Flight of the Sparrow (27 page)

She begins to have terrible nightmares. Nightly she wakes, gasping, from dreams of death. The air in the upper chamber in the Shepards’ home is close, nearly suffocating in its warmth, yet she rarely throws off her blanket. She has been cold for so many months, she cannot complain of this new discomfort. She forces her thoughts toward God, thanking Him that the sticky dampness down her back and neck is not blood but sweat. The fustian bed hangings do not stir as she rolls and thrashes on the bed. Beside her, Joseph sleeps, snoring lightly, unmindful of her distress.

She is afraid to let herself sleep. She listens to the night sounds—the call of owls, the regular cries of the night watchman as he walks the streets announcing the hour. Some nights she rises and bathes herself in secret, refreshed by the comfort of cleanliness. She thinks of James, remembering their long conversations and the night she spent in his wetu. How comforted she felt by his presence and the closeness of his body. She knows that any virtue she possessed before her captivity is gone, for she would willingly trade her soul for another such encounter.

One night she reaches out and strokes her husband’s thigh. She thinks of the animal pleasure of conjugal union, of the great, sweet rush of joy that came over her sometimes when he did not hurry their lovemaking. Her hand slides up until she brushes his member with her fingertips. He stirs, half aroused, and for a moment she believes he will take her in his arms and caress her in the old, tender ways. Instead, he pushes her hand away and rolls over so that his back is to her.

She swallows a sob. She wonders if she is ever going to experience passion again. She resolves to try harder to return to civilized ways, to be a proper wife to her husband.

She dutifully attends to all the regulations and manners of society, but finds her restored life exhausting. Every morning she straps herself into her bodice and binds her hair under her cap. She ties on petticoats and fixes a clean apron over her skirt, wishing for the loose ease of an Indian dress. As she rolls stockings onto her legs and fits her feet into the stiff latchet shoes, she longs for the comfort of moccasins. She ties her pocket around her waist, the one thing that she still possesses from her years in Lancaster, a talisman she held fast to throughout her captivity. As she slides her hand into it and feels her needles and scissors, she has the thought that it is not Providence alone that saved her life, but her own enterprise and the contents of her pocket. A wicked thought that she dares not confess to anyone, least of all her husband.

She is living in another woman’s house and cooking in her kitchen, and though Anna Shepard says nothing unkind, Mary knows from her frequent glances that the woman is scrutinizing her for signs of coarse and uncivilized behavior. Mary helps as she can, making bread and keeping the fire, washing clothes and bed linens, and spinning linen. She assists in tending the kitchen garden, and in plucking the geese of their soft down to make pillows and feather beds. But her fingers are strangely clumsy and the geese loudly squawk their complaints. The bread sometimes does not rise, and Mary’s bodice and apron are often spattered with grease.

She eats with a solemn desperation. For the first few days, she wondered if her appetite would ever be restored, yet the time soon came when it seemed she could never get enough food. There is wantonness in her eating now, a hunger that goes beyond food, as if she yearns to consume life itself. She remembers eating horse liver at the Indian camp, remembers the blood smearing her chin and
dripping onto her clothes. She recalls how deeply she rejoiced in the unseemly meal, how she cared nothing for her appearance or that she had grown wild as the forest beasts around her.

Joseph is patient, allowing her time to modify her behavior, to rid herself of what he calls the “savage ways” that have infected her. He insists only that she join him for prayer every morning and evening, certain that returning her to that discipline will ensure a correction in her spirit.

Then he begins to frown at her, and Anna comments on how agitated she seems. Once, after Sabbath morning service, she takes Mary aside and warns her that people are beginning to whisper that she was bewitched during her captivity. Some say the Devil himself possessed her while she was in the wilderness.

Mary’s cheeks burn in fury, much as they had when Weetamoo ordered her about. Yet she holds her tongue, bows her head and thanks Anna humbly for telling her. As the days pass, Mary begins to realize that she will never be restored to her former self. The way is blocked, not only by her disordered nature, but by the citizens of Charlestown. Everywhere she goes she sees their wary looks and hears their mutterings. She comes to welcome her husband’s search for a new and distant parish. The prospect of living in a town far from the Bay Colony’s gossiping tongues appeals to her. She thinks of it as a new redemption.

•   •   •

H
er constant concern—her obsession—is the recovery of Joss and Marie. She insists on journeying with Joseph as he travels through the Bay Colony towns north and south of Boston to earn a few shillings preaching as a guest in other ministers’ pulpits. But the wilderness, like some great beast, has apparently swallowed their children and is not yet ready to spew them out.

When Increase Mather suggests that they seek ways to negotiate with the Indians, Joseph meets with Daniel Gookin, the man
responsible for supervising the Praying Indians. He returns discouraged and anxious, fearing what neither of them dare say—that the children have been slain and, like Sarah, lie dead in some place they will never find.

Then comes a day when Joseph tells her that John Eliot, the minister of the Roxbury church, wants to meet her. “He has befriended the Indians and is familiar with their ways,” Joseph explains. “He would know their actions, for he has striven to bring them to Christ.” She thinks immediately of James and what he had told her of John Eliot, how he had visited Hassanamesit when James was a boy. How James had helped him with his Indian Bible. How much James admired him. Not only did Mr. Eliot baptize and befriend James, but he had secured his education in an English home. Mary shares none of this knowledge with Joseph, but eagerly agrees to the meeting.

Mr. Eliot calls on them the next day. He is a quiet, portly man with a small beard and graying hair that he wears to his shoulders. He sits easily in the Shepards’ great chair by the hearth and smiles at Mary throughout the interview. Joseph perches beside her on a wooden settle, yet he is curiously silent as Mr. Eliot gently inquires about her thoughts and memories.

She does not say much, for she does not know how to answer his questions. She does not believe that anyone, including Mr. Eliot, can understand her experience. And she dares not ask him about James while she is in Joseph’s presence.

“I have found Indians, on the whole, to be honorable men,” Mr. Eliot says. “They are always willing to explain their practices, and are full of curiosity about our Lord.”

Mary nods, trying to keep her hands still in her lap, though they twitch incessantly, even as her feet move beneath her skirts. “In truth, I have not found the Indians very different from English,” she says.

Joseph’s eyebrows vault upward. “I thought it common knowledge that they are overfond of mischief, much given to sport and dancing.”

She struggles to hold her tongue, to prevent herself from contradicting her husband as Mr. Eliot leans toward her. “I know you were largely among the unconverted, and no doubt you oft feared for your life, but I trust you felt the Lord’s providence through your many trials. And I would know, in particular”—he pauses as if uncertain how to best phrase his question—“I wonder—did you encounter any
Praying Indians
?”

She thinks at once of James. As heat rises into her bosom and neck, there is a choking sensation in her throat. She looks down at her hands twisting in her lap. Joseph is frowning. He takes her hand to prompt her response, but she begins to shake so badly that he doesn’t persist.

Instead, he apologizes to the minister. “Pray, forgive her,” he says. “She has been subject to such fits since her redemption.”

Mr. Eliot expresses his concern, and soon leaves, after praying aloud that the Lord will unstop Mistress Rowlandson’s tongue so that His light can shine more brightly for all.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Mary’s
silence—her “fit,” as Joseph insists on calling it—in the face of Mr. Eliot’s question troubles her. She thinks about it constantly, worrying it as she might worry a bit of thread in her fingers. She knows that her inability to speak was born of her guilt at wanting to stay among the Indians. No, it was more specific than that—she wanted to stay with James. Even after she learned that her husband was alive.

She spirals into depression and fear. Her distress is so monstrous that she soon finds herself unable to speak to anyone at all except Joseph and her sisters. Each morning, when Anna Shepard wishes her “good day” in her mournful voice, Mary can only nod and try to smile. Joseph apologizes for her and tries to explain that her strange behavior is due to the shock of her weeks in captivity. But Mary senses that not even he is convinced of this.

Joseph warns her that Mr. Eliot is only one of many who have requested an audience. She must find her voice so that she can answer their questions. Thomas Parker, Urian Oakes, Daniel Gookin, even Governor Leverett himself, have all asked to hear her tale. She begs Joseph to put them off, at least until she learns the fate of their
children. She tells him that her tongue was stopped by some malevolent spirit during the audience with Mr. Eliot; that she fears she will be unable to do more than smile and nod in answer to their questions. Silence has descended on her like a heavy snowfall, muffling even her tears.

Her husband’s fame has risen since her release. People are sympathetic to a man whose wife has spent so much time among the Indians. Who knows what depravities she has been subjected to, how tainted she is from living among heathens? They consider him noble for taking her back. He has been paid to preach in many towns throughout the colony, and people fill the meetinghouses, curious to learn what he will say. Mary accompanies him when she can, hoping to hear news of their children. They travel to Salem and Rowley, to Ipswich and Salisbury. Though Joseph is warmly received, people’s curiosity is fixed on Mary. She is constantly plied with questions she is unable to answer.

Then, one afternoon as they travel to Rowley, they are overtaken by William Hubbard, the Ipswich minister. He is flushed with excitement as he tells them that Joss has been released in Portsmouth. Mary is rapturous. She begs God to forgive her for doubting His mercy. She promises Him that, if He restores her children to her, she will answer every question presented her.

As if in answer to her prayer, on the eve of their journey to reunite with Joss, word comes that Marie has come into Providence. Mary cannot contain her joy. She takes a brisk walk along the riverbank, listening to the bird chorus and watching the reflection of clouds in the water, just to clear her head. She gives thanks to God again and again. The distress she has felt since her return vanishes like dew on summer grass.

•   •   •

T
hey travel to Portsmouth in a creaking wagon drawn by a hired horse. Mary has never felt so impatient in her life. She can hardly remain seated on the wagon bench.

Portsmouth is a jumble of houses clustered near the water. Several large wharves jut into the harbor, where three ships lie at anchor. Mary is surprised to see so many dark-skinned people in the crowded streets. They put her in mind of Bess Parker’s son, and she resolves to locate Bess and pay her a visit. Joseph makes inquiries at a local tavern and learns that Joss is staying at the home of Major Richard Waldron, on the outskirts of town.

Major Waldron greets them with stately aplomb and requires that they take tea with him before sending a servant off to fetch Joss. The servant is clearly an Indian—he has the height and facial features—despite his formal green livery.

Mary leaps from her chair when Joss steps into the room. He is as thin as a skeleton. When he looks at her, his eyes widen and he stops and blanches, as if he has seen a ghost. “Joss!” She runs to him, takes his head in her hands, pressing his face to her bosom. Long after Joseph pries him away, tears run down her face and she cannot stop saying her son’s name. She refuses to let him out of her sight. Through the rest of the afternoon and late into the evening, she watches him. She cannot stop touching him, patting his shoulder, dabbling her fingers in his hair, sliding her palm across his cheek. He is beginning to grow the fuzz of a beard and she repeatedly runs her finger over it, as if she expects it to disappear. She presses what food she can on him, yet her tongue can form no words other than his name. At times, she thinks she detects a crazed look in his eye, which causes her tears to flow again.

They take him home the next day. Joss, who is not stricken with Mary’s reticence, talks all the way back about his captivity, describing it as a great adventure. Mary rides sideways on the wagon seat so that she does not have to remove her gaze from his face for even a moment.