“You be not Yance.” The man was heavyset, not tall but a solid-looking man with an honest, open face.
“He waits,” I said, “with Tenaco.”
“Ah!” The man let his breath out, in relief, I thought. “We heard he was dead. Killed by the Pequot.”
“He was shot,” I said, “I cut out the musket ball myself. Do your Indians have muskets, then?”
“Not many.” He turned, gesturing toward a bench by the table. “Sit you. Will you have something?”
“Whatever,” I said.
“We expected Yance,” the woman said. She was a pleasant-faced woman, but there were lines of worry on her face now.
“He came, but we suspected all might not make him welcome, so I came down.”
“There would be risk for you, too, if they knew you were here.”
“I shall not be long,” I said, “if you will tell me what has happened.”
“They went to the woods,” the woman said. “Carrie was much with Diana Macklin. Diana was teaching her the herbs for medicine, and they went a-gathering.
“It is only a little way, a meadow yon. Diana often went to the woods and meadows and was not afeared, and Carrie was much with her.”
“I never wished it,” Penny said irritably. “That you know.”
“I don’t care what they say!” Mother Penney replied somewhat sharply. “I like her. It’s just that she is independent and speaks her own mind.”
“It is not that alone,” Penney said. “There’s the dark look of her, the knowledge of herbs, and the books she reads.”
“Macklin reads. You do not speak of that!”
“He’s a man. It is right for a man to read, although I speak no favor of the books he reads. Blasphemous, they are.”
“Let’s get on with it!” I spoke irritably, for they wasted time. “They went a-gathering, and they did not come back, is that it?”
“Aye,” Penney said, “and the bloody Pequots have them. Dead they are by now, or worse.”
“Maybe not,” I replied. “This Diana you speak of sounds to be a shrewd woman. Such a one might find a way to survive, and for your daughter, also … Carrie, is it?”
“It is.”
“And Pequots, you say? Were they seen? Or their tracks?”
“No, but—”
“Then why Pequots? There are other Indians about and white men, too.”
He stared at me, aghast. “White men? You wouldn’t for the world suspect—?”
“I would,” I said. “I know not your people, but there are ships along the shore, and all of their sailors be not angels from heaven. It may be Pequots, but if we are to find them, we must know.”
“Pittingel was sure. He said it had to be Pequots. He is a man with much knowledge of the world.”
“Good!” I replied. “Does he also know Indians?”
Penney looked uncomfortable. “He is a very important man. A trader,” he said, “a man with ships of his own and a place on the council.”
“Good!” I said. “Why haven’t you gone to him?”
“Well, we did. He tried to help. He looked, and he had his men out in the woods, searching high and low. They found nothing.”
And tramped over every track or bit of sign, I told myself, but then I said, “There was an organized search, then? The village turned out?”
Penney flushed. “Well—”
“Tell him the truth!” Mother Penney spoke sharply. “Nary a bit would they do but talk, talk, talk! And all they would say was ‘good riddance,’ and not for my Carrie, mind you, but for Diana Macklin!”
“We had better know each other,” I said. “I am Kin Ring Sackett, brother to Yance.”
“I am Tom Penney—my wife Anna.” He paused, looking uneasy. “Others are coming.”
“Others?”
“Joseph Pittingel will come here himself. And Robert Macklin.”
Anna Penney looked at me. “Carrie has been gone for days upon days. We know not if she be alive or dead.”
“If she is alive,” I said, “we will bring her home. If she be dead, we will find where she lies.”
“I believe you will. When Carrie disappeared, it was Yance Sackett of whom I thought.”
Tom Penney interrupted, a shade of irritation in his voice, which led me to believe this had been much discussed and that he had not approved. “No doubt he is a hunter. But he is only a man. What can he do that we have not done?”
Ignoring him, I said to her, “You have had Indian trouble?”
“No, not recently. You see, Joseph Pittingel has much influence with the savages, and he has kept them from us.”
“Then he is the man to get them back, and by peaceful means. A voice lifted in their councils might be all that is needed. Or, failing that, a ransom of goods.”
“We would pay,” Penney said, “although we have little to offer.”
“Oh!” Anna Penney put a hand to her mouth. “How awful of me! You have not eaten!”
“I am hungry,” I replied, “and the others are, also. If you could put something up, I’d carry it to them.”
She began putting dishes on the table. A bowl of hot stew and a mug of cider with fresh-made bread. I fell to, listening to Penney as he grumbled. Even as he talked, I could sense the fear in the man, fear for his daughter coupled with the helplessness of a man who knows not which way to turn.
There was a sharp rap at the door and an exchange of words, and the door opened. I felt the draught but did not look up.
Two men had come in, and I identified them at once by their voices. Pittingel’s was that of authority, of a man assured of his position and a little contemptuous of those about him of lesser station or what he conceived to be so. The other man’s voice was quiet, his accents those of an educated man.
“Sackett?” I looked up, then stood up. “This is Joseph Pittingel and Robert Macklin.”
“Kin Sackett,” I said, “up from Carolina.”
“A brother to Yance Sackett, I believe,” Pittingel said. “A difficult man, your brother.”
“A very able man,” I replied coolly, “with perhaps ways that are different than yours.”
“It is regrettable,” Pittingel said, “that you have had your long march for nothing. All that could be done has been done. We made every effort, but by now they are far, far away, and the Pequots, well, they are a hard and bloody people.”
“I hear much talk of Pequots,” I said, sitting down again, “but nobody seems to have seen them.”
“Of course, they were here. I am told one does not often see Indians.”
“Too true,” I agreed. “And it might have been them.”
“A frightful people!” Pittingel said. “A vicious, murderous lot!”
“Nothing seems to prevail,” Macklin said quietly. “I am afraid our daughters will never be found, as the others were not.”
“There have been others?”
“I see no connection.” Pittingel dismissed the idea with a gesture. “No doubt they wandered off into the woods and were lost. There are swamps. Even hunters have been lost. And the last one was almost a year ago.”
“How many others?” I insisted.
“Three,” Macklin replied.
“All were maids?”
“True,” Penney said, “although I had not thought of it so. I thought of them as children—”
“Tomorrow,” I said, “I would like to be taken to where they were last seen.”
“They were gathering herbs,” Macklin said. “Diana knew much of herbs and their worth as food, medicine, or dyes. She was teaching the young miss—”
“It was a mistake,” Pittingel said sharply, “for which you have yourself to blame. You were warned. The Macklin girl was not fit company.”
Robert Macklin turned sharply around. “Joseph,” he said quietly, “you speak of my daughter.”
Pittingel flushed angrily. “Aye! Your daughter, Macklin, yours by birth, but whose in reality? The devil’s own, I say, spawned in your wife’s womb, but the devil’s own!”
Macklin’s features had stiffened. “Pittingel, you have no right—”
“Here, here!” Penney interrupted. “Let’s not become heated over this. Argument will not get our girls back, and Joseph Pittingel turned out his whole lot, every mother’s son of them to search! We owe him that, Macklin.”
“You are right, of course,” Macklin said quietly. “If you will excuse me—”
“No, it is I who must leave,” Pittingel interrupted. “I have business elsewhere. Sackett, if there’s aught I can do, call on me. I have many men here and a ship due in any day now with her full crew. Anything I can do for my good friend Penney will be done.”
He went out, and the door closed behind him. For a moment there was silence.
“You should not incur his anger, Robert,” Penney warned. “He is a man of much influence with both the church and the council. It was only he who prevented them from having Diana up before the assizes. And with the evidence they have against her, it would mean burning.”