“’Tis the only remaining praying village,” he says. “So all Christian Indians are confined there, no matter their tribe or homeland. I’ll warrant there are many unconverted who have sought refuge in Natick to escape slavery and death. ’Tis dirty and overcrowded, little more than a prison for the poor souls who occupy it.” He sighs. “I travel there as often as I am able, bringing them food and raiment and the hope of the Gospel.”
Mary tries to imagine the Indians she knew living in such conditions, but all that comes to her mind is a memory of watching them dance around the circle fire. She can still hear the deep, rhythmic beat of the drums, feel her heart keeping time with the dancers’ feet. She is so caught up in remembrance that at first she doesn’t realize that Mr. Eliot has asked her a question.
“Mistress Rowlandson?” he says.
She blinks at him. “Forgive me. I fear I did not hear you, sir.”
“I said perhaps you and your good husband would like to accompany me on my next visit, a fortnight hence.” His smile is hopeful, encouraging. “It would be a fine act of Christian charity.”
Mary’s face is suddenly so warm that she puts her hands to her cheeks. For the first time in many weeks, she speaks directly from her heart. “I would be honored, sir.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Mary sits perched on the narrow wooden seat of the cart, wrapped in a blanket and wedged between her husband and Mr. Eliot, who has hired the cart, oxen, and driver, Samuel, a member of his church. Samuel walks the whole way, guiding and encouraging the two oxen. They are not well matched, and Mary regularly bumps shoulders with both men as they make their slow way from Boston to Natick. Joseph, his leg now well healed, is nevertheless in an ill temper. He has made plain to Mary his doubts about the wisdom of this journey.
“What perversity could make you wish to be among Indians again?” he asked her, wrinkling his nose as they rode away from the Eliots’ home after their visit. Mary expressed her surprise because, in Mr. Eliot’s presence, Joseph had pretended a great desire to minister to the Indians. She was relieved when he did not demand an answer to his question, for she dared not confide the truth, nor could she think of any fabrication that would have satisfied him.
In the cart bed behind Mary are two large bundles—one of blankets and one of linen shirts. Mary has collected them from members of Increase’s congregation for distribution in the praying town. They will stay in Natick overnight, a prospect she knows Joseph dreads. Throughout the journey, Mary has kept silent as Joseph and Mr. Eliot discussed the latest news of the plague raging in London. As they descend a long hill through a forest of oak trees, the cart-driver walks in front of the oxen, bellowing at them to slow down so the wagon will not break an axle on the stones and ruts. Even before she glimpses the stockade fence, Mary smells the smoke of the cook fires, the faint gaminess of stew pots. The trees thin out and she sees the rounded domes of wetus. Braids of smoke twist toward the sky.
The cart enters the town through a broad gate and Samuel halts the oxen in a litter of spiny burs under a chestnut tree. It is the only big tree left standing inside the stockade. The wetus are clumped close together; the frozen ground is strewn with stones. A breeze carries the stink of feces. There is not enough land for all the people here, Mary thinks. This is worse than the crowded conditions at Wachusett. Mr. Eliot climbs down first and then Joseph, who offers Mary his hand to steady her. Her heart is beating so hard she feels light-headed. She stumbles as she steps onto the ground.
“I thought Praying Indians were supposed to live in English houses,” Joseph says in a disgusted tone.
Mr. Eliot regards him thoughtfully. “I think it best they live as they choose. In whatever circumstance they deem comfortable.”
Joseph scowls. “How can this be called comfort?”
But Mr. Eliot has turned away to greet two Indian men as other men and women emerge from the wetus. Mary has a vivid memory of carrying Sarah into the village of Menameset three days after the attack. Her heart had been pounding then, too—with terror. Now it is anger that animates her. The two men call out to Mr. Eliot. “Koonepeam! Welcome, Eliot!” They approach with both hands outstretched, to show they carry no weapons. Mr. Eliot’s smile is so wide Mary imagines his face might split. “God wetomuakquish!” he says, grasping each hand in turn.
Mary studies their faces but does not recognize the men. A group of young boys darts out from behind a wetu, then retreats. A crowd slowly gathers, making a circle around them. Mary is shocked by the gaunt bodies and tattered garments and blankets. With the hostilities over, she assumed the Indians had been provided with sufficient food and clothes. It is clear that they are still starving. She is washed in fresh anger. She remembers sitting on the shore of the river near Philip’s camp, weeping, surrounded by Indians. Remembers that though they laughed at her, they had been generous and kind—sharing what little food they had with their terrified captive.
Out of the corner of her eye, Mary glimpses a familiar figure at the rim of the crowd. Her heart thumps in her chest. Although the light is behind him and all she can see is his silhouette, she is certain it is James—tall, broad-shouldered, his head canted forward in a familiar way. He is not looking at her; his gaze is fixed on Mr. Eliot. Her skin feels as if it has been suddenly sheathed in ice. She remembers Increase’s warning—any whisper of a connection between her and James could cost him his life. She forces herself to look away, to stare at the stockade walls and empty her mind. Beside her, Joseph puts his hand on her arm. She jumps away as if she has been burned.
“Mary?” He leans down so that his mouth is near her ear and she alone can hear his words. “What has distressed you? Did you see one of your captors?”
She shakes her head. She steals another glance in James’s direction, but he is gone. For a moment she wonders if he was even there at all. Was he a phantasm of her imagination? Or is James as mindful as she of the perils of meeting? She takes a deep breath and smiles at her husband.
“I am perfectly well,” she says, struggling to keep her voice even. “I had a sudden memory of my captivity. But—’tis of no concern.” She lowers her arm so that his hand slides from her elbow. “I worry, though, that they want for food and raiment. They do not look recovered from their ordeal.”
“What ordeal?” Joseph frowns. “Do you speak of their surrender? They are Indians, Mary. If they are hungry, ’tis no more than they deserve. Remember who incited the hostilities. We English are a peaceful people. We have always dealt fairly with the heathen.”
She has the wicked urge to slap him. She draws her shoulders together and turns to face Mr. Eliot. “Is it not a good time to distribute the blankets?” she asks. “While everyone is assembled?”
Mr. Eliot directs two Indian youths to retrieve the bundles. As they scramble onto the wagon, Mary notes that she can see their ribs through their shirts. We should have brought more food, she thinks. How difficult would it have been to carry a side of beef? The cart was half empty.
The bundles are placed on the ground before Mr. Eliot, who unties them, and for the next twenty minutes, Mary hands the blankets, one after another, to the women, and then passes out the shirts. Mr. Eliot is looking around the circle, greeting people by name, introducing some to Joseph. Mary is aware that, as people attend to Mr. Eliot, they are watching her. The women are silent. They do not even speak to one another while they stare at her. She is mindful of her clean, confining clothes—the tight bodice and sleeves, the hard shoes that pinch her feet, her cinched-in waist. She becomes abruptly aware of how her clothes restrict her and promote her submission.
When Mary is finished distributing the blankets and clothes, Mr. Eliot turns to Joseph. “Come with me. I would have you meet one of my prize Indians.” And before she has a chance to question him, Mary is hurrying behind her husband and Mr. Eliot.
As they approach a wetu, the door flaps open and James steps out.
Mary stops in midstride and rocks back on her heels. She feels as if she has suddenly been taken by a sweating fever. She watches James’s face, recognizes the flicker of worry at the corners of his eyes, the tiny twist of his lip.
“I am fortunate to be alive,” James says. “We all are.”
“I have come with a request, my friend,” she hears Mr. Eliot say. “Goodman Green has asked that you return to Cambridge as his apprentice. As soon as you are able.”
“It is a long walk from Natick,” he says and Mary hears the bitterness in his voice. A chill goes down her back. She looks away.
Mr. Eliot laughs. “Nay, you will not live here, but in Cambridge, as before.”
“I am an Indian,” James says. “I will be arrested.”
“Of course you shall have papers to prove your exemption from the regulation. It is already arranged.”
Mary leans in. There are three men between her and James. He shakes his head. “I cannot leave my people. It is a dangerous time.”
Mr. Eliot nods slowly, fingering the cuffs of his shirt. “You will be paid for your work,” he says. “You will prosper and be of help to them.” He pauses. “I would like to give Goodman Green my assurance of your return.”
James nods. “I will think on it.”
“And I will pray for your discernment.” Mr. Eliot puts his hand on James’s shoulder. “I offer my condolence on the death of your father,” he says. “Naoas was a good Christian man.”
“Aye, he was,” James says, but his voice is hard. “Good enough that he left Philip’s camp and returned to the English. They repaid him by sending him to Deer Island.”
Mr. Eliot shakes his head sadly. “It is my people’s great shame,” he says. “Your people will long remember the devastations we have perpetrated there.”
“We will never forget.”
Joseph clears his throat. Mary can feel disagreement emanating from him like viscous smoke. She is grateful that he says nothing.
Mr. Eliot turns to Mary. “James, I wonder if you have knowledge of Mistress Rowlandson, lately redeemed from captivity. She has great concern for the welfare of Praying Indians.”
James glances at Mary, studies Joseph, looks back at Mr. Eliot. “We have met,” he says. His expression betrays no feeling.
With great effort, she looks at James. “I recall no meeting,” she says. Will he take her warning? Has he been told of the arrangement between Increase and the authorities? Will he understand that she is assuring his safety?
When his eyes finally meet Mary’s, she feels as if a bolt of lightning has struck the top of her head. Her hair feels set afire; her scalp pulses. “Aye, but we have met, though you deny it.” His expression reminds her of the time he threatened her with the knife in Weetamoo’s crowded wetu.
She nods, once. “My mind was greatly muddled with fatigue and hunger during my captivity. No doubt I have forgotten much.”
There is a flash of pain in his eyes, which vanishes so swiftly Mary is not certain it was there at all. She shivers. Joseph takes her arm and turns to Mr. Eliot. “I fear my wife suffers a chill. Is there a place where she might shelter from this wind?”
“A wetu has been prepared for your use,” says one of the men who first approached Mr. Eliot. Apparently he is a leader, though Mary notes that he does not carry himself the way sachems do. “For all who visit us—” He gestures toward a grove of young pine trees along the north wall of the stockade. “I will have someone take you,” he says, addressing Mary. At his signal, a woman steps from the crowd, takes Mary’s arm, and quickly leads her away from the men.
• • •
A white cross has been painted on the door flap and the wetu is newly made—Mary can smell the fresh-cut saplings and recently stripped bark. The walls are lined with woven mats, the platforms draped in skins. A pit has been dug, lined with stones, a fire already laid. She cannot help herself—she emits a little sigh of pleasure.
The woman gives her a quick glance, then says in halting English, “You warm here. Sleep. Be glad.”
“Thank you,” Mary says, then remembers the words she learned from James. “Kuttabot’mish wonk.” She is instantly rewarded by the woman’s smile. “We celebrate tonight,” the woman says, opening the door flap. “You come.”
“Kuttabot’mish,” Mary says again. She wonders if there will be dancing.
• • •
The celebration is held in the longhouse. The meal is preceded by a lengthy sermon and prayer delivered by Mr. Eliot. There is no dancing and Mary does not see James. Yet she feels unexpectedly content, as if she has come home, even though she is mashed between Joseph and a short Indian woman who eyes her warily. Mary listens to the woman talk with an elderly woman. She manages to catch a few words, but is unable to decipher the general meaning. There is food; trenchers of maize cakes are passed around with bowls of thin stew made of beans, onions, and squash. There is no meat. When Joseph grumbles under his breath that Indians are miserly hosts, Mary flushes in anger. She knows they pride themselves on sharing all they have. Mary eats with a relish she hasn’t felt in weeks. Beside her, Joseph picks at his stew. He seems to understand that he must eat something out of courtesy, but it is obvious to Mary that every swallow is arduous for him, that he is worried he might not be able to keep the food down.
A pipe of tobacco is passed around after the meal, and the smoke settles Joseph’s stomach. Mary is grateful that no one is watching her, for she feels faint with longing and she suspects it shows on her face. Longing for what, she is not sure—what she feels is a strange combination of desire and remembrance.
Tobacco smoke drifts in great loops through the longhouse. Mary closes her eyes and breathes it in. The sound of the people talking reminds her, oddly, of a river. Their voices have a deeply soothing quality, as long as she doesn’t try to parse each word.
After they retire to their guest wetu, Mr. Eliot, Joseph, and Samuel sit by the fire and smoke another pipe. Mary, pleading fatigue, lies down on a thick mat of furs and pulls a deerskin over her. Staring up at the smoke hole, she feels that she is in a dream she has dreamed a hundred times since her release. Firelight flickers across the dome of the wetu. The smell of earth and hides mixes with the smoke. She hears the men’s low voices. She closes her eyes.
She wakes in darkness to find Joseph beside her. He is restless, tossing on his mat. He whispers her name, tells her he can’t sleep. “There is no comfort in this foul place,” he murmurs. He thrashes and rolls, whispering complaints about Indian ways—everything from their food to their dress; he insists that their creature comforts are of the Devil. No matter that they are Christians. She puts her hand on his arm to soothe and comfort him. She wonders why he doesn’t think of praying to quiet his nerves, but dares not suggest it, for she knows he will take offense. She tries to summon up a bit of pity for him, to sympathize with his revulsion for all things Indian. Instead, she feels only growing irritation and a longing for the deep peace created by many Indians sleeping in one wetu. Somehow, she manages to relax back into sleep.
When she wakes, Joseph is snoring beside her. She slides out from under the deerskin, rises, and goes to the door. She pushes open the flap and slips out into the night.
The moon hangs above dark clouds rolling in from the west. Tomorrow it will rain. She takes deep breaths, stretches, and makes her way to a band of spindly trees along the north wall of the stockade. The trees do not look healthy; there are only a dozen of them. She looks back at the clustered wetus—dense black mounds against the darkness—and sees that it is not a village, but a prison.
She stands under the trees for a while, and is still there when she hears the snap of a branch and the rustle of dead leaves to her left. She freezes instinctively, but then r
ealizes that whoever is there wants her to know she is not alone. No Indian would make such sounds without intent. She turns and sees a figure approaching her. When the moon slides briefly from its sheath of cloud, she recognizes James.
Her entire body is aware of him. She makes a slight movement—turning her shoulders, her head, in his direction. He stops a few feet from her. His arms hang at his sides. She cannot read the expression on his face.
“I did not expect to find you here,” she says. “And I”—she pauses—“I am glad you were not hanged.”
“’Tis no thanks to you.” The words rush from his lips like a hiss. It is as if they have been filling his mouth for weeks, pressing against his teeth.
She feels as if she has been slapped. He does not know, then. He has not been told of her part in his redemption.
“You have no idea what it has cost me to be here,” James continues. “What it has cost all my people.”
She turns to face him directly. “Nay, I do know,” she says, and she wants to tell him more, but his hardness frightens her. “I am familiar with the requirements of your amnesty.”
He is silent for several moments. Mary can hear her heart beat in her ears. “Why did you come?” he asks, finally.
“I thought it would bring me peace if I were among Indians again.” She spits the words out, as if each one sears her tongue.
She cannot bear his gaze; she bows her head and keeps it bowed.
“You will find no solace here,” he says. “We are not your people. You must stay among your own.”
“I have no people.” A broken whisper. She is not sure he even hears her. She wants to turn away, to go back to the wetu, but she does not. She can smell him—the familiar musk of his clean skin, the tang of bear grease in his hair, his breath laced with sweet tobacco. She thinks of all the things she wishes she could say—chiefly that she heeded his plea for help as they stood in the cowshed all those weeks ago. That she has repaid her debt to him, that she has sacrificed her desires in exchange for his life—but her throat is locked. She cannot bring even one word forward onto her tongue.
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