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.
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!”
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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