In Which I Become the Son of the House.
The French, for some reason or other, did not follow up their advantage
and descend upon the lower Valley; but had they done so there could
scarcely have been a greater panic among the Palatines. All during the
year there had been seen at times, darkly flitting through the woods near
the sparse settlements, little bands of hostile Indians. It was said that
their purpose was to seize and abduct Sir William; failing in this, they
did what other mischief they could, so that the whole Valley was kept in
constant alarm. No household knew, on going to bed, that they would not be
roused before morning by savage war-cries. No man ventured out of sight of
his home without entertaining the idea that he might never get back alive.
Hence, when the long-expected blow was really struck, and the town on the
German Flatts devastated, everybody was in an agony of fear. To make
matters worse, Sir William was at his home ill in bed, and there was some
trouble between him and the English commanders, which stood in the way of
troops being sent to our aid.
Those few days following the dreadful news of the attack above us seem
still like a nightmare. The settlers up the river began sending their
household goods down to Albany; women and children, too, passed us in
great parties, to take refuge in Fort Hunter or at Schenectady. The river
suddenly became covered with boats once more, but this time representing
the affrighted flight of whole communities instead of a peaceful commerce.
During this season of terror I was, as may be conceived, indeed unhappy. I
had no stomach even for play with the new addition to our household, yet
scarcely dared to show my nose outside the stockade. Mr. Stewart spent his
days abroad, either with Sir William, or up at Caughnawaga concerting
means of defence with our friends the Fondas. He did, however, find time
to cross the river and reassure my mother, who trembled with apprehension
for her great brood of young, but was brave as a lion for herself. Weeks
afterward, when I visited her once more, I saw baskets of lime in the
attic which this devoted woman had stored there, to throw with water on
the Indians when they came. This device she had learned from the family
traditions of her ancestors' doings, when the Spaniards were in Holland.
Gradually the alarm wore away. The French and Indians, after killing fifty
Palatines and taking thrice that number prisoners, turned tail and marched
back to the Lake again, with some of Honikol Herkimer's lead in their
miserable bodies. The Valley was rarely to be cursed with their presence
again. It was as if a long fever had come to its climax in a tremendous
convulsion, and then gone off altogether. We regained confidence, and
faced the long winter of '57 with content.
Before the next snowfall succeeded to that first November flurry, and the
season closed in in earnest, Mr. Stewart was able, by the aid of a number
of neighbors, to build and roof over two additions to his house. The
structure was still all of logs, but with its new wings became almost as
large, if not as imposing, as any frame-house round about. One of these
wings was set aside for Dame Kronk and the little girl. The other, much to
my surprise, was given to me. At the same time my benefactor formally
presented me with my little black playmate, Tulp. He had heretofore been
my friend; henceforth he was my slave, yet, let me add, none the less
my friend.
All this was equivalent to my formal adoption as Mr. Stewart's son. It was
the custom in those days, when a slave child came of a certain age, to
present it to the child of the family who should be of the same age and
sex. The presentation was made at New Year's, ordinarily, and the white
child acknowledged it by giving the little black a piece of money and a
pair of shoes. My mother rather illogically shed some tears at this token
that I was to belong henceforth to Mr. Stewart; but she gave me a bright
Spanish dollar out of her small hoard, for Tulp, and she had old William
Dietz, the itinerant cobbler of Schoharie, construct for him a very
notable pair of shoes, which did him no good since his father promptly
sold them over at Fort Hunter for rum. The old rascal would have made
away with the coin as well, no doubt, but that Mr. Stewart threatened him
with a hiding, and so Tulp wore it on a leather string about his neck.
I did not change my name, but continued to be Douw Mauverensen. This was
at the wish of both Mr. Stewart and my mother, for the name I bore was an
honorable one. My father had been for years a clergyman in the Valley,
preaching now in Dutch, now in German, according to the nationality of the
people, and leading a life of much hardship, travelling up and down among
them. It is not my business to insist that he was a great man, but it is
certain that through all my younger years I received kindnesses from many
people because I was my father's son. For my own part I but faintly
remember him, he having been killed by a fractious horse when I was a very
small boy.
As he had had no fixed charge during life, but had ministered to half a
dozen communities, so it was nobody's business in particular to care for
his family after his death. The owner of the horse did send my mother a
bushel of apples, and the congregation at Stone Arabia took up a little
money for her. But they were all poor people in those days, wresting a
scanty livelihood from the wilderness, and besides, I have never noticed
that to be free with their money is in the nature of either the Dutch or
the Palatines. The new dominie, too, who came up from Albany to take my
father's place, was of the opinion that there was quite little enough
coming in for the living pastor, without shearing it, as he said, to keep
alive dead folk's memories. Thus sadly a prospect of great destitution
opened before my mother.
But she was, if I say it myself, a superior woman. Her father, Captain
Baltus Van Hoorn, had been a burgher of substance in old Dorp, until the
knavery of a sea-captain who turned pirate with a ship owned by my
grandfather drove the old gentleman into poverty and idleness. For years
his younger daughter, my mother, kept watch over him, contrived by hook or
by crook to collect his old credits outstanding, and maintained at least
enough of his business to ward the wolf from the door. It was only after
his death, and after her older sister Margaret had gone to Coeymans with
her husband, Kronk, that my mother married the elderly Dominie
Mauverensen. When he was so untowardly killed, fifteen years later, she
was left with eight children, of whom I, a toddling urchin, was among the
youngest. She had no money save the pittance from Stone Arabia, no means
of livelihood, nor even a roof of her own over her head, since the new
dominie made harsh remarks about her keeping him out of his own every time
he visited our village. To add to the wretchedness of her plight, at this
very time her sister Margaret came back in destitution and weakness to
her, having been both widowed and sorely shaken in wits by the small-pox.
It was then that Mr. Stewart, who had known my father, came to our relief.
He first lent my mother a small sum of money--she would take no more, and
was afterward very proud to repay him penny for penny. He further
interested Sir William Johnson, Mr. Douw Fonda, Mr. John Butler, and
others in the project of aiding her to establish a small school at Fort
Hunter, where little children might be taught pure Dutch.
This language, which I have lived to see almost entirely fade from use,
was even then thought to be most probably the tongue of the future in the
colony, and there was the more need to teach it correctly, since, by the
barbarous commingling of Rhenish peasant dialects, Irish and Scotch
perversions of English, Indian phrases, the lingo of the slaves, and the
curious expressions of the Yankees from the East, the most villanous
jargon ever heard was commonly spoken in our Valley. My mother knew the
noble language of her fathers in all its strength and sweetness, and her
teaching was so highly prized that soon the school became a source of
steady support to us all. Old "Uncle" Conrad--or Coonrod as we used to
call him--the high-shouldered old pedagogue who was at once teacher,
tithing-man, herb-doctor, and fiddler for our section, grumbled a little
at the start; but either he had not the heart to take the bread from our
mouths, or his own lips were soon silenced by the persuasion of
our patrons.
It was out of respect for one of these, good old Douw Fonda, who came from
Schenectady to live at Caughnawaga when I was two years old, that I had
been named. But even more we all owed to the quiet, lonely man who had
built the log house opposite Aries Creek, and who used so often to come
over on Sunday afternoons in the warm weather and pay us a
friendly visit.
My earliest recollections are of this Mr. Stewart, out of whom my boyish
fancy created a beneficent sort of St. Nicholas, who could be good all the
year round instead of only at New Year's. As I grew older his visits
seemed more and more to be connected with me, for he paid little attention
to my sisters, and rarely missed taking me on his knee, or, later on,
leading me out for a walk. Finally I was asked to go over and stay with
him for a week, and this practically was the last of my life with my
mother. Soon afterward my aunt was engaged as his housekeeper, and I
tacitly became a part of the household as well. Last of all, on my eighth
birthday, in this same November of '57, I was formally installed as son of
the house.
It was a memorable day, as I have said, in that Tulp was given me for my
own. But I think that at the time I was even more affected by the fact
that I was presented with a coat, and allowed to forever lay aside my
odious aprons. These garments, made by my mother's own hands, had long
been the bane of my existence. To all my entreaties to be dressed as the
other boys of my age were, like Matthew Wormuth or Walter Butler instead
of like a Dutch infant, she was accustomed to retort that young Peter
Hansenius, the son of the dominie at Schenectady, had worn aprons until he
was twelve. I had never seen Peter Hansenius, nor has it ever since been
my fortune so to do, but I hated him bitterly as the cause of my
humiliation.
Yet when I had got my coat, and wore it, along with breeches of the same
pearl-gray color, dark woollen stockings, copper buckles on my shoes, and
plain lace at my wrists and neck and on my new hat, I somehow did not feel
any more like the other boys than before.
It was my bringing up, I fancy, which made me a solitary lad. Continual
contact with Mr. Stewart had made me older than my years. I knew the
history of Holland almost as well, I imagine, as any grown man in the
neighborhood, and I had read many valuable books on the history of other
countries and the lives of famous men, which were in Mr. Stewart's
possession. Sir William also loaned me numerous books, including the
_Gentleman's Magazine,_ which I studied with delight. I had also from him
_Roderick Random_, which I did not at all enjoy, nor do I even now
understand how it, or for that matter any of its rowdy fellows, found
favor with sensible people.
My reading was all very serious--strangely so, no doubt, for a little
boy--but in truth reading of any sort would have served to make me an odd
sheep among my comrades. I wonder still at the unlettered condition of the
boys about me. John Johnson, though seven years my senior, was so ignorant
as scarcely to be able to tell the difference between the Dutch and the
Germans, and whence they respectively came. He told me once, some years
after this, when I was bringing an armful of volumes from his father's
mansion, that a boy was a fool to pore over books when he could ride and
fish and hunt instead. Young Butler was of a better sort mentally, but he
too never cared to read much. Both he and the Groats, the Nellises, the
Cosselmans, young Wormuth--in fact, all the boys of good families I knew
in the Valley--derided education, and preferred instead to go into the
woods with a negro, and hunt squirrels while he chopped, or to play with
their traps.
Perhaps they were not to be blamed much, for the attractions of the rough
out-of-door life which they saw men leading all about them might very
easily outweigh the quiet pleasures of a book. But it was a misfortune
none the less in after-years to some of them, when they allowed uninformed
prejudices to lead them into a terrible course of crime against their
country and their neighbors, and paid their estates or their lives as the
penalty for their ignorance and folly.
Fortunately, things are better ordered for the youth of the land in these
days.