Date Published: May 21, 2024
Publisher: Acorn Publishing
Colonist Benjamin Waite, a devoted husband, father, and skilled military scout in King Philip’s War, reluctantly obeys orders to guide an attack against a camp of Algonquian Natives.
After the catastrophic event, Benjamin is burdened with guilt and longs for peace. But the Algonquians, led by the revered sachem Ashpelon, retaliate with vengeance upon Ben’s Massachusetts town of Hatfield, capturing over a dozen colonists, including his pregnant wife Martha and their three young daughters.
Hatfield 1677 is a tale of three interwoven yet diverging journeys of strength and survival: Benjamin, driven by love and remorse to rescue his family; Martha, forced into captivity and desperately striving to protect her children; and Ashpelon, willing to risk everything to ensure the safety and freedom of his people.
Based on the lives of the author’s ancestors, this riveting and unforgettable novel gives voice to three vastly different experiences in North America during a time before the creation of the Declaration of Independence. Then, the land was but a wilderness and a battleground; equality was not yet perceived as self-evident; and liberty and happiness were nothing more than dangerous pursuits.
Excerpt #1 (760 words)
CHAPTER ELEVEN
MARTHA WAITE
I was startled by a pounding of little fists. I set Mattie in the chair with the book and opened the door. Mary and Abigail stood there, eyes wide, cheeks flushed from running.
“Mama, there’s smoke, look, and loud noises, like dogs howling!” Mary said, pointing down the street and scampering inside.
“Or wolves!” Abigail added, pushing past me.
“Wolves?” Mattie cried. “Mommy, wolves are scary, like lions. Look, look, it is a picture of a wolf in this book!” Mattie said, climbing down off the chair to show me.
I stuck my head out the door and smelled smoke. Not the whiff of cooking fires; this was denser, with the scent of iron and burnt paper. My whole body trembled. I peered down the lane and saw black smoke roiling above the rooftops.
Over the shouting from the carpenters next door came the dreaded and all too familiar battle cries.
I slammed and barred the door, then pressed my back against it and closed my eyes. Sweat flushed my brow. I took several deep breaths. Nearly all our men were in the fields, as usual. The Natives knew our predictable English ways.
“Mommy? What’s the matter?”
My eyes flew open at Mary’s voice.
I ran and closed the shutters on the two front windows. Scooping up Sally, ragdoll and all, I gazed about my home as if angels might have descended to rescue us.
The musket! Ben had left it hanging above the mantle. At the end of every mustering day, he had me practice loading and firing it. I hadn’t needed that knowledge till now.
“Mary, Abigail, take Mattie and Sally to the lean-to. We’re going to play hide-and-go-seek. Hide in the empty cupboard in the lean-to where we used to keep the jelly before we ate it all,” I said, failing to keep the tremor of fear from my voice.
Halfway there, Abigail stopped and looked at me. “But, if you know where we’re hiding, ’tis not fair, and—”
I cut her off. “Abigail, do as you’re told,” I said sharply.
“Will you count to twenty?” Mattie asked. Mary grabbed her hand, and Abigail took Sally’s.
“I’m counting to fifty. Now, go!”
Mary had seen the smoke. Like Abigail, she knew the seeker doesn’t choose the hiding place. I thanked God for Mary’s virtue of obedience. She asked no questions, just hurried all of them to the lean-to.
“One, two, three . . .” I counted aloud. I stood on a stool, took down the gun, and reached for the powder, balls, and rags. Ignoring the blood pounding in my ears, I talked myself through the steps, remembering Ben’s words.
Place the butt end on the floor and point the muzzle at the ceiling.
“Four, five, six . . .” Measure powder from the horn, pour it into the barrel, then ram a wad of cloth and the musket ball down. “Seven, eight, nine, ten . . .” Replace the ramrod. Push the frisson forward, add a pinch of powder to the pan, and close the frisson. Finally, cock it halfway.
“Eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen . . .” I made the flintlock ready in the time it took to recite the steps. Slinging the powder horn around my neck, I stuffed the pouch of musket balls and wads into my apron pocket. I grabbed the picture book and my little Bible, too.
“Mommy?” Mattie called, “You aren’t counting!”
I skipped ahead. “Twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two . . .”
Pointing the gun, I unbarred the door and cracked it a few inches to look up and down the lane. Smoke poured from houses on both sides, so I couldn’t see farther than the blacksmith shop. But I knew the stockade gate was open, as it had been during the day for the past few months. Dear God!
The fires were moving in our direction. The Natives were heading this way. Repeated gunfire shattered the air. The lane filled with people screaming, crying, yelping, and scattering. I pulled my head back inside, slammed and barred the door again, then let out a gasp of air I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. “Thirty-five, thirty-six, thirty-seven . . .”
God had spared us once. I prayed the girls would stay hidden, that we could flee. I prayed that I would hit my target if I fired the gun. Tears sprang to my eyes, and I brushed them away. My hands trembled as I aimed the musket at the door and continued counting.
“Forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty! Ready or not, here I come!”
Excerpt #2 (482 words)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Sept 19, 1677, Night
Camp
ASHPELON
I could not rest, so I paced about our camp, watching the exhausted English sleep. We had staked them down, as we would for several nights until they no longer knew where they were and no longer dreamt of escape. We staked only the men and the women. The English children we kept by our small cooking fire. They were our wampum, our gems for trading. Whether ransomed back to their English parents or sold to the French to the north, they would bring a high price. Or perhaps we would keep some. To replace the ghosts of our children, slaughtered by the English at Peskeompskut and in so many other massacres.
A few of our warriors stalked the forest, calling to me and each other in the sounds of owls and wolves. They scouted for signs of the English and the Mohawks. From their hoots and howls, I learned we’d not been followed. Not yet. And still, I walked amongst the captives. They lay on their backs, arms spread wide like their angels but pinioned to the earth. Unable to fly.
It was good we had taken their women. At least one, the Waite woman, was with child which increased the price we could ask for her. The men were a mistake. They were a foolish risk, especially the elderly warrior Plympton. Old but not weak. A possible danger to us. But some of our women had asked for men in retribution for husbands and sons killed by the English.
The English might not be following, but I was not sure about the Mohawks, our ancient enemies. They were like fawning English dogs, begging for scraps in trade for hunting down our people. The English think they can trust them, but in our language, their name Mohawk means “flesh-eater.”
Likewise, Mohawks will soon learn, like we have, that the English cannot be trusted. They ask to share the land but build fences, walls, and stockades and use guns to tell us we are no longer welcome. The English will feed you one day and whip you the next.
The French treated us fairly when they wanted beaver furs, and some of us bowed to their God. But now that beavers are scarce, the French may resolve they no longer need us. Still, Canada is our safest refuge now. Even our former enemies, the Abenaki, have opened their clans to us since Metacomet’s death.
The forest hides us well. The moon is just a sliver of a raccoon’s whisker, a harvest moon no more. We lit only one small fire for cooking. It was a warm night, and we needed the concealment of darkness. The moon would grow again and would soon be round and full as the Waite woman’s belly—the Leaf Falling Moon. By then, we would be far to the north, where neither English nor Mohawks could find us.
Excerpt #3 (832 words)
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
BENJAMIN WAITE
On Monday, promptly at the stroke of nine, we entered Stadt Huys and rang the bell at the empty desk. It summoned the same young man as before. This time, I asked his name and introduced him to Stephen.
“Bram Jacobssen,” the clerk replied, pronouncing the J like a Y. “A pleasure to meet you, Mister Jennings. Mister Waite, I’m afraid Captain Salisbury isn’t here.”
“He received word we’d arrive and confirmed he’d be available to see us. In fact, he demanded to meet with us as a condition of our travels,” I said, feeling my temper rising.
“You are a few days late, and I’m afraid he was called away on business by Commissary-General Van Bergen,” Jacobssen said. “He bade me tell you he regrets the inconvenience but could not wait for you.”
“Inconvenience?” I retorted, then softened my tone. No need to take my frustration out on the clerk. “Where is he conducting business? Perhaps we might meet him there?”
“I’m not at liberty to say . . .” Bram said, glancing about anxiously.
I struggled to keep my voice even. “Mister Jacobsen, this is a matter of the life or death of our families. Please.”
Bram leaned towards us and in a voice so hushed it was nearly a whisper, said, “I do not think it will help, but he and General van Bergen are three days south of here, negotiating a land purchase from the Mohawks, or maybe it is the Mahicans, near Kaatskill.”
South would be backtracking for us and a loss of six more days. ‘Twas inconceivable to me that a land purchase took precedence over a score of lives. My wife’s life. My children’s.
“When is he due back?” I asked.
“He left last week, on Friday, and said to expect him back in about ten days. Again, I do apologize. I know you came here quite some time ago on the same matter,” young Bram said, frowning.
“Did he leave any correspondence for us? He told Major Pynchon of Springfield he would speak to the Mohawks again regarding our matter.”
“Yes, I believe he did. Please, take a seat.”
I remained standing, as did Stephen.
“This is unforgivable,” Stephen said, then added, “I wish I’d not been ill.”
“That could not be helped, but Salisbury’s actions have added a delay we cannot afford.” I slapped my hat against my thigh in frustration. “The lakes will be passable by canoe for only a few more weeks. If we tarry too long, they will be betwixt water and ice, and we will need to wait until they freeze solid.”
“And our kin will be enduring the same storms. Blasted Salisbury,” Stephen said.
Bram reappeared holding a sheaf of papers, sat at his desk, and read aloud.
“Mister Jacobssen, if Mister Waite arrives in my absence, please give him my apologies. Inform him neither myself nor the Commission on Indians was able to find a Mohawk sachem to help in negotiations for the captives nor serve as a guide. Tell him he must wait for me in Albany,” Bram finished reading Salisbury’s note and looked up hopefully.
“Will you wait for the captain? I can arrange lodging for you, perhaps at our expense?” Bram said.
“I appreciate the offer, but no. Could I meet with someone from the Commission on Indians?”
“They only meet once every fortnight, I’m afraid,” Bram said.
“I see,” I said, though I did not. “Please give this letter to the captain when he returns. ’Tis from Governor Leverett of Massachusetts Bay colony, authorizing Mister Jennings and myself to secure the release of the captives taken at Hatfield in September.”
Bram added the letter to the papers I assumed pertained to our matter.
“Captain Salisbury takes his authority seriously. I think it might be best if . . .”
I cut him off. “Again, Mister Jacobssen, we thank you for your trouble.”
“Good day, sir,” Stephen added, following me as I strode out of the building.
I threw down my hat in disgust.
“Bloody hell!” I snarled. “A land purchase?” I picked up my hat and gritted my teeth.
Stephen ran a hand through his red hair, then put on his hat. “What now? There must be something we can do?”
“I say we go on ahead to Schenectady.”
“Without Salisbury’s approval?”
“His approval is a formality. We have authority from Massachusetts Bay, Major Pynchon’s entreaty, Governor Leverett’s documents naming us the agents for release, and Salisbury was already apprised of all details. It seems that should suffice,” I said.
“Then let’s be off,” Stephen said.
I clapped him on the back. I was relieved to be free of petty hindrances.
“‘Tis resolved, then. The King’s Highway will have us in Schenectady tomorrow. We can camp on the way. We should be able to find a Mohawk or Mahican there to guide us to Lake George, where we will be beyond the reach of any sheriff, governor, or law other than our Lord’s.”
About the Author
Laura C. Rader earned a BA in psychology from San Diego State University, where she minored in history and took creative writing and literature classes. She drew on those passions in her thirty-year career as a history and English teacher of elementary and middle school students. Now, a full-time historical fiction writer, Laura also enjoys studying genealogy, attending neighborhood book club meetings, taking forest walks with her Rough Collie, and visiting her adult daughter in Brooklyn. Originally from California, Laura lives twenty miles north of Raleigh, North Carolina. Hatfield 1677 is a work of historical fiction inspired by a story Laura discovered about her ninth great-grandparents while researching her family’s genealogy.
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