“The hye sheryfe of Notynghame,
Hym holde in your mynd.”
_Robin Hood Ballads_.
“His shoote it was but loosely shott,
Yet flewe not the arrowe in vaine,
For it mett one of the sheriffe’s men,
And William a Trent was slaine.”
_Robin Hood Ballads_
“Gazed on the heavens for what he missed on Earth.”
_Britania’s Pastorals_
When the first light dawned on the earth and the birds, awoke, and the
brave river was heard rippling confidently seaward, and the nimble
early rising wind rustled the oak leaves about our tent, all men having
reinforced their bodies and their souls with sleep, and cast aside
doubt and fear, were invited to unattempted adventures.
“All courageous knichtis
Agains the day dichtis
The breest-plate that bricht is,
To feght with their foue.
The stoned steed stampis
Throw curage and crampis,
Syne on the land lampis;
The night is neir gone.”
One of us took the boat over to the opposite shore, which was flat and
accessible, a quarter of a mile distant, to empty it of water and wash
out the clay, while the other kindled a fire and got breakfast ready.
At an early hour we were again on our way, rowing through the fog as
before, the river already awake, and a million crisped waves come forth
to meet the sun when he should show himself. The countrymen, recruited
by their day of rest, were already stirring, and had begun to cross the
ferry on the business of the week. This ferry was as busy as a beaver
dam, and all the world seemed anxious to get across the Merrimack River
at this particular point, waiting to get set over,—children with their
two cents done up in paper, jail-birds broke loose and constable with
warrant, travellers from distant lands to distant lands, men and women
to whom the Merrimack River was a bar. There stands a gig in the gray
morning, in the mist, the impatient traveller pacing the wet shore with
whip in hand, and shouting through the fog after the regardless Charon
and his retreating ark, as if he might throw that passenger overboard
and return forthwith for himself; he will compensate him. He is to
break his fast at some unseen place on the opposite side. It may be
Ledyard or the Wandering Jew. Whence, pray, did he come out of the
foggy night? and whither through the sunny day will he go? We observe
only his transit; important to us, forgotten by him, transiting all
day. There are two of them. May be, they are Virgil and Dante. But when
they crossed the Styx, none were seen bound up or down the stream, that
I remember. It is only a _transjectus_, a transitory voyage, like life
itself, none but the long-lived gods bound up or down the stream. Many
of these Monday men are ministers, no doubt, reseeking their parishes
with hired horses, with sermons in their valises all read and gutted,
the day after never with them. They cross each other’s routes all the
country over like woof and warp, making a garment of loose texture;
vacation now for six days. They stop to pick nuts and berries, and
gather apples by the wayside at their leisure. Good religious men, with
the love of men in their hearts, and the means to pay their toll in
their pockets. We got over this ferry chain without scraping, rowing
athwart the tide of travel,—no toll for us that day.
The fog dispersed and we rowed leisurely along through Tyngsborough,
with a clear sky and a mild atmosphere, leaving the habitations of men
behind and penetrating yet farther into the territory of ancient
Dunstable. It was from Dunstable, then a frontier town, that the famous
Captain Lovewell, with his company, marched in quest of the Indians on
the 18th of April, 1725. He was the son of “an ensign in the army of
Oliver Cromwell, who came to this country, and settled at Dunstable,
where he died at the great age of one hundred and twenty years.” In the
words of the old nursery tale, sung about a hundred years ago,—
“He and his valiant soldiers did range the woods full wide,
And hardships they endured to quell the Indian’s pride.”
In the shaggy pine forest of Pequawket they met the “rebel Indians,”
and prevailed, after a bloody fight, and a remnant returned home to
enjoy the fame of their victory. A township called Lovewell’s Town, but
now, for some reason, or perhaps without reason, Pembroke, was granted
them by the State.
“Of all our valiant English, there were but thirty-four,
And of the rebel Indians, there were about four-score;
And sixteen of our English did safely home return,
The rest were killed and wounded, for which we all must mourn.
“Our worthy Capt. Lovewell among them there did die,
They killed Lieut. Robbins, and wounded good young Frye,
Who was our English Chaplin; he many Indians slew,
And some of them he scalped while bullets round him flew.”
Our brave forefathers have exterminated all the Indians, and their
degenerate children no longer dwell in garrisoned houses nor hear any
war-whoop in their path. It would be well, perchance, if many an
“English Chaplin” in these days could exhibit as unquestionable
trophies of his valor as did “good young Frye.” We have need to be as
sturdy pioneers still as Miles Standish, or Church, or Lovewell. We are
to follow on another trail, it is true, but one as convenient for
ambushes. What if the Indians are exterminated, are not savages as grim
prowling about the clearings to-day?—
“And braving many dangers and hardships in the way,
They safe arrived at Dunstable the thirteenth (?) day of May.”
But they did not all “safe arrive in Dunstable the thirteenth,” or the
fifteenth, or the thirtieth “day of May.” Eleazer Davis and Josiah
Jones, both of Concord, for our native town had seven men in this
fight, Lieutenant Farwell, of Dunstable, and Jonathan Frye, of Andover,
who were all wounded, were left behind, creeping toward the
settlements. “After travelling several miles, Frye was left and lost,”
though a more recent poet has assigned him company in his last hours.
“A man he was of comely form,
Polished and brave, well learned and kind;
Old Harvard’s learned halls he left
Far in the wilds a grave to find.
“Ah! now his blood-red arm he lifts;
His closing lids he tries to raise;
And speak once more before he dies,
In supplication and in praise.
“He prays kind Heaven to grant success,
Brave Lovewell’s men to guide and bless,
And when they’ve shed their heart-blood true,
To raise them all to happiness.” . . .
“Lieutenant Farwell took his hand,
His arm around his neck he threw,
And said, ‘Brave Chaplain, I could wish
That Heaven had made me die for you.’”
Farwell held out eleven days. “A tradition says,” as we learn from the
History of Concord, “that arriving at a pond with Lieut. Farwell, Davis
pulled off one of his moccasins, cut it in strings, on which he
fastened a hook, caught some fish, fried and ate them. They refreshed
him, but were injurious to Farwell, who died soon after.” Davis had a
ball lodged in his body, and his right hand shot off; but on the whole,
he seems to have been less damaged than his companion. He came into
Berwick after being out fourteen days. Jones also had a ball lodged in
his body, but he likewise got into Saco after fourteen days, though not
in the best condition imaginable. “He had subsisted,” says an old
journal, “on the spontaneous vegetables of the forest; and cranberries
which he had eaten came out of wounds he had received in his body.”
This was also the case with Davis. The last two reached home at length,
safe if not sound, and lived many years in a crippled state to enjoy
their pension.