Flight of the Sparrow Read online

  She begins to shake. The tremors are so strong she has to struggle for breath. She wonders how much blood she has lost. She sees Elizabeth Kettle weeping, her hands covering her face. She, too, is tied to her captor. Nearby, Ann Joslin stands with her head bowed, clutching Beatrice, whose small arms are clasped tightly around her mother’s bound neck.

  Mary hears a woman scream behind her. She turns to see Priscilla Roper stagger and fall as an Indian strikes her on the side of her head with his club. Priscilla keeps her arms around her young daughter as she falls. But the girl is trapped beneath her and starts to scream. The Indian yanks her out from under Priscilla’s body. For a moment Mary thinks he will hand her to another woman, and she even extends her own free arm to accept the girl. Instead, he tosses her high into the air, swings his club and smashes her skull. The girl drops at his feet, dead.

  Her captor tugs on her rope and Mary lurches forward. She is shaking so hard she is afraid her legs cannot hold her. Sarah moans and she hushes her urgently. The whole line is moving. Mary loses sight of Joss and Marie as they are swallowed in a great shifting chain of people. The Indians are hurrying the captives away, leading them south along the lane like cattle at a market. Abruptly, they turn west into the field, pulling and jerking the captives toward the forest. It is strangely silent; the only sound Mary hears besides feet shuffling through the snow is the warning shriek of a jay.

  Mary sways under Sarah’s weight; her daughter slows her as surely as shackles. She feels blood from her own wound flowing down her left side. Waves of vertigo sweep through her. Where the snow has drifted and lies deep in a small hollow, she stumbles and nearly falls. The air is foul with smoke. They march in a long ragged column across the field, in snow up to their calves.

  Only once does Mary look back. Their blood has made a jagged pink trail in the snow. The walls and roof of her home have fallen. A smoking pyre rises over the place where her sister’s body lies.

  Then they go into the trees, and Mary feels as if she has come to the end of the world.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The snow is not as deep under the trees. It has been packed down by the feet of the Indians and captives in front of Mary, so she no longer has to wallow through drifts. Yet they move slowly, on a trail that only the Indians know. The tree trunks, black against the snow, remind her of a stockade wall.

  They begin to climb a steep path disordered with roots and rocks. She hears children moan and cry out for their mothers, but they do not stop walking. They are strung out in a long line—Indians and captives tied together—a line that twists like a snake into the forest. Mary sees a group of warriors herding pigs and an ox. Some carry dead chickens and tools—kettles and rakes and shovels. A young warrior holds a leather flail in his left hand, idly flipping it back and forth as he walks. It is clear the Indians have plundered many houses.

  She hears Indians talking in their garbled language. Several times she trips, but manages to recover before she falls. In her fear and fatigue, she begins to imagine that the warriors will drive them on and on until they all fall dead, never reaching any destination. The wound in her side burns and her chest and arms ache from carrying Sarah. The rope chafes her neck. She knows they must be climbing George Hill, though it feels as if she’s walked much farther than a mile. The light is muted under the trees, which makes it difficult to see the path, especially with Sarah in her arms. When Mary stumbles, the rope nearly chokes her.

  Finally the land begins to level off and she sees the roof of a building poking over the brow of the hill. It is the old trucking house, or what is left of it, for it has been long abandoned. But it is shelter, and at this moment of exhaustion the sight of an English house gives Mary hope, especially when she sees the Indians preparing to stop for the night. Apparently even devils have to sleep.

  Mary is still tied to her captor. He has stopped to talk to a warrior wrapped in a red blanket. She wishes she knew their language. She thinks of Timothy, the young Nashaway servant who ran away. She regrets reprimanding him for using Indian speech. If she had learned those words, they might prove useful now.

  She looks around for Joss and Marie, but cannot find them in the semi-gloom. She gently lowers Sarah to the ground and cups some snow into her palm. She holds it until it melts, then dribbles the few drops of water into her daughter’s mouth. Sarah moans constantly and seems half asleep, though from time to time she rouses to ask where she is. Blood still oozes from the wound in her stomach; the stain now covers not only her waist but her bodice and skirt front. And it’s smeared all over Mary’s apron.

  Mary lifts Sarah again and shifts her higher in a vain attempt to relieve the ache in her shoulders. Her own wound pulses and burns as she steps toward her captor. “Please,” she says. “Let us use the house.” She points to the sagging roof, hoping that he understands some English. “To sleep. For the women and children.”

  He frowns, spits on the ground, and then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “What, you love English still?” He forms the words slowly behind his teeth. They come out as throaty sounds that remind Mary of a dog’s bark. But the meaning is clear enough.

  “Aye, I love them,” Mary says. “Am I not English? What has that to do with taking shelter?”

  His eyebrows rise and he erupts in a burst of grunts that she slowly perceives is his peculiar mode of laughter. The man he has been talking with joins in. Her captor says something in his own tongue and laughs again. The other Indian begins hopping around, clucking and screeching like a crazed hen.

  A third Indian approaches. He is tall, with even features and a steady gaze. He wears leggings of deer hide and a dark blue blanket over his right shoulder. But his face has not been painted, and when he gestures, Mary glimpses an English waistcoat beneath the blanket. He speaks to the warriors in their tongue and then looks at her.

  “Do you understand your situation?” He speaks English clearly, without a strong accent.

  “My situation?” The pain in her side is coming in sharp waves, wringing sweat from her despite the cold. “Tell them that I am the wife of Lancaster’s minister. My daughter is sorely wounded.”

  “They know who you are,” he says. “It was ordered that you be taken.”

  She frowns. “Someone planned my capture? How would they know me?”

  He looks at her hair. “You are easily marked. They looked for a woman whose hair is the color of the fox.” He smiles.

  Her captor looks at her and speaks, a torrent of incomprehensible words. She looks questioningly at the tall Indian. “Kehteiyomp says you are of no importance now,” he tells her. “You must remember that you are a slave.”

  Slave. The word lashes her. She thinks at once of Bess and her lover, who is a slave, of the child who was torn from her. She recalls Bess saying that slavery was a great evil in God’s eyes. She recalls her own assumption that it is God’s will. Now the Lord’s judgment has come upon her with an exquisitely crafted punishment. She herself is enslaved and will soon become intimate with its rigors.

  “He wants to know where your husband is,” the tall man says. “He wants to know why he did not defend you.”

  Mary studies her captor’s face, wondering if she should tell the truth. “He has gone to Boston,” she says. “He will rescue me when he returns.”

  Her captor laughs and makes a cutting motion across his neck. “He not save you,” he says. “Men slay him when he come.” He gives the rope a sudden, sharp tug, and Mary lurches forward. Sarah cries out. Her captor turns and moves quickly along the ridge, forcing Mary to clutch Sarah more tightly and hurry after him.

  In front of the empty house, several men have dug a pit and are building a huge fire. Mary is shaking with cold and hunger. But instead of leading her to shelter the warrior pulls her to a large stone two rods away from the fire, and sweeps it clean of snow.

  “Here,” he says, pointing. “You sleep here.”
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  Mary cannot imagine sleeping ever again, let alone on a frozen rock with no blanket. She shakes her head. “Please,” she says. “Let me sleep in the shelter with my children.”

  He strikes her so hard she loses her footing and tumbles back onto the rock. Sarah falls, thrashing, on top of her. Mary sprawls there, wondering at her own foolishness. She had reacted impulsively, without thinking of the consequences—as if she and Sarah were not in the gravest danger.

  Her captor gestures that she must sleep where she fell. Mary pulls Sarah to her and spreads the cloak over both of them, though it is a poor barrier against the bitterly cold night. Her head swims and her side feels as if a hot iron is pressing against it, pressing deeper with every breath. She closes her eyes and prays—for her husband’s safety and for God’s mercy upon her and her poor captive children.

  • • •

  Mary starts awake. Unearthly, piercing cries swirl through the darkness, lifting the small hairs on her neck. She raises her head. The Indians have gathered in a wide circle around the fire. Some are making the rhythmic yelps and shrieks that awakened her, while others writhe before them in grotesque postures. Like creatures from hell, she thinks. They hop and twist around the fire, their bodies black against the bright flames. It takes her a moment to understand what she is seeing. But she finally realizes—their cries are an unholy music, and their convoluted movements are a barbaric form of dancing. She is witnessing a celebration, a pagan thanksgiving.

  The men have butchered livestock. The leg of a cow—perhaps her own milk cow—roasts on a spit over the fire. A sow’s head lies near a pile of unplucked hens. Mary does not move, yet as she watches, she grows angry. It is English food they are eating, the fruit of her labor feeding the enemy, while she has not even a morsel to nourish herself or her child.

  She sits all the way up and pulls Sarah into her lap. The girl’s eyes blink open and shut and she whimpers, “Mother.” Her skirt and bodice are torn at the waist, the fabric soaked in blood. Mary tries to examine her wound without hurting her, but every time she starts to open the bodice, Sarah moans and flails her arms. After several attempts, Mary admits defeat. Even if she could clearly see the wound, she has no salve to treat it. She resettles Sarah against her bosom and rocks her back to sleep.

  The chanting and dancing go on and on. Mary feels herself slide into a sort of trance, brooding on what she witnessed that day and wondering what lies ahead. She reminds herself that it is God’s providence that Sarah still lives, and that she herself has been preserved to care for her daughter. Perhaps He wants Mary to prevail against the heathens. Didn’t He show the people of Israel again and again that their strength was in Him? Didn’t He lead them out of Egypt?

  In the flickering light, Mary notes that the rope that binds her neck has been thrown over a branch above her head, with the other end tied to a tree some distance away. As she studies the arrangement, she sees its cleverness—it permits her some limited movement, but if she tries to go too far, she will quickly strangle herself.

  She peers into the trees that rise beyond the firelight. The Indians are occupied with their celebration and pay no attention to her. If she moves slowly and quietly, she might be able to untie the knot, carry Sarah into the concealing trees, and find her way home.

  Home. She has no home. Her house is gone, no more than charred beams on the frozen earth. Yet she reasons that there must be some building or shed in Lancaster left standing, a place where she and Sarah could shelter until the troops that her husband promised come to their rescue. She wishes she knew where Joss and Marie are. She has not seen them since they were marched across the field out of Lancaster.

  She lies down again and works her fingers into the thick knot at the back of her neck. Slowly, she begins to loosen it. When an Indian looks in her direction, she closes her eyes and opens her fingers, feigning sleep. She works at the knot for a long time, but cannot free herself. Her captor has tied it with such cunning that her only escape is death.

  • • •

  The dancing and chanting last through the night. Mary lies on the rock next to Sarah, covering them both with her cloak, trying not to move. She remembers the biblical account of Joseph and his captivity in Egypt. How God protected him and raised him up. After some time she sinks into a fitful sleep.

  When she wakes, the sky has lightened, shining like a gray pearl. Her legs and shoulders ache and the wound in her side throbs. She lifts the cloak and looks at Sarah. Her eyes are closed and she makes no sound, but her cheeks are flushed, and when Mary kisses her forehead, she feels the dry heat of her fever. She sits up but Sarah does not wake. She is as limp as a doll on the cold granite. Mary says her name, praying for strength. But there is no one to give her any comfort, except the Lord. And He seems very far away.

  She thinks of the English-speaking Indian, wonders where he has gone. Perhaps she could prevail on him to help. He is so well-spoken he must have lived among Englishmen for some time. Perhaps he is a Praying Indian, one of John Eliot’s converts. Mary knows that the minister in Roxbury has converted many heathen natives, organizing them into small villages in the wilderness where only Christian Indians live.

  Embers glow in the fire pit. The dark forms of sleeping Indians lie scattered nearby. Some have begun to move around. A stocky Indian approaches her, a wide-shouldered man with dark eyes. He gestures to Sarah. “Is very sick?”

  Mary has heard it rumored that some tribes eat English children in lewd ceremonies, even murder their own offspring if they show signs of weakness. “She is strong,” Mary says. “She will soon be well.” The Indian reaches down and flips the edge of the cloak off Sarah’s head and shoulders. He touches her neck with two fingers. His fingers are black with grime. Mary feels a shiver of revulsion when she sees them set against Sarah’s fair skin. Is he going to choke her? After a moment he withdraws his hand. He frowns but says nothing. When he leaves, Mary expels a breath she did not know she was holding.

  She gets to her feet and pulls the cloak over Sarah again. The sun is rising. She walks as far as her rope allows and relieves herself behind a bush. As she stands up, she turns east and, through a gap in the trees, glimpses far below the hillside what remains of Lancaster: a scattering of burned houses, dark smudges strewn in the dooryards. Smudges that she knows are the bodies of people she loves.

  When Mary returns to the rock, her cloak lies in a heap on the ground and Sarah is gone.

  • • •

  She runs back and forth, as far as the rope will allow, crying her daughter’s name over and over. She knows Sarah is not strong enough to crawl away on her own. Someone has taken her. Mary falls to her knees and begins to scrub the stone with her hands, as if she could pry Sarah from its icy interior.

  She senses someone behind her, and then feels a hard hand on her shoulder. She looks up at the tall, English-speaking Indian.

  Mary stares at him as his hand moves to the deerskin pouch that hangs from his belt. He takes out a knife.

  She cannot help herself—she cries out a pitiful mewling bleat, like a lamb.

  “Do not fear,” he says.

  But she is afraid. She is terrified. He points the knife at her throat and Mary is certain she is about to die. The sorrow that covers her like a shroud is not for her alone, but for her lost children. For Sarah especially.

  “Please,” she whispers, even as she bows her head to take the knife. “Please, I beg you. Have mercy.” She closes her eyes.

  She feels the blade against her throat, feels it move back and forth across her skin. She is certain now that he is going to torture her with a slow death. The force of the blade finally becomes so great it cuts off her breath.

  The pressure is suddenly released and the rope falls to the ground. It takes her a moment to realize the Indian has not hurt her. He has set her free.

  She takes three deep breaths. “Thank you.” Her voice scratc
hes the air and then she is suddenly, brutally cold. Her jaw shakes and her teeth clatter in her head. The Indian picks up her cloak and hands it to her. Mary wraps it around her body, though she realizes, as the cold settles into her marrow, that it is not cold alone, but the chill of death.

  “Do you know where my daughter is?” She can barely form the words. “Do you know where they have taken her?”

  He returns his knife to its pouch. “Monoco’s son carries her on a horse.”

  The name Monoco is familiar. He is the one-eyed sachem of the Nashaway tribe that sold land to her father and the other Lancaster proprietors. Mary has seen him swaggering along the town roads as if he built them himself. “Where? Where can I find her?”

  He points, and without a backward glance, she runs in that direction, though the path is crowded with Indians. She races past them, thrashing through the snow. On the far side of a ridge she sees a horse and rider. Her legs sag under her and she grabs a sapling to keep from falling, briefly leaning against it before pressing on. An Indian calls out, mocking her flight, and another grabs her arm, but she wrenches away. When she finally draws near, she finds an Indian boy about Joss’s age riding the Kettles’ mare, clasping Sarah around the waist. Her daughter is moaning. Mary runs her hand over the mare’s flank and reaches for Sarah. The boy stares down at her without expression.

  “Thank you,” Mary gasps. “Thank you for carrying her.”