Calico Captive

by Elizabeth George Speare

  Then in turn James listened while they poured out to him the story of their own changing fortunes. The shocking treatment they had received did not surprise him.

  "I am thankful you have not been actually mistreated," he said. "Conditions are far more serious than you realize. England and France are beyond all hope of being reconciled. There will shortly be a fight to the finish, and we shall be caught in the thick of it if we do not leave here at once."

  Susanna laid her head on his shoulder. "We must find Sylvanus," she said. "But I know we shall have him again. First Polly and now you. I shall never be afraid any more."

  Suddenly Miriam felt that she could not bear to look for another moment at the naked happiness in her sister's face. "I must get bread," she said, too abruptly.

  "Wait a moment," said James, reaching inside his pocket. "I have something for you. I promise you I have guarded it as close as my passport, but it has seen hard travel. I trust it can still be read, if one cares to try."

  A letter for her! Miriam stared at the packet in her hand, with the thin lines of her name rubbed almost invisible. She did not know the handwriting; it was some inner perception, or perhaps only the kindly twinkle in James's eye, that brought the blood suddenly into her cheeks.

  "Take it along with you and read it," said Susanna, with her old understanding. "I cannot hold another drop of news in my head just now."

  Outside, in the patch of garden behind the tailor shop, Miriam summoned courage to break the seal. Her eyes flew first to the bottom of the second page, to the name that was signed there, and for a long moment she could not read anything else. Phineas Whitney! She had never before seen with her eyes the name that had been written in her heart for so long. What a fine hand he had, delicate, yet so firm and scholarly! She drew a long breath and began the letter.

  My dear Miriam:

  By great good fortune I was sent with a detachment to Albany and here ran across your brother, Captain Johnson, who is to set out for Montreal in the morning. That after all these months of silence I have the opportunity to write some words which in a short time may actually rest in your hands seems a miracle. How can I choose the few words this page can contain of all the thousands that crowd my mind?

  To know, after this dread waiting, that you are alive and safe is a blessing I can scarcely credit. These men tell so many pitiful stories of parents and wives and children carried off by the Indians that often it seemed vain to hope that you could have survived. I have been buoyed up by rumors of prisoners sold to the French in Montreal, and by the thought that surely your lot among Christian men and women could not have been so wretched as that of a captive in an Indian camp.

  The very day that you and your sister's family were so cruelly set upon, I enlisted in a company of militia under Major Bellows. I had never before felt any hatred toward our Indian enemies, and truthfully, I had shrunk from the thought of warfare and killing. Now I realized that it was beyond question for me to bury myself in a world of books while such outrages were taking place in our country. Indeed, so desperate was my feeling that college would have been unendurable.

  We have covered much of the country between here and Crown Point. The rigors of these forest journeys you know too well. I wondered often how you and your unfortunate sister could have endured. However, the thought that you had passed over the same hard trails, and that some deserted campfire might have been the very one that served to warm you, has comforted me through many long night watches.

  I fear there are months of fighting ahead. I have not abandoned my plans for Harvard, and am determined more than ever that I shall enter the ministry, but these plans must wait. That times of quiet and decency are ahead I do not doubt, and I keep the thought ever in mind. I trust that you too, in exile, share these hopes and that you do not lose courage.

  Improper as it may be in a letter which may fall into other hands than yours, I cannot forbear to write something of what fills my heart. We were robbed of the little time we might have had together. I have no word of yours to assure me that our brief friendship held for you the same significance it held for me, but I must go on believing so. Every hope of the future is meaningless unless I have faith that you and I will share it together.

  Whatever may lie between this day and our next meeting, I am

  Faithfully yours,

  PHINEAS WHITNEY

  Miriam read the letter through three times. Her mind was drowning in such confusion as she had never before experienced.

  In this thin packet in her hand was fulfilled every dream that she had cherished through anxious nights and weary days. Those dreams had not been illusions after all. The steadfastness, the understanding, the unspoken promise were all realities.

  Why then did this letter, which a few months before would have lifted her to the clouds, now plunge her into this torment of uncertainty? Phineas had not changed. Ah, but she herself had changed! To the girl who had said goodbye at the cabin door that night so long ago, the whole world had been bounded by a new calico dress and the promise in a boy's blue eyes. But that small world had been shattered by sights and sounds beyond anything she could have imagined. Was it possible for her ever again to be the girl that Phineas Whitney remembered? Frightening as it was, she faced the real question. Did she really want to be that girl again?

  After a long time she went back to the room, without the bread she had gone to buy.

  "It does not matter," whispered Susanna, a finger on her lips. "He could not stay awake even to eat." Indeed, the spare figure sprawled across the bed looked as though nothing could disturb his heavy slumber.

  "He has hardly stopped to rest for days. Let him sleep now. Tomorrow will be time enough to see the Governor."

  But the Governor did not wait for tomorrow. That evening at sundown three French soldiers appeared at the door, with warrants for arrest not only for James Johnson, but for Susanna his wife and their two children.

  "But we are free citizens!" protested Susanna. "My husband has the letter for our release."

  The men shrugged their shoulders. They had orders from the Marquis De Vaudreuil, Governor of Canada.

  "Vaudreuil?" questioned James. "He is not the man I dealt with last autumn."

  "He is the new Governor," a soldier volunteered.

  "Then that explains the misunderstanding," said James. "Let us go peaceably, Susanna. One night in jail will not hurt us after all we have been through. In the morning everything will be straightened out."

  Miriam watched the bewildered group move ahead of the soldiers: James, his step uncertain with fatigue, carrying the baby Captive, Susanna, trying to hide her terror from Polly, who dragged at her hand.

  "There is no warrant for you," the soldier objected, as she prepared to follow. "The paper says you are a seamstress, employed by Monsieur Jacques, the tailor."

  Numbed at the lightning turn of events, she watched from the doorway of the shop, until they were out of sight behind their guards.

  By midmorning there had been no news of them, and she dared not leave the place for fear of missing some message. Repeatedly she went to the door and strained her eyes for sight of them in the narrow street. By afternoon she went in search.

  Everywhere she was rebuffed. She was turned away from the jail entrance. She could not see the Mayor. When she summoned all her courage and broached the gate of the Governor's residence, the guards refused even to listen. For five days Miriam tried vainly to get some explanation. On the sixth day she realized that she must go on with her work. She had slept very little; she was desperately hungry, and should her family return there would be little to feed them. She carried an unfinished gown to Madame Du Quesne, and while she measured and pinned, she humbled herself to ask Madame's help. Madame denied having heard of James's return or of the family's whereabouts. Furthermore, she made it very clear that any concern outside of dressmaking was not to be expected from her.

  Returning home that night, Miriam admitted that she could no longer le
t her pride keep her from turning to the one person who might be able to help her. Somehow she must reach Pierre Laroche, who was an officer in the regiment and knew everybody worth knowing in Montreal.

  It took some time to compose a short note asking him to come. Then she parted with two precious copper coins to bribe a boy who hung about the shop. Certainly, yes, everybody knew the tall officer who used to be a coureur. He could not fail to find him. But watching the boy's meandering course down the street, Miriam had little confidence that the letter would ever reach Pierre. If he did not come, she would have to forget pride and respectability altogether and go in search of him.

  Chapter 19

  ON THE THIRD EVENING after she had sent him the letter Pierre Laroche appeared jauntily at the tailor shop.

  "This is no place to talk," he decided, eying the uncomfortable furnishings. "There is a tavern a few doors down, where we can get more of the chocolate you do not seem to dislike."

  This time Miriam did not hesitate. She needed both the chocolate and Pierre's good will. She was sure it must be improper for a girl to enter the murky little shop, but to her surprise, she found it scrubbed and respectable. Across the small table she endured the smug air of masculine triumph with which Pierre appraised her. She knew exactly what he was going to say, and he did not spare her.

  "So you changed your mind about seeing me?"

  "I had good reason," she answered, assuming as businesslike a manner as she could manage.

  "If I had known the letter was from you I'd have come sooner," he went on. "When the boy brought it there was no one about to read it for me, so I stuffed it into my pocket and forgot all about it till I found it there tonight."

  Astonishment distracted her from her purpose. "You mean—you can't read?"

  Pierre bristled. "What do you take me for, a monk who spends his life with his head in a book? I told you, when I was ten years old my grandfather took me out of school to go into the trade. I can read well enough to tally up my year's accounts, never fear."

  "Well, I am grateful to you for coming," Miriam hastened on, embarrassed at her rudeness. "I wrote to you because I didn't know where to turn. You see, Captain Johnson came back finally, just as I told you he would. But without even letting him explain, they took him off to prison, and Susanna and the children with him."

  Pierre raised an eyebrow. "What kind of reception did your English captain think to get in Montreal?"

  "But he had a letter of credit for the Governor. And a passport. He intended to take us away at once."

  "How did he expect to get you back? Don't you know that the Indians on your side of the river are hungry for English scalps?"

  "He had Indian guides hired to see us back."

  Pierre shook his head. "Take my advice. Montreal may not just suit your fancy, but it's better than being roasted alive."

  Miriam shuddered. It had not occurred to her that they might not be able to reach Number Four.

  "You didn't seem to find Montreal so distasteful last winter," he said. "The trouble is, a girl like you needs excitement. I wager those tailor's dummies haven't been lively enough company for you."

  He had succeeded at last in bringing a reluctant smile. "That's better. What you need is to forget your troubles and step out a little. What do you say to a little party this evening? A few friends of mine—"

  "In this dress?"

  Pierre stared at her, confused. "You mean that is the only one you own? Parbleu! I'll buy you a dress!"

  She stiffened instantly.

  "Good heavens, girl, what's a dress? Five dresses for that matter. I guarantee, if I ask them, I can get one of the shops to open up just for you."

  Miriam tightened her lips stubbornly.

  "What a stuffy little Puritan you are, anyway," he flung at her. "Here I find you, after all this time, living like a stray cat, and all you do is arch your back and glare at me."

  The picture of herself was too apt, and she had to laugh. Truce declared, she came seriously to the point.

  "There is something you can do," she said soberly. "If you really want to help me. No one will listen. Can you get me into the jail to visit my sister?"

  Pierre stared at her. Then suddenly he threw back his head and laughed so loudly that a passing Frenchman paused in the street and peered in through the doorway.

  "What a girl!" he exclaimed. "Offer her a dress, invite her to a party, and what does she want instead—to go to jail."

  "I'm serious, Pierre. Can you do it, please?"

  "Look here, little one," he said, taking a serious tone himself, "as far as getting your family out of that jail, I can do nothing at all. But if you really want to go in there and visit them, I think I can arrange that. Tomorrow morning."

  Contrary to her expectations, he kept his word. Though it was almost midday, and she had given up hope, he came for her and conducted her along the streets to the jail. There he spoke to the sentry, and passed something into the man's hand.

  "And mind you," Pierre repeated to the sentry, "she comes back. In a quarter-hour. I shall be waiting here to see that she does." That mocking glance of his could be steely enough when he chose. With a backward glance of gratitude, Miriam stepped through the stone gateway.

  In the narrow passageway, her senses shriveled. With every step away from the hot summer street, the chill damp increased, until she was shivering. As they entered the common jail, the stench struck her in the face like a smothering blanket. In the half-dark she could make out huddled forms crowded close together like grotesque shadows. Their terrifying faces turned toward her, grayish white with coal-black greedy eyes. In a cell-like chamber, separated from the rest, Susanna and her husband and children sat on rough wooden benches.

  They were more fearful than pleased to see her. "Are you sure you can get back out?" Susanna kept insisting. Miriam reassured her, intensely grateful, all at once, for that confident figure waiting outside.

  "I will keep on trying to see everyone I can think of," she told them. "The city seems to be full of soldiers, and everyone is too busy to listen."

  "I came back at the worst possible time," said James. "I am sure they are preparing for a major battle. Also, the Governor has been replaced. This new man, Monsieur De Vaudreuil, claims to know nothing whatever about the agreement. The letter of credit is absolutely worthless, so they say. Hard money they would listen to, I think. Miriam, I can pay the jailer to get me paper. I will write a letter to the Governor at Albany. Take it with you, and if you can possibly find a chance to send it—"

  While James scratched at his letter in the dim light, Miriam stared about the place. The children sucked hungrily on the lumps of maple sugar she had brought in her pocket. With growing horror, Miriam saw the little stream of water dripping down the moldy wall into a dirty pool on the floor, the mats of straw covered with filthy scraps of blanket, the chipped dishes, the pail greasy with traces of soup. Her muscles quivered as a shadow moved in the corner and disappeared.

  "Yes, 'tis a rat," said Susanna calmly. "But it will not come near while we are awake. James and I take turns watching at night. Captive does not know enough to be afraid, but Polly—Oh dear, if I had only let Polly stay with that woman she would have a clean bed and—"

  Miriam grasped her sister's hand tightly. "Polly is better off with you, even here. And it won't be long. We will think of something."

  "And you, Miriam?" asked Susanna, holding fast to Miriam's hand and looking earnestly into the girl's face. "To think that we had to leave you alone! Can you manage by yourself in that room?"

  "Of course I can, Susanna. I have a dress for Madame to work on, and the tailor is so busy he's glad of my help. Truly, you don't need to worry about me. 'Tis you and the children. How can you bear this horrible place?"

  Susanna's face, pale and frighteningly thin, was curiously serene. In the murky light of the cell her eyes were luminous.

  "'Tis all right, Miriam," she answered quietly. "If only the children do not get sick.
For me, it does not matter. I can stand anything now, anything, so long as James is with me again."

  Miriam could barely keep from running as the guard led her back through the jail. When the heavy door swung open, she flung herself forward into the clean sunlight and stood gasping as though she had escaped some indescribable horror. Pierre was still there, though for the moment he did not notice her, being engaged in a lively game of dice with the sentry. He looked up, grinned, pocketed the dice, and joined her.

  "Was it worth all the fuss?" he inquired. "You look as though you'd seen a ghost."

  "They are ghosts—those people in there. Pierre, it is a dreadful place—unclean—oh, horrible!"

  Pierre shrugged. "They should be smart enough to stay out of it, then."

  "But do they really deserve to be there? Maybe there are others like Susanna and James. And little children! I can't bear to think of it."

  "You are a softhearted little thing, in spite of that temper," he commented. "Those people aren't worth your pity. Your sister, of course, that is different. Something should be done about her."

  She seized this opening to explain about the letter James had written. Pierre's face darkened.

  "See here, my petite," he said finally. "I am not going to get mixed up in this business of English prisoners. And I haven't the influence you seem to think. In fact, I am pretty generally out of favor in the regiment, thanks to their fool regulations."

  When they reached the tailor shop, however, he reconsidered. "One thing I can do," he admitted. "I know a good Indian runner who can be persuaded to take your letter to Albany. He owes me his skin. He can be trusted to bring back the money, which is more than you could say for a lot of them. There now, that's more like it," he added as Miriam's face went radiant. "Now will you take the weight of the world off those pretty shoulders? I shall get a carriage, and we will drive out along the river."