I collapse into Ezra Brewer’s open arms. His embrace is strong and gentle at the same time. I close my eyes and rest my head on his shoulder, choking on my own sobs.
He releases me and signs “thank you” to the man, who tips his hat and disappears into the crowd on the wharf. Ezra Brewer jumps up and quickly works the rigging.
“Andrew is here,” I sign.
“Saw him,” he signs matter-of-factly. “We’d better get going.”
While Ezra Brewer prepares the boat, I keep watch in case Andrew attempts to board the Black Dog before we leave Boston Harbor.
As we begin to sail out of the Inner Harbor, Ezra Brewer surveys me. I’ve never seen his dark blue eyes so worried. Do I really look that awful?
“Mary,” he signs, with a twinkle in his eye, “I’m glad to see you, but I can’t say I admire your frills and brass buttons. You’re dressed a mite too fancy for the Dog.”
A waterfall tumbles inside me.
“I can talk in signs with you!”
“I believe that’s what we’re doing,” Ezra Brewer responds.
“I haven’t conversed with anyone in ages,” I tell him.
“It’s about time you did,” he signs.
I look behind us and see the sails flying on the SS Defiance. Andrew must have been aiming to take me to his schooner, not back to Dr. Minot’s. He must have left early to prepare it.
The Black Dog is a midsized cutter. The rig makes the boat faster and easier to maneuver than many larger boats. We stand more than a fair chance against Andrew’s schooner.
Sailing into the Atlantic, the waters are choppy.
“Andrew is following us!” I sign.
“We’ll sail south of Boston and then around Cape Cod,” signs Ezra Brewer. “We’ll stay on the sea to take the harder route.” He winks. My stomach drops. The back Cape can be perilous to navigate, even with a capable captain at the helm. The Mayflower couldn’t pass the Cape to sail on to the Colony of Virginia; they had to land on the tip of Cape Cod.
When we look back again, we see that Andrew has navigated a course straight toward us. “It will take him time to catch up,” Ezra Brewer assures me. “We won’t sail into swift currents for a while.”
I raise my hands to sign again, but find I have nothing to say. In Boston, I thought if I ever saw anyone from the Vineyard, I would spill out all the details of my kidnapping. Now I can’t bring myself to say them.
Ezra Brewer glances at me, waiting to see what I’ll sign. I want to say something. Anything that’s not about me.
He shakes his head. “A fool I’ve been! You’ll be wanting food and water.” He gives me a hard biscuit to nibble on.
“We are going home now,” I sign.
“Indeed, the whole town has been trying to find you and making prayers for your safety. Your ma and pa were very hard hit.” I notice he keeps one eye on the helm and the other on the schooner following us. His left hand reaches down for a bottle. There isn’t one there, and he scowls.
“I don’t want them to grieve anymore,” I tell him. “We’ve been hurting long enough.”
Ezra Brewer smiles broadly and signs, “You should know that curly headed gal has been sulking and sighing all over the island.”
“Nancy?” I ask. I can’t wait to embrace her again. I’m sure she’s been bored without me. “How is she?”
He signs, “Doesn’t help her father is carrying on about his land rights.”
“Is Mr. Skiffe persisting?” I ask, shaking my head.
Ezra Brewer works his mouth and starts signing again. “You can count on that. He made a mess over a piece of land, just because he wanted it when he has enough. What sort of reason is that? I’ve got all I need with my boat and my cat.”
Ezra Brewer looks at me, to make sure I am paying attention. I am watching him, though I can’t help but glance back to see how close Andrew is. It’s hard to tell if he is gaining on us.
“How about Thomas Richards?” I ask. “Is he still working the farm with Papa?”
“I daresay he is. And that colt of your brother’s, Bayard, well, I should tell you that story. The morning that malefactor absconded with you, Bayard had his hackles up. He knew something was wrong.”
I remember the horse running free in the yard.
Ezra Brewer continues. “Well, he jumped the fence and went after you. But he was so agitated that he got whipped and cut by bare branches running down the high road and never made it to you. He had a few deep wounds and one eye swollen shut when they found him.”
“Oh no,” I sign.
“I am not trying to make you feel sorry,” he signs. “It’s just because you mentioned Thomas. Can ye believe, it was that young daughter of his who helped nurse Bayard back to health? You know how finicky horses are; they only like who they like, and you can naught change their minds. He wouldn’t let the Irishman near him, but he decided that Indian gal is all right.”
That story makes me feel glad. Sally’s persistence was rewarded.
“How is Sarah Hillman?” I ask, eager for any news of Chilmark.
“Do you have a fever?” Ezra Brewer signs comically. “Since when does that haughty chit deserve your consideration?”
“She’s not that bad,” I insist, all things considered.
“How about Reverend Lee?” I ask.
“Aye, he feels right sorry,” Ezra Brewer signs, “for bringing that villain into town under his protection.”
“It’s not his fault,” I insist.
“I know it,” he signs. “But like all good Christians, his conscience troubles him.”
As we continue our voyage, we pass the remnants of
