Flight of the Sparrow (25 page)

“Mary,” he says, with a quiet desperation in his voice, “pray tell me—have you news of my wife and daughters—and Henry? Do you know how they fare?”

She stares at him. She cannot think of a way to frame an answer. “Henry and the girls were captured when we were attacked,” she says slowly. “But I have not seen them since.”

“And Elizabeth?” He is holding her hands so tightly that she fears he will break the bones of her fingers.

She slips from his grasp and whispers, “Oh, Henry,” choking on his name. She is vaguely aware that the room has gone quiet around her, that everyone is watching, listening, waiting for her response. She shakes her head and takes a step backward. She cannot continue to look into his fearful eyes. And so she stares at the floor as she tells him, in halting words, that his wife—her sister—is dead.

He says nothing, though his hands clench and unclench as she recounts Elizabeth’s valiant defense of the garrison. She tells of the fire and the suffocating smoke that drove them out of the house. She explains how they gathered the children and she watched the Indians butcher John Divoll before her eyes. She describes Elizabeth coming out of the house carrying someone else’s babe in her arms, demonstrating both charity and courage. As she speaks, Mary begins to tremble.

“She was struck down at once,” she says. “The moment she stepped over the threshold, she fell. On the very doorstep.”

Henry’s shoulders sink so deeply into his chest that Mary thinks he will collapse. His face looks pinched and sickly. “Pray, continue,” he says in a ragged voice. He has turned his face away.

“I am assured she died on the instant,” she says. “She did not move. Soon after, the fire engulfed her.”

He sways sideways and Josiah catches him before he falls, easing him onto the bench. Henry looks up at her, dazed. “I was there,” he says hoarsely. “With the other soldiers. The house was still smoldering
when we arrived. Bodies were strewn all over the yard. I saw two of my children—William, Joseph—stripped and mutilated—” He places his hands over his face. “I did not find the others or Elizabeth, so I hoped—I fancied—they had been taken captive.” He is silent for a long moment, swallowing sobs. “It must have been she whom I buried,” he whispers. “I did not know.” His hands fall away. “There were two bodies burned beyond recognition—one lay before the door. I did not imagine—how could I have known?” He stares up at Mary, his eyes wide, as if he is looking through her, as if she is not there. “She was charred black as the earth itself.” His voice is broken and raw. “A piece of her arm broke off when I lifted her.”

Mary is pierced by a bolt of horror. She goes to him and takes his hands in hers. He bows his head and his tears fall onto the floor. She can think of nothing that will bring him comfort except to whisper that she wishes she had died in her sister’s place.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Josiah
and Henry offer to take Mary to Boston, where she will finally reunite with her husband. The squire lends them his wagon and two horses to draw it, and Mary arranges herself on the wide seat, tucked securely between her brother and brother-in-law. She tries to provide what comfort she can to Henry, who is miserable with grief. He cannot rid himself of the horror of having buried Elizabeth unknown. For three months he had held to the hope that she was alive among the Indians, and the destruction of this prospect devastates him.

They pass many signs of Indian raids—barns and houses lying in charred ruins, fields left unplowed. Josiah plies her with questions. Did she know that Indians were carrying out these depredations against good and gentle English people? Was she aware that they butchered people as if they were swine at harvest time? Mary shakes her head, though she vividly recalls the celebratory dancing around the circle fire after a battle. How she took pleasure in the wild drumming. She examines her heart for the shame that should stalk there, but feels only numbness and a general lack of sensation. She is as one dead, being carried through a foreign land.

As they draw near Boston, she recognizes the long stretch of gray salt marsh on their left and Gallows Bay on the right. Yet the town seems unfamiliar and strange. She pulls the blanket tightly around her although the sun shines brightly and the air is mild. Josiah repeatedly assures her that Joseph is eager for their reunion. Yet she keeps wondering why he did not accompany Squire Hoar to the ransom site. Why did he not, at the very least, go to Concord and meet her there?

She shifts to find a more comfortable position on the seat. The rhythmic creaking has chafed the backs of her thighs even through her thick skirts. Her hand strays to her pocket, where she finds her Bible and her needles and scissors, still secure, ready for when she might need them again.

The rock fortifications and Boston Gate loom up ahead, the towering wooden gallows standing just outside the gate. It is late afternoon. Mary is aware of a constriction in her chest as they ride through the gate, as if she is bound with heavy rope. She tries to dismiss the feeling, for there is no sense to it. She is not a prisoner or a slave. She is seated between two people who love her. She should feel free.

Yet her heart pounds frantically. Foolishly. Her face feels raw and sore though the breeze is gentle. There are few people abroad—an old man driving five swine along the road, a woman sitting in her doorway, three children running through a field, laughing.

She thinks suddenly of James and feels an astonishing wave of grief. Only a week has passed since she lay beside him in the dark, talking, as he warmed her with his body. A few days ago they embraced so tightly it seemed they would never be apart. Then he arranged her ransom. Now he is gone from her life. Forever.

She manages to find her tongue. “Where is Joseph staying?” Her voice is husky and strained. “Does he live with you, Josiah?” She wonders why she has not asked this before.

Her brother turns to smile at her. “I will bring you to him
directly,” he says. “He lodges with Mr. Mather, who has been kind enough to shelter him in his distress.”

Mary nods. Increase Mather is her husband’s friend and counselor, renowned throughout the commonwealth, renowned in a way that Joseph has always wished to be.

The meetinghouse comes into view, its tall square walls gray against the sky. Mary notices that clouds have come up and now cover the sun. It seems like a bad omen. She smoothes her apron and, as Josiah turns the wagon into the Mathers’ yard, she begins to shiver.

Both men leap off the wagon and Josiah helps her down. She hears the rattle of a latch and the squeak of a hinge. She turns to see Increase Mather standing in the doorway, his narrow body bent forward. Toward her. He smiles and reaches out a welcoming hand. Yet despite his pleasant manner, Mary cannot make herself step forward. Instead, her body stiffens as if a freezing rain has suddenly borne down upon her.

Standing behind him in the shadows is her husband.

Mary feels shackled to the cobblestones. She knows her heart should rejoice. A prayer ought to fly from her lips, praising God for bringing her out of the wilderness. Instead, as she looks at her husband, a pain sears her skull, so jagged it is all she can do to keep her eyes open.

“Mary!” Joseph slips past Increase, smiling and opening his arms in a wide arc that reminds Mary of a pulpit gesture. “Praise the Lord, who has given you safe passage through the wilderness!” Sunlight glints off his skin and makes his face look sallow and pasty.

“Squire Hoar gave me passage,” she murmurs, but he does not seem to hear. He takes her face in his hands and kisses her forehead. She recognizes both alarm and pity in his eyes. She knows that weeks of hunger have transformed her, yet she has not realized until this moment that she wears the countenance of the dying.

She is dimly aware that Increase is talking with Josiah and Henry and calling for a servant to water the horse. His wife, Maria, appears in the doorway, a babe riding her hip. She is a plump, sweet-faced woman whose gray eyes seem charged with compassion.

“Come inside.” She smiles at Mary and holds out her free hand. “You must take refreshment at my table.”

Mary takes an uncertain step toward the door.

“We must give thanks to the Lord where we stand,” Joseph declares loudly, in a voice intended to carry down the street. “Mighty are His works!” He bows his head and begins to intone a long prayer of thanksgiving and supplication, praising God for His mercy and begging Him for more.

Soon after the prayer, Josiah and Henry take their leave, and Joseph guides Mary to the door. She leans on his arm, for what is left of her strength has deserted her and she moves as jaggedly on her legs as a new calf.

“How fitting that the Lord has returned you to us on the Sabbath,” Joseph says, as she steps across the sill. She hears the triumph in his voice and suddenly she is choking on fresh tears.

“Sarah is dead,” she whispers.

“Hush!” He takes both of Mary’s hands in his. His palms feel warm and smooth. “The time for tears is past,” he says. “You have been redeemed.”

She stares at him. “Sarah,” she says, pushing the name past her tongue, so that it will not catch in her throat again. It sounds like a hiss in the air.

“I know, I know.” He pats her hand. “’Tis the Lord’s will, Mary. She rests in His care now.”

So he knows. It is a shock—and a deliverance. Mary feels as if her spine has turned to dust; she sags against him as he leads her to the single chair at the table. At once, she begins to weep.

Maria presses a clean napkin into her hand and sets a steaming
posset pot ornamented with blue vines and birds in front of her. The perfume of the ale and cream mingles with the spices, provoking in Mary a dreamlike state. She stares at the painted birds, suddenly remembering a particular afternoon when she had watched a sparrow hopping about the trees as she sat knitting outside Weetamoo’s wetu. In the near distance a cluster of pine trees had risen dark green against the sky and beyond them a line of blue hills rolled away like the sea.

“Mary, you must eat.” Maria’s words startle Mary from her reverie. “Poor woman. Your skin lies upon your bones like linens set out to dry.” She picks up the pot. “Come, drink.” She puts the spout to Mary’s lips. “Gently now,” Maria whispers. “Gently. ’Tis over, Mary. You are free now.”

Free. Mary blinks up at her through the blurring tears. She does not feel at all free
.
She feels as a bird must, one which has escaped its coop and flown away, only to be caught in a net, its wings clipped. She feels double-caged, having both found and lost a world.

Obediently she sips from the spout. “We must find Joss and Marie,” she says weakly.

“May it please the Lord.” Standing beside her, Joseph bows his head and begins to pray again, longer this time—thanking God for His gracious mercy and begging Him to spare the lives and souls of their children. As he goes on and on, Mary’s mind wanders. She wonders if she has been out of the practice of communal prayer so long that she cannot attend. She thinks instead of Quinnapin and Weetamoo as she last saw them, tall and proud in their beads and feathers. She thinks of the great fire circle and the warriors dancing around it. She thinks of James and his piercing, compassionate gaze. She is uncomfortably aware of the walls that enclose her. She feels trapped, suffocated by the confinement.

When Joseph finally says, “Amen,” and she opens her eyes, he is frowning at her. “You do not look well,” he says. “Perhaps you would like to lie down?”

She is surprised by his consideration. She wonders if he has changed this much in the three months since she last saw him. Or is his solicitude for Increase and Maria’s benefit? “No,” she says, suddenly overcome by the same restlessness that was habitual during her captivity. She gets to her feet. “I would like to walk outside.”

He nods as if he understands, though she does not think it possible.

For nearly an hour they walk up and down the street in front of the Mathers’ house. A new bank of clouds comes up and swallows the sun, burdening the air with a damp chill, yet still they walk. Back and forth, back and forth. The movement soothes her, makes her feel herself again, for her legs have grown accustomed to walking many miles each day.

They do not look at each other, nor do they touch. Mary wants to ask her husband why he did not meet her in Concord, but she cannot seem to loosen her tongue. All her strength, all her
will
is in her legs. Instead, Joseph questions her. He asks for details of Sarah’s death, and when she haltingly describes it, he takes three sharp breaths, but does not reproach her. He asks if she was able to watch over Joss and Marie. He bids her relate the details of the attack on their home. He wishes to know if her faith wavered during her time in the wilderness. Yet she says little, for her tongue is stiff in her mouth, apparently infected by an Indian reticence.

“I would know of your treatment by the savages,” he says finally. She knows the reason for this question, knows that his concern is for her purity.

“They are a chaste people,” Mary says. “I was not defiled.”