Flight of the Sparrow (28 page)

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A
s soon as they are back in Charlestown, Mary is desperate to be reunited with Marie. She does not even want to take the time to rest from their journey before leaving. But Joseph says they
cannot go. “There are rumors that the savages are gathering in that area for yet another assault,” he tells her. “I have been advised it is unsafe to travel that far from Boston. So we will wait for the soldiers to bring her.”

“But Marie needs us!” Mary cries. “She will require her mother’s succor.”

“She will have it soon enough,” he says. “We will discuss this matter no more. You must pray for patience and self-control, Mary. I fear heathen ways have tainted you.” And he turns away. She wonders suddenly if it is fear of the Indians that prevented him from rescuing her, and she is too ashamed to continue her supplications.

Under English guard, Marie is brought to Dorchester, where Joseph meets her and returns with her to Charlestown. When the cart draws up in front of the door, Mary runs out and pulls Marie into her arms. Her daughter’s face and form are even more skeletal than her son’s, yet there is a cheerfulness about her that assures Mary her mind is not disordered.

Marie reports that her captor was a Wampanoag warrior who gave her to his sister. She was not beaten or bound though, like Mary, she was forced to carry heavy baskets as the woman and her family moved from place to place. For several weeks Marie feared she might be killed at any moment, but gradually realized that her captors treated her no differently from their own daughters. She asks what became of Sarah. As Mary describes Sarah’s suffering and death, her voice grows hoarse and words fail her and soon she collapses into silence. She draws Marie close against her, clasping her for so long that the girl begins to protest.

As with Joss, Mary cannot draw her gaze from her daughter. She touches her face and arms and shoulders again and again throughout the day, to reassure herself that Marie is before her in the flesh, and not the phantasm of some sweet dream.

That evening, they sit before the hearth, a reunited family. After Joseph delivers up many prayers of thanksgiving, Marie confesses that she was not rescued by English soldiers, but by a Wampanoag woman.

“I was walking on the trail with the other women,” she says. “I was last in line. I had my basket on my back and it was heavy.” She touches her forehead, where the line of her basket strap still marks her skin. “One of the women—Motuckqua—came back to walk with me. At first I thought she meant to scold me, but when the others went round a bend and out of sight, she took my arm and dragged me off the trail into a thicket. We hid there for hours. I was frightened, but she made me understand she meant to take me back to the English.”

“Surely, she risked her own life to do so,” Mary says. “The Indians would regard such an act as treachery.”

Marie nods. “I would not be alive without her help. She gathered food and found shelter and led me to Providence.”

“I wonder what prompted her to such benevolence.” Mary feels her eyes burn with tears.

“It was the Lord’s doing,” Joseph says. “A miracle of His grace.”

Mary bows her head as he offers yet another prayer of thanksgiving, but she cannot stop thinking of the Wampanoag woman and her courage. She doubts she would have risked so much for an Indian child.

•   •   •

L
ate on a Wednesday afternoon, a week after the children’s return, Joseph insists on taking Mary to visit Daniel Gookin at his home in Cambridge. He tells her Mr. Gookin is an assistant on the Council of Magistrates and has the ear of Governor Leverett. He is now writing a book on the doings of the Praying Indians during the hostilities and wishes to question her. Although Mary does not want to be separated from Marie and Joss for even a few
hours, she obeys her husband. As he reminds her, the Lord has shown her abundant mercy by bringing her out of the wilderness and restoring her children. Mary should feel obliged to thank Him not just in word, but in deed.

She has never met Mr. Gookin, yet the name is disturbingly familiar. She remembers that James mentioned it and she also heard it several years ago in a darker context. It is the name of the man who first owned Silvanus Warro, Bess Parker’s lover.

As they draw up to the stately house, set back from the lane behind a sturdy fence, Joseph says he hopes she will find her tongue this time. A pretty servant girl greets them at the door, and takes their cloaks. She is about Sarah’s age and her movements remind Mary of her daughter’s quiet grace. They follow her into Mr. Gookin’s parlor—a long clean room with freshly whitewashed walls and a sand-scrubbed floor. A wide table is situated before the hearth and a cupboard carved in ebony and oak stands against the wall.

Mr. Gookin is a tall, thin man with gray hair and a cheerful countenance. Mary judges him to be well into his sixth decade, despite his obvious vigor. There is an uncommon sadness about him, yet he greets them with a warm smile and a gracious manner, bids them sit at the table, then signals for the servant girl to bring food. Mary’s eyes follow her as she bobs in and out of the room, bearing plates of small cakes and bowls of hot broth.

Joseph eats heartily, but Mary can do no better than pick at a cake and touch a few crumbs to her lips. Mr. Gookin smiles benevolently and speaks directly to Mary. “I want to be plain, Mistress Rowlandson,” he says. “I am still seeking news of some friends—Praying Indians who were under my tutelage before these terrible hostilities started up last summer.”

Mary nods. She wonders if James was one of his students, tries to carefully phrase a question. But before she opens her mouth, Joseph starts to speak on her behalf. He explains her late speaking
disability, his concern that the Indians bewitched or corrupted her. She stares down at her lap in silence, though she longs to contradict him.

Mr. Gookin listens politely to Joseph, then addresses Mary again. “I am particularly curious to know if you encountered one Indian who goes by the name of James Printer.”

She looks up at him, startled. “I met him,” she says cautiously.

“Ah!” His face brightens and he runs his hands across his knees. “Tell me, how did you find him? I would know particularly of his loyalties. Were they clear in his dealings? Has he remained true to the English cause? Or has he gone over to Philip?”

Confused feelings tumble within her. She does not know what her answer should be. She is not even sure what the truth is. Finally, she says, “I did meet him, but I fear I could not discern his loyalties.”

“Ah,” says Mr. Gookin, nodding solemnly. “’Tis no surprise, in truth. He’s crafty. One of the cleverest Indians I ever met, but not fully converted, I warrant.”

Mary’s impulse is to protest, yet she restrains herself, knowing that a passionate reaction would stimulate questions she does not want to answer. She says nothing, glances away at the small west-facing window, where she sees dark clouds rolling up the sky, lengthening the shadows in the room. She is surprised that Mr. Gookin does not light a candle or a lantern. Joseph asks him a question, and they embark on a long conversation about Indians, the hostilities, and the terrible toll the war has taken on English resources and lives, until Mary is no longer able to discern how one word is fitted to the next.

She senses a motion from the corner of the room, just beyond the firelight—an elusive deepening of shadows that reminds her of the stealthy, slinking walk of Indians in their night encampments. They always seemed just beyond her sight, like spirits or demons. At
first she assumes it is the serving girl, but when she comes into the room bearing another platter of cakes, Mary realizes it was not her. She notes the shift once more, to her left, and this time she turns toward it. The movement again—not furtive and threatening as she first imagined—but humble, unassuming. She fancies she catches a glimpse of a dark brown arm as the fire flares up. She is suddenly aware that Joseph has stopped speaking and that Mr. Gookin is looking at her.

“Mistress Rowlandson?” He leans toward her. “Is something amiss?”

“No.” She tries to order her thoughts. “I fancied I saw something—someone.”

He smiles. “I assure you, there is no danger here. You are quite safe.”

“I fear my wife’s time in the wilderness has attuned her to shadows,” Joseph says quickly. “She startles easily.”

Yet even as he speaks in her defense, Mary turns again to look into the room’s corner.

“Ah.” Mr. Gookin has followed her glance this time and now he smiles. “’Tis but Silvanus—”

He continues to speak, but Mary is no longer hearing his words, for the name
Silvanus
has turned her cold.

“Silvanus?” she says aloud, breaking into Mr. Gookin’s narration.

“Aye.” Mr. Gookin smiles at her. “Pretentious, I know. But slaves are often strangely named. ’Tis not to be held against the man.”

Her heart begins to beat fiercely against her ribs. She is surprised that Joseph does not hear it. “I would speak with him,” she says, in such earnestness and excitement that she nearly rises from the bench. “Please.”

Joseph puts a warning hand on her arm. “Please,” she says again. “I would know if he has any knowledge of Bess Parker, lately of Lancaster. She is someone I once befriended.”

“Once gave aid to,” Joseph corrects her. “You showed her mercy. She was not your friend.”

She wishes she could wave him away, like a pestering fly. “May I speak with him?” she asks again.

“Of course, of course.” As Mr. Gookin rises and gestures, Mary turns to watch a tall black man come forward into the light.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Silvanus
is as dark as the shadows he steps from. Yet he exudes such a liveliness about his person that Mary instantly understands why Bess Parker was drawn to him. He listens closely to her questions, and answers directly, with no hesitation, no hint of awkwardness. He admits he and Bess sinned, that he is the father of her child. He says that the child has been sold, he knows not where.

“And Bess?” Mary asks. “Can you tell me where she might be found? I would speak with her.”

Silvanus gives no answer.

Mr. Gookin shifts in his chair. “I fear she is dead, Mistress Rowlandson. By her own hand.”

“No!” Mary puts her hand to her mouth. “Pray, tell me what happened?”

“I am told she drowned herself not long after she returned to service in Salem.” Mr. Gookin glances at Silvanus. “I did not know the girl. But perhaps it was a mercy.”

Mary cannot tell if the sag in Silvanus’s shoulders is from grief or anger.

“I am sorry,” she whispers, and it is to Silvanus, not Mr. Gookin, she speaks. “So very sorry.” She swallows tears. Joseph presses his handkerchief into her hand.

Mr. Gookin looks distressed, and Silvanus still will not meet Mary’s eyes.

“I fear my wife is not well,” Joseph says, rising. “We must take our leave.”

Mary stands beside him. She is, indeed, ill, but it is not a sickness that can be cured by leaving, or by any physic. “God go with you, Silvanus,” she says, knowing at once from Joseph’s frown that he believes she should not have spoken this blessing to a slave. Yet she cannot bring herself to regret it. She turns to Silvanus again. “Have you searched for your child?” she asks. “Have you any hope of finding him?”

He stares at her. “I am not a free man, Mistress. Mr. Gookin is my former master, but now I am the property of Mr. Jonathan Wade of Medford. ’Tis by his benevolence that I am here today to repair Mr. Gookin’s roof.”

She sees that Mr. Gookin is not looking at Silvanus and wonders if he is ashamed. But it is not something she can courteously ask. Besides, Joseph is already saying good-bye and guiding her to the door.

•   •   •

A
fter the encounter with Silvanus, Mary takes to her bed. She lies feverish and spent, dreaming of Indians and black slaves, and meditating on Bess Parker and her child. She cannot stop imagining the poor woman’s body as it is pulled, blue and bloated, from a river. She relives her own despair at the deaths of Mari and Sarah. She revisits her belief that all meaning in life has fled. Bess’s son did not die in her arms, yet he was sold into slavery. Was that any better? Mary has been sold herself, has witnessed the arbitrary brutality of master against slave, has known the fear of being struck or slain
at any moment. How can any mother bear the knowledge that her child is daily subjected to such cruelty, alone and unprotected?

Anna Shepard makes healing broths and possets, and Marie patiently feeds Mary. Joseph prays with her each morning and evening. He reads her long, cautionary passages of Scripture. Slowly she recovers her strength. She becomes more certain that God has allowed these terrible trials to fall on New England because they have embraced slavery. Instead of examining themselves, the English falsely and foolishly believe that whatever they do is approved by God.

As soon as Mary is well again, Thomas Shepard makes it plain that they have neither sufficient food nor room to give over to the entire Rowlandson family. When Mary suggests that they return to Lancaster and rebuild, Joseph dismisses her idea. “Has not the Lord harried us out of that country?” he asks and then pauses a moment to look closely at her. His eyes are narrow.
Like a snake’s eyes,
she thinks, and feels a pang of guilt for her wicked thought. “Why would you want to return to a frontier town, Mary? Has not your contact with heathens been sufficient?” There is something hard and sharp in his tone, as if he delights in wounding her.