May 18, 1676 Hatfield, Massachusetts Bay Colony BEN
On that restless spring evening, I stood on the stoop of a house that was not mine, and held in my arms the woman who was. The dark clapboards of our friend’s home glowed in the setting sun, defined by light and shadow like the feathers of a bird. There was a damp chill in the breeze and the scent of rain. I was grateful for the thick hide of my buff coat.
The house belonged to Lieutenant Allis and his family. Unlike my home, it was secure within Hatfield’s stockade and garrisoned by Connecticut troops. For two months my family had sheltered here, as if prisoners in our own town, while King Philip’s war raged without.
The bugle’s first call summoned our troops to assemble, but I would not rush this farewell. The bonds of love forged in six years of marriage had me firmly tethered, dreading the march to an ill-advised battle. I cupped Martha’s fair face in my hands, her soft lips parting to mine. She returned my tender kiss for a moment, then unlaced her fingers from the nape of my neck and met my gaze.
Her green eyes seemed somehow brighter in the fading light.
“You must go. It is not your nature to disregard the summons.”
I looked past her to where my bay mare, Scout, stood saddled and waiting, and beyond that to Main Street, a ribbon of hard-packed earth lined with solid two-story houses, gray and dismal as the sky. A handful of soldiers passed. Most walking, but some on horseback, muskets slung over their backs and horns or bandoliers across their chests. Heeding the summons.
“You are afraid.” Martha’s frank words snared me.
“Yes.”
“As though this were your first expedition as a military scout.”
She awaited my explanation. I reached for a wisp of her copper-colored hair, held it gently between my fingers, and tucked it back inside her linen cap. My hand lingered on her soft cheek.
I chose my words carefully.
“The River Indians’ theft of our livestock is scant reason for this venture. Negotiations with them should have been allowed to proceed.”
“So you find this action unwarranted?”
I nodded. “Aye. Also, our War Council moved so swiftly I’ve not had time to scout the River Indians’ camp at Great Falls or gather the intelligence we need.”
“I thought a captive had escaped, bearing information? Reede?”
I sighed. “He thought the tribes were River Indians—Nipmucs, Pocumtucks, and Norwottucks. Scant information on their weapons or numbers. Captain Turner trusts his report implicitly.”
“But you do not.”
I shook my head.
“Trust in God,” she said. “He will be with you in your battle and guide you safely home.”
I smiled at her words. Her faith in me was only surpassed by her unerring faith in God. Love may be blind, but at times, I longed for her to embrace my doubts, to glimpse my feet of clay. Yet I would not reveal all the shadows buried in my heart for fear I might lose her love. If I told her the Natives were likely women and children, unarmed, she would be horrified at my impending savagery. And if she knew warriors would descend on us as we retreated, she would be equally horrified at the risk I faced.
Again the bugle summoned, an urgent reminder of my duty. I settled my broad-brimmed hat on my head. Martha gently folded back the flap, pinning it to the crown above my left eyebrow.
“So your aim will be true.” There was a catch in her voice. She rested her cheek against my buff coat.
I snugged her russet cloak around her shoulders and wrapped her in my arms again. She had rinsed her hair in lavender water, and the familiar scent comforted me.
The lieutenant’s daughter-in-law, Rachel Allis, appeared at her door beside us, holding our wee babe, Sally. “They want one last goodbye,” she said.
Our other daughters—Mary, the eldest and sweetest, just learning to read, and Mattie, always determined to be heard—pressed past Rachel and scampered to me.
I bent and hugged them, encircling one in each arm, closing my eyes against sudden tears. I kissed Mary’s smooth brow and Mattie’s plump cheek. I rose, patted their bums, and softly urged them back inside. Rachel held Sally up to me, and I kissed her little nose. She rewarded me with a giggle and flung her chubby arms around my neck. I held her tight before I reluctantly handed her back, and gazed after them as Rachel entered her house and closed the door.
“They should be asleep, Martha, ’tis half past six,” I chided, my gruff tone not hiding the tenderness I felt.
“Asleep? With a houseful of families from beyond the stockade, and armed soldiers? There are too many pleasant distractions.” She laughed, shaking her head at my folly.
“I, too, am fond of pleasant distractions.” I drew her to me and kissed her once more, then pulled away before I lost all resolve. I could not allow us to fall victim to the gossip of our town’s mutual watch, busybodies entrusted with enforcing our Puritan ideals and squelching all pleasure.
“Will you watch us march past?” I asked. The comfort of one last look at her.
“Of course. We’ll put the wee ones to bed, then be in the dooryard with our lanterns.”
Martha grazed my cheek with her fingertips, her soft touch sending shivers through me. “Your fair beard will need a trim when you return,” she said. And then she was gone.
Once the door closed behind her, I turned and strode through the herb garden, brushing against the clove-scented gillyflowers. I untied Scout, patted her neck, and mounted. As always, I checked my weapons—securing my flintlock in its sling across my back and taking inventory of my pistol, sword, and ammunition.
It was a short ride to the commons. The houses lined the broad main street, facing each other like opposing armies, shielded by fenced dooryard gardens of herbs and flowers. The size and design of our homes disclosed their Puritan owners’ ranks as clearly as the colors and insignia of officers’ uniforms. The grandest house was Reverend Atherton’s, commanding the northwest corner of the common, an extravagance of three chimneys exhaling smoke into the breeze.
Maneuvering betwixt twitching flanks and stomping hooves, I rode at a trot across the green to where the heretic Captain William Turner sat astride his black stallion. Roughly seven score of mounted troops and foot soldiers milled about, awaiting commands. Twenty miles to the north lay our destination, the Great Falls of the Connecticut River —the Algonquian River Indians’ camp— where a bank of pewter storm clouds promised rain.
The fading sun cast the captain in a skeletal silhouette. His tarnished breastplate hung loose as a tortoise’s shell, and his helmet shadowed deep hollows in his pale cheeks. His black horse tossed its head and skittered about, and Turner clutched a handful of mane and nearly lost a stirrup. Prison had not been kind to him, and even after his release, he continued to fade, like one of Martha’s roses kept too long in a glass.
Massachusetts Bay Colony was solidly English and devoutly Puritan, and refusing to recant his Baptist heresy had cost Turner his freedom. After a year in a Boston jail, Turner’s wife fell ill. Governor Leverett had taken pity on him, setting him free on the condition he assume the undesirable wartime post commanding the garrisons of Hatfield and the neighboring towns, Hadley and Northampton.
“Ready for battle, Waite?” Turner asked as I approached. His firm tone couldn’t hide the rasp in his voice.
“Yes, sir,” I lied.
“Your men are well-prepared.” He nodded to our volunteer troops, who mingled amidst his highly trained Connecticut dragoons. “’Twas fortuitous the captive Reede escaped. We now possess details of the River Indians’ camp and their weak defenses at Great Falls.”
“Insufficient details, I fear.”
“Goodman Waite.” Turner gathered his reins and coughed into his fist. “Do you still harbor concerns?”
“Several, in truth,” I replied.
I guided Scout to come abreast of Turner and spoke my mind.
“The Algonquians’ theft of our cattle and horses last week was infuriating but hardly grounds for battle. And our council’s haste in voting to retaliate leads to my three concerns.”
“Get on with it, Waite.”
I kept my remarks precise and unhurried.
“Firstly, with all respect, sir, you may be relying upon faulty intelligence. I would have preferred to assess the situation at the Falls beforehand.”
“Well, you will simply need to be more vigilant henceforth.”
One did not replace the other. His lack of battle experience astounded me.
“Secondly, the Natives at Great Falls are likely the same bands of Algonquians we’ve traded with and shared our cornfields with for years,” I said, giving Scout her head to browse the fresh grass and show I was in no rush. “If ’tis true what Reede said, that they are aged men, women, and children, then ’tis likely they are not allied with King Philip and pose no threat to us.”
“I see no reason to spare any Indians at this point, Waite.”
“Attacking a peaceful village will serve no purpose,” I persisted.
“It is not your decision. Nor mine. The War Council voted.”
I inhaled and let my breath out slowly, reining in my anger. It had been a straw vote, at best.
“Lastly, and somewhat contrary to my other point, Reede may have underestimated the number of warriors on the islands near the main camp. Those I'd have detected had I been given more time. We could be vulnerable to ambush both on approach and on retreat.”
“Your objections are duly noted. I’d say the fat is in the fire at this point. Is that all?”
“Except for a caution about . . .”
Turner coughed again, then held up a hand to halt me. “’Twas a brutal winter, Goodman Waite. The Indians are starving. The pox and bloody flux have left them feeble, even their warriors.”
“Perchance, sir, but—”
“Besides, we have you, our famed scout, and the other one, Hinsdell, to lead the way. We march in a half hour. Take your position.” He tipped his hat and rode off.
“Yes, sir,” I said to the ass of his horse. Turner’s cough betrayed lung sickness, likely from his time in Boston’s prison. It was difficult to place confidence in a leader who fancied himself an avenging angel despite broken wings.
I went in search of my fellow scout, Experience Hinsdell, shaking my head at his ill-suited name. Although he was in his early thirties, as was I, he was green and lacked discipline. I found him at the edge of the common, mounted on his dapple-gray gelding.
“Did you speak with the captain? Any news?” he asked.
“I shared my concerns, which he summarily dismissed,” I said, with fresh irritation.
“He’s certainly pompous. And quite dim-witted at times. But you and I will be at the front and flanks, fortunately.”
“I’m pleased we have Lieutenants Holyoke and Allis, and Sergeant John Dickinson. Veterans of many battles,” I said.
The drumbeats commenced. I took my place in the second rank, behind Captain Turner and between Lieutenants Holyoke and Allis. The ensigns and sergeants took their positions, and we split our company into ranks and files. The mounted volunteers and Connecticut dragoons took the lead, and the flanks and our foot soldiers brought up the rear.
“Attention!” Captain Turner commanded. We stood impressively still, the only movement or sound the jangling of the horses’ bits and the beating of the drum. “Company. Forward, march!”
We headed north up the main street. Our women stood in the dark dooryards, lanterns glimmering like fireflies. Their prayers and words of encouragement floated around us. Feeling perhaps overly confident in our troops’ abilities, the captain commanded the mounted sections to trot and the foot soldiers to march in quick time, displaying an eagerness I did not feel and a vanity I found offensive.
When we reached the Allis home, lantern light illuminated Martha’s sweet face, and she waved. I would have called a halt if it had been my command to make. Instead, I smiled and doffed my hat to her, tears welling in my eyes, and she blew me a kiss.
Captain Turner signaled us back to a walk, and the chill wind bore down. Nose to tail, stirrups nearly touching flank to flank, we passed through the northern gate of the stockade. I cast a look ahead of me at my abandoned home, dark and squat in the twilight. I’d built it eight years ago, just before I met Martha. Knowing I longed to leave Rhode Island after my brother’s death, my father had deeded me the land. I longed to bring my family back home to it. Once King Philip’s war was over.
I smiled at my fond memories of a few months ago, before the garrisoning. Bouncing Sally on my knee, delighting in her smiles. Martha at the spinning wheel, her right hand holding the wool and her left feeding the roving to the bobbin. Mary and Mattie beside her on the rag rug, dangling a bit of yarn for one of the striped barn kittens. My family had thoroughly domesticated me, and I was not sure if my tenderness for them would be my redemption or my undoing.
I startled at a clattering of hooves and glanced to my left. Reverend Hope Atherton approached my flank. He was a young Englishman, stout and energetic, a graduate of Harvard. Six years ago, Martha and I posted our marriage banns at his first sermon in Hatfield’s new meeting house, and he had become a trusted confidante.
“Woolgathering, Benjamin?” he asked.
“Woolgathering indeed, Reverend. Not the best admission for a scout. I was thinking about my family.”
“’Tis hard to leave them,” he said, nodding.
“You and your goodwife have a new wee babe, do you not?”
“We do. Little Joseph. I suppose it doesn’t become easier to leave them as time passes?”
“No, in truth, it becomes more difficult. Still, your presence with us is a comfort.”
“’Tis my duty to accompany my flock. I pray the Lord will lead us to turn the tables on the Algonquians on the morrow.”
Reverend Atherton fell back into his position and a more sedate pace. I much preferred his common sense to the righteous fervor of Reverend Russell of neighboring Hadley. Our severed peace negotiations with the Algonquians had been his doing, his anger fueling the demand for troops to assail them. And now all would suffer for it.
We followed the Catawumpuck Brook, where Meekins Mill wheel spun lazily against the darkening sky, softly churning the water. Farther north, the river rushed over red sandstone, the same stone I’d used to build the fireplace of my home.
The sun buried itself behind the old graveyard, and a waxing gibbous moon rose slowly above the Connecticut River, casting shadows across our path. To the west, the sky still glowed a dusky violet, but ahead it was black with storm. My eyesight adjusted to the falling darkness, and I watched our ensign raise our Massachusetts Bay Colony flag aloft, red and white silk fluttering in the wind.
The Great North Meadow cupped us like birds in a nest of soft grass. Ditches and wooden fences crisscrossed the pastures, empty of the cattle the Algonquians had stolen. The sheep remained, and lifted their heads and gazed at us when we rode through. Their stubbornness kept them bound together like a ball of wool, lambs clinging to their sides. Even when the marauding tribe came, they refused to budge, sparing us their loss.
I eased back in the saddle, worrying again about the wisdom of this endeavor and Turner’s precarious command. Although our sworn purpose was to protect our loved ones, I feared this battle might instead lead to even greater danger. I lacked the rage required to risk so much for revenge. Perhaps the relentless assaults against our towns over the past year had worn down my spirit. Bowing my head, I prayed to the Lord to give me strength.
We approached the looming hulk of Sugarloaf Mountain, which the Pocumtucks called The Great Beaver. We’d soon reach a spring that flowed to Hopewell Swamp, where I’d lost my best friend Richard Fellowes to King Philip’s War last summer. And an hour’s ride beyond that, we’d come upon Bloody Brook, its former name of Muddy Brook forever corrupted by the ambush that had taken Experience Hinsdell’s father and all three brothers.
The horses’ dust and warm breath enveloped me, leaving no quarter for ghosts or demons, and I took solace in the murmur of champing bits and the soft squelch of leather and buff skins. Distant lightning ignited clouds above the treetops. Oaks and elms crowded the trail, wind bustling their leaves. I was grateful for their cover as we approached Deerfield. Young Reede said he’d seen some of our cattle there, and I increased my vigilance.
I guided Scout diagonally to the right, her passage graceful as any Spanish nobleman’s steed. I was eager to speak with Hinsdell before we reached Bloody Brook. Spying his dapple-gray mount in the moonlight that scattered through the trees, I fell into step beside him. He gave me a weak smile.
“I thought I’d ride with you for a bit,” I said.
He looked off into the distance before he answered. “You know my heart, Ben. There’s comfort in that.”
“They’re with God,” I said. Truth, but often of little comfort.
Hinsdell jerked the reins, though his poor mount was not unruly, and his voice cracked. “’Twas a simple transport of threshed wheat. We were no threat to the Indians.”
“I know,” I said.
“Tomorrow will be my day of reckoning. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.” He laid his hand on his scabbard.
I nodded and refrained from repeating my belief that the Natives we sought at Great Falls were likely not those who’d ambushed us before.
“Hallo, Bloody Brook,” he said with a sigh, when we reached its banks.
Captain Turner and Lieutenant Holyoke signaled to our company.
“Company, halt! Dismount and water your horses.”
Hinsdell and I led our mounts to the brook, where they dropped their heads and buried their muzzles in the dark water. It felt good to stretch my legs.
Sergeant Dickinson approached us, leading his horse. “A fitting spot to take a moment, hey, lads?” He removed his hat and ran a hand through his graying chestnut hair. “An unspeakable loss, Hinsdell, for you and many others. We will avenge your kin,” he said, then led his horse away.
In no time at all came the commands, “Prepare to Mount! Mount! Fall in! Eyes front! Company, march!” Young Jonathan Welles took up the old tune, “The Black Nag,” on his fife whilst Tom Belding resumed his beat on the drum. Fearing discovery, I sent Hinsdell back to silence them. Their simple efforts were meant to lift our spirits, but mine remained darker than the waters of Bloody Brook as we forded it and continued north to Great Falls.
We marched in the footsteps of our dead, having learned little from their sacrifice and doomed to echo their fate.
