[Illustration: 9188]
ES, this 'ere's Tekawampait's grave,” said Sam Lawson, sitting leisurely
down on an ancient grass-grown mound, ornamented by a mossy black
slate-stone slab, with a rudely-carved cherub head and wings on top.
“And who was Tekawampait?”
“I wanter know, now, if your granny hain't told you who Tekawampait
was?” said Sam, pushing back his torn straw hat, and leaning against the
old slanting gravestone.
“No, she never told us.”
“Wal, ye see, Tekawampait he was the fust Christian Indian minister o'
the gospel there was in Old-town. He was a full-blooded Indian, but he
was as good a Christian as there was goin'; and he was settled here over
the church in Oldtown afore Parson Peabody; and Parson Peabody he come
afore Parson Lothrop; and a very good minister Teka-wampait was too.
Folks hes said that there couldn't nothin' be made o' Indians; that they
was nothin' but sort o' bears and tigers a walkin' round on their hind
legs, a seekin' whom they might devour; but Parson Eliot he didn't think
so. 'Christ died for them as wal as for me,' says he; 'and jest give
'em the gospel,' says he, 'and the rest 'll come along o' itself.' And so
he come here to Oldtown, and sot up a sort o' log-hut right on the spot
where the old Cap'n Brown house is now. Them two great elm-trees that's
a grown now each side o' the front gate was two little switches then,
that two Indians brought up over their shoulders, and planted there for
friendship trees, as they called 'em; and now look what trees they
be! He used to stand under that 'are big oak there, and preach to the
Indians, long before there was any meetin'-house to speak in here in
Oldtown.
“Wal, now, I tell you, it took putty good courage in Parson Eliot to do
that 'are. I tell you, in them days it took putty consid'able faith to
see any thing in an Indian but jest a wild beast. Folks can't tell
by seein' on 'em now days what they was in the old times when all the
settlements was new, and the Indians was stark, starin' wild, a ravin'
and tarin' round in the woods, and a fightin' each other and a fightin'
the white folks. Lordy massy! the stories I've heard women tell in their
chimbley-corners about the things that used to happen when they was
little was enough to scare the very life out o' ye.”
“Oh, do, do tell us some of them!” said Henry and I.
“Lordy massy, boys: why, ye wouldn't sleep for a week. Why, ye don't
know. Why, the Indians in them days wa'n't like no critter ye ever did
see. They was jest the horridest, paintedest, screeehinest, cussedest
critters you ever heard on. They was jest as artful as sarpents, and
crueller than any tigers. Good Dr. Cotton Mather calls 'em divils, and
he was a meek, good man, Dr. Cotton was; but they cut up so in his days,
it's no wonder he thought they was divils, and not folks. Why, they kep'
the whole country in a broil for years and years. Nobody knowed when
they was safe; for they were so sly and cunnin', and always watchin'
behind fences and bushes, and ready when a body was a least thinkin'
on't to be down on 'em. I've heard Abiel Jones tell how his father's
house was burnt down at the time the Indians burnt Deerfield. About
every house in the settlement was burnt to the ground; and then another
time they burnt thirty-two houses in Springfield,--the minister's house
and all, with all his library (and books was sca'ce in them days);
but the Indians made a clean sweep on't. They burnt all the houses in
Wendham down to the ground; and they came down in Lancaster, and burnt
ever so many houses, and carried off forty or fifty people with 'em into
the woods.
“There was Mr. Rolandson, the minister, they burnt his house, and
carried off Mis' Rolandson and all the children. There was Jerushy
Pierce used to work in his family and do washin' and chores, she's told
me about it. Jerushy she was away to her uncle's that night, so she
wa'n't took. Ye see, the Lancaster folks had been afeard the Indians'd
be down on 'em, and so Parson Rolandson he'd gone on to Boston to get
help for 'em; and when he come back the mischief was all done. Jerushy
said in all her life she never see nothin' so pitiful as that 'are poor
man's face when she met him, jest as he come to the place where the
house stood. At fust he didn't say a word, she said, but he looked kind
o' dazed. Then he sort o' put his hand to his forehead, and says he,
'My God, my God, help me!' Then he tried to ask her about it, but he
couldn't but jest speak. 'Jerushy,' says he, 'can't you tell me,--where
be they?' 'Wal,' says Jerushy, 'they've been carried off.' And with
that he fell right down and moaned and groaned. 'Oh!' says he, I'd rather
heard that they were at peace with the Lord.' And then he'd wring his
hands: 'What shall I do? What shall I do?'
“Wal, 'twa'n't long after this that the Indians was down on Medford, and
burnt half the houses in town, and killed fifty or sixty people there.
Then they came down on Northampton, but got driv' back; but then they
burnt up five houses, and killed four or five of the folks afore they
got the better of 'em there. Then they burnt all the houses in Groton,
meetin'-house and all; and the pisen critters they hollared and
triumphed over the people, and called out to 'em, 'What will you do for
a house to pray in now? we've burnt your meetin'-house.' The fightin'
was goin' on all over the country at the same time. The Indians set
Marlborough afire, and it was all blazin' at once, the same day that
some others of 'em was down on Springfield, and the same day Cap'n
Pierce, with forty-nine white men and twenty-six Christian Indians, got
drawn into an ambush, and every one of 'em killed. Then a few days after
this they burnt forty houses at Rehoboth, and a little while after they
burnt thirty more at Providence. And then when good Cap'n Wadsworth went
with seventy men to help the people in Sudbury, the Indians came pourin'
round 'em in the woods like so many wolves, and killed all but four or
five on 'em; and those poor fellows had better hev been killed, for the
cruel critters jest tormented 'em to death, and mocked and jeered at
their screeches and screams like so many divils. Then they went and
broke loose on Andover; and they was so cruel they couldn't even let the
dumb critters alone. They cut out the tongues of oxen and cows, and left
'em bleedin', and some they fastened up in barns and burnt alive. There
wa'n't no sort o' diviltry they wa'n't up to. Why, it got to be so in
them days that folks couldn't go to bed in peace without startin' every
time they turned over for fear o' the Indians. Ef they heard a noise in
the night, or ef the wind squealed and howled, as the wind will, they'd
think sure enough there was that horrid yell a comin' down chimbley.
“There was Delily Severence; she says to me, speakin' about them times,
says she, 'Why, Mr. Lawson, you've no idee! Why, that 'are screech,'
says she, 'wa'n't like no other noise in heaven above, or earth beneath,
or water under the earth,' says she. 'When it started ye out o' bed
between two or three o'clock in the mornin', and all your children
a cryin', and the Indians a screechin' and yellin' and a tossin' up
firebrands, fust at one window and then at another, why,' says she, 'Mr.
Lawson, it was more like hell upon earth than any thing I ever heard
on.'
“Ye see, they come down on Delily's house when she was but jest up arter
her third baby. That 'are woman hed a handsome head o' hair as ever
ye see, black as a crow's wing; and it turned jest as white as a
table-cloth, with nothin' but the fright o' that night.”
“What did they do with her?”
“Oh! they took her and her poor little gal and boy, that wa'n't no older
than you be, and went off with 'em to Canada. The troubles them poor
critters went through! Her husband he was away that night; and well he
was, else they'd a tied him to a tree and stuck pine slivers into him
and sot 'em afire, and cut gret pieces out'o his flesh, and filled the
places with hot coals and ashes, and all sich kind o' things they did to
them men prisoners, when they catched 'em. Delily was thankful enough
he was away; but they took her and the children off through the ice
and snow, jest half clothed and shiverin'; and when her baby cried
and worried, as it nat'rally would, the old Indian jest took it by its
heels, and dashed its brains out agin a tree, and threw it into the
crotch of a tree, and left it dangling there; and then they would mock
and laugh at her, and mimic her baby's crying, and try every way they
could to aggravate her. They used to beat and torment her children right
before her eyes, and pull their hair out, and make believe that they
was goin' to burn 'em alive, jest for nothin' but to frighten and worry
her.”
“I wonder,” said I, “she ever got back alive.”
“Wal, the wimmen in them times hed a sight o' wear in 'em. They was
resolute, strong, hard-workin' wimmen. They could all tackle a hoss,
or load and fire a gun. They was brought up hard, and they was used to
troubles and dangers. It's jest as folks gets used to things how they
takes 'em. In them days folks was brought up to spect trouble; they
didn't look for no less. Why, in them days the men allers took their
guns into the field when they went to hoe corn, and took their guns with
'em to meetin' Sundays; and the wimmen they kep' a gun loaded where
they knew where to find it; and when trouble come it was jest what they
spected, and they was put even with it. That's the sort o' wimmen they
was. Wal, Delily and her children was brought safe through at last, but
they hed a hard time on't.”
“Tell us some more stories about Indians, Sam,” we said, with the usual
hungry impatience of boys for a story.
“Wal, let me see,” said Sam, with his hat pushed back and his eyes fixed
dreamily on the top of Eliot's oak, which was now yellow with the sunset
glory,--“let me see. I hain't never told ye about Col. Eph Miller, hev
I?”
“No, indeed. What about him?”
“Wal, he was took prisoner by the Indians; and they was goin' to roast
him alive arter their fashion, and he gin 'em the slip.”
“Do tell us all about it.”
“Wal, you see, Deliverance Scranton over to Sherburne, she's Col. Eph's
daughter; and she used to hear her father tell about that, and she's
told me time and agin about it. It was this way,--You see, there hedn't
ben no alarm about Indians for some time, and folks hed got to feelin'
kind o' easy, as folks will. When there don't nothin' happen for a good
while, and it keeps a goin' on so, why, you think finally there won't
nothin' happen; and so it was with Col. Eph and his wife. She told
Deliverance that the day before she reely hed forgot all about that
there was any Indians in the country; and she'd been out after spruce
and wintergreen and hemlock, and got over her brass kettle to bile for
beer; and the child'n they brought in lots o' wild grapes that they
gathered out in the woods; and they said when they came home that they
thought they see an Indian a lyin' all along squirmin' through the
bushes, and peekin' out at 'em like a snake, but they wa'n't quite sure.
Faith, the oldest gal, she was sure she see him quite plain; but 'Bijah
(he was Col. Eph's oldest boy) he wa'n't so sure.
“Anyway, they didn't think no more about it, and that night they hed
prayers and went off to bed.
“Arterwards, Col. Eph he said he remembered the passage o' Scriptur' he
read that night; it was, 'The race is not to the swift nor the battle
to the strong.' He didn't notice it much when he read it; but he allers
spoke of it arterwards as a remarkable providence that that 'are passage
should have come jest so that night.
“Wal, atween twelve and one o'clock they was waked up by the most awful
screechin' that ever you heard, as if twenty thousand devils was
upon 'em. Mis' Miller she was out o' bed in a minit, all standin'. 'O
husband, husband, the Indians are on us!' says she; and sure enough
they was. The children, 'Bijah and Faith come a runnin' in. 'O father,
father! what shall we do?'
“Col. Eph was a man that allers knew in a minit what to do, and he kep'
quite cool. 'My dear,' says he to his wife, 'you take the children, and
jest run with 'em right out the buttery-door through the high corn, and
run as fast as you can over to your father Stebbins', and tell him to
rouse the town; and Bije,' says he to the boy, 'you jest get into the
belfry window, and ring the bell with all your might,' says he. 'And
I 'll stay and fight 'em off till the folks come.'
“All this while the Indians was a yellin' and screechin' and a wavin'
fire-brands front of the house. Col. Eph he stood a lookin' through a
hole in the shutter and a sightin' his gun while he was a talkin'. He
see that they'd been a pilin' up a great pile o' dry wood agin the door.
But the fust Indian that came up to put fire to't was shot right down
while he was a speakin'.
“Wal, Mis' Miller and Faith and Bije wa'n't long a dressin', you may
believe; and they jest put on dark cloaks, and they jest streaked it
out through the buttery-door! There was thick pole-beans quite up to the
buttery-door, and then a field o' high corn, so that they was hid, and
the way they run wasn't slow, I tell you.
“But Col. Eph he hed to stop so to load that they got the pile o' brush
afire, though he shot down three or four on 'em, and that was some
comfort. But the long and the short o' the matter was, that they driv
the door in at last, and came a whoopin' and yellin' into the house.
“Wal, they took Col. Eph, and then went search-in' round to find
somebody else; but jest then the meetin'-house bell begun to ring, and
that scart 'em, and they took Col. Eph and made off with him. He hedn't
but jest time to get into his clothes and get his shoes on, when they
hurried him off. They didn't do nothin' to him jest then, you see, these
Indians was so cur'ous. If a man made a good fight, and killed three or
four on 'em afore they could take him, they sot great store by him, and
called him a brave man. And so they was 'mazin' careful of Col. Eph, and
treated him quite polite for Indians; but he knew the ways on 'em well
enough to know what it was all for. They wanted a real brave man to
burn alive and stick slivers into and torment, and Col. Eph was jest the
pattern for 'em, and his fight-in' so brave made him all the better for
what they wanted.
“Wal, he was in hopes the town would be roused in time for some of 'em
to come arter him; but the Indians got the start of 'em, and got 'way
off in the woods afore people hed fairly come together and found out
what the matter was. There was Col. Eph's house a blazin' and a lightin'
up all the country for miles round; and the colonel he said it come
ruther hard on him to be lighted on his way through the woods by such a
bonfire.
“Wal, by mornin' they come to one o' their camps, and there they hed
a great rejoicin' over him. They was going to hev a great feast, and
a good time a burnin' on him; and they tied him to a tree, and sot an
Indian to watch him while they went out to cut pine knots and slivers to
do him with.
“Wal, as I said, Col. Eph was a brave man, and a man that always kep'
his thoughts about him; and so he kep' a workin' and a workin' with the
withs that was round his hands, and a prayin' in his heart to the Lord,
till he got his right hand free. Wal, he didn't make no move, but kep'
a loosenin' and a loosenin' little by little, keepin' his eye on the
Indian who sot there on the ground by him.
“Now, Col. Eph hed slipped his feet into his Sunday shoes that stood
there by the bed and hed great silver shoe-buckles; and there was a
providence in his doin' so, for, ye see, Indians are 'mazin' fond o'
shiny things.
[Illustration: 0203]
“And the old Indian he was took with the shine o' these shoe-buckles, and
he thought he might as well hev 'em as anybody; so he jest laid down his
tommyhawk, and got down on his knees, and was workin' away as earnest
as could be to get off the buckles, and Col. Eph he jest made a dart
forward and picked up the tommyhawk, and split open the Indian's skull
with one blow: then he cut the withs that was round his legs, and in a
minute he was off on the run with the tommyhawk in his hand. There was
three Indians give chase to him, but Col. Eph he kep' ahead of 'em. He
said while he was a runnin' he was cryin,' and callin' on the Lord with
all his might, and the words come into his mind he read at prayers
the night afore, 'The race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the
strong.'
“At last he see the Indians gained on him; and he faced round suddenly,
and struck the nighest one smack on the head with his tommyhawk. Then
when the next one come up he cut him down too; and the third one, when
he see both the others cut down, and Col. Eph comin' full blaze towards
him with his tommyhawk a swingin', he jest turned and run for dear life.
Then Col. Eph he turned and cut for the settlement. He run, and he run,
and he run, he didn't well know how long, till, finally, he was clear
tuckered out, and he jest dropped down under a tree and slept; and he
lay there all the rest of that day, and all night, and never woke till
the next day about sundown.
“Then he woke up, and found he was close by home, and John Stebbins, his
wife's father, and a whole party, was out lookin' for him.
“Old Col. Eph used to tell the story as long as he lived, and the tears
used to run down his cheeks when he told it.
“'There's a providence in every thing,' he used to say, 'even down to
shoe-buckles. Ef my Sunday shoes hadn't happened to 'a' set there so
I could 'a' slipped into 'em, I couldn't 'a' killed that Indian, and I
shouldn't 'a' been here to-day.' Wal, boys, he was in the right on't.
Some seem to think the Lord don't look out only for gret things, but, ye
see, little things is kind o' hinges that gret ones turns on. They say,
take care o' pennies, and dollars 'll take care o' themselves. It's jest
so in every thing; and, ef the Lord don't look arter little things, he
ain't so gret as they say, anyway.
“Wal, wal,” said Sam in conclusion, “now, who'd 'a' thought that anybody
could 'a' made any thing out o' Indians? Yet there 'twas. All them
Martha Vineyard Indians turned Christians, and there was Indian
preachers and Indian teachers; and they reely did settle down, and get
to be quite like folks. But I tell you, boys, it took faith to start
with.”