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THERE IS A trial. Under Governor Dale’s martial law, there is no hearing, no jury, just the governor’s decision. And Governor Dale pronounces my mother and Jane Wright guilty of stealing thread from the Company. The shirts they made were shorter than those made by the other women—the women who were given good thread to work with.
Their punishment? A brutal whipping.
My father carries my mother home. He is weeping and cursing. He lays her in bed. She is silent.
I heat water on the fire and, with clean rags, bathe my mother’s cut and bloody back. She lies on her side, flinching as I do my work. Every few minutes her breathing becomes ragged, until finally she cries out, “Get Jane!”
I look to my father. Surely Jane is in her bed as well. My father nods to me, and I go.
I find Jane sitting in her cottage, leaning onto the table, the top of her dress down, her head hanging. Her husband stands behind her, washing her wounds. She moans quietly. Her back is just as cut and bloody as my mother’s. I am filled with hatred for Governor Dale.
“My mother is asking for you,” I say, barely above a whisper.
“Oh please, no,” Jane says. She tries to stand but groans in pain.
“You can’t go,” her husband says, and helps her to sit back down.
“I cannot leave her to die,” Jane says, her voice strong. “Robert, lay that rag on my back for a bandage and help me on with my dress.” She winces as Robert does as she says.
She picks up her bag—the bag she brings with her to heal the sick and to deliver babies—and I follow her out the door.
At home my mother is on her feet, her arm draped over my father’s shoulders. My father’s eyes are wild.
“She’s—it’s not time!” he blurts out.
“I know, John,” Jane says. Her voice is the one calm thing in the room. “Virginia, you have hot water on the fire? Good. Fill a bowl with it for me and bring me an empty bowl as well.” She begins to take things out of her bag: a packet of herbs, scissors, a small blanket.
I am confused, but I set to work, finding bowls and hot water. My mother slumps onto the bed and sits for a moment. Then she groans and stands again, clinging to my father.
“You’re going to be all right, Ann,” Jane says. “I will make sure of it.”
My mother nods at her friend. Sweat drenches her face. Her eyes have the look of a trapped animal. She cries out. Jane crouches in front of her.
I take small steps, carefully carrying the bowl of hot water to Jane. When I reach her, what I see in her hands does not make sense. It is a baby that is impossibly small, hardly bigger than Jane’s hand, with the cord still attached to its belly. I blink, not believing. The baby is not breathing or moving. With a rush, I realize this is my baby sister. Born too early. Much too early.
My mother sobs. “He is a murderer!” she cries.
My father smooths her hair, tries to comfort her.
I feel dizzy. I stumble out of the cottage. It is quiet and dark and somehow peaceful outside. Fireflies glitter their lights on and off. In the sky overhead, the stars shine, unchanging. I look up into the night. “Why did Governor Dale do that?” I whisper. “Why did he set a trap for Mum and Jane? Why did he give them bad thread?”
I close my eyes, hoping that my prayer and the knowing will work together to give me an answer. But my mind is as empty as the darkness between the stars.
. . .
Governor Dale struts through the fort, his deputy at his side. His starched collar holds his head up high as though he is looking down on all of us. In my imagination, I pull an arrow from the quiver on my back and string it tight to my bow. I let it fly. It strikes him in the heart.
A voice startles me. “There are daggers in your eyes, Virginia.”
It is Jane Wright. She has caught me in my hateful stare. She bends down and puts a hand on my cheek. “Wish for good things, little one, not bad things. Wish for something good for your mother and for the colony.”
I look up at her. “I wish for Governor Dale to go back to England.” I say it quietly, so no one else will hear me.
She smiles and leans in to whisper, “That is a good wish for the colony.”