SOURCE: “Mary Rowlandson Maps New Worlds: Reading Rowlandson,” in Cartographies of Desire: Captivity, Race, and Sex in the Shaping of an American Nation, University of Oklahoma Press, 1999, pp. 52-77.

[In the following excerpt, Faery examines how Rowlandson's text was used in the formation of an American national character and identity founded on white male supremacy.]

READING ROWLANDSON

So much has been made for so long of Rowlandson's interpretive biblical voice, of her structuring use of the Bible and conventional Puritan theology to comprehend her experience, one is tempted to believe that the preface writer's directive to read the narrative as a defense of English Christian superiority over the “heathen” Indians is irresistible and that his occlusion of the colloquial elements in her text, passages that provide a view of Indians and Indian life to some extent divergent from Puritan orthodoxy, must prevail. It is certainly true that readings of Rowlandson emphasizing her narrative's racism, conventionality, adherence to a reductive typological Christianity, and evident belief that God himself supported the Puritan colonial endeavor have been conventional through the nineteenth century and even into the present.

In a 1985 essay, for example, Jane Tompkins claims that “captivity narratives [are] a poor source of evidence for the nature of European-Indian relations in early New England because they were so relentlessly pietistic” (“Indians” 71) and that Rowlandson only “saw what her seventeenth-century English Separatist background made visible” (70-71). Another recent instance is the publication in 1988 of an edition of Rowlandson's narrative by an evangelical Christian editor, Mark Ludwig, who describes it as “a story of amazing faith and perseverence [sic] in the face of adversity, and a great testimony to the faithfulness of God towards those who love him” (Ludwig v).¹ A text, however, is no more unified than is a culture—which is to say, not unified at all. Both Tompkins's and Ludwig's readings, though motivated by dramatically differing agendas, flatten Rowlandson's text and fail to acknowledge its complexities, the ways it undermines the ideologies that Tompkins herself wants to question and Ludwig wants to preserve and uphold.

There is, though, a reason other than the preface writer's rhetorical power or the convention of reading in certain ways to explain the continuing emphasis on Rowlandson as a representative of traditional patriarchal Puritanism. A much more persuasive explanation for such readings becomes clear when we see them as politically motivated—that is, when we consider her text's continuing usefulness in the ongoing process, both textual and political, of creating an American nation founded on white male supremacy, rigid race and gender hierarchies, and the exploitation and abuse of subordinated and racialized “others,” both Indians and African slaves.

To understand Rowlandson's narrative and others like it as an important site for producing and articulating ideologies of race helps to explain the reappearance of her text at various pivotal moments in American history. Greg Sieminski has pointed out the “enormous popularity of Puritan [captivity] accounts during the Revolutionary era” (35), including Rowlandson's. After its popularity at the time of its publication in 1682, her narrative was republished only once (in 1720) in the years between its initial appearance and 1770, when it “was republished three times” in Boston (37); three more editions followed in the next two years—one in 1771, two in 1773—and five of those six editions between 1770 and 1773 were printed in Boston, which was “occupied by British troops” during that period (37). Sieminski argues that in the years just before the American Revolution, it was the colonists' growing sense of themselves as captives of the British crown that prompted their harking back to a genre that was by then familiar, the narrative of captivity, to represent to themselves their dilemma as “hostages” to Britain.

Another interpretive layer can be added to Sieminski's, however, one that focuses on the question of national identity. That question was a pressing one for a “new nation … unsure of its identity,” as Sieminski himself describes it (51). Sieminski concludes the national identity question by saying, “In a pluralistic society, perhaps the most representative American is the one with the greatest plurality of selves” (51). I would say instead that the nation's historical pluralism has been a thorn in the dominant culture's flesh more than it has ever been a genuinely welcome characteristic. That pluralism has in fact elicited stringent and steady efforts from one segment of the American population, those of northern European descent, to remain on top. Perhaps the recurrent popularity of the Puritan captivity narrative during the years just before the Revolution can be best explained by reading it as a gesture that not only called upon captivity tropes to describe the colonies' relations with England but also recalled the narratives' earlier usefulness in constructing racial identities and placing them in a hierarchy with whites at the top of the racial pyramid. This was a function the narratives had served well before and would be called upon to serve again and again.

The woodcut illustration that accompanied the 1770 Boston edition of Rowlandson's narrative invites a reading of just that sort. In that woodcut, Rowlandson is depicted not only as naked—that is, divested of the clothing that would have marked her with a cultural identity—but indeed as flayed, lacking any skin whatever. She is, therefore, divested not only of culture but also of race; the illustration underscores the risks of loss of racial identity and privilege by white women who were captured by Indians. Furthermore, the dark child who follows this figure of a woman without culture and without racial identity makes vivid white culture's preoccupation with the captive woman's sexuality during captivity; it once again raises the spectre of the racial boundary being crossed and thus of the deconstruction of “whiteness.”

But why would this issue become a pressing one again on the threshold of the war for independence? Precisely because it was a pivotal moment for Anglo-Americans in terms of identity; considering the possibility of separating themselves from the Old World anchor of their identity as white, Christian, and “civilized,” they may well have felt considerable fear of losing that identity along with their allegiance to England. Their task was to separate without losing their identity as white Christian Anglo-Americans. One way to secure that identity would have been to recall and rehearse the old oppositions between themselves and their Native “others” so well invoked and articulated in the captivity narratives and responses to them. In that light, the woodcut in the 1770 edition of Rowlandson's narrative would have been a reminder of all that was at stake in the movement for independence, of all the colonies risked losing in the struggle to define themselves as an independent nation. The woodcut could be read as a visual plea to preserve their protected identities and not succumb to the “savagery” of the Indians as they prepared to sever the cords that bound them to England.²

By the early decades of the nineteenth century, the contest for land that had begun when the Atlantic coast colonies were established in the seventeenth century was continuing, and in the 1820s, Indian tribes remaining in state territories east of the Mississippi were being subjected to increasing pressure to move farther and farther west. That pressure was to culminate in 1830 in the passage of the Indian Removal Act, the result of which was that Indians in the eastern states had to remove themselves to designated territories west of the Mississippi, exchanging their sovereign lands for land they had never seen in the West.

During the decade of pressure on Indians to move westward that preceded the Indian Removal Act, a loosely excerpted version of Rowlandson's narrative, edited and with commentary by Joseph Willard, appeared in the April and May 1824 issues of the magazine Collections Historical and Miscellaneous. Willard's revival of Rowlandson's narrative was a timely effort to participate in generating anti-Indian sentiment among white Americans. His comments that accompanied the excerpts he selected from her narrative indicate his intention to use her experience and what she wrote about it to vilify Indians, to represent them as being still a terrifying threat to the peace and security of white Americans, to assert Euro-American “rights” to the American continent, and to figure the American national subject as white.³

Even in a time of peace, [the colonists'] security was often more fancied than real, for their savage enemy, like some nations, high in the scale of civilization, regarded treaties only as a fit opportunity to gather up their strength, and ripen their plans, in order to strike a more effectual and deadly blow. Their approach was noiseless, like the pestilence that walketh in darkness; and a dwelling wrapt in flames, or a family barbarously murdered and scalped, were usually the first intimation of their appearance.

(105-6)

Willard's observation on the disregard of treaties is especially ironic given the long history of U.S. betrayal of treaty agreements with Indian nations. The Indian Removal Act, for example, asserted in one fell swoop that “existing Indian treaties did not constitute federal recognition of Indian sovereign rights to the soil of their homelands” (Thomas et al. 293).

Even more important to understanding how Rowlandson's narrative was being put to use for contemporary purposes is the explicit way Willard uses his commentary to assert a genealogy of the American national character: “The attention that, within the few last years, has been bestowed on the more minute parts of our early history, is highly commendable. It has a higher and better purpose, than merely to satisfy a vain curiosity; it connects itself with the best feelings of our nature, and serves to raise in our estimation the character of those from whom we are descended” (105). There can be no doubt that Willard is referring specifically to white Euro-Americans when he speaks of “our early history” and “our nature,” or when he invokes a “we” descended from early colonists. Willard goes on to say that “It is the historian's duty to describe national character in the aggregate,” but his own purpose, while “more humble,” is “to treasure up for the use of the future historian, and to set forth in detail whatever may illustrate the peculiarities of character, situation and conduct, that so strongly marked our ancestors” (105). Rowlandson's captivity history, in other words, is here made into a detailed instance and illustration of the traits Willard is at pains to celebrate and preserve in the American national character of the 1820s, traits that include courage, perseverance, unshakable faith in the rightness of the Euro-American colonial and later national project—and the supremacy of whiteness as a racial category, grounded here in fear and hatred of Indians, as it was elsewhere in the nineteenth century grounded in the politics of racial difference between white Euro-Americans and people of African descent, especially slaves. Willard's text, in its intersections with Rowlandson's narrative and with the racial politics of the era of its publication, is an instance where we can discern what Stephanie Athey and Daniel Cooper Alarcon have described as “the (at least) three-way mediation of racial exploitation in the Americas as European peoples negotiate domination via both African and [indigenous] American populations” (29).

A number of recent critics have addressed the ways captivity narratives, especially women's, performed cultural work like that Willard assigned to Rowlandson's text: by serving as sites for producing an emergent American identity and subjectivity, what Tara Fitzpatrick describes as “that peculiar amalgam of contradictions: the self-conscious and self-described American individual” (2-3). Fitzpatrick locates the transition in Puritan culture from communal to individual in the tensions between the returned woman captive's voice and that of her “ministerial sponsors” (2) who “vied with the returned captives for authorial control of their narratives”: “Thus, these Puritan captivity narratives chart a double shift in colonial New England's conceptions of individual identity and national destiny, insofar as a rhetoric of the corporate covenant comes to be eclipsed by an emergent emphasis on personal agency” (3). Fitzpatrick focuses on the ways the captives' forced removal from home culture and their encounters with Indians fracture the communal ideal of the Puritan settlement in New England, and rather than centering her reading on the tensions between the competing cultures in colonial New England, she ascribes the “multiple and ambiguous” (5) quality of captivity narratives to gender-inflected tensions within the colonial culture of New England between the community and the emerging individual.

As a number of other scholars have argued in recent years, texts produced in that “contact zone” between cultures that is the colonial setting are inescapably fractured or hybrid. Readings that open up rather than erase those textual fractures or splits are most productive in terms of clarifying how power operated in colonial settings in the registers of race, gender, sexuality, spirituality, and relations to the land. Fitzpatrick's is one such reading, with its particular emphasis on gender and its role in eliciting and constructing an ideological American individualism within and around narratives of Indian captivity.

Nancy Armstrong and Leonard Tennenhouse have traced the specifically textual influences of captivity narratives, investigating “what happened when colonial writing flowed back across the Atlantic to England” (387), and they too read in captivity narratives the emergence of the American individual. Their exploration of the textual links between captivity narratives, especially Rowlandson's, and the emergent middle-class narrative subject in the English novel leads them to draw interesting parallels between Samuel Richardson's Pamela and Rowlandson's text and thus to assert the significant influence of the Rowlandson narrative and similar others on what became possible for subsequent writers in English. They argue that the sexual vulnerability and the isolation from home culture of both the captive Rowlandson and the hostage Pamela created the “detached—and thereby individuated—individual” (399), source of a narrative subjectivity new to English writing that gave rise to the novel. Armstrong and Tennenhouse's work suggests interesting connections between such an individualized narrative subjectivity and the obsessive preoccupation with the issue of sexual “virtue” common to both captivity narratives and eighteenth-century English novels.

Benedict Anderson has also written about the effects of the textualized Atlantic union, but with a focus more explicitly politicized than that of Armstrong and Tennenhouse. Anderson writes, “It was also through print moving back and forth across the ocean that the unstable, imagined [world] of Englishnesses … [was] created” (316). Unlike Armstrong and Tennenhouse, Anderson is interested less in the textual influences of captivity narratives on subsequent forms of literary writing than in the role such texts played in the emergence of nationalist sentiment. Anderson suggests, I think rightly, that nationalism emerges from the “hybridity” captivity texts displayed. Remarking the popularity of captivity narratives such as Rowlandson's among the reading public in England and noting the “thoroughly creole crosscurrents” (314) in Rowlandson's text, he says, “A rapidly growing reading public in the recently united kingdom—Mary was captured two decades before Scotland—was becoming aware of anomalous English-writing women who had never been to England but who could be dragged through English fields by “savages.” What were they? Were they really English? The photographic negative of “the colonial,” the non-English English-woman, was coming into view” (315).⁴

Anderson's essay makes clear the connections between the instabilities of identity in Rowlandson's captivity narrative and those in the colonial setting generally. One hundred years before the English colonies declared their independence from the English crown, Rowlandson's narrative indicates the colonists' passionate desire to cling to their Englishness; but it indicates too the inevitability that their English identity will be eroded by their American experiences.

Precisely how the emerging “American individual” was to be articulated was a task on which captivity tales were also put to work. Carroll Smith-Rosenberg has claimed that captivity narratives, both historical and fictional (she offers readings of two late-eighteenth-century novels, Charles Brockden Brown's Edgar Huntly and Susanna Rowson's Reuben and Rachel), played a central role in the process of displacing the Indians' identity as “Americans” and allowing European colonists to occupy a refigured American identity and subjectivity. Thus narratives of women's captivity, for which Rowlandson's was the prototype and persistent model, were proto-epic in scope in the founding of a national identity (and literature). Depicting at close range a savage and unpredictable (because not understood) enemy against whom Europeans in America could consolidate their own identity and sense of themselves, captivity narratives were crucial to the process by which the colonizers came eventually to see themselves as the colonized and through which the colonists' identity as American subjects was constituted, a process preliminary to the colonies' declaring their independence from England and establishing a new nation. Nor did this discursive process end with the war for independence; on the contrary, in the late eighteenth and nineteenth centuries that process accelerated as the infant nation strove to define itself: “In the years immediately following the American Revolution, Euro-American subjectivity quite self-consciously fused two subject positions: the victorious postcolonial and the colonizer, heir to Britain's imperial venture in North America. Facing east, Euro-Americans positioned themselves as Sons of Liberty; facing west, they were the progenitors of a vast new empire” (Smith-Rosenberg 494-95).

Not surprisingly, the task of consolidating a national identity across such discursive splits produced a subjectivity “as decentered and fragmented as the discourses that constituted it” (Smith-Rosenberg 485). The task for this newly arrayed American subject was to locate a ground against which his only apparently coherent figure could become visible:

Contested and decentered subjectivities assume a coherence they have not in opposition to a series of others—especially negative others. The more contradictory and unstable the ideologies that construct subjectivities, the more insistent the mechanisms constructing these others become. Crowding the pages of political pamphlets, broadsides, sermons, even dictionaries and geographies, a host of negative others worked to solidify the new American subject[:] … sybaritic British aristocrats, wild European revolutionaries, deceitful men of credit and commerce, seductive and extravagant women. … Shadowing all these negative others, however, was a still more sinister, primeval figure—the savage American Indian warrior.

(Smith-Rosenberg 485)

The connections between the issues of a woman captive's sexuality and a developing white Euro-American subjectivity and nationality can best be understood, I believe, by scrutinizing the tensions and the ambiguities in Rowlandson's text—its “hybridity,” as Anderson describes it, or, as I have already suggested, the related frictions between the two narrative registers Rowlandson employs to represent her experience of captivity. The biblical voice, requiring as it does that she remain closed to the Indians, impervious to any possibility of influence or attraction, became for the Puritan community a means of consolidating and protecting English colonial identity. The colloquial voice, on the contrary, displays all the ways that Rowlandson was open to connections and intimacies with her captors and thus opens the way to the birth and development of a new American identity and subjectivity. I would argue that it is the inadequacy of both Rowlandson's voices together, their inability to constitute a coherent narrative to account for her experience, that, in the spaces left between those voices or narrative registers and in all the questions the narrative is unwilling or unable to answer, precipitates the emergence of a new subjectivity, the writing Anglo-American woman, and, concomitantly, of the ideological “American individual.”

Fitzpatrick notes the irony in this gendered subjectivity, in American individualism's having emerged in texts written by women: “If part of the ‘cultural work’ of these captivity narratives was to accommodate a changing relation between the New England colonists and the wilderness—between the community's demands and the individual's desires—it is striking that women were among the leading creators of a mythology that has since had so resonantly masculine a voice” (20).

But if we situate the woman captive within that cluster of “negative others” against whom the emerging white male American subject defined himself and his identity, the fact of her gender becomes not surprising or ironic, but essential. Her femininity evoked and assured his masculinity; her captive status ensured his belief in his agency; her passivity and sexual vulnerability evoked and justified his aggressiveness—just as Indians' savagery confirmed his superior status as civilized, and Indians' darkness, or what was eventually constructed as their racial difference, rendered him white. Captivity narratives, beginning with Rowlandson's, conveniently brought together these two essential negative others, and thus offered a particularly useful vehicle for consolidating and asserting the identity and dominance of white American men, not only during the colonial era when that identity began to take shape, but, as we shall see, at many subsequent moments in American history, whenever that identity has been most aware of its own instability or felt itself threatened.

REREADING ROWLANDSON

Even readers ordinarily sympathetic to Indian rights have often found it difficult to locate instances in Rowlandson's narrative where Puritan ideology wavers. When the writer Mary Austin reviewed an edition of Rowlandson published on the occasion of the tercentenary of the Massachusetts Bay Colony in 1930, she wrote, “As the forerunner of a long line of narratives of Indian captivities among vanished tribes, it … constitutes itself one long shudder of the mingled terror and contempt in which the Indians were held by the English settlers” (1150). Austin concludes with a perceptive question: “In ‘The Captivity and Restoration of Mary Rowlandson,’ may not the American gather the roots of all he likes least in today's report of existing racial conflicts?” (1151).

The racism Rowlandson gives voice to in her narrative is, however, not as monolithic as Austin's review would indicate; Carroll Smith-Rosenberg points out that Rowlandson “inscribed a self-contradictory subject,” and that “Rowlandson's subjectivity, fused with demonic Indians, continually divides, multiplies, and fragments” (487). Susan Howe, too, concludes her essay on Rowlandson with a succinct comment on the text's multiplicity: “Mary Rowlandson saw what she did not see said what she did not say” (128). There is, in other words, more than one Rowlandson in the text, expressing more than one attitude toward cultural and emerging racial difference as toward other aspects of her captivity.

Other twentieth-century readers, though, have experienced Rowlandson's text in ways similar to Austin's, also being sufficiently persuaded by the expressions Austin mentions of evident racism in the text to ignore the ways that Rowlandson takes up other narrative subject positions and relates to her captors and their culture in ways that undermine emergent Puritan racist attitudes and beliefs.

Laurel Thatcher Ulrich, for example, calls Rowlandson a “God-fearing Puritan” and “a transplanted Englishwoman thrown into an alien American world” (176). Ulrich, disregarding the fact that Rowlandson was only a small child when “transplanted” and had spent her entire adult life on the fringe of English settlement, reads the narrative as “giv[ing] constant evidence of resistance to what might be described as ‘frontier’ ways” (176) and cites Rowlandson's initial disgust at the prospect of eating bear meat as evidence. While I would not deny that numerous strategies of resistance, ideological and rhetorical, are in evidence throughout the text, I would argue instead that the bear-eating incident, like others in Rowlandson's narrative, demonstrates the extent to which identity was a fluid entity in the colonial setting, a contest between “Englishness” and what it might mean to be “an American.” Rowlandson does, after all, eat her piece of bear with relish (137).

Certainly I agree to with Mary Austin that, as I have already indicated, the foundations of American racism are in clear evidence in Rowlandson's text. What I also find there, though, is other evidence, admittedly tremulous and intermittent, of how her intimate contact with Indians offered a challenge to the Puritan characterizations of Indians and produced in Rowlandson some recognition, however reluctant, of their common humanity with her—perhaps even of the arbitrariness of racial categories and of the possibility of crossing them. I would argue that the long tradition of characterizing Rowlandson's text as an unproblematic, univocal exemplum and defense of colonial racism or of Puritan religiosity (Leslie Fiedler referred in 1968 to “the insufferably dull and pious journal of Mrs. Mary Rowlandson” [51]) results not from attending closely to the text itself and its many dissonances, but from the tyranny of the long history of racist and imperialist attitudes and practices that captivity stories, including Rowlandson's, have been made to support and serve in the history of the developing Euro-American nation.

Annette Kolodny, who has devoted two books, The Lay of the Land and The Land Before Her, to exploring the environmental effects of the discursive process that feminized the New World landscape and to the resulting difficulties for Euro-American women in finding a place and a voice within the feminized American landscape, says this about the Puritan captivity stories: “[I]n the earliest captivity narratives, Indian and forest alike functioned as symbolic props in a preconceived cultural script, the central focus of which was always the spiritual drama of affliction and redemption” (Land Before Her 28). That undisputed “spiritual drama,” though, I would argue, clothed another accompanying drama that was equally, perhaps even predominantly, the focus of colonial concern: the contest for control of the land and its resources, along with the related desire to assert the dominance of white men in the emerging American culture.

In terms of those discourses of gender imported with the earliest European exploration of the Americas—the discourses Kolodny traces in The Lay of the Land that established the equation, still persistent in the twentieth century, of women with the very soil of the American continent—Rowlandson was supposed to be not the mapper, but the mapped. Her narrative, however, in its tracing of the twenty “removes” of the group through the wilderness, is not only a literal cartography of the contested landscape Rowlandson traversed during her time with the Narragansetts; it also maps the multiple ways she experienced captivity, and as such is a cartography of competing ideologies, including both the shifts in her views of Indians and their way of life and the resulting dissonances in her identity as a Puritan Englishwoman.

As Rowlandson attempts to make sense of her experience, she invokes and displays Puritan beliefs in divine sanction for English colonization and in the “savagery” of Native people. At the same time, however, the narrative continually reminds us of the experiences excluded from it and uncontained within its contradictory voices; it makes clear that Rowlandson's experience of captivity breached those governing ideologies the text often invokes, that her intimacy with her captors rent her Puritan worldview, perhaps beyond repair.

As conventional readings of Rowlandson demonstrate, her text is laced with protestations of how captivity tried and proved her faith and confirmed her Puritan identity. To prove how she learned to repudiate all things Indian, for one example, she relates how captivity prompted her to give up her use of tobacco:

Then I went to see King Philip, he bade me come in and sit down, and asked me whether I woold smoke it (a usual Complement nowadayes amongst Saints and Sinners) but this no way suited me. For though I had formerly used Tobacco, yet I had left it ever since I was first taken. It seems to be a Bait, the Devil layes to make men loose their precious time: I remember with shame, how formerly, when I had taken two or three pipes, I was presently ready for another, such a bewitching thing it is: But I thank God, he has now given me power over it; surely there are many who may be better imployed than to ly sucking a stinking Tobacco-pipe.

(134)

Recurring tensions in the text reveal too, however, that Rowlandson did adapt in many ways to the culture of her captors; survival would have required that of her. Her dislocation from the familiar world renders vividly visible the culturally constructed nature of her Puritan consciousness and identity; the narrative represents the destabilizing effects of captivity on her subjectivity and constructs a threshold or intercultural space from which she comes to view both cultures, as well as her own self, differently. Her view of her captors moves from a reductive constellation of attributes—“savage,” “diabolical,” “bestial”—in early passages of the narrative to later passages that accommodate her experience of them as complex and fully human people, capable, like her own people, of both cruelty and kindness. And Rowlandson is careful to record the many occasions when they do show her great kindness, as she also shows in many subtle ways her admiration for their bravery and endurance.

Rowlandson does not remain only a sideline observer and reporter of Indian life; she reveals in a number of ways her own integration into the Indian community. During the course of her captivity she meets Metacom himself, and, as in her descriptions of Quinnapin, she portrays Metacom as gentle, courteous, dignified, and kind. On one occasion he invites her to dine with him in exchange for her having made “a Cap for his boy”; she describes being served “a Pancake, about as big as two fingers; it was made of parched wheat, beaten, and fryed in bears grease, but I thought I never tasted pleasanter meat in my life” (135). She enters the Indian gift-and-barter economy by trading her sewing and knitting skills for food, and on one occasion, having received “a piece of Bear” and “a quart of Pease” in exchange for her needlework, she invites her “master and mistriss to dinner” (135). On another occasion, she receives a knife for having made shirts for an Indian's children and in turn gives the knife to Quinnapin as a gift; she describes herself as “not a little glad that I had any thing that they would accept of, and be pleased with” (136).

Even when she is unable to decipher the meaning of something that happens to her, she implicitly challenges colonial characterizations of Indian life as “precivilized” or “savage” by acknowledging Indian customs and social arrangements to be complex and intricate—even at times exceeding a colonial Englishwoman's ability to comprehend them. The narrative records a number of such instances. On one occasion, she reports that “they were so nice [fastidious] in other things, that when I had fetcht water, and had put the Dish I dipt the water with, into the kettle of water which I brought, they would say, they would knock me down; for they said, it was a sluttish trick” (146). On another occasion, Rowlandson invites Quinnapin and Weetamoo to dinner, and she unwittingly commits some gaffe: “I boyled my Pease and Bear together, and invited my master and mistriss to dinner, but the proud Gossip [Weetamoo], because I served them both in one Dish, would eat nothing, except one bit that he gave her on the point of his knife” (135). The phrase about “serv[ing] them both in one Dish” is ambiguous because of the unclear pronoun reference; we can't know whether the transgression is that the bear and peas have been cooked together, or that she serves the food in one dish for both of her guests. In any case, by openly representing her perplexity about the Indian social system, she also represents, and reveals for her readers' reflection, her own and her fellow colonists' culpable ignorance of Indian life.

Near the end of her captivity and of the narrative, Rowlandson demonstrates that her months of embeddedness in Indian culture have given her new eyes with which to observe the people she has lived with and their ways, typically so foreign to the English. She describes in careful detail a “Powaw,” a precombat ritual, that some of the Indians perform before they leave the camp to stage an ambush of a group of English soldiers near Sudbury (152-53). Her description is not only careful and attentive, but nonjudgmental and even interested. I quote it at length to demonstrate how precise was her memory of sequence and detail—especially remarkable given that the account was written some months after the event—a degree of attention that clearly signals her desire to discern the meaning of the ritual she observes:

Before they went to that fight, they got a company together to Powaw; the manner was as followeth. There was one that kneeled upon a Deerskin, with the company round him in a ring who kneeled, and stricking upon the ground with their hands, and with sticks, and muttering or humming with their mouths; besides him who kneeled in the ring, there also stood one with a Gun in his hand: Then he on the Deer-skin made a speech, and all manifested assent to it: and so they did many times together. Then they bade him with the Gun go out of the ring, which he did, but when he was out, they called him in again; but he seemed to make a stand, then they called the more earnestly, till he returned again: Then they all sang. Then they gave him two Guns, in either hand one: And so he on the Deer-skin began again; and at the end of every sentence in his speaking, they all assented, humming or muttering with their mouthes, and striking upon the ground with their hands. Then they bade him with the two Guns go out of the ring again, which he did, a little way. Then they called him in again, but he made a stand; so they called him with greater earnestness; but he stood reeling and wavering as if he knew not whither he should stand or fall, or which way to go. Then they called him with exceeding great vehemency, all of them, one and another: after a little while he turned in, staggering as he went, with his Armes stretched out, in either hand a Gun. As soon as he came in, they all sang and rejoyced exceedingly a while. And then he upon the Deer-skin, made another speech unto which they all assented in a rejoicing manner: and so they ended their business, and forthwith went to Sudbury fight.

(152-53)

Rowlandson is obviously motivated here by curiosity and the acknowledgement, however unspoken, that Narragansett culture is structurally intricate, bound together by practices that, though she cannot decipher their significance, have meanings that exceed her ability to understand them. I read the passage as registering the dramatic change that has occurred in Rowlandson since she first was taken; it is unimaginable that the woman she represents herself as being when the narrative opens—a woman who can only describe her captors as a faceless and collective “they”—could observe and record the “Powaw” as she does.

Her descriptions of Weetamoo's and Quinnapin's habits of dress and adornment also register her growing ability to read the social setting of her captivity, even if not always to understand it. Of Weetamoo she says, “A severe and proud Dame she was, bestowing every day in dressing her self neat as much time as any of the Gentry of the land: powdering her hair, and painting her face, going with Neck-laces, with Jewels in her ears, and Bracelets upon her hands: When she had dressed her self, her work was to make Girdles of Wampon and Beads” (150). Rowlandson's comparing Weetamoo with a “Dame” of the English “Gentry” could perhaps be read as ridiculing Weetamoo's toilet and self-adornment as pretentious; her description is, however, the result of careful and attentive observation that could as easily be motivated by her curiosity about a Native world that is beginning to open itself up to her understanding. I find in the passage a hint of admiration and even envy on the part of the captive and bedraggled Englishwoman toward the regal dress and demeanor of the Indian “queen.”

On the eve of Rowlandson's ransom, the Indians perform an elaborate dance to celebrate their victory at Sudbury. Rowlandson describes both the dancers and the dance in some detail, again evidencing both interest and admiration:

[T]hey ate very little, they being so busie in dressing themselves, and getting ready for their Dance: which was carried on by eight of them, four Men and four Squaws: My master and mistress being two. He was dressed in his Holland shirt, with great Laces sewed at the tail of it, he had his silver Buttons, his white Stockins, his Garters were hung round with Shillings, and he had Girdles of Wampom upon his head and shoulders. She had a Kersey Coat, and covered with Girdles of Wampom from the Loins upward: her armes from her elbows to her hands were covered with Bracelets; there were handfulls of Necklaces about her neck, and severall sorts of Jewels in her ears. She had fine red Stokins, and white Shoos, her hair powdered and face painted Red, that was alwayes before Black. And all the Dancers were after the same manner. There were two other singing and knocking on a Kettle for their musick. They keept hopping up and down one after another, with a Kettle of water in the midst, standing warm upon some Embers, to drink of when they were dry. They held on till it was almost night, throwing out Wampom to the standers by.

(156-57)⁵

These and other similar passages in the narrative provide evidence of the shifting and precarious nature of Rowlandson's identity and thus her attitudes toward Indians during captivity. But they beg the larger and persistent question, itself a potent metaphor for a possible shift of identity and allegiance: Did she or didn't she?

Rowlandson's report that the Indians were never sexually aggressive toward her does not mean that her story altogether lacks an erotic element. To accept the representations of her as a chastely restored Puritan wife requires that we ignore passages in the text that are indeed erotically charged. Her attachment to Quinnapin becomes intense in the course of the weeks she spends in his charge, and her frankness in expressing her closeness with him is striking. When Quinnapin leaves the group for a period of weeks, she misses him acutely: she writes, “my master himself was gone and I left behind, so that my Spirit was now quite ready to sink” (140). Upon being reunited with him after his long absence, she confesses “and glad I was to see him” (150).

The night before she is ransomed and released to return to her own community, Quinnapin, drunk from the whiskey that is part of her ransom payment,⁶ summons her to his wigwam. The passage is charged with the possibilities of what might transpire between the two, for a few more hours still technically master and slave. Rowlandson goes with expressed trepidation, combined perhaps with an unacknowledged (indeed unacknowledgable) desire, but the moment of sexual reckoning is evaded when after all Quinnapin only drinks to her, “shewing no incivility” (157), and settles down for the night with one of his wives (158).

Rowlandson's narrative, though, in fact depicts many ways “Indianness” does literally penetrate or enter her, just as she enters to some extent into the Indian community—with the food she consumes, the language she learns and uses, her accommodation to Native social arrangements. She evidently becomes comfortable referring to Quinnapin and Weetamoo as “my master” and “my mistress.” She reaches a point where she refers easily to herself and her captors as “we” (e.g., 133) and to the encampment as “home” (e.g., 143). Furthermore, she uses a number of Indian words in the text—Wigwam, Sannup, Sachem, Squaw, Papoose, Saggamore, Matchit, Powaw, Wampom, Nux—indicating that she acquired some ability and willingness to understand and converse in her captors' tongue.

The ways Rowlandson represents herself as “Indian-like” in the negative senses typical of Puritan descriptions of Native people are even more significant in understanding how captivity rewrites her identity. The persistent and acute hunger she suffers throughout her captivity produces a kind of obsessive and animal-like ferocity about getting sufficient food. (The Narragansetts as well as their captives were suffering from starvation during this time because of the war and their enforced flight from their pursuers.) In the opening pages of the narrative, we see Rowlandson as a victim, enduring the horror of the Indians' attack, “standing amazed, with the blood running down to [her] heels” (120). In a few short pages, though, we find her with “blood about [her] mouth” (133). Grief over her predicament and the death of her child combine with acute hunger to transform her into an icon of savagery, eagerly devouring a half-cooked piece of horse liver she has begged from one of the Indians: “What, sayes he, can you eat horse liver? I told him, I would try, if he would give me a piece, which he did, and I laid it on the coals to rost; but before it was half ready they got half of it away from me, so that I was fain to take the rest and eat it as it was, with the blood about my mouth, and yet a savoury bit it was to me” (132-33).

Nor is this an isolated incident. She repeatedly and eagerly eats things that she previously would have thought, as she says, “would turn the stomach of a bruit creature” (137)—horse's guts, hooves, and ears, even the bark of trees. Scenes abound in which Rowlandson consumes with relish what she at first calls “their filthy trash” but what soon becomes “sweet and savoury” (131) to her. She quickly becomes what she has initially and very conventionally described her captors as being: a “ravenous beast,” even able on one occasion literally to take food out of the mouth of a captive English child in her fierce determination to preserve her own life:

Then I went to another Wigwam, where there were two of the English Children; the Squaw was boyling Horses feet, then she cut me off a little piece, and gave one of the English Children a piece also. Being very hungry I had quickly eat up mine, but the Child could not bite it, it was so tough and sinewy, but lay sucking, gnawing, chewing and slabbering of it in the mouth and hand, then I took it of the Child, and eat it myself, and savoury it was to my taste.

(149)

But in some profound sense, one is what one eats. Rowlandson's report of her eager consumption of Indian food, even food taken out of the mouth of an English child, along with the suggestion that she learns something of their language, recognizes and even admires the intricacy of some of their customs, and adapts to some of their ways, would surely have rendered her vulnerable to suspicions after she was ransomed of having “gone native,” suspicions closely related to the question of her sexual history during captivity.

One incident that takes place shortly before Rowlandson is ransomed serves to illustrate that she did sympathize and identify with the Indians to a degree that permanently unsettled her identity as a Puritan Englishwoman. It is a vivid metaphor for the way her captivity rewrites how she sees herself:

Going along, having indeed my life, but little spirit, Philip, who was in the Company, came up and took me by the hand, and said, Two weeks more and you shal be Mistress again. I asked him, if he spake true? he answered, Yes, and quickly you shal come to your master again; who had been gone from us three weeks. After many weary steps we came to Wachuset, where he [Quinnapin] was: and glad I was to see him. He asked me, When I washt me? I told him not this month, then he fetcht me some water himself, and bid me wash, and gave me the Glass to see how I lookt; and bid his Squaw give me something to eat: so she gave me a mess of Beans and meat, and a little Ground-nut Cake. I was wonderfully revived with this favour shewed me.

(150)

The incident reveals Rowlandson's “savage” or “bestial” self that arises from the deprivations of captivity—she is dirty, weary, starving, anxious, and dispirited because of the absence of the master to whom she is very attached, separated from her son and daughter and thus from her maternal identity as well as from her home culture. But as I read the passage, it is Quinnapin who gives her a new “self”—a self that has arisen specifically from the complexities of captivity. When he gives her the mirror, the woman she sees cannot be the same woman who was taken captive in the winter. Instead, she must see herself as she is among the Indians, see herself as they see her, and through their eyes, see herself as she has become. The late April afternoon on which she is recalled to herself—re-vived, given new life—through Quinnapin's urgings and ministrations marks the spring of her rebirth; we can read her washing as a ritual baptism that discards the old self and asserts the new and her subsequent meal as a feast of communion between herself and the people who now surround and sustain her.

But that image of herself, regardless of how “wonderfully” it has “revived” her in captivity, was surely a persistently unsettling presence in her life after her return to the Puritan community.⁷ Reunited with her husband and her surviving children in Boston, Rowlandson writes in the narrative's closing passage of how her experience continues to haunt her:

I can remember the time, when I used to sleep quietly without workings in my thoughts, whole nights together, but now it is other wayes with me. When all are fast about me, and no eye open, but his who ever waketh, my thoughts are upon things past. … The portion of some is to have their afflictions by drops, now one drop and then another; but the dregs of the Cup, the Wine of astonishment, like a sweeping rain that leaveth no food, did the Lord prepare to be my portion.

(166)

I am reminded here of another haunting passage, a stanza in Adrienne Rich's poem, “Song”:

If I'm lonely
it must be the loneliness
of waking first, of breathing
dawn's first cold breath on the city
of being the one awake
in a house wrapped in sleep

(20)

A metaphoric reading of Rowlandson's wakefulness is irresistible: her familiarity with Native people, the Native way of life, her recognition of the suffering her people were inflicting on them, of their being not so much radically other but much like her own people, and herself like them—all this must have left Rowlandson feeling at times that she was the only one “awake” in the “house wrapped in sleep” that was Puritan colonialism. Her desire to return to the serene security of her former unquestioned identity must have been perpetually thwarted by the residues of her experience with the Indians.

REWRITING CAPTIVITY

If Rowlandson's narrative was meant to secure her passage back into the Puritan community, its heritage, as I have pointed out, has long been to be read as a defense of that community and its history. Such a reading requires obedience to the Puritan fathers who ask readers to suppress the other voice weaving itself into and through her narrative. The narrative, though, however much it reveals through all its tensions and contradictions how Rowlandson's captivity unsettled her identity—and implicitly that of the Puritan community—also masks a text that is missing. If the narrative we have is Rowlandson's map of her captivity that was meant to purchase her reentry into the Puritan community, we lack the map she constructed for herself during captivity as an entry into the Indian community.

That absence, one that parallels the absent text of Pocahontas's own narrative and that of other silenced Native women, has attracted the attention of Louise Erdrich, a contemporary poet and novelist of mixed European and Ojibwa descent. Erdrich refuses to obey the directive of the Puritan fathers on how to read Rowlandson's narrative and returns to the text to construct a counter-narrative, retrieving the colloquial voice that Puritan orthodoxy obscured. In her poem “Captivity,” Erdrich gleans from Rowlandson's narrative a constellation of incidents and images that allow her to recover possibilities in Rowlandson's experience that Puritanism exercised its power to suppress. The opening lines of the poem signal the threat that captivity will pose to the coherence of Rowlandson's Puritan identity:

The stream was swift, and so cold
I thought I would be sliced in two …

(26)

Erdrich too, like the early Puritan readers, sexualizes Rowlandson's experience, but Erdrich's gesture is not an imperialist or exploitive one; rather, it is an effort to rewrite and so to recover the sexual—thus connective—possibilities in the scene of captivity, a scene that for so many years was used as a motive force for racial and cultural division. The poem makes clear that an erotic bond with her master is precisely what saves Rowlandson from being destroyed by this splitting of her consciousness:

There were times I feared I understood
his language, which was not human,
and I knelt to pray for strength.
          …
I told myself that I would starve
before I took food from his hands
but I did not starve.
One night
he killed a deer with a young one in her
and gave me to eat of the fawn.
It was so tender,
the bones like the stems of flowers,
that I followed where he took me.
The night was thick. He cut the cord
that bound me to the tree.

(26-27)

In Erdrich's poem, the food Rowlandson consumes during captivity is not “filthy trash,” as Rowlandson has called it, but is instead celestial and redemptive, food for the spirit as much as for the body. If “the tree” in the poem is a reference to the cross of Christianity, the emblem of suffering and sacrifice on which rest repressive Christian codes of sexual morality, especially for women, then her master's cutting the cord that has bound Rowlandson to that tree suggests that Puritan doctrine has enslaved her in many ways, including both spiritually and sexually, long before she was taken captive. With the image of “cut[ting] the cord,” Erdrich frees Rowlandson from her bondage to the cross of Christianity, and her sojourn with the Indians is figured as a site not of enslavement but of release, indeed of rebirth. Erdrich's poem reconstructs Rowlandson's seduction by the sensual and spiritual beauty of Indian life and rewrites her captivity as captivation. To the question “Did she or didn't she?” Erdrich offers an answer: That Rowlandson “followed where [her master] took [her]” is both irresistible and inevitable, even though it opens a terrifying inner space where “birds mocked. / Shadows gaped and roared / and the trees flung down their sharpened lashes” (27). It is a space, the poem insists, that can never be closed, that memory sustains, even after Rowlandson's return to her people.

Just as Rowlandson's experience seems to have permanently unsettled her perceptions of her own and her community's identity, so together her narrative and Erdrich's poem unsettle and revise traditional representations of Native culture and of Puritan encounters with Indians. Together they challenge the traditional histories of white colonists in the world that was “new” to them, but “home” to those from whom they wrested it.

Rowlandson's assertion that captivity did not threaten either her chastity or her Christianity, her observations of the chaste demeanor of her captors and her recognition of the sophisticated complexity of their social arrangements, proved to have a tenuous hold on the colonial, and later national, imagination. Again and again, the figure of the white woman captive among Indians that Rowlandson for so long represented or shadowed has been used to create and enforce racial boundaries, to impugn Native people, and to justify a brutal national politics of Indian removal and extermination. And because that figure has historically been called upon to serve ideologies of white dominance, it is important to return to Rowlandson's text to recover the “colloquial” voice within it that has so often been occluded—the voice of a woman whose experience allowed her to move from characterizing Indians early in her narrative as indistinguishable and unreadable “black creatures in the night” (121) to seeing them as individuals with names, distinguishing features, characters, and habits and an intricate network of social customs and conventions—to know them, in other words, to be as fully human as herself.

If Rowlandson's writing has been for much of our own century less well known than it deserves, the figure of the white woman captive whom her experience and her text established has certainly been familiar, long-lived, and culturally powerful from the period of colonial settlement to the present. In our continuing efforts to reckon the ideological consequences—political, racial, sexual, textual, and ecological—of our colonialist history, narratives of Indian captivity and readings of them remain important sources for understanding how those ideologies took shape and voice.

Beginning with Rowlandson's narrative, captivity stories have repeatedly positioned a woman—her body, spirituality, sexuality, and reproductive capacity—as a border zone where cultures in conflict meet and contend and where discourses of race and gender are generated and played out. Especially throughout the nineteenth and into the twentieth centuries, representations of white women captured by Indians have been recirculated in fiction, poetry, painting, sculpture, and film as a site for reasserting and legitimating racial hierarchies and white Euro-Americans' claim to the continent. As we shall see, it remained only for the newly created white-dominant nation to retrieve from the history of English settlement the companion figure to the white woman captive: Pocahontas, the welcoming Indian “princess” whose “love” for the English colonists could be invoked to complete the task of heroizing them and their desire to establish an Anglo-American republic on the American continent.

Notes

1. See also my discussion of Ludwig's introduction in chapter 3. I am indebted to Gary Ebersole's Captured by Texts for bringing the Ludwig edition to my attention.

2. The differences in the language of the title pages of Rowlandson's narrative in different editions support this suggestion. The 1682 Cambridge edition is titled “The Soveraignty & Goodness of God, together, with the faithfulness of his promises displayed: being a narrative of the captivity and restauration of Mrs. Mary Rowlandson”; there is no mention whatever of her captors. The title of the London edition of the same year does mention “the heathens”: “A true history of the captivity & Restoration of Mrs. Mary Rowlandson, a minister's wife in New-England: wherein is set forth the cruel and inhumane usage she underwent amongst the heathens for eleven weeks time, and her deliverance from them.” The 1720 Boston edition, however, once again makes no mention of the Indians but emphasizes the spiritual trials of captivity with this addition to the 1682 Cambridge title: “Commended by her, to all that desire to know the Lords doings to, & dealings with her.” By the time the narrative was reprinted in Boston in 1770, the title had been amended to include strong anti-Indian sentiment: “A narrative of the captivity, sufferings and removes, of Mrs. Mary Rowlandson, who was taken prisoner by the Indians, with several others, and treated in the most barbarous and cruel manner by those vile savages.” Both 1770 editions as well as the 1771 edition carried that title.

3. Willard's treatment of Rowlandson's text also illustrates how representations and interpretations of Indian captivity produce and police gender along with racial ideologies. Referring to the passage from the narrative (quoted below) where Rowlandson reports that from the time she was first taken captive, she refused the use of tobacco, Willard says, “Her captivity seems to have thoroughly cured her of one habit, which however excusable it may be in men, is certainly rather disgusting in the fair sex, we mean the use of tobacco. Pauvre tabac! Mrs. R. gives it as violent a counterblast as did ever James of royal memory” (113). Willard here articulates a nineteenth-century gender/class division in the use of tobacco, even though pipe smoking seems to have been a common and socially accepted practice among seventeenth-century colonial Englishwomen.

4. While I agree with the theoretical implications Anderson draws from captivity narratives, including Rowlandson's, his reading of Rowlandson's history and even of her text is filled with errors. He asserts, for example, that “she had been born and spent all her young life in the no less un-European Massachusetts … she [had] never been within three thousand miles of England” (314). He also inexplicably refers to her as “the nineteen-year old, newly married Mary Rowlandson”; in fact she was around forty when she was captured and had been married twenty years. In another error, he says that when she was finally ransomed, she returned home to Lancaster (315). Rowlandson does report passing through the ruins of Lancaster en route to Boston after her ransom (161-62) and says “a solemn sight it was to me” (161), but, as I have indicated, she was after her captivity never again “at home” in Lancaster.

5. Rowlandson obviously is referring here not to skin color, but to the Indians' use of body paint. Their being “alwayes before Black” indicates her captors' usual color of body paint during her captivity, while here it is red, the shift no doubt part of the ritual she observes.

6. Directly contradicting a Puritan stereotype, Rowlandson makes a point of saying, “He was the first Indian I saw drunk all the while that I was amongst them” (157).

7. Jill Lepore makes the very poignant argument that “Rowlandson's release from captivity was predicated on … Indians' own bondage” (145). Lepore's excellent history, The Name of War: King Philip's War and The Origins of American Identity, was published just as this book was going to press, so I was unable to incorporate her insights as fully as I would have liked. See especially her important chapter on the enslavement of Indians during and immediately after the war, “A Dangerous Merchandise,” 150-70.

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