THE MEETING IN THE WOODS
It was broad daylight when David awoke, rudely summoned from slumber by
the loud tattoo on the door below. He tumbled sleepily down the stair
and admitted his father and Obid, their boots wet with the dew that
hung sparkling in the pale sunlight from every spray of sedge and blade
of grass. While Obid, setting aside his musket, began the preparation
of breakfast, David questioned his father.
“By God’s favor ’twas not the house, David, but the barn and a goodly
store of hay that was burned. Fortunately these were far enough away so
that the flames but scorched the house. Master Vernham and the servants
drew water from the well and so kept the roof wet. The worst of it was
over ere we arrived. Some folks from the settlement at Sudbury came
also: John Longstaff and a Master Warren, of Salem, who is on a visit
there, and two Indians.”
“How did the fire catch, sir?” asked David.
“’Twas set,” replied Nathan Lindall grimly. “Indians were seen skulking
about the woods late in the afternoon, and ’tis thought they were some
that have set up their wigwams above the Beaver Pond since autumn.”
“But why, sir?”
“I know not, save that Master Vernham tells me that of late they have
shown much insolence and have frequently come to his house begging for
food and cloth. At first he gave, but soon their importunity wearied
him and he refused. They are, he says, a povern and worthless lot;
renegade Mohegans he thinks. But dress yourself, lad, and be about your
duties.”
Shortly after the midday meal, Nathan Lindall and Obid again set
forth, this time taking the Sudbury path, and David, left to his own
devices, finished the ploughing of the south field which was later to
be sown to corn, and then, unyoking the oxen and returning them to the
barn, he took his gun and made his way along the little brook toward
the swamp woods. The afternoon, half gone, was warm and still, and
a bluish haze lay over the distant hills to the southeast. A rabbit
sprang up from almost beneath his feet as he entered the white birch
and alder thicket, but he forbore to shoot, since its flesh was not
esteemed as food and the pelt was too soft for use at that season of
the year. For that matter, there was little game worth the taking in
May, and David had brought his gun with him more from force of habit
than aught else. It was enough to be abroad on such a day, for the
spring was waking the world and it seemed that he could almost see the
tender young leaves of the white birches unfold. Birds chattered and
sang as he skirted the marsh and approached the deeper forest beyond.
A chestnut stump had been clawed but recently by a bear in search of
the fat white worms that dwelt in the decaying wood, and David found
the prints of the beast’s paws and followed them until they became lost
in the swamp. Turning back, his ears detected the rustling of feet on
the dead leaves a few rods distant, and he paused and peered through
the greening forest. After a moment an Indian came into view, a rather
thick-set, middle-aged savage with a round countenance. He wore the
English clothes save that his feet were fitted to moccasins instead of
shoes and had no doublet above a frayed and stained waistcoat that had
once been bright green. Nor did he wear any hat, but, instead, three
blue feathers woven into his hair. He carried a bow and arrows and a
hunting-knife hung at his girdle. A string of wampum encircled his
neck. That he had seen David as soon as David had seen him was evident,
for his hand was already raised in greeting.
“’Tis you, Tanopet,” called David. “For the moment I took you for the
bear that has been dining at yonder stump.”
“Aye,” grunted the Indian, approaching. “Greeting, brother. Where see
bear?”
David explained, Joe Tanopet listening gravely the while. Then, “No
good,” he said. “No catch um in swamp. What shoot, David?” He pointed
to the boy’s musket.
“Nothing, Joe. I brought gun along for friend to talk to. Where you
been so long? You haven’t been here since winter.”
Tanopet’s gaze wandered and he waved a hand vaguely. “Me go my people,”
he answered. “All very glad see me. Make feast, make dance, make good
time.”
“Is your father Big Chief still living, Joe?”
“Aye, but um very old. Soon um die. Then Joe be chief. How your father,
David?”
“Well, I thank you; and so is Obid.”
Joe Tanopet scowled and spat.
“Um little man talk foolish, no good. You see fire last night?”
“Aye. Father and Obid Dawkin went to give aid, but the flames were out
when they reached Master Vernham’s. They say that the fire was set,
Joe.”
“Aye.”
“They suspect some Indians who have been living near the Beaver Pond,”
continued David questioningly.
Joe Tanopet shook his head. “Not Beaver Pond people.”
“Who then, Joe?”
“Maybe Manitou make fire,” replied the Indian evasively.
“Man _or_ two, rather,” laughed David. “Anyhow, father and Obid have
gone to Sudbury where they are to confer with others, and I fear it may
go hard with the Beaver Pond Indians. How do you know that they did not
set the fire, Joe?”
“Me know. You tell father me say.”
“Aye, but with no more proof than that I fear ’twill make little
difference,” answered the boy dubiously. “Joe, they say that there are
many strange Indians in the forest this spring; that Mohegans have been
seen as far north as Meadfield. Is it true?”
“Me no see um Mohegans. Me see um Wampanoags. Me see um Niantiks. Much
trouble soon. Maybe when leaves on trees.”
“Trouble? You mean King Philip?”
“Aye. Him bite um nails long time. Him want um fight. Him great sachem.
Him got many friends. Much trouble in summer.” Tanopet gazed past David
as though seeing a vision in the shadowed forest beyond. “Big war
soon, but no good. English win. Philip listen bad counsel. Um squaw
Wootonekanuske tell um fight. Um Peebe tell um fight. All um powwows
tell um make war. Tell um drive English into sea, no come back here.
All um lands belong Indians once more. Philip um think so too. No good.
Wampanoags big fools. Me know.”
“I hope you are mistaken, Joe, for such a war would be very foolish and
very wrong. That Philip has cause for complaint against the Plymouth
Colony I do not doubt, but it is true, too, my father says, that he has
failed to abide by the promises he made. As for driving the English
out of the country, that is indeed an idle dream, for now that the
Colonies are leagued together their strength of arms is too great. Not
all the Indian Nations combined could bring that about. Philip should
take warning of what happened to the Pequots forty years ago.”
“Um big war,” grunted Tanopet. “Many Indians die. Joe um little boy,
but um see. Indians um fight arrow and spear, but now um fight guns.
English much kind to Indian. Um sell um gun, um sell um bullet, um sell
um powder.” Tanopet’s wrinkled face was slyly ironical. “Philip got
plenty guns, plenty bullet.”
“But how can that be, Joe? ’Tis but four years gone that his guns were
taken from him.”
“Um catch more maybe. Maybe um not give up all guns. Good-bye.”
Tanopet made a sign of farewell, turned and strode lightly away into
the darkening forest, and David, his gun across his shoulder, sought
his home, his thoughts busy with what the Indian had said. Joe Tanopet
was held trustworthy by the colonists thereabouts, and, since he was
forever on the move and having discourse with Indians of many tribes,
it might well be that his words were worthy of consideration. For
the first time David found reason to fear that the dismal prophecies
of Obid Dawkin might come true. He determined to tell his father of
Tanopet’s talk when he returned.
But when David reached the house, he found only Obid there, preparing
supper.
“Master Lindall will not be back until the morrow,” explained Obid. “He
and Master Vernham have gone to Boston with four Indians that we made
prisoners of, and who, I pray, will be hung to the gallows-tree.”
“Prisoners!” exclaimed David. “Mean you that there has been fighting,
then?”
“Fighting? Nay, the infidels had no stomach for fighting. They
surrendered themselves readily enough, I promise, when they saw in what
force we had come. But some had already gone away, doubtless having
warning of our intention, and only a handful were there when we reached
their village. Squaws and children mostly, they were, and there was
great howling and dismay when we burned the wigwams.”
“But is it known, Obid, that it was indeed they who did the mischief to
Master Vernham’s place?”
“Well enough, Master David. They made denial, but so they would in any
case, and always do. One brave who appeared to be their leader――his
name is Noosawah, an I have it right――told a wild tale of strange
Indians from the north and how they had been seen near the High Hill
two days since, and proclaimed his innocence most loudly.”
“And might he not have been telling the truth?”
“’Tis thought not, Master David. At least, it was deemed best to
disperse them, for they were but a Gypsy-sort and would not say plainly
from whence they came.”
“It sounds not just,” protested David. “Indeed, Obid, ’tis such acts
that put us English in the wrong and give grounds for complaint to the
savages. And now, when, by all accounts, there is ill-feeling enough, I
say that it was badly done.”
Obid snorted indignantly. “Would you put your judgment against that of
your father and Master Vernham and such men of wisdom as John Grafton,
of Sudbury, and Richard Wight, Master David?”
“I know not,” answered David troubledly. “And yet it seems to me that
a gentler policy were better. It may be that we shall need all the
friends we can secure before many months, Obid.”
“Aye, but trustworthy friends, not these Sons of Sathan who offer peace
with one hand and hide a knife in t’other! An I were this Governor
Leverett I would not wait, I promise you, for the savages to strike
the first blow, but would fall upon them with all the strength of the
united Colonies and drive the ungodly creatures from the face of the
earth.”
“Then it pleases me well that you are not he,” laughed David as he sat
himself to the table. “But tell me, Obid, what of the Indians that
father and Master Vernham are taking to Boston? Surely they will not
execute them on such poor evidence!”
“Nay,” grumbled Obid, “they will doubtless be sold into the West
Indies.”
“Sold as slaves? A hard sentence, methinks. And the women and children,
what of them? You say the village was burned?”
“Aye, to the ground; and a seemly work, too. The squaws and the
children and a few young men made off as fast as they might. I doubt
they will be seen hereabouts again,” he concluded grimly. “For my part,
I hold that Master Lindall and the rest were far too lenient, since
they took but four prisoners, they being the older men, and let all
others go free. I thought to see Master Vernham use better wisdom,
but ’tis well known that he has much respect for Preacher Eliot, and
doubtless hearkened to his intercessions. If this Eliot chooses to
waste his time teaching the gospel to the savages, ’tis his own affair,
perchance, but ’twould be well for him to refrain from interfering with
affairs outside his villages. Mark my words, Master David: if trouble
comes with Philip’s Indians these wastrel hypocrites of Eliot’s will be
murdering us in our beds so soon as they get the word.”
“That I do not believe,” answered David stoutly.
“An your scalp dangles some day from the belt of one of these same
Praying Indians you will believe,” replied Obid dryly.
Nathan Lindall returned in the afternoon from Boston and heard David’s
account of his talk with Joe Tanopet in silence. Nathan Lindall was
a large man, well over six feet in height and broad of shoulder, and
David promised to equal him for size ere he stopped his growth. A quiet
man he was, with calm brown eyes deeply set and a grave countenance,
who could be stern when occasion warranted, but who was at heart,
as David well knew, kind and even tender. He wore his hair shorter
than was then the prevailing fashion, and his beard longer. His
father, for whom David was named, had come to the Plymouth Colony from
Lincolnshire, England, in 1625, by profession a ship’s-carpenter, and
had married a woman of well-to-do family in the Colony, thereafter
setting up in business there. Both he and his wife were now dead, and
of their children, a son and daughter, only David’s father remained.
The daughter had married William Elkins, of Boston, and there had been
one child, Raph, who still lived with his father near the King’s Head
Tavern. When David had ended his recital, his father shook his head as
one in doubt.
“You did well to tell me, David,” he said. “It may be that Tanopet
speaks the truth and that we are indeed destined to suffer strife with
the Indians, though I pray not. In Boston I heard much talk of it, and
there are many there who fear for their safety. I would that I had
myself spoken with Tanopet. Whither did he go?”
“I do not know, father. Should I meet him again I will bid him see you.”
“Do so, for I doubt not he could tell much were he minded to, and
whether Philip means well or ill we shall be the better for knowing.
So certain are some of the settlers to the south that war is brewing,
according to your Uncle William――with whom I spent the night in
Boston――that they even hesitate to plant their fields this spring. Much
foolish and ungodly talk there is of strange portents, too, with which
I have no patience. Well, we shall see what we shall see, my son, and
meanwhile there is work to be done. Did you finish the south field?”
“Yes, father. The soil is yet too wet for good ploughing save on the
higher places. What of the Indians you took to Boston, sir? Obid prays
that they be hung, but I do not, since it seems to me that none has
proven their guilt.”
“They will be justly tried, David. If deemed guilty they will doubtless
be sold for slaves. A harsher punishment would be fitter, I think, for
this is no time to quibble. Stern measures alone have weight with the
Indians, so long as Justice dictates them. Now be off to your duties
ere it be too dark.”