If the Indians had a map, they consulted it not. I wondered if they traveled by the stars as mariners are wont to do, and it seemed they did study the sky at night when there were stars to see but most often there were not. Yet we moved through forest and marsh and glade as if they followed some supernatural guide, always with the sun rising on my right hand and setting on my left.
Each evening we ate stews and porridges. At last it came that they had eaten all the goats, a deer brought back by some warriors, and several rabbits and squirrels. I loved the squirrel best, but the Indians did not seem to like to kill enough for all of us. That day they brought the ox up and I knew it was for slaughter but I did not want to watch so huge an animal killed and gutted.
The Indians talked together for a while, pointing at the ox, gesturing, saying the word “owasso” a few times, but in the end they did nothing, and our fare that night was corn porridge. I was disappointed that there was no meat, but I suspected that “owasso” was the word for bear, and perhaps they thought killing the ox would draw more bears to us. I ate beside several of the Indians. I had not feasted so well in all these months since leaving Jamaica. We stuffed in the porridge, and when one man burped, I did likewise, and we smiled at each other.
Rachael and the reverend sat not far away. She frowned at me. “You do well to remember whose you are, Mary,” she said.
I looked from her to the dark man next to me and thought of my coins. “I am mine own,” I said. “I remember that. You belong to your husband and to these men. But I am mine.” She grunted. I faced the Indian man beside me. I nodded. He frowned, pushing his lower lip out. I copied his expression and no one told me to put my lip in. I knew for the first time that from then on, no matter what became of us, I belonged to no one.
They allowed us to huddle close together and I managed to find Patience one night. “Why, Patience. Your tummy is round. You have been eating extra food,” I said.
“Hush, Resolute,” she whispered. “Now is not the time to reveal my shame, for the Indians may do away with me, fearing I will slow this infernal marching.”
“Shame? What shame have you in a nice plump figure?”
“’Tis a child I carry within, sister. And keep you still about it.”
I sat up straighter and leaned close to her. “A child? How do you know?”
“I just do.”
“And how did it get there? Did God bring it to you? Did you pray for it?”
“Keep your voice down. No, I did not pray for it. I prayed against it but it came anyway. Now go to sleep. I have told you this so that if something should occur, you will know the source of my problems. Do not tell a soul for they shall kill me if they know since I have not a husband.”
I lay beside her, my eyes wide open staring at the stars, curiosity flitting against my skull to keep me awake. What difference did it make if she had no husband? How did a girl come by a baby? Was there a clock that determined the time, just as winter comes before spring? I thought it would be ever so nice just to have the baby and not worry about a husband. We were too young for that. Would I have one? And would it be soon? I rubbed my stomach. A babe. But in this wilderness there would be all that crying and soiled linens to wash. What would Indians know about a baby? Why, they might handle it roughly and hurt it. I must keep the secret for Patience’s sake and my own. Why, I might be carrying a baby, too, since we were sisters. Patience’s babe would be born first, which was only right. We should think of a name for it. No reason to tell anyone until the time came. Perhaps we would be where we were going by the time that happened. I wrapped my arms about my sister and patted her secret, her roundness, smiling. Warm and happy, I fell asleep.
We pressed onward. My shoes split and stockings showed through the toes. My hands grew callused from the handle of the kettle. Every other day the Indian man carried me, as if I weighed not a breath upon his shoulders. Whether it was by raiding and stealing from some poor farmer they found in the wilderness, or by hunting deer or squirrel, we had something to eat every day. I began to feel almost kindly toward our captors. I hummed or sang every song I could remember, particularly the ones that I had been told not to sing. Some that knew my songs joined, but most were quiet, not used as I was to this captivity. I reminded myself of the women in the hold, who knew how to call for names and signal by drumming on the floor. I knew things I would never have learned in Ma’s schoolroom.