Manchaug - Love and Loss during King Philip's War

  Manchaug - Love and Loss during King Philip’s War

  Title Page

  Book 1

  About the Author

  Manchaug

  Love and Loss during the King Philip’s War

  Nipmuc Praying Village Short Stories

  Book 1

  Lisa Shea

  Copyright © 2017 by Lisa Shea / Minerva Webworks LLC

  All rights reserved.

  Cover design by Lisa Shea.

  Book design by Lisa Shea

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  - v1 -

  Manchaug

  That the Heathen People amongst whom we live, and whose Land the Lord God of our Fathers hath given to us for a rightfull Possession, have at sundry times been plotting mischievous devices against [Massachusetts colonists], no man that is an Inhabitant of any considerable standing, can be ignorant.

  ~ Increase Mather, 1676

  Sutton, Massachusetts. 1675.

  Prudence fanned her face, the humid August air steaming her through both her black cotton dress and the white cotton shift beneath. The wagon seat pressed hard beneath her bottom and the jostling of the past five hours wearied her beyond measure. Her father often boasted that she had been accompanying him on his missionary trips from the moment she left the cradle some seventeen years ago. Still, her body ached all the same by the end of a long day.

  A few tendrils of her light brown hair had come loose; she absently tucked them back beneath her white cap. Then she looked over to her father with fondness. His shoulders were hunched; his fingers thin where they clutched the reins leading to Arah, their trusty oak-brown steed. Minister Lockwood’s black wool jacket with its white bib-collar were both impeccably clean. His dark hair was streaking to grey and was trimmed close in a neat bowl shape.

  He caught her gaze and turned to nod at her. His voice was gentle, with the melodious lilt which had drawn so many non-believers to his sermons of salvation everlasting. “Not much further, Prudence. The praying village is just up around the corner. We will be safe there.”

  Prudence forced a smile on her lips, although tension wrapped her thin frame. When her parents had first begun ministering there was relative peace in central Massachusetts. Husband, wife, and young daughter had been warmly welcomed by the Nipmuc tribe which peppered their settlements throughout the rolling hills and shimmering lakes. Through persistence her father had even converted a few of the bands into praying villages – groups of Christianized natives who often adopted English-style clothing and language.

  Her eyes moved over the shadows of dense oak and birch, pine and maple which edged the thin wagon trail. Fear crept in to her tone. “It is not the Nipmuc I am worried about, Father.”

  He nodded, his lips dropping. “The Wampanoag are indeed in a state of fury. I do not know what those fools at Plymouth Colony were thinking. They treated the great sachem Metacomet as a child, chipping away at his land and passing it around like maple-candy sweets to his rival tribes. Of course Metacomet’s honor would not allow this to continue. And when his father mysteriously fell ill after a negotiation, and died …”

  Minister Lockwood shook his head. “War. Brutal war. Just when we were making good progress with bringing these heathens into God’s light.”

  Prudence nodded. “Mother would always say, Turn to Me and be saved, all the ends of the Earth; For I am God, and there is no other.”

  Her father’s eyes gleamed bright for a moment, and she could almost see the years rewinding. Back to when her mother was alive, a full six years ago, and they were happy, so happy …

  The shine faded and his gaze dropped to the weathered reins. “Some may now be beyond saving,” he murmured. “The Wampanoag are enraged and have drawn many other tribes in to support them. They burned Swansea and killed innocents. They attacked Mendon. Dartmouth. Other colonists who once supported the natives have no choice but to defend themselves. There is no middle ground any more.”

  The wagon came up over a rise in the hill.

  The trees opened up before them, revealing the clearing.

  Prudence’s mouth gaped open in horror.

  The last time they had visited, in the bright promise of spring, this land had held a beautiful village. The structures had presented a medley of traditional and new. There had been serene dome-shaped wigwams layered with bark alongside a collection of sturdy log cabins. Children had sprawled in the grass, reaching for speckled caterpillars or grabbing up handfuls of clover. Women clustered in the shade of tassel-strewn maple, weaving beautiful blankets. A central fire pit crackled with life, a wild pig turning slowly above it, the luscious scent making her stomach rumble. And Askuwheteau’s dark eyes had risen to hers –

  Her throat went dry and she leapt from the wagon to the ground. She called out in panic, “Askuwheteau!”

  She had practically grown up with him. As youth they had fished in the lake, bringing up pumpkinseed and bass. Askuwheteau had taught her archery; how to remain stock-still while a stag tentatively sniffed the air. In return she had patiently trained him in English, even teaching him how to write.

  And as they grew toward adulthood –

  Her legs could barely hold her up. Her desperate cry carried high over the destroyed village. “Askuwheteau!”

  Her father’s voice was hoarse. “Prudence, no –”

  She raced down toward the blackened ruins, her heart hammering against her ribs. There was no smoke rising from the charred remains of the nearest wigwam. No sign that the blackened heap which had once been a cabin had been ferreted through either by attacker or survivor. It was just a wasteland … a wasteland …

  She stumbled to a stop before the cacophony of wood and ash which had once been Askuwheteau’s new home. She still remembered the pride which shone in his dark eyes as he presented it to her, only a few months ago –

  She desperately dove into the rubble, throwing aside crisped bark and handfuls of soot. There was nothing … no bodies …

  Wild relief filled her, and she spun to stride out toward the central fire pit. “It’s empty! He’s not there!”

  Her father carefully guided Arah down the slope and pulled up at the center of the ruin. He took up his staff and walked over to another burnt-out shell. He somberly swept through it and then nodded. “Nothing here, either. Our friends may have been fortunate. Perhaps the raiding party was spotted at a distance and there was enough time to flee.”

  Prudence’s heart lifted. “There is a reason Askuwheteau has his name. He keeps watch. His father boasts he can hear a hawk from a mile away. I imagine Askuwheteau was the one who sounded the alarm.”

  There was a noise from the woods, and they froze.

  Nothing … nothing …

  A shape emerged from the shadows.

  Prudence’s heart overflowed with joy. “Askuwheteau!”

  He stood there, tall and lean, dressed in a tan cotton tunic over buckskin leggings. Finely embroidered moccasins, made by his late mother, were on his feet. His dark hair fell past his shoulders.

  But it was his eyes which held her. Eyes that were dark, deep, and steady on her own.

  She ran to him, laughing, and he drew her close into his
arms. She could barely get the words out. “You’re all right! Oh, Askuwheteau, you’re all right!”

  “Yes, we are all safe, dear Prudence,” he reassured her, his head coming down to rest on her forehead for a long moment. “It is you and your father I have been concerned about. It is not safe for you to be on the road.”

  Her father clutched his staff with pride. “I am an ordained minister. None would dare to harm me!”

  The shadowed look in Askuwheteau’s eyes showed his lack of matching belief. He stepped apart from Prudence and waved a hand toward the destruction. “I have heard that within your own colonies men – and women – are flogged or imprisoned for even minor infractions against the will of the community. What if those leaders now feel that helping the Nipmuc is treason?”

  Her father’s gaze flared at the suggestion. “Nonsense! Of course we can help you. You are Christians!”

  “And yet we are still not English,” pointed out Askuwheteau. “There are many who would have us all killed outright so that your continued expansion meets no resistance.”

  Her father’s eyes sharpened. “Those fools at Plymouth Colony who hung those Wampanoag started this whole mess. They’ll send us all to the very gates of Hell.”

  Askuwheteau glanced around the destroyed village. His voice was rough. “We may already have arrived.”

  He looked again to her father. “We must get to safety. But we cannot take the wagon. You must leave it here for the night.”

  Her father’s mouth pursed, but Prudence knew well that there was no way to reach any other settlement before full dark fell. Marlborough, another praying village which held a mix of colonists and Pennacook natives, was a full twenty-five miles to the northeast. And to remain out alone while raiders were near was sheer folly.

  At last her father reluctantly nodded.

  Together the two men unhitched Arah and saddled him. Her father turned to Prudence. “Up you go, my dear.”

  She shook her head. She searched for phrasing which would let her worn-down father mount without hurting his pride. “I’m afraid I am quite sore from sitting throughout our long journey, Father. I am not as sturdy as you are. Please allow me to walk with Askuwheteau, to give my legs a chance to stretch.”

  To her relief he did not argue further. “Of course, my dear,” he agreed, and climbed up.

  Askuwheteau took one last look around the remnants of his village. Then he headed into the forest, leading the way for his two English friends.

  The woods closed in around them, dark and somber. But Prudence’s heart lifted. Askuwheteau was at her side – she was safe. The soothing sound of crickets echoed in her ears as streaks of moonlight dappled through the leaves.

  Askuwheteau’s gaze was shadowed and she was reminded again of the desolate scene they had just left. She drew close to Askuwheteau and softly asked, “Who attacked your village? Surely the militia would not have burned a praying village.”

  His eyes continually scanned the depths of the forest as they walked. “No. It was a neighboring tribe. One which had been jealous of our fine fields and our access to the lake.”

  Prudence nodded. Tussling between the various tribes and sub-tribes was a constant in the region. It was how they made their claim on the best hunting grounds and planting fields.

  Askuwheteau’s eyes were steady. “I am sure that part of the attack on us was, indeed, due to Metacomet’s war against the English. The raiders were upset that we have left the true way of our ancestors. They turn on us because we have chosen to understand that Great Spirit is equally named God and that there are ways to respect him which we did not previously know of.”

  His shoulders lifted in a soft shrug. “But I think they were equally motivated by a desire to clear us off our traditional summer grounds. This chaos gave them an excuse to ensure, in the years to come, that they had control over the lush fields and fertile soil.”

  Prudence could barely put breath to her question. “Was anybody hurt?”

  He shook his head. “No. I spotted the raiders when they were on the far side of Lake Manchaug. There was ample time to gather the children and to move all to safety.” His eyes shadowed. “But not all are now with us. Several of the men have gone south to join up with Metacomet. They fear this fighting of tribe-against-tribe will doom us all. They feel the only way to ensure our survival is to drive the English out for good.”

  Prudence’s heart fell. “The English will never leave,” she told him. “We are not like you. You create a camp for winter hunting, then leave that behind to set up fresh homes by your summer fields. You are used to moving across the landscape in tune with nature.”

  He chuckled and turned to look at her. “And do you not travel in that wagon of yours, from craggy hill to forest clearing, sharing your stories?”

  She blushed. “I’m not like other women,” she murmured. “When we stop in at taverns I’m often treated as if I’m a half-wild heathen, despite my family’s ministry.”

  He raised an eyebrow at that. “And at the same time there are some in my tribe who feel you are a pressed-tight outsider looking to erase our past.”

  She gave a wry smile. “I suppose I do not fit well into either culture. I never have. I’ve always been kept at a distance by everyone.”

  His hand brushed against hers, and his voice was low. “Not by me.”

  Her throat closed up and she looked out into the woods. Just two weeks ago her father had brought her to the town of Dedham, south of Boston. A widowed accountant, about her father’s age, had made clear his interest in her. It had taken every skill in diplomacy she could draw on to put him off. For her heart had been caught long ago, on the banks of Manchaug, as securely as any pumpkinseed …

  He glanced over, concern in his eyes. “I apologize; I did not mean to upset you.”

  She kept her gaze averted. “No, no, it is all right. I have always treasured our friendship.”

  Friendship.

  Saying the word brought tightness to her throat, but there was no other way. She knew what her father would say to even the hint of an idea that she marry a native. As much as her father dedicated his life to bringing them into the fold, there was still a sharp distinction in his mind between them and us. Between the natives and a true, proper Englishman.

  She gave a small smile. “I am at peace with being something of a mystery to those colonists who hide for security behind their town walls. My father’s traveling ministry means I can understand the way your tribes move across the landscape.” She sighed. “But the Nipmuc, the Wampanoag, and the other tribes are butting against colonists who treasure strong walls and sturdy houses. The English are taught that all land exists to be owned and possessed.”

  His brow creased. “How can anyone lay claim to a tree? To the grass? These things come and go. They are swept away and renewed. They are part of the world around us. Can one man claim any of this? Claim all deer; all boars? Is not our world created by God for the use of whoever needs it?”

  “And yet that clearing which was burned held your traditional planting grounds,” she pointed out. “You expected to be able to return there with each new spring. In a way you think of that space as yours to return to. You said yourself the other tribe drove you out, in part, to claim it for themselves. So that they could reap the benefits of its fertile soil.”

  He pursed his lips. “I suppose that is true. But that is a matter between the members of the Nipmuc tribe. The stronger will stake its claim. That is our way.” His gaze shadowed. “Who are these English to come in from across the great ocean and push us all out?”

  She gave a soft shrug. “You call us English, but it’s the year of our Lord 1675. The first settlers fled from England back in 1620. Many of those colonists fighting now are the grandchildren who know no other life. This is their home. Our allegiance in our mind may be with England, but our home – our heart - our life – is here.”

  She glanced back at her father, riding contently on Arah. Her gaze swept to the
serenity of the woods around her.

  To the strong, brave warrior who walked by her side.

  Twining emotion rose within her, mixing anguish and desperate dreams.

  Her heart, truly, was here.

  He lifted his head, looking ahead. His voice eased out of him with relief. “We are home.”

  Prudence blinked. She could see it now. The faintest flicker of the glow of a campfire shone between the trees. Their steps quickened and in a few minutes they were within the shadows of the wigwams.

  Gentle warmth swept through her.

  There were the tribe members she had come to know so well. Eight-year-old Boy-who-laughs with his lopsided grin, dark shock of hair, and deerskin britches. The wise Morning-Dove in her crimson cotton dress and long gray hair braided down her back.

  Askuwheteau’s father, the sachem Machk, came forward with his young wife, Sokw. Before Machk could speak, Sokw’s eyes flashed sharp at Askuwheteau. “You should not have risked the tribe’s safety to go for them. Your job is here. To watch over us.”

  Machk serenely waved a hand toward the lake. “There was no cause for concern. My elder brother, Manchaug, drowned in this lake. His spirit remains here and watches over us all.”

  Her mouth turned down. “And now you are sachem, my husband, and we must put the needs of our tribe above all else.” Her eyes shot to Prudence and Minister Lockwood. “Certainly above any English.”

  Machk turned to the minister. “You must excuse my wife. The attack on our village has been quite stressful, as you can imagine.” His face took on a glow. “And we have only just learned that she is with child.”

  Her hand went possessively to her abdomen, and her eyes swept challengingly to Askuwheteau.

  His face went still. It was a long moment before he spoke. “So soon? But my mother was only laid in the sacred soil at the Catching Fish moon.”

  Prudence wrapped her arms around herself. She remembered that chilly March day with clarity. The men had to work hard to dig out the hole to lay Askuwheteau’s mother to rest. Given how tenaciously the woman had fought to live, all through the long months of her illness, it had seemed a fitting tribute.