burned to the ground, and the Indians had gone, could Mrs. Heard gather
strength enough to move. She feared the same sad end for her own home,
but, to her surprise, she found it standing unharmed. Surely she had
received her blessing for the bowl of broth and aid to the Indian lad,
for her family and the friends, who had succeeded in reaching the house,
reported that they had been free from attack through the horrors of that
night, which were long remembered by the people of Dover.
THOMAS TOOGOOD OUTWITS AN INDIAN
An Incident of 1690.
"There, you clumsy thing, you've stepped in the cat's saucer and spilled
the milk. Be gone from here," and the crabbed old aunt, who kept house
for the Toogoods, switched her broom after Tom as he moved good-naturedly
out the back door.
Thomas Toogood was overgrown, and awkward, and seemed always to be doing
the wrong thing. He now sauntered out to the shed, where his father was
feeding the cows and his sister tossing grain to the hens.
"Tom," said his father, pointing to a gun in the corner, "I traded some
corn for a gun for you, in Dover yesterday. They say that wild ducks are
now found on the Cocheco. Thought you might like to try for them."
Tom picked up the gun, looked it over, and said, "All right," but the
look of pleasure on his face told that it was the first gun he had ever
owned.
"Now that you have a gun," spoke up his sister joyfully, "you can take me
to the quilting party in Dover, next week. All our friends are to be
there."
Tom had reasons of his own for wishing to attend that gathering, but he
was especially pleased to be considered manly enough to play the part of
escort. Though Dover was but a few miles away, it was never safe to take
even that trip without a gun for protection.
With his father's suggestion of ducks in mind, Thomas picked up his new
gun and whistled his way along the path to the river, where he kept his
canoe. As he pushed his bark into the stream, he thought that he might
now appease his aunt's anger by a brace of fine ducks for dinner.
Two hours later poor Tom, dripping wet, with one small bird in his hand,
faced the assembled family in the home kitchen.
"Where is your gun?" asked his father immediately.
"At the bottom of the river," replied the boy. "I was reaching for my
duck, and the canoe upset."
"Oh, Tom, you'd upset a sailing vessel if you stepped on it!" came from
his sister. "Now you can't take me to the quilting party. It is just too
bad!"
"You go over to neighbor Roger's and chop his wood," ordered Tom's father
with disgust in his tone. "I told him one of us would do it, for he is
bad in his limbs."
After changing his clothes, Tom started off to the Roger's home, a good
two miles through the woods. The family attitude had dampened his usual
good spirits, and his sister's words had stung. An afternoon's work of
wood splitting brought cheer, at least to the forlorn neighbors, and Tom
started home again whistling.
It was a bad habit, in those days, to make one's presence known in the
woods, and in this case Tom's whistling proved most serious, for
suddenly, he realized that three dusky figures were creeping up the hill
slope behind him. Quick as could be, he bounded up the crest of the hill
and over the other side; but quite as quickly came one of the three
Indians in hot pursuit. The other two, confident of their companion's
speed, waited below for him to return with his prisoner.
Tom was too heavy to run far, and soon the Indian had him in his ugly
clutch.
"Name?" asked the Indian, taking Tom by the shoulders.
"Thomas Toogood," was the boy's frightened reply.
"Ugh!" grunted the Indian. Then, appreciating Tom's clumsiness, the
Indian loosened his grasp for a moment to straighten some cords with
which to bind his captive. As the red man stooped with gun under his arm,
for an instant he turned his back. Tom, for once in his life not slow, in
a flash seized the gun and aimed it at the Indian.
"You shout for help, and I'll shoot," he cried, backing away, and then
with more dexterity than hitherto seemed possible, Tom continued to back
with gun still pointed at the Indian, who muttered, "Tom no good, no
good!"
Once out of momentary danger, before the Indian could signal to the
others, Tom had plunged into the thicket and taken a short cut home. He
was again in possession of a gun, and he had met an adventure which must
command the respect of the family and prove to his sister his worth as an
escort.
THE ESCAPE
"This, my little Dick, is a fine holiday for us," exclaimed Mrs. Waldron
as she lifted her baby from his hooded crib. "Your father has promised an
outing, and you shall go with us to the farm far up the river. Some day,
my little boy, you shall gather the strawberries there yourself, and play
in the hay, and hunt for eggs."
As she tossed her baby while she chatted, he seemed to be caught in
mid-air by the tall soldierly gentleman who had entered. After a moment
of play, Mrs. Waldron turned soberly to her husband.
"Now, Richard, will you use every argument possible to persuade Madam
Ursula Cutt to return with us to Portsmouth? The French have so stirred
the Indians in the East that it is not safe for her to remain on that
remote farm."
"She has insisted," protested Col. Waldron, "that the haying must be done
first. Until the crop is safely stored, it will be hard to start her.
However, the weather has been warm and dry, so it may even now be done.
Our boat is ready, can you go soon?"
It was a wonderful July day in 1694. Mrs. Waldron followed her husband
down the garden slope to the sparkling river and had already passed
little Dick into his arms while she stepped into the boat. A servant,
hurrying over the arbored path, announced--
"Your friends from the Manor have arrived and are waiting to see you."
"Oh, Richard," came in disappointed tones from Mrs. Waldron, "we cannot
take our trip. They have come so far we must offer them at least a day's
hospitality."
Regretfully they turned and cordially received their guests. The plans
for entertainment crowded out all thought of the river trip and a day on
the farm.
The farm two miles up the river belonged to Madam Ursula Cutt. It was a
busy place, while the Waldrons were detained at home that July morning.
Madam Cutt was over-seeing her household affairs as well as keeping a
watchful eye on the hay-makers at work in the field. The maid at the
washtub remarked, as her mistress stepped to the door with basket and
scissors to gather flowers.
"Dover has felt the fury of the Indians. They may yet come down the
river!"
"It may be well for us to move into town as soon as the haying is done,"
Madam Cutt replied, and passed on to the garden.
The maid rinsed the white linen and lifting a basketful stepped out to
spread it on the grass to dry. With the awful fear of Indians still on
her mind, she peered through the trees to the river, half expecting to
see the dreaded creatures bounding up the bank.
The clothes were spread on the green when her piercing gaze caught a
strange movement of the water. A second look discerned the curve of a
canoe. Madam Cutt was off in the flower garden. The hay-makers were in
the fields. There was scarcely a moment in which to find shelter. Darting
into the grape arbor, the maid then crept behind bushes and through uncut
grass to the river slope around the bend. At last she was hidden from the
farm-site. On she sped with all haste toward the town. There was a gap of
water to be crossed. She found a boat and pulled at the oars in the
direction of Portsmouth.
While the Waldrons and their guests in the Portsmouth home were gaily
chatting at the table, cries of "The Indians! The Indians!" were shrieked
through the hall, and the terrified girl in working clothes rushed in
exhausted.
As soon as she recovered her voice, she poured forth brokenly, "The
Indians--I ran--They didn't see me!"
"But Madam Cutt, where is she?" asked Col. Waldron.
"She was in the garden! She must be killed! There was no time! I hid in
the bushes, crept over the meadow, and ran to the point, where I found a
boat!"
Col. Waldron ordered his horse and in a short time had gathered a force
and hastened to the farm. It was all too true. The Indians had made
their attack. Madam Ursula Cutt had been killed and robbed of her jewels.
The three hay-makers had been shot, and their scalps taken for trophies.
But little Dick, who might have been there, was safely rocked in his own
cradle that night and saved to become Secretary Waldron, an important man
in New Hampshire history.
THE DEFENSE AT OYSTER RIVER
Thomas Bickford viewed with satisfaction his house and fortress now
complete. Building in 1694 was attended with many difficulties, as John
and William, his sons, well knew, for they had helped.
"Boys, you've worked well. A holiday for you tomorrow," promised their
father.
Early the following morning the boys started off on an exploring tour,
for they had but recently come to the Oyster River shores, several miles
north of Portsmouth where they had lived with their grandmother.
The river had much to interest the boys. At night they returned home
filled with excitement over the large hollow oak they had found almost a
mile below.
"It was just like a house, father. We planned the rooms and played there
all day."
"And saw no Indians?" their father inquired with some anxiety.
"Yes, on the opposite bank we saw several creeping up the river, but we
had a fine hiding place."
The boys little knew that on that 17th day of July, some two hundred
Indians were stealing cautiously up the Oyster River, on both sides, to
the Upper Settlement. Their plan was to divide into small groups and
attack each house at sunrise, the next morning. A single shot was to be
the signal.
On the following day by some mistake the shot was given before the
Indians were ready.
"What does that mean?" exclaimed Thomas Bickford, who from his home had
heard the crack of a gun far up the river on that early morning of July
18th. Instantly he recalled the stealthy Indians that the boys had seen
the previous day, and he sensed immediate danger.
"Quick!" he called to his wife and boys. "Run to the boat! I believe the
Indians are afoot!"
Hurrying into their clothes, they rushed to the river and jumped into the
boat. Bickford passed them the oars.
"Down the stream," he pointed, "and get around the bend as soon as you
can! The savages are up the river!"
"You are not coming?" they asked in alarm as he remained on shore.
"No, that house is not to be lost, if I can save it!"
There was no time for argument. He pushed the boat into the stream and
darted back to the house, bolting the gates of the palisade and then the
door as he entered. He grabbed his gun and placed his bullets and
powder-horn in readiness. He then dashed upstairs quickly returning with
an armful of clothing, which he spread out upon chairs and tables. At
that moment the shots of the Indians struck the house.
A horrible fear for the safety of his family brought a shudder to Thomas
Bickford, yet, though alone in the house, he bravely began its defense.
"Steady there, shoot!" he shouted as if he had a house full of men to
command. He then pulled on an old red soldier's coat and flashed past the
window in view of the Indians peering through the chinks outside the
palisade. With another loud command and a remark in a different tone of
voice, Bickford tore off the coat, pulled on a fur hat, and came again to
view at the window. This he continued to do with frequent changes of
costume and constant shooting and shouting until the Indians lost courage
and fled for safety fearing an armed band would soon rush out upon them.
Their flight brought but a moment of relief. The house, perhaps, was
safe, but what of the family?
Not until late in the day did Thomas Bickford dare start forth in search
of them. He crept along the shore in the dusk, fearing each moment the
shot of some lurking Indian. On and on he went, yet he found no trace of
his people. At last he came upon the hollow oak that the boys had
described as their playhouse. Here he paused, for a sound came from
within.
"Can that be a hiding place of the savages?" he asked himself in alarm
and quickly turned his course. Suddenly there came from the oak a stifled
whisper, "Father!"
The family had but just escaped the sight of the Indians that morning,
and here in the hollow tree they had crouched in fear all the long day.
Now, startled lest the sound they heard outside was the tread of a
redman, the boys peeped through a knothole and saw their father.
To find each other was joy enough for one moment. The next brought the
whisper:
"Is the house saved?"
After dark all crept cautiously out to the hidden boat, and later in the
shelter of their home they listened breathlessly to the story of its
wonderful defense.
THE ATTACK AT THE PLAINS
"Scamper! The raindrops will get there before you!" Mrs. Jackson
scattered her children like a flock of chickens to the green to gather up
the whitened linen which had been spread to dry on that long remembered
June day of 1696.
"There, Samuel, do stop that nonsense, for the rain will soon be here!"
she laughed in spite of herself, as the round freckled face of her boy on
hands and knees appeared with a grin from beneath a sheet.
The laughter of all three children increased when the cows and sheep, in
mid-afternoon, came hurrying to the barns, as if they, too, were afraid
of a sprinkle.
Mrs. Jackson gave a troubled glance skyward at the on-coming storm and
then at the trembling cattle, which had doubtless been frightened by
something worse.
Samuel, Betsey, and Peggy had glorious romp together after supper, but
neither father, nor mother, nor even Uncle Jack, could be persuaded to
tell them a bedtime story, for something seemed to trouble them all. The
children went early to bed. Betsey whispered, as they climbed to the
feathers, "I heard father say that we'd stay here one more night. Do you
suppose the Indians are coming?"
However, not even the dreaded word, Indian nor the booming of the thunder
storm outside could keep those sleepy eyes open.
Downstairs the older members of the family and several neighbors gathered
about the wide fireplace, glad of the warmth that chilly June night. With
sober faces they discussed the rumors of terrible deeds the Indians had
committed in Dover, a few miles up the river.
"Some are lurking about us," declared Mr. Jackson, "for no storm would so
frighten the cattle. 'Tis not the first time they have come home bruised
and bleeding."
"Tomorrow night," added his brother, "the settlers here at the Plains
must go to the garrison house for safety. An attack may come at any
moment."
Little Samuel was the first to open his eyes the following morning,
thinking it a glorious sunshine that gave such a brilliant light outside.
Suddenly a snap and a crackle brought him to his feet. He found the barn
ablaze. A war-whoop from the Indians then aroused the household.
While father and Uncle Jack armed themselves with such implements as they
had at hand, mother gathered the children together to go with her to the
garrison house. About to leave the house she missed her wallet, which she
had left, and ran upstairs to get it. She came down to find the children
gone.
"Perhaps they have started ahead," she thought, and hurried out.
The children, left alone for a moment, frightened and bewildered had run
out the front door, for at the back of the house were the Indians,
yelling and shrieking. Samuel had crawled into a familiar hiding place
under the cinnamon rose bushes, while Betsey and Peggy had hidden beneath
the low branches of the lilac, so completely concealed that they did not
even see their mother come out of the same door a moment later.
Here the children remained until the barns were smouldering ashes, and
the Indians had fled. Samuel was the first to creep from his hiding-place
and dash to the side of his father, whom he saw at the front door. Betsey
and Peggy followed, calling, "Where's mother?"
"Is she not with you?" asked their surprised father, grasping his
children by the hands in his thankfulness to find them alive, for the
Indians had left a desolated spot.
"Here comes Uncle Jack from the garrison house. He will tell us where
mother is," cried Peggy hopefully. They all hastened to meet him, only to
learn that their mother had not been seen since she left home.
"Did the Indians carry her off?" cried little Samuel, choking back a sob.
Betsey relieved that awful thought by exclaiming, "Here comes Captain
Shackford with his soldiers. They will find her."
The little group gathered about the sturdy Captain, who had been summoned
from the Bank, two miles away. With his militia, he had reached the
Plains too late to meet the Indians. Seeing the destruction they had
caused, he inquired in which direction they had fled and started in
pursuit.
"Bring back my mother!" pleaded little Samuel, running after the captain,
who nodded doubtfully.
It was soon learned that four people were missing from this little group
of settlers; several were injured and many had been killed. Nine barns
and five dwellings had been burned.
"We have a house left to us," sighed Peggy, "but what is that without
mother?"
There was no time, however, for even the children to mourn their loss; so
many things were needed from their home for those without homes, that
they were kept busy for several hours carrying pillows, blankets, and
other things of comfort to the injured ones.
Suddenly little Samuel cried, "Here comes Captain Shackford back again,"
for the Captain was then emerging from the woods across the clearing with
his militia carrying kettles, lanterns, blankets, and other things the
Indians had taken as plunder.
"Oh!" cried Betsey with joy, straining her gaze for a moment. "Mother is
with them!"
The children dashed across the Plains, in wild delight to escort their
mother home. Her friends gathered about and with the children still
clinging to her heard how the Captain had seen a feathery blue smoke some
four miles from the Plains and, approaching it, had found that the
Indians were cooking their breakfast behind the protection of their
captives, who were tied to the trees. The soldiers suddenly rushed upon
the Indians, who escaped. However, the plunder and, best of all, the four
prisoners were safely brought back.
Since then many a bedtime story by the hearth-fire has been told of that
spot, which to this day is known as Breakfast Hill.
THE STRAWBERRY FIELDS OF EXETER
On a June afternoon in 1697, the silent forests about the little village
of Exeter felt an almost imperceptible stir of life, for through it there
stealthily crept an Indian chief, followed by one and then another of his
frightful band. Each dressed in tawny skins like the creatures of the
wood and with adornment of feathers from the very birds, they seemed but
a part of the forest life. No smoke of the camp fire floated through the
green boughs, for in utmost secrecy these Indians took concealed
positions to spring, in the early morning, upon the unguarded inhabitants
of the town before they were astir.
Now it happened on that same afternoon while the sun shone alluringly
upon the open fields, Patience Nutter dropped her wearisome patchwork and
looked out of the window. A speck of red in the grass outside the house
caught her attention. Her stint was not finished by several squares, yet
the temptation of that strawberry was too great. Laying aside her work,
she stepped out and popped the luscious red berry into her mouth. Beyond
it she found a cluster of berries ripe and juicy. Step by step she was
led into the open field fairly riotous in its growth of nodding red
strawberries. It seemed as if she could not pick them fast enough.
"Patience!" came a call from the house. The little girl turned to see her
mother in the doorway, holding up the unfinished piece of patchwork.
Reluctantly she returned.
"Mother," she cried, as she entered the house, "will you go with me for
some berries after I have finished my sewing? The field is full of them."
"Yes, child, we need some for supper. While you are sewing, I will step
into Mrs. Wiggin's, for she will be glad to know that the berries are
fully ripe."
Mrs. Nutter's news of the berries was of interest to Mrs. Wiggin and her
daughters, who picked up their baskets to start for the field at once.
Anthony Wiggin, who was sorting his papers at his desk, shook his head
with the warning:
"It is a great risk you run to go into that open field without a guard.
Indians may even now be prowling about the woods."
Nevertheless the women started off for the strawberries. Little Patience,
with the strip of patchwork dangling from her pocket, joined them so
quickly that one could almost believe some large stitches had been taken
on that last square.
When Anthony Wiggin had finished his work and each paper had been placed
in its proper pigeon hole, he closed his desk.
"Hm," he muttered, glancing from the window at the women and children in
the field, "they do not sense the danger we constantly live in, now that
the French have stirred up the Indians. I believe I will frighten them
with a shot, just as a warning."
[Illustration]
He picked up his gun from the corner where it was kept in constant
readiness and, stepping to the door, sent a bullet over the heads of the
strawberry pickers, whizzing into the woods beyond.
Baskets and berries were dropped by the pickers in their fright and haste
to get home, for their fears had been aroused by the words of Anthony
Wiggin before they left the house. Patience, who had not sensed a
possible danger, had wandered near to the woods where the berries were
more abundant. Even after the sound of the gun, she lingered for a few
more strawberries.
The shot acted like magic upon the inhabitants of Exeter, who took it for
an alarm of danger. Men dropped plough or rein and seized their guns.
Women followed with powder-horns and bullets. In less time than one could
believe, an armed body was in the village centre ready to protect their
homes.
That gun-shot carried its force still farther, for there in the woods
beyond the strawberry field lay the Indians in ambush.
"We are discovered," reported their leader. The savages then bounded into
the open to make their attack, only to find themselves faced by an armed
body of men. Firing a few shots, the Indians then made a hasty retreat.
One, however, seeing Patience running for home and yet not halfway
across the field, dashed after her, caught the child in his arms, and
followed the retreating band.
"Patience! Patience!" shrieked her mother. "She is captured! Oh, save
her!" and the woman turned imploringly to her townsmen.
They started in an almost hopeless pursuit, for the speed of an Indian in
the woods is hard to cope with. Some dropped out of the chase, but the
swiftest and more persistent men kept at it, Anthony Wiggin in the lead.
Hours of agonizing horror then passed for Patience's mother as she
pictured her own little girl in the cruel clutches of the savages. She
could feel no possible hope of rescue.
In the meantime the men continued a long and wearying chase, when
suddenly a distant glimpse of an Indian was seen through the clearing.
Anthony Wiggin, still ahead, sent a shot and soon after came upon little
Patience alone in the woods.
It seems the Indians had stopped to parley, and when they renewed their
flight, Patience had been picked up by the last savage in the line. As he
roughly seized her, she caught at the patchwork dropping from her pocket
and found her needle still in it. Her indignation had by this time risen
beyond her fear. Quickly she thrust the needle so far into the Indian's
neck that he instinctively dropped the child to pull it out. She ran back
over the path they had followed, just as Wiggin's shot was heard. The
Indian ran for his life.
As the full rising moon outlined the forest-tops to the people of Exeter,
a triumphant shout came from the woods, and Patience, proudly shouldered
by Anthony Wiggin, was placed in her mother's arms.