Crow Hollow by Michael Wallace Read Free Book Online Page A

share with thee truth and light. Thy people, proud and hard of heart, have put these Friends to death, driven them from New England.” Peter’s expression hardened. “And thou hast defrauded and persecuted the native sons of this land. Those who hunger and thirst for truth have been given gall to drink and hot lead for their supper. Their blood cries up from the soil against thee.”
    “Have respect, Master Church,” Stone said. “Men in this room have lost brothers to the savages. Women, their sons. Entire families murdered in Medford, Andover, Winton, Sudbury, their children cruelly tortured and killed.”
    “And entire nations lie slaughtered under your swords,” Peter answered. “Families burned alive in their homes. Is there a soul in this room who doesn’t know the fate of the Narragansett? The Nipmuk? Are there not men present who did the killing at Crow Hollow? Let them answer now for their crimes.”
    “And I’d do it again!” a man shouted. It was Samuel Knapp, now rising from the front pews. “Bring me a pistol and ball, and I’ll see one more Indian put down like a mad dog.”
    “You are a heretic and a savage,” another man cried at Peter.
    “Please!” Stone cried. “All of you, be calm.”
    The reverend waved his hands and called the people to restrain themselves, but his words drowned under a rising tide of shouting men, and children now bursting into wails.
    It was all working better than James had hoped. As Peter continued to call the Puritans to repentance, and the accused shouted back and shook their fists, James edged out of the pew, though not without a twinge of guilt at abandoning Peter.
    Cooler heads—mostly women—hustled children out of the meetinghouse. James helped Goodwife Stone get her youngest children out of the pew, then caught Sir Benjamin’s widow by her sleeve as she brushed past.
    “Prudence Cotton?” he said, struggling to be heard over the tumult.
    She turned to him, startled. “Master Bailey.”
    “I must see you, alone.”
    “Let me go.”
    “Meet me at the Common at dusk. You must be there, do you understand?”
    “No, I won’t do it. Unhand me.”
    She jerked free and hurried off after her sister and the little ones. Damn. Well, it had been worth a try.
    A scuffle at his rear drew James’s attention. Two men had climbed over the pew and were struggling with another man, who was trying to protect Peter from violence. Or no, he was trying to get at the Indian himself, trying to tear loose Peter’s grip from the pew in front of him. Peter stood with a placid look, doing nothing more than trying to hold his ground while continuing to argue in a loud tone. His words were incomprehensible through the din.
    More men forced their way into the fray. They finally knocked Peter from his feet. A man rained blows on the Indian’s face.
    “Get off him!” James roared.
    He reached into his jerkin and drew his dagger. A woman screamed.
    A man reached for him, but James slashed at the man’s chest and drove him back. He threatened and waved the dagger until he had forced his way to Peter’s side. He grabbed the jacket of the man pummeling the Indian and tore him off. He swung an elbow to shove another man out of the way. Soon he had the pew cleared. He lifted Peter to his feet. Blood streamed from the man’s nose, and he looked shaken.
    Half the congregation had fled the building, but the remainder gathered in an angry mob, shouting and waving fists. It was precisely the disturbance James had been hoping to cause, yet the savagery of it left him stunned. He struggled to recover his wits.
    “Quiet, all of you! I am James Bailey, and by the authority of His Majesty, by the grace of God your sovereign and king, I order you to disperse.”
    They did not disperse. They did, however, ease off with the shouting. It was enough for Peter to start up again. He lifted his hands, palms up, like a prophet. Or a madman.
    “Good folk of Boston—”
    “Be quiet, you fool,”