this accident word had reached me that two bears had been seen in the
woods that morning, and I had rushed home to say that the children must
not go out. Before I had finished speaking, their mother had grabbed the
gun from the wall and had dashed down the path.
"I tore ahead with my musket. We made the turn as the bear was bounding
away from the well-licked pitcher after the children.
"They had no gingerbread dolls that day, but later I brought them home a
fine bearskin rug, on which they now sit for their bedtime stories."
THE WITCHES OF 1656.
Strawberry Bank had not only taken the name of Portsmouth, but other
changes had also crept in. In place of logs, houses were built of bricks
burned in the dooryard; or else were constructed of frames of oak, often
with pitched roofs that sloped to the ground.
It was in such a house as this that Hannah Puddington lived. Old Buff,
her large, yellow cat, would sometimes run to the ridgepole and from
there watch for the river boats as they returned with fresh fish.
One April morning Old Buff hungrily followed little Hannah to the
landing, where she went with her mother to secure a fresh supply of fish
to salt and dry, as well as some to cook at once.
As they returned, Goodman Trimmings stopped them to tell of the sad
condition of his wife. "She has surely been bewitched by Goody Walford,
whom she met in the woods. When she first came home, she could not speak.
Her breathing troubled her, but later she complained that her back was as
a flame of fire and her limbs numb with cold. Goody Walford told her that
she would take a long journey but would never return, and then the witch
seemed to vanish in the shape of a cat. My wife has since been very
ill."
[Illustration]
Goodwife Puddington listened with alarm. "How frightful to find
witchcraft on our own shores! Charlestown and Salem have been so invaded
by it. There even children have been accused." Fearfully she grasped
little Hannah by the hand and hurried home.
When the fish were well cooked, Mrs. Puddington laid one temptingly on a
hot pewter plate and covered it.
"There, Hannah, take this to Goodwife Trimmings. It may tempt her
appetite. Yes, little Jacob may go with you."
Old Buff followed the two children down the grassy path and through a
short stretch of woods to the neighbor's. As they returned, Hannah saw a
queer looking figure digging roots in the woods. Her waistcoat and
petticoat were red; her old apron green. She wore a black hat over a
white linen hood tied under her chin. It was Goody Walford. Friendly Old
Bluff darted to her side, while Hannah seized Jacob's hand and ran for
home. Her haste and fright moved the little fellow to howls and tears.
"Stop," commanded Hannah, "you must not cry, for then they will say that
I have bewitched you, and may be they will hang me as they do the Salem
witches."
He caught her meaning, though he did not fully understand, and manfully
gulped back his sobs.
Another fear came. Hannah had seen the old witch stretch out her hand and
stroke the soft, yellow fur of Old Buff.
"She might have bewitched him," thought the little girl, "but I'll tell
no one."
At noon Hannah's father came in with more trouble to tell of Goody
Walford. Her husband would not let her feed his cattle for fear she would
bewitch them.
After sunset Goodwife Evans, frightened by the reports, came to the
Puddington house and begged that she might stay for the night.
"I am followed by a yellowish cat wherever I go. I am sure 'tis the witch
work of Goody Walford. Oh, don't open that door!" she cried. "It will
come in." She dropped trembling to the settle.
Little Hannah's fright was quite as great in her secret fear that Old
Buff might be the witch-cat. She gasped when she saw her father take his
gun from the wall.
"We'll put an end to these witch-cats," he declared, and stalked out.
Hannah held her breath in fear. She heard no shot, however. At last her
father came in and looked over his gun.
"It wouldn't work," he muttered.
"There is more witchwork going on inside this house," his wife remarked
as she looked over his shoulder at the gun. "Your new stockings that I
finished last week have holes in them already."
When on the following morning a large hole was found under the door that
led to the shed, the family blame was directed to Old Buff. He was
without doubt the yellowish cat that had followed Goodwife Evans. Hannah
had not seen her dearly loved pet since she had left him in the woods the
day before. She feared to have him come home, yet her heart yearned for
Old Buff.
That day it was discovered that much of the homemade soap stored under
the pitch of the roof had disappeared.
"Cat-witchery it surely is!" declared Mrs. Puddington.
Little Hannah, miserably unhappy, tossed in her bed that night. Perhaps
she slept a little. She was, however, quick to awake upon hearing a cry
at her window. Like a flash she bounded out of bed, pushed up the sash,
and pulled in her own dear Buff.
"You're not bewitched, I know you're not, my dear Old Buff. You wouldn't
cry in that same old way if you were! Come quick and let me hide you so
you won't get shot!"
She pushed the cat under the bedclothes and in her happy relief dropped
to sleep.
In the morning Old Buff, proud and dignified, sat like a king before the
kitchen fire, while at his feet lay the body of the huge rat he had
killed. It was the rat that had eaten the stockings, had gnawed the door,
and had carried off the soap, afterward found in the walls. Old Buff was
the hero of the house.
This strange experience of the Puddington household was told throughout
the village. Some were satisfied that witchery was no longer to be
feared, but others still held their belief. In course of time, however,
the witch acts believed of Jane Walford were forgotten.
THE WOLVES OF PORTSMOUTH.
John Hinkson led his saddled horse from the stable one September morning
in 1662. Things had gone hard with John, for taxes were due, and bills
were demanding immediate payment. As he needed money at once, he was now
starting for Exeter to borrow, if possible, from his brother Peter, until
his grist-mill should bring him the fall returns.
As he mounted the horse, his wife opened the door.
"John," she asked, "if you go to Peter's home, do not fail to ask Miranda
for a bottle of her pine syrup. I ought not to be without it, for already
little Anthony has a heavy cold. When shall you be back?"
"I must return on Wednesday," John replied, "for there is to be a
town-meeting that afternoon." Then, adjusting his gun, he called,
"Good-bye," and was off.
When Wednesday came, and the townsmen had gathered at their meeting, John
Hinkson was not there. Thomas Keats, whose home was on the outskirts of
Portsmouth, reported that Hinkson had passed his house on the way to
Exeter a day or two before, but had not yet returned. Richard Webster
remarked that he had just spoken with Mrs. Hinkson at her gate. She was
looking anxiously for John. Their boy was seriously ill, and she needed
the medicine John would bring. She was equally worried lest in his delay
night should overtake him, when there was grave danger of attack by
wolves. Another townsman emphatically declared:
"It seems as if measures should be taken immediately to overcome this
pest of wolves. There is no safety in the woods after dark, and even our
door-yards are in danger from straggling beasts. Since Portsmouth has
grown to be a town of a hundred inhabitants, though we are widely
scattered, we ought to be able to make some headway against them."
The meeting was then called to order, and that very question was placed
under formal discussion.
Meanwhile, John Hinkson had reached Exeter, only to find that his brother
was crippled for funds and could give him no help. He obtained the syrup
that his sister-in-law had made from the pine sap and, after indulging in
a short visit, made an early start for home.
The roads were very rough, and the horse loosened a shoe on the way. His
progress was so slow that darkness had overtaken Hinkson by the time he
had reached the isolated home of Thomas Keats on the edge of Portsmouth.
The rider kept on his way, hoping that the distant cries he heard might
not come nearer. He was less than half a mile from Keats' home when the
howl of the wolves became more distinct. Soon he knew that a pack was on
his trail. The horse seemed to sense his master's fear and dashed
forward. At a bend in the path Hinkson turned and caught the gleam of the
fiery eyes in full speed behind him. He fired, and the pack stopped to
devour the fallen leader, while the horse plunged on. Again Hinkson's
good aim brought another wolf to the ground, but a few of the pack, mad
with the taste of blood, kept on in hot pursuit. Hinkson brought down a
third and dodged a fourth that sprang at the horse's flanks. Again the
wolf jumped and would have crippled horse and rider had not the crack of
another gun sounded upon the frosty air. It belonged to Thomas Keats,
then on his way home from town meeting. The wolves, frightened by the
double-attack and weakened in numbers, slunk away into the woods.
"This is a lucky shot for you, Hinkson," called Keats. "The town today
voted a bounty of five pounds for every head, provided the nearest
neighbor would stand witness that they were shot within the town's
boundaries. I'm that neighbor, and I'll stand witness for you." Then, as
John Hinkson fastened his bloody trophies to the saddle, Keats added,
"The heads must be nailed to the meeting-house door."
The two men parted and later Hinkson rode into his own dooryard, where
he found an anxious little wife.
She begged for the pine syrup, for her little Anthony was choking with
croup. One glance at the saddle told of the story yet to be heard, but
not until an hour of troubled watching had passed could she listen. The
little boy then rested in comfortable sleep, and John related to his wife
his exciting adventure with the wolves, adding, "I have brought home four
heads, which give me twenty pounds bounty. With my good eye and my steady
gun, I can yet relieve the town of an even greater number, and taxes at
least will be paid."
THE KING'S FORT.
Little Peter White was so filled with the pride he took in his older
brother Thomas that he had no thought for himself.
Thomas was just sixteen years old, which was a very important matter that
June of 1666, when King Charles the Second of England ordered the harbors
of the New England colonies fortified.
Although the King's Commissioners had had some trouble with the General
Court, nevertheless, the Governor and Council of Massachusetts had
appointed a committee to visit the New Hampshire settlements and
determine upon the most suitable place for a fort. The eastern point of
Great Island, now known as New Castle, had been the spot selected. The
matter of building had been left to the decision of the townsmen of
Portsmouth.
Now it happened that little Peter was feeding his pet rabbits with
plantain just outside the doors of the town-meeting that afternoon of
June 19th. As the dignified men adjourned from the gathering, they still
discussed the measures adopted for the erection of the fort. Peter's
sharp ears overheard the mystic words "sixteen years." Had not his Thomas
reached that wonderful age? They must be speaking of him. Peter caught
every word that followed, and although the conversation was not about
his Thomas, it was of utmost interest to Peter.
With a white rabbit under one arm and a brown bunny bulging from the
other, Peter ran full tilt down the beaten path to his snug home on the
river bank, where Thomas was weeding the garden.
"Oh, Tom," cried the little fellow excitedly, "you are to help build the
King's Fort at Great Island, because you are sixteen years old." This
surprising news was explained a few minutes later when the boys' father
returned from the meeting.
Eager to learn what was meant, Tom rested on his rake with an inquiring
look in his eyes. Mrs. White, who from within the house had caught
Peter's words, had come to the rose-arbored doorway, while Peter, still
hugging his rabbits, called, "Tell them, father."
"It has been voted," explained Abram White, "that every dweller in this
town, above the age of sixteen years, shall promise a week's work on the
new fort before next October. He must be there from seven in the morning
until six at night and will be paid three shillings a day. The King has
sent eleven guns, six pounders, to defend the fort."
"Just think, Tom, you're to work on the King's fort!" exclaimed little
Peter, fairly bursting with brotherly pride, for a direct order from the
King seemed to the little boy a great honor.
"That will mean another pound for Harvard," replied practical Tom as he
bent again to the rake.
Harvard College, the only institution of learning in the country at that
time, was the ambition of many a growing lad in the remote districts.
When the call actually came for Tom to work on the fort, Peter announced,
"I'll do the home work while Tom's away. I'll weed the gardens and drive
the cows to pasture."
"You'll be my right-hand man," declared his father with a gentle slap on
the little fellow's back.
For six days Tom had taken the early start, rowing down the river to
Great Island and then at a brisk pace crossing it to the ocean side,
where fortifications were being erected for protection from attack by
sea. On the last morning his father, whose week was just beginning,
accompanied him.
Peter in consequence felt himself doubly important as the only man at
home. In the forenoon as he was passing the boat-landing, he chanced to
see the basket containing the dinners which had been forgotten.
"They must have it," thought Peter and stepped into the one remaining
boat, which he pushed into the stream.
Peter had had little experience alone on the water. So interested was he
in watching the boat swing into the current of the outgoing tide, that he
did not notice the darkening clouds above. Soon there came a flash
followed by the deep roll of thunder. The swift Piscataqua tide held the
boat amid stream, and the small arms could turn it neither to the right
nor the left. Flash and roar repeatedly followed each other. The boat
swung past the usual landing on Great Island and on down the river. As
the wind tossed the water into white-caps, Peter, who had long before
pulled in the oars, clung frightened to the sides. On sped the small
craft until it had rounded the curve to the great ocean beyond.
Dinner time had come for the men at the fort, but Tom and his father,
with nothing to eat, stood on the rocks, watching the ocean toss in this
yet rainless storm.
Suddenly a little boat swept into sight from the river. Above its side
was seen a small head too far away to be recognized. Instantly the two
watchers, with the same thought, dashed for a boat drawn up on the shore.
Pushing it off, they jumped in and grasped the oars. With strong, even
strokes they made steady headway, while the stray boat plunged on and out
into the sea. It was a mighty pull even for sturdy arms, but nearer and
nearer they came until they saw the pale, frightened face of their own
little Peter. With redoubled energy, they overtook the little fellow and
held his boat while he scrambled into theirs, announcing, as he lifted
the lunch basket over, "I was bringing your dinner to you."
Thankfully they carried him safe to shore, where together they ate with
relish the rescued dinner.
Early that afternoon Peter's father took him home to relieve the anxiety
he knew the boy's mother must be feeling.
When Tom returned that night with his newly-earned shillings, he passed
half of them over to Peter.
"There, Pete, put them aside for college. Harvard will want such a man as
you will make."
Peter went to bed that night, happy with the new thought that he,
himself, might some day go to college.
LITTLE JANE'S GENTIANS.
"Have you never seen a fringed gentian?" asked little blue-eyed Jane. "If
you will go down that path with me, I'll show you where they grow."
Benjamin was about to follow, when his father reined in his horse at the
gate and called, "Come, Ben, we must start for home!"
"Never mind," whispered little Jane, "I'll bring one to you at the
meeting-house on the Sabbath."
John Cutts lifted his boy to the horse's back, and with the bag of meal
behind the saddle they started homeward over beaten paths through the
woods to the clearing, some two miles from the settlement. This happened
as long ago as 1671, when the fire on the hearth was the only kind used.
Benjamin was glad to get close to it this cold fall night, as he listened
to his father's account of the many wolves shot that week, whose heads,
Benjamin knew, would be hung on the meeting-house door until the captors
received their bounty.
On Sunday morning John Cutts examined his musket closely, for he dared
not start to meeting without it. Indians as well as wolves were feared.
His wife sat on the horse behind him, and Benjamin rode before. Traveling
over the narrow paths, they passed but few people on their way.
Sunday was a day of fear for Benjamin, for outside the church door was
built a large wooden cage which held the stocks, while a pillory was
constructed on top, both of which were to hold in most uncomfortable
positions those who disturbed the meeting.
Inside the church his mother sat on one side, his father on the other.
Benjamin was always left at the back with a row of boys under the
piercing eye of Nicholas Bond, the tything man, who kept strict order
with his rod and an occasional nod to the cage outside.
On this particular morning when Benjamin dropped into his seat at the end
of the row and near the door, he thought seriously of the whispered word
he had overheard outside.
"Little Jane is lost. There are several searching parties out!"
"This is the morning," thought Benjamin, "that little Jane was going to
bring me the gentians. I wonder if anyone would think of searching that
path for her!"
He glanced at the unusual number of wolves' heads hung on the door and
thought of those still living in the woods. The guns stacked by the
doorway suggested lurking Indians. His fear for little Jane's safety so
increased that he became restless and soon received a sharp rap on the
shins from the tything man.
It was during the long prayer when all heads were bowed that his fear for
Jane became greater than his fear of the cage. Could it be that Nicholas
Bond was nodding? Benjamin slipped from his seat, crept out the door, and
flew down the road outside. The risk was great, for if he should be
caught, the horror of the cage awaited him.
He was soon out of sight of the church and had turned down the gentian
path without meeting any one. He knew enough of woodcraft to break a
branch here and turn a stone there to mark his way. The gentians were
found, and some had been picked, but Jane answered none of his shouts. He
returned the same way until he found a branching path.
"She might have taken that by mistake," he thought.
It was a long search before Benjamin came upon the little girl asleep on
the ground, with her hands full of gentians. "Oh, Jane, Jane, wake up and
come quickly! The wolves or the Indians might find us!"
Together they ran down the path to the turn and up the right one to the
church, which they reached just as the people came out, troubled by the
disappearance of Benjamin. A searching party came from the opposite
direction, and Jane's father caught his little girl up in his arms, while
Benjamin told his part of the story. His father proudly patted him on
the back and swung him up on the saddle, but little Jane scrambled to her
feet and darting to his side reached up her plump little hand,
exclaiming, "I picked these gentians for you, Benjamin!"
THE CHURCH LAW
It was now 1675. Four years had passed since Jane Fryer gathered the
gentians for Benjamin. Her father, Jonathan Fryer, had moved from the
neighborhood of the meeting-house far up the river-side, where he found
better land for cultivation. He still held a strong church interest and
built for his family a small shed at the rear of the meeting-house. Here
they could warm themselves by a hearth fire before the service in the
unheated building and take a hot dinner before the long walk home.
Jane was now an energetic girl of ten. One February afternoon she rested
her bucket of water on the icy edge of the well as she watched her father
striding homeward down the hill slope. As he reached her, he picked up
the heavy bucket and entered the house, where his boy Tom was placing a
huge log on the fire, and his wife stood ready to fill the kettle with
water and hang it on the crane. Jane had followed her father and waited
with expectant silence until Jonathan Fryer announced--
"I am going to Boston!"
"Father!" exclaimed Tom.
"This winter?" asked his wife, while Jane embraced her dearly loved
father as if he were off for the moon. Boston was fifty-eight miles
away.
[Illustration]
"I have just attended town-meeting," he explained. "The sixty pounds
which we have pledged to Harvard College annually must be paid. There are
also town matters for consultation."
As it was February, Jonathan Fryer decided to travel on horseback by an
inland route to Boston.
During his absence, the family had cause for anxiety in the weather.
Storms and a moderating temperature were bad, for Jonathan Fryer had
frozen rivers to cross.
On the night of the second Saturday after his departure, he returned
weary and exhausted from a hard and perilous trip. Jane had spent many
hours watching for her father and was eager to make him comfortable. She
hung about him with every attention, and laughed when he nodded with
sleep.
"Father, you must go to bed, for if your head should tip like that in the
meeting-house, the cage would await you."
It had been decreed that the old wooden cage before the church door
should punish--"those who use tobacco or sleep during public exercise."
The next morning Jonathan Fryer arose aching in every limb. His family
begged him to break his custom of attending meeting, but his strong
spirit asserted itself, and he was ready at the usual time. With a basket
of dinner, the four started afoot at an early hour that they might be
well warmed before meeting.
Mr. Moody, famous for his long sermons, had preached some forty minutes
when a lusty snore brought the already straight listeners to an alert
posture. It awoke the sleeper himself, no other than Jonathan Fryer. The
preaching continued to its customary length of an hour or more. Then
silently, shamed beyond endurance, Jonathan, his goodwife, his Tom, and
his Jane, sought shelter in their small house. Words were useless. They
knew what would follow.
The tramp of four tything men was soon heard crunching the ice. Some
eight or ten men with that title had been chosen to "look after the good
morals" of the neighbors of their home district.
Tything-man Eliot was the spokesman as the four stood to administer
justice.
"We regret, Goodman Fryer, that since you have disobeyed the strict
orders of the Church, not only by sleeping, but also by disturbing the
meeting with an audible snort, we must comply with our laws and place you
in the stocks, within the cage built for that purpose."
There was no chance for reply, for like a tiger Jane pounced before these
men of dignity and burst forth, "It is not right. My father, in service
for the town, has faced great hardships and almost lost his life. That he
came to meeting at all, he should be thanked. If you place him in the
stocks, you shall place me there too!"
Her flashing eyes and angered face seemed to burn themselves into the
stolid four as she stamped her foot for emphasis. The spokesman turned
and quietly remarked to his companions, "There is need for further
council!" They left. Jane threw herself into her father's arms. He
dropped his head.
"My daughter, this conduct doubles the insult to the Church. Your action
is unrighteous, though well meant. Your father's disgrace was great
enough, but this from a child to our worthy tything men cannot be
overlooked. There was need for further council."
No greater punishment could have been given Jane than these words from
her father. The barley-cakes, porridge, and cheese were left untouched by
the shame-faced group.