Spring brought a slight revival in his spirits. He forced himself to order a new selection of goods to barter, and towards the end of June, a few days after the summer solstice, he set out to walk to the forest. He left long before dawn, when the moon was full and the stars were bright, and when he was midway across Pine Plain, a most startling phenomenon occurred. The moon gradually began to shine blood red, then went through all its phases, from full to crescent, and vanished into darkness before starting to wax again – a disturbing and total eclipse that set all of Hadley’s cattle bellowing in alarm. Will spread out his coat on the damp grass and lay down and watched it, and then the shooting stars that followed. Such a portent he had never seen before, although he had read of it in the Book of Revelation, when the sixth seal was broken: ‘The sun became black as sackcloth of hair, and the moon became as blood.’ The sky was alive with prognostications, more so even than in 1666. Something terrible was coming. He could feel it.

  After an hour or more, he gathered his sack of household tools. He was in two minds whether it was wise to continue, but he had come so far it seemed foolish to go back. He resumed his journey.

  It was one of those summer nights when it never becomes properly dark. He could make out the path through the trees quite clearly. He wondered what the Indians, with all their primitive heathen superstitions, would have made of the eclipse. Perhaps it would deepen their hostility to the foreigners. Once again he was glad of the comfort of the pistol in his pocket, although if they attacked him, he would soon be overwhelmed.

  The moment he came down the track into the Norwottucks’ camp, he sensed that something was wrong. Hunched against the silver of the lake, the dozens of wigwams were black and silent. No fires had been left burning outside. He approached the nearest hut. The animal skin that usually covered the entrance was missing. Inside, it was deserted, everything gone – bedding, cooking utensils, food. There was no need for him to check the rest of the settlement. It had clearly been abandoned. He went to one of the firepits and ran his hand through the ash. It was still just warm. They must have left only in the last day or two.

  He retrieved his sack and set off back through the forest to Hadley, half walking, half running, imagining evil spirits all around him, heedless of the branches that slapped his face and the vines that caught at his ankles.

  That morning, he told John Russell of the Norwottucks’ disappearance. ‘Have they ever done such a thing before?’

  ‘Never. And this is their fishing season, when they always stay close to the river.’

  Russell went off to talk to Peter Tilton and the other leading men of the town.

  A few days later, news from Boston gave the empty camp an ominous significance. It seemed that at the beginning of the month, three Indians had been convicted of murdering an Englishman, and had been hanged. Among them was the chief counsellor to the Indian sachem, Metacomet, leader of the Wampanoag people in south-east Massachusetts, who styled himself King Philip. In a fury at the insult, he had united the scattered tribes of New England into a war coalition to drive out the foreigners once and for all. The Norwottucks near Hadley must have abandoned their camp to join him.

  ‘Our position here is most exposed,’ said Russell. It was the first time Will had seen him seriously worried. ‘We must wait upon events and pray.’

  At first the fighting was all in the south of the state, around Providence. But one afternoon in the first week of August, Will heard shouts and the rumble of approaching ox carts. His side window looked east, towards Pine Plain, and from it came a sorry little convoy of three carts, a few dozen sheep and a couple of horses, with families trudging alongside, their faces and clothing blackened by smoke, their possessions piled in two of the carts and wounded sprawled in the other. They passed beneath his window, and a minute later he heard a loud hammering at the door.

  It was the first time for years that he had been forced to hide.

  He lit a candle and went into the passage, lifted the planks, climbed down the ladder a few rungs, replaced the boards above his head and descended the rest of the way to the cramped space. He could hear Russell’s voice – commiserating, soothing, occasionally outraged – and that of another man, who must have been standing close to the fireplace. Pressing his ear to the brickwork, he was able to make out most of what he said. From what he could gather (the man was in a state of shock, and his story tumbled out in haphazard order), they had fled from Brookfield, a tiny place about twenty-five miles to the east of Hadley. Earlier in the week, a certain Captain Hutchinson and about twenty men of the Massachusetts militia had arrived to try to pacify the local Indians, had been lured into an ambush three miles out of Brookfield and lost half their force, had retreated to the house of a man named John Ayres, into which the entire community had crammed themselves, and had managed to hold off the besieging natives for two full days and nights, while the town around them was burned to the ground. Two settlers had been killed – one shot dead at a window and another when he ventured outside. On the evening of the third day, they had been relieved by the arrival of a Captain Parker with four dozen soldiers. The Indians had retreated, and the survivors had scattered to seek refuge where they could.

  More people came inside, more voices added to the hubbub, and after that Will could understand little of what was said. An hour passed and gradually the volume diminished. The door closed. He heard footsteps on the stairs and then the boards were lifted. John Russell’s face appeared.

  ‘You can come out now. It’s safe.’

  ‘From what I overheard, I don’t know that “safe” is the word I’d choose.’

  ‘Indeed not. Those poor people.’ Russell put out his hand to help him up. In Will’s room, he sat on the bed and put his head in his hands. ‘Because of you, I had to send them away to find shelter in other parts of the town.’

  Will sat next to him. ‘If that’s the case, I’ll leave today, John. I’ll not deprive desperate women and children of a bed.’

  ‘No, you can’t leave, not now. As you say, it isn’t safe, especially for a solitary traveller in the middle of a war.’ Russell looked up. He shook his head and smiled sadly. ‘And the old problem arises, my dear friend – where would you go? But the fact remains, this is a large house and I fear I’ve raised suspicions by not taking anyone in. No doubt there will be more coming – soldiers too. You may have to get used to spending more time in your hiding place.’

  ‘I can’t expose you to such a danger.’

  ‘Danger lurks all around us. No more talk of leaving. Will you pray with me?’

  They got down on their knees and prayed silently together, and for the thousandth time, Will wished Ned was still with him. He would have known what to do.

  That night, while the rest of the household slept, Will went softly down the stairs in his stockinged feet. He sat on the steps and pulled on his boots, then ventured out into the night. This was what Ned would have done, he had decided: reconnoitre the terrain of the battle.

  God will grant us victory if He wills it, but He expects us mortals also to make sound plans. It was a risk, but he calculated it was warranted.

  He had never walked around the town before. He went south, past a dozen houses, all the way to the great broad expanse of the Connecticut, shining in the moonlight, then followed the riverbank west, past the ferryboat, to the point where it curved sharply and came back on itself, exactly like the bend of an elbow. Where the joint would have been was what they called the Great Meadow, or the Honey Pot – fertile common land. Then, as he moved east, the houses and their lots began again. It was the perfect natural spot for a settlement. He could understand why the Norwottuck would have regretted parting with it.

  In the middle of the town was a green with the newly built meeting house. That is the obvious place, Ned whispered in his mind. A touch too obvious, maybe? He studied it for a while in the moonlight, then moved on. He estimated that the circumference of the town was perhaps three miles. With frequent stops, it took him two hours to complete his circuit.

  When he was back in his room, he drew a sketch from memory, and in the morning, he showed it to Reverend Russell.

  ‘You walked around the town?’ Russell was shocked.

  ‘No one saw me – and that, John, is a problem in itself. An entire tribe of natives could have moved around unnoticed.’

  ‘There is supposed to be a nightly patrol.’

  ‘If so, it isn’t good enough. To cover such an area, you need three patrols. The town is not easily defensible, but we do have one advantage. Three sides are protected by the river, so if they come – unless they have canoes, which would be vulnerable to defensive fire – it must be from the east. Every man in Hadley is armed, I take it?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘With what? Muskets? Pistols? Matchlock or flintlock?’

  ‘A mix of both.’

  ‘They should carry them at all times, even working in the fields. Spare weapons and ammunition should be lodged in the meeting house – swords, pikes, daggers, anything that may be used. There is a signal agreed in case of attack?’

  ‘The meeting house bell is to be rung. But let us pray it will not come to that. I have had word from Boston that a company of dragoons is now searching in the area. That should deter an assault.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Will, though he could not help but wonder how farmers mounted on horseback, however heavily armed, might fare against the Indian warriors he had seen in the Norwottuck camp.

  He spent the rest of the day preparing, shifting Ned’s old bedding down the ladder into the cavity behind the fireplace, along with most of their possessions, their money – he still thought of it as theirs – a stock of candles, a pitcher of water, their swords, pistols, bullets and powder. Afterwards, he kept watch from his window with Ned’s telescope. Towards the end of the afternoon, he noticed a column of smoke rising from the forest. It grew slowly over the next few hours, spreading like a thundercloud above the trees, immense and ominous. Some of the townspeople, armed with muskets and pikes, passed beneath his window and went out onto the meadow for a better look. There was cheering.

  That evening, when Russell brought him his supper, his face was grim. ‘Our soldiers have burned the Norwottucks’ settlement – fifty wigwams torched.’

  Will was aghast. ‘Why?’ He thought of the woman he dealt with, her unfailing offers of food.

  ‘Revenge for Brookfield.’

  ‘But we do not even know for sure they were the ones who attacked Brookfield.’

  ‘I doubt they were. However, they are Indians. That is sufficient. Daniel Gookin has written to tell me that even the Christian Indians have been seized and put in irons. He is accused of being too sympathetic and will lose his seat on the governing council. Now it is a war to the death. There is something else you need to know – the soldiers will be here tomorrow, and every house in Hadley is ordered to provide a billet.’

  ‘I am ready.’

  ‘I presume they will be out often on patrol. I shall bring you food and water whenever I am able. But it will not be comfortable. In the meantime, I shall try to find you another place to stay.’

  ‘Don’t trouble yourself about my comfort, John. It will still be better than a cell in the Tower.’

  Russell brought him a stock of food and more water, which he carried down into his shelter. The next day, he stationed himself at his window again, and around midday saw a line of dust rising on Pine Plain. He trained his telescope and a minute later was able to make out the figures of mounted soldiers, fifty or sixty at a guess, galloping towards Hadley. He picked up his Bible, took a last look around his empty room, and descended to his hiding place.

  The gap behind the fireplace was eight feet long but only four across. The boards were roughly four feet above his head, so at least he could stand upright. To make room for his mattress, he had to take down the ladder and lay it lengthwise against the wall. Once that was done, he felt as if he was in a tomb, with only a single candle flame to pierce the darkness.

  It was the last week of August, stiflingly hot. There was nothing he could do except lie on his mattress, damp with sweat, and listen to the soldiers. Their noises all around him were inescapable, like Job’s tormentors, or hallucinations in a fever. They came and went from the stables through the parlour, clumped up the stairs, shifted furniture in the bedrooms, thumped along the passage above his head. Once, one of them complained that the boards were loose and tested them with the toe of his boot, but mercifully someone – an officer, by the tone of his command – called him away. The militiamen talked and laughed and swore and prayed and snored. Sometimes they shouted in terror in their sleep.

  For a while he tried to differentiate between them – the Ipswich man, the Swansea man, the young one whose wife was with child – but there were so many he lost track of them, and eventually gave up. It was impossible to tell the time of day except when the house fell silent for several hours. Even then, he could not sleep. He stretched, did press-ups, paced the few yards in either direction. There was barely room to turn. Otherwise, he read the Bible endlessly by candlelight, lying on his side, until his eyes ached, returning again and again to the thirty-first psalm, which spoke to him directly as never before.

  Have mercy upon me, O LORD, for I am in trouble: mine eye is consumed with grief, yea, my soul and my belly.

  For my life is spent with grief, and my years with sighing: my strength faileth because of mine iniquity, and my bones are consumed.

  I was a reproach among all mine enemies, but especially among my neighbours, and a fear to mine acquaintance: they that did see me without fled from me.

  I am forgotten as a dead man out of mind: I am like a broken vessel . . .

  He was sure he would go mad. He was sure he was mad. He tried to think if any other human soul had lived a life such as his, and could not conceive of one. For what terrible sins was he being punished? For what purpose was he being tested?

  The days passed. The house was never empty. Russell never came.

  O love the LORD, all ye his saints: for the LORD preserveth the faithful, and plentifully rewardeth the proud doer.

  Be of good courage, and he shall strengthen your heart, all ye that hope in the LORD.

  He tried to welcome the curses as blessings, to greet his trials as chances to move nearer to God, as he had with Ned’s illness. But it grew harder, especially when not only his food and water were almost gone, but most frightening of all, his candles. The prospect of having no light at all was intolerable.

  On the seventh day, he cried for hours, his hand over his mouth to deaden the sound, until at last, for the first time in a week, he fell into an abyss of sleep. When he awoke, there was absolute silence.

  He couldn’t tell how long he had been unconscious, or even whether it was day or night. Always there had been sounds of some sort, whatever the hour, if only creaks or coughs, but now there was nothing. He lay there listening.

  Finally he got to his feet. The movement guttered his last stub of candle, sent his shadow dancing across the brick; then it went out. He felt around in the pitch black for his sword, tucked two of the pistols and their powder and bullets into his pockets, slipped the telescope inside his coat. He leaned the ladder back up, moving it around until he found the joist. He put one foot on the bottom rung. Slowly he began to climb. When he reached the top, he waited for a few more minutes, straining his ears again, then pushed up one of the boards. The light struck his face so painfully he had to turn his head and shut his eyes. It was a moment or two before he could open them fully. He came up into the passage and crouched there. Then he straightened, pulled out one of his pistols, and with his sword in his other hand edged along the wall to his bedroom.

  It looked to have been abandoned in a hurry, possessions and dirty plates strewn across the floor.

  He went over to the window. The plain appeared as deserted as the house. He felt a prickle of fear. Something must be terribly wrong. He took out his telescope and began to scan the open country – methodically, north to south, starting in the distance. The lens locked onto a smudge, like a smear of dust, a couple of miles away. Had the soldiers found something else to burn? He adjusted the focus a fraction. No. Not smoke – figures, moving. And they were more than a smudge now. Men on foot. A few on horseback. The image wavered lazily in the haze of morning heat. Were the soldiers returning? But again, no – these men were not in military formation. They were scattered in a wide line across the plain. And those on foot were running, raising dust like a lit fuse burning straight towards Hadley.

  He closed the telescope, hurried out of the room and down the stairs. He was shouting, his voice strange in his ears after days of silence. ‘John! John! Anyone?’

  He threw open the front door and strode across the yard to the gate. Not a soul to be seen, as if the place had been abandoned.

  He sprinted towards the centre of town – past the empty houses towards the green, the meeting house. He paused on the threshold. He could hear Russell’s voice, preaching a sermon. He hesitated. But what did it matter now if he was seen? He threw open the door and marched up the aisle. Two hundred or more surprised faces turned to look at him. Russell was in the pulpit. Will climbed the steps and stood beside him at the lectern. For the first time in many years, he found himself facing a congregation. So many people. He waved his arms.

  ‘An attack! They’re coming! Arm yourselves! Ring the bell!’