Crow Hollow (7 page)

C
HAPTER
N
INE

“How are you feeling?” James asked Peter.

The Indian rubbed at his chin, as if considering. “Somewhat improved.”

The coach hit a rock and the three of them jounced about. The road was growing worse. Nevertheless, Woory picked up the pace now that there was light to see by.

“I’m glad to hear it,” James said, encouraged by the strength in the Indian’s voice. “I was worried that we’d arrive in Winton with a half-frozen corpse.”

“A cheery thought,” Peter said. “But no, it would seem that the Lord has preserved my life for some purpose or other.”

“That almost passes for idle chatter,” James said. “You
must
be feeling better. How about you?” he asked Prudence. “Do you need to stop to stretch your legs, relieve yourself?”

“No, I’m all right for now.”

“Good, I’d like to put some more distance between us and Boston.”

“So you’re going to Winton after all?”

“Aye, and Crow Hollow, if necessary. That nonsense in Boston was only to put them off the trail. I intended all along to inspect the site for myself. Do you have family there? Somewhere to stay?”

“Nay, I have no family in Winton. One of our servants lives there still—Goody Hull. But she lives in humble circumstances. Her cottage could scarcely accommodate us all.”

“It only needs to accommodate you,” James said. “Peter and I will continue on without you.”

Prudence crossed her arms. “I’m going with you.”

“You’re a fugitive—that makes you a risk. At the moment, your usefulness outweighs your danger. After Winton, that arithmetic changes. I don’t need a search party tracking us into the woods.”

“Don’t be so confident,” she said. “They must know that I’ve gone with you. They might have sent someone already.”

“Oh, I would certainly hope so. Your sister will be worried about your safety.”

“Quite frantic,” Prudence said. “But as worried about my soul as my body. The first thing she asked when I escaped from the Nipmuk was whether they had insulted my virtue.”

“Not about your daughter?”

“No. She was presumed dead.” Prudence paused. “They didn’t, you know.”

“I would not think less of you if they had.”

“I saw all sorts of atrocities. Believe me, an Indian at war is as savage as any other man. No offense, Master Church. I mean . . .
Peter
.”

Peter turned with a smile. “No offense taken, friend. Most men are brutes at heart. My people are no exception.”

“But they never laid a hand on me—not in that way. The other things I saw . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“I read your account,” James said.

“As I said in the meetinghouse, that wasn’t the whole of it. If you had read it all, you’d know why I intend to travel with you beyond Winton.”

“Yes, I recall. You spoke of your daughter being yet alive. Is your narrative incomplete in some other way?”

But Prudence didn’t seem to have heard. Her eyes had taken on a glazed, distant expression. Her brow furrowed, and her mouth pinched tight. It was a dark look, and James wondered if some wretched memory had clawed its way free and taken possession of her.

“Art thou well, friend?” Peter asked.

Prudence shuddered, as if trying to clear her head of a nightmare. “Pray, pardon me.” She turned to James. “What is in the pockets of your overcoat?”

“Pistols, paper cartridges with balls and powder.”

“Not those ones. The inner pockets. Where you keep your coins, your secret messages. The vials and things.”

He started. “Did you go through my possessions while I was sleeping?”

“No,” she said. “I mean, yes, but not last night. It was the first night you arrived. I entered your room when you were sleeping.”

That was fairly alarming. The weeks on the ship must have dulled his senses. He’d slept while wolves stalked the coach, and now it appeared that this woman had groped his belongings while he lay sleeping, as dead to the world as a hibernating bear. His suspicion of the widow was growing.

“About the poison,” James said. “Where were you when we were eating? Back in the kitchen, was it?”

“No, I—wait, you can’t believe that. Peter, tell him. I would never! Please, you have to believe me.”

“Gentle, friend,” Peter told her. “He’s trying to rile thee into making a mistake. He doesn’t actually believe that thou art guilty.”

“Will you let me do my job, you silly Quaker?”

“Thou attempted to deceive this good woman.”

“The devil take you,” James said irritably.

Peter shrugged and looked back out the window.

“Very well,” James said to Prudence. “Then what were you doing in my belongings?”

“Look in your pocket. You’ll see.”

He reached into the pockets one by one. There were so many things there, things he didn’t trust to his trunk, that it took a moment to figure out what she meant. Letters of credit and introduction. Rings with hidden compartments. Invisible ink for delivering secret messages. A list of French and Dutch spies and their aliases. The names of the other agents of the king currently stationed in New England and New York, written in numbered code. How to find his associate in Springfield, and another man in Hartford, these instructions also written in a cipher.

At last he found it, an unfamiliar sheaf of papers tied together with twine. He took it out, slipped off the twine, and unfolded the papers. There was writing in a fine, feminine hand, but it was still too dark to read easily.

“What is it?”

“The story about my missing daughter.”

“I see.”

“I want you to find her.”

“Where do you think she is?”

“In the northern forests, with a tribe of Nipmuk and Abenaki. The land of Verts Monts—French-claimed, but wild.”

“So the frozen, hostile wilderness. With Indians who killed hundreds of English and suffered near extermination by their hand. Yes, I’m sure they’ll welcome us. You don’t have some secret French map of the waterways and Indian trails, do you? No? I didn’t think so.”

“I’ll pay you handsomely.”

“How? From what I understand, your brother-in-law was given stewardship of Sir Benjamin’s estate until you remarry.”

“That is true, but—”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m a servant of the Crown. No bribe will turn me from my purpose.”

“James, please.”

He raised his eyebrows at the use of his Christian name, and it was light enough now to see her flush.

“I am not heartless,
Prudence
, but I must do my duty to the king.”

“Which is what?”

“My own business. Anyway, I will help if I can, but I’m not wandering into the north country to get myself killed. You don’t even have evidence that your child is alive.”

“Mary. Her name is Mary. She will be three years old, with blond ringlets and fat cheeks—assuming they have fed her properly.”

He tried not to wince. It was more than he wanted to know. Anyway, he’d as good as invited Prudence to argue that her daughter was still alive, which was irrelevant.

“Read my account, please. Then you’ll see what I mean.”

“I don’t want to read it. I don’t want to take responsibility for this thing.” He lifted his hand when she started to protest. “No, I mean it.”

He dropped the papers on her lap. She didn’t pick them up.

“What harm could it do?” Peter said. “Either thou canst be dissuaded from thy purpose, or not. If not, there’s little harm in reading the pages—thou mayest even learn something new about Sir Benjamin, whether thou believest Prudence’s claim or not.”

“It is a waste of time,” James said.

“Time is something we possess in abundance, friend. It must be three days to Winton by coach. What else wouldst thou do, engage in idle chatter the entire journey? Read her account unless thou art worried.”

“Nay, I’m not worried,” James said. “They’re only words. What would possibly cause me worry from that?”

“That thy conscience may be pricked.”

Prudence looked at James hopefully. She held out her papers. “It’s dawn,” she said. “There’s enough light to read now.”

“Very well, hand it over.” James untied the twine. “Now let me move so I can sit next to the window.”

Once he was next to the window, he turned his back to her, partly to get away from her prying gaze, but also to get as much of the light coming through as possible. Their breath had frozen on the pane, so he scraped it away with his fingernails.

The road was emerging from a marshy stretch that might be impassable in spring but was flat and hard at the moment. A forest of bony, leafless trees rose beyond, with hills rising behind them, and even taller hills—almost mountains—beyond that. It was a strange and terrifying landscape.

This wasn’t the pastures and fields of England or France, with their neat stone walls and hedges, every inch measured and owned for centuries. This was wild, the realm of wolves and savages. Never tamed, never cleared, never manured. Never brought under the civilizing influence of plow or ax.

A few score miles deeper into New England and even the scattered roads and towns would disappear. What lay beyond these huddled communities clinging to the edge of a vast, impenetrable wilderness? Could be anything. For hundreds upon hundreds of miles. The very thought made James want to leap from the coach and run toward Boston.

Instead, as if the devil were whispering James’s fears into Woory’s ears, the driver cracked his whip and shouted for the horses to pick up the pace. The coach lurched forward, carrying them ever deeper into the interior of the continent.

James looked down at the first page of Prudence’s account.

March, 1676

I lost track of the precise date as the tribe marched into the wilderness. Even to this day, my memories of those hungry, exhausting weeks of fleeing hither and yon remain muddled.

We walked and walked and walked. There was little rest, and less food. Soon I could scarcely feed my little one. My milk was drying. She cried most piteously, but there was nothing I could do to give her succor.

The war was lost for the tribes and they knew it. With every bit of news, the situation grew more desperate. The Narragansett were annihilated in the Great Swamp—the attack on Plymouth had failed. King Philip had attempted to enlist the Huron and Iroquois, but those powerful tribes rebuffed him. A French trapper came through and promised to take word to Quebec, but there was little hope that the French would intervene.

As we fled north, a Praying Indian caught up with us—a deserter from the English forces—to warn that Captain Knapp and two hundred men had marched from Springfield. The English had won a fierce battle with the Wampanoag, and now vowed to exterminate the Nipmuk.

Traveling with so many women, children, and elderly, it was clear that we would not outrun the English militia. One morning, as I lay weak, unable to feed my babe, Laka, the sachem’s wife, entered. She offered me a corn meal porridge and a roasted thrush.

I devoured the food. It was scarcely a mouthful, but was the largest meal I’d eaten in several days. Laka watched me eat with a sharp expression. When I’d finished, she told me she had a message from her husband, and I understood why I’d been fed so well.

Captain Knapp and his men were scarcely five miles behind. Praying Indians from Natick were helping the English track us. They would catch us by nightfall.

My heart pounded. I was elated that my ordeal might be over, yet terrified that I might be killed by my captors. And afraid too, that Knapp would put these people to the sword. His reputation among the Nipmuk—even if half were true—had made me think of him as a demon of bloodshed and death.

But the sachem had an idea. He wanted me to return to the English and beg them for a parley. The Nipmuk wanted no more of the war. They would even quit New England. Only let them escape into the wilderness and they vowed to disappear forever.

Yet even after so many months, the Nipmuk did not trust me. Laka told me I must leave my precious Mary behind until my task was accomplished. If I betrayed them, my child would die.

Yes, I said—If it is the only way to end the war and save the lives of these people. I will do it.

James glanced back to the beginning. March 1676, scarcely nine months ago. He’d forgotten how recently Prudence had suffered at the hands of her captors. Instead, his thoughts had been on the earlier events at Winton, as Sir Benjamin was tortured and killed. But when that happened, Prudence’s nightmare had just begun.

He better understood the terrible look that had swept over her face when she’d asked if he’d read her account.

“You suffered so terribly at their hands,” James said. “Yet you were worried what would become of your tormentors. Why?”

Prudence was no longer studying him. Instead, she carried a worried expression. “Something is amiss.”

The coach was moving too quickly, jouncing through ruts and over rocks. They’d traveled most of the night. Why the devil was Woory driving the horses so hard? They might hit a rut or a stone heaved up by the frost, and the carriage would be tossed from the road.

Another whip crack, then Woory’s shouts. “Ha! Ha! Faster, you brutes!”

James opened the door and leaned out of the coach. The horses snorted and blew. Steam rose from their haunches. They stumbled with exhaustion, only minutes, it seemed, from collapse.

Woory leaned forward on the perch. He glanced over his shoulder at the road behind, even while rearing for another crack of the whip. James turned to look at the road behind, wondering what had the man so spooked. More wolves?

No.

It was half a dozen men on horse. They came riding two by two down the narrow strip of dirt and frozen mud that divided the forest. Trotting, not galloping, they were still a hundred yards back. Perhaps Woory knew something, but James didn’t initially note a hostile intent. Rather, he saw a group of men on fresher horses, soon to overtake the coach, yes, but no threat.

Then James took a closer look. His heart leaped into his throat.