The Captive Bride (23 page)

“Fox not afraid either.” He looked back toward the light from the burning house. “The man I kill—your man?”

She almost broke down then, thinking of Jude's broken body lying on the ground, but drew herself up straight and said calmly, “He was going to be.” Then she looked at Fox and said, “Now he is with Jesus Christ.”

He met her gaze for a moment, then said, “Your God, Jesus Christ, he not save your people.”

She replied at once, “He saved me, Fox.”

He nodded, admiration lighting his black eyes. But he said only, “Yes—for now His medicine is strong for you. We will see.”

He looked ahead, saying, “We camp here. You take care of woman.”

Mercy was almost unconscious, but she was alive. Rachel washed her face with water from the river, and later they ate some of the half-raw meat that one of the Indians didn't want. He tossed it to Rachel as he would have to a dog. Her pride rose up, but she instantly thought,
Do what you have to do to keep Mercy and yourself alive!
She almost forced the meat down Mercy's throat, saying, “Eat! It may be the last for a long time.”

They slept a few hours, then Fox prodded Rachel with his foot, saying with a gleam in his beady eyes, “Up—see if you can keep up with Woman.” He had taken up her name “Woman” to jibe at her insult. “What is your name?”

She stared at him. “Nahteeah.”

He blinked and said, “Who calls you that?”

“My brother—John Sassamon.”

He looked at her in a different way, and she had no way of knowing that Fox had hated Sassmon for leaving the old ways for the white man's God, but he had come to admire him for his honesty and willingness to suffer for what he believed.

“We go now,” Fox said, but he made the pace easier so that the pregnant woman would not die. In the days that followed, he came often to speak with the two women, and his influence kept them alive.

They arrived the next day at a larger camp, and for several days they rested. Rachel had been afraid that the shock would kill Mercy, but miraculously she seemed to thrive on the scanty diet and the hard conditions. She had one fixed thought in her mind. Every day she would say, “Praise God will find us, Rachel—don't fear!”

Rachel was not at all certain, for the Indians were on the move constantly. Philip was in the camp from time to time, and there were long war talks; then he would ride off again. Soon after, the band would move and raid another group of settlers or a small village, then move as far away from the scene of the raid as possible.

Often Fox would come and sit with Rachel, and in some strange way the two grew into a strange intimacy. He often argued with her about religion, telling her that Jesus was too weak, but she never let him see a doubt. “Jesus has me here for a purpose, Fox,” she would say. Once she added to this, “Maybe to show
you
the way to the true God.”

He rocked back and forth with silent glee, finally saying, “You want me to be a Woman, like you say first time? Fox a man—Jesus men weak.”

She never lost her temper, and he was impressed at the way she accepted the frightful hardships of camp life without a word of complaint. He also was waiting for her to beg for release, but she never said a word.

She worked hard all day, doing her share of the work, and the Indian women, who had been cruel at first, came to marvel at her patience. At first she could do nothing that they did with ease, but by the end of two weeks, she could keep a pace nearly equal with theirs, and they let her alone.

At night she prayed—she and Mercy together; then for long nights she prayed as sleep came and enveloped her. She had dreams of Jude for a while, but she was far too weary to grieve.

She lost track of time, knowing it had been weeks after Jude's death. Then one day Fox came to see her with some news. “We leave this place soon—maybe two days.” He waited for her to ask where they would go, but she said nothing. “Maybe you think white men come—take you home? No, we go far away—to Nipmuck people, very far away.” He waited for her to speak, then grew angry. “You die with us! Never go home!” She stared at him and said evenly, “Fox, my God has a million angels in His tribe. He could send
one
of them, and you would be helpless against him.”

Fox reached out and grabbed her long hair, the first time he had touched her, and said angrily, “No one Jesus man can kill Fox!” He let her go then, and shook his head. “We leave soon.”

For the first time, Rachel's faith wavered, and she wept in the darkness. And for the first time as she prayed, there seemed to be no answer. As she rose the next morning and left the old campsite headed for the north, Fox saw her face, and he smiled and said, “Now you see that Jesus God is weak!”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“GOD IS STILL IN CONTROL!”

News of Philip's raid swept through the country. They heard almost daily of new massacres after Swansea—Dartmough, Taunton, Middleborough and Sudbury. Fifty men were massacred in Lancaster, and forty homes were put to the torch in Groton. The Indians were set to move with Philip as their head, and New England was totally unprepared—strategically, mentally, and spiritually. A company of ill-trained militia would blunder out to be cut to pieces by an Indian ambush, and no one knew what to do.

When the news of the raid of Swansea came, Matthew and Gilbert were stunned. Praise God came riding in wildly, trying to raise a party to go to the rescue.

“They got my Mercy—and your girl, Master Winslow,” he moaned bitterly. “God forgive me for leavin' her!”

“Are you sure they're alive, Pittman?” Matthew asked harshly.

“I helped bury everybody, and we followed their heathenish trail,” he nodded. “They left the horse alive, at least, and I'm goin' to git my woman back if I have to go alone!”

“I'll be with you in an hour, Praise God,” Matthew said. “We have to go tell Rachel's mother; then we'll be leaving.”

As they hurried to the house, Gilbert said, “We'll have to raise a militia, Matthew.”

He said nothing, but when they went inside the house he went to Lydia and took her in his arms. “The Indians have raided Swansea—and Rachel and Mercy are captives.” He
looked into her eyes and said, “I'll bring them back, Lydia. Do you believe that?”

The shock weakened her, but she looked up into his strong face, trembling and whispered finally, “If you say so, Matthew. I'll wait for you.”

There was no time for long partings, but as Matthew gathered his musket and dressed in old leather clothing used on the trail, Gilbert argued with him.

“You can't go alone, son. Let me go to the governor. He'll
have
to act now!”

Matthew picked up a bedroll and started for the door, then turned and looked at Gilbert. They were so much alike, yet now there was a hardness in his son that the old man had never seen. Always
he
had been the strength of the family, and now he saw that his time was past. “What can you do, Matthew?”

The blue eyes glowed with the light of battle, and Matthew said, “Militia will never catch up with Philip's band or any other Indians. But there's one bunch who can catch them!”

Gilbert asked blankly, “Why, who can do that?”

“The Praying Indians!” Matthew smiled grimly. “I'll pick up a group of them and we'll find out where the women are. It may take a year, but I don't think so. Some of the Praying Indians have family who haven't come over, but they hear things.”

Gilbert nodded, then said, “That may
find
them, but how do you plan to get them out of the camp?”

Matthew dropped his bedroll, walked to the wall and reached up. He pulled down Gilbert's sword, the one he'd used to fight Lord Roth and the mutineers who took over the
Mayflower.
He pulled it out of the sheath, held it up, and looked along the line of light that gleamed on the cold steel.

“I'd like to borrow this, Father,” he said quietly.

Gilbert smiled, his eyes burning with a longing to go along. But knowing that he would be far too slow, he said, “Take it, my boy—and God go with you.”

Matthew suddenly knelt before his father and huskily said, “Give me your blessing, Father!”

Gilbert Winslow prayed over this son, the last of the House of Winslow—and then Matthew rose and was gone.

The Praying Indians had learned to trust Matthew, but they were slow to respond to his call. “We are but a few, and Philip has the largest army of Indians ever seen since the beginning,” James Bearclaw said.

“God will provide a way, James. He has preserved the lives of the two women, and I know that He will help us. Will you go if I promise there will be no battle—not for you?”

After discussion with the others, finally James said, “We will find the women—but you must take them yourself.”

“A bargain!” Matthew smiled, and later he told Pittman, “We have a chance, Praise God.”

“How we gonna do it, Matthew? The two of us against all them savages?”

“Not by might, nor by power—but by my Spirit!” Winslow quoted. “Let's find them first, then we'll see.”

It took only four days to get wind of the camp. One of James Bearclaw's relatives, a young man named Rookna, brought word, and James came immediately to Winslow and Pittman.

“We know where they are, but the band is moving soon. Rookna says they are going to the Nipmuck band, and you'll never find them if they get there!”

“Take us to the place!” Matthew said, and in two hours they were on their way toward the west. They traveled hard all night and at dawn, one of the scouts came back with a word. “They are not two miles away, in a little canyon. Not very many warriors—but Fox is there.”

“Did you see the women?” Matthew demanded.

“Yes. They are there.”

Winslow gave some instructions and they moved out
silently. Praise God asked nervously, “I don't think it's going to work, Matthew. This Fox, he's not stupid, is he?”

“No—but he's proud, and that's what we've got to play on. You just keep your hammer down on that musket. We'll have to win by something other than muskets if we win this one, Praise God!”

Rachel was walking down the path toward the rear of the band when she heard the shout; she looked up to see Fox and the other warriors spanning out with their weapons drawn.

“What is it, Rachel?” Mercy asked.

“I don't know. Let's get closer.”

They approached the head of the canyon they'd been walking through, and Fox gave them a savage look and waved them to a halt. He looked up at the sides of the cliff on his right, and then to the left. A thick growth of oak covered the lips of the canyon, and he could see nothing.

Then a voice came from somewhere, a ghostly voice that floated on the morning air.

Fox—you are a Woman!
It was the same insult that Rachel had offered to him, but this was no frail girl that called so strongly!

“Come down—and you will see what Fox is!” the stocky Indian shouted.

There was no answer for a moment, then suddenly an Indian called out something, and Fox whirled to see a man standing on the edge of the canyon wall—a white man.

Instantly, Fox gave a command and several of his men leaped to go after the intruder, but halted abruptly when a volley rang out, plowing the dust at their feet!

Fox stared at the dust, then raised his eyes to the man on the wall of the canyon. “What you want, white man?”

“I want the two women, Fox!”

Rachel suddenly gasped, and shielding her eyes she stared at the man and breathed a word: “Father!”

Fox whipped his gaze around, then stared back at the man. “I have the women. We will have you, too, white man.”

Again a shot rang out, and the dust kicked up at Fox's foot, not two inches away. He jerked the foot back involuntarily and then scowled.

“That shot could have been in your head, Fox,” Matthew shouted down at the Indian.

“I am not afraid to die!”

“I say you are!” Winslow challenged. “You are a Woman, Fox, and all your men are cowards, able only to fight women and children!”

A yell of rage went up, and Fox raised his hand for silence. “We soon see who is coward!”

“I will prove you are a Woman.” Matthew said, “Choose your four best warriors, give them a blade, and I will fight them by myself!”

Instantly a cry went up, and Fox knew he had no choice. He was leader as long as the others knew he was not afraid. If he did not take up this challenge, he would be challenged by every warrior in the band.

“Come down, big wind!” he said. “You will not say anything for long.”

The silence was broken only by the far-off cry of a bird. Rachel's pulse quickened, beating like a hammer.

Matthew disappeared, then in a moment came walking out of a group of trees a hundred yards down the road. He carried no musket, but there was a sword in his hand that flashed in the sun like silver fire. He wore no hat, his auburn hair catching the sunlight.

Every eye was on the tall man as he walked easily along the trail, as blithely as if there were no band of armed savages lined up against him.

“Fox, I give you good day,” he said, and then he smiled and nodded at Rachel. “You are all right?”

Rachel caught her breath, answering quietly, “Yes, we have been well treated.”

Matthew nodded, then said, “Fox, you have been good to my people, and it hurts me to destroy your warriors. Give me the women and we will part like men.”

It was a good try, and Fox smiled briefly. “That not what you say. Are you liar like other white men?”

Winslow suddenly whipped the blade through the air. It made a whistling sound and the suddenness of it startled the Indians. “This is a magic blade, Fox. It was my father's blade, and he has used it to destroy our enemies. It is not like other blades, and I do not like to see young men die like sheep. But you are the leader. I wait for your men.”