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[Illustration]
Some Three Hundred
Years Ago
BY EDITH GILMAN BREWSTER
The W. B. Ranney Company,
Printers,
Concord, New Hampshire
Copyright 1922, by Edith Gilman Brewster
To the children of Portsmouth this book is dedicated.
DEAR BOYS AND GIRLS:
Because so little is told of the children who lived on our shores
when forests were cleared for home-making, I have tried to picture
here what they might have done in the midst of the true and
thrilling happenings you will some day read of in our history.
I hope these tales will help you to love the more our Granite State.
Yours with much affection,
EDITH GILMAN BREWSTER.
CONTENTS
STORIES PERIOD
1 NONOWIT'S HOME 1603
2 THE NEW WORLD 1605
3 VISITORS FROM ENGLAND 1614
4 THE SETTLEMENT 1623
5 DANGER FOR THE COLONISTS 1628
6 [A]STRAWBERRY BANK 1631
7 THE BOYS' CATCH 1632
8 THE FOREST GARDEN 1633
9 THE FUR TRADE 1634
10 COATS, SHIRTS, AND KETTLES 1638
11 WINNICUNNET 1638
12 THE CRYSTAL HILLS 1642
13 THE DENMARK CATTLE 1643
14 THE CUT OF THE HAIR 1649
15 [A]CYNTHIA'S BEAR 1653
16 THE WITCHES OF 1656 1656
17 THE WOLVES OF PORTSMOUTH 1662
18 THE KING'S FORT 1666
19 [A]LITTLE JANE'S GENTIANS 1671
20 THE CHURCH LAW 1675
21 PEACE OR WARFARE 1675
22 SUSANNA'S RESCUE 1675
23 TO THE GARRISON HOUSE! 1675
24 MY NEW HAMPSHIRE 1680
25 THE BOWL OF BROTH 1689
26 THOMAS TOOGOOD OUTWITS AN INDIAN 1690
27 THE ESCAPE 1694
28 THE DEFENSE AT OYSTER RIVER 1694
29 [A]THE ATTACK AT THE PLAINS 1696
30 THE STRAWBERRY FIELDS OF EXETER 1697
[Footnote A: Courtesy of W. A. Wilde Company]
NONOWIT'S HOME
Long before New Hampshire found its name, the deep river at its southeast
was known as the Piscataqua by the Indians who could stem its strong
currents, even in bark canoes.
Perhaps it was because of the fresh spring close to its salty shores,
some three miles from the sea, that the red men made their encampment on
the spot that was later equally attractive to men of white skins.
Nonowit, like his people, was glad to see the snows melt away during that
spring of 1603. The bare branches of the oak and maple showed tufts of
browns, reds, and greens. The fish stirred in the streams, and by the
time that Nonowit's forest home had its roof of thick green foliage the
Indians themselves were astir. For far up the river at the falls fish
could be found in plenty, and that was a welcome change from the game of
the winter food.
The men of the tribe were the first to start afoot for the fishing spot,
while the squaws broke camp, gathered their belongings, and herded the
children.
Nonowit suddenly recalled some sturdy reeds growing by the salt marsh
which he thought would make fine arrow shafts. It had occurred to the boy
that he might stand by the falls and shoot his fish as they bounded
over. That is why he was not on the spot when the children were started
on the march, and the last camp fire had been covered.
Even though he was an Indian boy, his heart thumped with fear, when at
the end of the day he returned from his hunt on the marsh to a deserted
camp. No answer came to his long shrill call. The sun was setting, and it
was of no use to follow the trail that night, even though he had known
just where his people were to go.
He munched some scraps that had been left behind and sought the shelter
of a hollow oak which had been the playhouse of the Indian girls and
boys. An old owl hooted and flew from a hole above, but Nonowit had no
fear of him, though he was glad the hole by which he had crawled into the
oak was far above the ground. This was some protection from the wolves,
which he could even then hear howling in the distance.
All night there was a beating rain, which washed away the last trace of
the carefully hidden trail of the Indian travelers. When Nonowit crawled
out into the sunshine the following morning, he could learn nothing of
their direction. To get a wider view, he wandered through the thick
forest to the river's edge, but there discovered no signs of his people.
"There are so many children in the camp I might not be missed," he
thought and dropped upon a rock in one little heap of loneliness.
Suddenly he sat very straight, for there beyond the Narrows he saw a
monstrous thing. Could it be a huge bird with white wings spread? Over
the water it seemed to be coming nearer. Instinctively he slid into a
crevice between the rocks, yet without moving his gaze. Through the
Narrows, under full sail, came the first ship. Nonowit seemed to become a
part of the brown earth as he wriggled back into the undergrowth, never
moving his wide-open eyes from this strange sight.
Then came the rattle of chains and the voices of men. A boat was lowered,
and Nonowit, safe under the cover of the low branches, saw it headed for
his shore. Men with white skin and hair growing on their faces landed on
the very rock on which he had been sitting. Their clothes were unlike any
he had ever seen before, and their speech could not be understood.
Cautiously he backed into the forest until he gained the branches of the
oak in which he had slept. Yet that was unsafe, for the white men looked
up into every tree, breaking the branches and tasting the sap.
In his fright, Nonowit wriggled for safety through the very hole from
which the owl had flown the night before. There from the dark hollows he
watched the white men as they studied each tree. They came at last to the
old oak and shook its branches. When one man even climbed far enough to
look deep into the trunk, Nonowit crouched to the very ground, holding
his breath. The shadows protected him and the men passed on. "Worse than
wolves," thought the boy as he ventured again to his peep-hole. The white
men lingered about for an hour or more, until the imprisoned little
Indian felt that he might never see his people again. He would starve
rather than face such creatures.
At last, there came the sound of oars on the water. Creeping from the
tree, Nonowit pushed aside the low branches to see the boatful of
strangers depart. Suddenly a strong hand was clapped on his shoulder. He
jumped with fear only to find himself in the grasp of his own father.
Nonowit pointed hastily through the thick growth to the river, and the
two watched the English vessel sail up the stream, but history reports
that Martin Pring saw no Indians when he searched the Piscataqua shores
for a sassafras tree, which, he believed, held the "Elixir of Life."
[Illustration]
THE NEW WORLD
Far away on the shores of France, in a little cobbled lane by the water
front, Jacques swung into the rhythm of the Sailor's Hornpipe. Raoul
stood in the doorway of his low-roofed house, with his violin, directing
the tune and swings until he pronounced the dance correctly learned.
Just then three well-dressed gentlemen turned into the narrow way and
passed on to the vessel at the wharf below. The raising of sails and
shouting of orders suggested an immediate start.
Jacques' father hurried around the corner and motioned to his boy. As
Jacques followed, he called back to Raoul, "I'll bring you an Indian
scalp when I come home!"
The father and son then crossed the narrow plank to the deck and went
below, for their business was to cook for the crew.
The distinguished-looking gentlemen, however, talked earnestly on the
shore until the last sail was spread. Then one of them, no other than
Monsieur Champlain, stepped aboard, and, as the gang-plank was drawn,
called to his friends, "We will also mark the rivers."
And so, long ago in 1605, the French sailed to the Northwest with new
hopes. The Spanish and Portuguese had returned with wonderful tales of
the mines of South America. Perhaps even greater things might be found on
the Northern shores.
It happened one day when the sea was smooth and the well-fed sailors had
little to do, that a group of them gathered on deck with tales of the
Americas: the shining gold to be found there, the wild beasts, and the
wilder Indians. Jacques felt that if he had but a knife, he could conquer
the whole country. In the meantime his eye rested on a sharp and
ugly-looking one thrust into the belt of a rough old salt who sat astride
the deck rail.
Just then there came a lull in the tales and the old fellow, to urge on
the flagging spirits, brandished his dirk and pledged it to "The best
fellow yet!"
Fierce and impossible yarns followed until Jacques, as if to work off his
excitement, jumped into the circle with the swing and the stamp of his
newly-learned hornpipe. He danced it well and responded repeatedly to the
sailors' applause. It pleased them better than any tale told, and they
voted Jacques, "The best fellow yet!" True to his pledge, the old salt
presented the knife with a sweeping bow. Jacques, overjoyed, at once cut
his mark on the handle, and he dreamed that night of his attack on the
New World. He awoke to make plans for the Indian scalps he should take to
Raoul, for Indians seemed only as beasts to be slaughtered.
Days and nights of sailing passed, as well as storms and fogs. When the
sun at last brought clear horizons, the shout of "Land head!" thrilled
captain, mates, and crew. No one knew just where they were, but shining
peaks could be seen in the distance. At last they came to anchor, and
small boats carried the men ashore. Jacques, too, was allowed to go. He
clutched his knife, expecting to plunge it into the head of the first
red-skin.
A group of Indians stood on the rocks. Monsieur Champlain, the first to
step ashore, greeted them with friendly signs. Jacques caught sight of an
Indian boy of his own size, lurking behind. He held a bow in his hand,
and a quiver of arrows was slung across his back. It was Nonowit, for
they had landed on the Piscataqua shores.
The Indian boy gathered wood for the fire, and Jacques eagerly joined in
the search. Soon the older folk sat about the blaze. The white men tried
to ask where they had landed and what was the nature of the coast.
Jacques, in his desire to learn, drew in the sand for Nonowit the picture
of the ship, the point of rocks, and the coast. The Indian boy understood
and added the river to the map. That aroused Monsieur Champlain, who sent
an order to the ship and soon received brilliant beads and various knives
from the stores on board. These he laid at the feet of the Indians and
pointed to the boy's map on the sand. The red men pulled charred sticks
from the fire and drew on the paper offered the full coast line, so far
as they knew, even to the Merrimac River with its impeding sandbars, then
not even heard of by white men.
By the time the French had started for their vessel Jacques had become
sure that the many stories he had heard of the fierceness of the Indians
were not entirely true, for already he had found an Indian boy a good
companion. Instead of thrusting his knife into his scalp, he followed the
example of his leaders and laid it at Nonowit's feet. The little
red-skin, pleased with his gift, instinctively offered to Jacques his bow
and arrows. These the French lad safely tucked away for Raoul, now
thinking it a much finer gift than many scalps.
Monsieur Champlain was even more pleased than Jacques to carry to his
countrymen so true a map of the coast of the New World, though at that
time he did not know it was to be the map of New England, nor that he had
landed on the New Hampshire shore.
VISITORS FROM ENGLAND.
Eleven years passed and Nonowit was a grown Indian who knew the forest
lands along the Piscataqua and the rocky turns of the coast. But in all
this time he had not forgotten the two strange experiences of his
boyhood: a sailing vessel, seen in the river, and later the meeting of
white men face to face. Never did his eye run along the ocean horizon
without thought of those white-winged sails.
One morning in May, 1614, Nonowit paddled miles from the shore and pulled
his canoe upon the rocks of a small island, the largest of a group that
could be seen from the coast. Leaving his bark in safety, he crossed to
the opposite shore of the island, where he first laid sticks for a fire
and then threw out his line for a fish. A full catch held his attention
until the tide had risen to an unusual height. Suddenly he thought of his
canoe. He hastened over the rocks to find it far afloat. There he was
left alone on the island with only the fish of the ocean for food and the
sky to cover his head. That day and the next he watched for a stray
canoe. On the morning of the third day, as he scanned the ocean to the
East, he discerned a distant white speck.
Slowly it shaped itself, and he realized that once again he was watching
the approach of a white man's vessel. It seemed to be heading for his
very island. Nonowit watched cautiously, ready to find safety in the
rocky caves in case these proved unfriendly people.
The vessel dropped anchor and a small boat brought eight men ashore. The
leader was Capt. John Smith, who had sailed from England to learn what he
could of the New World, and whether it was a desirable place for
colonists. As this group of small islands attracted him, he had landed to
see what could be found.
Nonowit, from his hiding place, watched the astonishment of the white men
when they came upon the burning coals of his fire. Then his turn of
surprise came, for one face of that group was familiar to him. The
features of Jacques had been stamped upon his boyhood mind, never to be
erased. He now recognized the French boy who, since that first trip
across the ocean, had learned his father's art of cooking and had hired
out as steward to this English captain.
Springing from his cave, Nonowit appeared before the wondering men, who
drew back, fearing him one of a band of hidden Indians. Suddenly, Jacques
caught a glimpse of the knife, cut with his own mark, thrust into the
Indian's belt. It was the very dirk he had won by his well-danced
hornpipe on his voyage with M. Champlain.
After an exchange of friendly greetings, the Indian led the English party
about and visited with them the smaller islands of the group. The low
green bushes and bold rocky shores surrounded by the sparkling ocean so
pleased Captain Smith that he gave the group his own name, calling
Smith's Isles what later have been known as the Isles of Shoals.
The seamen learned of Nonowit's lost canoe and offered to take him
ashore. As they approached the mainland, the wooded coast with its lone
mountain and later the safe harbor and rocky shores were most attractive
to these Englishmen.
On through the Narrows they sailed, as did Martin Pring many years
before. This time, Nonowit was aboard the vessel that his people watched
from the bank by the fresh spring where they had made their encampment.
It is near the spot where Portsmouth markets now stand. Perhaps the first
marketing was done that day, for Captain Smith was ready to trade knives,
beads, fish lines, and hooks for the furs the Indians offered. Jacques
prepared stews and porridge for these new friends, and in turn the
Indians feasted the sailors upon maize and bear meat.
After Nonowit had well described the coast lines to Captain Smith, he
presented dried fish and deer meat for the journey, and to Jacques, for
his own use, the skin of a bear. Although Nonowit was urged to sail with
the party, he refused.
Captain Smith continued along the coast to the point now known as Cape
Cod and then, returning, found others of his party whom he had left
fishing at the mouth of the Penobscot River.
With salted fish and furs from Indian trading, Captain Smith returned to
England, elated with the charm of the New Land. He published a map of the
seacoast with a vivid description of the country and presented it to
Prince Charles who named the region New England, and so, ever since, it
has been called.
THE SETTLEMENT
In a little thatched cottage in old Portsmouth of Hampshire, England,
Roger Low sat on a stool by his father's knee, while the light of the
fire flickered over the heavy settles and on the rafters above. The man
was still in his working clothes, with his hammer and saw at his side.
"This new world they tell me of, my boy, must be a wonderful place. Those
Puritan leaders, Bradford and Standish three years ago, in 1620, took
their followers to New England to worship as they pleased. And now the
Laconia Company, of which our own Governor, John Mason, is a member, has
been given a grant of land there."
"What can he do with it, father?" Roger asked.
"They say, lad, the furs of those forests and the fish of those waters
would make a big business for England."
A knock at the door brought the man to his feet. On opening it, he bowed
low to the gentleman waiting.
"Come in, sir, and be seated."
David Thompson took the opposite settle, quite ignoring Roger, who had
risen in respect. Absorbed in his own plans this Scotchman, Thompson,
broke out at once, "Low, I want you to pick up your tools and come to
America with me this spring. Governor Mason wishes to make a settlement
and proposes to establish a Manor on his new grant. We will pursue fur
trade and fishing, and even hope to cultivate vines and discover mines."
It was an astonishing thought to this carpenter, whose son was his only
companion.
"I should have to take the boy with me," was his first remark, after some
thoughtful moments.
"Certainly," replied David Thompson, who knew that the good workmanship
of this man was worth an extra passenger. "We shall need the boys in a
year or two," he added.
Final arrangements were completed, and in the spring of 1623, Roger and
his father sailed with the party for New England.
Edward Hilton and his brother William, who had been fish dealers in
London, were on board with equipment for one settlement, while David
Thompson had charge of the other.
From the map which Captain John Smith had made, the Piscataqua River was
found. Here the coast was thoroughly studied. Thompson selected for
building the very point at which Monsieur Champlain once stopped. But the
Hilton brothers preferred river fishing and continued some eight miles up
stream to a point of land called by the Indians, Winnichannat. It later
became a part of Dover.
Thompson's location was at the mouth of a small stream, which led to the
main river. He called it Little Harbor. The hillock on which he planned
to build gave a commanding view of the ocean. At the west stretched a
salt marsh, of great value to a plantation.
Small log cabins were quickly constructed, and also a secure building for
the abundant provisions. Roger worked with the men in landing barrels of
pork, kegs of molasses, sacks of oats, and boxes of candles. A securely
fastened door not only protected these supplies from the weather, but
also kept off the prowling beasts that might find comfortable living on
such food.
When the excitement of landing and the newness of this life began to wear
away, the days seemed much alike. Roger asked one morning, "Father, shall
we see no one but each other again today?"
"That is all, my boy, for the Plymouth Colony is many miles to the south,
and there are only a few people between that settlement and our own. The
Indians are probably up river now for their spring fishing."
Roger had been eager to see an Indian, though he had hoped he might not
be alone, for he rather feared them.
The days wore on with much monotony. The carpenters were busy building
the Manor-house. A few men were planting only the most necessary crops.
Others were making arrangements for the manufacture of salt, which was of
first importance. Otherwise fish could not be preserved for the markets
of England.
One day something did happen. At dusk Roger passed the cabin where
provisions were stored and found the door wide open. It was a law of the
settlement that that door be kept closed and barred.
The boy darted in to see if any one was there. Peering about the kegs and
boxes he met a pair of glaring, fiery eyes that glowed through the gloom
between himself and the doorway. He screamed. The creature crouched. An
added horror came when Roger glanced at the door and saw there the dark,
stern face of a tall Indian with arrow poised. It was aimed not at Roger,
but at the springing lynx. The whirr of that arrow lived in Roger's mind
the rest of his days. The boy himself was almost as limp with fright as
the creature that was carried by Nonowit to the main cabin. For this
Indian had heard of the new settlement and had travelled miles through
the forest to make friends with the white men. He was close behind Roger
and heard his scream of fright when he ran into the store-house.
The settlers, resting from the day's work, were surprised at the
appearance of the Indian, but still more astonished by Roger's story.
John, the cook, then confessed that he had come out of the store-house
with his arms full, and had forgotten to go back and close the door.
The day's excitement was not over, for that night David Thompson led into
camp Captain Miles Standish of the Plymouth colony. He had a hard story
to tell of the starving condition of his people. They had compared
themselves with the Israelites during the famine of Egypt, yet the
Hebrews had their flocks and herds left to them. "However," continued the
captain, "the Lord has been good to give us the abundant fish of the sea
and the spring water, which is all we have, save a few dried peas." He
then added that Governor Bradford had urged him to go even as far as
Piscataqua to search for food.
"And little could we have offered him," spoke up the cook, "if the old
lynx and his friends had had a night in our store-house!"
Much was then given from the ample supply of the settlement, and Captain
Standish returned to Plymouth well repaid for his journey.
DANGER FOR THE COLONISTS.
Five years had passed since Roger Low and his father had come to America
to help establish the Mason Manor. Although David Thompson, the leader,
had found an island in Massachusetts Bay more to his liking, still enough
settlers remained at Piscataqua to make the Lower Plantation one of
importance. Edward Hilton yet held what was called the Upper Plantation
at Dover.
One morning, early in the summer of 1628, the Mason settlers were
disturbed to find that John, the cook, had disappeared. Whether the days
had become too monotonous for him and he had gone in search of adventure,
or had been lost by wandering too far into the woods, no one knew.
Finally Nonowit, who had become fond of Roger and had spent much time in
teaching him the ways of the woods, was sent with the boy in search of
the lost cook.
The two started in the direction of the Upper Plantation. Not far from
the Hilton Settlement, the sound of a shot in the woods brought them to a
standstill and then to the ground, where they hid in the underbrush.
Through the clearing they saw a deer fall. They waited breathlessly,
expecting next to see the bulky form of John shoulder his game. To their
surprise, a Tarateen Indian glided over the ground to the fallen deer. As
he was an enemy, Nonowit and Roger remained in hiding until they could
safely continue their journey. They then carried to the plantation not
only news of a lost man, but also the astonishing word that Indians were
using guns in the woods.
Such a thing was unheard of. It was against the law of the settlers to
trade firearms or ammunition with the Indians. How it had been done, or
by whom, was a matter that must be looked into at once. The people of the
Upper Plantation had seen nothing of the cook, though that was of small
moment now.
Edward Hilton felt it was of utmost importance to return at once with
Roger and Nonowit to the Lower Plantation.
On arriving there, a leader from Naumkeag was found who had brought the
same disastrous word that the Indians were armed. He had received a
message to the same effect from Weesagascusatt. It threatened serious
danger for the colonists. Just at dusk a messenger from Winnisimmet
arrived at Piscataqua with the same rumor. By candle light that night a
conference of grave importance was held. The Naumkeag leader reported
that a man named Morton had opened his settlement at Mount Wollaston,
Mass. to all discontented servants and lawless people. He had changed
the name to Merrie Mount and there he allowed reckless, dissolute living.
Upon hearing of the loss of the cook, he suggested that he might be found
among the merrymakers.
Worst of all, Morton had established a trade of firearms with the Indians
in order to obtain a greater number of furs. With guns in such skilled
and treacherous hands, the white settlers stood in great danger.
The discussion that night resulted in an agreement to send letters,
pleading for help, to Plymouth, which, though it stood in less danger,
was a colony stronger than all the rest together. It was also near enough
for an approach to Morton at Merrie Mount.
Roger was asked to carry the letters. With Nonowit as his guide, he
started out on the following day. It was an adventurous trip, partly by
land and partly by sea, for the man from Naumkeag was returning by water
and carried the two along with him.
When well underway by boat, a darkened sky and wild wind drove the small
vessel to the Isle of Shoals for shelter, where they found at anchor "The
Whale," an English ship soon to cross the ocean. The hurricane was of
short duration, and the messengers continued their journey.
Traveling afoot from Naumkeag, they soon noticed fresh footprints on the
path, which suggested that someone was not far ahead of them. They
continued with increased haste and added caution. Nonowit suddenly gave
the signal for silence when, not far from the path, they saw through the
thicket the broad shoulders of a white man eating by his camp fire. They
remained silent until he turned and the jolly face of John was visible.
He was doubtless on his way to Merrie Mount but allowed them to think he
was merely off for a change. On learning what had happened and the
message they carried, John allied himself to the two and begged to
continue with them.
After a rough journey, the three arrived at Plymouth and delivered the
letters, which were most carefully considered by the men of that colony.
Realizing the serious danger such a center as Merrie Mount could be to
all the settlements, it was decided to send a note of warning to Morton.
He, however, treated it with scorn and in the same spirit rejected a
second appeal. Then, with stern determination to take the man by force,
Captain Miles Standish started with his company of soldiers. He returned
with Morton, who was sent as a prisoner to England on "The Whale," the
very ship the travelers had found about to sail from the Isles of Shoals.
The various colonies shared the expense.
Roger, Nonowit, and John finally arrived home, triumphant with the news
of success. But the wrong Morton had already done the settlers was never
rectified, for the Indians had learned the value and power of a gun and
never again were content without firearms.
STRAWBERRY BANK.
"Couldn't he find one anywhere, Mother?" asked Samuel.
"Why didn't he keep on looking?" persisted Richard, as the two boys
braced themselves for the lurch of the vessel which was tossing on a
choppy sea. Mrs. Chadborn steadied herself and continued the story they
so loved.
"It was almost thirty years ago that Martin Pring sailed up the river to
which we are now going. He searched the forests on either bank for a
certain tree which he believed had the power to give people health and
happiness. He found the deserted camp fires of the Indians, but, even
though no savages disturbed his hunt, he sailed away disappointed because
he could not find a sassafras tree."
"I believe I could find one there," boasted Richard, with a secret
determination to do so, "for I know how they look."
This was in the early summer of 1631. It was a happy day when they landed
on the New England shore close by the Mason Manor House, which had been
built eight years before. Then it was the only one for many miles. Now
some eighty men and women of many trades had come to settle about it and
to build another which they would call the Great House.
There was much to interest Samuel and Richard in the salt works and the
flakes where fish were dried, and in the fort which was built on the
hillock between the Manor-house and the ocean.
But a few days after landing, Richard, much troubled, hunted for Samuel,
whom he found fishing from the rocks.
"Sam, Mother's almost sick. Father says the voyage has tired her. He
thinks she's homesick, too. What can we do about it?"
Samuel dropped his pole and sighed, "I wish we could find a sassafras
tree."
"We will," cried Richard, jumping to his feet. "Father will let us go
with him to the place where they are working on the Great House. It is
several miles away, but we can hunt the woods there and camp with the men
until they come back."
Mr. Chadborn readily consented, not knowing what plan the boys had in
mind. But he warned them not to stray far, for, once lost, they were at
the mercy of the Indians and the wild beasts.
They made a long search always keeping within the sound of hammers.
"I'll keep the path while you examine that tree off there," they
constantly agreed, but never did they find one of the right kind. For two
days they searched diligently, glad to get back to the cornmeal cakes
and pea-porridge, and at night, quite as disappointed as Pring and
doubtless more tired, they fell upon the bed of boughs their father had
laid for them.
On the third morning Mr. Chadborn told them to keep within call, for they
were to return to the Manor that day.
Samuel thought quite seriously, while Richard lay on the ground
discouraged.
"What is it, Sam?" cried Richard, catching a gleam in his brother's eye,
and ready always to grasp at a suggestion.
"Let's make baskets out of bark from a birch tree and fill them with
these strawberries for Mother."
They went to work with much energy, surprised to find how abundantly the
berries grew along the banks, and returned to the Manor so full of the
account of that strawberry patch that their disappointment was almost
forgotten.
"Oh, Mother, see what we have found! The bank was covered with berries,
even after we had picked all these!"
"Why, boys, it is just like the home-land! Surely Captain John Smith had
described this Place well for Prince Charles to name it New England.
Already I feel better, for this land is not so strange since home things
grow here."
The boys found that even the sassafras could not have given her more
pleasure. They went to bed that night before dark, contented with their
search and anxious to return to the strawberry field.
For twenty years the land about the Great House was called Strawberry
Bank. Though that was almost three hundred years ago and the name was
afterward changed to Portsmouth, there are now many people in New
England, and some outside, who know just what spot is meant when they
hear of Strawberry Bank.
THE BOYS' CATCH.
"Get off that boat! We can't be bothered by boys on this trip!"
Edward Godfrie, who had charge of the fisheries at Mason Manor, shouted
with stern authority.
It was scarcely daybreak on a May morning in 1632. Six great shallops lay
at anchor off the rocks. Five fishing boats were in readiness, while
several skiffs were conveying fishermen and equipment for the day's work.
Godfrie's own boy, Hugh, and James Williams, regretfully climbed ashore.
"Leave that seine behind!" was the next order to the boatmen. The stretch
of net was pitched out upon the rocks.
Every available worker at the Manor was ready to cast a line or haul a
net on this trip, for the biggest catch possible was to be made that day.
The Warwick, an English trading vessel of the Laconia Company, had
already gone up the Piscataqua River and on her return would take a cargo
of fish back to England. No later catch could be sufficiently salted and
dried.
"To feed eighty people every day," grumbled Godfrie, "and keep a cargo on
hand, can't be done even in these waters."
There had been little planting on this shore; so the fish already
prepared for market had been eaten by the hungry settlers because of the
delayed arrival of the Warwick with food supplies. Perhaps this accounts
for Godfrie's irritation and anxiety for a good catch. When the last boat
had started, he stepped into a skiff, picked up the oars, and pulled for
the fishing fleet.
Four forlorn boys, for Samuel and Richard Chadborn had joined the others,
stood on the shore and watched the sails against the pink of the morning
sky. The glorious air and strong salt breeze made the land seem
unbearable to them. They wandered to the flakes and on to the salt works.
Francis Williams, James's father, manufactured the salt.
"Get away from there, boys," he shouted, as they appeared. "A big catch
comes in tonight, and we need every grain!"
Log cabins were scattered about the estate for those who did not live in
the Hall. Horses, cows, pigs, sheep, and goats had their sheds or
wandered about at will. However, there was no interest in them for the
boys, who sauntered back to the shore from which the boats had started.
"There are two skiffs left," suggested Hugh. "Let's go fishing for
ourselves!"
"Yes!" exclaimed Sam, with a new idea. "And why not take that net and
stretch it across the narrows in the little harbor? I saw the men do
that one day."
It was a thought that aroused them all, perhaps because it required both
daring and pluck. The net was a weighty one for their muscles, although
they were stout, strong fellows for their years.
James's father felt relieved as he saw them start. At least the flakes
and the salt would be unmolested. However, his attitude changed at
sundown when the boys had not returned.
The fishing fleet brought back a set of disappointed men, for the catch
had not been what was hoped for by many pounds. Godfrie's grumbling could
be heard before he landed, nor was it lessened when he reached shore to
find that his boy, with the others, was missing.
The sun set and the moon rose, yet nothing had been seen of the boys. An
hour later the distant splash of oars on the quiet waters and excited boy
voices brought all the Manor folk to the shore. The approach was so slow
that there was great fear that some one had been hurt. Yet there was an
elated tone as the voices came nearer. When they were within shouting
distance there came a call for help.
A half-dozen strong men jumped into their skiffs and pulled with speed.
In a half-hour's time two great boat-loads of fish were pulled ashore.
The boys had stretched their net at low water across a narrow part of the
stream. As the tide rushed in, it brought fish in a school of unusual
size, which, caught by the current, had entered the little harbor instead
of the main river.
This catch made up for the loss in the day's fishing. Men and boys set to
work in the moonlight to clean the fish. They then spread them on the
flakes for salting and drying.
Godfrie started a good cargo to the English markets, and each of the four
boys carried the title of Captain for weeks to come.
THE FOREST GARDEN.
It was the spring of 1633. Richard and Samuel had watched the distant
horizon for many days. At last came the shout, "A sail! A sail!"
Later, the Warwick dropped anchor. The boys soon climbed aboard, and
there they found Rebecca Gibbons, an English girl, who had started with
her mother to join her father, Ambrose Gibbons, who was helping establish
the New Hampshire Colony for the Mason grant. John Mason had given the
name because of his home in Hampshire, England.
"Then you are going on to Newichewannock," explained Richard. "Your
father has built a house there for you. At the falls they have a
saw-mill. It is the only one in New England."
Samuel, who had gone ashore, then returned with a package, which he
tucked into Rebecca's hands with a whisper. She secretly hid this strange
parcel as the vessel started.
The Warwick left its passengers and supplies at the Great House on
Strawberry Bank, and continued up the winding Piscataqua, which seemed
endlessly long to Rebecca. At last a final turn brought to sight the new
home, and, best of all, her father, followed by his four helpers,
hurrying down to the shore.
[Illustration]
The house was a substantial one. There were also a barn, other small
buildings, and a fine well, all surrounded by a palisade which protected
the family from wild animals and hostile Indians.
The saw-mill kept a busy hum on the logs, making boards for immediate
use. Many were also to be shipped to England on the returning vessel.
Ambrose Gibbons and his men spent their time otherwise: in search for
useful ores or minerals, or trading for furs to be sent back to the
Laconia Company, who, in turn, kept the colonists supplied from English
stores. Perhaps for these reasons the gardens were quite neglected, and
so Rebecca's strange little parcel proved a double treasure.
Her spinning done with the spirit of a true pioneer, Rebecca explored the
surrounding woods and soon knew them quite as well as the nooks and
corners of her own dooryard. In one spot there grew a thick undergrowth,
through which she crept and discovered a small clearing so closely shut
in that it would never have been suspected.
"This is the spot for my secret," she declared and began to pull the
grass by the roots. The next day she returned with spade and rake, and
her mysterious package. It was to be a buried treasure, for here she
opened her bundle and planted in various holes the kernels of yellow
Indian corn which Samuel had given her.
"There!" she exclaimed, as she patted the loose earth. "This is to be my
own secret, till I am quite ready to tell. Then I will surprise them."
The home people were too much occupied with their own interests to give
attention to Rebecca's play-time. The Newichewannock Indians, whose
settlement was near by, were camping elsewhere for the summer, so that no
one even guessed the garden, or knew how well it was growing.
Some struggling grape vines and a few vegetables had been planted within
the palisade, but small attention had been given to them. In fact, so
little gardening had been done that the Autumn brought anxious days. No
English vessel had come in, nor had the grain from Virginia arrived in
Boston, where it was to be ground at the wind-mill and sent on to
Strawberry Bank.
The meal-chest at the Newichewannock home was almost empty, and except
for fish and game the food supply was low. The situation became serious.
Ambrose Gibbons started, one crisp fall morning, for the Bank, hoping to
obtain food of some sort. He took one man with him, while the other three
with their axes started for a distant point to fell trees, not returning
until night.
Rebecca ran off for awhile that afternoon to inspect her garden, which
was now filled with a surprising growth of ripening corn.
"It might be picked at once," she whispered to herself. "But I think I
will leave it for a big surprise. Father may not be able to get us food."
Quite elated over her splendid crop, she hastened back to the house. She
was surprised to find the gate of the palisade open and still more
astonished to see a tall figure in the kitchen.
Her frightened mother was showing the empty meal-chest to a fierce
looking Indian. Rebecca did not then know it was Rowls, the Sagamore of
the Newichewannock Camp. He had returned ahead of his people with a small
but hungry band of Indians.
"He has come for food, dearie, but I cannot make him understand that we
have nothing."
Rowls straightened himself and by motions again ordered Mrs. Gibbons to
get him food. At the same time he showed a fine beaver skin for exchange.
Empty cupboards and barrels were opened, but the fierce creature believed
the food was hidden and raised his knife as a threat. At this a sudden
thought struck Rebecca. With energy she motioned for him to wait. Then
she darted to her secret garden, where she tore the precious ears from
the stalks until her arms were full. Fearing for her mother in the
meantime, she flew back to the house to find that Rowls had patiently
waited.
It was what he wanted. With a satisfied grunt, he took the corn and
presented Rebecca with the most beautiful beaver skin she had ever seen.
After the Sagamore had gone and the palisade gate was bolted, Rebecca
explained her secret garden to her surprised mother.
She then for the first time realized the disappointment of not bringing
in her own crop, should her father return without food. But just then a
whistle was heard outside the gate, and Ambrose Gibbons was admitted,
bowed over with a heavy sack of grain, for the Virginia supply had that
morning reached Strawberry Bank.
Soon after these events a grist-mill was established at Newichewannock,
and gardens became a matter of more careful consideration.
THE FUR TRADE
The winter had passed since Rebecca Gibbons had traded her corn crop for
a beaver skin. That piece of fur had become a much-beloved treasure to
Becky. It covered her rag dolls in the daytime and served her as a
blanket many a cold night.
The winter had been a rough one, filled with severe hardships. In spite
of their knowledge of New England winters, even the Indians in their
encampment close at hand suffered. Hostile tribes had at times surrounded
the house a hundred strong. Added to these troubles there was a great
scarcity of provisions, so that a longing for warmer days was coupled
with an anxious hope for the returning English vessel. Supplies of all
kinds were sadly needed.
One cold raw day in May, Rebecca wandered into the woods to gather early
spring flowers. She suddenly realized that, in spite of her usual care,
she had strayed beyond the sound of the buzzing mill. Searching in vain
for a familiar spot, she at last shouted for help. No sound was heard in
reply. She dropped to the ground, frightened by the thought of the many
awful things that might happen. Was that a shadow at her feet? She
started suddenly to find standing behind her a silent Indian squaw, with
a pappoose strapped to her back. Without a word the woman turned and
Rebecca followed, for she had recognized a squaw of the neighboring camp.
It was a long walk home. As they passed the Newichewannock Camp, four
forlorn shivering little Indians who had been huddling over the dying
coals caught her attention.
Rebecca was stirred by the misery of their cold and hunger, quite
forgetting how near her own household were to this same misery. On
reaching home, determined to show her thanks for this safe return, the
little girl hunted out her fishing pole and started for the river. She
hoped to make a catch for these hungry people. She reached the rocks and
cast her line like a true fisherman.
"Captain Neal will feel mean enough when he gets here and finds us all
starved to death," she murmured as she jerked her pole only to find her
line had caught and broken. Finally, with the disappointment of no fish,
she was turning toward the house when a white gleam on the water caught
her eye. It was from the sail of the Pide-Cowe, the English vessel just
rounding the bend.
Rebecca dashed home with the news. That afternoon cornmeal, salt, beef,
butter, sweet oil, oatmeal, and candles were landed within the palisade.
There were men's coats, waistcoats, and children's coats, stockings,
blankets, rugs, flannel and cotton cloth, as well as fish hooks and
lines, lead, hammers, pewter dishes, and iron kettles.
Indians, gay in fringes and beads, arrived on the scene with loads of
fur: otter, mink, fox, and beaver for trade. Ragged squaws and shivering
pappooses followed. Captain Neal and his sailors mingled with hearty good
cheer among them, while the white settlers acted as tradesmen, happy in
the relief which this vessel had brought them.
Rebecca was wild with excitement. She knew this meant food for everybody.
Each box and barrel was turned and inspected by Miss Becky. She poked
over the piles of clothing and tried on the children's coats and even the
men's coats, anything in fact that struck her fancy. Some bright beaded
things caught her eye. Pulling at the English shag, she drew from the
bottom of a pile a queer little garment labeled "Pappoose coat." After
searching and tugging, she produced five of different sizes. Then her eye
fell on the group of timid little creatures still clinging to their
mother.
Rebecca knew that at this trading all the furs would go to buy food. Her
wise little head thought, "These coats would make them so comfortable!"
Perched on a salt-cask close to the pile she was soon absorbed in her own
plans, which were quickly completed. Jumping down she excitedly ran to
explain them to her mother, who had been watching the trading from the
doorway of their home. Becky stood on tip-toe, awaiting her mother's
decision. After a moment's thought, it came. The child rushed indoors and
soon returned with her still beautiful beaver-skin.
"Captain Neal," she cried, before she had fairly reached him. "How many
of these pappoose coats will you trade for this beaver?"
"You may have all for such a skin as that," he exclaimed as he stroked
the soft fur.
With the five coats in her own possession, proud little Becky begged her
mother's help. Together they fitted them to the five smallest Indian
children. Trading ceased for a moment, while all eyes turned to the funny
sight of these wild little creatures in English clothing. The settlers
and seamen laughed aloud, while even the stolid faces of the old warriors
looked pleased.
COATS, SHIRTS, AND KETTLES.
During the winter of 1637-8, at least three feet of snow remained on the
ground from November 4th until March 5th. Broken ice was still in the
rivers, when in March a coaster started from Boston with Mrs. Wheelwright
and her five children and also friends of hers with their children.
Little Thomas, quite as round as the small iron kettle which he carried
under his plump arm, trudged up the plank to the deck.
"Mother, see what Tom has!" exclaimed Susan with some disgust.
"Never mind, child," came the tired reply. "That kettle was forgotten in
packing, and, if it pleases him, do let him keep it."
There were children enough on board to make the party a merry one in
spite of the sharp cold winds. The vessel turned northward, rounded the
coast to the Piscataqua River, and pushed its way among the ice chunks
even into Great Bay, not stopping until it came to the foot of the falls
in Squamscot River.
The Rev. John Wheelwright and several of his followers had already spent
the winter about Piscataqua. The rough cabins, now built for their
families, were not so comfortable nor so well furnished as the home
Rebecca Gibbons had found at Newichewannock.
The children were delighted with the wild woods. The month gave them some
warm spring-like days, and they soon established a play camp for
themselves not far from the cabins. Edward and Joseph built a wigwam
pointed at the top like those of the Squamscot Indians who camped along
the river.
"Look," cried Susan with delight as she rested three poles together at
the top, "this will stand over our fire, and we can swing Tom's kettle
from it."
But Tom and the kettle were missing. At last he was found in the curled
roots of an old oak, scratching the picture of an Indian on the rough
surface of his treasured kettle, which he was persuaded to use for the
new play. The fun went with zest until Susan was called into the house.
"There, dear," explained her mother, passing her an armful of woolen
stuff, "you must take my needle and finish this seam, while I prepare
these birds for a stew. This is the last of six shirts your father wished
completed soon."
Susan seated herself by the fireside on a stool, which was merely a tree
stump, for their furniture was of the roughest kind. Her mother quickly
plucked the feathers from the wild fowl that had just been brought in and
prepared them for the kettle that hung on the crane over the hearth
fire.
"Oh, may we have that little one, Mother, for our camp?" begged Susan.
"We want to make a stew out there in Tom's kettle."
Her mother consented and laid the bird aside, while Susan watched
carefully to see just how the stew was made. When it began to boil, her
mother picked up the sewing and told her to run and play again.
The children soon had a fire crackling and the fowl stewing. They sat
delightedly about it, planning many fine uses for the little black kettle
with its three short legs. Then Edward and Joseph started on a scouting
trip, but returned later with eyes that told of something more real than
play.
"We've found an Indian boy, a real one, Susan, lying on the ground as if
he were sick."
"Then," replied Susan quickly, "take him some of our broth. I am sure it
will help him. There it is, just as good as mother's," she exclaimed, as
she gave a final taste and poured out a bowlful.