Susannah Morrow (49 page)

I shuffled Faith into one arm and reached my other hand for Jude, who took it—such a simple act of faith, and one I hardly
deserved. Together we hurried into the darkness. The door closed firmly behind us, and she crept close to me and said, “I
will not be afraid, Father.”

“We’ve not far to go tonight, Jude,” I reassured her, hoping it was true. I had one more task, and ’twas a job I would need
help for. The village had changed so much, I could not be sure of anyone, and I tried to hide my apprehension from Jude as
I pulled her with me to Sam Nurse’s home.

We stumbled through the rows of Sam’s cornfields, dark, leafy shadows, the rasp of sharp-edged leaves against our shins. The
plants were stunted; already the summer looked to be a droughty one. When we reached the end of the field, the front door
opened as if he’d expected us. I stopped so quickly that Jude ran into me, and I motioned for her to be quiet, and then saw
Sam in the square of light. Slowly I came out of the shadows.

His gun was in his hand; at my approach, he lifted it. “Who goes there? Who is it?”

“’Tis Lucas,” I answered quietly.

“Lucas?”

“Aye.”

“But you were—”

“No longer,” I said, staying my distance, keeping Jude behind me for safety. “I would know, Sam, are you friend or foe?”

A profound disgust crossed his face, and he lowered his gun and said, “Friend. Friend, of course. How can you ask otherwise?”

“I take nothing for granted any longer.”

“No. No, you should not. But you are welcome here. More than welcome. I would shoot anyone who came to get you, so tired am
I of this brutal business.”

I came forward, bringing my daughters with me. “I would not have endangered you this way if I did not need to.”

“There are worse kinds of danger. I would rather be shot for defending a friend than be safe and witness innocent people die.
Dear God, what Hell is this?” He motioned for us to come in, and then he shut the door tightly behind us and called out, “Mary!
Come quickly.”

Sam’s wife hurried down the stairs. When she saw us, she paused; her hand went to her cap in surprise. “Oh…Lucas…thank the
dear Lord; have they released you, then?”

“Susannah bought my escape,” I told her.

Mary took Faith. “Let me put the babe to bed. Come as well, Jude. You look exhausted, poor dear.”

Jude gave me a questioning look, and I nodded. “Get some sleep, child. Go on with Mary.”

“Will you be gone when I wake?” she asked me fearfully. What this town had done to my children—what
I
had done.…

“I’m going nowhere without you and Faith,” I told her.

“Promise?”

“Aye. ’Tis a promise.”

“And Charity too?”

I glanced up at Sam, who watched me carefully, and said, “I intend so.”

Jude went willingly with Mary after that, and when they were gone, Sam said, “What are your plans?”

“We cannot stay here, not longer than tonight,” I told him. “They’ll come looking for me. Perhaps they are already looking;
I have no way of knowing.”

“Mary and I will watch the children until you can send for them, if you wish.”

“No. I won’t leave them again. I have already been remiss in my duty to them.”

“It could be dangerous to take them.”

“Any more dangerous than it would be to let them stay?”

Sam was somber. “I wish I could say aye, but we both know that what you say is true. Dorcas Good is four years old. My sainted
mother—” His voice broke, and he paused a moment to right it. “There is no safe place in this village.”

“I hate to do it, but I must ask one more thing of you, my friend.”

He met my gaze. “Charity.”

“Aye. I cannot leave without her.”

“’Twill not be easy to fetch her from Ingersoll’s without anyone knowing.”

“And I must not be seen. I would not ask this of you, but there is no one else I trust, and I will not leave her here to be
destroyed.”

He looked at me sorrowfully. “It may be too late for that, you understand. She has not eaten more than broth for days. She
does not speak, but only stares—”

I closed my eyes against my sorrow and regret. “Aye. But if she dies, she will be with me, and not these other men who care
for her only to use her in their war against the town.”

Sam nodded. “We should go, then, before Sarah Ingersoll is abed.”

Our plan was a simple one. We would take Sam’s horse and mule, but no cart to slow us or make noise on the path. When we arrived,
I would hide around the back, near the swamp and the stables, while Sam talked with Sarah and the two of them decided how
best to spirit Charity away from the tavern.

“You had best be prepared to ride without her, if you must,” Sam counseled me as we rode into the village. “If you do not
keep safe, we have no hope of ever rescuing her.”

I agreed to that, though I did not think I would be able to leave her.

’Twas growing late, and there were still lights glowing from the windows at Ingersoll’s. Most men of the village had gone
to bed. In times past, those wanting a game of shovel board or cards would have gone to Bishop’s Tavern on the Ipswich Road,
which dealt in such things, but I doubted ’twould be so now. Already the village felt different to me, not home, not any longer.
Now I wanted only to take my daughters and go far away, to leave behind Judith’s grave, and the graves of all those small
souls she’d borne. I had been in mourning for most of my life, I realized suddenly, and this village was as a graveyard, my
own charnel house, and I longed for a breath not scented with dust and bones.

There was a movement beyond the windows, and Sam jerked his head at me and whispered, “Go now. Quickly.”

I led the mule around back. The smell of the swamp mud and skunk cabbage was strong, and newborn mosquitoes swarmed in helpless
clouds around our heads. I could see nothing from here, so I listened, but the hum of insects and song of peepers mating in
the waters beyond filled my ears. I glanced to the darkened windows on the second floor, to the one I thought was Charity’s.

When I heard rapid footsteps, I drew the mule back farther into the shadows.

“Lucas?” came Sam’s whisper.

I dismounted quickly, and stepped around the corner. Sam came hurrying to me.

“William Allen would not leave,” he explained. “Sarah finally shooed him out. Hannah’s abed, and Nathaniel’s at Tom’s. Sarah
has no idea when he’ll be back, but it should be shortly. We’ve very little time.”

Together we raced to the front door. Sarah had blown out all but one lamp, and she waited for us uneasily. When she saw me,
she smiled—but ’twas not a greeting, more a sympathetic motion.

“Oh, Lucas, ’tis glad I am to see you,” she said. “I’m so sorry, what happened to her—”

“We’ve no time for this now,” I said. “I know you’ve done your best.”

“Aye. She’s nothing but skin and bones—” She cut herself off and shook her head, handing Sam the lamp. “You know where she
is. Mama’s a light sleeper, so you must be quiet. I’ll keep watch at the door.”

Sam took the stairs quietly and quickly. I was right behind him. He paused at the top, and I went past, leading the way to
my daughter’s door, pushing it open. I rushed to her, falling to my knees at her bedside, listening for her breath. When I
heard it, soft and too shallow, I closed my eyes in relief.

“Come,” Sam said, looking back at the open door. “Wake her and let’s away.”

I shook her gently. “Charity. Charity, ’tis your father. Wake up.”

She did not move, but lay as one drugged with sleep. I shook her again, more urgently this time, because Sam filled the space
with tension, and I could not help but listen for Nathaniel’s step inside the front door.

I whispered again, “Charity, you must wake.”

Still, she did not move. I wondered if this was part of her cata-tonia, and finally I lifted her, blanket and all, into my
arms. Sarah was right; she was a bundle of bones, nothing but sharp joints and limbs too lanky to hold well. She would have
been hard to carry in any case; she was sixteen, not a child to cuddle in my lap.

She woke then. Her eyes went wide; I heard her intake of breath, and I clamped my hand over her mouth and said, “Charity,
’tis nothing to fear. I am your father.”

She arched against me, trying to escape—and I felt a desperate fear that my words had not calmed her. But there was no time
to waste. Sam turned and went down the stairs, and I followed him, while Charity pushed and fought me. Sarah hurried over
with the lamp.

“Quiet, child,” she murmured. “All is well. You are safe.”

My daughter reached out for Sarah, who said again, “You are safe, my dear,” before urging us to hurry. “Go now. ’Twould be
best to be far from here.”

Sam and I rushed out the door and to the back of the ordinary, where I’d left the mule. I put Charity onto the saddle, and
she tried to jump off the other side. She would have managed it too, had I not mounted quickly after and taken her tightly
into my arms.

“You must be quiet,” I said into her ear. “If we are caught, ’twill be worse for all of us.” Again I put my hand across her
mouth, holding her tight as I dug my heels into the mule. I heard the hooves of Sam’s horse pounding behind me as we fled
the green, back to the road, riding without pause back to the house. Charity did not fight me as we rode, or if she did, I
could not feel her above the jarring of the mule. I had hoped perhaps that she would know me then, that ’twas only that we’d
awakened her so suddenly that she was afraid, but the moment the mule halted, Charity wrenched from my arms and threw herself
from the saddle.

I was stunned at how quick she was. Once she was on the ground, she ran, only a pale white shadow in the darkness. I leaped
off the mule, racing after her, not daring to call out. I overtook her within yards, grabbing her so she stumbled and went
down; I went down with her, pulling her to my chest and rolling while she beat upon me with her fists. She cried out, “Release
me, spirit! Release me! Avoid! Avoid!”

I grabbed one of her fists with my free hand, holding it still. “I am no spirit, Charity, I am your father.”

“My father is dead!”

“I am not dead.”

“I know he is! Mama told me he is dead!”

“Your mother is with God.” I rolled until she was beneath me, and pinned her with my legs, holding her still, and then I stared
into her face, which was wet with tears I could see even in the darkness. “I am no spirit, Charity, but your own father, come
to take you away from here.”

She spat into my face. “Liar! You are the Devil come to me with my father’s face.”

I did not bother to wipe the spittle from my cheek. “’Tis an elaborate ruse for the Devil. A horse, Sam Nurse, Sarah Ingersoil…Are
they all spirits, then?”

She hesitated. I felt her gaze hard upon my face, and then she said, “Father. Father, is it…you?”

’Twas a question, but she did not seem to require an answer. I saw the distress come into her eyes before she said wonderingly,
“I did not kill you. I did not kill you.…” She began to sob.

I rolled off her, and gingerly I gathered her into my arms, expecting that she would bolt at my touch. She collapsed against
me, and I held her there until she crawled into my lap like the little child she had once been, putting her arms around my
neck to hold me close. I felt the warm wetness of her tears on my skin and cried myself for all the years I’d lost, for the
child who had slipped away from me to journey alone into madness…and the man who had let her go.

S
AM GAVE US THE USE OF HIS CART AND THE MULE, THOUGH
I
HAD
no money to give him, and no certainty about when they would be returned. He provisioned us for several days’ journey, and
gave me a flintlock and powder, and some coin. When I protested, he said bleakly, “I would that I could help the others so
falsely accused,” and I knew he was thinking of his mother. I accepted his generosity with humility.

“I will send word when I arrive.”

“’Tis best if you do not, Lucas. Who knows if they will choose to pursue you—’twould be better if I know nothing. But then,
when this is all over”—he smiled weakly—“then I may apply to you for a new cupboard.”

I clapped him on the back and said my most heartfelt good-byes to the man who had been such a good friend to me.

I left as soon as we could, afraid that my lingering would bring trouble to his family. ’Twas near twilight—the roads were
emptiest now, though night was the most dangerous time to travel. I had no other choice, not given my travel companions: an
infant, a six-year-old, and a girl so haunted and frail she seemed transparent beyond the sharpness of her bones.

The way was difficult, the girls sleepless and irritable; Charity constantly watched the road beyond us, the trees, the fields,
as if she saw demons in every shadow. Perhaps she did. She barely ate, and twice she broke into fits where she called out
to her mother, and I was only able to still her by holding her so tightly in my arms she could not move.