He shifts in his chair, and by his expression she can see that he is carefully weighing his words before he speaks.
“I know you have suffered greatly,” he says. “But you are not of a race born to slavery, and your feelings are more finely tuned—”
She interrupts him. “Do you think Indians are born to slavery? They value freedom above all things. They bow to no one. Their children are raised up strong and unfettered, disciplined not by chastisement, but by love.”
He sighs and slowly shakes his head. “These heathen ways you speak of are not God’s ways, as well you know. Their liberty is not the freedom of Christ. They do not know the Lord and thus are subject to every corruption and temptation. Think on this: Slavery’s yoke may yet be their salvation. And you must not forget that God has ordained slavery and set down His ordinances for it in Scripture.” He slides forward on the seat of his chair so that his knees seem to point accusingly at her. “What of Timothy? The Nashaway boy whose poor service we suffered for months until he ran away? You had no pangs of conscience then. Do you now imagine we oppressed him? That we were not kind masters?”
“I know ’tis in the Bible.” She bows her head, stung as her own guilty part in the matter assails her. “Yet it is wrong. I know it is wrong. It is blood on our hands.” She looks up at him. “I believe God Himself has given me this knowledge.”
She sees his frown and knows that she has vexed him.
“You would condemn all the good Christian men in this colony who keep and sell slaves.” His voice is little more than a hiss. The room’s shadows have folded over his face in such a way that she can no longer see his eyes. “And with them good Mr. Whitcomb, who has loaned us the use of this house.”
“Mr. Whitcomb?” Mary’s hands tremble beneath her apron. “What has Mr. Whitcomb to do with slaves?”
“He ships them to Barbados and sells them for profit. Did you not know this? ’Tis his most lucrative business.”
Mary thinks of Mr. Whitcomb, who has always seemed a kindly and generous man. Recently she sewed a shirt of fine linen to thank him for his beneficence. Yet this news that he trades in slaves turns her gratitude to repugnance.
“Then we shall bide here no longer.” She gets to her feet. “I cannot bear thinking of it. I cannot.” As she speaks, her voice rises and she begins to tremble. “We must remove to some other dwelling at once.”
“What foolishness is this?” Joseph rises. “We are in no position to refuse Mr. Whitcomb’s charity over some foolish sentiment. One would think you had never poked your nose into the Bible, the way you jabber. Be silent!”
But Mary is unable to obey. Her tongue has been torn loose from her palate; she is filled with indignant fire. “I’ll keep no slave anymore, husband. Not while I live! ’Tis the greatest of sins!” She knows her own words are not only disobedient but also heretical, and that such rebelliousness has cost more than one woman her life. Yet she is no more able to prudently still her tongue than she was in the Indian encampment when she railed against Weetamoo’s demands. When outrage overcame her there, she thought it was an effect of her hunger. But perhaps it was born of something else.
Joseph gawps as if she has become suddenly deranged. In two strides, he crosses the floor to her. “Quiet yourself,” he says, placing his hands on her shoulders, a gesture that has sometimes soothed her in the past. But this time his touch burns through her clothes like fire. “Your weeks among the Indians have demented you,” he says.
“I am quite sane,” she tells him. “I have sworn—to the Lord—that I will never again keep a slave. It is too humiliating. Too despicable. It is not a fit position for any man, woman, or child.”
“Mary, they are Indians—not beasts. Calm yourself.”
“Nay, we treat them as beasts. And I’ll not have such corruption in my house.” She turns and goes back outside, leaving him standing alone in the gloom.
• • •
That night, Mary does not retire until long after Joseph has gone to bed, pretending the need to finish mending Joss’s shirt. So it is not until the next morning, after family prayers, that Joseph chastises her. She stands before him obediently with her head bowed and listens as he reads long verses of Scripture that justify the keeping of slaves. Yet she does not yield. She refuses to apologize or recant her words. Even when he commands her to pray for God’s forgiveness, she feels herself grow stronger and more determined to resist the outrage of slavery.
In the days that follow, Mary cannot rid her thoughts of the certainty that slavery is the vilest of sins. She is no longer able to walk through the rooms where they live without remembering that the owner trades in human flesh.
She hopes that Joseph will soon find a new ministry. Living in the house sickens her and the early kindnesses of the women of Boston have turned to whispers and stares. The longer Mary stays in town, the more the gossips’ tongues are fed. She knows—as she always has—that a woman’s reputation is easily lost on the slimmest of suspicions and, once lost, impossible to regain.
The only solace she finds is in her children. She minds them with an animal ferocity. She will not allow Marie out of her sight and daily pleads with Joss to keep close to the house. That he does not heed her is a trial to her all summer. His restlessness drives him to frequent the docks, where she fears he mingles with disreputable men and boys. He neglects his chores and comes and goes as he chooses. He begins to adopt Indian ways and spends hours in the woods and swamps beyond Boston Gate, setting cunning traps for squirrels and rabbits. He takes knives from the kitchen so he can clean the animals and wear their skins on his belt. Mary reports none of this to Joseph, knowing that she will not be able to tolerate his remedy.
Joss, who had in the first few days after his return talked endlessly of his captivity, is now so rarely present that Mary hardly speaks with him at all. Yet Marie is ever at her side, and so they speak often of their time among the Indians, comparing masters and wetus, and the taste of Indian food. Marie frequently speaks of an Indian girl she befriended, confessing that she still prays for her welfare. Once, as they sit sewing in the dooryard, Marie confides that she was fond of her mistress, who treated her kindly, slipped extra food to her from time to time, and even taught her some Wampanoag words. When Mary tells her about Alawa and Weetamoo, Marie’s eyes grow wide.
“My Indian mistress and the other women spoke often of Weetamoo!” In her excitement, Marie jumps up, dropping the stocking she has been mending. She is still somewhat wasted from the rigors of her captivity, yet her girlish vitality has returned and Mary is pleased to see that she grows stronger each day. “They said she was a warrior queen, known everywhere for her courage. Tell me, Mother, what was she like? Was she very beautiful?”
Mary blinks in surprise. It has not occurred to her that Marie would have heard anything of Weetamoo. “Perhaps she was beautiful to Indian eyes,” Mary says. “I saw no display of courage, though it was plain that many venerated her.” She remembers the times that James warned her of Weetamoo’s power. She had given his words little heed, for it had seemed absurd that a woman could have such influence.
“But she must have had courage,” Marie says. “There are many tales of her noble deeds as she led her warriors in battle.”
Mary frowns, trying to imagine this, but she cannot. Even Weetamoo, with all her pride, was not so unnatural a woman. She had a child, whom Mary saw her lovingly attend. Mary cannot picture her taking up a musket. She wonders what has become of her. Has she gone into hiding in some wretched swamp?
“Come sit down and finish your mending,” she commands Marie. “We’ll talk no more of Indians this day.”
Mary visits her sisters as often as she is able. Yet the journey to Wenham, where Hannah is living with Joanna, is neither easy nor safe, and so she does not undertake the ride often. Hannah is in deep mourning. Her husband, John, and her son Josiah were butchered during the att
ack. Two of her children remain in captivity. All that is left of her family is four-year-old William, who was released at the same time as Joss. When Mary sees her, she tries to comfort her, yet she has little solace to offer. They usually spend their time weeping as they exchange recollections of the dead.
After Mary’s third trip to Wenham, Joseph forbids future visits. When Mary protests, he reminds her that she always comes home filled with despair. “You must set the past aside and gird yourself for the future,” he tells her. “Such mourning is an affront to God’s will.” Mary knows this is true, but it angers her that her husband holds such authority over her that he can forbid her visiting her own sister.
She begins to yearn for another child. It occurs to her that if she could hold a babe in her arms once more, it would soothe the soreness that invaded her heart when Sarah died. When will her husband again seek the tenderness of marital union? Joseph is a man bound by duty and law, and he knows full well that a husband has an obligation to satisfy his wife’s carnal needs. Yet, he still has not joined with Mary, or even embraced her. As the days pass, what began as Mary’s mild annoyance becomes desolation. One night, as they prepare for bed, she confronts him.
“You have not touched me as a man touches a woman,” she says. She sits on a stool by the open window. It is very warm and there is a skim of perspiration on her fingers as she plaits her hair.
Joseph sways back on his heels, as if her words are a blow to his body. His fingers curl over the cuffs of his nightshirt and he kneads the fabric there. The candle on the mantel suddenly flares up, and then shivers and sinks down. Mary feels a responsive pang in her chest, prompted as much by Joseph’s stricken look as by her own plight.
But she is resolved to know what can be done to restore their marriage. “Have I done aught to cause you to lose desire for me as your wife?” she asks.
“Nay,” he says quietly. “I still have a husbandly desire for you.”
“Then why will you not cleave to me?” She puts down her comb. “Do you think me contaminated?”
Joseph sighs. “You have sworn to me that you are not, and so I must believe you.” The glow from the candle flickers along the bridge of his nose and chin. “Yet the Lord has told me the time for our reunion has not yet come. I have prayed long and hard on this.” He shifts sideways and his head tips forward so that his solemn gaze rests on her face. “You must trust in the Lord, as I do.”
There is no response she can make to this. If he believes God has commanded him to abstain from lovemaking, he will pay no attention to her. She is distracted by the worm of light on his face and the dry buzz of his sleeves as he crosses his arms. She suddenly recalls the way James looked at her after her release. She thinks of how much yearning lay between them.
“—the only actions that matter are those that God ordains,” Joseph is saying, his voice rippling around her like the disturbed surface of a pond. “You rebuke me for not performing my husbandly duty, yet you do not answer my questions.”
She chokes back the memory of James, licks her lips and tastes salt. “I have told you what I could.” She rises and faces him.
He is not a tall man, yet he seems at that moment to tower over her as he tells her, “Yet every night you thrash upon our bed, and sometimes you wake weeping.” He puts out his hand. “Come, Mary, let us have done with this foolishness. We need our rest.”
She stares at him. She did not realize he was aware of her nightly distress, the terrible dreams, the strange weeping fits that assail her in the dark. “I would that we might conceive another child,” she says softly, and then it is done—she has spoken the secret desire she had been harboring for weeks.
But he seems not to have heard her. He smiles gently, takes her hand and leads her to the bed, speaking in a voice one uses to calm a fractious horse. She is not surprised that he makes no move to join with her that night, but simply strokes her hair until she falls asleep.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Mary sits outside the meetinghouse with other women of the congregation. It is a Sabbath afternoon in August; morning worship is over and the afternoon service has not yet begun. The women are arranged on two benches in the shade of the building, seeking to catch any breeze that might come off the water. The air is very close and still. Dark rain clouds loom in the west. The women fan themselves and discuss the likelihood of a storm. Then Eliza Rogers begins to tell news of Indians she has heard from her husband, who had recently traveled to Plymouth.
“He assured me that the rebellion is all but over.” She takes a square of linen from her sleeve and dabs at her brow. “The savages are surrendering everywhere. And those who refuse are captured or slain.”
“Thanks be to God,” Constance Hobart whispers. She is a small woman with tiny hands and a round face.
“Aye,” Maria Mather says, looking at Mary. “Mistress Rowlandson must be especially gratified to see our enemies cast down.”
Mary keeps her head bowed. Her Bible lies open in her lap, though she cannot make her eyes focus on the words.
“’Tis said they found the body of an Indian queen,” says Eliza. “She was drowned in a river, trying to escape.”
“A queen?” Constance laughs. “Indians have no queens.”
“Aye, they do,” insists Eliza. “They say she led her men on the field of battle.”
The skin at the back of Mary’s neck prickles and she raises her head. “Do you know her name?” she asks.
Eliza shakes her head. “No, I did not hear it.”
“No matter,” says Constance. “I have heard that savages have many names. To confuse us.”
Mary leans forward. “Was there someone with her? A young woman servant, perhaps?”
Eliza looks at her. “I heard naught of one. But what matter is it? They are all devils, are they not?”
Maria reaches over and places her hand on Mary’s arm. “Are you ill?”
“Nay.” Mary tries to make herself smile but her lips feel as if they have hardened into a grimace. She thinks of Alawa, of her deft fingers tying a reed mat to the wall of a wetu, of their gentleness as they smoothed and braided Mary’s hair.
“I thought perhaps the heat—”
“I am well enough.” Mary shifts her arm so that Maria’s hand falls away. She imagines Weetamoo swept downstream in a churning river, sinking under the surface of the water.
“I have heard it said that pagan women marry whom they please,” Constance is saying. “This one was a slattern with many husbands, one of them brother to Philip. Her last was a Narragansett king.”
“He too has been captured and executed,” Eliza says. “His head was carried on a pike to Hartford.”
“Aye, I heard news of that,” says Constance. “He had one of those heathen names no one can pronounce. Quinny-nap or Quinny-hog.” She pinches her face into a smirk.
“Maybe it was Quinny-ninny,” Eliza suggests. The women giggle.
“Quinnapin,” Mary says.
All the women look at her.
She gets to her feet, for her eyes are burning and her heart races in her chest. “His name was Quinnapin,” she says. “He was once kind to me.” She leaves them gawping as she walks away. She does not care where she goes. She wants only to be alone.
She heads toward the harbor, thinking of Weetamoo dandling her babe and dancing in the circle. Thinking of Quinnapin with his wide shoulders and proud bearing, of the long belts of wampum swinging on his chest as he danced. She remembers his generosity as she wept on the shore of the river. She imagines his fine head cut from his shoulders and mounted on a pike. Her stomach churns.
She bends and vomits into the gutter.
• • •
She cannot confess her distress to anyone in Boston, for there is no one who will sympathize. She briefly considers confiding in her sister, but knows that Hannah is currently being courted by a ma
n from Wenham and Mary doubts she will want to resurrect memories of her captivity. Even if Mary does tell her, she doubts Hannah will appreciate her attachment to James.
She prays for a swift healing of her spirit. But the days go by and she continues to brood. One night she dreams she is accompanying Weetamoo back to her home village.
Alawa sits beside her on a raft on which they are crossing a raging river. Suddenly a wave comes up and sweeps them off the wooden timbers. Instantly, they are sucked beneath the boiling, gray current. Mary watches Weetamoo and Alawa thrash in the water, their long braids writhing, their faces clotted with terror, even as Mary sinks to her own grave.
She wakes gasping and bathed in sweat, her heart pounding. It is a moment before she is able to reassure herself that she is alive, that the vivid images came not from her memory, but from a dream. Yet all the next day she cannot shed the powerful feeling of breathless choking. The dream seems to her more than a dream; she becomes convinced it was a visitation of some sort—a warning of what would have happened to her had she stayed with the Indians. In the middle of the afternoon it strikes her suddenly that in arranging for the ransom she had not wanted, James had once again saved her life. She would likely now be dead if it had not been for him.
The fact that she has sworn she will never see James again twists her heart. Yet she consoles herself that in sealing the covenant with Increase, she has finally paid James in kind.
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