Free. Mary blinks up at her through the blurring tears. She does not feel at all free. She feels as a bird must, one which has escaped its coop and flown away, only to be caught in a net, its wings clipped. She feels double-caged, having both found and lost a world.
Obediently she sips from the spout. “We must find Joss and Marie,” she says weakly.
“May it please the Lord.” Standing beside her, Joseph bows his head and begins to pray again, longer this time—thanking God for His gracious mercy and begging Him to spare the lives and souls of their children. As he goes on and on, Mary’s mind wanders. She wonders if she has been out of the practice of communal prayer so long that she cannot attend. She thinks instead of Quinnapin and Weetamoo as she last saw them, tall and proud in their beads and feathers. She thinks of the great fire circle and the warriors dancing around it. She thinks of James and his piercing, compassionate gaze. She is uncomfortably aware of the walls that enclose her. She feels trapped, suffocated by the confinement.
When Joseph finally says, “Amen,” and she opens her eyes, he is frowning at her. “You do not look well,” he says. “Perhaps you would like to lie down?”
She is surprised by his consideration. She wonders if he has changed this much in the three months since she last saw him. Or is his solicitude for Increase and Maria’s benefit? “No,” she says, suddenly overcome by the same restlessness that was habitual during her captivity. She gets to her feet. “I would like to walk outside.”
He nods as if he understands, though she does not think it possible.
For nearly an hour they walk up and down the street in front of the Mathers’ house. A new bank of clouds comes up and swallows the sun, burdening the air with a damp chill, yet still they walk. Back and forth, back and forth. The movement soothes her, makes her feel herself again, for her legs have grown accustomed to walking many miles each day.
They do not look at each other, nor do they touch. Mary wants to ask her husband why he did not meet her in Concord, but she cannot seem to loosen her tongue. All her strength, all her will is in her legs. Instead, Joseph questions her. He asks for details of Sarah’s death, and when she haltingly describes it, he takes three sharp breaths, but does not reproach her. He asks if she was able to watch over Joss and Marie. He bids her relate the details of the attack on their home. He wishes to know if her faith wavered during her time in the wilderness. Yet she says little, for her tongue is stiff in her mouth, apparently infected by an Indian reticence.
“I would know of your treatment by the savages,” he says finally. She knows the reason for this question, knows that his concern is for her purity.
“They are a chaste people,” Mary says. “I was not defiled.”
He stops in the road and blinks at her. She realizes he does not believe her. She would not credit the words herself, had she heard them four months ago, before her captivity.
“I swear it,” she says. “I have not been dishonored.”
He closes his eyes a moment. “Praise God,” he whispers. A gust of wind comes off the water and tugs at the cloak Maria gave her.
“Yes,” she murmurs, drawing the cloak tightly around her, not only for warmth but to hide her form, for at that moment she feels a jagged, unwarranted pain in her belly, as if Maria’s posset has turned to bile.
• • •
The evening is devoted to prayer. Everyone in the household gathers at the kitchen hearth. Increase and Joseph give thanks and pray for the safe return of Joss and Marie and the other captives not yet ransomed. Increase reads long passages of Scripture about God’s mercy—the exodus of the Hebrews from Egypt, Jonah’s release by the great fish, Jesus calming the storm. Joseph leads them in singing Psalm 124.
Maria sits on a bench, rocking her babe in her arms while her five older children sit at her feet. The oldest girl reminds Mary so much of Marie that her heart aches with longing. The oldest boy, named Cotton, is near Joss’s age, yet his manner is as still and solemn as Joss’s is lively.
Later, they all sit at table, women and men together, eating Maria’s simple meal of bread and cheese and warm ale. Mary eats little and says nothing at all, for every bite of bread turns sour in her mouth.
Her mind is as sore as her belly. She thinks of Marie and Joss, who remain in the wilderness with the Indians. She thinks of Alawa, and realizes she misses her. She regrets that she never bid her farewell. She begins to weep yet again. It seems that her tears will not stop. Maria tries her best to console Mary, and Increase offers a prayer, but it is Joseph who finally stills her. He says her name in a stern voice, puts his hand on her shoulder, and prays that the Lord will give her strength to control her weak and womanly sobs.
• • •
The Mathers grant them use of the chamber over the kitchen for the night, allowing Mary and Joseph privacy and a bed to themselves. There is a fire in the small hearth set into the chimney; they draw a bench before it and sit for a time, warming themselves. Mary finds herself entranced by the flames as Joseph tells her of his work while she was gone, of caring for the different members of the Lancaster church who had fled after the attack, of helping them find lodging in Boston and the nearby towns.
“We will remove to Charlestown,” he informs her. “Our friends Thomas and Anna Shepard have agreed to take us in.”
“Must we?” After her long march in the wilderness, Mary does not want to move ever again. She recalls with shame that she once thought her mother lacked a spirit of adventure because she complained of all the moving Mary’s father required of her. Now, finally, Mary understands her distress.
“I have presumed on Increase’s generosity for many weeks already, awaiting word of you,” Joseph says. “And he is not overfond of visitors, for they disturb his study. Charlestown is only over the river. The move will not tax you.”
“We could bide with my sister in Wenham,” Mary says. She does not like Thomas Shepard, or his wife, Anna, who has always seemed a sour sort of woman. She chafes at the thought of accepting their charity. “Surely Joanna would welcome us until we have rebuilt our home in Lancaster.”
Joseph looks down at his hands, which are still folded in his lap. “I have decided against returning to Lancaster. It is a forbidding place, filled with dangers. Too close to the savages.” She cringes and she wonders if he noticed. “I no longer feel called to a mission on the frontier,” he says. “Increase has suggested more established towns, perhaps in the Connecticut Colony.”
“Connecticut Colony?” Mary finds her full voice at last. “Are we to go so far from what family I have left? Am I to be granted no rest?”
“Mary, Mary. You must calm yourself.” His tone is gentle, meant to soothe, and he turns toward her in a kindly manner, though he does not touch her. “It is not for you to question the Lord’s will. If He calls me to a new parish, we will go.”
She looks away. “Promise me that we will not move before our children are returned to us.” She makes her voice as even as she is able.
He responds as she knew he would. “Should we not leave such matters up to God? Has He not restored you to us for His glory?”
There is nothing she can say, no answers to such questions, save pious ones. Which she cannot at this moment give. And so she holds her tongue. Silence is one grace she has learned from the Indians.
After a long pause, he speaks again. “I fear there is another concern I must raise. There is the matter of your ransom. Twenty pounds is a steep price.”
Mary feels a chill at her back, as if someone had just laid a cold hand there. She does not answer at once, but continues to look down at her lap. How sweet it would be to hear him say that she is a pearl of great price, that he would have sold all he had down to the last farthing to secure her safe return. “They said I must name a price,” she says. “I had thought to set it fair. I feared too low a price would be my undoing.”
“Yet G
oody Kettle was released soon after you. And she was not so proud as to put a price upon herself.”
Mary closes her eyes. She cannot think what to say that might satisfy him. “I did what I felt I must,” she whispers. “I was given no chance to compare prices.” Prices. Why does she suddenly feel more like a slave now than she did all those weeks in captivity?
“Do you feel no regret?” There is condemnation in his voice. “You placed a heavy burden upon me.”
“Regret?” She thinks suddenly of James and is washed in sorrow. Try as she will, she cannot quell it. “Indeed, I have more regret than you will ever know,” she whispers and begins to shake.
“Hush, Mary.” He stands up. “Forgive me. It is not the proper time for this discussion. For now, you must rest.” He draws her gently from the bench and leads her to the bed, where he pulls the blankets over her, and climbs up beside her. He draws the curtains and stretches out. He does not touch her, but lies very still, and after a few moments she realizes he has fallen asleep.
She lies staring at the patterns of firelight that flicker on the curtains, thinking of her children and James and remembering the Indians’ sorrowful dance around the circle fire after Canonchet’s death.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
They remain guests of the Mathers for less than a week, until Thomas Shepard and his wife receive them into their home. Joseph attended Harvard with Thomas and they enjoy a collegial affection. Thomas’s wife, Anna, grovels before him in an annoying manner, yet Mary is determined to like her, for she has a reputation as a good and charitable woman and her friendship could be of considerable value in restoring Mary to English society.
Charlestown’s fortification walls are situated behind the Shepards’ house, and the pungent odor of marshland wafts through their dooryard morning and night. Mary has not lived by the sea since she was a child in Salem and she finds the fetid reek of the tides disagreeable. She longs for the fresh, sweet scent of pine trees and meadows. She wants to feel a breeze in her uncapped hair and to gaze on long vistas of forests and mountains.
Mary’s sister Joanna comes to visit. Mary tells her of Elizabeth’s death, and they try to console each other, though no words can stanch their tears. There is still no news of Hannah’s release. Mary assures Joanna that in the last glimpse she had of Hannah—in the council house before the sachems—she looked as well as anyone.
In a private moment in the garden, Mary confesses her disappointment that Joseph did not travel to meet her in Concord, but Joanna cautions her not to dwell on such an inconsequential slight. “What matters is that you are returned to us,” she says. “Why trouble yourself with an affront to your pride, after all you have endured?” And she takes Mary’s shoulders lovingly and kisses her cheek. “Pray, tell me what transpired while you were in the wilderness,” she says. “’Twill do you good to reveal your ordeals.” There is a strange excitement in her voice, a prurience that irritates Mary. When she tries to answer, she finds her tongue has turned to stone.
“’Tis all right, Mary,” Joanna says, wiping her face with a napkin. “There will be time enough to tell your tale. God will guide you. You must pray so.”
Mary nods. She does not confess that her prayers have dried up like an exhausted spring, that she is unable to find comfort there.
• • •
Joseph no longer touches Mary the way a man touches his wife. Though they sleep beside each other night after night in the same bed, he does not take her in his arms, or explore her body with his fingers. She expected the consolation of union with him on her return and wonders if he finds her gauntness repulsive. He seems consumed by the thought that she might have forsaken God while she was in the wilderness. “My fear is that the Lord will withdraw His blessings from all of us,” he says. “You must tell me all that befell you, Mary. For the sake of our family.”
But there is no family anymore. There is just the two of them. “I did not knowingly forsake the Lord,” she tells him. “Yet I sometimes believed that He forsook me.” She turns away from his righteous frown. Yet, when she later reflects on her words, she is struck by the thought that it was Joseph, not God, who forsook her.
• • •
On the Sabbath after her return, Mary attends public worship. It is strange to sit across the aisle from Joseph with other women instead of by herself in the foremost pew. Her days with the Indians have made her restive, unsuited to perching for hours on a hard bench. She is aware that the eyes of the congregation often turn to her, especially when Mr. Shepard mentions her redemption in his prayers. He speaks at length of God’s special providence for His people, yet his sermon seems to her oddly tedious.
After worship, the women surround Mary and pester her with excited questions. What did the Indians eat? Did they smell like animals? Was it true that they danced naked in lewd ceremonies? Did she encounter Satan while she was the wilderness? Was she able to keep the Sabbath? Did she witness the roasting of children? How many times was she defiled?
At first she is struck dumb by this onslaught. Then she tries to answer. The Indians ate what they could find—roots and killed deer and bear. They did dance but it was not lewd. She never once glimpsed Satan. The women frown and shake their heads and ask more questions. Clearly, her answers do not satisfy. She raises her hands in a gesture of supplication.
“I pray you, if you will simply hold your tongues, I will tell you what I witnessed,” she says.
“Hush, let her speak!” someone cries.
“Aye, we would hear the truth, though it distress us,” says another.
The women’s expressions are greedy, stimulated, almost lustful. Suddenly, Mary understands that they do not want the truth. They want to hear details that will confirm their misconceptions, that will validate their fears. For a moment, she is angry. Then a spirit of mischief comes over her.
“I underwent terrible trials,” she says. “I was made to listen to birds and sit idly in the sun. I had to watch Indian ceremonies and share their food. I had to build their shelters and carry their burdens when we moved from place to place. They laughed at me cruelly when I nearly fell crossing a river. ’Tis a wonder I lived to tell of it.”
“By the Lord’s grace,” one woman says in an awed voice. Many women nod. Clearly, they believe her now.
She apprehends that not one of the women perceive that she is jesting. When she is repeating what they already believe, they do not question her veracity.
“How many times were you dishonored?” calls a woman from the back of the crowd.
“Aye, tell us!” chorus several others.
Mary shakes her head. “That I cannot tell you,” she says. “For there is no number at all.” The women murmur, taking her words as confirmation that the number is too great to admit. She regrets her jest, but it is too late to mend her words. She is so plainly disturbed that one kindly woman takes her arm and returns her to Joseph’s protection. In silence, he walks her back to the Shepards’ home. She does not attend the afternoon service with him, but sits in the parlor and tries to pray. Her Bible lies open in her lap, yet God seems very far away. It occurs to her that her jesting was much like the Indian jests she witnessed during her captivity. She had become Indian, not just in her dress and actions, but in her sense of humor as well.
She is distracted by the spring sunlight that dances through the window and makes diamond patterns on the wall. It reminds her of the way the sunlight fell through the newly budded leaves when she walked with the Indians on the trail to Wachusett. For a few blessed moments, the weight of her sorrow falls away.
• • •
News comes that Hannah has been ransomed with two of her children. Mary flies into Hannah’s arms when they meet and begs her for word of Joss and Marie, but Hannah can tell her nothing. She is emaciated and weak, but her cheerful temperament has not deserted her and she quickly adapts to her release. Mary wonders why she hers
elf cannot make a similar adjustment, but her soul feels riven. In private, she weeps for the absence of her children and her ignorance of their welfare. Though Joseph warns sternly against heaviness of heart, she cannot stop sorrowing.
She begins to have terrible nightmares. Nightly she wakes, gasping, from dreams of death. The air in the upper chamber in the Shepards’ home is close, nearly suffocating in its warmth, yet she rarely throws off her blanket. She has been cold for so many months, she cannot complain of this new discomfort. She forces her thoughts toward God, thanking Him that the sticky dampness down her back and neck is not blood but sweat. The fustian bed hangings do not stir as she rolls and thrashes on the bed. Beside her, Joseph sleeps, snoring lightly, unmindful of her distress.
She is afraid to let herself sleep. She listens to the night sounds—the call of owls, the regular cries of the night watchman as he walks the streets announcing the hour. Some nights she rises and bathes herself in secret, refreshed by the comfort of cleanliness. She thinks of James, remembering their long conversations and the night she spent in his wetu. How comforted she felt by his presence and the closeness of his body. She knows that any virtue she possessed before her captivity is gone, for she would willingly trade her soul for another such encounter.
One night she reaches out and strokes her husband’s thigh. She thinks of the animal pleasure of conjugal union, of the great, sweet rush of joy that came over her sometimes when he did not hurry their lovemaking. Her hand slides up until she brushes his member with her fingertips. He stirs, half aroused, and for a moment she believes he will take her in his arms and caress her in the old, tender ways. Instead, he pushes her hand away and rolls over so that his back is to her.
She swallows a sob. She wonders if she is ever going to experience passion again. She resolves to try harder to return to civilized ways, to be a proper wife to her husband.
She dutifully attends to all the regulations and manners of society, but finds her restored life exhausting. Every morning she straps herself into her bodice and binds her hair under her cap. She ties on petticoats and fixes a clean apron over her skirt, wishing for the loose ease of an Indian dress. As she rolls stockings onto her legs and fits her feet into the stiff latchet shoes, she longs for the comfort of moccasins. She ties her pocket around her waist, the one thing that she still possesses from her years in Lancaster, a talisman she held fast to throughout her captivity. As she slides her hand into it and feels her needles and scissors, she has the thought that it is not Providence alone that saved her life, but her own enterprise and the contents of her pocket. A wicked thought that she dares not confess to anyone, least of all her husband.
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