Flight of the Sparrow

by Amy Belding Brown

  He takes a few cautious steps toward her, as if she were a deer, easily startled. She does not back away, does not take her eyes from his.

  Then he is standing right in front of her, so close that if she reaches up she can put her arms around his neck and draw him down to kiss her. She squeezes her hands into fists. She does not touch him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  “James!” she whispers. She hears a sound from inside the house, one she can’t identify—the creak of a floorboard perhaps, or the soft shudder of the building as it settles on its foundation. She snaps into the acute awareness that, from a window, she and James can be seen standing together in the yard. That the next sound she hears could be someone raising the alarm.

  She takes his hand and quickly draws him into the empty cowshed. She pulls the door shut and stands before him in the darkness. Her heart is beating fast and she is conscious of his nearness. “How did you find me?” she asks. She has a wild, wicked thought that he has come to claim her and take her away with him.

  In the dim light, she detects the flicker of a smile. “’Twas no great feat. You are the most famous woman in the colony now.”

  “You should not be here,” she says quickly. “There is a bounty posted on Indians.”

  He nods. “I know. ’Tis why I travel by night, for I know you English regard darkness as your enemy. Is it not why you whitewash the insides of your houses? Why you endlessly dip candles and press oil for your lamps? Why you are forever talking about light?”

  She wonders why he is taking the time to make this little speech. It is as if he is preparing for debate before a court and wants to practice on her.

  She shakes her head, dismissing his rhetorical questions. “Where have you been? Why have you come?”

  “Because you can help me. If you speak to the right people, you can make it possible for me to live.”

  She smells his scent over the mustiness of the shed. “What influence do you imagine I have?” A streak of moonlight slices through a broken board and lies across the slope of his left shoulder. Her eyes have adjusted; she can see his face now. “Have you forgotten I am but a meek and humble woman?”

  “I could never forget you are a woman.” The flickering smile again. “But humble you are not. Nor meek. Else you would not have prevailed during your captivity.”

  She cannot deny this. Nor does she wish to. Her heart is beating wildly. Foolishly. “And why should I help you?”

  “Surely you have not forgot that I helped you,” he says. “Many times. Now it is your turn.”

  Her face flushes with inner heat. Yet she pretends she is not moved—the habit of concealment is strong. She narrows her eyes. “I recollect that you refused me. When I begged your help in getting to Albany, you said you would not.”

  “I cut the rope from your neck,” he says. “I gave you shelter in the storm.”

  She shudders slightly, a tiny movement of her shoulders. “You betrayed me and arranged my ransom to the English,” she whispers, so softly that at first she thinks he cannot hear. But his frown—a flash of pain on his brow—tells her otherwise.

  “Chikohtqua,” he says, his voice reproachful, disappointment laced with sadness, “you know I did not deceive you. You know I did all I could to protect you. There was no future for you among my people because there is no future for any of us. Apart from life among the English.”

  She bows her head, all her anger and doubts crumbling away. What bitterness toward him she felt disappears in an instant. It requires all her willpower not to touch him, to stroke his face or his chest, to move into the circle of his arms.

  She hears the sound of his breathing, the skittering of a mouse in the corner. “Can you not come in under the amnesty?” The musty air bores into her nostrils.

  “The amnesty is for those who are guilty of nothing more than being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I am”—he pauses—“not in that category. A special case. There are many who think me the Devil’s colleague, who consider me the worst of traitors and would like nothing better than to see me hang.”

  She thinks of Joseph, of his fervent cheers after each execution.

  “I have more guilt upon my head than most who have hanged,” he says.

  “Guilt?” She tries to imagine what he might be guilty of. “What harm did you do?”

  “I went with the Nipmuc on raids. I carried a musket. I met with Philip.”

  “But the Council does not know these things. What evidence is there?”

  “In truth, I have provided them evidence by my own hand. Though the Council needs no evidence to hang an Indian.”

  “What do you mean—by your own hand?”

  He sighs. “After we burned Medfield, I posted a letter in my hand warning the English that if they continued to fight, they would lose not only their lives but also their houses and cattle. I wrote that we would fight for twenty-one years if necessary.”

  She is silent, absorbing this news. “But surely you know some who could help you better than I. You have mentioned Mr. Eliot.”

  “I have already seen him,” he says. “Last night I surprised him in his kitchen and asked for his help. He told me he had already petitioned the authorities on my behalf and they refused to listen. War is a stern mercy, he said, but it is God’s mercy.”

  “I think it is no mercy at all,” she whispers.

  “Aye,” he says softly. “You speak true—it is not. But Mr. Eliot was right in one thing—for he told me what I have told you—that the Indian way cannot prevail. That, though God may chastise the English, yet He protects them. For they belong to Him. They are His people.”

  She sees no evidence that the English are any more God’s people than the Indians or the Irish or the Spanish, but she can think of no good response. Mr. Eliot’s words are much like Joseph’s—proclamations she no longer believes are true. They reflect a vision of God that now seems to her cruel and whimsical, a God whose wrath no man can stay, through prayer or by any other means. This is a God she cannot worship.

  “And you believe I know someone who can be prevailed upon to save you from the hangman?” she says slowly. “Someone who has more sway than Mr. Eliot?”

  He shrugs. “I know you have had the ears of many powerful men since your release. I ask simply that you try to persuade them to show mercy.”

  His words resonate as she casts about in her mind for anyone she has met who is powerful enough to help James. “I will do what I can,” she says. “Yet I fear no Englishman will listen to a woman.”

  “In truth, you are my last hope, Chikohtqua.” He takes her hand and presses her palm to the center of his chest. She nearly gasps with the longing that strokes through her. His skin is warm and damp. She wants desperately to kiss him, to feel his arms around her. She has the thought—the sinful, depraved hope—that he will ask her to leave everything and go with him. But she says nothing for she knows as well as he does that they are both caught in a web of circumstance not of their making, but from which it is impossible to escape.

  They stand together in silence for several minutes. She takes a deep breath, and slides her hand out from under his. The beads on his necklace glint in the moonlight.

  “You had best leave,” she says. “Before someone sees you and sounds the alarm.”

  He says nothing, but brushes her cheek with his thumb, a touch as light as the wing of a butterfly. Then he slips out the door and is gone.

  She stands in the shed. She can smell his skin on the tips of her fingers. She must think of something she can do to help him. She does not want to be his last hope.

  • • •

  For days, Mary ponders whom she should approach to beg for James’s amnesty. She has met with several important magistrates since she first returned and she once dined with a group of ministers and their wives. She remembers being introduced to prominent officials
from Boston who studied her as if she were a curiosity, brought back from an alien shore. Yet none stand out as useful to James’s case, and she is at a loss to remember their names.

  She considers asking Joseph to introduce her to someone on the Council. If she approaches the matter cleverly, he might reveal an important connection. The trick will be to make him feel sufficiently important and powerful.

  In the end, she turns for guidance to God—though she is no longer certain she believes in His ability to affect events. She prays, humbling herself several times each day. She knows that her increased show of piety pleases Joseph. Though he does not discern the reason for her prayers, he praises her devoutness and patience. He assures her they will be rewarded in due time.

  But Mary knows that the one thing she does not have is time.

  Quite unexpectedly an answer presents itself. Joseph reports that Increase has grown impatient with waiting for her response to his proposal. He demands an audience. And suddenly Mary discerns a way she can help James.

  • • •

  She sits on a bench against the wall, facing Increase in his great chair by the empty fireplace in his parlor. Sunlight spangles the tiny diamond panes of his windows, yet the room is still dark. He presses the palms of his hands together.

  “So my prayers have been answered.” He smiles at Mary. “God has guided you to record your ordeal. To shine His light upon New England.”

  “I have received His guidance, aye,” she says. “Though it is not quite as you may think.”

  He raises one eyebrow. “I do not understand.”

  She wets her lips and takes a deep breath. “The Lord has made it clear to me that He requires of New England a sacrifice. Else all my efforts will be in vain.”

  “A sacrifice?” He taps the tips of his fingers together, and she senses annoyance in the gesture. “Have we not already sacrificed much? Please explain yourself.” She senses that he suspects she is thwarting him. She must make him believe her proposal is God’s will, not her own.

  She settles her hands in her lap, composes herself. Looks up at him. “I must confess that sometimes, during my captivity, I strayed from—nay, I doubted—God’s providence. I came to believe He was not present in the wilderness.”

  Increase shakes his head sadly. “Our Lord inhabits every place.” Sweetness and compassion permeate his voice. “It is our task to discern His presence, not His task to discern ours.”

  She nods. “I understand that now. But I underwent a great trial—a testing—and I want to impart its meaning in my narrative.”

  He nods. “And so you shall. I shall see to it.” He lowers his head so that his mouth rests briefly on his templed index fingers. Then he looks at her. “But what is this added sacrifice that you believe the Lord requires?”

  “’Tis a sacrifice of mercy,” Mary says slowly, cautiously choosing each word. Her mouth and lips feel dry. “There is one Praying Indian—James the Printer”—she tries to ignore his sudden grimace—“who must be returned to Boston to carry on his trade.” She pauses, waits for his face to resume its normal expression. “The Lord has a particular mission for him.”

  Increase nods, but his lips are pursed; he clearly does not accept her claim. “The Lord is rarely so explicit.” He places his hands on his knees. “Especially toward one such as yourself.”

  He means toward a woman, she thinks. Her hands have balled into fists of their own accord. Yet she nods as if she agrees, then says carefully, “I am told that you are able to clearly read His meaning in signs and portents, such as in the shapes of clouds and the position of constellations. That you prophesied the Indian rebellion.”

  His eyes narrow as he looks at her, yet she catches the ghost of a smile. He is obviously flattered; she has touched his secret pride.

  “So surely you cannot deny that sometimes God is both clear and precise in His messages.”

  He nods slowly. “This is your requirement? Freedom for James the Printer? In exchange for your narrative?”

  “Not my requirement. I believe it to be God’s will,” she says in the softest voice she can manage.

  “How well do you know this James?” His gaze is bright with suspicion.

  “He was one of many I met during—”

  But he is not listening to her. “Are you aware that he is a deceitful traitor and mischief-maker? That there is a great price on his head?”

  She looks at him dumbly. She cannot allow her face to show any emotion.

  “You are asking on his behalf for mercy. For amnesty.” He shakes his head. “I’m afraid I cannot grant such a demand.”

  “Not even if it be God’s will?” She knows she risks being accused of heresy. She has not forgotten Ann Hutchinson. At best, he will regard her question as disrespectful and insolent. She could end up pilloried or locked in the stocks. Or banished from the colony. Yet she continues. “I believe you can—should you wish to. I believe most of the authorities heed you closely.”

  Again she sees he is flattered, that he likes thinking of himself as a man of great influence, that he wants to believe her. She leans in toward him, as if she is about to offer a secret.

  “The Printer showed me mercy,” she says quietly. “He is the Lord’s servant.”

  “Showed you mercy,” he murmurs.

  “Aye, more than once. I believe the Lord wishes to reward him for his faithfulness. I think that is why He has instructed me to write the narrative you want—once the Printer is granted amnesty.”

  There is a long silence and Mary suspects that the sun has shifted behind clouds, for the room has grown suddenly darker.

  “I must pray on it,” Increase says. “And consult with others.” And now he leans toward her. “I warrant you do not comprehend the profound impact your story will have. Not only upon its readers—but upon you as well. I believe it will mean your redemption back into society.”

  She feels herself begin to tremble. He is telling her that he will accept the bargain.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  A few days later, Increase again summons Mary to his parlor. It is raining, a warm drizzle that soaks through her cloak and renders the cobblestones slippery under her shoes. She thinks of how the deerskin dress she wore during her captivity had shed the rain, how surely her feet had gripped the ground through the soles of her moccasins.

  Increase does not smile at her this time; his face is solemn and pale. He does not even invite her to be seated. He sits in his chair and speaks slowly in a low voice, carefully choosing each word. “Arrangements have been made to grant James Printer a special amnesty. He must come in during the two-week period assigned by the Council. And because of his past, he is subject to an additional obligation.”

  “What is this obligation?” She can see his jaw working. She wonders if he is angry.

  “He must present the heads of two of his Indian compatriots to the authorities in Boston. In token of his loyalty.”

  Mary stares at him. Her mouth feels as if it has suddenly filled with dust. She tries to imagine James’s reaction to this decree. How could he possibly accept such an arrangement? He will flee instead, head north, deeper into the wilderness.

  “That is too much to ask,” she says, her voice rasping in her dry throat. “He will never agree. You must remove this requirement.”

  Mr. Mather shakes his head. “It is not mine to remove. It comes from the authorities by way of Daniel Gookin himself.”

  Daniel Gookin. Mary recalls her encounter with Silvanus in Mr. Gookin’s house. Mr. Gookin, who once owned Silvanus. A chill runs down her back.

  “He has done a great deal of work with the Praying Indians,” Increase continues. “You should know that it is only through his advocacy that the authorities even considered James Printer’s case for amnesty.”

  Mary cannot think what she should say. She is certain that James will not a
gree to this condition. She cannot parse out whether she should withdraw her agreement to write the narrative of her captivity. She must speak with James, must learn his wishes given this new stipulation.

  But Mr. Mather is not waiting for her response. “You will begin writing your narrative at once,” he says. “I shall edit your pages, and provide all such guidance as you may require, so that your work may be an emblem for the enlightenment of New England.”

  She stares at him. She feels a dull throb behind her eyes—the beginning of a headache.

  “There is one additional condition to our covenant.” He leans forward over his knees, his back slanting over the space between them. Her feet shift uneasily beneath her skirts, making small tapping sounds on the wooden floor. “That pertains particularly to you. A condition upon which the Printer’s freedom—his very life—depends.”

  She feels trapped. She has foolishly failed to anticipate that the authorities would require something beyond a manuscript of her story. “You have pledged to preserve his life in exchange for my narrative,” she says slowly.

  “Aye,” he says, “but it will only be possible if the connection between those two things is completely hidden from public view. The exchange must be kept an absolute secret. Not even your husband can be told.”

  “I don’t understand.” Her mouth and lips are very dry.

  His eyes go hard. Mary feels as if she’s failed some test. “I cannot be seen bartering for the life of a savage.” His voice is a hiss. “Surely you can understand that!”

  “I had not thought—”

  “No, apparently you had not. So I will make it plain to you: There cannot be the slightest whisper of any involvement on my part—or yours—in his reprieve. If James Printer is to live, you shall have no contact with him. Ever. You shall not seek him out to find out how he fares. You shall not speak to him if you encounter him on the street. You shall not communicate with him by letter or messenger or any other means.” He pauses, slides back so that his head is resting against the knot of decorative scrollwork at the top of the chair. “He will be as dead to you. Else, he will be dead—arrested, tortured, and executed. As he no doubt deserves.”