This Indenture Wittnesseth, That I Margaret Burjust of Boston, in
the County of Suffolk and Province of the Massachusetts Bay in New
England. Have placed, and by these presents do place and bind out
my only Daughter whose name is Ann Ginnins to be an Apprentice
unto Samuel Wales and his wife of Braintree in the County
afores:^d, Blacksmith. To them and their Heirs and with them the
s:^d Samuel Wales, his wife and their Heirs, after the manner of
an apprentice to dwell and Serve from the day of the date hereof
for and during the full and Just Term of Sixteen years, three
months and twenty-three day's next ensueing and fully to be
Compleat, during all which term the s:^d apprentice her s:^d
Master and Mistress faithfully Shall Serve, Their Secrets keep
close, and Lawful and reasonable Command everywhere gladly do and
perform.
Damage to her s:^d Master and Mistress she shall not willingly
do. Her s:^d Master's goods she shall not waste, Embezel,
purloin or lend unto Others nor suffer the same to be wasted or
purloined. But to her power Shall discover the Same to her s:^d
Master. Taverns or Ailhouss she Shall not frequent, at any
unlawful game She Shall not play, Matrimony she Shall not Contract
with any persons during s:^d Term. From her master's Service She
Shall not at any time unlawfully absent herself. But in all things
as a good honest and faithful Servant and apprentice Shall bear
and behave herself, During the full term afores:^d Commencing
from the third day of November Anno Dom: One Thousand, Seven
Hundred fifty and three. And the s:^d Master for himself, wife,
and Heir's, Doth Covenant Promise Grant and Agree unto and with
the s:^d apprentice and the s:^d Margaret Burjust, in manner
and form following. That is to say, That they will teach the
s:^d apprentice or Cause her to be taught in the Art of good
housewifery, and also to read and write well. And will find and
provide for and give unto s:^d apprentice good and sufficient
Meat Drink washing and lodging both in Sickness and in health, and
at the Expiration of said term to Dismiss s:^d apprentice with
two Good Suits of Apparrel both of woolen and linnin for all parts
of her body (viz) One for Lord-days and one for working days
Suitable to her Quality. In Testimony whereof I Samuel Wales and
Margaret Burjust Have Interchangably Sett their hands and Seals
this Third day November Anno Dom: 1753, and in the twenty-Seventh
year of the Reign of our Soveraig'n Lord George the Second of
great Britain the King.
Signed Sealed & Delivered.
In presence of
SAM VAUGHAN Margaret Burgis
MARY VAUGHAN her X mark.
This quaint document was carefully locked up, with some old deeds and
other valuable papers, in his desk, by the "s:^d Samuel Wales," one
hundred and thirty years ago. The desk was a rude, unpainted pine
affair, and it reared itself on its four stilt-like legs in a corner
of his kitchen, in his house in the South Precinct of Braintree. The
sharp eyes of the little "s:^d apprentice" had noted it oftener and
more enviously than any other article of furniture in the house. On
the night of her arrival, after her journey of fourteen miles from
Boston, over a rough bridle-road, on a jolting horse, clinging
tremblingly to her new "Master," she peered through her little red
fingers at the desk swallowing up those precious papers which Samuel
Wales drew from his pocket with an important air. She was hardly five
years old, but she was an acute child; and she watched her master draw
forth the papers, show them to his wife, Polly, and lock them up in
the desk, with the full understanding that they had something to do
with her coming to this strange place; and, already, a shadowy purpose
began to form itself in her mind.
She sat on a cunning little wooden stool, close to the fireplace,
and kept her small chapped hands persistently over her face; she was
scared, and grieved, and, withal, a trifle sulky. Mrs. Polly Wales
cooked some Indian meal mush for supper in an iron pot swinging from
its trammel over the blazing logs, and cast scrutinizing glances at
the little stranger. She had welcomed her kindly, taken off her outer
garments, and established her on the little stool in the warmest
corner, but the child had given a very ungracious response. She would
not answer a word to Mrs. Wales' coaxing questions, but twitched
herself away with all her small might, and kept her hands tightly over
her eyes, only peering between her fingers when she thought no one was
noticing.
She had behaved after the same fashion all the way from Boston, as Mr.
Wales told his wife in a whisper. The two were a little dismayed at
the whole appearance of the small apprentice; to tell the truth, she
was not in the least what they had expected. They had been revolving
this scheme of taking "a bound girl" for some time in their minds; and
Samuel Wales' gossip in Boston, Sam Vaughan, had been requested to
keep a lookout for a suitable person.
So, when word came that one had been found, Mr. Wales had started at
once for the city. When he saw the child, he was dismayed. He had
expected to see a girl of ten; this one was hardly five, and she
had anything but the demure and decorous air which his Puritan mind
esteemed becoming and appropriate in a little maiden. Her hair was
black and curled tightly, instead of being brown and straight parted
in the middle, and combed smoothly over her ears as his taste
regulated; her eyes were black and flashing, instead of being blue,
and downcast. The minute he saw the child, he felt a disapproval of
her rise in his heart, and also something akin to terror. He dreaded
to take this odd-looking child home to his wife Polly; he foresaw
contention and mischief in their quiet household. But he felt as if
his word was rather pledged to his gossip, and there was the mother,
waiting and expectant. She was a red-cheeked English girl, who had
been in Sam Vaughan's employ; she had recently married one Burjust,
and he was unwilling to support the first husband's child, so this
chance to bind her out and secure a good home for her had been eagerly
caught at.
The small Ann seemed rather at Samuel Wales' mercy, and he had not
the courage to disappoint his friend or her mother; so the necessary
papers were made out, Sam Vaughan's and wife's signatures affixed, and
Margaret Burjust's mark, and he set out on his homeward journey with
the child.
The mother was coarse and illiterate, but she had some natural
affection; she "took on" sadly when the little girl was about to leave
her, and Ann clung to her frantically. It was a pitiful scene, and
Samuel Wales, who was a very tender-hearted man, was glad when it was
over, and he jogging along the bridle-path.
But he had had other troubles to encounter. All at once, as he rode
through Boston streets, with his little charge behind him, after
leaving his friend's house, he felt a vicious little twitch at his
hair, which he wore in a queue tied with a black ribbon after the
fashion of the period. Twitch, twitch, twitch! The water came into
Samuel Wales' eyes, and the blood to his cheeks, while the passers-by
began to hoot and laugh. His horse became alarmed at the hubbub, and
started up. For a few minutes the poor man could do nothing to free
himself. It was wonderful what strength the little creature had: she
clinched her tiny fingers in the braid, and pulled, and pulled.
Then, all at once, her grasp slackened, and off flew her master's
steeple-crowned hat into the dust, and the neat black ribbon on the
end of the queue followed it. Samuel Wales reined up his horse with a
jerk then, and turned round, and administered a sounding box on each
of his apprentice's ears. Then he dismounted, amid shouts of laughter
from the spectators, and got a man to hold the horse while he went
back and picked up his hat and ribbon.
He had no further trouble. The boxes seemed to have subdued Ann
effectually. But he pondered uneasily all the way home on the small
vessel of wrath which was perched up behind him, and there was a
tingling sensation at the roots of his queue. He wondered what Polly
would say. The first glance at her face, when he lifted Ann off the
horse at his own door, confirmed his fears. She expressed her mind,
in a womanly way, by whispering in his ear at the first opportunity,
"She's as black as an Injun."
After Ann had eaten her supper, and had been tucked away between some
tow sheets and homespun blankets in a trundle-bed, she heard the whole
story, and lifted up her hands with horror. Then the good couple read
a chapter, and prayed, solemnly vowing to do their duty by this
child which they had taken under their roof, and imploring Divine
assistance.
As time wore on, it became evident that they stood in sore need of it.
They had never had any children of their own, and Ann Ginnins was the
first child who had ever lived with them. But she seemed to have the
freaks of a dozen or more in herself, and they bade fair to have the
experience of bringing up a whole troop with this one. They tried
faithfully to do their duty by her, but they were not used to
children, and she was a very hard child to manage. A whole legion of
mischievous spirits seemed to dwell in her at times, and she became
in a small and comparatively innocent way, the scandal of the staid
Puritan neighborhood in which she lived. Yet, withal, she was so
affectionate, and seemed to be actuated by so little real malice in
any of her pranks, that people could not help having a sort of liking
for the child, in spite of them.
She was quick to learn, and smart to work, too, when she chose.
Sometimes she flew about with such alacrity that it seemed as if
her little limbs were hung on wires, and no little girl in the
neighborhood could do her daily tasks in the time she could, and they
were no inconsiderable tasks, either.
Very soon after her arrival she was set to "winding quills," so many
every day. Seated at Mrs. Polly's side, in her little homespun gown,
winding quills through sunny forenoons--how she hated it. She liked
feeding the hens and pigs better, and when she got promoted to driving
the cows, a couple of years later, she was in her element. There were
charming possibilities of nuts and checkerberries and sassafras and
sweet flag all the way between the house and the pasture, and the
chance to loiter, and have a romp.
She rarely showed any unwillingness to go for the cows; but once, when
there was a quilting at her mistress's house, she demurred. It was
right in the midst of the festivities; they were just preparing for
supper, in fact. Ann knew all about the good things in the pantry, she
was wild with delight at the unwonted stir, and anxious not to lose
a minute of it. She thought some one else might go for the cows that
night. She cried and sulked, but there was no help for it. Go she had
to. So she tucked up her gown--it was her best Sunday one--took her
stick, and trudged along. When she came to the pasture, there were her
master's cows waiting at the bars. So were Neighbor Belcher's cows
also, in the adjoining pasture. Ann had her hand on the topmost of her
own bars, when she happened to glance over at Neighbor Belcher's, and
a thought struck her. She burst into a peal of laughter, and took a
step towards the other bars. Then she went back to her own. Finally,
she let down the Belcher bars, and the Belcher cows crowded out, to
the great astonishment of the Wales cows, who stared over their high
rails and mooed uneasily.
Ann drove the Belcher cows home and ushered them into Samuel Wales'
barnyard with speed. Then she went demurely into the house. The table
looked beautiful. Ann was beginning to quake inwardly, though she
still was hugging herself, so to speak, in secret enjoyment of her
own mischief. She had one hope--that supper would be eaten before her
master milked. But the hope was vain. When she saw Mr. Wales come in,
glance her way, and then call his wife out, she knew at once what had
happened, and begun to tremble--she knew perfectly what Mr. Wales was
saying out there. It was this: "That little limb has driven home all
Neighbor Belcher's cows instead of ours; what's going to be done with
her?"
She knew what the answer would be, too. Mrs. Polly was a peremptory
woman.
Back Ann had to go with the Belcher cows, fasten them safely in their
pasture again, and drive her master's home. She was hustled off to
bed, then, without any of that beautiful supper. But she had just
crept into her bed in the small unfinished room upstairs where she
slept, and was lying there sobbing, when she heard a slow, fumbling
step on the stairs. Then the door opened, and Mrs. Deacon Thomas
Wales, Samuel Wales' mother, came in. She was a good old lady, and had
always taken a great fancy to her son's bound girl; and Ann, on her
part, minded her better than any one else. She hid her face in the tow
sheet, when she saw grandma. The old lady had on a long black silk
apron. She held something concealed under it, when she came in.
Presently she displayed it.
"There--child," said she, "here's a piece of sweet cake and a couple
of simballs, that I managed to save out for you. Jest set right up and
eat 'em, and don't ever be so dretful naughty again, or I don't know
what will become of you."
This reproof, tempered with sweetness, had a salutary effect on Ann.
She sat up, and ate her sweet cake and simballs, and sobbed out her
contrition to grandma, and there was a marked improvement in her
conduct for some days.
Mrs. Polly was a born driver. She worked hard herself, and she
expected everybody about her to. The tasks which Ann had set her did
not seem as much out of proportion, then, as they would now. Still,
her mistress, even then, allowed her less time for play than was
usual, though it was all done in good faith, and not from any
intentional severity. As time went on, she grew really quite fond of
the child, and she was honestly desirous of doing her whole duty by
her. If she had had a daughter of her own, it is doubtful if her
treatment of her would have been much different.
Still, Ann was too young to understand all this, and, sometimes,
though she was strong and healthy, and not naturally averse to work,
she would rebel, when her mistress set her stints so long, and kept
her at work when other children were playing.
Once in a while she would confide in grandma, when Mrs. Polly sent her
over there on an errand and she had felt unusually aggrieved because
she had had to wind quills, or hetchel, instead of going berrying, or
some like pleasant amusement.
"Poor little cosset," grandma would say, pityingly.
Then she would give her a simball, and tell her she must "be a good
girl, and not mind if she couldn't play jest like the others, for
she'd got to airn her own livin', when she grew up, and she must learn
to work."
Ann would go away comforted, but grandma would be privately indignant.
She was, as is apt to be the case, rather critical with her sons'
wives, and she thought "Sam'l's kept that poor little gal too stiddy
at work," and wished and wished she could shelter her under her own
grandmotherly wing, and feed her with simballs to her heart's content.
She was too wise to say anything to influence the child against her
mistress, however. She was always cautious about that, even while
pitying her. Once in a while she would speak her mind to her son, but
he was easy enough--Ann would not have found him a hard task-master.
Still, Ann did not have to work hard enough to hurt her. The worst
consequences were that such a rigid rein on such a frisky little colt
perhaps had more to do with her "cutting up," as her mistress phrased
it, than she dreamed of. Moreover the thought of the indentures,
securely locked up in Mr. Wales' tall wooden desk, was forever in
Ann's mind. Half by dint of questioning various people, half by her
own natural logic she had settled it within herself, that at any time
the possession of these papers would set her free, and she could
go back to her own mother, whom she dimly remembered as being
loud-voiced, but merry, and very indulgent. However, Ann never
meditated in earnest, taking the indentures; indeed, the desk was
always locked--it held other documents more valuable than hers--and
Samuel Wales carried the key in his waistcoat-pocket.
She went to a dame's school three months every year. Samuel Wales
carted half a cord of wood to pay for her schooling, and she learned
to write and read in the New England Primer. Next to her, on the split
log bench, sat a little girl named Hannah French. The two became fast
friends. Hannah was an only child, pretty and delicate, and very much
petted by her parents. No long hard tasks were set those soft little
fingers, even in those old days when children worked as well as their
elders. Ann admired and loved Hannah, because she had what she,
herself, had not; and Hannah loved and pitied Ann because she had not
what she had. It was a sweet little friendship, and would not have
been, if Ann had not been free from envy and Hannah humble and
pitying.
When Ann told her what a long stint she had to do before school,
Hannah would shed sympathizing tears.
Ann, after a solemn promise of secrecy, told her about the indentures
one day. Hannah listened with round, serious eyes; her brown hair was
combed smoothly down over her ears. She was a veritable little Puritan
damsel herself.
"If I could only get the papers, I wouldn't have to mind her, and work
so hard," said Ann.
Hannah's eyes grew rounder. "Why, it would be sinful to take them!"
said she.
Ann's cheeks blazed under her wondering gaze, and she said no more.
When she was about eleven years old, one icy January day, Hannah
wanted her to go out and play on the ice after school. They had no
skates, but it was rare fun to slide. Ann went home and asked Mrs.
Polly's permission with a beating heart; she promised to do a double
stint next day, if she would let her go. But her mistress was
inexorable--work before play, she said, always; and Ann must not
forget that she was to be brought up to work; it was different with
her from what it was with Hannah French. Even this she meant kindly
enough, but Ann saw Hannah go away, and sat down to her spinning with
more fierce defiance in her heart than had ever been there before. She
had been unusually good, too, lately. She always was, during the three
months' schooling, with sober, gentle little Hannah French.
She had been spinning sulkily a while, and it was almost dark, when
a messenger came for her master and mistress to go to Deacon Thomas
Wales', who had been suddenly taken very ill.
Ann would have felt sorry if she had not been so angry. Deacon Wales
was almost as much of a favorite of hers as his wife. As it was, the
principal thing she thought of, after Mr. Wales and his wife had gone,
was that the key was in the desk. However it had happened, there it
was. She hesitated a moment. She was all alone in the kitchen, and her
heart was in a tumult of anger, but she had learned her lessons from
the Bible and the New England Primer, and she was afraid of the sin.
But at last she opened the desk, found the indentures, and hid them
in the little pocket which she wore tied about her waist, under her
petticoat.
Then Ann threw her blanket over her head, and got her poppet out of
the chest. The poppet was a little doll manufactured from a corn-cob,
dressed in an indigo-colored gown. Grandma had made it for her, and
it was her chief treasure. She clasped it tight to her bosom, and ran
across lots to Hannah French's.
Hannah saw her coming, and met her at the door.
"I've brought you my poppet," whispered Ann, all breathless, "and you
must keep her always, and not let her work too hard. I'm going away!"
Hannah's eyes looked like two solemn moons. "Where are you going,
Ann?"
"I'm going to Boston to find my own mother." She said nothing about
the indentures to Hannah--somehow she could not.
Hannah could not say much, she was so astonished, but as soon as Ann
had gone, scudding across the fields, she went in with the poppet and
told her mother.
Deacon Thomas Wales was very sick. Mr. and Mrs. Samuel remained at
his house all night, but Ann was not left alone, for Mr. Wales had an
apprentice who slept in the house.
Ann did not sleep any that night. She got up very early, before any
one was stirring, and dressed herself in her Sunday clothes. Then she
tied up her working clothes in a bundle, crept softly downstairs, and
out doors.
It was bright moonlight and quite cold. She ran along as fast as she
could on the Boston road. Deacon Thomas Wales's house was on the way.
The windows were lit up. She thought of grandma and poor grandpa, with
a sob in her heart, but she sped along. Past the schoolhouse, and
meeting-house, too, she had to go, with big qualms of grief and
remorse. But she kept on. She was a fast traveler.
She had reached the North Precinct of Braintree by daylight. So far,
she had not encountered a single person. Now she heard horse's hoofs
behind her. She began to run faster, but it was of no use. Soon
Captain Abraham French loomed up on his big gray horse, a few paces
from her. He was Hannah's father, but he was a tithing-man, and looked
quite stern, and Ann had always stood in great fear of him.
She ran on as fast as her little heels could fly, with a thumping
heart. But it was not long before she felt herself seized by a strong
arm and swung up behind Captain French on the gray horse. She was in a
panic of terror, and would have cried and begged for mercy if she
had not been in so much awe of her captor. She thought with awful
apprehension of these stolen indentures in her little pocket. What if
he should find that out!
Captain French whipped up his horse, however, and hastened along
without saying a word. His silence, if anything, caused more dread in
Ann than words would have. But his mind was occupied. Deacon Thomas
Wales was dead; he was one of his most beloved and honored friends,
and it was a great shock to him. Hannah had told him about Ann's
premeditated escape, and he had set out on her track as soon as he had
found that she was really gone, that morning. But the news which he
had heard on his way, had driven all thoughts of reprimand which he
might have entertained, out of his head. He only cared to get the
child safely back.
So not a word spoke Captain French, but rode on in grim and sorrowful
silence, with Ann clinging to him, till he reached her master's door.
Then he set her down with a stern and solemn injunction never to
transgress again, and rode away.
Ann went into the kitchen with a quaking heart. It was empty and
still. Its very emptiness and stillness seemed to reproach her. There
stood the desk--she ran across to it, pulled the indentures from her
pocket, put them in their old place, and shut the lid down. There they
staid till the full and just time of her servitude had expired. She
never disturbed them again.
On account of the grief and confusion incident on Deacon Wales's
death, she escaped with very little censure. She never made an attempt
to run away again. Indeed, she had no wish to, for after Deacon
Wales's death, grandma was lonely and wanted her, and she lived most
of the time with her. And, whether she was in reality treated any more
kindly or not, she was certainly happier.