And what of the Prescotts now? Who would tell Mrs. Prescott? Congreve ordered the men to carry Prescott’s body to the burial ground and begin digging a grave. No one wanted his wife or children to see him. They would explain afterward, and beg forgiveness. But it was a necessity, given the circumstances. Other men of stature in the town started coming into the burial ground as the men dug the grave. Congreve explained what had happened, and there was general agreement that this was best, if highly irregular. An elderly man began to read the burial service in a monotone voice.
They would have to tell his widow that he had been disfigured, but without details, and that it was best for no family members to see him. They would assure her, though they were unsure themselves, that the disfigurements had been perpetrated upon a corpse, not a living man. They would tell her that he died quickly from gunshots and that the barbarisms were committed later, after his party had been killed and scattered. And they would hold for him a proper Christian service, Congreve explained, and then added, “In the midst of life we are in death.”
It was crazy of Prescott to have endangered himself, Sanborn thought, as they took turns by twos digging the grave. He was no hero, no young blood, but a middle-aged merchant and proprietor. What had compelled him to do such a thing? What askew sense of duty? He should have sent only others, even Sanborn himself. That would have made more sense, he thought. Sanborn had to admit that he was greatly relieved. He was no soldier or fighter, but, yes, even sending one such as himself would have made more sense.
Chapter 23
A DAY LATER Sanborn was ready to leave. The captain, much bandaged about the head, was leaving as well, and one of his men with him. His lieutenant was to gather and take charge of the small scouting company he had raised. Carlyle was heading to Portsmouth to report to the governor on the toll of recent skirmishes and war raids. He was hoping that an army would be raised for several major attacks against the Indians and Canada. It was hopeless, he said, unless they blunted the enemy with a series of offensive strikes. Head wound and all, he would make his case.
That morning before they left, Sanborn went to the Prescotts. By some strange twist of the violence, theirs was one of the few dwellings left unburned. Mrs. Prescott had taken to her bedchamber upon hearing about her husband and had not come out. Her children nursed her. A neighboring woman who had come to help out reported that she was delirious.
Immediately, Sanborn found Rebecca, who had been set free by the rigors and terrors of the attack, and took her aside. He told her he was about to leave for Portsmouth.
“You must come with me,” he said firmly. “Get a few things, your portfolio, other necessities. I have a horse for you outside.”
“But, Mrs. Prescott—”
“The woman is delirious. Understandably. Her children are here to help her. Other townsfolk. I’m sure she and her children will leave this place once she regains herself. And if you stay here there is no telling when the people might turn on you again, perhaps even extend your blame to this savagery just endured. Their minds were distracted by enthusiasm, and now by destruction and terror. But you and I must go now. The captain is leaving for Portsmouth and we may accompany him.” He touched his hand to her back as if to propel her toward her room and things.
She turned against him. “I can’t go now—” she started to say.
“Rebecca! You’re going with us. If the captain and I have to bind you and throw you over my packhorse. You’ll be well looked after in Portsmouth. I’ll see to it, I promise. Now get your things.”
She looked at him boldly, staring into his eyes. He did not flinch but stared back. He could feel her resistance. He was nearing desperation, ready to throw her to the floor if he had to.
Perhaps she saw or felt his desperate determination. She relaxed her whole frame finally, the rigidity gone out of her. But she did not move.
“I am, I do not doubt, saving your life,” he said. “Along with my own. I’ll do what I have to in order to see you out of here. Now, please,” he repeated each word slowly and firmly, “get . . . your . . . things.”
Without another word or a look, she went upstairs. When she returned she wore a dark traveling cloak and carried a bag full of he knew not what—clothing, he expected, and her beloved drawings. She refused to speak to him further. He headed them out the door.
SANBORN, Rebecca, Captain Carlyle, and one Sergeant Grimke rode out of town on horseback. Sanborn looked back at the village. Smoke still rose above the remains of dwellings and barns; planting fields were in ruins. He assured himself that these disheartened and wounded people would care nothing now for the missing Rebecca.
It would be all they could do to rebuild their lives here or flee in desperation.
The men on horseback were heavily armed. Rebecca, hidden in her great hooded cloak, rode like a man astride Sanborn’s packhorse. They rode quickly, the dogs loping ahead of them, every mile east a milestone to safety. They stopped briefly and only to water the horses, dismounting and fanning out in a tight perimeter, dropping on one knee, muskets at the ready, while Rebecca tended the drinking horses. Along their road, the way stations were closed up, empty, against further raids. One station, about halfway to Portsmouth, had been burned to the ground, smoldering, still, like so many buildings at Blackstone.
Stopping to water the horses shortly after the smoldering way station, they formed a perimeter while Rebecca led the horses to the side of the stream. Carlyle’s dogs, who were trained to patrol the perimeter about thirty feet in front of the men, stopped their movement and, heads and ears lowered, teeth bared, fur up, began to growl in the direction of a large boulder perhaps another dozen feet beyond the dogs.
“Get down, Rebecca!” Carlyle called to her, “and hold the horses well.”
Without a word, Rebecca wrapped the reins doubly about her wrists and, leaving her hooded back to them, crouched low along the bank.
The dogs stood their ground, awaiting Carlyle’s orders. The three men turned their muskets in the boulder’s direction and Carlyle called out “Choboy!” Both dogs broke into a dash for the boulder, growling and barking furiously. Their fearsomeness flushed out four Indians in ambuscade. All three men in Carlyle’s party fired at once and two of the enemy dropped.
The dogs pursued the other two into the immediate woods, but Carlyle soon called them back. On their return, the dogs stopped over the two bodies, as if to test them for life, and then sat beside the slain Indians waiting for Carlyle to come up.
“Stay with Rebecca,” Carlyle said to Sanborn, who was recharging his musket. Carlyle and Grimke approached the bodies cautiously.
Sanborn went to Rebecca, who had not moved from her position, and spoke her name. He put his hand on her and she looked up at him from beneath her hood. “It’s over,” he said.
She stood up slowly and handed his horse to him. “Yours and mine became awfully jumpy,” she said. That was all. She tried to get the other three horses to drink, but they were too wary.
Sanborn looked over to Carlyle and Grimke. The sergeant was just finishing with the scalp of the second Indian.
“Don’t turn around yet,” Sanborn told Rebecca.
The men finished with the bodies and the dogs patrolled until they were appeased that nothing more lurked nearby. Carlyle and Grimke came over to Rebecca and Sanborn.
“Have they watered?” Carlyle asked. His dogs joined them and slurped lustily at the stream. Grimke washed his hands.
“These two just now. Finally,” Rebecca said, handing over the two horses.
“Then mount up and we’ll be off,” Carlyle said.
They did not stop to camp or rest. They pushed the horses without mercy, assuming all their lives—the three men, the woman, the horses, the trusty dogs—depended on relentless flight.
Chapter 24
WHEN THEY ARRIVED in Portsmouth, exhausted and still full of vexation, Captain Carlyle presented himself at Colonel Browne’s residence to inform him of the death of hi
s cousin Tristram Prescott in the attack on Blackstone. Sanborn had argued for this strategy along the way as the best means to assure a refuge for Rebecca in her uncle’s house. While the captain reported to the squire, the others waited by the carriage shed, baiting their horses with oats and water. News of the recent depredations along the frontier had spread to Portsmouth, but the casualties had been unknown. Within twenty minutes, a serving girl emerged and said that Mrs. Browne requested the presence of Miss Rebecca in the hall. Rebecca removed her portfolio from her bag and handed it to Sanborn. “Keep these for me, sir, if you would please.”
“I’m honored,” he said. She turned and walked into the house.
Sanborn believed his purposes would be best served if he stayed out of the way. He did not know, therefore, what transpired between Rebecca and her former custodians, but Captain Carlyle finally came out to say everything had been settled—Rebecca would stay with them and they would arrange for the governor to send a well-armed party out for Mrs. Prescott and her children, and anyone else who desired escort to Portsmouth.
“Thank you, Captain Carlyle, for executing the matter so effectually,” Sanborn said. “I realize this caused you some delay in making your military reports to the governor. But it was a noble office on behalf of Mr. Prescott’s wife and children.”
“Don’t mention it, Sanborn,” he said. “It was a proper enough duty. But now we must be away.” The sergeant handed him his reins, he mounted his horse, and they rode off with dispatch.
Alone, Sanborn returned his and Rebecca’s horses to the stables where he had procured them, and walked directly to his rooms for a wash and a good sleep.
FOR SOME DAYS he went about his business, trying to forget the attack he had endured. But he received a gruesome windfall. Sergeant Grimke had appeared at his rooms one day with a gift of thirty pounds from Captain Carlyle. “Your share of the scalp bounty,” he said. He urged the notes toward Sanborn, who stood dumb in his doorway.
“I did nothing to earn this. It’s yours and the captain’s,” he finally said.
“Don’t be a fool, Sanborn. It’s yours. You fired on the enemy, just as the captain and I did.”
Now he had bad dreams and difficult nights of waking. The mutilated body of Tristram Prescott seemed to appear before him continually.
And Rebecca. She seemed to haunt his days as well. He could think of no one else. He was functioning well enough to garner a couple of commissions and renew his acquaintances, a renewal made all the more easy by the fascinating story he had to report. He avoided portraying himself as a hero, but he of course said nothing of his fear and caution throughout the experience either. If he embellished anything, it was perhaps the tale of their mad dash for Portsmouth. All this gave him notoriety about town. Even children in the street had taken him for a trooper on account of his pistols. He was able to use this new reputation in favor of his trade. It was just as well he did not swagger, however, because his courage would soon be tested.
A week after his return, he called upon Madam Browne during her morning levee to inquire of Rebecca’s state of health and mind. He was kept waiting some time in the hall while other people of standing paid their respects, but he was pleased to have more time to prepare himself.
“Mr. Sanborn,” Mrs. Browne said, as he entered her parlor finally. She did not rise, but indicated a chair nearby among a little cluster of chairs about her tea table. “I understand from Captain Carlyle that we owe you our gratitude for rescuing Rebecca and alerting us immediately upon your return to the dire circumstances of the poor Prescotts.”
“I knew them well, Madam Browne. It was little more than an obligatory and humane duty. But I’m delighted to be of service.”
“Colonel Browne intends some recompense, for your trouble and loyalty.” She held up her hand as he was about to protest politely. “Let me assure you, he insists. Now, as to your calling, let me hazard a guess. You wish to share your concern for the disposition of Mrs. Prescott and her family.”
“Indeed, Madam. And Miss Rebecca as well. We suffered a rather harrowing hegira, no one more than she.” He smiled and accepted the dish of tea she had poured for him.
“You will be pleased to hear, then, that the Prescotts have arrived, just two days ago. One of their Wentworth cousins has taken them in. Mrs. Prescott slowly improves despite her deep mourning. The children will be sent to school, and Colonel Browne is making arrangements for the sale of property and some of Prescott’s proprietor’s shares to ensure their maintenance.”
“My mind is relieved, madam. The Prescotts were always kind to me, and they did very well by Rebecca.”
“She’s a striking and appropriate young lady. We have not fully settled on her disposition yet, of course, but something useful is in order now. It might be well to place her in service for a time, in some pedagogical capacity. Or some manner of beneficence to the community.”
“She is a most clever young woman, Madam Browne. I should like to think that her gifts would be adequately exercised, as I’m sure the Prescotts hoped for her. They placed great trust in her, many responsibilities.”
“She might perform well as a tutor or governess. I agree, Mr. Sanborn.”
“In due time,” he said and smiled pleasantly. “Any family would be fortunate.” He knew Rebecca well enough that she would be disappointed to be placed in service to anyone, especially outside her family relations. His mind raced with alternatives, but he couldn’t concentrate at the moment. Madam Browne was not a person to offer your partial attention.
She asked after his commerce and his plans “for the duration of these hostilities.” She was glad to hear he intended to ply his trade about the port again. She even suggested a few personages who might be well disposed now to receiving his card. She would make an inquiry or two herself. This turn of generosity toward him emboldened Sanborn to ask more particularly after Rebecca and whether he might speak with her briefly.
Madam Browne was agreeable, and thus he soon found himself in the kitchen where Rebecca was employed on some gustatory project—the addition of garden herbs, it appeared—with the cook, a widow lady of some fifty or more years. Sanborn and Rebecca seated themselves at a worktable at one end of the room, while the cook continued her ministrations to a pan of lamb.
“You are well?” he asked, once they were seated.
“Well enough,” she said. “I’m all the better for knowing Mrs. Prescott and the children are here. I hope you understand that I did not wish to leave them in their condition. I thank you, however, for your protection and judgment.”
“It was my duty, and my pleasure.” He looked at her. There was some discomfiture below her courteous manner.
She glanced at the cook, and he understood that she wished to speak more plainly.
“Perhaps a moment in the back garden,” he suggested. She stood up and he followed her out the back door of the kitchen. It was a fine day, the garden full of birds stopping by on their autumn migrations. He remembered meeting her here four years ago under the bower they entered, its white blossoms gone now, and he remembered recognizing her as an exotic little creature from the first. But by now she had grown to a woman, and her character had been tempered in labor and trial.
She seated herself and he remained standing. “They speak of sending me into service, Mr. Sanborn.”
“So I understand from Madam Browne,” he said. She did not respond. “It’s possible they will avoid placing you in an unpleasant situation.”
“Anything is possible,” she said. “From the least to the finest. That is what troubles me.”
“I see. You don’t think they will make every reasonable effort for you?”
“I don’t know. It seems clear only that they wish to have me out from underfoot.”
“Perhaps they are reminded too much of an eccentric child. They may come to see you otherwise in time.”
“I don’t think I have much time.”
“I don’t know how I can help, in
this instance, Rebecca. What would you have me do?”
“You have my drawings still?”
“Of course.”
“Safe keep them, please.”
“I never intended differently.”
“Thank you, Mr. Sanborn.”
“You are not contemplating something foolish, I trust.”
“I contemplate many things, foolish and otherwise. Doesn’t everyone?”
“I think you understand my meaning, Rebecca. I’m at your service; you know that. But I can’t stand by and have you take unnecessary risks.”
She looked up at him, directly into his eyes. “You are quite comfortable here, Mr. Sanborn, aren’t you?”
He hesitated. “Quite.”
“That is your good fortune. I find I am less so. I find I am exposed to chance, to the caprice of others. I am no longer a child, yet I am not a proper woman. How does such a thing come to be? I doubt anyone can provide a satisfactory explanation. Yet here I am nonetheless.”
“You are not to be a daughter, you remain merely a charge.”
“That is well put, Mr. Sanborn.” She looked down. “A charge and an inconvenience.”
“I could not presume to tell the squire and his lady their business.”
“Of course not.”
“It’s a sadness, Rebecca. But perhaps you should wait to see what decision they make—before you overly vex yourself, I mean.”
“That is little consolation,” she said. “I’m not a boy, or a man, so I cannot go to sea, sir. I cannot work on a masting crew. I cannot join a regiment.”
“That may be so, but you must exercise every caution nonetheless.” He looked her in the eyes to try to discover her secret resolve. “Were I to continue to speak with you, meet with you, we would raise suspicions and doubts. I don’t think that would help matters. Why don’t we agree to correspond until the decision appears more settled, if there is someone you can trust.”
“There is Abigail, the maid. She’s but a year older than I; we formed an understanding as children.”
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