Crow Hollow

by Michael Wallace

  At last the guards came down to unlock and open the gates. The moment they were open, James hopped back inside, and Woory had the horses moving down the darkened highway. The gates closed behind them, severing the last light of town, and soon they were clomping across the Neck, then onto the mainland by what little light was cast by the lanterns. Inside, James dropped the curtain for warmth, plunging them into darkness.

  “Now, where did a Godly woman such as yourself learn to lie so prettily?” James said to Prudence.

  “Pray don’t remind me,” she said. “I know it was wrong to deceive those men.”

  “I’m talking about the lie you told to get yourself onto the coach.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve been lied to in Paris and London. Faced French spies and assassins sent by the Vatican. Did you think a devout Puritan from Boston could deceive me so easily?” When she didn’t answer, he added, “Those bells weren’t for me, they were for you. I’ll wager you ran off, didn’t you?”

  “I had no choice.” She took a deep breath. “Pray, pardon me. You’re angry, aren’t you?”

  “Not at all. I’m delighted. I thought I’d be traveling all night with this dour Quaker. Now I’ve got a beautiful, charming woman, instead.”

  “If I thought you were serious, I would be highly offended.”

  He laughed. The situation was delightful, or would be, if not for the increased danger he’d put himself in.

  The coach hit a rock and would have thrown them from their seats if they hadn’t been packed in so tightly. Peter let out a small groan as he resettled himself.

  “Are you all right, Master Church?” Prudence asked.

  “Call me ‘friend,’ please. And lying is never right. Let thy language be plain, thy words unadorned and without deception.”

  “No, he’s not all right,” James said. “He’s very ill.”

  “Then why did you take him out?”

  “To save his life. Someone is trying to kill him. Maybe me too.”

  “But aren’t we in danger breathing his bad air?” She stopped. “Wait, what do you mean?”

  “He was fine until we got to Boston. Suddenly, he’s taken ill? I asked in town this evening. There’s no fever in Boston at the moment, no plague or pox.”

  “Maybe he picked it up on the ship and it’s only manifesting itself now.”

  “No. We lost several souls on the journey, but nobody for weeks.”

  “But he’s an Indian,” she protested. “You know how they suffer our ailments.”

  “Ten years in England without so much as a cough, isn’t that right, Peter?”

  Peter groaned.

  “There were two others with him, a Pequot and a Narragansett,” James continued. “They both died in England. But not Peter. He even survived the miasma of London. Then the crossing. Still nothing. So now, we arrive under the Stone roof and twenty-four hours later he’s dying.”

  “Oh, please. Don’t say that. I couldn’t bear it.”

  Prudence fumbled in the dark and a moment later had her cloak off, which she reached over James to wrap around Peter, who slumped against the door on the opposite side of the coach.

  Now she was shivering too. James opened his overcoat and offered to share it with her.

  “No, no, I couldn’t. That’s not proper.”

  “As you wish.”

  “But how will getting him out of Boston save him? If he took bad airs under our roof, it’s in him now. He’ll either fight it off or die.”

  “He didn’t take any bad airs. He’s been poisoned.”

  Prudence stiffened. When she spoke, it was in a low, chilly voice. “You are mistaken, sir.”

  “Give it some thought, you’ll see.”

  “No, it’s impossible.”

  She fell silent after that, resisting James’s attempts to draw her out. So much for his hopes of improved company.

  Peter slipped into a delirious sleep, where he muttered in what must be his native tongue. Once, he said something and Prudence drew in her breath, and James realized that she understood at least some of what the Indian was saying. He wondered how much she’d picked up in her captivity.

  They continued in silence for a good stretch, the coach rattling down the bone-shaking road, a little faster than a man could walk. James tucked his head against his shoulder and tried to sleep. A few minutes later, Prudence slumped against him. She was icy cold and didn’t resist this time when he shared his overcoat with her, making sure not to touch her more than necessary. Silly woman, he should let her freeze if she was that offended by the contact.

  It was after midnight when Woory banged on the door and told James to come out. The coach was stopped, the horses stood blowing and snorting. Woory said they’d hit a deep rut while going up a hill and become stuck. He’d already tried to push, but without success.

  “Can’t scarcely believe you slept through it,” Woory grumbled.

  James climbed over Prudence, who groaned and shifted as she came awake. He closed the door behind him. Outside it was brittle cold of the kind where every breath stole heat from his lungs. The forest rose dark and forbidding on either side.

  He eyed the coach by the light of the moon. Didn’t look too bad. If they hadn’t been going uphill, he doubted they’d have even got stuck.

  “I didn’t even realize we’d stopped.”

  “What about them wolves?” Woory asked.

  “Wolves?”

  “About an hour back, they paced us for a stretch. Bloody vermin—I thought you’d be checking your powder.”

  James was alarmed. “No, sorry.”

  “No sign of them now, but you never can tell. Let’s get her moving again.”

  James pushed from the rear, while Woory pulled up front and slapped at the haunches of the four horses. The wheels rocked back and forth in the ruts but didn’t come loose. Moments later, Prudence came out, yawning and stretching. James gave her his overcoat.

  Woory had them untie the trunk from the back and put it in the road, then he opened the coach door. “Get out, you. You’re weighing us down.”

  “Leave him be,” James said. “He’s deathly ill.”

  Then, to his surprise, Peter came out, still bundled in blankets and with Prudence’s cloak wrapped around his shoulders. He leaned against the side of the coach.

  “I feel improved. I think it’s passing.”

  “Really? Wonderful.” James gave Prudence a sharp look. “Well? What do you think now? If he wasn’t poisoned, why is he improving so quickly?”

  She turned away.

  Peter staggered off the road to take a piss, but James didn’t want him pushing anyway. Together, the burden lighter, the three others rocked and heaved until they got the coach clear of the rut. Woory led the team ahead ten or twenty yards until he found an even stretch where the horses could get a good run at it. Then they loaded up the coach again and a few minutes later were off.

  Again they traveled in silence for a spell, but while Peter slipped back into sleep, Prudence stayed upright. James could almost feel her thinking.

  “People do recover miraculously at times, God willing,” she said at last.

  “He was fine yesterday morning. He first complained of illness after he entered the reverend’s house. We ate and drank nothing but what Stone provided until this evening, during which time Peter grew progressively worse, meal by meal. Now that we’re away, he seems to be recovering.”

  “The reverend is a God-fearing man.”

  “As are many men who kill in the name of God.”

  “But he’s gentle, peaceable. He was against the war, tried to calm the bloodlust. When he heard that one of Philip’s sachems could read and write, the reverend wrote him letters to seek a negotiated peace. And he has never hanged an adulterer or burned a witch. He would never murder a man.”

  “It must be someone in your house, then. One of the servants?”

  She let out a harsh laugh. “Old John Porter? He’s a ge
ntle sort, and quite deaf. Lucy and Alice Branch are silly, light-minded girls, without an original thought between them. They know little of the world and care less. Half their life is spent giggling about handsome young men they spy around town. The sooner they marry, the better. They are one stray glance from falling into sin.”

  James thought of his own interaction with Lucy and was glad Prudence couldn’t see his face in the darkness for fear of what it might give away.

  “Well then,” he began cautiously. “That leaves your sister.”

  “Bless me, no!”

  “She had access to Peter’s food and drink.”

  “My sister is the wisest, most upright person I know. I was the youngest of eleven children, and Anne the oldest. She practically raised me herself. I have never seen her shirk her duty. She would accuse her own husband if she thought he was guilty of such an odious crime. Not that he would ever do such a thing, either,” she added quickly.

  Then who? Unless it had been one of the Stone children—highly unlikely—there had been one other person in the house, James realized, and she was sitting next to him. Prudence had lied before. No doubt she was capable of more lies.

  “It had to happen under your roof,” he said. “If not, others would have sickened as well.”

  “Then you must be wrong. It wasn’t poison.”

  “Hmm.”

  Liar or no, Prudence might be useful on the journey. If he remembered his maps, it would take at least two days to reach Springfield, depending on the condition of the roads. Then another day to Winton. He could harvest whatever information he could extract from her about the death of Sir Benjamin, use her to ease their passage through the more prickly Puritan towns ahead, then leave her in Winton if he and Peter needed to continue beyond that. Into Indian country.

  The road opened up as the first light began to filter around the curtain. James drew it back to look past Prudence and through the tiny window. The landscape had turned from black to gray. No sign yet of the sun, but it would soon rise. They were passing through an area of overgrown pasture and ruined farmhouses, reduced to chimneys and charred support beams. Destroyed in the war, Prudence said.

  After studying the terrain, she declared that they were west of Waltham.

  As it brightened, Peter woke and licked his lips. He drew open the curtain on his side and looked out the window.

  “’Twould seem,” the Indian said at last, “that I have survived the night.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  “How are you feeling?” James asked Peter.

  The Indian rubbed at his chin, as if considering. “Somewhat improved.”

  The coach hit a rock and the three of them jounced about. The road was growing worse. Nevertheless, Woory picked up the pace now that there was light to see by.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” James said, encouraged by the strength in the Indian’s voice. “I was worried that we’d arrive in Winton with a half-frozen corpse.”

  “A cheery thought,” Peter said. “But no, it would seem that the Lord has preserved my life for some purpose or other.”

  “That almost passes for idle chatter,” James said. “You must be feeling better. How about you?” he asked Prudence. “Do you need to stop to stretch your legs, relieve yourself?”

  “No, I’m all right for now.”

  “Good, I’d like to put some more distance between us and Boston.”

  “So you’re going to Winton after all?”

  “Aye, and Crow Hollow, if necessary. That nonsense in Boston was only to put them off the trail. I intended all along to inspect the site for myself. Do you have family there? Somewhere to stay?”

  “Nay, I have no family in Winton. One of our servants lives there still—Goody Hull. But she lives in humble circumstances. Her cottage could scarcely accommodate us all.”

  “It only needs to accommodate you,” James said. “Peter and I will continue on without you.”

  Prudence crossed her arms. “I’m going with you.”

  “You’re a fugitive—that makes you a risk. At the moment, your usefulness outweighs your danger. After Winton, that arithmetic changes. I don’t need a search party tracking us into the woods.”

  “Don’t be so confident,” she said. “They must know that I’ve gone with you. They might have sent someone already.”

  “Oh, I would certainly hope so. Your sister will be worried about your safety.”

  “Quite frantic,” Prudence said. “But as worried about my soul as my body. The first thing she asked when I escaped from the Nipmuk was whether they had insulted my virtue.”

  “Not about your daughter?”

  “No. She was presumed dead.” Prudence paused. “They didn’t, you know.”

  “I would not think less of you if they had.”

  “I saw all sorts of atrocities. Believe me, an Indian at war is as savage as any other man. No offense, Master Church. I mean . . . Peter.”

  Peter turned with a smile. “No offense taken, friend. Most men are brutes at heart. My people are no exception.”

  “But they never laid a hand on me—not in that way. The other things I saw . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “I read your account,” James said.

  “As I said in the meetinghouse, that wasn’t the whole of it. If you had read it all, you’d know why I intend to travel with you beyond Winton.”

  “Yes, I recall. You spoke of your daughter being yet alive. Is your narrative incomplete in some other way?”

  But Prudence didn’t seem to have heard. Her eyes had taken on a glazed, distant expression. Her brow furrowed, and her mouth pinched tight. It was a dark look, and James wondered if some wretched memory had clawed its way free and taken possession of her.

  “Art thou well, friend?” Peter asked.

  Prudence shuddered, as if trying to clear her head of a nightmare. “Pray, pardon me.” She turned to James. “What is in the pockets of your overcoat?”

  “Pistols, paper cartridges with balls and powder.”

  “Not those ones. The inner pockets. Where you keep your coins, your secret messages. The vials and things.”

  He started. “Did you go through my possessions while I was sleeping?”

  “No,” she said. “I mean, yes, but not last night. It was the first night you arrived. I entered your room when you were sleeping.”

  That was fairly alarming. The weeks on the ship must have dulled his senses. He’d slept while wolves stalked the coach, and now it appeared that this woman had groped his belongings while he lay sleeping, as dead to the world as a hibernating bear. His suspicion of the widow was growing.

  “About the poison,” James said. “Where were you when we were eating? Back in the kitchen, was it?”

  “No, I—wait, you can’t believe that. Peter, tell him. I would never! Please, you have to believe me.”

  “Gentle, friend,” Peter told her. “He’s trying to rile thee into making a mistake. He doesn’t actually believe that thou art guilty.”

  “Will you let me do my job, you silly Quaker?”

  “Thou attempted to deceive this good woman.”

  “The devil take you,” James said irritably.

  Peter shrugged and looked back out the window.

  “Very well,” James said to Prudence. “Then what were you doing in my belongings?”

  “Look in your pocket. You’ll see.”

  He reached into the pockets one by one. There were so many things there, things he didn’t trust to his trunk, that it took a moment to figure out what she meant. Letters of credit and introduction. Rings with hidden compartments. Invisible ink for delivering secret messages. A list of French and Dutch spies and their aliases. The names of the other agents of the king currently stationed in New England and New York, written in numbered code. How to find his associate in Springfield, and another man in Hartford, these instructions also written in a cipher.

  At last he found it, an unfamiliar sheaf of papers tied together with twine. He too
k it out, slipped off the twine, and unfolded the papers. There was writing in a fine, feminine hand, but it was still too dark to read easily.

  “What is it?”

  “The story about my missing daughter.”

  “I see.”

  “I want you to find her.”

  “Where do you think she is?”

  “In the northern forests, with a tribe of Nipmuk and Abenaki. The land of Verts Monts—French-claimed, but wild.”

  “So the frozen, hostile wilderness. With Indians who killed hundreds of English and suffered near extermination by their hand. Yes, I’m sure they’ll welcome us. You don’t have some secret French map of the waterways and Indian trails, do you? No? I didn’t think so.”

  “I’ll pay you handsomely.”

  “How? From what I understand, your brother-in-law was given stewardship of Sir Benjamin’s estate until you remarry.”

  “That is true, but—”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’m a servant of the Crown. No bribe will turn me from my purpose.”

  “James, please.”

  He raised his eyebrows at the use of his Christian name, and it was light enough now to see her flush.

  “I am not heartless, Prudence, but I must do my duty to the king.”

  “Which is what?”

  “My own business. Anyway, I will help if I can, but I’m not wandering into the north country to get myself killed. You don’t even have evidence that your child is alive.”

  “Mary. Her name is Mary. She will be three years old, with blond ringlets and fat cheeks—assuming they have fed her properly.”

  He tried not to wince. It was more than he wanted to know. Anyway, he’d as good as invited Prudence to argue that her daughter was still alive, which was irrelevant.

  “Read my account, please. Then you’ll see what I mean.”

  “I don’t want to read it. I don’t want to take responsibility for this thing.” He lifted his hand when she started to protest. “No, I mean it.”

  He dropped the papers on her lap. She didn’t pick them up.

  “What harm could it do?” Peter said. “Either thou canst be dissuaded from thy purpose, or not. If not, there’s little harm in reading the pages—thou mayest even learn something new about Sir Benjamin, whether thou believest Prudence’s claim or not.”