Flight of the Sparrow

by Amy Belding Brown

  “That is a good thing, is it not?” Mary asks, laughing.

  “Indeed it is.”

  A few moments later, when Hannah touches her waist in a particularly tender way, Mary gives a little cry. “You are with child again!” She places Samuel on the floor and rises to embrace her sister.

  “If it’s a girl, I mean to name her Elizabeth,” Hannah says. Mary sees the tears in her sister’s eyes, and her own throat tightens so suddenly she cannot speak.

  While their husbands inspect the fields, the women talk for more than four hours, sharing all that has happened since they were ransomed.

  “I was grieved to hear of Joseph’s death,” Hannah says. “After you came safely through such torments, to lose your husband was surely hard.”

  “Aye,” Mary says, nodding solemnly. “But the Lord has provided for me. Abundantly.” She does not tell her that Joseph’s death presented her with only a few hardships, all quickly mended once she came to know Samuel Talcott. In private, she did not mourn very much. She soothed her guilt by reminding herself what Joseph himself said so many times: A Christian should not know grief, for all things are in the hands of God. “And I take great pleasure in my new life as Squire Talcott’s helpmeet,” Mary adds.

  “Are not all his children a burden to you?” Hannah asks.

  “Nay, they delight me. I love them all as my own.” Mary thinks suddenly of Joss, who left Wethersfield three months before. She has not heard from him, nor been able to trace his whereabouts. “’Tis Joss who troubles me,” she confesses and Hannah’s brow knits in sympathy. “I fear he is corrupted somehow. Ever since his captivity, he has been restive and guarded. He told me he wished he had not been redeemed. He disappeared into the forest for days without telling anyone his plans. And now”—she draws a handkerchief from her sleeve, in case her tears start to flow again—“I do not know where he has gone,” Mary adds. “Marie says he often spoke of going to sea. Perhaps he has stowed away on a ship.”

  “I am sorry,” Hannah says softly. “Do you think him bewitched by the Indians?”

  “I know not,” Mary says. “In truth, I think it just as likely he has been corrupted by the English as by Indians.”

  Hannah does not seem to grasp the import of Mary’s words. “I oft dream of them,” she says. “The Indians. I still wake in the middle of the night weeping.”

  “Aye,” Mary nods. “As do I.” She is grateful for the chance to leave behind the subject of Joss. “But not every night. And Samuel is very kind to me.”

  “As is my Samuel. Though I confess, I still miss my children.” Hannah’s next words catch in her throat. “I know Josiah is gone, yet I have not lost hope that I will someday be reunited in this world with John and Hannah.”

  The scenes of the February morning in Lancaster leap into Mary’s mind. She again sees Elizabeth’s fiery death, the bloody torments visited on her brother-in-law and nephews and the long line of bound captives, though she closes her eyes against the visions. “Aye,” she whispers. “It must be a terrible thing not to know their fate. I will pray that they are alive, even if they be captives still.”

  Hannah nods and wipes her eyes with her fingers. “Does your wound still pain you?” Mary realizes Hannah is changing the subject for both their sakes, yet she blinks at her in surprise, for no one has inquired about her wound in more than two years.

  “I am well healed.” Mary touches her left side, where the ball that had passed through Sarah dug a narrow trench. “There is a stiffness there I fear I will carry to my grave, but it is of no consequence.”

  Hannah smiles sadly. “I have sometimes wished I carried some mark of my captivity upon me as you do. It is an emblem of your courage, your fortitude.”

  Mary feels washed in shame. During her captivity, she did whatever she could to survive, even plucking food from the mouths of children to feed her own hunger. Since her return, she has acted the coward’s part, allowing Increase Mather to twist the story of her trials to his purposes. Adding to the great English deception. She shakes her head. “My dear sister,” she says, “you are wrong. ’Tis an emblem of my iniquity.”

  Hannah frowns in puzzlement and Mary wonders if she should try to explain her new understanding of what happened during the captivity. Yet her husband’s voice in the hall and the shaft of late afternoon light slanting through the front window signal that they must soon be on their way back to Boston.

  “’Tis you who have come through this affliction without stain, Hannah. Not I.” Mary rises, goes to her, and gently puts her arms around her. “My gentle sister, whom I have so oft neglected. You have been sorely tried,” Mary whispers. “Yet you have been the Lord’s faithful servant. And now He has blessed you with new life.”

  Mary does not understand why she is speaking such pieties, when she is no longer certain that God even hears English prayers. Yet she continues to stand there, comforting her sister with the very words Joseph once used to comfort her.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  The next day, Mary and Samuel call on Increase Mather. The cleric has aged in the three years since Mary last saw him; his hair is as wispy and gray as smoke, his sunken cheeks furrowed with wrinkles. Nevertheless, he exudes the same rigor and determination that she remembers. He is filled with plans for distributing Mary’s book. He tells them that the type is being set this very day at Printer Green’s shop in Cambridge. Then he casually mentions that the Indian printer, James, works there. “He is one of Mr. Eliot’s protégés,” he says. “A remarkable man—for an Indian.” He glances at Mary.

  She stares at him, wondering if he is testing her. Is he waiting to see if she has broken their covenant? Has he forgotten it? Or does it no longer apply? Though Mary has told Samuel that James helped her during her captivity, she has not mentioned her part in securing his amnesty.

  “You say James Printer, the Praying Indian, is setting the type for the book?” Samuel asks, leaning forward.

  “Aye.” The cleric shifts in his chair. Mary senses that he is in some pain, that he cannot sit comfortably. “God’s mercies are sometimes strange, are they not, Squire Talcott?”

  “Indeed they are. Exceeding strange.” Samuel smiles at Mary. “I would like to meet this printer,” he says, turning back to Increase. “And I warrant my wife would like to witness the making of her book.”

  Mary sees a shadow pass across Increase’s face, the hint of a warning frown.

  “Could you make the arrangements soon?” Samuel asks. “Tomorrow, perhaps? We would like to make a donation to the printing costs, once we have seen the operation. But we have few days to spare; we must make a long journey back to our home in Connecticut Colony.” To Mary’s surprise, he reaches over and takes her hand. “Our children are expecting our return.”

  Mary cannot keep from smiling at her husband. Two years ago, she would have condemned herself for taking pleasure at seeing someone best a cleric. But now she feels a bubble of happiness that is so sweet she cannot think it evil. She squeezes Samuel’s hand and is suddenly so overcome by warmth she puts her free hand to her cheek. She wonders if her face is flushed. Such spells of unexpected heat, she knows, are a common tribulation for women at her time of life. Yet she suspects this one is caused not by her errant body, but by her wayward mind.

  Increase is looking at Samuel and nodding slowly. “You may consider it arranged,” he says quietly. He keeps his gaze carefully averted from Mary.

  • • •

  Though Mary has grown used to wearing the lace collars and velvet sleeves that display her new husband’s station, for her visit to the printer’s shop she wears a plain bodice and skirt and a simple linen collar. She carefully plaits and coils her hair and secures it under her cap. She straps on her pocket—a new one, embroidered in doves—though she carries nothing in it.

  Outside, Samuel helps her into the coach and tells the driver where to take them, whi
le Mary settles into the slippery leather seat. She doesn’t draw the curtains to keep out the dust until they begin to move. The coach creaks and sways, jostling Mary and Samuel so that they repeatedly bump shoulders. At one point they are jostled so violently that Mary lands in Samuel’s lap. He takes advantage of this opportunity by kissing her soundly on the mouth. She lets out a squeal of counterfeit protest, but her face is flushed with excited pleasure, and she is unable to contain her laughter.

  When the coach stops, Mary lifts the corner of a curtain and peeks out. They are in front of a narrow one-story building set between two large houses. The coach has caused a commotion in the neighborhood. Dogs bark and children flock close to the great wheels; the driver tries to shoo them away, to no avail. A few women are gawking from their dooryards. A light breeze carries the stink of rotting garbage. The driver opens the door. Samuel climbs down and holds out his hand for Mary, just as a short man emerges from the shop. He wears a long printer’s apron and leather breeches; his gray hair is bound at the neck. Clearly, the presence of the carriage has drawn him outside. He gives Samuel a small bow and runs his hands over his apron, in a vain attempt to wipe them clean.

  “Goodman Green at your service, sir.” He looks first at Samuel, then at Mary. There is something shrewd and calculating in his face.

  “Samuel Talcott,” her husband says. “Mr. Mather tells us you are printing my wife’s book.”

  He frowns. “I have not heard of any Mistress Talcott.”

  “I was formerly Mary Rowlandson,” Mary says. She looks past him at the closed door of the shop. The single small window is dark. “I wrote a narrative of my captivity.”

  “Ah! Mistress Rowlandson!” Goodman Green extends his hand, and then quickly withdraws it to wipe it once again on his apron. “You must forgive me for not recognizing you.” He stares at her left cheek, where a wisp of hair has escaped her cap and dances beside her ear. “’Tis an honor to make your acquaintance.” He regards her as if she is a great curiosity. “Yours is a fine book, Mistress. ’Twill be a sensation. All New England will profit by it.” He sounds as if he is about to go off on a long discourse until Samuel interrupts him.

  “May we go in?” He indicates the shop. “My wife and I came out of curiosity—to see how the book is printed.”

  “Ah, yes.” The printer smiles broadly. He hurries to the door, opens it, and stands back to let them pass through. “You are most welcome.”

  They step into the shop. The room is smaller than Mary expected. It contains a desk and stool, a cabinet and small table. Most of the room is taken up by the press. She stares at the tall wooden machine, which reminds her of a gibbet, with its timbers and struts. There is a great lever protruding from its center, like a blunt-tipped spear. She imagines James’s hands on the machine, his fingers clamped around the lever, the muscles in his shoulders tensing and stretching as he operates the press.

  But James is not in the shop—the three of them are alone. Mary is suddenly aware that she had expected—had hoped—to meet him. A sharp, damp smell pervades the room. Over their heads hang sheets of paper like small white curtains, clipped to lines of twine strung from wall to wall. Mary glances out the window, which offers a view of the street. The coach driver is talking with a woman carrying a child. A man drives by in a cart loaded with straw. An old woman shuffles along, carrying a basket on each arm. Three young boys run, laughing, after a squealing pig.

  Goodman Green appears at her elbow and hands her a sheet of paper. Printed on it is the title of her book, The Sovereignty and Goodness of God. He is practically twitching with worry. “’Tis a fine work, Mistress,” he says. “May I show you how it is printed?”

  “Aye, I would like that,” she says.

  The printer leads Mary and Samuel slowly around the room, pointing out the wooden letter case with its sorted letters of type, the composing stick, and the frame that holds the completed page of type. He shows them where he mixes the pots of ink, the stacks of paper, and then turns to the press itself, carefully explaining how each sheet of paper is held over the bed of inked type. He demonstrates how the screw-lever secures the ink to the page. All of these things are touched by James every day, she thinks. This is his world now.

  She feels overwhelmingly sad. She cannot believe James thrives here, confined to this small room. She remembers him as she last saw him—shadowed in the winter night under the stars, opening his hand to receive her Bible. He must perceive his life in Boston as a cruel redemption. Her own redemption has cost her much, as well—her integrity and, perhaps, her faith. She thinks of the many changes Increase made to her pages, how he took out entire sections, how he added Scriptures and pieties, how he cast the Indians as agents of the Devil. How she voiced no objection to his authority to make her experience fit his purposes.

  She touches Samuel’s arm. “We should leave and let this good man return to his labors.” She is suddenly desperate to get out of the shop.

  “I am honored by your visit,” the printer says amiably. “We hope to have the first copy printed within the month. As you can see, we are exceedingly busy.” He gestures to the press. “My apprentice has been setting type a fortnight past.”

  “James,” Mary whispers and pinches her lips together. She had not intended to say his name aloud.

  Goodman Green gives her a startled look, even as he nods. “Aye, his Christian name is James.”

  “I would be grateful if you would thank him on our behalf,” Samuel says.

  The printer raises one eyebrow. “Thank him?”

  “For his good work,” Samuel says. “And for showing charity to my wife when she had great need of it.” And he presses a small pouch of coins into the printer’s hand.

  Without warning, tears sting Mary’s eyes. She turns away while the printer is thanking her husband and steps over the doorsill into the gray light. Then she sees him: James, walking quickly toward the shop, his head down, eyes on the cobblestones; it is plain he does not see her. He looks much as she last saw him, though his hair is cropped short and he wears only English clothes under his printer’s apron. There is a sad urgency in his gait and his back seems to sag, as if he carries a great burden.

  He raises his head suddenly and blinks at her, as if the gray light is too bright.

  Mary stumbles toward him. She feels as if she is walking a great distance, though it is only a few yards across the cobblestones. Everything looks sharp and jagged—the intersection between the cloth of James’s shirt and the air seems to vibrate. She reaches out and brushes the cloth with her fingers.

  He looks down at it as if her hand is a rare curiosity he has not seen before. He says nothing.

  “I had not thought to see you again,” she ventures.

  “Nor I you.” He glances past her, and she turns to follow his glance. Samuel is now talking with the carriage driver, deliberately giving her privacy. “Is this man your new husband?” James asks.

  “Aye,” she says quickly, “I am wed to Samuel Talcott now.”

  “I trust you have found happiness, Chikohtqua.”

  His use of her Indian name stops her breath. She recalls the clear, luminous moment in Increase Mather’s parlor when she realized she loved him. “Happiness,” she says softly. “Yes, I can rightly call myself a happy woman.” She is aware of his gaze, how it still pierces her heart, after all this time. “And you? Are you not happy?”

  He tilts his head, as if in thought. But she sees the anger in his eyes. “I will be happy when my children come back to me and I return to Hassanamesit, where my mother gave me life.”

  “Then you must go soon,” she says firmly.

  He shakes his head slowly. “The English have forbidden it. They keep close watch, lest Indians rise up again to oppose them. Even though so few of us remain. They threaten the people with death if we leave Natick. And now they are trying to persuade us to sell our land, since we c
annot live on it.”

  A bolt of anger goes through her at this flagrant injustice. Her throat clutches at some words, but she cannot utter them. Two women hurry past, throwing dark looks her way. Mary watches them proceed down the street, heads tilted toward each other.

  James leans closer. “Aye, you ought to have a care for your reputation. If you are seen talking with an Indian and recognized, all your efforts at restoration will be in vain.”

  “I made no effort at restoration,” she says.

  “Then what is your book but an attempt to redeem yourself in English eyes? I have read it many times, for I set the type and know each letter.”

  She bows her head.

  “You could have told the story true,” he says. “But you have salted it with lies.”

  It takes her a moment to find her tongue. “It has been altered by another,” she says. “It is not the story I wrote. It is the story they required me to tell.”

  “You should not have allowed your name to be attached to it,” he says.

  Blood pounds in her ears. “Would you have me driven into exile like Anne Hutchinson for saying what they do not wish to know? How long would it be before they banished me?”

  He leans toward her. “But what have they left you? What has this book cost you?”

  “I have my place in society,” she says weakly.

  “The English used you.” He pauses. “As they used me. We are alike in that.” He gives her a smile that she cannot interpret. “Perhaps it is a mercy. Those they do not use, they kill. We have both bought our redemption at a terrible price. You had to forge a lie. I had to bring in the heads of innocent men. We have both sold our souls to gain acceptance in this new and terrible world.”

  His words scorch her. She stares at him until his face ripples and shimmers. “Does love mean nothing?” she whispers, but he does not seem to hear her. “I am sorry,” she says, reaching for his hand. “So very sorry.” And she clasps his fingers as desperately as Weetamoo must have clutched the raft before the river tossed her to her death.