Often in the evening, Sparks Fire would come and share our hearth. If he had been hunting, he would bring this kill to us. He came to me as a brother. He was Wolf Clan, and members of the same clan are forbidden to marry. Besides, I was not looking for a husband. After my Jaybird, how could I think of another?
We shared our sorrow. He had lost his own wife to sickness the year before and he still carried the sadness with him. His daughter was married and lived with her mother’s clan. His son Naugatuck was with the war bands in the south. White Deer, Naugatuck’s wife, was with her mother’s clan. He had no other children living; his two younger ones had joined their mother on the path to the land in the west.
He lit his pipe from the embers. ‘Truly sickness takes more than musket balls, more and more each time it visits. This war is the last flowering of our power.’
‘How goes it?’
He drew on his pipe and then exhaled, regarding me through the smoke.
‘How am I to know? I am far from Wannalancet’s council fire.’
‘That may be so, but I see messengers come and go.’
Wannalancet, sachem of the Pennacook, was camped at Lake Winnipesaukee to the north of us. Runners from the south often stopped at our camp on their way to him. One of the messengers was Sparks Fire’s son Naugatuck. I had asked him to look for Black Fox with the Pentucket band and he said he would find him. I sent new moccasins. His would be worn through by now and these were lined with rabbit fur for it was the deepest part of winter. I told Naugatuck to tell him I did well.
Sparks Fire knew I feared for my son.
‘He is safe for the moment. It is the time of the shortest days, when the trees crack with coldness. No one fights now, not even the Englishmen. Naugatuck tells me the warriors are waiting for the sun to gain strength in the sky, then they will move against the English towns.’
We sat in silence then, thinking of our sons.
‘Why are you so far from Wannalancet?’
‘He is Christian. I would not convert to this new religion. To me, the Great Spirit is the Great Spirit, why should I call him God? To me he will always be Manitou.’
By mid-February, messengers were bringing news of fresh attacks, of towns sacked and abandoned along a wide frontier from north to south. By March, the time of ice melting, Indian bands had penetrated as far as Medfield and even threatened Boston itself. I knew my son would be in the thick of the fighting. Each fresh report made me sick for news of him.
Naugatuck came towards the end of March and told me that Black Fox had come through unharmed. He had to stay in the south, but he sent a token, a little fox head made from the same soft black stone used to fashion pipes. Black Fox had traded for the pipe stone and carved it in the idleness of the winter camps. He was ever clever with his hands, and it was cunningly made, with slanting eyes and a grinning mouth. It was bored behind the ears to be used as a toggle. This made me smile through my tears. Black Fox always liked to make things that could be used.
With the coming of spring, the village moved to their summer site. For a while, the war was forgotten in the stripping of the camp. The houses were dismantled, the covering mats untied and rolled, the poles left for next winter.
‘If there be another wintering here.’ Sparks Fire had come to help us. He was loading bundles on his travois. Now he looked thoughtful.
‘Why not? Wannalancet is neutral – besides, he’s Christian.’
I had finished making my pack and was fashioning one for Ephraim to carry. These removals meant a full load for everybody. Even children had to do their share.
‘That makes no difference. The Christian Indians have been taken from the praying towns and put all together on an island in Boston harbour.’ He tightened a strap viciously. ‘That is how the English repay loyalty.’
I prepared for this remove with all his uncertainty, and more. I remembered White Eagle’s words. The Indians could not possibly win this war. I had sought to escape it, but it was coming nearer. I had not thought to live with my own kind again, but if the Indians were defeated, and I was taken back, what would happen to me then?
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26
Second remove
The journey to their summer place took us up the Merrimack River and then by lesser rivers and porterage to the wide expanse of Lake Winnipesaukee.
The site lay behind a screen of willows on the south side of the lake. Within a day, the village was made again and all was peaceful as we picked up the rhythm of the year. I helped the women clear the gardens for planting. I worked with White Deer, Naugatuck’s young wife, Sparks Fire’s daughter-in-law. Ephraim ran with the other boys, playing stick ball and football out on the rough meadow, just as Black Fox had done, just as boys in my village in England had done so many years ago.
With the springtime digging and planting, it was sometimes easy to forget that there was a war going on. It was still far to the south of us, but messengers came and went with greater frequency and Sparks Fire was often called to Wannalancet’s camp at the other end of the lake.
As spring advanced to summer, the news from the south became increasingly gloomy. The runners no longer spoke of victory. They told of lack of powder and ammunition, of Mohawks creeping from the west now that attention was not on them. Above all they spoke of hunger and sickness, women too far from their home villages to grow anything; men too busy fighting to hunt. There was scant food in the towns attacked and what had been taken was fast running out. Starvation stalked the camps.
The war was like a seesaw and the English side was weighted with men, muskets and money. With no way for food to be replenished, it was only a matter of time before Metacom’s forces were defeated. And so it was to be. The lone messengers were replaced by ragged bands fleeing from the south. They told of a great defeat.
Now muster drums were beating through the Commonwealth towns. Hostile bands would be hunted, harried and hounded through the country. Any Indian refusing to surrender could expect no quarter. They would be killed. Those who surrendered could expect to be bound as servants or sold into slavery.
The tribes were scattering. Different bands were seeking to make separate peace. News came that Metacom had gone south to his homeland. He was being hunted through the swamps as boys hunt frogs. Then we heard that he was dead. His head had been taken to Plymouth and displayed on a pole as a warning and an act of vengeance.
Metacom’s death did not stop the persecution. Soldiers continued to hunt Indians down like rats in a barn. Many groups fled north to us, seeking refuge. These bands arrived weary from travel, with many sick and most half starved; we offered what help we could. It was a time of fear and weary waiting. Black Fox and Naugatuck had not come back. We scanned each group, asking for any news of them. All we heard was rumour and story. They were with this band or that band, with Metacom himself. They had been in this fight or that attack. Naugatuck had been wounded, but Black Fox had not a scratch on him, it was as if his life was charmed. Many of these stories were months old; some we’d heard before. When we asked their whereabouts now, or when they were coming back, we received blank stares and silence. Each one looked to their own survival. We would just have to wait it out.
Some of the bands held English captives. Most of these had already been redeemed, but I saw a few coming in with their captors hoping for ransom or exchange.
I kept out of the way of any white captives. I made it my business to see that they were given provision and treated well, but other than that I kept myself separate. I felt no loyalty to them, no bond of blood or kinship. To make myself known would require explanation, and once they knew my history I knew what their judgement of me would be.
They were not tethered or bound, they could come and go at will, but they were kept close by the forest. They did not congregate together but were scattered through the camp, staying with the families of those who had taken them.
Although I sought to avoid their company and took care to keep separate, I felt one amon
g their number watching me closely. I clearly vexed and troubled her, and she had the air of one who did not like puzzles. I knew her type from Beulah, always busy about other people’s business. She reminded me of Martha’s sister Goody Francis. Her name was Mrs Peterson. I had seen her about the camp. Although thin, her clothes worn almost to rags, she knew how to survive among her captors. I never heard her complain and she had the knack of making herself useful: in sewing, foraging, running errands. It was just such an errand that brought her to me. One evening she approached my camp on the pretext of borrowing some meal.
‘I saw your boy ... ’ Even in his buckskins, Ephraim’s hair gave him away as English. The summer sun had bleached it to corn silk. ‘Are you captive?’ She looked round furtively. ‘Where is your master? How long are you taken? Which town?’
‘I have no master. I am not captive. I live here freely.’
‘How can that be?’ Her gooseberry eyes grew wide with astonishment, and avid to know more.
‘I left a settlement many years ago.’
‘Of your own free will?’
‘Not exactly. I was no longer welcome.’
She mulled over this unusual occurrence.
‘I have only heard one such story. A visiting minister, I forget his name now, he told us of a girl who bewitched a settlement and ran away to join the spirits in the forest.’
‘Nothing of that sort happened to me.’ I added quickly. ‘I had a disagreement with my mistress, over a personal matter of a delicate nature.’ I dropped my eyes, sure she would understand.
‘Unchastity?’ She looked suitably shocked.
I nodded. ‘My mistress took my master’s side against me. I was headstrong in those days, and foolish, and ran away. I became hopelessly lost in the forest and was found by a Pentucket band. I have been with them ever since. What’s left of them, that is. My husband was killed outside Pocumtuck, and my son ... ’
‘You married among them!’
She could no longer look at me. Her hand went to her mouth as though she might vomit. This was far more shocking than a master’s seduction of a servant. This was something far too shocking to countenance. Above her torn and dirty collar, her neck reddened to the colour of a turkey’s wattle.
‘I did.’
‘I see.’ She kept her lowered eyes away from me. ‘And the boy? He is not, not born of ... , I mean, he is so fair. He can’t be native?’
‘No.’ I laughed at her stifled outrage. ‘He’s not mine.’
I told her where he had been taken.
‘He will be returned, God willing. As we all will be.’
‘He has no kin there, as far as I know. When the time comes it will be his choice to stay or go.’
‘To go back to civilisation or live with savages?’ She looked at me. What choice could there be? ‘You have no other children?’
‘I had a daughter.’ I stopped for a moment, uncertain that my voice would bear the words. ‘She is dead.’
‘I have daughters, too. I’m sorry for your loss.’
Her look of sympathy was genuine enough, but behind it lay the thought that any daughter of mine would be better dead, I could see it in her eyes.
‘They were taken?’ I asked her.
She shook her head. ‘Their father had removed them to a safe town. I was to follow, but ... ’ She stopped for a moment, visited again by all that had happened, all that she’d seen. ‘He is a captain with the militia. Captain Peterson. You might have heard of him?’
I shook my head.
‘He is quite famous among our people ... ’ Her look mixed pride with contempt. ‘My girls ... ’ Collecting herself, she went on. ‘My girls were safe away when the savages attacked. I praise God for it. I fear they would not have survived.’
‘You have been treated badly?’
‘Not as such, and I’ve been offered no insult, but life among them is cruel harsh.’
‘No more than it is for them.’
‘There’s truth in that.’ She looked down at her blackened broken nails and dirty hands. ‘I ask God for His strength that I might endure it.’
She hurried away then, her master was calling for her. He was not an unfair man, but she held him in some fear. I sent her food and fresh clothing, and did what I could to ensure that her master was not too hard on her, for some captives were cruelly used, although often they brought this upon themselves.
She contrived to visit me again, this time bringing a piece of tattered Bible with her that she’d traded from one of the Indians. She came in great earnestness, quoting Ezekiel, chapter 18, verse 27:
‘When the wicked man turneth away from his wickedness ... and doeth that which is lawful and right, he shall save his soul alive.’
I told her that my soul did not need saving. I did not consider myself to be wicked and, according to my own lights, I had ever striven to do that which was lawful and right.
She looked at me as though I had uttered a very great blasphemy. I saw little of her after that.
She made no attempt to come near, but I often felt her watching me. Or, more particularly, Ephraim. She would stop him, calling him to her to run some trifling errand or other, then keep him in conversation. When I questioned him, he said she spoke to him of the Bible and whether he kept strong in his faith.
‘And you answered?’
‘Yes, as far as I am able.’
‘Does she ask anything more?’
Ephraim did not answer. He would have saved me from knowing, but was ever an honest lad and his fair colouring made it hard for him to dissemble.
‘What else did she say?’
‘She asked me ... ’ He hesitated, flushing deeper, and then dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘She asked if you practise sorcery. She had heard ... heard it spoken about.’
I felt the world slide about me.
‘And what did you reply?’ I tried to keep my voice light, although a lot depended on the answer he had given her.
‘I answered, of course not! I told her, I told her you was a healer, and for that you was revered and respected. I said that you had saved my life and the lives of many others. She said, “You mean among the Indians?” I said, she might call ’em heathens, but you didn’t see no difference between them and Christians.’
‘I see. Did she ask you anything else?’
‘Yes, she did. She asked me if you worshipped.’
‘And how did you answer that?’
‘I said of course you do, but in your own way.’ He paused. ‘Which I told her you were bound to do, you having been away from church and regular service this long while.’ He looked at me. ‘Did I do wrong? Did I say the wrong thing, Mary?’
‘I’m sure you did not.’ I ruffled his silky soft hair. ‘Don’t worry.’
‘If I did, I didn’t mean to.’ He frowned, thoroughly agitated now. ‘And I am truly sorry. I only said the truth, though.’ His brow cleared as a fresh thought occurred to him. ‘That can’t do no harm, can it?’
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27
A bad time
By harvest time the war was over. Naugatuck and Black Fox were among the last of the warriors to return to the camp. They came in dusty and tired from many days’ travelling. They were thin and half starving, their clothes ragged, moccasins worn through and feet bloody, but they were alive. The whole camp came out to greet them and it was almost impossible to get near in the crush. Then the crowd parted and he came to me. The months of anxious waiting melted into a moment of pure gladness and I did not have to tell him how happy I was to see him back.
He was taken from me then, going with the other men to the sweat lodge, to be cleansed and dressed ready for the celebrations. I sent fresh garments that I had made during the time of waiting and joined the other women. We gathered all we could find together to make a feast of welcome home.
There had been precious little to celebrate in recent months, and all were invited without exception. Not everyone, however, took up the invitation. Mrs Peterson
stayed by her own fireside. At the height of the festivities, I noticed someone else was absent. Ephraim had disappeared. I thought he was with the other boys, who were running here and there in wild play, but I did not find him with them. I found him in Mrs Peterson’s camp. He said that he had felt out of place now Black Fox was back.
He returned with me on that occasion, but he began to spend more and more time with the English woman. She welcomed him readily and made a deal of a fuss over him. Perhaps he felt I neglected him in my joy at having my son back again. Perhaps he was wary of Black Fox himself. My son had come back a seasoned warrior with a fierce reputation and although he held to his promise and showed no unkindness to the boy, he showed no friendship either, and I could see why Ephraim might fear him.
Now that the war was over, Wannalancet was summoned to Dover to meet with a Major Richard Waldron to formally agree the peace and to hand over such captives as had lately come into his care. It was Ephraim’s decision whether or not to go with them. I would be sad to see him go, sadder than I wanted him to know, but said that he could choose when the time came. I had given my word on it, and I am not one to go back on what I have promised.
I still thought that he might stay with me, but on the appointed day, he left with Mrs Peterson. He would have none to claim him, by his own account having no living relations in the colony, but Mrs Peterson would take care of him. Although I would hardly call us friends, she promised this to me.
Sparks Fire counselled Black Fox and Naugatuck not to go to the meeting. He thought Wannalancet mistaken in the trust he showed towards the English. ‘We are all their enemies now.’ That was how he saw it.
Good that he did and that our sons heeded his warning, for many who went never came back. Although Wannalancet acted in good faith, he was tricked. He went to make peace with the English, nation unto nation, but Waldron saw it otherwise. In his eyes, Wannalancet was harbouring fugitives and this was an act of war. Hundreds were killed and many more taken captive to be sold as slaves, either here or in the Indies.