Flight of the Sparrow (6 page)

Elizabeth speaks before Mary is able to collect her tumbling thoughts. “Has not Bess gone to Salem these many months now? We cannot fault her for our present trials.”

“But her father still lives among us,” Priscilla says. “It is said he has turned to witchcraft.”

“It has not been proven against him,” Mary says sharply. “He has simply done what anyone would do—seek to protect his child and grandchild.”

Priscilla casts a skeptical glance. “When was he last at worship? When did he last sit at the Lord’s table?”

“I know not,” Mary says. “But his absence does not make him a witch.”

“Perhaps not, but we dare not ignore the signs.”

Mary wants to say that they have long ignored signs of injustice and intolerance, but she holds her tongue. Such talk will only set her against her neighbors and sisters, and no woman in a frontier town can afford such disaffection. They depend on one another for their very lives—especially in these perilous times.

“The girl’s sin was severe,” Ann Joslin says. “Surely we have not forgotten the child was a Negro?”

“Aye,” says Elizabeth Kettle, nodding.

“Does that make him less her child?” Mary asks. “Does it make her heart less desolate when he is lost to her? Think on it. What would we feel were one of ours sold into slavery?” And then Mary says what she has not spoken before outside Joseph’s presence. “If the Indian menace is indeed the chastening hand of God upon Lancaster, I warrant it is not brought down by Bess’s sin, but by our own insufficiency of compassion toward her.”

The women instantly fall silent and none of them—not even Elizabeth or Hannah—will look at her. Finally Elizabeth coughs and, to relieve the awkwardness in the room, begins to speak of Indians. She declares they are without mercy. She says that her husband heard some ghastly particulars when he was in Concord the past week. “’Tis said in Swansea they slew seven men and cut off their heads and set them on poles in the wilderness. And I have heard it whispered that in another place they bound all the men together and made them watch as they butchered their cattle and swine before their eyes.”

“They kill our animals to provoke us,” Priscilla says. “To unhinge our minds. They know how we prize them.”

Mary nods, for she too has heard of this cruel Indian practice.

“That is not the worst of it.” Elizabeth lets the linen napkin she is hemming fall into her lap and strokes it, as if it were a purring cat from which she seeks comfort. “They delight in torture. It be both sport and pleasure to them.”

Ann Joslin moans and Mary feels her hair rise, though it is safely tucked beneath her cap.

“Some they cut off their hands and feet,” Elizabeth continues. “Some they take their scalps and flaunt them as trophies. Once they have exhausted their cruelties, they dispatch the men with a blow to the head. And before they kill the women, they defile them.”

Mary is frightened, yet something perverse in her makes her want to hear more, to probe each horror. She bites the inside of her lip hard, to still her querying tongue. “If the Indians come to Lancaster,” she says firmly, “I will never let them take me alive. I would rather die than subject myself to their depravities.”

“Pray God that we all be spared,” Ann Joslin whispers and folds her hands over the unborn child that has already grown large within her.

“I doubt they will come,” Hannah says. “Why would they come
in winter, when they must wallow in snow? If they attack Lancaster, I am sure they will wait until spring, when they can strike quickly. And, in any case, soon we shall be well defended.”

“Let us hope so,” Mary says. “For I have not heard that Indians govern themselves by reason, let alone good sense.”

The women fall silent. For months, they have worried their memories with the August terrors as one dabs at a sore that will not heal. They have repeated the details over and over: the bloated, mutilated bodies, the charred timbers of the MacLoud house, the poor fatherless Benet children. Their horror is like a blaze that singes the hairs on a woman’s arm when she stirs the pottage.

When the fire dies down, Mary banks it and the women retire—Mary to the bedstead where her daughters are already curled together in sleep, her sisters and neighbors to their pallets. Though it is late and she is exhausted, Mary does not sleep but lies staring at the shadows that move across the curtains. She hears children’s gurgles and sighs as they sleep, the drowsy murmurs of adults. She wonders how Bess Parker fares. She thinks about Indians and their fierce pagan ways, their disquieting stealth. Even now they might be skulking through the woods nearby. Or laying a trap to butcher Joseph and Henry on their way home from Boston.

It begins to snow and with the snow comes sleet, small hard flakes that tick against the windows and clot on the doorstep. Mary whispers a prayer of protection as her mind finally empties into sleep.

•   •   •

T
he wind comes up before dawn, whining against the roof and clapboards, waking Mary from a troubling dream in which Joseph has lost his way in the wilderness. She sees him caught fast in a tangle of undergrowth beneath great trees while savage beasts and Indians circle him in ever-tightening rings. She can do nothing to save him, but stands watching while he cries out for mercy.

She sits up, praying that God has not sent the dream as a prophecy. Marie lies sprawled on the far side of the bed. Sarah whimpers in her sleep. Mary pushes the curtains aside, ignoring the familiar catch in her back and knees as she stands. She relieves herself in the chamber pot and quickly puts on her bodice and skirts over her shift. She takes her apron and pocket from the hook by the bed and straps them on before making her way to the hearth, where the dogs reluctantly rise and make room for her. The fire has burned down to embers and it takes a long time to coax it back to life, time spent kneeling on frozen stone and carefully rearranging the coals, blowing and feeding strips of bark to the embers to rekindle the flame.

She is still crouched on the hearth when she hears the first shriek. She tells herself it is but the wind against the flankers and adds another handful of sticks to the small fire. Then she hears it again and knows it is not the wind, for the shriek is followed by musket fire.

The dogs lift their heads, ears pricked. Mary gets to her feet, praying it is merely a hunter from another garrison, tracking deer in the fresh snow. But there comes another shot, and another, like the sound of dry twigs snapping under a heavy foot. She moves to the window, stepping carefully over her sleeping neighbors, and uses her fingernail to scrape frost from one of the small diamond panes. Her view is distorted by a ripple in the glass, but the black smoke rising beyond the snow-topped stockade is clear enough. It comes from the Kettles’ house. Mary takes a step back, pressing her hand over her mouth, looking around the dark room. Everyone is still asleep.

The sound of muskets grows louder and closer. She tries to remember what Joseph said must be done if the Indians attack, but her mind is as blank as the snow in the yard. At her feet, a pile of blankets stirs and Hannah’s husband, John Divoll, emerges. She can make out his features only dimly in the half-light, but she sees him rub his forehead and cock his head toward the sound.

“They have come,” she says, whispering because she cannot seem to make her voice work properly. “The Indians are upon us.”

He scrambles to his feet. “Awake!” he bellows, already pulling on his breeches and coat. “The enemy has come!” He heads for the cabinet where the guns are stacked.

People tumble out of their blankets and rise from their pallets. Row sets up an alarmed chirping. Mary sees Ann Joslin on her feet, clutching a struggling Beatrice in her arms. From the parlor come the sounds of an infant’s wail and a man barking orders.

Hannah appears at her side, sweeping a tangle of dark hair from her face, pulling a blanket around her. “Mary?” she says, her voice catching at the back of her throat. Mary can think of nothing to say, no sisterly word of comfort or solace.

Joseph should be here,
she thinks, and a dart of anger jabs her throat. She scans the room for Joss as she hurries to the bedstead, finds Sarah still asleep, Marie awake and huddled in a nest of blankets.

“Come,” Mary says, throwing back the covers. “Put on your clothes, girls. Hurry.”

“Are we going out?” Sarah frowns up at her.

“Nay, not yet,” Mary says. “But we must be ready in case we are required to make an escape.”

“Escape to where?” Marie asks. “Why?”

“The Lord will guide and protect us,” Mary says, knowing it does not answer her questions, yet it is all she has to offer. “Hurry now. Make ready.”

Musket balls rattle like hail against the house and men are shouting and slamming closed the shutters. What little light was inside is gone now, the rooms plunged into blackness. She searches her heart for hope, snatches at the fact that the Indians have not yet broken into the house. Perhaps Joseph, at this very moment, is close to Lancaster with the troops that will drive off the enemy.

Elizabeth is suddenly at her elbow. “We must pray!” she whispers. Mary nods but she cannot bend her heart toward God before locating Joss.

She pushes through the crowded room to the narrow stairs and climbs to the chamber where her son sleeps. She stares at his empty pallet and tossed blanket, and her heart thumps hard. She glances at the ladder that leads to the attic, and sees a shadow drifting between the rafters.

For an instant she frowns, puzzled; then she smells smoke and hears the hiss of flame on wood.

She nearly tumbles down the stairs. “The Indians have fired the house!” she shouts. “The roof is burning!” She runs to the bedstead and yanks Sarah to her feet, ignoring the girl’s bewildered protests. Marie is suddenly next to her, moving like a shadow. Mary drops her free arm over her daughter’s shoulder and hugs her tightly, briefly. Then—finally—she sees Joss carrying a water bucket, weaving purposefully between people. He disappears up the stairs and for one instant she admires his valor. In the next, she fears for his life.

Ann Joslin, crouched now on the floor against the wall, begins a wild weeping. Mary kneels to calm her. “Fear not,” she says. “I am assured my husband will soon come with the soldiers. Even now, I warrant he’s but a few miles from Lancaster.” She wants to believe this—
must
believe it—for she sees how plainly her own fear is reflected in the other woman’s face. Ann lapses into whimpers, and then there is only the clout of close-fired Indian muskets and the thud of balls tunneling into the front door. It sounds to Mary like the Devil’s own knuckles, endlessly rapping. She knows she is doomed. They are all doomed.

Joss runs down the stairs, trailing smoke. Water drips through the ceiling boards. He stands in front of Mary, coughing, eyes bright with excitement even as he confesses that he could not stanch the flames.

“We must go out!” she cries. “The house has been fired!” In front of her, John Divoll staggers backward with his hand on his neck. Blood runs between his fingers and drips onto the floor.
He sinks down on one knee.

“John!” Hannah’s scream makes the infants wail louder. The dogs moan from the corner but, strangely, they do not bark.

Mary turns to the knot of children huddled, coughing and weeping, in the middle of the room. She grabs Sarah’s arm and the hand of Elizabeth’s four-year-old daughter, Martha. “Hurry! If we stay here, we will burn alive.” She wonders if they can hear her over the cries inside and the pagan howls outside. Smoke pours into the room, threatening to smother everyone. She doubles over, coughing and coughing into her apron.

As she straightens, the fire suddenly surges forward from the back of the house. Flames roar overhead. “Joss! Marie!” she screams, dragging Sarah and Martha toward the door. “Everyone! Make haste!” Elizabeth moans and falls back against the chimney wall.

Sarah begins crying and jabbing her free hand in the direction of the east window. Mary looks to where she is pointing and sees the birdcage hanging on its peg. She cannot make out the bird. Likely it is already dead, killed by the smoke.

“Mother!” screams Sarah. “Save Row!”

Mary shouts to be heard over the din. “Nay, Sarah. Come now. We must save ourselves.”

“No!” Sarah yanks her arm from Mary’s grasp and scuttles back through the huddled people behind them. Martha starts to make the gulping sounds that herald a wail, and Mary picks her up. “Hush, child. I have you now.” She looks for Elizabeth but cannot find her.

Sarah suddenly appears at her side, carrying the birdcage, which is nearly as big as she is. To Mary’s surprise the sparrow is still alive, fluttering and flapping against the bars. Mary puts Martha down,
plucks the cage from Sarah and orders both girls to hold tightly to her skirts. “Do not let go,” she warns, in a menacing voice that does not sound like her own. She moves again to the front of the house.

The youngest Kettle boy is crouched by the door. “Open it,” Mary cries. “Hurry!” He scrambles to do her bidding. She glances back to assure herself that Joss and Marie are following and then takes a deep breath, pulls the two little girls close, and steps resolutely over the sill.

She fully expects this to be her last moment. The only thing left to feel is a war club crushing her skull, or a musket ball shredding her lungs before she crumples into a slick of her own blood.

Yet she stands stock-still on the wide granite door stoop, holding a birdcage, miraculously unscathed. All her senses have exploded wide open. Terror has rendered the world fiercely, acutely luminous, as if even the smallest thing in it is vibrating with meaning.