Rebecca Wentworth's Distraction

by Robert J. Begiebing

  He feared he understood what she was telling him, but he was relieved to hear that she wasn’t blaming him entirely for their decision to allow Rebecca some limited exercise of her gifts. “How is that so, madam?” She did not answer immediately. “I’ve seen sketches she did of townsfolk,” he prompted her. “They were well done.”

  “The sketch studies must have been incomplete then.”

  “Incomplete.”

  “Indeed, let me show you something.” She got up out of her chair and went into the next room. She returned with a canvas, sat down, and then turned the face of the canvas to Sanborn. “This is the only one here, for safekeeping. The other three are in Mr. Prescott’s possession; he has taken them to the hearing.”

  He looked at the oil portrait, executed with the very colors he had given to Rebecca. It was a beautiful painting—beautiful but, as he feared it would be, disturbing. Indeed, he understood it all—the mob, the accusations, the hearing. It was foolish and vile and superstitious, but he understood it now. Still he let her talk.

  “As you can see, Mr. Sanborn, it is no mere portrait.”

  “I see, Mrs. Prescott. Neither is it some rude caricature. It is well executed; it is subtle, but unsettling, I expect, to the subject.”

  “Precisely. And she did four of these. Without our knowledge, she had taken them about town to their subjects—there were no sitters, properly speaking—and as specimens to show others. She saw no harm in it; she expected, God help us, to profit by these paintings.”

  “I see now,” he said. He searched for words. “Do you—how shall I put it?—see any truth in them, Mrs. Prescott?”

  “Oh, they are true enough, in a sense,” she said, “but that’s not the point, is it?”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  He did not know the subject of the painting, just as he had not known the subjects of the sketch studies. He did not doubt the accuracy of the image, but she had expressed what he took to be the character of the person, the deeper character, perhaps the very life the person would have kept hidden. It was not flattering, neither was it degrading; it was neither serious nor comic. It was simply “true” in a sense, most likely in a disturbing sense, as Mrs. Prescott had said. He saw in the proper woman depicted here a sullen selfishness hovering like dark light behind the very flesh of her acceptably pretty face.

  “It is not the duty of the portraitist, Mr. Sanborn, to depict what the prospective client would not broadcast to the world,” she said. “Is that not so?”

  “Of course, Mrs. Prescott. And if she has done the same with the other three—each character’s secret life, so to speak, emerging from behind the face—I begin to see what the hubbub was about last night. I imagine those she has painted, and any who have seen the portraits, beyond not wishing to have themselves displayed (whether they believe she has found them out or not) are as greatly troubled by how a young woman such as Rebecca could plumb their secrets.”

  “Some of these hardly knew her. They knew of her and saw her about, but did not know her very well.” She leaned the canvas against a nearby table leg.

  “And so they cannot attribute her view of themselves to mere skill, whether she paints lies or truths? They search for something more to explain it?”

  “I daresay they attribute some maleficence on her part.” She looked at him, her eyes wide with significance. “You saw them all last night. They have no other means of apprehending her powers. I must say I have no means of comprehending her, myself. But I do not attribute her ability, be it truth or falsehood she discovers, to any evil source or intent. The young woman, we now see, is simply too naive to paint, and to paint portraits above all.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Prescott, for all her youthful wisdom she is, as you say, a sort of naïf.”

  “Well, she’s gotten herself into trouble by it this time.”

  “Where is this hearing to take place?”

  “It’s taking place as we speak,” she said. “It is closed to all but those whose faces she painted, to Rebecca, Mr. Prescott, and two other proprietors, allies, Mr. Wiggin and Mr. Congreve. We may have to pay recompense, on her behalf, before we’re through. I have come to love Rebecca as a daughter, but she does not seem to understand how she has betrayed our trust.”

  “I expect she will understand better in the aftermath.”

  “That may do no one any good.”

  “I suppose the recent enthusiasm has not helped matters,” he suggested.

  “It may well be the greatest source of our troubles, Mr. Sanborn.”

  “Many were ripened to attribute what they do not comprehend to God or the devil?” He put it as a question. She did not answer. “And there’s little doubt in their minds whose hand is behind this wizardry in the portraits?”

  “It is a mystery they cannot otherwise endure,” she finally said. “They had, those who followed the New Light, recently come to believe themselves regenerate. It’s as if some mocking presence has come to deny them their renewed belief, their turning to accept God’s grace. Each of the portraits happened to be among the many who counted themselves among the reborn. I don’t think Rebecca intended this. But these people, perhaps a third of the village, had gone so far already as to threaten to establish a new parish.”

  He looked at the portrait again. It was as if the painting vibrated with the unsettling implications of the woman’s physiognomy.

  “I will take her back to Portsmouth with me,” he said.

  “I don’t think it will be that easy. And Mr. Prescott, if he can contain them, will have to appease them as well.”

  He rose to leave. “And this hearing, where is it being held?”

  “In the blockhouse,” she offered, after hesitating. “But you will not gain admittance.”

  He took his leave of her and headed for the blockhouse. Not that he expected admittance. He only wanted to be nearby when they finished, when Mr. Prescott came out.

  Within an hour everyone but Mr. Prescott and Rebecca had come out, so Sanborn waited still. Finally, Prescott emerged alone.

  “Mr. Prescott,” Sanborn said, “I’ve just spoken with your wife. I see what has happened here. I am sorry for anything I might have done to lead to such a misunderstanding.”

  “It is regrettable, Sanborn. Very regrettable. We all seem to have gone against our better judgment.”

  “And Rebecca, where is she now?”

  “She will remain in the blockhouse. At least as long as is required to settle this matter. She has a comfortable room there.”

  “Is she . . . indicted then, in some way? Is she to be found guilty of some transgression? I think, rather, sir, she is merely naive.”

  “That she is, Sanborn. No. She is not being brought to any sort of trial. But let me assure you of something.” He looked about inconspicuously, as if to make sure no one was within hearing. “The young woman is not free of danger even yet. If we lock her in the blockhouse, under guard, whose trust I have completely, she will be far safer than if she is allowed anything approaching her former freedom. You can’t tell what some people will do once they get worked up like this. And I can’t possibly put Mrs. Prescott and my family to the trouble and anxiety it would cause to have her locked away at home.”

  “For how long is this incarceration to continue?”

  “For as long as it takes for people to calm down and come to their senses. I don’t expect it will last beyond a week or two. The flame of this frenzy, I trust, will not burn for long.”

  “That’s a long time to be locked in a room.”

  “It is, but there is nothing to be done. She’s fortunate that we were able to calm the waters as much as we have. The general understanding abroad is that she is being punished and interrogated further as to the source of her effrontery. I think in a week or two we shall be able to quietly introduce her back into her home and keep her out of the sight of others.”

  “Then, sir, you must see that if she were to return with me to Portsmouth, and were introduced bac
k into the Browne manse, she would be better served.”

  “Would they welcome her after this? It cannot be kept from them forever.”

  “But if these people were to break in somehow and take her away for their own purposes. . . . Well, there is, as you say, no telling what they might do. Last night I was ready to believe they would have put their torches to her skirts had she come into their hands. As you yourself suggest, they are a superstitious lot, and dangerously superstitious now.”

  “Believe me, sir, she’s safer where she is than anywhere else within miles. I’ve seen to it. Don’t forget that I’m responsible for her.”

  He was unable to persuade Prescott to allow him to slip away with Rebecca back to Portsmouth. He himself, of course, could not now leave for Portsmouth. He would have to stay on to see this through. But what was he to do? If he could get her to Portsmouth right away and introduce her back into the Browne family under the widely accepted argument of the general insecurity of the frontier, she would be well ensconced there before any word of last night’s debacle came to them.

  All he could think of was somehow getting Rebecca into his own hands and fleeing with her. The problem was how to get hold of her. He planned incessantly, but Fortune was making her own plans.

  FORTUNE ARRIVED in the guise of Captain Carlyle, his two great dogs, and a half-dozen men of his scout who came roaring into town the next morning just after dawn, calling the townsfolk to arms. Everyone was suddenly out of doors and armed and scrambling toward the garrison and the blockhouse. Women and children were hauling provisions, while men carried powder, muskets, pistols, swords, and any farm implements that might serve as weapons in a desperate moment.

  Sanborn ran back into his room to grab his own pistols and musket. When he emerged again, at least half-dressed now, he looked down the street toward the nearest garrison, the blockhouse. Nearly everyone that side of town must have been within, for there were only two or three people hurrying along the road. The officer of horse troop rode up and down the central street, sword in hand, calling out advice and moving stragglers along.

  “Captain Carlyle!” Sanborn called out as he rushed toward the garrison. Carlyle rode up to him. “Daniel Sanborn,” Sanborn said and held his hand up to the captain. “We met here a few years ago, at Mrs. Sinclair’s, and shared a noggin or two.”

  Carlyle looked at him as if he were mad. Then a light came into his face. “Oh yes,” he said. “How are you, Sanborn?” They shook hands. “Don’t dally in the street, man, or you’ll be knocked in the head before you’re fully awake.”

  “I know. But tell me, sir, what’s the true danger?” He looked around. The town was oddly peaceful now.

  “War parties. Four or five. Two other towns west attacked before dawn. Quickly, and then they move on. No idea how many dead or captured.”

  “And your own men?”

  “I’ve fewer than eight of my own company of horse left. Many were out patrolling yesterday or guarding work and haying parties. They had not yet returned when the attacks began. The savages have skirted the fort, penetrated the scout lines, and gone directly into settlements. Other of my men are sounding the warnings elsewhere, while some remain in garrison.”

  “No way of knowing where the savages will attack next.”

  “Of course not, but Blackstone’s right in the line of fire.” “I see. Can I help?”

  “Just take your place, Sanborn. We’re making sure everyone is out of the dwellings. Good day to you. Hurry in. Now’s the time for prayer.”

  He rode off to strike on doors and call out to any laggards. Or anyone fool enough to think it best to fight alone for his property. These alarums of the captain and his men were all that could be heard from within the blockhouse. Everyone inside had taken up a position, either as a musketeer or as a supplier of powder, shot, flints, pipes, tobacco, rum, water, weapons, or medicinal aid. They all had rehearsed this before. Mr. Prescott, who lived in this part of town, took charge within the blockhouse Sanborn had fled to. It was very crowded and still smelled of sleep and unwashed clothing. Rebecca was helping the women with heating water from the well in the cellar and the distribution of dried cornmeal for breakfast. The women who had been making soap yesterday now reheated pots of boiling soft soap to pour down on the enemy. Very few spoke. All were watchful or busy with their tasks.

  An hour passed like that. No longer could they hear the captain or his men. No one now knew where the soldiers were. Eventually there was talk of a scouting party. There was talk of returning to their dwellings. There were warnings about savages in hiding until the garrisons emptied once again. A man said he had once seen them hiding by dwellings within bushes they carried before them. But otherwise the waiting endured mostly in silence.

  Rebecca, who in this extremity was free to help, brought Sanborn some water and meal.

  “Will the Prescotts return to Portsmouth now, if we survive this?” he asked her in a harsh whisper.

  “It’s impossible to tell,” she whispered in turn.

  “Then you must plan to return with me. I’m sure your former guardians would take you in against such clear danger.”

  “I don’t think they would.”

  “Why not? Don’t be silly. You can’t stay here after all this. And it is only a matter of time before you are attacked again. An hour, a day, a month. It will surely happen.”

  “It will be up to the Prescotts,” she said and turned away to continue her deliveries.

  He almost went after her, but thought better of it and maintained his post at a loophole on the second floor. He followed Captain Carlyle’s advice and began to say the Lord’s Prayer to himself, over and over.

  But still nothing happened. By midmorning discipline began to relax. Several men, heavily armed, crept out among the back gardens and fields to have a look around. Then the smell of smoke penetrated the garrison.

  When the party of men returned, they reported that one by one the houses and barns were being set on fire. They had not been able to see anyone, savage or soldier. Almost immediately after reporting this, several shots rang out.

  “Must be Carlyle and his men,” said Prescott, who had been listening to the report.

  “That may be,” another man Sanborn did not know said. He looked to have authority, the authority of a large man, perhaps a former soldier himself. “But I say we go out and protect our homes. If there were many of them, they would have attacked the garrisons by now.”

  “We cannot say that for sure,” another man said.

  Sanborn agreed. The last thing he wanted to do in the face of the fires was to go about the town looking for Indians with torches or fire arrows or cartloads of burning faggots.

  There were more sporadic gunshots. Every man with a gun was straining to catch a glimpse of the enemy to shoot at. Desperate to get a shot, two men went up on the roof. The smell of smoke grew stronger.

  Finally Prescott gathered a dozen men who volunteered to set out to add their firepower to the captain’s, or whomever it was who had been shooting. It was a very dangerous move, and Sanborn did not volunteer. The lands of his chief interest offered no dwellings or barns to burn. If he survived this, he kept telling himself, he would leave Blackstone as soon as it was safe to do so. What in the name of Hades was he doing here in the first place? The town had turned to bedlam.

  Everyone inside the garrisons had to wait. There was enough gunfire that people said that the other garrison must have also sent men out. They could see a few houses that had not been set afire yet. Most of everything else in sight was burning, and now the smell of burning animal flesh was in the air.

  Within another hour wounded men were being brought in, gunshot mostly. The French had seen to it that the Indians would be well supplied. Outside, the shooting was dying down, returning to sporadic pops and booms again. The prevailing sense was one of helpless confusion.

  Captain Carlyle, bleeding from a head wound, was brought in. “They are retreating,” he said two or
three times, as if that were all he could say. But he might have been reporting accurately after all, rather than in delirium, for soon the gunfire stopped almost completely. More wounded arrived, and the smell of smoke began to give way on a noon breeze to the close smell of blood and sweat and wounds enclosed within the building.

  Rebecca and Mrs. Prescott were among the women nursing the wounded men. One of her suitors was among them, Sanborn discovered from Mrs. Prescott. He did not know whether she even liked the young man. She had never said a word of suitors.

  It was decided that the rest of the men should go out into the town in parties of five or six, paying special attention to any buildings not yet burning. It was too late to save anything that had already been torched. Sanborn went along with one of the parties. They met no Indians; Captain Carlyle had been right.

  But Sanborn’s party made a gruesome discovery. Mr. Prescott’s mutilated body lying among three of his men, all of them scalped. Only one of the bodies appeared to be alive, but it was doubtful the man would live long. For some reason a strange thought surprised him: How much were the French paying for English scalps? The English were paying fifty pounds for Indian scalps, about ten times the bounty on a wolf. Sanborn now believed that when these men went out to join Captain Carlyle, they were engaging a larger party than Carlyle had anticipated. Had more men left the garrison, more would have been killed and wounded. Why had the savages not attacked the garrisons then? A sufficient number of Indians might have overwhelmed them. They might have had many valuable captives, including women and children.

  The devastation to property was massive, and that seemed to be their principal purpose, by the look of it. They simply must have assessed quickly how to do the most damage with fewest casualties of their own. They had succeeded admirably, if, Sanborn thought, one might admire the devil. He was confused to see no bodies of slain Indians as well, given the whole morning of attacks, affrays, and skirmishes. He asked Mr. Congreve, who led his party, why this was the case.

  “They conceal their losses,” he explained, “by crawling under fire to their slain comrades, fixing a tump line to the body, and cautiously dragging it to the rear.”