stinging. The door opened and the tything men entered. The same
spokesman, perhaps the gentlest of the four, began:
"Goodman Fryer, it is deemed best that the punishment to be administered
to your untamed daughter for her unruly tongue shall be determined by her
parents. It is left to their discretion. Yet there is truth in her words.
The council of the Church commends you for your recent service to the
town and grants you pardon for your unseemly conduct in the meeting."
PEACE OR WARFARE
Since the days when Nonowit had welcomed the English to his shores and
had taught Roger Low the ways of the wood, there had been little serious
trouble between the white man and the red.
The New Hampshire coast was at this time fortified against an enemy from
over the seas, but the homes were rarely protected by palisades, save the
larger ones used as garrison houses, where the neighbors gathered in case
of an attack by Indians. Up to this time, however, there had been but
little need of the garrisons.
Roger Low had become the father of Jonathan, and even Jonathan now had a
boy Robert, for some fifty years had passed since Robert's grandfather
had crossed the ocean to this land. The Portsmouth house in which the
three lived had been the scene of Jonathan's boyhood and recalls the time
when his little sister, Mary, cut off her father's hair.
The winter months of 1675 had passed. Frightful stories of Indian
troubles were coming to the ears of the colonists. Robert Low had loved
to sit on his grandfather's knee and in the warm light of the hearth fire
to listen to stories of Indian life and of Nonowit, of whom nothing had
been heard for many years.
The two were sitting by the fire one evening, when Jonathan Low, leaving
them alone, had gone to Exeter for the night. A neighbor happened in. His
face was grave, and he shook his head in doubt as he seated himself on
the opposite settle.
"Philip, that chief in Massachusetts, the son of Massasoit, is a
dangerous fellow. He is turning his Indians against the white men. And
have you heard what has happened on the Saco River, at our east?"
Robert was alert for a new story, though his interest was now mingled
with a sense of fear.
"The squaw of the sachem Squando," continued the caller, "was crossing
the river in a canoe with her pappoose, when two sailors upset the craft
just for the sport of it. The child sank, but the mother dived to the
bottom and brought it up alive. Later the child died, and Squando is now
rousing the Indians of the east against the colonists. With Philip south
of us and Squando, a chief of wide influence, at the east, we stand in
great danger."
"Yet peace must exist between the white man and the red," confidently
replied the grandfather, "for Passaconaway, the great sachem of the
Penacooks, that wonderful chieftain, fifteen years ago urged peace when
he called the river and the mountain Indians together at Pawtucket Falls.
At a great dance and a feast held there Passaconaway spoke to his people
and bade them live in peace, for it was the only hope for the race. They
might do some harm to the English, but it would end in their own
destruction. This the Great Spirit had said to him. Then," continued
Roger Low, "he gave up his chieftainship to his son Wonolancet, who has
heeded his father's warning, as have other tribes about us. They had
faith in old Passaconaway, who had the power to make water burn and trees
to dance. He could even turn himself into a flame. Yet he accepted our
Christianity as preached by John Eliot and finally, the Indians say, he
was carried in a sleigh drawn by wolves up the slope of our highest
mountain, whence he rose toward the heaven of the white man in a chariot
of fire."
The neighbor again shook his head doubtfully and bade them good-night.
Little Robert, torn by the fears of the Indian raids, and his
grandfather's assurance of peace, lay awake many hours. His grandfather
was breathing heavily in his sleep, when Robert distinctly heard a
footstep outside. Thinking his father might have returned, he hurried to
the window in time to see the figure of an Indian. The little boy threw
himself upon his sleeping grandfather in fright. As the old gentleman
awoke, a heavy knock was heard at the door.
"'Tis an Indian, grandfather," shrieked the boy.
At that moment the outline of the Indian's face was seen at the window
which he was trying to open. Roger Low jumped from his bed, seized his
gun, and stood ready for an attack. The Indian spoke. Low dropped his
gun and listened. Something more was said outside, Grandfather hastily
unbolted the door. "Was he mad?" He seemed eager to meet the Indian. Then
Robert heard his grandfather cry, "Nonowit!" for the old-time friend had
at last come back.
They stirred the fire and seated themselves to hear Nonowit's story of
peace and trouble between whitemen and Indians. Robert gained no promise
of peace. However, the friendliness of such a powerful Indian as Nonowit
was reassuring, and he dropped to sleep in his grandfather's arms.
SUSANNA'S RESCUE
A Tale of 1675
Toby Tozer dropped the rock which would have completed his house of
stones, as he saw a sail tacking across the river straight to his point
at Newichewannock.
"Look, Susanna! Here comes Mistress Lear, and she has brought Henry with
her," he cried excitedly.
Susanna hurried up the bank to carry the news. She was a sturdy girl of
eighteen, with neither home nor people. The little group at the
settlement took care of her, and she gratefully served them all.
Hearing of the arrival, Mistress Tozer hurried to the shore, bidding
Susanna notify the few neighbors and invite them all to her home for the
day. Spinning, weaving, and other household cares were always pushed
aside for such an occasion as a visit.
"And may we keep her for days, Jacob?" Mrs. Tozer asked anxiously of Mr.
Lear, who was then pushing off his boat.
"Just an over-night trip," he called. "I'm on my way to Dover and will
come around for her on my return."
Already the good-wives, with knitting in hand, were gathering to greet
Mistress Lear. Some fifteen or more, including the children, were soon
settled about the Tozer fireplace, eager to learn of the happenings in
Portsmouth.
"How dared you come so far, Mistress Lear, when the Indians are
committing such terrible deeds? Since King Philip has stirred up the
creatures in Massachusetts, even the settlements of Maine have felt their
treachery."
By this time Susanna had caught the winks and nods of Toby and Henry, who
were tired of sitting primly on the settle.
"Shall I draw you a bucket of water, Mistress Tozer?" asked Susanna, as
eager as the boys for an excuse to get out to the open. She glanced at
the boys, who followed to help her. Secretly she held the fear of an
Indian attack and, for days, had been keeping watch over the river.
"My great-grandfather, Ambrose Gibbons, dug this well!" exclaimed Henry,
knowingly, as Susanna let down the bucket. "His little girl, Becky
Gibbons, was my grandmother, and she traded some corn for a beaver skin
with the Indians."
Since Susanna and Toby seemed interested, Henry continued his story as
they turned to the shore. "Almost all the Indians were friendly in those
days," he added.
"But they are not now," replied Susanna. Her alert eye, at that moment,
had caught a distant movement of paddles on the water. As a nearer view
brought the dreaded Indians to sight, she cried, "Run for your lives,
boys!"
The frightful feathered savages were gliding straight toward the point.
The two children made a mad dash for the house. Susanna, ahead, broke
into the peaceful group gathered there.
"Indians! Run! Out the back door, over the fence to the Knight's house!
Don't let them see you!"
Susanna slammed the front door and threw her full weight against it,
while the women in mad haste rushed through the narrow doorway and
scrambled over the fence to the more secure protection of the neighboring
house. A moment later the howling Indians slashed their tomahawks into
the door which Susanna, to gain time for the others, still held. The
savages now forced the door open. The girl was thrown to the floor by the
blow, and the Indians, thinking her dead, rushed through the house.
Finding it deserted, they dashed through the back door on toward the
neighboring house. Shot after shot from this direction startled the
pursuing Indians and made them realize that their party was too small to
face such fire. They then wheeled about and struck for the canoe.
After a long and fearful waiting, Mrs. Tozer crept cautiously back to her
home, sure that Susanna had been carried off captive. No, there she lay
on the floor by the door. Could it be that she moved? Her eyes opened.
Mrs. Tozer dropped to her side and, with the assistance of those who had
followed, brought her quick relief. The girl was tenderly cared for, and
in time she entirely recovered her strength.
When Henry Lear returned to Portsmouth, he told a tale of Newichewannock
life wilder than the stories of his grandmother's day.
TO THE GARRISON HOUSE!
One September day in 1675, near their home on the Upper Plantation, now
known as Dover, Betty Haines, a girl of ten, stood in the cornfield with
her little apron outstretched to hold the ears of ripe corn her father
was plucking. Suddenly her brother Joseph, twice her age, bounded over
the meadow and into the field.
"Father," he cried excitedly, "the Indians have made an attack at
Newichewannock. They are likely to be down upon us at any moment. The
garrison house is our only safety."
His mother, at the door of their home, caught Joseph's alarming words and
took immediate command of the situation. The rest of the family hurried
in from the cornfield and followed her directions.
"Get your heavy coat, Joseph! Betty, pack the bread into that basket and
ask your father to bring down our heaviest blankets!"
"I hope nothing will happen to this nice home of ours," sighed Betty as
her father on their departure locked the door.
"Nor to our corn either," he added, with a thought of the winter's food.
Soon they established themselves in the largest home of the neighborhood,
which stood open in such a moment of need. Mrs. Haines, ready and
capable, did her part for the neighboring families assembled there,
while Mr. Haines and Joseph lent their aid to strengthen the
fortifications of timber outside and to erect a sentry box on the roof,
where guard was to be kept night and day.
As Joseph Haines took his turn to guard, the first night of alarm, Betty
crept up to the roof after him and immediately cried, pointing across the
river, "Look there, Joe!"
A small glow of fire, seen in the distance, soon brightened the whole sky
with flames.
"Work of the Indians!" muttered Joe. When word was brought the next day
that two houses and three barns with a large quantity of grain had been
burned that night by the Indians, Betty implored her brother, "Oh, don't
let them burn our house, Joe!"
"No, little Betty, I'll see that they do not," he declared with
determination.
Later the report reached Dover of six houses burned at Oyster River (a
neighboring village) and two men killed. The young men of Dover rose with
indignation at the insults of the Indians and begged Major Waldron,
commander of the militia, to grant them permission to protect the town in
their own way. This request granted, some twenty of them, Joseph Haines
in the number, armed themselves and scattered through the woods, hoping
in that way to find the lurking savages who were doing their mischief in
small groups.
Just at dusk Joseph, with one companion, took his position in the woods
near his own home.
"Hist!" came from his friend after long, patient watching. The two were
alert, for five stealthy figures were seen to cross the meadow and linger
in the cornfield. Three of them began to pick the corn, while two,
approaching the house, gathered sticks for a fire which they lighted.
Their purpose seemed to be to roast the corn, but the fire was built
dangerously near the house.
Joseph and his friend had become separated from their companions. No
signal could be given without arousing the suspicion of their enemies.
After a whispered consultation, they cautiously crept out of the woods
and into the shadow of the house. From there they suddenly rushed upon
the two Indians by the fire, striking them down with the butts of their
guns. Those in the cornfield, hearing the commotion, ran for the woods
and escaped.
Mr. Haines, seeing the firelight in the direction of his house, started
at once from the garrison, not knowing that Betty quietly followed him
through the darkness, even slipping through the big gateway without being
seen.
The fire had already caught the house, while the young men were occupied
in binding the prisoners. Mr. Haines dashed to the well for water and
returned to find his Betty beating the flames with a broom.
Mrs. Haines, missing Betty and suspecting that she had followed her
father, was on the spot by the time Joseph had turned his attention from
the prisoners to find that the house had been saved from the flames.
Word of the efficient guard at Dover was reported by the escaping
Indians, and no further attack was made at that time.
MY NEW HAMPSHIRE
The Indian raids had told heavily upon the colonists in the region of the
Piscataqua. Scattered gardens had been devastated; homes built by great
effort had been destroyed in a night; family circles had been broken by
death, or by capture, and the colony had suffered the loss of strong
young men who were its mainstay.
John Stevens had been crippled by the tomahawk of an Indian; his whole
family and that of his brother had been swept out of existence by the
same cruel hands, and all that was left was his home and one little
nephew, David.
"This country is ours now, David, and we must hold it," he would say to
the manly little fellow, who was already facing the responsibilities of
life, though with arms too young to swing the axe or to steady the
plough.
Glancing at the sturdy little boy, John Stevens, unable to leave his
chair, looked through the open doorway to his cleared land and his
forests, and wondered how, to say nothing of protecting the country, he
could keep the boy and himself alive. "David," he cried on sudden
thought, "the garden shall be yours and the forest mine. We will each do
what we can. I still have a strong arm left to me and a sharp knife. The
red oaks can be felled and sawed at the mill. Here in my chair with my
knife I can shape the short boards into hogshead staves. The town accepts
them for taxes at twenty-five shillings a thousand."
"Perhaps," added David, "Mr. Cutt, the merchant, will have use for some."
Together the man and the boy, before the open door, planned for the
coming days until the twilight had settled into night.
The simple home was remote, and neighbors rarely dropped in. David took
the necessary trips to the Bank, as the upper end of the town by the
river was still called, or to the South End, where the Great House stood
with many smaller homes of the town to the south of it. Always the little
boy started with this injunction:
"Learn all you can, David, of town affairs. Inquire about the doings of
the General Court. This is our country, David, and we must know what
happens."
The cutting of staves proved to be a means of meeting their simple daily
needs. The abundant forests everywhere prevented a demand for the
shipment of staves to other ports; so it was an exultant David who came
home one fall day with the word that Mr. John Cutt, the wealthy merchant
of Portsmouth, wanted all the staves John Stevens could make. They had
proved the best of the kind that Mr. Cutt had yet found. With the little
that David could do on the garden the two managed to make a living. Yet
all this effort to live was held before David as a small matter compared
with the life of the country.
"You must remember, David," his uncle impressed upon him, "that the
country must live whether we are here or not, and its life, lad, depends
upon what we can do for it while we are here."
With this quickened interest in the big country, of which he could see so
small a part, David returned from town early in January of 1680, with
stirring news for his uncle.
"Listen to this, Uncle John," he cried, excitedly, "Our King in England
has seen fit to separate New Hampshire from the government of
Massachusetts, and he has appointed our Mr. John Cutt as President. The
Royal Charter is already here!"
John Stevens leaned forward, as if to grasp the thought.
"Say it again, David, every word." Then, after the boy had repeated the
news, his uncle slowly shook his head.
"It is a heavy responsibility for us, lad. We have but four small towns
in New Hampshire. Yet I have confidence in the honored gentleman
appointed to lead us."
Actually to withdraw from the rule of Massachusetts required time, during
which period David never returned home without bringing some interesting
news. One day it was, "Uncle John, Portsmouth has seventy-one men who can
vote; Dover has sixty-one; Hampton, fifty-seven; and Exeter, twenty." At
another time he announced, "There is to be an important meeting in March,
to which every town of New Hampshire is to send three representatives
except Exeter, which sends two."
On the 16th of March, the day of the General Assembly, John Stevens sent
the boy off to town for the whole day.
"Learn everything for me, David," was his parting command. "Do not miss a
thing. And David," he added, impressively, placing his hand on the boy's
shoulder, "Remember always that this is your New Hampshire." Then he
counted the hours for the boy's return.
When David reached the town he found three other boys of his own age
eagerly watching for a sight of the gentlemen attending the Assembly.
Choosing an advantageous spot on the roadside, David and his companions
swung themselves to the low, spreading branches of an oak, where they
patiently waited.
"Here they come," called Sam Cutt, who had already seen these gentlemen
arrive at his father's house.
As the solemn procession of representatives from New Hampshire's four
small towns passed on their way to the meeting-house, David slid from
his branch to the ground and in an erect position bared his head and
held his hat to his heart until they had passed.
"Oh, see the sissy!" cried one boy from the tree, pointing to David, when
the riders had moved along. David's face flushed, but with unusual
self-command he replied.
"Did you not know that those men are taking care of our province, which
is yet very small, and that this is for us all a very serious and
important meeting that they are attending?"
The surprised boys who had expected to see David slink away, slid down
from the branches, caught with interest in what he continued to tell them
of town and even state affairs. They asked questions which he could
answer. "Now I tell you," he added with authority, "you must remember
always that this is your New Hampshire." David's knowledge of his country
had so deeply impressed and interested the boys that, when the General
Assembly adjourned, four hatless lads stood in respect as the members
passed, who honored them with a salute.
When, at the close of the day, David reached home he threw off his coat
and warmed his hands by the fire exclaiming.
"You should have seen the dignified gentlemen, uncle. There were a dozen
or more of them who rode from Mr. Cutt's estate to the meeting-house.
They wore fine clothes, and swords at their sides, and shining buckles on
their shoes and knee bands. The Rev. Mr. Moody preached a sermon to them
after he had offered a long prayer. Then the gentlemen voted to write a
letter to the General Court of Massachusetts. Sam Cutt told me all about
it. He had asked his father what had happened there. And, uncle, in this
letter they thanked the Court for the care and kindness given us while we
were under its rule. They explained that we did not seek this change. It
was only because it was the King's wish that we were willing to accept
the plan. Then they begged the Court for the benefit of its prayers and
blessing in this separation. Sam said that it was all very solemn.
Uncle," David continued, after a pause, "I kept feeling all day long,
'This is my New Hampshire!'"
THE BOWL OF BROTH
One September day Mrs. Elizabeth Heard opened the door of her house on
the Cocheco River, in Dover, and first looking cautiously about, a habit
bred by fear of lurking Indians, stepped out with a bowl of hot broth,
which she was about to carry to a neighbor who was ill.
The Heard house was a garrison with a protecting wall built about it, the
gate of which, Mrs. Heard at this moment noticed had been carelessly left
open. A few months of peaceful living had caused the younger members of
the family to grow careless of the once needed caution. Now about to pass
through this gateway the quick movement of a shadow beyond the well,
caught her eye. Bravely approaching the spot, she discovered, crouching
there, a young Indian whose face instantly told more of fear than of
daring. Instinctively her mother-heart felt sorry for him, and she
offered him the bowl of hot broth. He drank it eagerly and then begged
her to hide him. Without a moment's hesitation, she led him to the garret
of her house and there in a corner concealed him under a pile of
blankets. It was fortunate for her scheme that her family of ten, five
boys and five girls, was off on a fishing trip.
Later, on their return, they brought the news of a large capture of
Indians made in the town that day. Mrs. Heard said nothing of the one
then hidden under their own roof.
After the children had been tucked into bed, and she had made the rounds
of the rooms to be sure that all were sleeping, she crept to the garret
and signaled to the Indian that his moment of escape had come.
Noiselessly and swiftly he made his way out.
Some thirteen years passed, and the children of the Heard family were
well grown. One June day in 1689, Mrs. Heard, three of her sons, a
daughter and some friends, had taken a river trip to Portsmouth and were
returning by night. As they approached Dover, where their home still
stood, they heard many unusual sounds.
"I fear the Indians may be in the town, Benjamin," remarked Mrs. Heard to
her oldest son, with some alarm.
"Perhaps," replied Benjamin, "we had better go right to the Waldron's
garrison, since it is so near. I see lights there."
The party, filled with fear, hastened to the house suggested and knocked
at the outer gate.
"Let us in!" they pleaded. No answer, however, came from the home within.
Benjamin then climbed the wall and looked over the top. To his horror, he
saw an Indian, armed with a gun, standing in the open doorway of the
house. Benjamin had not been seen, and the confusion within had drowned
the cries outside. Jumping down, he started his party with utmost speed
to their own garrison house. They had not gone far, before, to his
dismay, he realized that his mother was not with them.
[Illustration]
He returned to the scene of their peril to find his mother, exhausted by
fright, still at the gate. She was lying there unable to move.
"Go," she implored him in a whisper, "and help the others to safety! I
will come as soon as my strength returns." At that moment a cry of fear
from the others, and his mother's last urgent appeal drove Benjamin to
their rescue while his brave mother was left to her fate.
Recovering a little, Mrs. Heard crept to some protecting bushes where she
lay until daylight, when the gate opened, and an Indian with a pistol
approached her. He paused and looked at her very hard. Silently he left
but returned immediately, for another keen look. This time, his grim
savage face still unmoved, he grunted--
"Good squaw kept Indian boy safe! Indian no forget!" Then he ran yelling
to the house, with some word for his friends who seemed to be there in
numbers.