". . . darkness protects us from seeing the things we would rather not see," said Reverend Jonathan Edwards.

For more than an hour Hannah Duston had been listening to his sermon. Like others around her, she dared not squirm or fidget in her pew for fear of having the deacons poke her with their long poles.

"Be attentive," she warned herself. "Do not allow your head to bob."

The famous minister had come to Haverhill in early November to deliver a sermon Puritans from miles around wanted to hear. Strangers and locals stuffed the small town meeting place/church. The long wooden pews overflowed with somber men, women, and sternly-watched children. Though fairly large with a high beamed ceiling, the room was uncomfortably stuffy since every window and door were closed. Hannah could barely breathe.

"Yes, darkness is man's very nature," continued Reverend Edwards. "That core of sinfulness lurking in us all. It blinds us . . . you, me, all those around us . . . from seeing God's light. His grace. Oh, but if we opened our hearts and let His light pour in! He is there waiting for each of us to come to Him, confess our sins and plead for His mercy! You must believe He will listen if you repent . . . and He will forgive."

"My dark nature?" Hannah thought, allowing just a hint of smile to touch her pale lips. "All my life I have been told I am sinful, tainted by Adam's Original Sin. As a child I was told over and over that only a Chosen Few would be saved, but now this man says I can be saved if . . ."

Hannah would not allow herself to finish the thought. Puritans believed that God favored a "Chosen Few" even in this life. Those who worked hard were rewarded. She and Tom had been blessed with ten children, and they had a fair-sized farm. But would either of them find their way to Heaven's Gate?

"Tom, yes," Hannah thought. "But me? No! I broke His greatest commandment. I have killed, yet have no remorse. God's grace I cannot seek."

Hannah's efforts to focus on the sermon proved futile as unbidden memories came rushing back.

* * *

The Indians had attacked the small town of Haverhill, New Hampshire just before dusk on March 15, 1697. Tom and Hannah's farm was a mile or so outside the tiny hamlet.

First the Indians surprised Tom in the fields where he was working with several of the older children. Fortunately, his long rifle was nearby and loaded. When he shot at them, they retreated. He scurried toward the cabin, gathered eight of the children and his horse, and tried to guide them to safety.

But the Indians were not deterred and charged again.

"Run, Hannah! Save yourself and Martha," Tom screamed. "I'll try to hold 'em off."

Hannah, who had just given birth to their youngest six days earlier, still lay in bed. Her cousin Mary, a mid-wife, sat beside her. They heard a shot, silence, then another.

"Come!" cried Mary who grabbed the baby and raced toward the doorway. Hannah stumbled behind her.

Suddenly, a warrior with a red-streaked face stood before them, his tomahawk raised.

"Why did he spare us?" Hannah asked herself as Edwards droned on. "Providence! It had to be."

More than a dozen screaming warriors appeared, brandishing their weapons. They herded Hannah, Mary, and several neighbors away from town toward the river. For more than an hour captives and captors plodded along a deer path that wound through thick forest and over hills.

Hannah, who clutched the baby to her breast, caught her foot in a hole, lost a shoe, and lurched forward. Martha squalled.

A young warrior who had been prodding Hannah continuously with his bow yanked the baby from her grasp.

"Waghh!" he growled. Holding the child by its small legs, he smashed it several times against a tree. Then he dropped the mangled body into the leaves and grinned wolfishly at its mother.

Hannah's eyes went wide, her mouth now a silent "O." When she stooped to pick up the tiny body, the Indian kicked Hannah in the ribs and raised his tomahawk.

"Kill me, too!" she whimpered.

"He would have, too," Hannah thought, "if Mary had not pleaded for my life. God used her as His instrument to save me."

Not long afterwards she witnessed yet another atrocity. A young male settler captured earlier stumbled and broke his leg. When he could not stand, a warrior with a scalp lock split the captive's skull with his axe. Then howling, he slammed his knee into the middle of his victim's back, pulled back his head, and yanked a knife from his belt. Quickly he cut around the dying man's hairline, grabbed the hair, and pulled. The bloody scalp came off with a pop.

Hannah screamed.

The Indian leered at her, then stuffed the dripping hair into his belt and strode off.

(italics) "Heathens! Satan's minions. I'll never stop hating them though I have not seen a wild one in almost thirty years. Our growing colony pushed those savages across the mountains . . . or killed them. Still, revenge is all I thought about then . . . and even now."

Onward the Indians cruelly pushed their captives for several days. Finally, they reached a river where the party split into two groups. Hannah's had about twenty members, including Mary and a teenaged boy named Sam who had been captured weeks earlier.

Her group settled on an island where two rivers came together. Although none of the Indians spoke English, one of the warriors attempted to communicate with the captives through gestures. Mary and the boy Sam were given chores to do under the supervision of the two Indian women. Because they saw she was a new mother (she was bleeding again) Hannah was allowed to rest on deer hides. None of the captives were left unguarded even when they defecated. But over time the Indians relaxed their guard.

(italics) "Stupid savages! Never knew I was plotting our escape."

Hannah slowly regained her strength and helped watch the children. Sadly, there were no babies she could nurse. One little girl let Hannah braid her hair, and a boy, maybe ten, brought her fresh water from the river and shared the berries he picked each day.

Eventually, the captives were allowed to sit and eat together. At night Mary and Hannah curled up by the fire in the single hide they were given. That's when Hannah whispered her plan to Mary who later found a way to tell Sam.

"They grow careless, Mary. You must steal a tomahawk from that man who sleeps nearest us. He always tucks it beneath his hide, but he sleeps soundly like an old dog. You will not wake him. When you have it, use it quickly on his wife. Tell Sam to steal a knife and kill the man."

"We cannot kill them all. There are too many--"

"Yes, we can! If we are quick."

Mary shook her grey head. "I--I don't think I can."

"You must!" Hannah snarled. "Remember what they did to Martha. Vengeance is mine sayeth the Lord."

"Oh, Hannah, let God punish them. I have it not within me to hurt others."

(italics) "We all do, Mary! It's that darkness Reverend Edwards is speaking of. We have that and the will to survive."

Somehow Mary found the nerve to steal the hatchet. Sam stole one, too. On a moonlit night they stood with their weapons staring at Hannah.

Hannah watched the sleeping forms of the Indians closely. None stirred. Slowly she raised her hand and dropped it quickly.

Sam's hatchet spoke first. He split the man's skull. Hannah struck his wife once . . . twice . . . several times. But the woman struggled to her feet and ran into the woods.

Hannah leaped to grab Mary's hatchet. Then she was screaming and slashing. Over and over she raised her weapon and brought it down. Blood spewed everywhere, on her face and hands, her hair. In moments her black dress was crimson. In a frenzy she wielded the weapon viciously, severing fingers, toes and flesh. Finally she stopped, winded, and looked around her. She alone had slain nine Indians. Ten lay dead. Silence except for the rush of the river nearby.

"Take their clothes," she shouted at Mary and Sam who seemed stupefied. "We must look like Indians. I'll search for food."

Quickly she rifled through the Indians' belongings. She found a gun and a basket filled with berries and some cooked meat.

"To the river!" she ordered the others.

There Sam and Mary helped her scuttle all the Indians' canoes but one. Then they were in it, pushing out into the river. Sam did the paddling as Mary wept.

For a moment the canoe spun slowly in the river's currents. Hannah, her bloody hands leaving prints on the sides of the canoe, gazed at the remnants of her carnage lying still upon the fading shore.

"Stop us, Sam!" she shouted. "Take us back."

Mary ceased her whimpering to gape. Sam opened his mouth, then closed it when he saw Hannah's fiery eyes.

His paddle jabbed deeply into the water, and the canoe's bow swung toward shore. A few strokes later, they were beached again.

"Wait and watch!" Hannah demanded. "That woman Mary did not kill could bring others back."

In the boat Hannah remembered what she forgot to do. Now she stepped out of the boat and strode purposefully toward the dead. Moments later she found a knife.

Then she walked toward the stiff corpse of the husband. She thought of kicking him, but he was not the savage who had struck her after Martha's death. Instead she straddled him, then knelt upon his back.

"Let me see if I remember how it's done," she whispered, her lips peeled back from her teeth.

She grabbed his hair, pulled his head back, and quickly sliced an arc around his forehead. Then with all her strength she pulled. Pop!

"Yes!" she howled. She grinned fiendishly at her first scalp.

She rose and looked for some cloth. Finding none, she ripped off a bloody piece of her skirt and wrapped the scalp within.

She stared at the rest of the victims.

(italics) "Why did I not weep . . . for at least the children?" Hannah moaned. The woman beside her in the pew raised her eyebrows and frowned.

She never said a word as she repeated what she had done to the man. A minute or two later she rose for good, ten scalps now wrapped inside the rag.

Then she trotted quickly to the canoe and climbed aboard once more.

"What is that?" asked Sam, pointing at the bloody package lying in her lap.

"Their scalps," Hannah said quietly. "The governor will give us a bounty for each. We shall use the money to rebuild our lives."

As Sam began to paddle anew, Hannah dipped her bloody hands into the river and smiled.

* * *

Hannah, Mary, and Sam somehow avoided discovery by the Indians. A few days later they stumbled ashore at Haverhill. A townsman took Hannah and Mary to her husband and children. All had survived the attack.

Later Tom took his wife to the governor who wished to hear about Hannah Duston's exploits. After she recounted her experience as best she could remember it, he rewarded her with 50 pounds; Sam and Mary split another 25. Later the whole colony treated Good Wife Duston as a heroine.

But now, as Hannah sat listening to Jonathan Edwards speak about man's darkness and God's grace, she voiced the doubts long kept bottled up.

(italics) "For revenge I killed and scalped nine heathens. Did they not kill my Martha and that crippled man? If Mary, Sam, or I had proved unable to do their bidding, would not we be dead? Would not our scalps be hanging in their lodges?

"Oh Lord, was I wrong? Were my deeds offensive to you? Am--am I worthy of your grace?"

Hannah Duston shuddered, then wept for the first time in more than thirty years.




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