The First Conductor
Michael Lockwood
Mohican Village
Near present-day Greenfield, Massachusetts
Robert Lockwood’s knees hurt from kneeling in front of the firepit in the middle of the wigwam.
His hands hurt, knuckles painfully white, from being tightly clasped in prayer for hours.
His eyes hurt from the smoke that lingered in the wigwam rather than rising through the hole in the top.
But, mostly, his soul hurt. He spent most of his time in prayer. Whether it was for patience, forgiveness, vengeance, strength or even an end to all of this. Perhaps it was a prayer for all of those things. His prayers had long since ceased to be ones of words and conscious, coherent thoughts. His “prayers,” such as they were, were streams of raw emotions and carnal appeal for assistance. Pleading for something other than this feeling of hurt.
But, all he felt was a silence. It wasn’t an emptiness; that would have pushed him over the edge of despair. It was simply a silence of waiting, as though the Almighty had given instructions and He was waiting on Robert to fulfill those instructions.
The problem was that Robert didn’t know what those instructions were. Had he missed some sign? Some pointer of where he was to go? He didn’t know and Robert felt all the more lost for it.
Elinor had taken the children into the village after their sick time was over. Thankfully, they had been clean and accepted safely behind the walls.
But, Robert couldn’t allow himself to leave the wigwam that had been his home for the last few weeks. He couldn’t return to civilization, any form of it, even as rural as a Mohican village, in this way. He didn’t feel as though he had control of his body, his mind, or his emotions well enough to rejoin other humans. The quiet of the wigwam allowed him to think, both of vengeance and duty. Eventually he hoped the wigwam would allow him to find closure.
The flap that served as the door to the wigwam was raised and a cool blast of air entered. The smoke swirled from the new currents. Machk looked at the kneeling man and grunted.
“Has your god answered your prayers?” he asked with a sneer.
Robert didn’t feel the need to answer. Such a comment was typical of the large Mohican. Their vow of a few weeks ago seemed to have encouraged a sense of openness in the man, a view into a soul far more bitter than Robert’s. Robert, at least, had the dubious comfort of striking out against a real enemy that had taken his Susannah from him. Machk had none of that. The disease may have been brought by a Frenchman, but Machk knew deep inside that the French merchant had been just as much a casualty of the disease as his wife and infant son. Hating the French was a justification for a real hatred, the Almighty Himself.
Instead, Robert stood, ignoring protesting back and knees. He looked around the wigwam to see if he had forgotten to pack anything for their trip. He spied his worn Bible and picked it up. Defiantly, he placed the book in his satchel and looked at Machk, daring the big Mohican to say anything. For his own part, Machk simply snorted and let the flap close.
Robert took a moment to dump dirt from a crude bucket onto the smoldering embers. He would need to dig the firepit out when he returned, but for now there would be no hot ashes to catch the little wigwam on fire. He took a stout stick, brought for this purpose, and stirred the soil into the ashes, smothering them.
He stepped out of the wigwam and noticed the fog which blanketed the field. It was thicker in the dips of the land and thinner on the rises where tall grass poked through here and there. It was morning. He had lost track of time and spent the night in prayer. No wonder his knees and back ached. He had knelt soon after the sun had set to begin his vigil, breaking only to put more wood on the fire before returning to prayer.
Robert took a few moments to adjust his equipment. Unlike Machk, Robert did not carry a bow. While he had gained some proficiency with the ball-headed club, the simple bow and arrow eluded him. Even Machk had finally given up.
Instead, Robert adjusted a pistol and ammunition at his belt. It was the same gun that had taken his Susannah’s life, taken from Jean-Marc Crevier’s cold, dead hand. Luckily, the Frenchman had included a full pouch of lead conical bullets and a powder horn full of gunpowder. It wasn’t going to last forever, but it had allowed Robert to practice with the unfamiliar weapon. To his surprise, he proved to be quite capable with the pistol, though he had little experience with firearms. The pistol was well made and forgiving for a novice marksman.
Machk had sneered at the weapon but said nothing. Robert would only have one shot from the pistol before it became a smaller version of the club in his main hand. He wouldn’t have time to reload in the heat of battle. That would just have to do.
They set off at a trot, heading south to follow the river. The plan was to follow the river to the Puritan settlement at Agawam Plantation. Hopefully, Robert could bargain for some ammunition and gunpowder. If not, he could always take some from the first French village they raided.
Machk set a blistering pace and Robert soon found himself completely focused on making sure his feet didn’t catch on sticks, roots and rocks.
Agawam Plantation
Near modern-day Springfield, Massachusetts
It was late in the day when Robert and Machk topped the final rise to the wide valley where Agawam Plantation resided. There were two settlements here. One was a small homestead: a main manor house, a warehouse, some longhouses and a sizable sty for pigs. A short wooden fence surrounded the buildings, meant to keep wild animals out.
To the south, atop the largest hill, a new palisade was being erected around temporary wigwams.
Robert could hear the noises of tools and laboring men even from the top of the hill.
He looked at Machk and nodded before taking a step toward the settlement. Machk simply shook his head and followed.
A pair of men stood as they approached. The older one on the right was familiar. Bryan Pendleton had been a neighbor in Watertown and one of the more respected leaders for both his leadership and his wealth. He had shared the same parcel of land with Robert and the two men were on friendly terms.
“Robert!” Pendleton exclaimed and dropped his tools. “Bryan,” Robert said. “How are you?”
“As well as I can be . . . ” Bryan said with a smile that quickly soured as he sensed something in Robert’s face. “Robert? What has happened? Where’s your family?”
Even months later, Robert still shied away from the memory of Susannah’s cold corpse. “Johnathan and Deborah are well and staying with Elizabeth.” Robert’s hand gripped Jean-Marc’s pistol tighter. “Susannah has gone to sit with our Lord.”
“My condolences, Robert,” Bryan said. “I shall offer prayers for her soul.”
“And yours, Bryan? How do they fare?” Robert asked.
“Very well,” Brian replied. “We arrived here a week ago and William was gracious enough to grant us shelter. Eleanor left with the children the next day and took them to Dorchester, down the river. I’ve stayed with William to help with erecting this wall.”
“I am happy they are well,” Robert said. “But I was not aware that events have warranted building a palisade.”
Bryan shrugged. “This isn’t Watertown and William faces dangers that we did not.” He turned to talk with Machk. “I mean no offense, my native friend.”
Machk responded with a gaze that was chilly, bordering on hostile. Bryan wasn’t one to back down from a hostile person, regardless of race, but Robert was glad when he returned his attention to Robert.
“After you left, we saw Jean-Marc Crevier with a large bruise on his face riding one of the best horses the new comte had. He nearly rode a few of our brothers and sisters down in his haste.” Bryan sighed. “We were afraid that he was connected to you and your family missing.”
The silence hung between them with the unasked question.
“I was responsible,” Robert said. “That evening, I accosted Jean-Marc and stole some papers from him. He was going to simply kill me, but De—” Robert shook his head. “Something startled him and he shot Susannah.”
“Then the fault is his, Robert. Not yours. He will face God’s judgment in the Lord’s own time.”
“He is facing His judgment as we speak.” Robert drew the pistol from his belt, careful to keep the barrel facing the ground. “I ensured that this weapon would be the last he ever fired.”
Bryan merely nodded and motioned for Robert and Machk to follow him.
“I will take you to talk with William,” Bryan said. “We can talk on the way there.”
Robert nodded and stepped to his side. He heard an irritated grunt behind him but ignored it.
Machk would either follow him and Bryan or not. Robert spared no further thought.
“As I said, after you left, the new comte began his reign of abuse,” Bryan said. “I have never known a human being with such a childish soul in a grown man.”
“How so?” Machk asked, finally showing a flicker of interest.
“He became obsessed with enemies all around him,” Bryan said. “The day after Jean-Marc left, the comte gathered all of us in the square. He had the guards in full armor and weapons and the wheel had been rolled out.”
Robert stiffened. Machk’s keen eyes noticed this. “There is some significance I’m missing?”
“Aye, Robert’s brother, Edmund was arrested and chained to that wheel,” Bryan stopped. “JeanMarc systematically broke each and every bone in his arms, legs, hands and feet as well as a number of ribs. Edmund couldn’t stand to give his arms relief nor could he hang to let his legs rest.”
“Edmund spent three days in agony before the Lord showed him mercy,” Robert said quietly. “You did not tell me of this,” Machk said with a strange note of accusation in his voice. He then let the silence hang for a few moments. “You have more than enough cause to hate the French as I do.”
“Not the French, my friend,” Bryan said. “One man committed these acts and he has paid the price with his own life. We cannot ask for more.”
“We can demand more from the French,” Machk snapped. “This man was a Frenchman and had all of the evils that race possesses. Your new Frenchman shows that the French soul is corrupted.”
“Jean-Marc and the comte are two different creatures. For all of his ills, Jean-Marc was a man of integrity.”
“He was a murderer!” Robert snapped.
“Undoubtedly,” Bryan replied calmly. “But, in your honest heart, Robert, you know that what JeanMarc did was motivated by his devotion to France, not from his own little soul.”
Robert nodded against his will. Bryan nodded and turned to continue.
“The comte made a speech, a paranoid speech about how Jean-Marc had allowed treason to fester. He fully intended to expunge this and said he would take whatever measures were necessary.”
Machk grunted. “I know of sachems who behave much like this.”
“How does your tribe handle such men?”
Machk shrugged. “They are removed and a new sachem is chosen.”
“If it were only that simple for us as it is for your kind,” Bryan sighed.
Robert glanced at Machk and saw the indignation in his eyes. Robert silently willed Machk to be silent and let it drop. Bryan hadn’t meant it as an insult, simply as a way of making a comparison. But, after spending time with the Mohican, Robert knew that the process of removing a sachem and replacing him with a new one was anything but simple. Matrilineal lines had to be traced and evaluated so that the next sachem would be legitimate.
Yet, Robert also knew Machk well enough to recognize the look in the large Mohican’s eyes. Machk wasn’t going to let this perceived slight go unchallenged.
“Bryan is only referring to the clarity of action that the Mohican shows in removing a sachem who is unfit,” Robert said. “He wasn’t speaking to the process of removal and replacement.”
Bryan nodded agreement and Machk looked somewhat mollified. It was hard to tell with the big Mohican. He was a man who found insult in anything that a white man might say, regardless of how innocent. Machk was a wise man, but all too often let his own anger cloud his view on the world.
The rest of the journey was short but passed in silence. Bryan appeared to be unwilling to risk the chance of insult that his previous comment seemed to have excited. For his own part, Robert was glad for the quiet that let him regain his composure after talking about Jean-Marc.
Bryan had a point; Jean-Marc was a zealot. Not for God, but for France itself. What he did was for the glory of France, not for his own ego. Before Jean-Marc had murdered Edmund at the wheel, certainly before he shot Susannah, Robert had felt a detached wariness toward the man who had been assigned to advise Watertown on how to integrate into French society. One was always careful about what they said around Jean-Marc, but there was no animosity between him and the people of Watertown.
That is, until Edmund had a little too much to drink at the public house and spoke his mind too blatantly where Jean-Marc could hear it. Of course, Edmund hadn’t known that Jean-Marc was in the common room, but that made the talk no less foolish.
If Jean-Marc’s aim had been to punish sedition, a quick, relatively painless hanging or beheading would have been sufficient unto the task. No, Jean-Marc had wanted to make a statement. Make a violent, bloody, horrific example now and, perhaps, scare the rest of the Puritans into behavior that wasn’t contrary to French goals.
But, Jean-Marc had misjudged the Puritans, only succeeding in driving the open talk of dissatisfaction into the quiet hidden holes and family homes. Puritans were used to oppression and, as long as no sedition was expressed, Jean-Marc was content to let them go on as they wished.
But, what about Susannah’s death at the man’s hand? Robert didn’t want to revisit that memory, and not simply because of the pain that memory held. He didn’t want to examine it too much lest he come to a different conclusion than the hate. But, he couldn’t help himself. His mind opened itself up and he found himself reliving that night.
Susannah’s death hadn’t been an accident. Jean-Marc had come to their campsite with murder in his heart. It was Robert who was to die, of that he was certain. Jean-Marc had no interest in Susannah and the children other than their leverage over Robert himself. Robert had seen the hate and betrayal in Jean-Marc’s eyes as the Frenchman raised the pistol.
Deborah’s cry had startled him and he turned toward what he thought was danger. His shot into the dark was a defense against his fears. There had been nothing except reflex in Jean-Marc’s actions. Of course, it didn’t mean that Robert had to like the man. Try as he might, pray as he might, Robert couldn’t bring himself to forgive Jean-Marc’s ghost. He hoped God would understand, if anybody could, the pain and anger at his heart. But, Robert’s ingrained integrity wouldn’t let his anger cloud reality. He still hated the man, but he could also see where Jean-Marc was simply a man doing what he thought was best for France.
Robert marveled at the depths of cruelty a man would go when he followed his heart and not his head. The heart was blind when it was invested in a cause. For Jean-Marc, that was the good of France.
Then, what did that say about Machk? Was his Mohican companion any different from Jean-Marc? Ironically, they were both motivated by France. Jean-Marc to protect and advance her, and Machk to destroy any works, or blood, of her. But, the mindset was the same. It was the same, single-minded focus. Both men overwhelmed by a single, solitary object of motivation.
And what did that say about Robert himself? He had already come to worry about Machk, but in the depths of his heart, he was sure the same rage and single-minded purpose lurked. The Robert Lockwood of a month ago would have embraced it. However, the Robert Lockwood of now wasn’t so sure.
Agawam Plantation
Near modern-day Springfield, Massachusetts
William Pynchon was cut from a far different cloth than Bryan Pendleton was. By no means was it a lesser cloth, simply a different one. Bryan would lead from the front, expecting, and often getting, others to follow his example.
William, on the other hand, was the weaver himself. He pulled the threads about him to shape the tapestry of the world he lived in. Each man, woman and child had their place in God’s creation, and William seemed to understand where that place was. Where Bryan would pull and heave to encourage, William would shape and nudge the best of all around him.
Robert knew and respected William. They had both come across with Governor Winthrop’s fleet in 1630. Robert and his brother Edmund had elected to move west along the northern bank of the Charles River to settle in Watertown and Cambridge. William and his family had moved to a town they called Roxbury just southwest of Boston proper.
He knew that William was a very intelligent man and shrewd in the ways of business. His town of Roxbury was set astride an isthmus of land that separated Boston from the mainland. That made Roxbury something of a funneling point. You had to go through Roxbury to get to Boston, with all of the economic benefits that came with it.
Yet, William had grown restless in Roxbury. His first wife, Anne, had died in the first year, leaving behind four children. He married Frances about a year later, but the ghost of Anne must have haunted him.
The rocks of Roxbury probably contributed to his desire to move west. The land, while fertile, was also full of rocks that made tending it a chore. Rumors had circulated that William had sent explorers west to find more easily arable land. Robert didn’t know if William had found it, but shortly after the news of French possession arrived in Boston, William, his family and a few close friends left Roxbury to settle on the Connecticut River. Robert hadn’t known where, or how, William’s new home was agreeing with him.
However, now that Robert watched William approach, he could see that the large tract of land was quite agreeable. William looked content. His lively eyes darted this way and that powered by a mind that was constantly busy.
“Robert?” William squinted as though his eyes were deceiving him.
“Aye, William,” Robert responded with a ready smile. He and William had always gotten along well together. He, Susannah, Edmund and Elizabeth, Edmund’s widow, had traveled to Roxbury to attend Anne Pynchon’s funeral. “You are well, I see.”
“With the Good Lord’s blessing,” William embraced Robert. The easy familiarity was typical of William. “Frances will be happy to see you. How fares Susannah and the kids?”
How many times am I going to have to relive this memory? Robert prayed silently to the Lord. “The children are well,” Robert responded. “They are with Elizabeth in a Mohican village on the
river north of here. Susannah is resting with God.”
William nodded understanding. He too had buried a wife and understood some of Robert’s pain.
Robert saw that in William’s eyes.
If he knew how Susannah had died, would he still be able to understand the pain? Robert mused to himself.
“My flesh and my heart faileth: but God is the strength of my heart, and my portion forever,” William quoted Psalms 73:26. “Have faith in Him. That is the only way to live.”
“Amen,” Robert said. “And thank you.”
“And let me offer my condolences for Edmund’s death. Bryan told me of it when he arrived a week ago,” William continued. “It seems as though this Jean-Marc has much to answer for.”
“Thank you, William,” Robert said. “Jean-Marc is dead.”
“I see,” William said thoughtfully. “Indeed, I see.”
“Robert, I was simply giving noteworthy news to William.” Bryan sounded uncertain. “Think nothing of it,” Robert said. “Truly, it is no secret and you betray no trust.”
“Thank you, Robert.”
William turned and beckoned the three men into the house.
“Please come. I believe that Frances may have something for dinner and you are all welcome to join us.”
* * *
“Robert!” Frances exclaimed. “I haven’t seen you in far too long!” Robert smiled and bobbed his head in recognition and some warmth. “Thank you, Frances,” Robert said. “You are looking well.”
“I am. Where are Susannah and the children?”
“The children are in a native village north of here,” Robert said. “Susannah is no longer with us.”
“How?” She paused as she caught her husband’s expression and the shake of his head. “Never mind that. Have you eaten?”
“Not since breaking our fast on the trail.”
“Then, please, join us,” she invited. “We are just about to sit down for our midday meal.”
“Absolutely!” William said with gusto. “And is that fresh bread that I’m sinfully smelling?”
“William Pynchon,” she said sternly. “Are you implying that my cooking is demonic?”
William’s mouth opened and closed a few times while his mind raced to find a way out of the corner that he now found himself in.
“Of course not, Goodwife!” Bryan came to William’s rescue. “Only that your cooking is so divine that it is fit only for our Lord. Our mortal mouths sin against the Almighty by sampling what is rightfully His, and His alone.”
Frances chuckled. “One day, Goodman Pendleton, that silken tongue of yours will land you in trouble.”
“Not if Eleanor can keep me in line,” Bryan responded. “Granted, that is a monumental chore in the best of times.”
They settled around a rough, yet stout, table that had been polished from care and use. Frances moved about the kitchen, setting plates for the midday meal. It was simple, in the manner of all Puritan things: bread, some pork and a hard cheese. This was washed down with mugs full of clean, cold water from a well behind the house. William said a simple, yet devout grace and the meal began in earnest.
“Regarding Eleanor,” William said. “Is it not time for you to continue to Dorchester to rejoin your family?”
“There is much more work to be done here, William,” Bryan said. “I can’t, in good conscience, leave your home undefended.”
“We will be fine,” William said. “We are friendly with the noble natives here, and they have much in the way of honor, so we are not overly concerned with an attack from them.” He lifted his cup and tipped it in salute to Machk. Machk barely looked up and acknowledged the compliment.
“I’m more concerned with the French, William. I know you are as well.”
“That is true,” William nodded. “However, the news that you have brought me convinces me that France will be more occupied oppressing our Puritan brethren and the Pilgrims than they are going to be with pushing west into the frontier.” William stopped and took a bite.
“We cannot forget that we know nothing of how the French in Quebec are going to behave. If they aren’t on friendly terms with those in Boston, then the Boston French will have even more on their plates than harassing us in the west. We have plenty of time to finish the wall ourselves, Bryan.”
“William . . . ” Bryan tried to speak but William cut him off.
“A man’s place is with his family,” William said firmly. “We’ve already taken you away from them for too long. These are tough, difficult times for all of us. A family must have their father with them to be a foundation that they can rely upon against the waves being sent against us. In these troubled times, I refuse to keep you away from your family.”
A piece of bread threatened to lodge itself in Robert’s throat and he was forced to reach for the mug of water before he choked. William’s comment hit him entirely too close to the heart. He had actively avoided saying goodbye to his children. Johnathan and Deborah were living in the Mohican village with their aunts, Elinor and Elisabeth, and their families.
“Are you trying to be rid of me?” Bryan smiled.
“Of course not!” William said. “Any peace-loving man, whether they be Puritan or native, is welcome here. We will offer what assistance we can and help them along to Dorchester if that is what they need or desire.”
“I understand, William,” Bryan said, obviously not happy about the situation. “We have a section that is currently raising up. I will stay until that is complete and then take my leave.”
“That is welcome news,” William said and then turned toward Robert. “And what of you, Robert? Are you to return to your children? Without their mother, they are in even more need of your strength and guidance.”
“I am not a fit father, William,” Robert said.
“Posh!” William snorted. “If you are not a fit father, then the rest of the world is sadly lacking as well. Which may explain most of our trials and tribulations.”
Robert felt his lips curl against his will as William’s humor chipped away at the discomfort in the room.
“What I mean is that I have too much hate in my heart,” Robert said. “I don’t think Jonathan or Deborah need to learn about hate this early in their lives.”
“Perhaps,” William shrugged. “But, you understand your limitations. I would argue that you are more able to avoid that pitfall in parenting, teaching your children to hate.”
“I will think about what you have said,” Robert promised.
“Then I can hardly ask for more. Is there anything I can provide you with?”
“If you have some powder and shot for my pistol, I would be willing to barter with you for it,” Robert said.
“Alas, that is the one thing that I cannot part with.” William shook his head. “We have little enough as it is. And, even though I assured Bryan as to our safety, I would be remiss to not have some ability to protect ourselves from the unforeseen.”
Disappointment flared in Robert’s breast and he didn’t have to look at Machk to see the anger in the man’s eyes. Should he press? He was sure that he could talk William into providing a small store of powder and shot. But, would Robert be able to live with himself to accept them knowing that William needed it more than Robert did? To what extent was he willing to live with his decisions?
“I see,” he said. “Then may we impose upon your pantry?”
“By all means,” William said and waved expansively about the kitchen. “I’m quite sure that Frances can gather enough foodstuffs and such to keep you well fed for a few days.”
Machk opened his mouth to say something, but Robert grabbed his wrist. Machk’s eyes flared with shocked rage. He jerked his hand away from Robert and abruptly stood. Gathering his belongings, he stormed out the door.
“Perhaps we could spare a little powder,” William said with uncharacteristic uncertainty in the uncomfortable silence.
“No, William,” Robert said. “You are quite correct, you need what you have to ensure that you and your family are safe.”
“Very well. Will you and your friend stay the night with us?”
Robert shook his head. “I don’t believe that would be wise. Machk is a valued friend and I can’t ask him to stay here.”
* * *
Robert found Machk just outside of the incomplete palisade, still angry.
“Robert!” he said. “Have you forgotten our oath to the other?” The tone was accusatory.
“I have not, Machk,” Robert said. “I simply don’t wish to place others in danger to get my revenge.”
“Danger?” Machk scoffed. “From who? The Pocumtuc? Better to be afraid of the deer than with one of those mewling kittens.”
“‘Yea, mine own familiar friend, in whom I trusted, which did eat of my bread, hath lifted up his heel against me,’” Robert said.
“Another of your Bible verse nonsense?”
“Psalms 41:9, Machk. It reminds us that even the closest of ours can turn against us. We love others as we love ourselves, more so, but we must be aware of the dangers that even the most friendly of others can lift their hands against us.”
“You need a book to tell you what is common wisdom to a child?” Machk sneered. “I hardly need your scribbles to tell me that there is betrayal in the world.”
“I am glad to hear that,” Robert said. “Where do we go from here? We still have a few hours before darkness.”
“I assume that you still wish for powder and shot for that absurd firearm?”
“You would be correct, my friend. We’ll need to find another homestead or town to get it.”
“More time away from our vengeance?” Machk asked. “We should go and take the powder and shot tonight so that we can stop with this delay.”
“Are you a Mohawk now, Machk?” The large Mohican jerked as if Robert had physically punched him. Shock turned to rage as Robert continued. “Have you lost your honor that you would sneak about like a thief to take what is not given?”
“We will take what we wish from the white man,” Machk grated. He wasn’t thinking clearly.
“We will take from the French for they are our enemy,” Robert said firmly. “They are the ones who have taken our loved ones from us. We will take what we wish in an honorable raid, matching blood for blood. I will not allow English blood to be spilt unless they have done us wrong.”
“You are weak, Robert.”
“I am practical. We need to have friends here that we can work with, and shelter with, when the French begin to hunt us down.” Robert paused.
“Do you wish for tales to travel that you and I are raiding anyone we choose? That will make it difficult for us.”
“We can shelter with the other tribes,” Machk retorted, but he knew that his heart wasn’t in it. “No Machk, we can’t and you know that,” Robert said gently. “The other tribes are as hard-pressed as the Mohican, and the diseases the white man brings ravages whole villages.”
Machk glared at Robert for a long moment and then sharply turned and began the distance-eating trot that had brought them to Agawam.
Ten miles south-southeast of Agawam Plantation
Machk had been blessedly silent since they had departed the Pynchon homestead in earnest. For his part, Robert was happy for the silence. It was a sullen, rebellious silence, but silence nonetheless and it let Robert think about both his footing and the thoughts in his mind.
Something William said had struck a chord in Robert. He couldn’t narrow it down, what exactly William had said, but it burned inside of him. Perhaps it was what William had not said. His comment of any “peace-loving man, Puritan or native” made Robert feel as though he had a piece of grizzle between his teeth that no amount of prying was going to dislodge.
If there was a more generous man than William Pynchon, Robert didn’t know him. He had no doubts whatsoever that if a man should arrive on his porch, William would take the man inside, give him food, water and comfort. But, could Robert impose upon that kindness? Could he vouchsafe William’s hospitality knowing that such a promise would strain William’s resources?
“Do you see anything over there?”
Robert started at the voice that sounded so near him.
“No,” another voice replied disgustedly from further away. “It must have been a deer or the like.”
“That is still something to investigate. Some venison would be welcome around the camp.”
Robert thought furiously. Instinct had frozen him in place after the initial shock. A part of him wanted to bolt, but he brutally forced that instinct to the back of his mind. He recognized the accent if not the voices themselves. Those were English accents, comfortably familiar. Unless he missed his guess completely, those were Pilgrim voices from around Plymouth. He relaxed and stood.
“Hello!” He kept his voice cheerful and friendly. Still the men turned to him and instinctively raised their muskets at him. “You are from Plymouth?”
They lowered their weapons and Robert could see them clearly. He recognized the men, but only their faces. He didn’t know their names. They were people to whom he had said a brief welcome during his travels to Plymouth on occasions they required his service as a carpenter. One of them would order a piece of furniture or such and he would deliver to the colony.
“Aye, and who might you be?”
Robert felt safe enough to emerge completely and approach the men.
“Robert Lockwood,” he introduced himself. “Lately of Watertown. I have a friend who is also in these woods. A Mohican by the name of Machk. Please do not be alarmed should he approach.”
“I am George Soule and this is William Holmes, both of Duxbury.” Robert nodded welcome.
“Thank you for your warning,” George said. “Our nerves have been somewhat frayed as of late.”
“Your village . . . ” Robert jumped as Machk stepped out from the tree line. “The one you call Duxbury is far from here to the east. What brings you to lands which are not yours?”
Robert shot a look at Machk. There was no need for the hostility and suspicion. However, neither man seemed to mind. George even laughed aloud.
“What are we doing?” William asked. “Being lost is what we are doing.”
Robert thought there was a ghost of a smile from the big Mohican. For that, Robert was thankful. There was still a ghost of humanity left in the man.
“It seems as though you have an idea of where we are,” George said. “May we impose upon you for assistance, friend?”
“Where do you wish to go?”
“We are bound for Dorchester and should have arrived already.”
Machk nodded. “You are far north of that village. About three days travel for a party your size.”
“Party?” Robert asked.
“Yes,” Machk said. “I heard their passage an hour or so before.”
“You didn’t tell me you had heard them.”
Machk shrugged. “There was no need. I had hoped to pass without meeting them. We have other tasks that require our attention.”
“Might I ask what that business is?” William asked.
“To punish the French for taking our loved ones away.”
“Machk’s wife was killed by a sickness brought by a Frenchman,” Robert clarified. “For myself, I lost my wife and brother.”
“Brother?” George seemed to remember something. “Edmund Lockwood was your brother? The one the French tortured a few months back?”
“Yes.”
“Ghastly business that,” William shuddered. “We heard some of the details, but not all of it. Enough to give a man fear enough.”
“That was Jean-Marc Crevier’s intention,” Robert said.
“We will ask no more details. Barbara would certainly agree with you.”
“Barbara?”
“Barbara Standish,” George said. “We have not seen nor heard from her husband Myles since Plymouth fell. We fear him dead as well.”
“Plymouth has fallen?” Robert felt like one of those birds that he had heard of that mimicked human speech. He just couldn’t form more coherent thought. Things were moving too quickly and his mind was racing to catch up.
“In early May,” William said. “The only one to reach us before we left Duxbury was an Indian named Hobbamock. He spoke to John Alden and John organized our party.”
“But the rest of the story is for John to tell,” George said. “He spoke directly to Hobbamock and will have more to say.”
* * *
Robert didn’t know John Alden personally, but he was a well-known figure in both the Plymouth and Massachusetts Bay colonies.
Robert and Machk followed George and William to the camp among the trees that held the refugees from Duxbury. William moved ahead while George fetched some water and hardtack to nibble on while they waited. The wait was only a few minutes and John Alden joined them.
“Hello, Goodman Lockwood,” John said and then turned to Machk. “And friend Machk. William has told me of you and your tasks.”
Machk nodded politely.
“And we have heard that you are lost,” Machk said bluntly, and John chuckled.
“A rather succinct way of putting it,” John replied. “But, don’t let our wives know that. No need to encourage them, I think.”
John took a deep breath and returned to serious matters.
“But yes, we are quite turned about in these thick woods. William says that you would be able to assist us. We would be eternally grateful.”
“You are, perhaps, a day’s march from the great river that you call the Connecticut,” Machk said. “You could follow the river, but I don’t recommend that.”
“I’m not doubting your words,” John said. “I would be interested in hearing why?”
“The banks of the river are not suitable for travel and you would not be able to build rafts and still bring your animals and carts with you.”
“What choice do we have?”
“I know of a way through these mountains,” Machk said. “It is a rough path for carts and animals.
However, I don’t judge it as impossible.”
“That would be welcome assistance indeed, my friend.” Robert looked at Machk with surprise on his face.
“I am not a Mohawk,” Machk said, then turned and walked away.
Dorchester
Present-day Windsor, Connecticut
“Might I join you, Goodman Lockwood?”
Robert looked up from his task to see John Alden standing at the doorway to the improvised woodshop that he had set up to pass the time more than anything else. There was always furniture to be made and repaired, and Robert was happy to lend his skills.
“Of course, John,” Robert nodded and lay down his mallet and chisel. The piece before him was a simple chair, nothing fancy. The smell of the walnut shavings hung in the air, heightened by the pine burning in the lone firepot.
John leaned against the door frame and crossed his arms. “How are you faring here in Dorchester?” he asked.
“Well enough,” Robert replied. “I have enough tasks to keep my hands busy and out of mischief. I thank you for asking.”
“And your family? Will you send word for them to join us here?” Robert paused for a few seconds before answering.
“Eventually,” he said. “There are some issues that I need to come to grips with before I subject my children to them.”
“I’m not a confessor, Robert,” John said. “But, if you need to talk, you only have to buy the drinks.”
Robert returned the grin. It felt good to smile again, to appreciate humor that wasn’t dark and bloodthirsty.
“You did not come only to ask how I am doing,” Robert said. “I can see it in your face that you have another matter you wish to discuss.”
“Yes,” John replied, shifting slightly into a more comfortable position. “That is correct. I’ve come to ask you for assistance.”
“By all means,” Robert nodded. “Any assistance I can provide is freely given.”
“Hear me out on this one first, Robert. I’m not asking you to mend a chair. Let me first explain before you pledge yourself to such an endeavor.”
“Very well.”
“As you know, the Griffin arrived a few days ago.” John moved to a chair and sat. “Other than supplies and tools, she carried crates and crates of books and letters. We’ve made no secret that they arrived. However, we’ve also kept them to the elders until we can fully digest what they contain. To be frank, some of the letters are disturbing.”
“What do they contain?” Robert asked.
“Visions of the future. Of a future that would have existed had these Americans not arrived into our time. It’s confusing to think of our future as their past, and one thing the letters warn us of is to not expect the exact letter of their histories to follow. They acknowledge that their arrival has changed things and will continue to change things that will muddle anything they can document from their history beyond recognition.
“However, they also stress that the mistakes their ancestors made were the results of trends in the process of history that were doomed to occur unless we learned from them now and worked to prevent them.”
“I’m curious,” Robert said. “I can understand why their arrival changes things, but I’m not sure I grasp this idea of trends.”
“Completely understandable,” John nodded. “It took us leaders a few hours to understand it ourselves. After that, it became clear. In fact, it almost caused a schism in our ranks.”
“Why?”
“History isn’t kind to the natives of this land. You’re familiar with how innocent they are to our diseases?”
“Yes,” Robert replied. “The Mohican village that Machk comes from was ravaged by smallpox.”
“Exactly. However, imagine that effect on all the natives of this land from Quebec to the tip of Spanish Florida and west.”
Robert’s eyes widened and John nodded.
“You now begin to understand. Diseases we’ve brought over already have or will kill a great number of the natives of this land. For that and other reasons, the fate of the native tribes here in North America and elsewhere in the New World, is not favorable. They are too weak to resist the efforts of our descendants to expand their own land.
“Most of this was accidental, we could not have known about the specter of death that we harbored aboard the colony ships. Yet, there is the story of British soldiers using smallpox as a weapon against the natives. At a place called Fort Pitt, just over one hundred years from now, a British officer would gift blankets and linens to the natives. These were taken from the sick ward of the fort from patients suffering from smallpox.”
“That’s disgusting, John,” Robert said.
“It is, indeed,” John agreed. “Thankfully, this appears to have been an isolated incident, but, in honesty, it is the only one that the American books had available. And I shall say nothing of the Indian Removal Act which led to what the natives of the future call the ‘Trail of Tears.’
“But, even knowing what we do now, we couldn’t stop the death of millions of natives by staying away. The sicknesses we’ve brought are out there already.
“I’m digressing,” John said. “I came here to recruit you for a project, and adventure, if you will.”
“I’ve already said that I will volunteer,” Robert said.
“Yes, but you have not heard of what you have volunteered for.”
“Indeed, please continue.”
“I was particularly struck by a notion brought by the books.” John leaned forward in the chair, propping his elbows on his thighs. “In its history, the nation these Americans hail from would experience only one civil war. For decades prior, the nation was split between states where slavery was permitted and those in which slavery was prohibited. In the decades that would lead to their civil war, there was a system by which slaves from the states that permitted slavery could escape to the states that did not permit it.”
“They called this system the ‘Underground Railroad.’ A group of slaves would be led by a guide, often an escaped slave themselves, through the dangers of slave hunters. Along the way, the slaves would have stops in which to hide to rest and eat.
“They called these guides ‘conductors.’”
“And, you want me to be one of these conductors?” Robert asked.
“In a word, yes. I plan on creating an ‘underground railroad’ for anybody who wishes to be free of the French in Boston. It doesn’t matter whether they are Pilgrim, Puritan, native or slave, this railroad will be for anybody who wishes assistance and guidance.”
Robert leaned back in his chair to think and John gave him time for his thoughts.
Just how plausible was this idea? This “underground railroad”? It sounded so easy. You walk into a town, find out who wants to leave and lead them away. But, Robert knew it would be far from easy. Perhaps the first few groups would have the easiest time. The French wouldn’t be expecting something like this. But, once they noticed their English subjects were disappearing, that ease would disappear just as quickly. The countryside would become dangerous from French patrols seeking to return those settlers to their towns. Not to mention executing the “conductor” in question.
And what about the stops? There was a distinct dearth of white settlements between the outskirts of Boston and the Connecticut River. An obvious stop would be William Pynchon’s Agawam Plantation, but that was at least three days, more realistically four to five days with a laden group of townsfolk unused to the strange wilderness. Add the need for caution and stealth from searching parties and the trip could easily take a week.
But, still, the idea held a certain amount of charm and a certain amount of daring. He would be doing something other than mending chairs. As important as the mundane task was, Robert felt that he would be of better use actively helping his fellow Puritans escape from the French.
But, then, what of Machk and their oath to each other? The big Mohican would not take kindly to this. The idea of any activity that did not result in dead Frenchmen would offend the man, and the killing of Frenchmen would be counterproductive to this endeavor.
That was one bridge he would have to cross when it came to it. This was now and Robert had a decision to make. His oath, solemn word, or rejecting honor to help others.
Dorchester
Present-day Windsor, Connecticut
Machk stopped short as he caught sight of a small boy. Something he couldn’t express, let alone explain, held him. There was nothing outwardly remarkable about the boy. He was young, barely more than an infant, not yet walking. Certainly younger than his own little boy would have been. The child before him had blond hair; his son’s hair was a raven black fuzz that had just begun to grow in earnest the last time that Machk had held him.
It was the eyes, Machk decided. They weren’t identical; the boy’s were blue while his son’s were so dark as to appear black. But, he knew those eyes. And most importantly, those eyes knew him. They remembered times before his birth. They recalled the evenings that Machk had held him with his mother by his side. He remembered playful afternoons in the spring grass. He remembered fear as his mother smothered him to keep him from dying of the sickness that was consuming her or the hunger that would follow after her death.
In those eyes, Machk saw disappointment. He saw betrayal. Not at his own death. The world was what it was and there was no point in being angry in the natural course of things. What Machk saw in those eyes was sadness, not for himself, but for Machk. Sadness and disappointment that the man those eyes had known and loved could have let himself be taken by grief and hatred as to let his own light dim. Machk had fallen from worthiness in those eyes.
It was that sad disappointment that Machk was completely unarmored against. When his boy had been born, Machk had promised his son safety. To himself, Machk promised that he would never be anything less than someone his son could look up to. That promise had driven Machk into depths of madness and self-hatred. Depths that he hadn’t found the strength to drag himself from. Not until the blue eyes of a young boy that Machk had never met remembered a man far greater than what Machk had allowed himself to become.
A spear of pure white light pierced Machk. It wasn’t visible; no eye could discern it. But, it shone nonetheless and shoved aside the perpetual red haze of hatred, anger and pain that Machk had lived with for almost a year. He could not, would not continue the path that he had been on. He was not a man that his son would have been proud of. No child would be proud of a father whose only thought morning, noon and many sleepless nights was of killing. Of a man who wasted away his strength of mind, body and talents. A man who threw away the ability to love. That was a promise that Machk refused to break now that he knew the eyes of his son still judged him, even from beyond his short life.
Calm washed over him as the light expanded, filling his soul. Call it the Great Spirit, God or any thousands of names attributed to the great supreme being in the heavens, Machk had finally found his master in this life, and in the next. Without the bloodthirst, Machk was left without a tiller to guide him. He clung desperately to the inner peace within him as a man who is tossed upon a raging sea will rely on anything that floats to keep his head above water.
Was this the feeling that his wife and his friend Edward had felt praying to their god? One of calm serenity and the sense that you were no longer alone in this world? Machk hoped so. Yet, he was still too stubborn to admit himself into the halls of whatever transformation was washing over him.
He opened eyes that he didn’t remember closing and found the child again. Those eyes smiled. It was a self-satisfied smile, content in the knowledge that the world was returning once more to its proper alignment. Things were finally righting itself. That his father had found something within himself that even he didn’t know he had.
The child and his parents turned a corner and disappeared behind a house. Those eyes had their own journeys, separate from the path that Machk had been set upon. But, Machk would always remember those eyes and the soul that they possessed. In his heart he heard a soft voice whisper to him. Safe journeys, Nooch. I will see you again.
“I will do my best, little one,” Machk promised the soul of his boy. “Kiss your mother and wait for me.”
* * *
Robert sat on a fallen tree trunk and watched the Standish children playing under Barbara’s watchful gaze. She was everything that Robert had expected after talking to John Alden on the trek across the wilderness to Dorchester. Robert could see pain in her eyes as she went on about her day. The uncertainty of Myles’ death haunted her. Like everybody else, she assumed that he was dead, but a stubborn part of her refused to believe that. She wanted to believe, against all reason, that her stubborn, irascible lout of a husband was still alive and simply unkind enough to show his face in Dorchester.
At least, that’s what Robert saw in her face. A stubborn set of the mouth and furrow of the brow when he first made his acquaintance and offered his condolences for her loss. She had accepted them gracefully, but Robert could tell she didn’t quite believe it necessary yet. She still hoped and that hope etched against Robert’s soul. She needed the closure of death, of an eyewitness who had seen her husband fall, or a story from an eyewitness.
Robert had decided that she deserved that closure. Any person needed to know whether or not their loved one was alive or dead. It was cruel to live in the purgatory of the unknowing.
And not just for her, but for all of those living in Dorchester, or wherever they may be. Each woman and child, and even some men, deserved to know what the fate of their loved one was.
And, if they were still among the living, they deserved the company of their loved one. After all, what William Pynchon had said was true; a family needed their father. If Robert could bring these families together again, he would. It would be something that Susannah would have wanted. It was something that he could, perhaps, redeem himself in his own eyes for abandoning his own children.
Perhaps.
He felt more than saw Machk approach. Uncomfortable silence had been the normal state of their relationship since leaving Agawam. The two had hardly exchanged more words than necessary, and only then short, curt and coldly.
But, this was different. Something had changed, Robert could feel it. The air was still cool, but not frigid.
The log rocked slightly as Machk sat. The large Mohican was unusually quiet, unusually hesitant. It was as though an internal struggle coursed through the man. Perhaps that was what disturbed Robert so very much. Machk had always been a rock. A homicidal rock, but a solid foundation that refused to budge whatever life may throw at it. Robert was surprised by how much he had depended on that strength, the sense of purpose. Finding that sense of purpose gone was unexpectedly disturbing.
“Tell me of your god, Robert,” Machk said.
Robert’s world stopped. It was quite literally the last thing that he had expected from the man. He would have more readily expected Machk to grow horns, a tail and hooves and announce himself as Satan himself. For Machk to speak the name of the Lord without malice, let alone with something almost like reverence, was unthinkable.
“I would be happy too, Machk,” Robert responded. “I must say that this is unexpected from you, my friend.”
“Yes, it is,” Machk replied and his face split in one of the most serene, satisfied smiles that Robert had seen in many years. “Something has happened that I’m at a loss to explain, even unto myself. But, one thing is for certain; I can’t continue on the path that I had set myself upon.”
Robert didn’t press any further. Instead, he paused for a few moments to gather his thoughts. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Any child could have detailed the tenets of the Puritan faith; yet, Robert found himself unable to at this moment.
His mind returned to a quiet evening, soon after they had arrived at the Mohican village, when he and his sister, Elinor, spoke about faith. The seeds that Nicholas had planted before he left for France had begun to sprout and were in full root. What answer did he tell Machk? That God had already chosen His own and Machk wasn’t welcome? No, that was neither correct nor charitable, Robert mentally reprimanded himself. The Lord would choose His people, and Elinor was right. Who was he to judge who was a member of the Elect?
A new thought came to Robert. What if the Elect was a destination and not the journey itself? If it didn’t matter how a soul got to the foot of God, but only whether he was destined to get there. If that were the case, then how could Robert, being honest with himself, insist that the path that he found himself on was the only path?
Robert was still a Puritan and he knew in his heart that the path that he was following was the one laid down by Scripture and His own holy Word. That was as unshakeable as the mountains around him. But, what he had lost was the hubris, the overweening pride, in the certainty of his path. He believed in it and would encourage others to follow his example, but he could no longer find it in his heart and soul to judge any man as condemned in the eyes of the Almighty. He could no longer shun others.
Inside, Robert felt a flutter in the silence of his soul. The quiet stillness of God’s Word awaiting stirred, just a bit and just for a moment. But, that quiver gave Robert peace that he hadn’t felt in a long time. The Lord was still with him and He felt that Robert was still worthy. It was going to be a journey to full revitalization, but Robert was now sure that the joy would come again and with it, profound serenity.
“I don’t know how to answer that, Machk,” he said. “I know what He means to me, but I don’t know how He’s going to speak to you. I’m afraid that no man or woman would be able to answer that.”
Machk was silent for a few moments before replying. “A fair answer, Robert. What does he mean to you?”
“Still, that is a difficult question to answer. I know you tired of Bible verses, but that is often how we frame our conceptions of God. Perhaps you can bear a few?”
Robert saw Machk’s eye instinctively twitch as they wished to roll, but forced themselves to behave. Instead he gave a nod for Robert to continue.
“Exodus 3:14 reads: God said to Moses, ‘I Am who I Am.’ And he said, ‘Say this to the people of Israel, I Am has sent me to you.’”
“That makes little sense, Robert,” Machk said.
“I agree; however, it encapsulates God Himself. Words fail when talking to each other about Him. “Revelations 1:8: ‘I am the Alpha and the Omega,’ says the Lord God, ‘who is and who was and who is to come, the Almighty.’
“Alpha and Omega mean that he was the first, Alpha, and the last, Omega,” Robert explained. “We believe that there was nothing before Him and will be nothing after Him. He is all there will ever be.”
“These are verses in your Bible?”
“Yes, I can obtain you one, if you wish,” Robert offered. “I cannot read your language.”
“That is not something that will stop us; I can work with you on reading.”
Machk nodded and another silence fell. Robert was reluctant to broach the topic, but it couldn’t wait any longer.
“Machk,” he said. “I can no longer honor our oath. I can no longer find it within myself to indiscriminately murder the French.”
“Neither can I, Robert,” Machk replied. “I don’t believe that our loved ones, my wife and child and your wife, would approve of us if we did so.”
Robert nodded and Machk’s face split in the first honest, warm smile that Robert had seen from the big Mohican.
“Besides, I don’t think we would enjoy this Heaven you claim to be if our loved ones were to have an eternity of recriminations.”
Robert laughed and another weight slid from him.
“I don’t think that we need to hate the French,” Robert said. “However, I will not be overly concerned if a few of them were to fall beneath our clubs.”
“Indeed,” Machk nodded.
“John Alden has asked me to return to Massachusetts Bay and Plymouth to see if any of our brethren have survived. I would ask that you join us. Your knowledge of these woods would be valuable.”
“Not of these woods, Robert,” Machk replied. “I know of the woods along this river and to the west. To the east remains a mystery that I have not had the leisure to explore.”
“Then come as my friend. Let us become the brothers that pledged to be. Not from blood, but from purpose.”
Machk paused to think. “My wife died because she thought it was worthy of her to risk herself to care for others. How could I fail to follow that example?”
“So help us, God.” Machk and Robert clasped hands again.