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Authors: Amy Belding Brown
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Elizabeth Kettle weeping, her hands covering her face. She, too, is tied to her captor. Nearby, Ann Joslin stands with her head bowed,clutching Beatrice, whose small arms are clasped tightly around her mother’s bound neck.
Mary hears a woman scream behind her. She turns to see Priscilla Roper stagger and fall as an Indian strikes her on the side of her head with his club. Priscilla keeps her arms around her young daughter as she falls. But the girl is trapped beneath her and starts to scream. The Indian yanks her out from under Priscilla’s body. For a moment Mary thinks he will hand her to another woman, and she even extends her own free arm to accept the girl. Instead, he tosses her high into the air, swings his club and smashes her skull. The girl drops at his feet, dead.
Her captor tugs on her rope and Mary lurches forward. She is shaking so hard she is afraid her legs cannot hold her. Sarah moans and she hushes her urgently. The whole line is moving. Mary loses sight of Joss and Marie as they are swallowed in a great shifting chain of people. The Indians are hurrying the captives away, leading them south along the lane like cattle at a market. Abruptly, they turn west into the field, pulling and jerking the captives toward the forest. It is strangely silent; the only sound Mary hears besides feet shuffling through the snow is the warning shriek of a jay.
Mary sways under Sarah’s weight; her daughter slows her as surely as shackles. She feels blood from her own wound flowing down her left side. Waves of vertigo sweep through her. Where the snow has drifted and lies deep in a small hollow, she stumbles and nearly falls. The air is foul with smoke. They march in a long ragged column across the field, in snow up to their calves.
Only once does Mary look back. Their blood has made a jagged pink trail in the snow. The walls and roof of her home have fallen. A smoking pyre rises over the place where her sister’s body lies.
Then they go into the trees, and Mary feels as if she has come to the end of the world.
CHAPTER SIX
The snow is not as deep under the trees. It has been packed down by the feet of the Indians and captives in front of Mary, so she no longer has to wallow through drifts. Yet they move slowly, on a trail that only the Indians know. The tree trunks, black against the snow, remind her of a stockade wall.
They begin to climb a steep path disordered with roots and rocks. She hears children moan and cry out for their mothers, but they do not stop walking. They are strung out in a long line—Indians and captives tied together—a line that twists like a snake into the forest. Mary sees a group of warriors herding pigs and an ox. Some carry dead chickens and tools—kettles and rakes and shovels. A young warrior holds a leather flail in his left hand, idly flipping it back and forth as he walks. It is clear the Indians have plundered many houses.
She hears Indians talking in their garbled language. Several times she trips, but manages to recover before she falls. In her fear and fatigue, she begins to imagine that the warriors will drive them on and on until they all fall dead, never reaching any destination. The wound in her side burns and her chest and arms ache fromcarrying Sarah. The rope chafes her neck. She knows they must be climbing George Hill, though it feels as if she’s walked much farther than a mile. The light is muted under the trees, which makes it difficult to see the path, especially with Sarah in her arms. When Mary stumbles, the rope nearly chokes her.
Finally the land begins to level off and she sees the roof of a building poking over the brow of the hill. It is the old trucking house, or what is left of it, for it has been long abandoned. But it is shelter, and at this moment of exhaustion the sight of an English house gives Mary hope, especially when she sees the Indians preparing to stop for the night. Apparently even devils have to sleep.
Mary is still tied to her captor.
Mary hears a woman scream behind her. She turns to see Priscilla Roper stagger and fall as an Indian strikes her on the side of her head with his club. Priscilla keeps her arms around her young daughter as she falls. But the girl is trapped beneath her and starts to scream. The Indian yanks her out from under Priscilla’s body. For a moment Mary thinks he will hand her to another woman, and she even extends her own free arm to accept the girl. Instead, he tosses her high into the air, swings his club and smashes her skull. The girl drops at his feet, dead.
Her captor tugs on her rope and Mary lurches forward. She is shaking so hard she is afraid her legs cannot hold her. Sarah moans and she hushes her urgently. The whole line is moving. Mary loses sight of Joss and Marie as they are swallowed in a great shifting chain of people. The Indians are hurrying the captives away, leading them south along the lane like cattle at a market. Abruptly, they turn west into the field, pulling and jerking the captives toward the forest. It is strangely silent; the only sound Mary hears besides feet shuffling through the snow is the warning shriek of a jay.
Mary sways under Sarah’s weight; her daughter slows her as surely as shackles. She feels blood from her own wound flowing down her left side. Waves of vertigo sweep through her. Where the snow has drifted and lies deep in a small hollow, she stumbles and nearly falls. The air is foul with smoke. They march in a long ragged column across the field, in snow up to their calves.
Only once does Mary look back. Their blood has made a jagged pink trail in the snow. The walls and roof of her home have fallen. A smoking pyre rises over the place where her sister’s body lies.
Then they go into the trees, and Mary feels as if she has come to the end of the world.
CHAPTER SIX
The snow is not as deep under the trees. It has been packed down by the feet of the Indians and captives in front of Mary, so she no longer has to wallow through drifts. Yet they move slowly, on a trail that only the Indians know. The tree trunks, black against the snow, remind her of a stockade wall.
They begin to climb a steep path disordered with roots and rocks. She hears children moan and cry out for their mothers, but they do not stop walking. They are strung out in a long line—Indians and captives tied together—a line that twists like a snake into the forest. Mary sees a group of warriors herding pigs and an ox. Some carry dead chickens and tools—kettles and rakes and shovels. A young warrior holds a leather flail in his left hand, idly flipping it back and forth as he walks. It is clear the Indians have plundered many houses.
She hears Indians talking in their garbled language. Several times she trips, but manages to recover before she falls. In her fear and fatigue, she begins to imagine that the warriors will drive them on and on until they all fall dead, never reaching any destination. The wound in her side burns and her chest and arms ache fromcarrying Sarah. The rope chafes her neck. She knows they must be climbing George Hill, though it feels as if she’s walked much farther than a mile. The light is muted under the trees, which makes it difficult to see the path, especially with Sarah in her arms. When Mary stumbles, the rope nearly chokes her.
Finally the land begins to level off and she sees the roof of a building poking over the brow of the hill. It is the old trucking house, or what is left of it, for it has been long abandoned. But it is shelter, and at this moment of exhaustion the sight of an English house gives Mary hope, especially when she sees the Indians preparing to stop for the night. Apparently even devils have to sleep.
Mary is still tied to her captor.
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