September 19, 1677
“I’m off to the corn fields, my love.” It pleased me greatly to be settled in our own rebuilt home. To grab my hat from the peg by our own front door.
“A kiss before you go? And do not forget your costrel of water; ’tis hot out o’ doors for September,” Martha said.
I kissed her, holding her longer than I first intended, my hands roaming her back, her hands stroking my hair. The swell of her belly pressed against me, our fourth child.
“’Tis hot inside, too,” I whispered gruffly, breaking free before I forgot myself.
Martha smiled and handed me the water pouch. I considered whether to take my musket or leave it hanging above the mantle. I resolved Martha was safer with it there, and I had my pistol. Despite over a year of peace, I prepared daily for the worst.
My last look at my family saw Martha hand Mary a broom and explain how to sweep the floor properly. Mattie and Sally sat nearby, playing pat a cake.
“Look, Daddy, I’m brooming!” Mary called proudly.
I tipped my hat to her and smiled, closing the door and waiting on our stoop until I heard Martha latch it behind me. Heading to our barn I admired our squash and pumpkins, ready for picking, some as big as Sally and twice the weight. I’d promised Martha I’d harvest them when I returned for dinner. It was unwise for her to toil in the gardens in her condition, though she’d already gathered most of the cabbages, turnips, and parsnips for pickling.
Our new barn was better than the one the River Indians burned the year before. It had a stall for Scout and plenty of room for our hay, shelter for the cows each night, and in the winter for the sheep. When she heard me unlatch the barn door, Scout raised her head from feeding and nickered a greeting. I brushed her dusty red coat as she finished her morning oats, harnessed her, and hitched her to our new wagon.
Sergeant Graves and John Graves, my old friend Timothy’s brother John Cooper, and another carpenter from Hadley waved to me as I set out. They were building a house next door for Sergeant Graves’ son and bride-to-be. The town had raised the frame two days before, and now the men were attaching the common roof rafters from the purlin to the plate, hammering in the treenails.
“Looks shipshape!” I called up to them, where they clung to the beams like sailors to a ship’s masts and boom.
“Does it? Perhaps we’ll build an ark next!” John Cooper shouted.
I laughed, accustomed to being teased for my seafaring expressions, the habit born from being raised in Rhode Island by a fisherman. Many here in the valley had never seen the ocean. I sometimes missed the briny smell of the sea, a bracing breeze, and a boat’s calm rocking lulling me to sleep. Sadly, those memories were tangled up with the drowning death of my brother Joseph, so I let them rest.
My house and all those south to Middle Lane remained beyond the stockade fence. It vexed me that my home remained exposed, but since King Philip’s death a year ago, most believed all threat was gone. Of course, most lived within the stockade. They’d fallen back to the habit of leaving the gate open during the day, only shutting and latching it on the coldest winter nights to keep the wolves from our doors. I had half a mind to close it myself, but Samuel Foote and Stephen Jennings were waiting for me.
I reached them, and they walked alongside the wagon. We turned right onto Middle Lane and headed through the fence gate, securely latching it behind us. I’d forgotten once and paid a considerable fine, understandably, as we did not want our cows in the corn, so to speak. It seemed we should have a law about the stockade gates, too.
We turned south, the morning sun casting long, crisp shadows beside us. Our lots weren’t adjacent, but we helped each other with the harvest, and today, we were working my corn field. It lay just beyond Middle Lane and stretched south to the curve of Millbrook. We met many other men of our town, also on their way to harvest their crops.
“Mary is looking forward to the husking bee, hurried me out the door this morning with strict orders to pick bushels of corn,” Samuel said.
“Hannah also,” Stephen said. “She’s making cornhusk dolls for Holly and Sammy.”
“There’ll be enough husks for her to make a bushel of dolls,” I said. “Have her make one for our new bairn. Martha’s expecting this winter.” I smiled at my tidings.
“Good news, Benjamin, well done!” Samuel slapped me on the back.
“My wife said Hannah’s also with child, Stephen?” I asked.
“Aye, in the spring.”
“Happy news!” I smiled at my friend and punched him on the arm for good measure.
“So, do you wish for boys or girls?” Samuel asked.
“Another girl and I’ll have to take up pirating to raise the dowries,” I said. “Ol’ Captain Moseley made a good living at it, and I know my way ’round a boat.” I laughed.
“But Captain Moseley isn’t right in the head,” Stephen said, frowning. “Turning a pack of dogs loose on that Natick Praying Indian, watching as they tore her to pieces.”
Stephen's words quieted all of us, and opened up my wounds from what had happened at Great Falls. I was glad Stephen hadn’t lived in Hatfield then, and so hadn't been at the Falls Fight to witness similar deeds. I shuddered as though a cold wind blew.
“Which do you fancy, Stephen?” Samuel asked, pushing through our sudden silence.
Stephen smiled. “I’m happy to have a wee one of my own, lad or lass, no matter.”
We reached the fields, Mary Foote’s trio of scarecrows grinning at us from a rustling sea of the corn’s green blades and purple tassels. The first hints of yellow on the ash trees mottled the distant hills beneath a bright, clear sky. It had been a bountiful season, and we looked forward to plenty of food for the winter.
“A shame Reverend Atherton is no longer with us. I was looking forward to having him baptize our new babe,” I said.
Reverend Atherton had passed away in June, a few weeks after Hannah’s wedding. We had a new minister, Reverend Wise, but I missed Atherton. I hadn’t realized to what extent the strength I took from my faith had come from the joy Hope Atherton took in guiding it. I felt somewhat at sea, spiritually, since his passing.
“He never recovered from the Falls Fight,” I said. Nor had I. In body, yes, but not in spirit.
“His widow and Mary have become good friends,” Samuel said. “The new reverend told her she might stay in the house as long as she needed.”
“And she with the two wee babes,” Stephen said, shaking his head.
I thought of a hellish world where Martha was left alone with our babes, and my mood darkened.
But the ripe corn beckoned, and we fell to picking, not talking. I eased into the rhythm of the labor, blotting out the world around me. Reach into the blades, find a plump cob, bend it down, snap it up, and toss it in the sack. After an hour, we stopped to rest.
By mid-morning, we were deep in the field, surrounded by a corn forest as tall as us. We hauled the full sacks back to the wagon two at a time to save trips, wearing a little path through the cornfield. Each time I heaved a load into the wagon, I stopped to look toward Hatfield.
I will forever regret that I assumed the distant cries I heard were the screams of hawks.