by John Demos
Suddenly Arakwente strode ahead, carrying her right through the gate and into the village. Just inside was a big open area, like a public square. Arakwente put her down and pointed here and there. On all sides were houses that looked very different from the ones in Deerfield. They were long and thin, shaped like tubes lying flat on their sides. Their walls were made of branches set in the ground and bent over on top to form a roof. The outer covering was strips of tree bark.
In the middle of the square was a well where several women were filling pails of water. Beyond that stood a large building made entirely of stone, with a tall bell tower and wooden crosses in all the windows. Eunice thought it might be a church, yet it looked nothing like the one in Deerfield. Later she found out that it was a Catholic church. Her own people, the Puritans, didn’t like Catholics at all. In fact, everything Eunice had heard about them was terrible.
As she stood there, more of the village children came running up and made a circle around her. They wore linen shirts and leggings with leather moccasins on their feet. Some had little strings of beads hanging from their ears. They stared at Eunice and giggled at her appearance. Her clothes were ragged after so many weeks of traveling in the wilderness; her wool cape was practically in shreds. She wished she could go off somewhere and hide.
Then Arakwente walked on, motioning her to follow. They went down a narrow path to one of the longhouses, apparently his own. A young woman—maybe Arakwente’s daughter, Eunice thought—ran out to embrace him, but didn’t seem to notice Eunice. They went inside, which was all one room. There were no windows; the only light came in through the door. It took a minute or two before Eunice got used to the dimness and could see well enough to make things out.
Along the sides were wooden platforms with straw mats and fur pelts scattered on top. The floor was dirt, and scuffed. There was a pit in the middle—a fireplace—with a hole overhead to let the smoke out. A large kettle hung over a bed of glowing coals, filled with what Eunice thought must be their dinner cooking. There were metal pots and barrels made of bark in one corner, and dried fruits and vegetables hanging from a beam overhead.
Eunice thought of her own home in Deerfield, so far away and now destroyed. She pictured the wide brick hearth and chimney, the glass-paned windows, the beds with feather quilts, the spinning wheels, the stores of grain in the pantry, the apples drying in the cellar. How different this Indian home seemed! How dark! How strange!
An older woman of perhaps Arakwente’s age sat by the far wall. She was weaving thin strands of wood to make a basket. But she dropped her work and rose to her feet as the group came in. She and Arakwente stood facing each other, their hands joined but saying nothing, for several minutes. Then she looked toward Eunice and gave her a gentle smile. Arakwente pulled the two of them together and looked back and forth between them. He spoke directly to Eunice, saying the woman’s name—Konwatieni. Eunice understood that she was his wife.
Just then a child came into the house. She was one of those who had giggled at Eunice’s appearance, and Eunice realized that she must be part of Arakwente’s family, too. She stared at Eunice, but this time it was in a friendly way. Eunice thought the girl seemed about her age. Suddenly the girl skipped off. When she came back, she was carrying what looked like a little doll without a face; it was made from a cornhusk. She held it out to Eunice, obviously intending it as a gift. But Eunice just stood there, dazed.
Soon more people entered the cabin: another woman, a much older man, two very young girls, and several boys of different ages. It began to feel crowded. There were dogs everywhere, barking and growling and rolling in the dirt.
As evening came on, Konwatieni took her by the hand and led her toward the fire. By now the cook-pot was steaming. Some in the house had eaten already, but others were milling about. It wasn’t at all like mealtimes at home in Deerfield, Eunice thought, where everyone sat together on long benches and chairs arranged around a table. There were benches, but no chairs or table; people sat on blankets on the ground wherever they chose to. The food was kanontara, just like what they had eaten on the journey through the wilderness. Konwatieni gave Eunice a large wooden spoon for dipping into the pot. But she wasn’t hungry at all, and took only a few bites. Afterward Konwatieni showed her to a corner where she could lie down on a mat, with pelts to pull over herself for a covering. It was hard to fall asleep, but finally she did.
She awoke the next morning with a startle; one of the dogs was licking her face. She brushed him aside and looked around. The cabin seemed full of people, most of them up and moving about but a few still asleep. Konwatieni was squatting by the fire, stirring the cook-pot. The girl who was Eunice’s age was playing a game with a rope. The rest of the people, she didn’t recognize. Again, she felt very much alone and homesick.
She wondered what would happen next. Was she going to stay here with Arakwente and the others? Would anyone be coming to take her back to her own people? When would she see her father and brothers again? Were they in Canada, too?
PART TWO
FROM PURITAN TO MOHAWK
CHAPTER SIX
THE REST OF THE FAMILY
After the attack, and after the fires burned down, Deerfield was deserted. The people who had survived and evaded captivity packed up their things and moved out as fast as possible. They rode in carts or on sleds to neighboring towns, where kind friends took them in. Messengers were sent to Boston, the capital city of Massachusetts, to report to the leaders there. The news spread everywhere; people called it a massacre. Fifty people had been killed on that terrible morning.
Soldiers were sent north into the wilderness in the hope of rescuing the captives, but it was too late, and the distance too far. They did come upon the body of Eunice’s mother, frozen in the snow but not disturbed. They brought it back and held a proper burial in Deerfield. Her gravestone was carefully engraved to read:
HERE LYETH THE BODY OF MRS. EUNICE WILLIAMS, THE VIRTUOUS AND DESIRABLE WIFE OF THE REVEREND MR. JOHN WILLIAMS, WHO FELL BY THE RAGE OF THE BARBAROUS ENEMY, MARCH 2, 1704.
Many people in Massachusetts grieved for the mother—and for the daughter, too. They grieved for all the captives, and hoped and prayed for their return. What would it take? Maybe a raid into Canada to find where they were being held? Maybe a plan to help them escape? Maybe a lot of ransom money to pay the Mohawks? Maybe an agreement between the leaders of the French and the English? All these ideas were considered.
Meanwhile, up in Canada, the surviving members of the Williams family were scattered in different locations. Eunice remained in Konwatieni’s house, feeling lonely and afraid. Konwatieni and the older daughter, Atsiaha, were nice to her and tried to cheer her up. The little girl—the one who was about her age—kept coming over and smiling at her. She was Onwari, another of the daughters.
They wanted to make her feel like part of their family. They gave her new clothes, including a beautiful tunic made of deerskin and trimmed with brightly colored glass beads. They tried to teach her more of the Mohawk language; she already knew some, but needed to learn more. Konwatieni would point to things around the house and say the words for them: otsireh for fire, oneste for corn, ondach for kettle. Or she would take Eunice outside, point overhead, and say ienontarah, their word for sky, and kara, for sun. Eunice knew she was supposed to repeat the sounds, and she tried to do it. But in her heart she didn’t want to; it was like giving up on being English. She kept thinking of her Deerfield family and wondering where they were. She had no way to know about any of them. Only much later would she learn more.
Samuel, Eunice’s oldest brother, was now in Quebec, Canada’s capital city. The Indians had turned him over to a Frenchman in exchange for a shipment of wool blankets from Europe. Now he was a servant, a worker on the Frenchman’s farm. Of course it felt strange to him, but he was well taken care of, and his new household was welcoming. He learned to speak French and began to make friends with French boys who lived nearby.
The Ind
ians who kept Stephen were Abenakis, a group quite different from the Mohawks. They didn’t seem to have any regular home at all. Instead, they traveled here and there through the wilderness, never staying in one place for more than a few days. They hunted deer and moose and fished in the rivers. But their main goal was to catch beavers, whose furry hides could be sold to the French for good money. Wherever they went, they took Stephen with them. One of the older men was his master, but a kind one, more like a teacher than a boss. After the surprise meeting with Eunice that day in the forest, Stephen did not see another white person for months. He became more and more like an Indian, not only in his appearance—clothing and hairstyle—but also in his knowledge of the forest and native ways of living. He learned to track animals, set traps, and build a small shelter. And he could speak the Abenaki language quite well.
Warham, the youngest, was taken straight to a French convent in the city of Montreal. It was somewhat like a church, but also a place where people lived. The grown-ups were all women, Catholic nuns, who prayed a lot and wore long black gowns with white hoods covering their heads. He had never seen anyone dressed that way before, and it seemed strange. There were at least a dozen other children staying there, most of them orphans. Some were French and others were Indians; he was the only English child. At first he felt very lonely. But as the days passed, he got over it. The nuns treated him warmly; they called him mon cher petit (meaning, in French, “my little dear”). They mended his clothes, fed him tasty meals, and taught him French songs. After a few months the convent came to seem almost like home to him.
Of course, Eunice’s father was in Canada, too. The fact that he was a Puritan minister made him the most important of all the captives. The French governor took him away from the Indians as soon as they reached Canada. The governor had special plans for Reverend Williams, and wanted to keep him under close watch. He was sent to a monastery—a place like a convent but for men (monks), not women. The monks tried very hard to persuade him to convert to Catholicism; what a fine “catch” he would be for their church! They argued with him day after day, and he argued back. Which religion was the true one? That was the question. It went around and around, but neither side gave in.
While this was going on, Reverend Williams grew more and more concerned about his children. From time to time he would get news of them. Apparently, they were all healthy—he was grateful for that—but he also heard things that disturbed him. He heard that they, too, were being urged to convert. A traveler had seen Samuel in the big cathedral in Quebec, and the nuns were teaching Warham their own prayers. He couldn’t find out much about Stephen, but Abenakis were said to be Catholic. And as for Eunice, Kahnawàke was known to be a mission, where priests were trying all the time to convert Indians. That made him very worried.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE VISIT
Again and again, Reverend Williams begged the French governor for a chance to visit Eunice at Kahnawàke. Finally, his wish was granted. By now it was summertime, and traveling was easy. The governor sent a translator with him, so he and the Mohawks would be able to understand each other. They rode on horseback to the edge of the river and went across on a little ferry; the village was on the opposite side. It had been several months since he had last seen Eunice, so he was very eager to get there.
They got off the ferry, walked to the village, and went inside. With the translator’s help, he asked some Indian men who were sitting beside the well, “Where is the little English girl? I am her father, and have come to see her.” But the men turned away and didn’t answer. No one else seemed willing to help, either. He wondered, were the Mohawks hiding her? Had they taken her someplace else? He was beginning to lose hope when suddenly she appeared, running toward him from around a corner and shouting, “Father! Father!” Close behind came Konwatieni, who called to her to turn back. But she kept running and jumped into his arms for a long hug. Konwatieni stood off to one side, her face showing a little scowl.
He put her down and stood back to look her over. Her Indian dress made her seem different; her hair, too, was arranged in a strange way, with long feathered clasps. But yes, she was still his daughter, his Eunice. And he was still her father. Nothing could change that.
After another minute or two, when the first flush of joy at seeing each other was over, her whole face changed. Her warm smile and bright eyes took on a look of pleading. “Please,” she begged him, “please take me away from here. Today, right now, let me go with you, and never come back. Tell them I don’t want to stay any longer. They aren’t my family; you are. Please, please, please, just tell them.” She was in tears; the words came out mixed with her sobs.
Of course, her father wanted the same thing. He turned toward several of the Mohawks standing nearby. They said nothing, but were watching closely. Surely, he thought, they could see how miserable she was, how much she loved him and he loved her. A child should never be left with strangers; a father could never give up his own child. They had to understand that. But did they? The look in their eyes said no.
Just then Konwatieni moved forward and tried to take Eunice by the arm. But the child shrank away and stood behind her father, clutching his coat. Her sobbing increased, her face became twisted with fear. She spoke to Konwatieni in Mohawk, her voice rising to a wail. Her father could not make sense of the words, but still he understood. She was begging, begging, begging for her release, before any more time had passed.
Eunice turned back to him and spoke in English. “Their houses are dark and dirty,” she said, “and I hate their food. They take me to their church on the Sabbath and force me to say their prayers. They are Catholics, father, and they are trying to make me a Catholic, too.” For him, this was heart-wrenching, and worst of all was the part about church. My daughter, a Catholic? he thought.
He stood up as straight as he could and spoke to the Mohawks in a firm voice. “You must let me have my daughter back. Keeping her here is wrong, wicked, un-Christian. She is an English girl, a Puritan girl; she can never be one of your people. I’m leaving now and taking her with me.” The translator put his words into Mohawk.
He stretched his arm around her and they took a few steps toward the gate. But several Mohawk men quickly blocked their way. Again he stood tall and spoke as firmly as he could. “Remove yourselves! I am Reverend John Williams, and I insist on leaving here with my daughter!” Once more the translator put his words into Mohawk. But the men in front of him folded their arms across their chests and would not budge.
They stood staring at each other for several minutes. Eunice crouched behind her father, crying softly. Then Arakwente appeared, walking rapidly from the opposite end of the village. His manner was solemn, and his eyes showed concern. “My English brother,” he said to Reverend Williams through the translator, “do not fear for this child. We love her and will always keep her safe. She belongs with us now. Bid her goodbye, and go in peace.”
Her father realized he could do nothing more. He knelt down and offered what little encouragement he could. “I cannot free you from them just now,” he said. “But they have promised to look after you, and I believe them. Be sure to pray to our God every day, and do not let their Catholic beliefs into your heart. I will come back when I can. And one day you, your brothers, and I will all be together again in our own home.” He rose and walked slowly away. When he reached the river, he paused and looked back over his shoulder. His last glimpse of Eunice would stay in his memory forever: a weeping child with hands outstretched, as the gate closed behind him.
CHAPTER EIGHT
LEFT BEHIND
The war of the French and Indians in Canada against the English colonists in Massachusetts went on and on. There were more battles, more surprise raids, and more people captured. But of all those taken—there were hundreds by now—John Williams remained the most famous. People throughout Massachusetts prayed for his return. They prayed also for his children and for the soul of his late wife.
It took two
more years, but finally their prayers were answered. The French governor began writing letters to leaders on the English side. He asked about a French pirate called Captain Baptiste, who had been captured by the English several years before. He offered to send Reverend Williams home if the pirate was freed to return to Canada. Ambassadors were sent back and forth to discuss the details; they had long discussions, and finally both sides agreed. It would be a direct swap: Reverend Williams for Captain Baptiste.
Three of the Williams children would be allowed to go home, too. The nuns in the convent said goodbye to little Warham and sent him to join his father. The governor told the French family near Quebec to let Samuel go. And the Indians who held Stephen were given a ransom for his release. Nothing was done about Eunice; she alone would have to remain behind. The Mohawks in Kahnawàke refused to allow her return.
A ship came from Massachusetts for the father and his sons. It had been almost three years since their capture, and they were very glad to be going home at last. If only Eunice were with them, it would have been perfect. Before they went the governor promised Reverend Williams he would speak with the Indians about getting her released. They would have to be patient in the meantime.
They left on a warm fall day. None of them had ever been on an ocean trip before. At first, it went well, but then the weather turned stormy. The wind rose to gale force, and the rain fell in sheets. The ship pitched about on the huge waves, making the children very scared and seasick. One of the sailors lost his balance and fell overboard while trying to lower the sails; there was no way to save him.
