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A Home in the Wilderness

By Amanda M. Cetas

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Chapter 1
Unwelcome News

August 11, 1663

I stood on top of the hill and stared down over the smoking wreckage. The remains of so many homes sat smoldering in sad little heaps scattered across the small clearing. The scent of smoke and ash wafted up with the breeze, filling my lungs and making them burn. The only sounds were the low crackling of still-burning wood and a soft child-like wail. I was too late, and Alsoomse had paid the price.

***
June 10, 1663

I was late and Maman was going to kill me.
I cut across the wild pasture, my breath rough. The heavy seed heads of the tall grass all around me, normally bent over as if in prayer, waved in the wind as though sneaking glances at the boy who dared to disturb their sanctuary. A flock of grouse exploded out of the grass ahead of me in a frenzy of feathers and squawking, causing me to jump back in surprise. As my heart pounded, I scanned the horizon ahead. Several cows grazed lazily, their noses buried beneath the sea of green, their tails swishing back and forth in time to music only they could hear. The pasture gave way to fields of waist-high corn and wheat surrounded by split-rail fencing to keep the cows out. I ran toward the fence closest to me and climbed over the railing. I sprinted between the rows of corn until I reached the other side, vaulted over the railing without stopping, and kept running toward town.
I had woken up that morning grumpy and irritable. Nightmares had been plaguing my sleep all week. So, when I’d woken up to our newest brother’s piercing shriek after a particularly bad dream about my parents and siblings trapped inside a house on fire, while I stood outside, holding a torch and unable to move … I had not reacted as I should. I was too rough when I changed the baby’s clout, making him cry harder. For a moment, all I wanted was to shake him until he was quiet. Instead, I plopped him into the high chair, snapped something at Lidie, and, with the excuse of checking my snares, left the house before anyone could stop me, slamming the door as I left.
The cool morning had helped to clear my head, and I’d relished the excuse to escape my younger siblings. The primitive wilderness of the forest always excited my longing for adventure, almost as much as the sea had. I wasn’t sure how long I’d been out, but when I came back with two rabbits for Maman, the sun was high in the sky. I’d skinned the hares, cleaned them, and hung them in the smokehouse to cure. Only then did I realize how quiet the house was. Where had everyone gone? That’s when I’d remembered the wedding. My family must have already left to meet the procession. I quickly cleaned up, changed into my best Sunday clothes, and took off at a sprint.
Now, as I reached the edge of the village of New Harlem and ran east down a narrow dirt lane, I knew I was in trouble. When the road forked, I took the left-hand road that cut northeast until it bent around due east again. It was called the Great Way because it served as the town’s main street. Up ahead, I saw the road that headed north at the Church Farm, a forlorn and neglected plot of farmland reserved for the poor, and, just past it, a cluster of people lined the road. Jacques Cousseau motioned for me to hurry and stand next to him. I slipped into line between him and Jean Guenon. Jacques and Jean had fled La Rochelle with their families at the same time my family had. We’d not been friends until recently though.
I took hold of the white ribbon Jean offered me. Children lined the street on each side with the smallest in front followed by older siblings and finally adults at the back. Jacques, Jean, and I stood behind the children and in front of the adults. Lines of ribbon were strung between the two rows as we waited for the arrival of le cortège, the procession. On the opposite side from us and down with the rest of the adults stood my mother resting baby Jeremiah on her now swollen belly, heavy with another forthcoming sibling. She stood beside Papa and both of them glared disapprovingly at me. I shrugged in apology.
I looked back at Jacques, and he smiled sympathetically. The wind started to pick up and pull my hair out of the tie that held it at the nape of my neck. Dark brown curly hair whipped at my face and tickled my nose. I tried to tuck it back behind my ear, but to no avail. I had just put the end of the ribbon between my teeth, so I could use both hands to fix my hair when Jean motioned me to stop.
I looked down the road and saw le cortège approaching. Jean Mousnier de la Montagna, the schout, or deputy sheriff of our village, and John Terbosh led the procession. Behind them came their two brides, Maria and Rachel Vermilye, escorted by their father. The rest of their family followed. The Vermilye family were newly arrived from France. It seemed that the religious persecution there had continued to worsen since we’d left.
The procession stopped when it reached the first ribbon. The grooms parted and together the brides cut each ribbon as they slowly moved between the rows of children. Once through the obstacles, the procession made its way to the church where the double ceremony would be held.
The brides and grooms entered the church with the minister and their close family to conduct the ceremony, while the rest of us waited outside talking in hushed voices to friends and family. The church stood on the east side of town between the Harlem River and the Townhall. It was a simple wooden church, painted in white, much like the townhall building, except for the tall, pointed bell tower rising above the front entrance.
Tables had been set up in the Gardens, the common pasture beside the Townhall. The tables had been laid out with roasted turkey and pheasant, boiled carrots and greens. In the middle of the center table stood the croquembouche, a large pyramid of dainty round pastries covered in caramel glaze and spun sugar. I had not seen a delicacy such as this, since we had left Amsterdam nearly three years ago. My mouth watered just thinking about it.
A short time later, the two couples and their families emerged from the church to a round of applause. Those men closest to the grooms slapped them happily on the back, while the women spoke quiet words of congratulations to the beaming wives. Jean, Jacques, and I started following the procession out to the gardens when a sharp look from my father stopped me up short. I told Jean and Jacques that I would catch up to them and walked over to my parents.
Maman was in tears, though I couldn’t tell if they were happy or sad. Papa looked sternly at me, though I knew that in just a moment he would be laughing with the other adults.
“Garçon, your mother and I are disappointed in you and your behavior today. You are not a child anymore, and soon…” Maman put a hand on Papa’s arm and he paused. “Times will not always be as they are now. Soon you will have to bear a man’s responsibilities.”
“Let us not spoil this happy day, Husband. There will be time to discuss this further.” Papa nodded, clapped a hand on my shoulder. He looked sad, but then he smiled and gestured for me to run along.
The guests were starting to take their seats, and I had just sat down next to Jacques, when a rider galloped up and reigned to a halt near the head table. The man looked a terrible mess, with hair flying, hat askew, and filthy clothes. He looked as though he’d been traveling for days. He approached Schout Montagna and swept the stained hat from his head.
“Sorry to interrupt your wedding, sir, but I have news,” the man said, between great gasps of air.
“Come, sit. Take some mead and calm yourself, good man. Then you can tell me your news.”
“My pardons, sir. There is no time. I must continue on to New Amsterdam directly. I’ve just come from our settlement at Wiltwyck. The Indians have completely destroyed the village of Nieu Dorp and have attacked Wiltwyck. They have set fire to the houses and have kidnapped several women, including your sister, sir.”
The Schout stood abruptly, all signs of joyous celebration wiped out of his demeanor and replaced with the decisive energy that made him New Harlem’s leader. “When did this happen?”
“Three days ago. I came directly from there to inform you and the Director.”
“I thank you for your haste. Come.”
Together the men moved toward the townhall building. An Indian attack, on the mainland… All of my dealings with the native tribes had been good. Alsoomse’s people traded beaver furs and otter skins for household goods, guns, and ammunition. They had taught us how to grow corn, beans and squash. I had been fishing and trapping with her brother, Kitchi, many times. He had even shown me how to make snares and a deadfall trap, though I was still trying to get the balance right.
Then the Schout and the messenger returned, beckoning to one of the men nearby.
“Fetch some ale and food for this man before he departs,” the Schout said. Then he turned to address the gathering, “We must assemble the elders and discuss our response.”
“But Husband, we are only just wed,” Maria said, clutching at his hand. The Schout did not even look at his new wife, though he did give her hand a small, comforting pat.
Men all around jumped to their feet and started talking all at once.
“Men of New Harlem steady yourselves!”
The cacophony stilled at once as everyone gave their attention to the Schout. “The savages have taken my sister and several other women and children hostage. They’ve had at least three or four days to disappear into the forest. And it will take us another four days at least to reach the afflicted town. By then, the savages will likely have fled deep into the mountains. It will be no small task to get there, let alone find them. I have been assured that the men of Wiltwyck are al-ready organizing search parties. Action is needed but planning is too.”
Just then the man returned with a skin of ale and a small satchel of food. The Schout nodded to him and turning to the messenger, he said, “Thank you for your notice. Take these provisions to aid you in your journey.”
“Thank you, sir!” The messenger sprang onto his horse, reigned it around and headed south down the main road.
The Schout turned back to address the crowd. “My friends, please stay and enjoy yourselves. If the church elders could join me in the townhall, we will discuss our options.” He turned and, leaving his bride, headed toward the steps of the townhall followed by five older men with solemn faces.
Men were standing and moving into groups all around the commons. One of these groups had formed near Jean, Jacques, and I.
“I don’t see what there is to talk about. We need to go after those savages!” the first man said.
“The attack was way up north, on the outskirts of the colony. There’s no immediate danger to us, and the men up there will likely have it resolved before we could mount a response,” a stout man replied.
“If the Indians can attack in one place, they can easily attack somewhere else. They are living throughout the colony. We need to make sure they can’t harm our families,” a third man commented.
“And how do you propose we do that?” the stout man asked.
“We need to raise the militia and eliminate the threat!” the first man exclaimed.
Raising the militia? That would not be good. I thought of Alsoomse. It couldn’t have been her tribe, but would the townsfolk even care?
Fear had a way of making men target anyone different from them, even if they weren’t at fault. I had learned that lesson in La Rochelle when we had been the targets of Catholic fear and in-tolerance. I had to find Alsoomse and warn her! I quickly excused myself and moved toward the road.
“Etienne, where are you going?” Maman had come up behind me and caught my arm.
I explained my fears and looked into her blue eyes pleadingly.
“Be careful, and be swift,” she said, releasing me.

***

There was silence when I reached Alsoomse’s village. Every year her tribe would migrate up north to their winter camp. But it was summer now. They should have been back weeks ago. There should have been women bustling around preparing dinner and men sitting by the fire sharing stories, but instead there was silence.
I entered the village and walked from house to house, looking for any sign or clue that might explain their absence. I took one more look through the village, knowing it was pointless, and paused at the house where Alsoomse’s family lived. It was dark inside.
I sat down on the bare platforms that served as their beds. I sat there for a long time. The moon rose, and I watched its silvery light sliding across the ground, creating strange illusions of snakes or rats swarming over the ground. Just then something glinted off the ground near the doorway. I reached down and picked up a small strand of wampum, fingering it gently. Where were they?
I sighed and rose, slowly, to go home. Please God, keep them safe.

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