He grunts softly. “Nor do I,” he says. “I am neither English nor Nipmuc now.” He is silent for a long time. Tears burn her eyes. She must not let herself weep. She must be strong, though her heart is breaking at his words. She feels him looking at her. “At least you have your church and your English town,” he says slowly. “You have the English army to protect you. You have a minister for a husband, a leader of his people. At least you are a free woman.”
She looks up at him—a swift, furtive glance—and then down at her hands. “Nay, I am not,” she says. “I am not free at all.” She fumbles for her pocket and draws out the little Bible he gave her in Menameset. She holds it out to him.
“Please,” she says, “take it. It is yours.”
At first he does not move. Nor does he speak.
“I beg you.” She wipes her face with the fingers of her free hand. “You gave it to me. Now I want to give it to you.”
“Why?” he asks. Still, he does not take it.
“Because it is all I have on my person of any value,” she said. “And because you have been my true friend.”
When she says the word friend, she sees something break in his face; the stoniness dissolves like a clay mask in the rain. He opens his hand and takes the Bible. Then he turns, walks away from her, and is gone.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Mary does not sleep again that night, but lies awake, thinking of her encounter with James. She recalls every word, every inflection, every motion—the slant of his shoulders in the clouded moonlight, the clench at the base of her spine when he looked at her, his outstretched hand as he took the Bible. She goes over and over these details, burning them into her memory, setting them there like a brand. She recalls other moments—trembling as he cut the rope from her neck, sitting with him outside Weetamoo’s wetu, lying beside him in the winter dark. She examines all her recollections until she knows them by heart, as if she were carefully preparing a story to hand down to her children and grandchildren. Yet knowing that she will carry all these tales untold to her grave.
As the sky grays toward dawn, it begins to rain. Slowly at first, then harder. By the time the men wake, rain is crashing on the dome of the wetu. Mary feels as if she’s inside a great drum.
She stirs up the fire and they break their fast quickly. An Indian man comes to announce that the oxen have been hitched to the cart. They are given extra blankets and a deer hide to cover their heads and they take their leave without witnesses, except for the man who tended the oxen. No one steps out of the wetus to say farewell as they roll through the village gates.
For most of the journey, only Samuel breaks the silence with his periodic calls to encourage the oxen. Mary is grateful the rain is too loud to allow conversation with Mr. Eliot and Joseph. She has no desire to say anything. She wonders if she will ever want to speak again. The word friend beats in her heart like the rain.
They are still an hour from Boston when Samuel gives a shout. Mary pushes back the hide covering her face and peers in the direction he is pointing. Through the rain, she makes out a dark smudge along the horizon, a smudge that gradually resolves into thick, black smoke.
“I fear some dreadful calamity,” Mr. Eliot says.
“Aye,” says Joseph, his tone ominous. “God is not yet done with New England.”
They proceed up a long hill, and at the top, they see it clearly: Boston is on fire. Flames lick through the smoke. In the distance they observe a great clamor at the water’s edge, and many boats in the river.
“I dare not return you to your home,” says Mr. Eliot. “You must bide with me in Roxbury until we know it is safe to enter Boston.”
A spasm of panic passes through Mary. “I must be with my children,” she cries. She leaps to her feet in the wagon, making it creak wildly as it begins to descend the hill. Joseph grabs her arm and pulls her back down onto the seat.
“What are you doing?” he hisses. “Sit still and don’t move, lest you overturn the cart!” He turns to Mr. Eliot. “Pray, take us to the gate. My wife has been through too many ordeals of late.”
Mr. Eliot signals Samuel to continue, and so they do not stop but pass through Roxbury toward Boston. It takes every bit of Mary’s willpower not to jump down and run ahead, but she manages to restrain herself as they move forward into the smoky haze. By the time they reach the Neck, it is apparent that half the town is on fire. Samuel stops the cart, for he can go no farther against the tide of swarming people pouring toward them. Some are running wildly; some carry bundles; others push carts filled with their children and goods. Smoke boils over a house near the harbor.
Mary takes the opportunity to clamber down. She begins running, weaving among those fleeing the town, through the gate, following the streets north to their house. She sees a gaping hole in the roof of the meetinghouse; the streets are covered in a dark gray mud that she quickly realizes is wet ash. She hears Joseph’s footsteps pounding behind her, but she does not turn or slow down to wait for him. All that is in her mind is the desperate need to find Joss and Marie. She is determined that this time she will not fail them. This time she will lead them to safety.
She runs down alleys and side streets, for the main streets are flooded with people. Finally, she reaches their rented house. It is—praise God—unscathed. She nearly falls to her knees as she pushes open the door and stumbles into the kitchen. She hears Marie cry out and sees Joss crouched in a corner. Mary throws her arms around her children. It is only after she feels their solid flesh against her body that her tears begin to flow.
When Joseph lurches into the house a moment later, panting heavily and clutching his chest, he finds the three of them kneeling on the hearth, their arms wrapped around one another. He collapses into his chair, but says nothing. Mary does not invite him to join them.
• • •
When the rain stops in midafternoon, they venture out into the streets. The news is terrible. Fire has destroyed more than forty buildings, including the meetinghouse and two houses across the street. Increase Mather’s home has burned to the ground, destroying all his furniture and—most tragically—most of his books and papers. Mary wonders if her pages are gone and the thought tugs at her with a strange mixture of bitterness and relief. People shuffle through the smoldering and sodden ruins. The stink of wet ashes is dreadful. Mary will not let herself be parted from the children. She insists they stay close enough to hear her voice should she call them. Joseph warns her against such foolish affection, but she does not repent.
The town is in tumult for weeks. Increase is laid low with a fever and lies in bed, unable to preach. Mary makes a broth of chicken, beef, and healing herbs and carries it herself to the house where the Mathers are temporarily staying, hoping that she will be allowed a private moment with the cleric. But a maid meets Mary at the door and, gesturing to the shuttered windows, tells her that Mr. Mather is too ill to receive visitors. A few days later, Joseph sorrowfully reports that the doctors fear that Increase will soon die.
He lies near death for several weeks, then begins a slow recovery. Everyone says it is in answer to the people’s fervent prayers. All agree that God is punishing Boston for some grievous sin, though they cannot agree on the sin itself. Some claim the calamity is chastisement for the colony’s adoption of the Halfway Covenant on baptism. Some say it is a sign they must strengthen the laws against licentiousness. A few voices proclaim that the fire is a reprimand for selling Praying Indians into slavery.
Mary continues to ponder her encounter with James. He was so cold to her in Natick, she is certain he did not know of her bargain with Increase. Perhaps he believed that she had done nothing at all in response to his request for help. Their brief conversation in the dark had revealed only that they were alike in their separation. Just as she declared she did not belong among the English, he no longer considered himself Nipmuc. They are both without a people. She wishes now that she had fol
lowed him when he walked away, that she had tried to break through his wall of resentment and rekindle the old affection between them. Yet he had accepted the Bible, and she finds some measure of comfort in that.
Winter comes down hard, filled with wind and ice. Snow falls and blocks the streets, so it is a trial to make their way to public worship in the half-built new meetinghouse. Even Joss rarely goes out, but stays close to the fire with Mary and Marie. Only Joseph ventures forth, to visit the sick in the parish and to seek a new call whenever he has word of an unpastored church.
For months Boston is rife with pestilence and fear. Despite the defeat of Philip’s alliance, dread plagues the town, fed by tales of new Indian depredations, of spies in their midst, of rumors of another confederation of Indians forming to the west, a confederation that will rise up and drive all the English back into the sea. Even when the snow packs down and makes it possible to go out, people rarely venture beyond the gate. No one ever goes anywhere alone.
Spring finally comes, and with it a gradual relaxation of dread. It seems as if the sun melts not only the snow and ice but also something hard and cold in people’s hearts. Mary thinks of how much has changed in the past year. She remembers the day of the attack and the ordeal of Sarah’s death. She remembers her terrible hunger and the humiliation and fear she experienced as a slave. She remembers hours spent sitting in the spring sun outside Weetamoo’s wetu, sewing shirts and stockings. She remembers long, searching conversations with James at the rock by the edge of camp.
She visits her sisters, Joanna, Ruth, and Hannah. In March she learns from Joanna that Henry, Elizabeth’s husband, has removed to Charlestown and is pledged to marry a woman in April. Mary feels a pang for Elizabeth on hearing this news, though she is glad for him. She hopes his new wife will bring him happiness and solace. Yet in the darkest corner of her heart, she envies him and the hope of future joy his new life represents. It seems to Mary that her life has grown more bleak and gloomy since her redemption.
Soon after Henry’s wedding, the long-awaited change in their fortune finally comes: Joseph receives a new call to the church at Wethersfield in the Connecticut Colony. He is jubilant and Mary finds herself infected with his cheerfulness at the prospect of this new beginning. It will be good to live again in a place where she is not the center of town gossip. She packs the few things they own into a chest, and arranges farewell visits to each of her sisters and brothers, knowing she may never see them again.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Wethersfield, Mary discovers, is a pleasant town situated on a wide stretch of the Connecticut River. Renowned for its fields of sweet onions, it is a place where Joseph promises she will find relief from her afflictions. Yet she cannot look at the river without remembering Weetamoo standing on the bank and presenting its name to her like a gift. It seems that the ghosts of her captivity are determined to haunt her wherever she goes.
She takes pleasure in the task of setting up housekeeping in a home that is her own. The Wethersfield parsonage is twice as large as Mr. Whitcomb’s Boston house, almost as big as their destroyed home in Lancaster, with a lean-to behind the kitchen and parlor on the ground floor, and two chambers above. There is space for a kitchen garden behind the house and broad fields set aside for their use on the west side of town. The outbuildings include a large barn and shed. There is even a ladder beneath a board in the parlor that leads to a small cellar where Mary can store root vegetables in the winter.
Marie is always at Mary’s side, cleaning and arranging their goods in proper order. Joss also stays near at hand for the first few weeks, attending to the small chores that come with relocation.
Though Mary hoped that Wethersfield would prove a new beginning, where she would be free from the burden of suspicion born of her captivity, she soon finds that her reputation has gone before her. The pitying and disapproving glances of townswomen quickly inform Mary that there are already whispers about her. Only a week after her arrival a round-faced woman appears at the door, bearing a pot of savory beans and a cluster of questions. She introduces herself as Esther Allen and insists that Mary must not hesitate to apply to her for any need. “Even the smallest want we will happily supply.” She gives Mary a wide smile, displaying the gap in her front teeth—a gap so large and black Mary can scarcely tear her eyes from it.
“Ye must tell me what befell you—amongst the savages, I mean.” Esther sets the pot on the table with a bang and perches on the hearth stool. “Surely, ’twas a terrible trial. Your fortitude inspires us all.” She glances around the room but does not seem to notice the disarray that nearly drives Mary to despair. The kitchen is cluttered with chests and unwrapped bundles. A tall stack of Joseph’s books stands in the far corner, awaiting a new cupboard.
It is clear that the woman wishes to trade kindness for gossip. Mary thanks her for her visit and confesses that she is too weary to easily tell her of her trials this day, but will consider how to best share in the future what she has learned.
Esther nods, but her mouth has hardened. Mary is stunned by the boldness of her next comment. For all the gossip in Boston, little of it was told directly to Mary’s face.
“It’s been said you were forced to marry a savage,” Esther says. “That you didn’t want to return to your husband.” Mary stares, her mind momentarily frozen. She wonders how to reply, knowing that whatever words she chooses will be repeated throughout the town.
“No,” she says slowly. “’Tis a vicious lie, perpetrated by one of the Indians who had power over me.”
Esther studies her skeptically. “Well, of course you would have to say so now, would you not?”
Again, Mary is shocked by the woman’s impudence. She can think of no polite reply. A memory of Weetamoo flashes through Mary’s mind—she sees the sachem sitting beside Philip before the council fire, proud and regal in her belts of wampum and braided hair. Oddly, Mary finds herself considering what Weetamoo might say if she were in Mary’s situation.
She straightens to her full height and touches her breast, as if a necklace of wampum hangs there. She can almost feel the cool beads beneath her fingers. “Goody Allen,” she says, “please be kind enough to remember that you address the wife of your new minister. And remember as well that a gossip who prejudices the public against an innocent person can be sent to the stocks.”
The color instantly drains from Esther’s face. She sways back on the stool, so hard that for a moment Mary fears she will crash to the floor. Esther hastily takes her leave and Mary bids her farewell, though the woman’s hard countenance tells Mary she has not bested her. Esther will quickly spread the first rumors against her.
The encounter disheartens Mary. It seems that she will never escape her captivity. If, as Joseph and Increase believe, the Lord sent her afflictions as a judgment against New England, then why does Mary continue to suffer at the hands of the very people her ordeal was meant to save? She shakes her head in bewilderment and goes back to ordering her house.
• • •
The next morning, Joseph confronts her in the kitchen garden by the back door. She is on her knees digging up the soil to plant the thyme and coriander seeds she has brought from Boston. Before she even wipes her hands clean on her apron, he begins scolding her for offending Goody Allen.
“Do you plan to disaffect all the women in my new congregation?” His eyes flash. “I will not have my good name damaged by”—he pauses, and for a moment Mary thinks he has finished, but before she can collect her thoughts to respond, he continues—“by your—your savage ways.” His face is bright red and spittle flies out between his lips.
“Savage ways?” She struggles to her feet. “What hateful rumors have the gossips in this town already spread? And I have not yet dwelt here a fortnight!” She cannot bear to look at him, so she rushes into the house. She flies past Marie, who is making a beef pasty in the kitchen, and hurries into the parlor. There, Mary sets ab
out unpacking a chest of crockery. It takes all her self-control not to throw every bowl into the fire. She recalls the time she rushed from Weetamoo’s wetu in a fury and paced up and down the camp. The walking had brought her some measure of calm and it strikes her that it might do the same now. If nothing else, it would help her think. She pulls her cloak from its peg in the front entryway and goes outside to walk the road, she knows not where.
She passes houses and fields and comes to the river, where a flock of black ducks paddles by the bank. No one is in sight, so she sits in the grass and watches the ducks. She is charmed by a mother duck leading four ducklings into the water. The spring air and the sunlit water gradually restore Mary’s spirits and after a time she returns to the house.
Joseph meets her at the door. She sees at once that his anger has disappeared. He looks shaken. “Where were you? You frightened me.” He takes her hands and pulls her inside where he surprises her by kissing her cheek, though it is broad daylight.
“Forgive me,” he whispers. “My words were unjust. I was overwrought.” He releases her and looks into her eyes. “But you must promise me that you will not run off like that again.”
Mary’s first impulse is to reassure him. Yet the short time by the river has been such a blessing—a brief taste of freedom she has not experienced since her time among the Indians.
“Please, Mary. Promise me you will keep to the house and yard.”
She looks at him. His eyes are kind and pleading and she feels her heart soften in response. Yet the thought of confining herself to the house dismays her. No, it frightens her.
Flight of the Sparrow Page 28
