Crow Hollow

by Michael Wallace

  Peter made a sound deep in his throat. “I truly feel ill. ’Twould be strange if I’d crossed the ocean in all that filth only to breathe bad airs on my first day in Boston.”

  “It’s probably the rich food. You’ll feel better after some sleep.”

  James wasn’t particularly worried. True, Indians were even more susceptible to agues, fevers, chills, and poxes than Englishmen, but Peter was no ordinary Indian. He’d lived more than a decade in England, come over with three other Praying Indians to study with a Puritan minister in Tonbridge. The other three Indians had died of European illnesses within three years. Peter claimed he’d never once fallen sick. Except for the spiritual plague of the Society of Friends, that was.

  Of course, James hadn’t recruited the man for his health or his religion. No, it was his ability to speak Abenaki and Nipmuk. Still, he’d worried how the man would fare in the cramped, unhealthy quarters of the Vigilant.

  James had soon had other worries. Two hours out of Weymouth, the waves were already so choppy that he was heaving up his breakfast. The seas surged for the next ten days until almost every passenger was ill, together with several members of the crew. Not Peter Church, though. The man’s guts were made of iron.

  Somewhere in the middle of the ocean, the waves had calmed. Then disease swept through the passengers. They were mostly farmers and craftsmen from Lincolnshire, strong and hale, not sickly—yet they’d proved helpless against the bloody flux that roared through their midst. James had counted himself fortunate not to fall ill, but he was more worried about his companion. Still, Peter remained healthy.

  They’d come into no contact with any disease or bad air since coming off the boat. No illness or death. No, James wasn’t worried about Peter.

  “It seems to me,” Peter said, “that thou art the one planning to disrupt the Puritan services, not I.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “Friend, after all of our discussions, thou remainest suspicious, thy heart hardened. Thou stopped me three separate times when I tried to testify on board the boat. So why allow me to speak now if not to put my plain speech to thine own purposes?”

  James kept his face blank. Peter was so sincere in his misguided faith, and it was a hard thing to purposefully manipulate a man to one’s own means. Especially when it might put him in danger. But that’s what it meant to serve the Crown. It justified hard measures.

  “You know what I think of your heresies, but they’re harmless enough. These Puritans, on the other hand—Cromwell and his ilk—nearly destroyed the Church of England. They’d overthrow every bishop and tear down the cathedrals if they could.”

  “As would I.”

  “Aye, but don’t delude yourself. The Quakers are small and powerless.”

  “Power is an earthly term.”

  “Exactly. And you have none here, regardless of where you stand in the eternities. So go ahead and disrupt, should you feel so moved.”

  “Thou art scheming, my friend.”

  “Of course I am,” James said. “That’s my sworn duty.”

  Peter studied James’s face, and it was all the Englishman could do not to turn away from the Indian’s piercing gaze.

  “When do we leave Boston?” Peter said at last.

  “As soon as I present my commission to Fitz-Simmons. Of course, I want to speak to Widow Cotton first, if possible.”

  “Then ask to see her. She’s probably here in Boston.”

  James made sure he kept his voice low and avoided looking at the servant girls. “You know what will happen. As soon as I express interest to Reverend Stone, it will turn out that the widow had pressing business in Hartford or Providence.”

  Goodwife Stone appeared in the doorway, and the two servant girls rose to their feet and began to clear away the dishes. The old man tried to do the same, but the mistress shook her head, pulled up a chair next to the fire instead, and handed him a whetstone and a pair of knives to sharpen.

  “YOU ARE TOO KIND, MY MISTRESS.”

  The old man lit a long-stemmed pipe. It dangled from the corner of his mouth while he slowly pulled a knife back and forth across the stone with his gnarled hands. The scrape, scrape, scrape joined the crackle of the fire. Goodwife Stone snuffed all the candles but two. She moved the hanging candleholders to the hearth, above a double-wide wooden bench. Here she sat to mend stockings. A few minutes later, Reverend Stone came in without a word, carrying a big Bible, and took his place next to his wife.

  The sight of the reverend reading his scripture had a predictable effect on Peter Church. He fetched his own, smaller Bible from upstairs, and the two holy strivers sat across from each other, reading almost competitively by the light of the bayberry candles. James tried to study Prudence Cotton’s captivity story but was too distracted by trying to make sense of everything he’d seen and heard so far. Instead, he smoked his own pipe and watched the reverend and his wife. No sign of the children; they must be in bed already.

  A few minutes later one of the blond servant girls filled a fire scoop with glowing coals and carried it upstairs, while the other followed with a pair of brass bed warmers. At the thought of climbing into a freshly warmed bed, a deep, wearying exhaustion washed over James. He yawned and tied off the papers with a bit of twine. Then he emptied his pipe into the hearth.

  “I’m going upstairs,” he told the others. “Goodnight to you, Reverend. Goodwife Stone.”

  “God rest you,” Stone said.

  “I’ll be up shortly,” Peter said.

  Doubtful. Once the man started in with his Bible, he’d be engrossed for a good stretch. Probably until the candles burned down or Goody Stone snuffed them. And James doubted the reverend would leave off until Peter did. Heaven forbid.

  James was climbing the stairs when he heard movement in his room. Alarmed, he reached for his knife, thinking that someone was inside trying to force open his sea chest. But of course it was only the older of the two servant girls from supper. She bent over the bed, thrusting with a bed warmer up and down the mattress. Her blond hair spilled from her head rail. Her bottom stuck out toward him and jiggled with every movement. He stood in the doorway and stared.

  When she finished, she straightened, then gasped when she saw him. “Pray, pardon me, Master Bailey. I didn’t realize you would be back so soon.”

  Her face was flushed and invigorated from her labors. James was invigorated in his own way. His earlier resolve seemed suddenly foolish.

  He only just remembered his purpose in Boston. “You ignored me at supper. Will you tell me now? At services tomorrow—where will the Widow Cotton be seated?”

  “Next to Goody Stone, of course. The reverend’s family always sits together. Is that why you’ve come, to marry the widow?”

  “Good heavens, no.” He let his eyes range up and down the girl’s body. “I have no interest in the widow.”

  She smiled at this. Emboldened, he shut the door quietly.

  Her smile turned uncertain. “Master Bailey, the door. You closed it.”

  “Do I unsettle you? Shall I open it again?”

  “If the mistress sees . . .”

  “She’s mending stockings. The reverend is reading his Bible. As is the Indian. Nobody will know, except perchance your sister. Can you trust her?”

  “I suppose a few moments wouldn’t be a sin.”

  That was all the invitation James needed. Almost overcome with passion, he closed the distance. She didn’t resist as he took the bed warmer and set it aside, then pressed her against the wall. Her mouth fell against his. Her kisses were clumsy but eager.

  “Master Bailey.”

  “Call me James.” He smothered her mouth again, then drew her neck back to kiss it.

  “Yes, James. Yes.”

  “What is your name?” he said, voice husky.

  “Lucy Branch.”

  “Lucy. Oh, you’re beautiful. The most heavenly thing I’ve seen in ages.”

  “Do you truly think so?”
<
br />   He pressed into her. One hand reached for her breast. The other lifted her petticoat and stroked along her inner thigh. Lucy let out a little moan.

  “James, no. Please.”

  “You don’t like it?” he asked between kisses on her neck.

  She was panting, her breast heaving up and down. “Yes, yes. But . . .”

  “But what?”

  “If they find out, I shall be whipped. And then thrown into the street.”

  James had taken greater risks in the past. That time at Versailles, for instance, making love to the mistress of the Marquis de Prouville, while the man argued a treaty with an English diplomat in the next room. But Louise-Colette had been the one pushing herself on him. This was different.

  “James, please. I am helpless.”

  He tore himself free. He drew back a step, then another. His body was throbbing, and from the way the girl was plastered against the wall, her hands flat against the timbers, her eyes closed and her mouth open, he could tell that she was throbbing in her own way. She didn’t want him to stop, not really.

  He was convinced they had time, that the danger was slight. And if he pressed her, he knew she would not resist much longer. And if she did truly want him to stop, then what? Would she cry out? Of course not.

  Damn you, James. Don’t do it.

  With effort, he backed toward the door. His hand found the wooden latch, and he lifted it slowly, quietly. Then he stepped to one side to let her go.

  Lucy looked at the open door, looked back at him. Her gaze continued to smolder. She opened her mouth, and he knew she was going to tell him to shut the door again. If he did, he would take her. He was not so strong as that. But she gave a tiny shake of the head and straightened her clothing. She bent for the bed warmer, which presented another view of her glorious bottom. She made her way to the door.

  “Talk to the mistress first,” she whispered as she brushed past him.

  “What?”

  “If you ask the reverend, he’ll say no. But the mistress holds no hatred of Anglicans. And if she talks to him on your behalf, he’ll agree to whatever she suggests.”

  “Oh.” Then again when he understood fully. “Oh.”

  An impish grin crossed her face. “Then you may have me all you want, James Bailey.” She pushed past him into the hall.

  James leaned out to stare after her as she lifted her petticoat with one hand and held the smoking bed warmer with the other. She hurried down the hall to the stairs.

  Good Lord, that was a disaster averted. If he’d had her, the girl would have expected him to marry her and seen to it that he’d done so.

  He stripped off his boots, but he’d already changed his shirt and breeches before supper, and he kept them on. He climbed beneath the blankets. The bedding was still warm from Lucy’s work.

  He was too aroused to sleep and could do nothing but listen to the wind howling around the roof until Peter arrived about an hour later. The older man knelt to pray in silence before climbing into bed next to him.

  James sighed. At least the man would help conserve warmth. And yet.

  Blasted Praying Indian. Cursed Reverend Stone. Quakers and Puritans, damn them. Would the heavens really shake if James made Peter swap beds with Lucy Branch?

  CHAPTER THREE

  Prudence Cotton stood in the chilly, moonlit corridor with one hand on the wooden latch to the guest bedroom. Her other hand gripped five sheets of paper, folded and tied with twine.

  She listened. From inside came a gentle snore, followed moments later by a higher whistling sound. When she was certain that the two strangers were asleep, she lifted the latch slowly. It creaked, and she froze, wincing. A snort, a mumble, someone turning.

  When the noise settled, she pushed the door open. The barest stream of moonlight seeped into the room, like a reflection of a reflection. Her eyes adjusted to the dark shapes within. The bed held two lumpy figures sleeping peacefully, not so different from the children tucked into bed down the hall.

  Master Church, an Indian and a Quaker. Master Bailey, some sort of agent or spy from London. One provided spiritual danger, the other carried violence in his posture and had stared at her earlier with lustful intent. Yet thinking of them as sleeping children softened them in her mind. Not Church and Bailey, but Peter and James.

  Prudence peered into the dark corners of the room. There, draped over a chair, James’s cloak.

  She’d gone barefoot to quiet her movements, but the cold planks still creaked with every step. What if James sat up and challenged her in that arrogant tone she’d overheard downstairs? What would she say? Would he wake the house? She was in enough trouble as it was.

  The cloak was like none Prudence had ever encountered. Instead of a single, great pocket on the outside, the inner lining held sewn-up folds of cloth, others with buttons, and even a pocket inside of a pocket. One pouch held a purse, fat with coins.

  Silver was scarce in the colonies. Seemed each time a ship dropped off its goods, every shilling in Massachusetts departed with it. Even her husband had quickly found himself short of silver, although he’d arrived with a small fortune.

  Other pockets held lumpy objects, papers, even rings and medallions. All of it made her burn with curiosity, and she only just resisted the urge to take some of the items with her to examine later. Instead, she found a deep inner pocket, empty, and tucked her papers inside. With all the other things in the cloak, he might not notice it until he was on the road, riding west toward Winton. Good. Then he would take them out and read them when he was long gone from here.

  The men were still sleeping when Prudence backed her way into the hallway. She pulled the door shut until it snicked into place, then turned toward her own room.

  A dark shape stood waiting. Prudence gasped.

  A hand closed on her wrist. It wasn’t the reverend, thank the heavens, but his wife—Prudence’s older sister, Anne, in her nightgown and cap.

  “What madness is this?” Anne hissed.

  “Shh.”

  “What were you doing in there? Those men—have you no shame?”

  “I swear, it was nothing like that.”

  Anne looked back up the hall to her bedroom, where the reverend would be sleeping. Then, still gripping Prudence’s wrist, she dragged the younger woman toward the stairs. The younger sister let herself be pulled along.

  Moments later, the two women sat opposite each other in front of the dying embers of the fire. It reflected off the pewter mugs hanging from their hooks, but did little to cut the chill in the room. Prudence shivered and looked at her feet rather than meet Anne’s glare. Prudence was twenty-five years old, but her sister’s disapproval could still pierce her breast with shame.

  “Well?” Anne said.

  “I wasn’t doing anything shameful. There are two men in there. What could I have done?”

  “Then what, rummaging through their possessions? Stealing?”

  “No!”

  “Then what?”

  Prudence didn’t answer.

  “One would think you were five years old, Prudie. Am I to paddle you until you spit out the truth?”

  “Why not? You used it often enough when we were young.”

  “That’s unfair.”

  “Is it?”

  “I didn’t ask to be the oldest,” Anne said. “And I didn’t ask for seven younger sisters.”

  “And I didn’t ask to have seven older sisters, either. And I certainly didn’t ask you to lord it over me.” Prudence didn’t like the way she sounded when interacting with Anne, but she felt helpless not to slip back to their childhood roles. “Anyway, I’m an adult now, I’ve been married and had a child of my own. And I don’t answer to you.”

  “But I have to answer for whatever happens under my roof. Am I to tell Henry I caught you sneaking out of that room? What would he think?”

  That question didn’t need an answer. Prudence had heard plenty of the reverend’s ranting sermons about fornication. And he seemed ev
en more worried about his sister-in-law than about the unmarried girls in the house. After all, she knew, and presumably had enjoyed, sexual congress with her husband before he was killed. Maybe she still lusted after it.

  “I told you, it wasn’t that,” Prudence insisted.

  Anne’s expression hardened. “I’m losing my patience. It wasn’t that, and you weren’t stealing, either, because I can see now you’ve got nothing on you. So what?”

  It would be easy to say that she’d spotted something in James’s cloak, had heard rumors he was a spy for the Crown, and had been torn with curiosity. There was at least a partial truth hidden in that claim. But her tongue felt oily at the very thought of lying to her sister.

  “I slipped the missing chapter into a pocket in his cloak,” she said.

  Anne’s expression softened. She put a hand on Prudence’s knee. “Oh, Prudie. You didn’t. What good would that serve?”

  “He’s going to Winton. Then maybe north. If he does, he’ll be speaking to the Abenaki and Nipmuk.”

  “He wouldn’t do that. There’s no reason. The war is over, the matter settled.”

  “Settled?” The bitter laugh that came up tasted like gall. “It has been scarce nine months since my captivity.”

  “Time enough to put it behind you,” Anne said firmly. “Yes, to see matters settled. God willing, to never think of them again.”

  How could matters be settled, when every time Prudence closed her eyes she could see the murdered English at Winton, hear the harsh cawing as flapping black wings settled blanket-like over the slaughtered Nipmuk warriors at Crow Hollow?

  One particular image never ceased its torment. A crow had buried its beak into the eyeball of a dead Indian and worked it back and forth like a child trying to twist a green apple from a tree. The bird came up with the eye in its beak and cocked its head at Prudence, as if concerned that she would try to take its prize. The eye had stared mutely, accusingly, in her direction before going down the crow’s gullet.