SUSAN IS TIMID NO LONGER
Roger went home to his mother and told his sad tale. Timid Susan rushed
to the door, and uttered a loud cry.
Her husband, the woodman, was returning home, followed by his dog.
"I am going," she said, "I cannot stay. You shall never again call me
'Timid Susan.' He saved us. I will save him if I can."
"What has happened?" asked Mr. Barley in alarm.
"They have taken Little Metacomet and put him in a pen," she said. "I
am going to Boston to appeal to the Governor. I will get my slat bonnet
and go. Saddle the horse for me. I am afraid of nothing. I promised the
boy that I would be true to him, and I will--I am not afraid of any
white ox, or Indians, or bears. If I meet any hostile Indians, I will
say _Niquentum_ and they will let me pass."
"Susan," said Mr. Barley, in greater alarm, "the Indians are still
tomahawking the people, and there are new signs in the sky. Oh, Susan,
sit down in the door and be quiet. These are terrible times."
"Hinder me not, as the Scripture says. I must go--I cannot stay. I have
given my word, and it must be kept. He saved us. 'Netop! Netop!' that
word sounds in my ears."
So the wood-chopper saddled the horse for her, and she set out boldly
for Boston.
She ran the horse over the turnpike, and shortened the way, by taking
forest trails.
The Governor would not receive her, but the president of the governor's
council sent for her.
"Your name is Susan Barley."
"My name is Susan Barley. 'Timid Susan,' they used to call me, but I am
not afraid of the face of day."
"And you came here to plead for the princess and Little Metacomet."
"Give the Indian boy over to me," said Susan. "I will give him a
home. He used to be my boy's playmate, and he has the very heart of a
Massasoit. He saved us from an Indian band."
"It cannot be done," said the magistrate, not unkindly; "other Indians
would begin to rally around the princess and her boy. They must be sent
out of the country."
At this Susan began to plead more earnestly.
"Stop," said the magistrate. "I tell you it cannot be done."
So Susan rode away from Boston without result and again faced the
perils of the forests. But she heeded them not. Her heart was aching
for Metacomet.
"I will go to Natick," she said to herself. "Father Eliot will listen
to me."
Eliot greeted her warmly.
"Mistress Barley, you have a true heart," said the good man. "I will go
to Boston and see what can be done. I will save the wife and child of
Philip if I can. I will do my best. 'Blessed are the merciful.'"
Eliot went to Boston to plead for the Indian prisoners. His case was
delayed, until he found that the decision to transport them had
already been made.
Little Metacomet and the princess had been taken out of the Bridgewater
pen, and sent to Plymouth, and there were sentenced to be carried away
to Bermuda and sold for slaves.
The decision of the government struck Eliot to the heart.
"_Sell_ Little Metacomet, who has the heart of Massasoit and the better
heart of King Philip?"
His appeal to the Council against the transportation of Indian
prisoners of war shows his beautiful spirit.
He said (we quote his own words):
"To sell souls for money seemeth to me a dangerous merchandise. The
country is large enough; here is land enough for them and us. I beseech
the honored Council to pardon my boldness."
The appeal was made in vain. The Puritans reasoned that the smoking
country and its new-made graves demanded that the family of Philip
be sent to some place whence they could never return to rekindle the
dissolving fires.
Then Eliot came back to the green groves of Swansea to tell Susan and
Roger of his quest.
"What will happen to Metacomet and his mother?" asked Susan eagerly.
"The Council says that they must be transported," said Eliot gravely.
"Where?" asked Roger.
"To one of the Southern Islands--the West Indies--Bermuda," he said.
"What will be done with them there?" asked Roger.
"They will be released to some planter. It is all sunshine there--"
"But their hearts would wither."
"Roger, it must be so."
Roger went to the door. The blue robins were fluting in the trees. The
quails were calling as at Bridgewater. The great oaks were full of
song, and the ponds of lilies.
"Must I leave all these?" said Roger.
"What do you mean?" asked his mother.
"I am repeating to myself what I think Little Metacomet would say if he
knew all. But it must be. I never had such a playmate as Metacomet,
and I shall never find another. He knew the woods, the flowers, the
animals, and the birds. He had the heart of the woods. He was nature's
own child. I shall never see him again."