Release me, spirit! Release me! Avoid! Avoid!”
I grabbed one of her fists with my free hand, holding it still. “I am no spirit, Charity, I am your father.”
“My father is dead!”
“I am not dead.”
“I know he is! Mama told me he is dead!”
“Your mother is with God.” I rolled until she was beneath me, and pinned her with my legs, holding her still, and then I stared into her face, which was wet with tears I could see even in the darkness. “I am no spirit, Charity, but your own father, come to take you away from here.”
She spat into my face. “Liar! You are the Devil come to me with my father’s face.”
I did not bother to wipe the spittle from my cheek. “’Tis an elaborate ruse for the Devil. A horse, Sam Nurse, Sarah Ingersoil…Are they all spirits, then?”