Ver.07/27/01*END*
This Country of Ours
by H. E. Marshall (Henrietta Elizabeth)
Contents
Part I STORIES OF EXPLORERS AND PIONEERS
1. How the Vikings of Old Sought And Found New Lands
2. The Sea of Darkness And the Great Faith of Columbus
3. How Columbus Fared Forth Upon the Sea of Darkness And
Came To Pleasant Lands Beyond
4. How Columbus Returned in Triumph
5. How America Was Named
6. How the Flag of England Was Planted on the Shores of the New World
7. How the Flag of France Was Planted in Florida
8. How the French Founded a Colony in Florida
9. How the Spaniards Drove the French Out of Florida
10. How a Frenchman Avenged the Death of His Countrymen
11. The Adventures of Sir Humphrey Gilbert
12. About Sir Walter Raleigh's Adventures in the Golden West
Part II STORIES OF VIRGINIA
13. The Adventures of Captain John Smith
14. More Adventures of Captain John Smith
15. How the Colony Was Saved
16. How Pocahontas Took a Journey Over the Seas
17. How the Redmen Fought Against Their White Brothers
18. How Englishmen Fought a Duel With Tyranny
19. The Coming of the Cavaliers
20. Bacon's Rebellion
21. The Story of the Knights of the Golden Horseshoe
Part III STORIES OF NEW ENGLAND
22. The Story of the Pilgrim Fathers
23. The Founding of Massachusetts
24. The Story of Harry Vane
25. The Story of Anne Hutchinson And the Founding of Rhode Island
26. The Founding of Harvard
27. How Quakers First Came To New England
28. How Maine And New Hampshire Were Founded
29. The Founding of Connecticut And War With the Indians
30. The Founding of New Haven
31. The Hunt For the Regicides
32. King Philip's War
33. How the Charter of Connecticut Was Saved
34. The Witches of Salem
Part IV STORIES OF THE MIDDLE AND SOUTHERN COLONIES
35. The Founding of Maryland
36. How New Amsterdam Be Came New York
37. How a German Ruled New York
38. Pirates!
39. The Founding of New Jersey
40. The Founding of Pennsylvania
41. How Benjamin Franklin Came To Philadelphia
42. The Founding of North And South Carolina
43. War with the Indians in North and South Carolina
44. The Founding of Georgia
Part V STORIES OF THE FRENCH IN AMERICA
45. How the Mississippi Was Discovered
46. King William's War And Queen Anne's War
47. The Mississippi Bubble
48. How a Terrible Disaster Befell the British Army
49. The End of French Rule in America
50. The Rebellion of Pontiac
Part VI STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE FOR LIBERTY
51. The Boston Tea-Party
52. Paul Revere's Ride - The Unsheathing of the Sword
53. The First Thrust - The Battle Or Bunker Hill
54. The War in Canada
55. The Birth of a Great Nation
56. The Darkest Hour - Trenton And Princeton
57. Burgoyne's Campaign - Bennington And Oriskany
58. Burgoyne's Campaign - Bemis Heights And Saratoga
59. Brandywine - Germantown - Valley Forge
60. War on the Sea
61. The Battle of Monmouth - The Story of Captain Molly
62. The Story of a Great Crime
63. A Turning Point in the World's History
Part VII STORIES OF THE UNITED STATES UNDER THE CONSTITUTION
64. Washington First in War, First in Peace
65. Adams - How He Kept Peace With France
66. Jefferson - How the Territory of the United States Was Doubled
67. Jefferson - How the Door Into the Far West Was Opened
68. Jefferson - About an American Who Wanted To Be a King
69. Madison - The Shooting Star And the Prophet
70. Madison - War With Great Britain
71. Monroe - The First Whispers of a Storm - Monroe's Famous Doctrine
72. Adams - The Tariff of Abominations
73. Jackson - "Liberty And Union, Now And Forever" - Van Buren - Hard Times
74. Harrison - The Hero of Tippecanoe,
75. Tyler - Florida Becomes a State
76. Polk - How Much Land Was Added To the United States
77. Polk - The Finding of Gold
78. Taylor - Union Or Disunion
79. Fillmore - The Underground Railroad
80. Pierce - The Story of "Bleeding Kansas"
81. Buchanan - The Story of the Mormons
82. Buchanan - The First Shots
83. Lincoln - From Bull Run To Fort Donelson
84. Lincoln - The Story of the First Battle Between Ironclads
85. Lincoln - Thru Battle of Shiloh And the Taking of New Orleans
86. Lincoln - The Slaves Are Made Free
87. Lincoln - Chancellorsville - the Death of Stonewall Jackson
88. Lincoln - The Battle of Gettysburg
89. Lincoln - Grant's Campaign - Sheridan's Ride
90. Lincoln - Sherman's March To the Sea - Lincoln Re-elected President
91. Lincoln - the End of the War - The President's Death
92. Johnson - How the President Was Impeached
93. Grant - A Peaceful Victory
94. Hayes - Garfield - Arthur
95. Cleveland - Harrison - Cleveland
96. McKinley - War And Sudden Death
97. Roosevelt - Taft
98. Wilson - Troubles With Mexico
99. Wilson - The Great War
PART I STORIES OF EXPLORERS AND PIONEERS
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Chapter 1 - How the Vikings of Old Sought and Found New Lands
In days long long ago there dwelt in Greenland a King named Eric the
Red. He was a man mighty in war, and men held him in high honour.
Now one day to the court of Eric there came Bjarni the son of
Heriulf. This Bjarni was a far traveler. He had sailed many times
upon the seas, and when he came home he had ever some fresh tale
of marvel and adventure to tell. But this time he had a tale to
tell more marvelous than any before. For he told how far away across
the sea of Greenland, where no man had sailed before, he had found
a new, strange land.
But when the people asked news of this unknown land Bjarni could
tell them little, for he had not set foot upon those far shores.
Therefore the people scorned him.
"Truly you have little hardihood," they said, "else you had gone
ashore, and seen for yourself, and had given us good account of
this land."
But although Bjarni could tell nought of the new strange land, save
that he had seen it, the people thought much about it, and there
was great talk about voyages and discoveries, and many longed to
sail forth and find again the land which Bjarni the Traveler had
seen. But more than any other in that kingdom, Leif the son of Eric
the Red, longed to find that land. So Leif went to Eric and said:
"Oh my father, I fain would seek the land which Bjarni the Traveler
has seen. Give me gold that I may buy his ship and sail away upon
the seas to find it."
Then Eric the Red gave his son gold in great plenty. "Go, my son,"
he said, "buy the ship of Bjarni the Traveler, and sail to the land
of which he tells."
Then Leif, quickly taking the gold, went to Bjarni and bought his
ship.
Leif was a tall man, of great strength and noble bearing. He was
also a man of wisdom, and just in all things, so that men loved
and were ready to obey him.
Now therefore many men came to him offering to be his companions
in adventure, until soon they were a company of thirty-five men.
They were all men tall and of great strength, with fair golden hair
and eyes blue as the sea upon which they loved to sail, save only
Tyrker the German.
Long time this German had lived with Eric the Red and was much
beloved by him. Tyrker also loved Leif dearly, for he had known
him since he was a child, and was indeed his foster father. So he
was eager to go with Leif upon this adventurous voyage. Tyrker was
very little and plain. His forehead was high and his eyes small and
restless. He wore shabby clothes, and to the blue-eyed, fair-haired
giants of the North he seemed indeed a sorry-looking little fellow.
But all that mattered little, for he was a clever craftsman, and
Leif and his companions were glad to have him go with them.
Then, all things being ready, Leif went to his father and, bending
his knee to him, prayed him to be their leader.
But Eric the Red shook his head. "Nay, my son," he said, " I am old
and stricken in years, and no more able to endure the hardships of
the sea."
"Yet come, my father," pleaded Leif, "for of a certainty if you
do, good luck will go with us."
Then Eric looked longingly at the sea. His heart bade him go out
upon it once again ere he died. So he yielded to the prayers of
his son and, mounting upon his horse, he rode towards the ship.
When the sea-farers saw him come they set up a shout of welcome.
But when Eric was not far from the ship the horse upon which he
was riding stumbled, and he was thrown to the ground. He tried to
rise but could not, for his foot was sorely wounded.
Seeing that he cried out sadly, "It is not for me to discover new
lands; go ye without me."
So Eric the Red returned to his home, and Leif went on his way to
his ship with his companions.
Now they busied themselves and set their dragon-headed vessel
in order. And when all was ready they spread their gaily-coloured
sails, and sailed out into the unknown sea.
Westward and ever westward they sailed towards the setting of the
sun. For many days they sailed yet they saw no land: nought was
about them but the restless, tossing waves. But at length one day
to their watching eyes there appeared a faint grey line far on the
horizon. Then their hearts bounded for joy. They had not sailed in
vain, for land was near.
"Surely," said Leif, as they drew close to it, "this is the land
which Bjarni saw. Let it not be said of us that we passed it by as
he did."
So, casting anchor, Leif and his companions launched a boat and
went ashore. But it was no fair land to which they had come. Far
inland great snow-covered mountains rose, and between them and the
sea lay flat and barren rock, where no grass or green thing grew.
It seemed to Leif and his companions that there was no good thing
in this land.
"I will call it Helluland or Stone Land," said Leif.
Then he and his companions went back to the ship and put out to
sea once more. They came to land again after some time, and again
they cast anchor and launched a boat and went ashore. This land
was flat. Broad stretches of white sand sloped gently to the sea,
and behind the level plain was thickly wooded.
"This land," said Leif, "shall also have a name after its nature."
So he called it Markland or Woodland.
Then again Leif and his companions returned to the ship, and mounting
into it they sailed away upon the sea. And now fierce winds arose,
and the ship was driven before the blast so that for days these
seafarers thought no more of finding new lands, but only of the
safety of their ship.
But at length the wind fell, and the sun shone forth once more. Then
again they saw land, and launching their boat they rowed ashore.
To the eyes of these sea-faring men, who for many days had seen
only the wild waste of waters, the land seemed passing fair. For
the grass was green, and as the sun shone upon it seemed to sparkle
with a thousand diamonds. When the men put their hands upon the
grass, and touched their mouths with their hands, and drank the
dew, it seemed to them that never before had they tasted anything
so sweet. So pleasant the land seemed to Leif and his companions
that they determined to pass the winter there. They therefore drew
their ship up the river which flowed into the sea, and cast anchor.
Then they carried their hammocks ashore and set to work to build
a house
When the house was finished Leif called his companions together
and spoke to them.
"I will now divide our company into two bands," he said, "so that
we may explore the country round about. One half shall stay at
home, and the other half shall explore the land. But they who go
to explore must not go so far away that they cannot return home at
night, nor must they separate from each other, lest they be lost."
And as Leif said so it was done. Each day a company set out
to explore, and sometimes Leif went with the exploring party, and
sometimes he stayed at home. But each day as evening came they all
returned to their house, and told what they had seen.
At length, however, one day, when those who had gone abroad returned,
one of their number was missing, and when the roll was called it
was found that it was Tyrker the German who had strayed. Thereat
Leif was sorely troubled, for he loved his foster-father dearly. So
he spoke sternly to his men, reproaching them for their carelessness
in letting Tyrker separate from them, and taking twelve of his men
with him he set out at once to search for his foster-father. But
they had not gone far when, to their great joy, they saw their lost
comrade coming towards them.
"Why art thou so late, oh my foster-father?" cried Leif, as he ran
to him. "Why hast thou gone astray from the others?"
But Tyrker paid little heed to Leif's questions. He was strangely
excited, and rolling his eyes wildly he laughed and spoke in German
which no one understood. At length, however, he grew calmer and
spoke to them in their own language. "I did not go much farther
than the others," he said. "But I have found something new. I have
found vines and grapes."
"Is that indeed true, my foster-father?" said Leif.
"Of a certainty it is true," replied Tyrker. "For I was born where
vines grow freely."
This was great news; and all the men were eager to go and see
for themselves the vines which Tyrker had discovered. But it was
already late, so they all returned to the house, and waited with
what patience they could until morning.
Then, as soon as it was day, Tyrker led his companions to the place
where he had found the grapes. And when Leif saw them he called
the land Vineland because of them. He also decided to load his
ship with grapes and wood, and depart homeward. So each day the
men gathered grapes and felled trees, until the ship was full. Then
they set sail for home.
The winds were fair, and with but few adventures they arrived safely
at home. There they were received with great rejoicing. Henceforth
Leif was called Leif the Lucky, and he lived ever after in great
honour and plenty, and the land which he had discovered men called
Vineland the Good.
In due time, however, Eric the Red died, and after that Leif the
Lucky sailed no more upon the seas, for his father's kingdom was now
his, and he must needs stay at home to rule his land. But Leif's
brother Thorvald greatly desired to go to Vineland so that he might
explore the country still further.
Then when Leif saw his brother's desire he said to him, "If it be
thy will, brother, thou mayest go to Vineland in my ship."
At that Thorvald rejoiced greatly, and gathering thirty men he
set sail, crossed the sea without adventure, and came to the place
where Leif had built his house.
There he and his company remained during the winter. Then in the
spring they set forth to explore the coast. After some time they
came upon a fair country where there were many trees.
When Thorvald saw it he said, "It is so fair a country that I should
like to make my home here."
Until this time the Norsemen had seen no inhabitants of the land.
But now as they returned to their ship they saw three mounds upon
the shore. When the Norsemen came near they saw that these three
mounds were three canoes, and under each were three men armed with
bows and arrows, who lay in wait to slay them. When the Norsemen
saw that, they divided their company and put themselves in battle
array. And after a fierce battle they slew the savages, save one
who fled to his canoe and so escaped.
When the fight was over the Norsemen climbed upon a, high headland
and looked round to see if there were signs of any more savages.
Below them they saw several mounds which they took to be the houses
of the savages, and knew that it behooved them therefore to be on
their guard. But they were too weary to go further, and casting
themselves down upon the ground where they were they fell into a
heavy sleep.
Suddenly they were awakened by a great shout, and they seemed to
hear a voice cry aloud, "Awake, Thorvald, thou and all thy company,
if ye would save your lives. Flee to thy ship with all thy men,
and sail with speed from this land."
So Thorvald and his companions fled speedily to their ship, and
set it in fighting array. Soon a crowd of dark-skinned savages,
uttering fearful yells, rushed upon them. They cast their arrows
at the Norsemen, and fought fiercely for some time. But seeing that
their arrows availed little against the strangers, and that on the
other hand many of their braves were slain, they at last fled.
Then, the enemy being fled, Thorvald, turning to his men, asked,
"Are any of you wounded?"
"Nay," they answered, "we are all whole."
"That is well, " said Thorvald. "As for me, I am wounded in the
armpit by an arrow. Here is the shaft. Of a surety it will cause
my death. And now I counsel you, turn homeward with all speed. But
carry me first to that headland which seemed to me to promise so
pleasant a dwelling-place, and lay me there. Thus it shall be seen
that I spoke truth when I wished to abide there. And ye shall place
a cross at my feet, and another at my head, and call it Cross Ness
ever after."
So Thorvald died. Then his companions buried him as he had bidden
them in the land which had seemed to him so fair. And as he had
commanded they set a cross at his feet and another at his head, and
called the place Cross Ness. Thus the first white man was laid to
rest in Vineland the Good.
Then when spring came the Norsemen sailed home to Greenland. And
there they told Leif of all the things they had seen and done, and
how his brave brother had met his death.
Now when Leif's brother Thorstein heard how Thorvald had died he
longed to sail to Vineland to bring home his brother's body. So once
again Leif's ship was made ready, and with five and twenty tall,
strong men Thorstein set forth, taking with him his wife Gudrid.
But Thorstein never saw Vineland the Good. For storms beset his
ship, and after being driven hither and thither for many months,
he lost all reckoning, and at last came to land in Greenland once
more. And there Thorstein died, and Gudrid went home to Leif.
Now there came to Greenland that summer a man of great wealth named
Thorfinn. And when he saw Gudrid he loved her and sought her in
marriage, and Leif giving his consent to it, Thorfinn and Gudrid
were married.
At this time many people still talked of the voyages to Vineland,
and they urged Thorfinn to journey thither and seek to find out
more about these strange lands. And more than all the others Gudrid
urged him to go. So at length Thorfinn determined to undertake
the voyage. But it came to his mind that he would not merely go to
Vineland and return home again. He resolved rather to settle there
and make it his home.
Thorfinn therefore gathered about sixty men, and those who had
wives took also their wives with them, together with their cattle
and their household goods.
Then Thorfinn asked Leif to give him the house which he had built
in Vineland. And Leif replied, "I will lend the house to you, but
I will not give it."
So Thorfinn and Gudrid and all their company sailed out to sea,
and without adventures arrived safely at Leif's house in Vineland.
There they lived all that winter in great comfort. There was no lack
of food either for man or beast, and the cattle they had brought
with them roamed at will, and fed upon the wide prairie lands.
All winter and spring the Norsemen dwelt in Vineland, and they saw
no human beings save themselves. Then one day in early summer they
saw a great troop of natives come out of the wood. They were dark
and little, and it seemed to the Norsemen very ugly, with great
eyes and broad cheeks. The cattle were near, and as the savages
appeared the bull began to bellow. And when the savages heard that
sound they were afraid and fled. For three whole weeks nothing more
was seen of them, after that time however they took courage again
and returned. As they approached they made signs to show that they
came in peace, and with them they brought huge bales of furs which
they wished to barter.
The Norsemen, it is true, could not understand the language of
the natives, nor could the natives understand the Norsemen; but by
signs they made known that they wished to barter their furs for
weapons. This, however, Thorfinn forbade. Instead he gave them
strips of red cloth which they took very eagerly and bound about
their heads. Thorfinn also commanded his men to take milk to the
savages. And when they saw it they were eager to buy and drink it.
So that it was said many of them carried away their merchandise in
their stomachs.
Thus the days and months passed. Then one summer day a little son
was born to Thorfinn and Gudrid. They called him Snorri, and he
was the first white child to be born on the Continent which later
men called the New World. Thus three years went past. But the days
were not all peaceful. For quarrels arose between the newcomers
and the natives, and the savages attacked the Norsemen and killed
many of them.
Then Thorfinn said he would no longer stay in Vineland, but would
return to Greenland. So he and all his company made ready their
ship, and sailed out upon the seas, and came at length safely to
Greenland.
Then after a time Thorfinn sailed to Iceland. There he made his home
for the rest of his life, the people holding him in high honour.
Snorri also, his son who had been born in Vineland, grew to be a
man of great renown.
Such are some of the old Norse stories of the first finding of
America. The country which Leif called Helluland was most likely
Labrador, Markland Newfoundland, and Vineland Nova Scotia.
Besides these there were many other tales of voyages to Vineland.
For after Leif and his brothers many other Vikings of the North
sailed, both from Greenland and from Norway, to the fair western
lands. Yet although they sailed there so often these old Norsemen
had no idea that they had discovered a vast continent. They thought
that Vineland was merely an island, and the discovery of it made
no stir in Europe. By degrees too the voyages thither ceased. In
days of wild warfare at home the Norsemen forgot the fair western
land which Leif had discovered. They heard of it only in minstrel
tales, and it came to be for them a sort of fairy-land which had
no existence save in a poet's dream.
But now wise men have read these tales with care, and many have
come to believe that they are not mere fairy stories. They have
come to believe that hundreds of years before Columbus lived the
Vikings of the North sailed the western seas and found the land
which lay beyond, the land which we now call America.
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Chapter 2 - The Sea of Darkness and the Great Faith of Columbus
In those far-off times besides the Vikings of the North other
daring sailors sailed the seas. But all their sailings took them
eastward. For it was from the east that all the trade and the riches
came in those days. To India and to far Cathay sailed the merchant
through the Red Sea and the Indian Ocean, to return with a rich
and fragrant cargo of silks and spices, pearls and priceless gems.
None thought of sailing westward. For to men of those days the
Atlantic Ocean was known as the Outer Sea or the Sea of Darkness.
There was nothing to be gained by venturing upon it, much to be
dreaded. It was said that huge and horrible sea-dragons lived there,
ready to wreck and swallow down any vessel that might venture near.
An enormous bird also hovered in the skies waiting to pounce upon
vessels and bear them away to some unknown eyrie. Even if any
foolhardy adventurers should defy these dangers, and escape the
horror of the dragons and the bird, other perils threatened them.
For far in the west there lay a bottomless pit of seething fire.
That was easy of proof. Did not the face of the setting sun glow
with the reflected light as it sank in the west? There would be no
hope nor rescue for any ship that should be drawn into that awful
pit.
Again it was believed that the ocean flowed downhill, and that if a
ship sailed down too far it would never be able to get back again.
These and many other dangers, said the ignorant people of those
days, threatened the rash sailors who should attempt to sail upon
the Sea of Darkness. So it was not wonderful that for hundreds of
years men contented themselves with the well-known routes which
indeed offered adventure enough to satisfy the heart of the most
daring.
But as time passed these old trade-routes fell more and more into
the hands of Turks and Infidels. Port after port came under their
rule, and infidel pirates swarmed in the Indian Ocean and Mediterranean
until no Christian vessel was safe. At every step Christian traders
found themselves hampered and hindered, and in danger of their
lives, and they began to long for another way to the lands of spice
and pearls.
Then it was that men turned their thoughts to the dread Sea of
Darkness. The less ignorant among them had begun to disbelieve the
tales of dragons and fiery pits. The world was round, said wise
men. Why then, if that were so, India could be reached by sailing
west as well as by sailing east.
Many men now came to this conclusion, among them an Italian sailor
named Christopher Columbus. The more Columbus thought about his
plan of sailing west to reach India, the more he believed in it,
and the more he longed to set out. But without a great deal of money
such an expedition was impossible, and Columbus was poor. His only
hope was to win the help and friendship of a king or some other
great and wealthy person.
The Portuguese were in those days a sea-faring people, and their
ships were to be found wherever ships dared go. Indeed Prince Henry
of Portugal did so much to encourage voyages of discovery that he
was called Henry the Navigator. And although he was by this time
dead, the people still took great interest in voyages of discovery.
So at length Columbus determined to go to King John of Portugal to
tell him of his plans, and ask for his aid.
King John listened kindly enough, it seemed, to what Columbus had
to say. But before giving him any answer he said that he must
consult his wise men. These wise men looked upon the whole idea
of sailing to the west to reach the east as absurd. So King John
refused to give Columbus any help.
Yet although most of King John's wise men thought little of the
plan, King John himself thought that there was something in it.
But instead of helping Columbus he meanly resolved to send out
an expedition of his own. This he did, and when Columbus heard of
it he was so angry that he left Portugal, which for more than ten
years he had made his home. He was poor and in debt, so he left
the country secretly, in fear of the King, and of those to whom he
owed money.
When Columbus thus fled from Portugal, penniless and in debt, he
was a man over forty. He was a bitterly disappointed man, too, but
he still clung to his great idea. So he sent his brother Bartholomew
to England to beg King Henry VII to help him, while he himself
turned towards Spain. Bartholomew, however, reached England in an
evil hour for his quest. For Henry VII had but newly wrested the
crown from Richard III, and so had no thought to spare for unknown
lands. Christopher also arrived in Spain at an unfortunate time.
For the Spaniards were carrying on a fierce warfare against the
Moors, and King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella had little thought
or money to spare for any other undertaking. Therefore, although
Ferdinand listened to what Columbus had to say, for the time being
he could promise no help.
So years passed. Columbus remained in Spain. For in spite of all
his rebuffs and disappointments he did not despair. As the court
moved from place to place he followed it, hoping always that the
day would come when the King and Queen would listen to him, and
believe in his great enterprise.
Meanwhile he lived in want and misery, and just kept himself from
starvation by making and selling maps. To the common people he
seemed a madman, and as he passed through the streets in his worn
and threadbare garments children jeered and pointed fingers of
scorn at him.
Yet in spite of mockery and derision Columbus clung to his faith.
Indeed it burned in him so strongly that at length he made others
share it too, and men who were powerful at court became his friends.
At last the war with the Moors ended victoriously for Spain. Then
these friends persuaded Queen Isabella to listen again to what
Columbus had to say. To this the Queen consented, and when she
heard how poor Columbus was she sent him some money, so that he
might buy clothes fit to appear at court.
When Columbus heard the good news he was overjoyed. As quickly as
might be he bought new clothes, and mounting upon a mule he rode
towards Granada. But when Columbus arrived he found the court
still in the midst of rejoicings to celebrate victory. Among
the light-hearted, gaily dressed throng there was no one who had
a thought to spare for the melancholy, white-haired dreamer who
passed like a dark shadow amidst them. With his fate, as it were,
trembling in the balance, Columbus had no heart for rejoicing. So
he looked on "with indifference, almost with contempt."
But at length his day came. At length all the jubilation was over,
and Ferdinand and Isabella turned their thoughts to Columbus. He
came before them and talked so earnestly of his great project that
they could not but believe in it. The day was won. Both King and
Queen, but more especially the Queen, were willing to help the
great enterprise. Now however Columbus himself all but wrecked
his chances. He had dreamed so long about this splendid adventure,
he was so filled with belief in its grandeur, that he demanded
conditions such as would hardly have been granted to the greatest
prince in the land.
Columbus demanded that he should be made admiral and viceroy of all
the lands he might discover, and that after his death this honour
should descend to his son and to his son's son for ever and ever.
He also demanded a tenth part of all the pearls, precious stones,
gold, silver and spices, or whatever else he might gain by trade
or barter.
At these demands the grandees of Spain stood aghast. What! This
shabby dreamer, this penniless beggar aspired to honour and dignities
fit for a prince! It was absurd, and not to be thought of. If this
beggarly sailor would have Spain assist him he must needs be more
humble in suit.
But not one jot would Columbus abate of his demands. So the Council
broke up, and Columbus, with anger and disappointment in his heart,
mounted his mule and turned his face towards the Court of France.
All the seven long years during which he had waited, and hoped,
and prayed, in Spain had been wasted. Now he would go to the King
of France, and make his last appeal there.
But Columbus had left friends behind him, friends who had begun
to picture to themselves almost as vividly as he the splendours of
the conquest he was to make. Now these friends sought out the Queen.
In glowing words they painted to her the glory and the honour which
would come to Spain if Columbus succeeded. And if he failed, why,
what were a few thousand crowns, they asked. And as the Queen
listened her heart beat fast; the magnificence of the enterprise
took hold upon her, and she resolved that, come what might, Columbus
should go forth on his adventure.
Ferdinand, however, still looked coldly on. The war against the
Moors had been long and bitter, his treasury was empty. Whence, he
asked himself, was money forthcoming for this mad scheme? Isabella,
however, had done with prudence and caution. "If there is not money
enough in Aragon," she cried, "I will undertake this adventure for
my own kingdom of Castile, and if need be I will pawn my jewels to
do it."
While these things were happening Columbus, sick at heart, was
slowly plodding on the road to France. But he only went a little
way on his long journey. For just as he was entering a narrow pass
not far from Granada, where the mountains towered above him, he
heard the thud of horses' hoofs.
It was a lonely and silent spot among the hills, where robbers
lurked, and where many a man had been slain for the money and jewels
he carried. Columbus, however, had nothing to dread: he carried
with him neither gold nor jewels. He went forth from Spain a beggar,
even as he had come. But if fear he had any, it was soon turned to
incredulous joy. For when the horsemen came up they told Columbus
that his friends had won the day for him, and that he must return.
At first Columbus hesitated. He found it hard to believe that truly
at last he had his heart's desire. When, however, the messenger
told him that the Queen herself bade him return, he hesitated no
longer. Joyfully turning his mule he hastened back to Granada.
At last Columbus had won his heart's desire, and he had only to gather
ships and men and set forth westward. But now a new difficulty
arose. For it was out upon the terrible Sea of Darkness that Columbus
wished to sail, and men feared to face its terrors.
Week after week went past and not a ship or a man could Columbus
get. He persuaded and implored in vain: no man was brave enough to
follow him to the unknown horrors of the Sea of Darkness. Therefore
as entreaty and persuasion proved of no avail, Columbus sought help
from the King, who gave him power to force men to go with him.
Even then all sorts of difficulties were thrown in the way.
Columbus, however, overcame them all, and at length his three ships
were ready. But it had taken many months. It was February when he
turned back so gladly to Granada; it was the third of August before
everything was in order.
Before dawn upon the day he sailed Columbus entered the church, in
the little sea-faring town of Palos where his ships lay at anchor.
There he humbly confessed his sins, received the Sacrament, and
committed himself to God's all-powerful guidance. The crew, wild,
rough fellows, many of them, followed his example. Then Columbus
stepped on board his ship, the Santa Maria, and turned his face
westward.
He was filled with exaltation. But all Palos was filled with gloom,
and upon the shore a great crowd gathered to bid a last farewell
to these daring adventurers. And as the ships spread their sails
and sped forth in the morning light the people wept and lamented
sorely, for they never thought again to see their loved ones, who
were about to adventure forth upon the terrible Sea of Darkness.
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Chapter 3 - How Columbus Fared Forth Upon The Sea of Darkness and
Came to Pleasant Lands Beyond
At first the voyage upon which Columbus and his daring companions
now set forth lay through seas already known; but soon the last
land-mark was left behind, and the three little vessels, smaller
than river craft of today, were alone upon the trackless waste of
waters. And when the men saw the last trace of land vanish their
hearts sank, and they shed bitter tears, weeping for home and the
loved ones they thought never more to see.
On and on they sailed, and as day after day no land appeared the
men grew restless. Seeing them thus restless, and lest they should
be utterly terrified at being so far from home upon this seemingly
endless waste of waters, Columbus determined to keep them from
knowing how far they had really gone. So he kept two reckonings.
One, in which the real length of the ships' daily journey was given
he kept to himself: the other, in which the journey was given as
much shorter, he showed to the sailors.
A month went past, six weeks went past, and still there was no
trace of land. Then at length came signs. Snow birds which never
ventured far to sea flew round the ships. Now the waves bore to
them a rudely carved stick, now the ships ploughed a way through
masses of floating weeds. All these signs were at first greeted
with joy and hope, and the sailors took heart. But as still the
days went past and no land appeared, they lost heart again.
The fields of weeds which they had at first greeted with joy now
became an added terror. Would they not be caught in this tangle
of weeds, they asked, and never more win a way out of it? To their
fearful and superstitious minds the very breeze which had borne
them softly onward became a menace. For if the wind always blew
steadily from the east how was it possible ever to return to Spain? So
Columbus was almost glad when a contrary wind blew. For it proved
to his trembling sailors that one at least of their fears was
groundless. But it made little difference. The men were now utterly
given over to gloomy terrors.
Fear robbed them of all ambition. Ferdinand and Isabella had
promised a large sum of money to the man who should first discover
land. But none cared now to win it. All they desired was to turn
home once more.
Fear made them mutinous also. So they whispered together and planned
in secret to rid themselves of Columbus. It would be easy, they
thought, to throw him overboard some dark night, and then give out
that he had fallen into the sea by accident. No one would know. No
one in Spain would care, for Columbus was after all but a foreigner
and an upstart. The great ocean would keep the secret. They would
be free to turn homeward.
Columbus saw their dark looks, heard the murmurs of the crews, and
did his best to hearten them again. He spoke to them cheerfully,
persuading and encouraging, "laughing at them, while in his heart
he wept."
Still the men went sullenly about their work. But at length one
morning a sudden cry from the Pinta shook them from out their sullen
thoughts.
It was the captain of the Pinta who shouted. "Land, land, my lord!"
he cried. "I claim the reward."
And when Columbus heard that shout his heart was filled with joy
and thankfulness, and baring his head he sank upon his knees, giving
praise to God. The crew followed his example. Then, their hearts
suddenly light and joyous, they swarmed up the masts and into the
rigging to feast their eyes upon the goodly sight.
All day they sailed onward toward the promised land. The sun sank
and still all night the ships sped on their joyous way. But when
morning dawned the land seemed no nearer than before. Hope died
away again, and sorrowfully as the day went on the woeful truth
that the fancied land had been but a bank of clouds was forced upon
Columbus.
Again for days the ships sailed on, and as still no land appeared
the men again began to murmur. Then one day when Columbus walked
on deck he was met, not merely with sullen looks, but with angry
words. The men clamoured to return. And if the Admiral refused,
why, so much the worse for him. They would endure no longer.
Bravely the Admiral faced the mutineers. He talked to them cheerfully.
He reminded them of what honour and gain would be theirs when they
returned home having found the new way to India, of what wealth
they might win by trading. Then he ended sternly:
"Complain how you may," he said, "I have to go to the Indies, and
I will go on till I find them, so help me God."
For the time being the Admiral's stern, brave words cowed
the mutineers. But not for much longer, Columbus knew right well,
would they obey him if land did not soon appear. And in his heart
he prayed God that it might not be long delayed.
The next night Columbus stood alone upon the poop of the Santa
Maria. Full of anxious thoughts he gazed out into the darkness.
Then suddenly it seemed to him that far in the distance he saw a
glimmering light appear and disappear once and again. It was as if
some one walking carried a light. But so fearful was Columbus lest
his fervent hopes had caused him to imagine this light that he would
not trust his own eyes alone. So he called to one of his officers
and asked him if he saw any light.
"Yes," replied the officer, "I see a light."
Then Columbus called a second man. He could not at first see the
light, and in any case neither of them thought much of it. Columbus,
however, made sure that land was close, and calling the men about
him he bade them keep a sharp look-out, promising a silken doublet
to the man who should first see land.
So till two o'clock in the morning the ships held on their way. Then
from the Pinta there came again a joyful shout of "Land! Land!"
This time it proved no vision, it was land indeed; and at last the
long-looked-for goal was reached. The land proved to be an island
covered with beautiful trees, and as they neared the shore the men
saw naked savages crowding to the beach.
In awed wonder these savages watched the huge white birds, as the
ships with their great sails seemed to them. Nearer and nearer
they came, and when they reached the shore and folded their wings
the natives fled in terror to the shelter of the forest. But
seeing that they were not pursued, their curiosity got the better
of their fear, and returning again they stood in silent astonishment
to watch the Spaniards land.
First of all came Columbus; over his glittering steel armour he
wore a rich cloak of scarlet, and in his hand he bore the Royal
Standard of Spain. Then, each at the head of his own ship's crew,
came the captains of the Pinta and the Nina, each carrying in his
hand a white banner with a green cross and the crowned initials
of the King and Queen, which was the special banner devised for
the great adventure. Every man was dressed in his best, and the
gay-coloured clothes, the shining armour, and fluttering banners
made a gorgeous pageant. Upon it the sun shone in splendour and the
blue sky was reflected in a bluer sea: while scarlet flamingoes,
startled at the approach of the white men, rose in brilliant flight.
As Columbus landed he fell upon his knees and kissed the ground,
and with tears of joy running down his cheeks he gave thanks to
God, the whole company following his example. Then rising again to
his feet, Columbus drew his sword, and solemnly took possession of
the island in the name of Ferdinand and Isabella.
When the ceremony was over the crew burst forth into shouts of
triumph and joy. They crowded round Columbus, kneeling before him
to kiss his hands and feet praying forgiveness for their insolence
and mutiny, and promising in the future to obey him without question.
For Columbus it was a moment of pure joy and triumph. All his long
years of struggle and waiting had come to a glorious end.
Yet he knew already that his search was not finished, his triumph
not yet complete. He had not reached the eastern shores of India,
the land of spice and pearls. He had not even reached Cipango, the
rich and golden isle. But he had at least, he thought, found some
outlying island off the coast of India, and that India itself could
not be far away. He never discovered his mistake, so the group of
islands nowhere near India, but lying between the two great Continents
of America, are known as the West Indies.
Columbus called the island upon which he first landed San Salvador,
and for a long time it was thought to be the island which is still
called San Salvador or Cat Island. But lately people have come to
believe that Columbus first landed upon an island a little further
south, now called, Watling Island.
From San Salvador Columbus sailed about and landed upon several
other islands, naming them and taking possession of them for Spain.
He saw many strange and beautiful fruits: "trees of a thousand
sorts, straight and tall enough to make masts for the largest ships
of Spain." He saw flocks of gaily coloured parrots and many other
birds that sang most sweetly. He saw fair harbours so safe and
spacious that he thought they might hold all the ships of the world.
But of such things Columbus was not in search. He was seeking for
gold and jewels, and at every place he touched he hoped to find
some great eastern potentate, robed in splendour and seated upon
a golden throne; instead everywhere he found only naked savages.
They were friendly and gentle, and what gold they had - but it was
little indeed - they willingly bartered for a few glass beads, or
little tinkling bells.
By signs, however, some of these savages made Columbus understand
that further south there was a great king who was so wealthy that
he ate off dishes of wrought gold. Others told him of a land where
the people gathered gold on the beach at night time by the light of
torches; others again told him of a land where gold was so common
that the people wore it on their arms and legs, and in their ears
and noses as ornaments. Others still told of islands where there
was more gold than earth. But Columbus sought these lands in vain.
In his cruisings Columbus found Cuba, and thought at first it must
be the island of Cipango, but finding himself mistaken he decided
at length that he had landed upon the most easterly point of India.
He could not be far, he thought, from the palace of the Grand Khan,
and choosing out two of his company he sent them as ambassadors
to him. But after six days the ambassadors returned, having found
no gold; and instead of the Grand Khan having seen only a savage
chieftain.
These ambassadors found no gold, but, had they only known it, they
found something quite as valuable. For they told how they had met
men and women with firebrands in their hands made of herbs, the end
of which they put in their mouths and sucked, blowing forth smoke.
And these fire-brands they called tabacos.
The Spaniards also discovered that the natives of these islands used
for food a root which they dug out of the earth. But they thought
nothing of these things. For what were roots and dried herbs to
those who came in search of gold, and gems, and precious spices?
So they brought home neither potatoes nor tobacco.
So far the three little vessels had kept together, but now the
captain of the Pinta parted company with the others, not because
of bad weather, says Columbus in his diary, but because he chose,
and out of greed, for he thought "that the Indians would show him
where there was much gold." This desertion grieved Columbus greatly,
for he feared that Pinzon might find gold, and sailing home before
him cheat him of all the honour and glory of the quest. But still
the Admiral did not give up, but steered his course "in the name
of God and in search of gold and spices, and to discover land."
So from island to island he went seeking gold, and finding everywhere
gentle, kindly savages, fair birds and flowers, and stately trees.
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Chapter 4 - How Columbus Returned Home in Triumph
Christmas Eve came, and the Admiral, being very weary, went below
to sleep, leaving a sailor to steer the ship. But this sailor thought
he too would like to sleep, so he gave the tiller in charge of a
boy.
Now throughout the whole voyage the Admiral had forbidden this.
Whether it was stormy or calm he had commanded that the helm was
never to be entrusted to a boy. This boy knew very little of how
to steer a ship, and being caught in a current it was cast upon a
sand-bank and wrecked. By good luck every one was saved and landed
upon the island of Haiti. But Columbus had now only one little
vessel, and it was not large enough to carry all the company. Many
of them, however, were so delighted with the islands that they
wanted to stay there, and they had often asked the Admiral's leave
to do so.
Columbus therefore now determined to allow some of his men to
remain to found a little colony, and trade with the Indians, "and
he trusted in God that when he came back from Spain - as he intended
to do - he would find a ton of gold collected by them, and that
they would have found a gold mine, and such quantities of spices
that the Sovereigns would in the space of three years be able to
undertake a Crusade and conquer the Holy Sepulchre."
So out of the wreck of the Santa Maria Columbus built a fort, and
from the many who begged to be left behind he chose forty-four,
appointing one of them, Diego de Arana, as Governor. He called the
fort La Navida or The Nativity in memory of the day upon which it
was founded. The island itself he called Española or Little Spain.
Then on Friday the 4th of January, 1493, the Nina spread her sails
and slowly glided away, leaving in that far island amid the unknown
seas the first colony of white men ever settled in the west.
Two days after Columbus set forth upon his homeward voyage, he
fell in again with the Pinta. The master had found no gold, so he
determined to join Columbus once more. He now came on board and
tried to make his peace with Columbus, but the Admiral received him
coldly, for he had little faith in his excuses. And now once more
together, the two little vessels sailed homeward. But soon storms
arose, the ships were battered by wind, tossed about hither and
thither by waves, and at length separated again. More than once
Columbus feared that his tiny vessel would be engulfed in the stormy
seas, and the results of his great enterprise never be known. But
at length the shores of Portugal were sighted, and on Friday, the
15th of March, 1493, he landed Again at Palos, in Spain, from whence
he had set forth more than seven months before.
The people of Palos had hardly hoped to see again those who had
sailed away on so desperate an adventure. Now, when they saw only
one of the three vessels return their joy was mingled with grief.
When, however, they learned that Columbus returned in triumph, and
that India had been reached, their joy knew no bounds. Shops were
closed, bells were rung, and all the people in holiday attire thronged
to the harbour, and with shouts and cheers they bore Columbus in
triumph to the church, there to give thanks to God for his safe and
glorious return. And ere the shouts had died away, a second vessel
was seen approaching. It was the Pinta which, though parted from the
Nina, had also weathered the storms and now came safely to port.
At once on landing Columbus had sent a letter to the King and
Queen telling them of his return. Now he received an answer; it
was addressed to Don Christopher Columbus, our Admiral of the Ocean
Sea, Viceroy and Governor of the Islands discovered in the Indies.
It bade him to come at once to court. It told him that a new expedition
would immediately be fitted out; so with a heart overflowing with
joy and pride, Columbus set forth to Barcelona where the King and
Queen then were.
The great news of his voyage and discovery had outsped him, and
the people of Barcelona received him with every mark of respect
and honour. As he passed through the streets, riding on a splendid
horse and surrounded by the greatest nobles of Spain, they cheered
him again and again. They gazed in wonder also at the dark-skinned
savages, the gaily coloured parrots, and other strange things he
had brought with him from out the Sea of Darkness.
Sitting on a throne of state beneath a canopy of cloth of gold,
with the young Prince of Spain beside them , the King and Queen
received Columbus. At his approach they rose, and standing they
welcomed back to their realm as a mighty prince he who had gone
forth a simple sailor. And as Columbus would have knelt to kiss
their hands they raised him, and bade him be seated beside them as
an equal. Seldom did the haughty rulers of Spain show such great
honour even to the proudest nobles in the land.
And so while King, and Queen, and courtiers listened breathlessly
Columbus told of all he had done, of all the marvels he had seen,
of the richness and fairness of the lands he had found and claimed
for Spain. And when he had finished the King and Queen fell upon
their knees, and clasping their hands they raised eyes filled with
tears of joy to heaven, giving thanks to God for His great mercies.
The courtiers too fell upon their knees and joined their prayers
to those of the King and Queen, while over all the triumphant notes
of the Te Deum rang out.
So ended the great voyage of Columbus. He had shown the way across
the Sea of Darkness; he had proved that all the stories of its
monsters and other dangers were false. But even he had no idea
of the greatness of his discovery. He never realised that he had
shown the way to a new world; he believed to the day of his death
that he had indeed found new islands, but that his greatest feat
was that of finding a new way to the Old World. Yet now being made
a noble, he took for his coat of arms a, group of golden islands
in an azure sea, and for motto the words, "To Castile and Leon,
Columbus gave a New World."
Now began a time of pomp and splendour for Columbus. He who had
gone forth a penniless sailor now rode abroad in gorgeous array;
often he might be seen with the Queen on one hand and John, the
young Prince of Spain, on the other. Sometimes even the King himself
would ride with him, and seeing him so high in royal favour all the
greatest and proudest nobles of the land were eager to make much
of him. So they feted him, flattered him, and spread banquets for
him. But some were jealous of the great fame of Columbus, and they
made light of his discoveries.
It is told how, one day at a banquet when every one talked of these
wonderful deeds, one of the guests spoke slightingly of them. "It
is all very well," he said to Columbus, "but in a great country like
Spain, where there are such numbers of daring sailors and learned
folk besides, many another man might have done the same as you. We
should have found the Indies even if you had not."
To this speech Columbus answered nothing, but he asked for an egg
to be brought to him. When it was brought he placed it on the table
saying, "Sirs, I will lay a wager with any of you that you cannot
make this egg stand up without anything at all to support it."
One after the other they tried, but no one could do it. At length
it came round to Columbus again. And he, taking it in his hand,
struck it sharply on the table so that one end was chipped a little,
and it stood upright.
"That, my lord, is my answer, " he said, looking at the courtier
who had scoffed. And all the company were silent. For they saw he
was well answered. Columbus had shown that after a deed is once done
it is simple, and every one knows how to do it. What he had done
in sailing across the Sea of Darkness was only wonderful because
no one ,else had thought of doing it.
Portugal was now very jealous of Spain's success, and King Ferdinand
of Spain was fearful lest King John of Portugal should seize the
new islands which Columbus had discovered. So he appealed to the
Pope to settle the matter. And the Pope decided that all new lands
discovered west of an imaginary line drawn through the Atlantic
Ocean west of the Azores and from pole to pole should belong to
Spain. All discoveries east of this line should belong to Portugal.
If you will look at a map of the world you will see that this gave
to Spain all the Americas with their islands (except a little bit
of Brazil) and to Portugal the whole of Africa.
But almost before this matter was settled Columbus had set forth
again on another voyage across the great ocean, now no longer the Sea
of Darkness: this time he had no difficulty in getting a company.
For every one was eager to go with him, even many of the sons of
great nobles. This time too the passage was made without any doubts
and fears, but with joyful expectations.
Columbus had hoped great things of the little colony that he had
left behind him. But when he cast anchor one night before the fort
his heart sank. All was dark and silent on shore. Yet still hoping,
he ordered two cannon to be fired as a signal to the colonists.
The cannon boomed through the still, warm darkness of the night,
and slowly the echoes died away. But there was no answer save the
sighing of the sea, and the scream of the startled birds. From
the fort there came no sound or any sign of life, and with sad
forebodings the Spaniards waited for the dawn.
Then it was seen that the fort was a ruin. It had been burned and
sacked. Torn clothing and broken vessels were strewn around, but
as the Spaniards wandered sadly among the ruins they found no trace
of their companions save eleven graves with the grass growing above
them.
At first no natives would come near the white men, for they feared
their anger. But at length, tempted by the offer of gifts and
other friendly signs, they came. They told how the Spaniards had
quarreled amongst themselves, how the fort had been attacked by
unfriendly Indians from another island, and how all the white men
had been slain.
Thus ended the first white colony ever planted in Western lands.
All traces of it have vanished, and upon the spot where La Navida
stood there is now a little fishing village called Petit Anse.
Columbus founded other colonies, but they succeeded no better than
the first one. In all he made four voyages across the Atlantic,
and in the third he landed upon the coast of South America, near
the mouth of the Orinoco. But Columbus did not know that at last
he had discovered the great double Continent of America. He thought
that he had merely discovered another island, and he named it La
Isla Santa. Afterwards he was so delighted at the beauty of the
land that he thought he must have found the Garden of Eden, so he
became certain that he had landed on the eastern corner of Asia.
In 1506 Columbus died. And it is sad to think that he who, by his
great faith and great daring, led the way across the Sea of Darkness,
and gave a New World to the Old died in poverty and neglect. The
men who had wept for joy at the news of his discovery shed no tear
over his grave. He died "unwept, unhonoured and unsung." Years passed
before men recognised what a great man had dwelt among them: years
passed before any monument was raised to his memory. But indeed he
had scarce need of any, for as has been well said, "The New World
is his monument." And every child of the New World must surely
honour that monument and seek never to deface it.
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Chapter 5 - How America Was Named
"The New World is his monument." And yet the New World does not
bear the name of Columbus. So in this chapter I am going to tell
you how America was named.
As soon as Columbus had shown the way across the Sea of Darkness
many were eager to follow in his footsteps. "There is not a man,"
he says himself, "down to the very tailors, who does not beg to be
allowed to become a discoverer." Among the many who longed to sail
the seas there was a man named Amerigo Vespucci.
Like Columbus, Amerigo Vespucci was an Italian. He was born in
Florence and there for nearly forty years he lived quietly, earning
his living as a clerk in the great merchant house of Medici. But
although he was diligent at business his thoughts were not wholly
taken up with it, and in his leisure hours he loved to read books
of geography, and pore over maps and charts.
After a time business took Amerigo to Spain. He was there when
Columbus returned from his famous first voyage, and very likely saw
him pass through the streets of Barcelona on his day of triumph.
Just when Amerigo and Columbus met we do not know. But very soon we
find Amerigo in the service of the merchant who supplied Columbus
with food and other necessaries for his second voyage. It has been
thought by some that Vespucci went with Columbus on this voyage,
but that is not very likely. It was about this time, however, that
Vespucci went on his first voyage in which he explored the coast of
Venezuela or of Central America. It is very doubtful which. Before
going on this voyage he had been in Spain about four years, and
not having succeeded very well as a merchant he decided to give up
trading and take to a sea life.
No voyages perhaps have been more written about and fought over than
those of Amerigo Vespucci. Some will have it that he went only two
voyages, and say he was a braggart and a vainglorious fool if he
said he went more. Others think that he went at least four voyages
and probably six. And most people are now agreed that these last are
right, and that he who gave his name to the great double Continent
of America was no swaggering pretender but an honest and upright
man.
In the first two voyages that he made Vespucci sailed under the
flag of Spain. In the second two he sailed in the service of the
King of Portugal. But after his fourth voyage he returned again to
Spain. There he received a large salary and the rank of captain.
Later he was made Pilot Major of Spain, and was held in high honour
till his death.
Yet in all the voyages Vespucci went, whether under the flag of
Portugal or of Spain, he was never leader. He went as astronomer,
or as pilot, while other men captained the expeditions.
It is from Amerigo's letters alone that we gather the little we
know about his voyages. For although he says in one of his letters
that he has written a book called "The Four Voyages" it has never
been found, and perhaps was never published. One long letter,
however, which he wrote to an old schoolfellow was so interesting
that it was published and read by many people all over Europe. It
was, says an old English writer, "abrode in every mannes handes."
Amerigo's voyages led him chiefly to Central and South America and
he became convinced that South America was a continent. So soon,
what with the voyages of Vespucci and the voyages of other great
men, it became at last quite certain that there was a vast continent
beyond the Atlantic ocean. Map-makers, therefore, began to draw a
huge island, large enough to form in itself a continent, south of
the Equator. They called it the New World, or the land of the Holy
Cross, but the Northern Continent was still represented on the maps
by a few small islands, or as a part of Asia.
Thus years passed. Daring sailors still sailed the stormy seas
in search of new lands, and learned men read the tales of their
adventures and wrote new books of geography.
Then one day a professor who taught geography at the Monastery of
St. Dié in Alsace published a little book on geography. In it he
spoke of Europe, Asia and Africa, the three parts of the world as
known to the ancients. Then he spoke of the fourth part which had
been discovered by Amerigo Vespucci, by which he meant what we now
call South America. "And," continues this professor, "I do not see
what is rightly to hinder us calling this part Amerige or America,
that is, the land of Americus after its discoverer Americus."
This is the first time the word America was ever used, and little did
this old German professor, writing in his quiet Alsatian College,
think that he was christening the great double continent of the
New World. And as little did Amerigo think in writing his letter
to his old school fellow that he was to be looked upon as the
discoverer of the New World.
At first the new name came slowly into use and it appears for the
first time on a map made about 1514. In this map America is shown
as a great island continent lying chiefly south of the Equator.
All the voyages which Columbus had made had been north of the
Equator. No man yet connected the land south of the Equator with
him, and it was at first only to this south land that the name
America was given.
Thirty years and more went by. Many voyages were made, and it
became known for certain that Columbus had not reached the shores
of India by sailing west, and that a great continent barred the
way north as well as south of the Equator.
Then a famous map-maker gave the name of America to both continents.
But many Spaniards were jealous for the fame of Columbus, and they
thought that the Northern Continent should be called Colonia or
Columbiana. One, anxious that the part in the discovery taken by
Ferdinand and Isabella should not be forgotten, even tried to make
people call it Fer-Isabelica.
But all such efforts were in vain. America sounded well, people
liked it, and soon every one used it.
Amerigo Vespucci himself had nothing to do with the choice, and
yet because others gave his name to the New World many hard things
have been said of him. He has been called in scorn a "land lubber,
" a beef and biscuit contractor," and other contemptuous names.
Even one of the greatest American writers has poured scorn on him.
"Strange," he says, "that broad America must wear the name of a
thief. Amerigo Vespucci, the pickle dealer of Seville . . . whose
highest naval rank was a boatswain's mate in an expedition that
never sailed, managed in this lying world to supplant Columbus and
baptise half the earth with his own dishonest name."
But it was the people of his day, and not Vespucci, who brought
the new name into use. Vespucci himself had never any intention of
being a thief or of robbing Columbus of his glory. He and Columbus
had always been friends, and little more than a year before he died
Columbus wrote a letter to his son Diego which Vespucci delivered.
In this letter Columbus says, "Amerigo Vespucci, the bearer of this
letter . . . has always been wishful to please me. He is a very
honest man. . . . He is very anxious to do something for me, if it
is in his power."
It was only accident which gave the name of America to the New
World, and perhaps also the ingratitude of the great leader's own
generation.
Later generations, however, have not been so unmindful of Columbus
and his deeds; Americans have not allowed his great name to be
wholly forgotten. The district in which the capital of the United
States is situated is called Columbia. In Canada too there is the
great province of British Columbia, and in South America the 'United
States of Colombia, besides many towns all named in honour of the
great discoverer.
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Chapter 6 - How The Flag of England Was Planted on the Shores of
the New World
Christopher Columbus showed the way across the Sea of Darkness;
Amerigo Vespucci gave his name to the great double continent, but
it was another Italian, John Cabot, who first landed on the Continent
of North America.
Like Columbus, Cabot was born in Genoa. When, however, he left his
own land he did not go to Spain like Columbus, but to England.
He had been living in England for some years when the news of the
first great voyage of Columbus was brought there. Soon every one
was talking about the wonderful discovery from the King and his
court downward.
Cabot was a trader and a daring sailor, well used to sailing on
the stormy seas. Yet even he was awed by what Columbus had done.
To find that way never known before, and by sailing west to reach
the east "where the spices grow" seemed to him " a thing more
divine than human. "And he too longed to follow Columbus, and maybe
discover new lands.
King Henry VII was eager to claim new lands as the Kings of
Spain and Portugal were doing. So he listened to the persuasions
of John Cabot. And in spite of the Pope - who had divided all the
undiscovered world between the Kings of Spain and Portugal - gave
him leave to sail forth to "the seas of the east and west and north"
and to plant the banner of England upon any islands, countries or
regions belonging to heathens or infidels which he might discover.
He bade his "well-beloved John Cabot" take five ships and set forth
on the adventure at his " own proper costs and charges." For Henry
was a King "wise but not lavish," and although he wanted England
to have the glory of new discoveries he was not eager to spend his
gold on them.
But where could a poor sailor find money enough for so great an
adventure?
So a year went past, and although Cabot had the King's leave
to go he did not set out. But he did not let the King forget. And
at length close-fisted Henry listened to "the busy request and
supplication" of the eager sailor, and consented to fit out one
small ship.
So at five o'clock one sweet May morning a frail little vessel
called the Matthew, with a crew of but eighteen men, sailed out
from Bristol harbour. Many people came to see the vessel sail. For
they were nearly all Bristol men who were thus venturing forth on
the unknown deep, and their friends crowded to the harbour to wish
them godspeed.
It was a great occasion for Bristol, and indeed for all England,
for it was the first voyage of discovery with which the English
king and people had to do. So the tiny whitesailed ship put out to
sea, followed by the prayers and wishes of those left behind. With
tear-dimmed eyes they watched it till it faded from view. Then they
turned homewards to pray for the return of their loved ones.
Round the coast of Ireland the vessel sped. But at last its green
shores faded from sight and the little company of eighteen brave
men were alone upon the trackless waves.
Westward and ever westward they sailed,
"Over the hazy distance, Beyond the sunset's rim"
Week after week went by. Six weeks and then seven, and still no
land appeared. Those were days of anxiety and gloom. But still the
hope of the golden west lured Cabot on, and at length one day in
June he heard the glad cry of "Land! Land!"
So on St. John's Day, in 1497, John Cabot landed somewhere on the
coast of America. He called the land Prima Tierra Vista or First
Land Seen, and because of the day upon which it was found he called
an island near to it St. John's Isle.
We cannot tell exactly where Cabot east anchor: it may have been
at Cape Breton or somewhere on the coast of Labrador. But wherever
it was that he landed he there set up a great cross and unfurled
the flag of England, claiming the land for King Henry.
When Cabot set out he was full of the ideas of Columbus. He had hoped
to find himself on the coast of Asia and in the land of gold and
spices. Now he knew himself mistaken. He did not see any natives,
but he knew the land was inhabited, for he found notched trees,
snares for wild animals and other signs of habitation which he took
home.
He had found no "golden cities," he had had speech with no stately
potentate. Yet he was not utterly disappointed. For the country he
had found seemed to him fair and fertile, and the quantities of
fish which swarmed in the seas amazed both himself and his men. They
had no need of lines or even of nets. They had but to let down a
basket weighted with a stone and draw it up again to have all the
fish they wanted.
Cabot stayed but a short time in the new-found land. He would fain
have stayed longer and explored further, but he feared lest his
provisions would give out, and so regretfully he turned homeward.
Great was the excitement in Bristol when the tiny ship came to anchor
there once more, little more than three months after it had sailed
away. And so strange were the tales Master Cabot had to tell that
the folk of Bristol would hardly have believed him (for he was a
poor man and a foreigner) had not his crew of honest Bristol men
vouched for the truth of all he said. Every one was delighted. Even
thrifty King Henry was so much pleased that he gave Cabot £10. It
seems a small enough sum for one who had found "a new isle." But
we must remember that it was worth more than £100 would be worth
today.
Cabot at any rate found it enough with which to buy a suit of
silk. And dressed in this new splendour he walked about the streets
of Bristol followed by gaping crowds. He was now called the Great
Admiral, and much honour was paid to him. Every one was eager to
talk with him, eager to go with him on his next voyage: and that
even although they knew that many of the crew would be thieves and
evil-doers. For the King had promised to give Cabot for sailors
all prisoners except those who were confined for high treason.
We know little more of John Cabot. Later King Henry gave him a
pension of £20 a year. It seems likely that the following year he
set out again across the broad Atlantic, taking his sons with him.
"The rest is silence."
How John Cabot ended his life, where he lies taking his rest, we
do not know.
"He sleeps somewhere in sod unknown, Without a slab, without a
stone."
We remember him chiefly because he was the first to lead Englishmen
across the Atlantic, the first to plant the flag of England upon
the Continent of North America, which, in days to come, was to be
the home of two great English speaking peoples.
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Chapter 7 - How The Flag of France Was Planted in Florida
As years went on many voyages of discovery and exploration were
made to the New World by both the Spaniards and the Portuguese,
but chiefly by the Spaniards. America was the land of golden hopes,
the land of splendid adventure, and the haughty knights of Spain,
thirsting for gold and for fame, were lured thither. They sought
the fabled seven cities of gold, they sought the fountain of eternal
youth. Through the dark pathless forests, across the wide prairies
they flashed in glittering array, awaking the vast silences with the
clash of arms. They came in all the pomp and splendour of warfare;
they brought also the Cross of Christ, threatening the heathen with
death if they did not bow to Him and be baptised. And it seemed for
a time as if they, and they only, would possess the vast continent.
But expedition after expedition ended in disaster. The Spaniards
found neither the far-famed seven cities nor the fountain of youth.
And the Redmen, instead of accepting their religion, hated them
and it with a deep hatred.
But the Spaniards were not long left in undisputed possession of
America. The French King too desired to have new lands across the
seas, and he saw no reason why Spain and Portugal should divide
the New World between them.
"I would fain see Father Adam's will," he said, "in which he made
you the sole heirs to so vast an inheritance. Until I do see that,
I shall seize as mine whatever my good ships may find upon the ocean. "
From France, therefore, daring men sailed forth to the New World.
And there they set up the arms of their country, claiming broad
lands for their King.
And now came the time when all Christian lands were torn asunder by
religious strife. The Reformation had begun, and everywhere there
was discord between the people who followed the old religion and
those who followed the new. In France those who followed the new
religion were called Huguenots. They were often hardly used, and
were denied freedom to worship God in their own way. Many of them
therefore longed to get away from France, and go to some new country
where they would have the freedom they desired.
So a few grave, stern men gathered together and determined to set
out for some place in the New World where they might make a home.
Then one February day in 1562 two little ships sailed away from
France. Westward they sailed until about two and a half months
later they landed in what is now Florida.
It was May Day, the sun shone and all the world seemed gay and
green, and these Protestant adventurers thought they had never
seen so fair a land. It was, they said, the fairest, fruitfullest
and pleasantest of all the world, "abounding in honey, venison
and wildfowl." The natives were friendly and told the newcomers by
signs that the seven golden cities were not far off. That rejoiced
their hearts, for even those stern old Huguenots were not above
following the quest for gold.
Here then in this far-off land the Huguenots set up a stone pillar
carved with the arms of the King of France. And kneeling round
it they gave thanks to God for having brought them to so fair a
country. Then returning to their ships they sailed northward along
the coast, For they had not come to settle, but merely to explore,
and find out a good spot on which to found a colony.
But the land seemed so fair, the air so balmy, that they were ready
to settle there at once, and never return to France.
At length after inspecting several places the adventurers reached
a spot not far from what is now Beaufort in South Carolina. Here
they landed, and knowing that many of the men were already eager
to remain in this beautiful country, Jean Ribaut, their leader,
resolved to found a colony. So he called them all together, and
speaking wise and brave words to them asked who among them would
remain.
"Declare your minds freely unto me," he said, "and remember that
if you decide to remain you will for ever be famous, and be known
as the first white men who inhabited this land."
Ribaut had scarcely finished speaking when nearly all the men
replied with a shout, "We ask nothing better than to remain in this
beautiful country."
Indeed so many were anxious to remain that Ribaut had enough to
do to persuade a sufficient number to man the ships to return with
him.
In the end thirty men were chosen to remain. At once they set about
building a fort which they called Charlesfort in honour of the boy
King, Charles IX, who was then upon the throne.
The men worked so well that in a very few days the fort was so
far finished that it was fit to live in. Food and ammunition were
brought from the ships, and a man named Albert de la Pierria was
chosen as Governor. Then for the last time Ribaut gathered all the
men together and took leave of those to be left behind.
"Captain Albert," he said, "I have to ask you in the presence of
all these men, to quit yourself so wisely in your charge, that I
shall be able to commend you to your King.
"And you," he said, turning to the soldiers, "I beg you to esteem
Captain Albert as if he were myself, and to yield to him that
obedience that a true soldier owes to his general and captain. I
pray you live as brethren together without discord. And in so doing
God will assist you, and bless your enterprises."
Then farewells were said, and Ribaut sailed away, leaving the thirty
white men alone in the wilderness.
From north to south, from east to west, in all the vast continent
there were no white men save themselves. The little company was
made up of young nobles, sailors, merchants and artisans. There
were no farmers or peasants among them, and when they had finished
their fort none of them thought of clearing the land and sowing
corn. There was no need: Ribaut would soon return, they thought,
bringing with him all they required. So they made friends with
the Indians, and roamed the forest wilds in search of gold and of
adventures, without care for the future.
But the days and weeks passed and Ribaut did not return. For when
he arrived home he found that France was torn with civil war, and
that it was impossible to get ships fitted out to sail to America.
Soon the little colony began to feel the pangs of hunger. Daily they
scanned the pitiless blue sea for a glimpse of Ribaut's returning
sail. No sail appeared, and daily their supplies dwindled away. Had
it not been for the friendly Redmen they might all have perished.
For the Indians were generous, and as long as they had food themselves
they shared it with their white friends. But at length they could
spare no more. Indeed they had already given the Pale-faces so much
food that they themselves, they said, would be forced to roam the
woods in search of roots and herbs to keep them from starving until
harvest was ripe. They told the Frenchmen, however, of two rich
and powerful chiefs who held sway over land which lay to the south,
where they might obtain endless supplies of corn and vegetables.
This was indeed good news to the Frenchmen. And guided by their
Indian friends they lost no time in setting out to beg food from
those dusky potentates.
When the Frenchmen reached the wigwams of one of these chiefs they
were received with great honour. They found that their Redskin
friends had spoken truly. Here there was food in abundance; and
after a great feast they returned joyfully to the fort, carrying
with them a great supply of corn and beans, and - what was still
better - a promise from the friendly chief that he would give them
more food whenever they had need of it.
Once more the colonists rejoiced in plenty. But not for long. For
the very night they arrived home their storehouse took fire, and
all the food which they had brought with such joy was destroyed.
Again famine stared them in the face. In their plight they once more
appealed to the savage chief who supplied their wants as generously
as before; promising them that as long as his meal should last they
should never want. So for the time being the colonists were saved
from starvation.
But another danger now threatened them, for quarrels arose among
the men. Albert de Pierria who had been set over them as captain
proved to be cruel and despotic. He oppressed the men in many ways,
hanging and imprisoning at will those who displeased him. Soon the
men began to murmur under his tyranny. Black looks greeted Albert
de Pierria: he answered them with blacker deeds. At length one
day for some misdeed he banished a soldier to a lonely island, and
left him there to die of hunger. This was more than the colonists
could well bear. Their smouldering anger burst forth, and seizing
the tyrant they put him to death. Then they chose one of their
number called Nicolas Barre to be their captain.
They were rid of their tyrant, and that brought peace for a time
to the little colony. But the men had grown to hate the place. The
land which had once seemed to them so fair now seemed no better
than a prison, and they longed to escape from it.
They had, however, no ship, and although all around them tall
trees grew no one of them knew anything of ship building. Still, so
strong was their desire to leave the hated spot that they resolved
to build one.
They set to work with. a will. Soon the sound of saw and hammer
awoke the silence of the forest. High and low, noble and peasant,
all worked together, the Indians, even, lending a hand.
At length their labours were over and the rough little ship was
afloat. It made but a sorry appearance. The planks were rough-hewn
by the hatchet, and caulked with the moss which grew in long
streamers on the trees. The cordage was Indian made, and the sails
were patched together from shirts and bedclothes. Never before had
men thought to dare the ocean waves in so crazy a craft. But the
colonists were in such eagerness to be gone that they chose rather
to risk almost certain death upon the ocean than remain longer in
their vast prison house.
So they loaded the ship with as much food as they could collect,
and saying farewell to their Indian friends, they spread their
patchwork sails, and glided out to sea drunken with joy at the
thought of returning to France.
At first the wind blew fair, and the little ship sped gaily
homeward. Then came a calm. The sun burned overhead, no faintest
breeze stirred the slack sails, and the ship lay as if at anchor
upon the glassy waters. And as the ship lay motionless the slender
stock of food grew less and less. Soon there was nothing left but
maize, and little of that. At first a tiny handful was each man's
daily portion; then it was counted by grains. But jealously hoarded
although it was the maize at length gave out, and there was nothing
left to eat but their leather shoes and jerkins.
Then to the pain of hunger was added the pain of thirst, for the
water barrels were emptied to the last drop. Unable to endure the
torture some drank the sea, water and so died in madness. Beneath
the burning sun every timber of the crazy little ship warped and
started, and on all sides the sea flowed in. Still through all
their agony the men clung to life. And sick with hunger, maddened
with thirst as they were they laboured unceasingly bailing out
the water. But they laboured now with despair in their hearts, and
they gave up hope of ever seeing their beloved France again. Then
at length the pitiless sun was overcast, a wild wind arose, and
the glassy sea, whipped to fury, became a waste of foam and angry
billows. The tiny vessel was tossed about helplessly and buffeted
this way and that.
"In the turning of a hand," says an old writer, "the waves filled
their vessel half full of water, and bruised it upon one side."
The wretched men now gave themselves up for lost. They cared no
longer to bail, but cast themselves down into the bottom of the
boat, and let it drift where it would. Only one man among them did
not utterly lose heart. He set himself now to encourage the others,
telling them that if only the wind held, in three days they would
see the shores of France.
This man was so full of hope that at length he aroused the others
from their despair. Once more they began the weary work of bailing,
and in spite of all the fury of the wind and waves the little vessel
kept afloat.
At last the storm passed. Once more the fainting wanderers righted
their vessel, and turned the prow towards the shores of France.
But three days passed, and no land was seen, and they became more
despairing than before.
For now the last grain of corn was eaten, the last drop of water
drunk. Mad with thirst, sick with hunger, the men strained their
weary eyes over the rolling waste of waters. No land was in sight.
Then a terrible thought crept into one mind after another. In a low
hoarse whisper one man and then another spoke out his thought-that
one man should die for his fellows.
So deep were they sunk in woe that all were of one mind. So lots
were cast, and the man upon whom the lot fell was killed.
These tortured wayfarers had become cannibals.
Kept alive in this terrible fashion the men sailed on, and
at length a faint grey streak appeared on the horizon. It was the
long-looked-for shore of France. But the joy was too great for
their over-strained minds. The sight of land seemed to rob them of
all power of thought or action. With salvation in sight they let
the little vessel drift aimlessly this way and that.
While they thus drifted aimlessly a white sail hove in sight, and
an English vessel bore down upon them. In the English vessel there
happened to be a Frenchman who had sailed with Ribaut on his first
voyage to Florida. He soon recognised his countrymen in spite of
their sorry plight, and they were brought aboard the English vessel.
And when they had been given food and drink, and were somewhat
revived, they told their tale of misery.
The Englishmen were in doubt for some time as to what it was best
to do. In the end they decided to set the most feeble on the shores
of France, and to carry the others prisoners to the Queen of England,
who at that time was about to send an expedition to Florida.
So ended the first attempt of the French to found a colony in North
America.
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Chapter 8 - How The French Founded a Colony in Florida
Two years after Ribaut's ill-fated expedition another company of
Frenchmen set sail for America. This time Reté de Laudonnière was
captain. He had been with Ribaut two years before, and now again
he landed on the same spot where Ribaut had first landed, and set
up the arms of France.
As they saw his ship come the Indians ran down to the beach welcoming
him with cries of excitement and joy, and taking him by the hand
the chief led him to the pillar which Jean Ribaut had set up. It was
wreathed in flowers, and baskets of corn stood before it. For the
Indians looked upon it as an idol, and made offerings to it. They
kissed it with a great show of reverence, and begged the Frenchmen
to do the same. "Which we would not deny them," says Laudonnière,
who himself tells the story, "to the end we might draw them to be
more in friendship with us."
Laudonnière was so delighted with the natives' friendly greeting
that he resolved to found his colony among these kindly Indians.
So a little way up the river which Ribaut had named the river of
May, but which is now the St. John's, he built a fort.
It was late one evening in June when the Frenchmen reached the
spot where they intended to build the fort; wearied with their long
march through the forest they lay down upon the ground and were
soon fast asleep.
But at day-break Laudonnière was astir. He commanded a trumpet to
be sounded, and when all the men were aroused and stood together
he bade them give thanks to God for their safe arrival. So standing
beneath the waving palms, with the deep blue sky arching overhead,
the men sang a psalm of thanksgiving and praise. Then kneeling they
prayed long and earnestly.
The prayer ended, the men arose, and full of happy courage turned
to their work. Every one took part with right good will. Some brought
earth, some cut logs; there was not a man who had not a shovel or
hatchet or some tool in his hand. The work went on merrily, and
soon above the banks of the river the fort rose, secure and strong,
fenced and entrenched on every side. In honour of their King Charles
these new colonists called their fort Caroline, just as Ribaut had
called his Charlesfort.
But as the native Chief Satouriona watched the fort grow he began
to be uneasy. He wondered what these pale-faced strangers were
about, and he feared lest they should mean evil towards him. So he
gathered his warriors together, and one day the Frenchmen looked
up from their labours to see the heights above them thick with
savages in their war paint.
At once the Frenchmen dropped their tools and prepared to defend
themselves. But Satouriona, making signs of peace, and leaving most
of his warriors behind him, came down into the camp followed by a
band of twenty musicians who blew ear-piercing blasts upon discordant
pipes.
Having reached the camp Satouriona squatted on his haunches, showing
that he wanted to take counsel with the Frenchmen. Then with many
signs and gestures he told the Frenchmen that his great enemies the
Thimagoes were near, and that if the Frenchmen wished to continue
in friendship with him they must promise to help him against these
powerful and hated foes.
Laudonnière feared to lose Satouriona's friendship. And thereupon
with signs, helped out now and again with a word or two, a, treaty
was made between the Indians and the Frenchmen, Laudonnière promising
to help Satouriona against his enemies, the Thimagoes. With this
treaty Satouriona was delighted, and he commanded his warriors to
help the Frenchmen in building their fort, which they very readily
did.
Then, mindful of his promise, as soon as the fort was finished,
Laudonnière sent off some of his followers under one of his officers
to find out who the Thimagoes really were of whom Satouriona spoke
with such hate. Guided by some Indians, this officer soon came upon
the Thimagoes. But instead of fighting with them he made friends
with them, which greatly disgusted his Indian guides.
Meanwhile Satouriona, delighted at the idea of being able to crush
his enemies with the Frenchmen's help, had gathered all his braves
together and made ready for war.
Ten chiefs and five hundred warriors, fearful in war paint and
feathers, gathered at the call. Then seeing that Laudonnière was
not making any preparations for war, he sent messengers to him.
"Our chief has sent us," they said, "and he would know whether you
will stand by your promise to show yourself a friend of his friends,
an enemy of his enemies and go with him to war."
"Tell your chief, replied Laudonnière, " that I am not willing to
purchase his friendship with the enmity of another. Notwithstanding
I will go with him. But first I must gather food for my garrison,
neither are my ships ready. An enterprise such as this needs time.
Let your chief abide two months, then if he hold himself ready I
will fulfil my promise to him."
The Indian carried this answer to the Chief who, when he heard it,
was filled with wrath. He was not, however, to be stayed from war,
and he determined to go alone.
With great ceremony he prepared to set out. In an open space near
the river a huge fire was lit. In a wide circle round this the
warriors gathered. Their faces were fearful with paint, and their
hair was decorated with feathers, or the heads of wolves and bears
and other fierce animals. Beside the fire was placed a large bowl
of water, and near it Satouriona stood erect, while his braves
squatted at his feet. Standing thus he turned his face, distorted
with wrath and hatred, towards the enemy's country. First he
muttered to himself, then he cried aloud to his god the Sun. And
when he had done this for half an hour he put his hand into the bowl
of water, and sprinkled the heads of his braves. Then suddenly, as
if in anger, he cast the rest of the water into the fire, putting
it out. As he did so he cried aloud:
"So may the blood of our enemies be poured out and their lives
extinguished."
In reply a hoarse yell went up from the savage host, and all the
woods resounded with the fiendish noise.
Thus Satouriona and his braves set forth for battle. In a few days
they returned singing praises to the Sun, and bringing with them
twenty-four prisoners and many scalps.
And now Laudonnière made Satouriona more angry than ever with him.
For he demanded two of these prisoners. Laudonnière wanted them
so that he might send them back to the chief of the Thimagoes as a
proof that he at least was still friendly, for he already regretted
his unwise treaty. But when Satouriona heard Laudonnière's request
he was very angry and treated it with scorn.
"Tell your chief," he said, "that he has broken his oath, and I
will not give him any of my prisoners."
When Laudonnière heard this answer he in his turn was very angry,
and he resolved to frighten Satouriona into obeying him. So taking
twenty soldiers with him he went to the chief's village. Leaving
some of the soldiers at the gate, and charging them to let no
Indians go in or out, he went into Satouriona's hut with the others.
In perfect silence he came in, in perfect silence he sat down and
remained so for a long time which, says Laudonnèire, put the chief
"deeply in the dumps."
At length when he thought that Satouriona was completely frightened,
Laudonnière spoke.
"Where are your prisoners?" he said. "I command them to be brought
before me." Thereupon the chief, "angry at the heart and astonied
wonderfully," stood a long time without making any answer. But when
at last he spoke it was boldly and without fear.
"I cannot give you my prisoners," he said. "For seeing you coming
in such warlike guise they were afraid and fled to the woods. And
not knowing what way they went we could not by any means find them
again."
Laudonnière, however, pretended that he did not understand what
the chief said, and again he asked for the prisoners.
The chief then commanded his son to go in search of them, and in
about an hour he returned bringing them with him. As soon as they
were brought before Laudonnière the prisoners greeted him humbly.
They lifted up their hands to heaven, and then threw themselves at
his feet. But Laudonnière raised them at once, and led them away
to the fort, leaving Satouriona very angry.
Laudonnière now sent the prisoners back to the Thimagoes' chief,
who was greatly delighted at the return of his braves. He was still
more delighted when the Frenchmen marched with him against another
tribe who were his enemies, and defeated them.
But while Laudonnière was thus making both friends and enemies
among the Indians all was not peace in the colony itself. Many of
the adventurers had grown tired of the loneliness and sameness of
the life. The food was bad, the work was hard, and there seemed
little hope that things would ever be better. And for all their
hardships it seemed to them the Governor was to blame. So they
began to murmur and be discontented, gathering together in groups,
whispering that it would be a good deed to put an end to Laudonnière
and choose another captain.
And now when the discontent was at its height Laudonnière fell
ill. Then one of the ringleaders of the discontent urged the doctor
to put poison in his medicine. But the doctor refused. Next they
formed a plot to hide a barrel of gunpowder under his bed and blow
him up. But Laudonnière discovered that plot, and the ringleader
fled to the forest.
About this time a ship arrived from France bringing food for the
colony, so that for a time things went a little better. And when
the ship sailed again for home Laudonnière sent the worst of the
mutineers back in it. In their place the captain left behind some
of his sailors. But this proved a bad exchange. For these sailors
were little better than pirates, and very soon they became the
ringleaders in revolt. They persuaded some of the older colonists
to join them. And one day they stole a little ship belonging to the
colony, and set off on a plundering expedition to the West Indies.
On the seas they led a wild and lawless life, taking and plundering
Spanish ships. But after a time they ran short of food, and found
themselves forced to put into a Spanish port. Here in order to make
peace with the Spaniards they told all they knew about the French
colony.
Thus it was that for the first time the Spaniards learned that the
heretic Frenchmen had settled in their land, and speedily the news
was sent home to Spain.
Meanwhile Laudonnière was greatly grieved for the loss of his
ship. And as days passed, and there was no sign of the mutineers'
return, he set his men to work to build two new ships.
For a time the work went well. But soon many of the men grew tired
of it and they began to grumble. Why should men of noble birth,
they asked, slave like carpenters? And day by day the discontent
increased.
At last one Sunday morning the men sent a message to Laudonnière
asking him to come out to the parade ground to meet them. Laudonnière
went, and he found all the colony waiting for him with gloomy
faces. At once one of them stepped forward, and asked leave to read
a paper in the name of all the others. Laudonnière gave permission.
The paper was read. It was full of complaints about the hard work,
the want of food, and other grievances. It ended with a request
that the men should be allowed to take the two ships which were
being built and sail to Spanish possessions in search of food. In
fact they wanted to become pirates like those mutineers who had
already sailed away.
Laudonnière refused to listen to this request. But he promised that
as soon as the two ships were finished they should be allowed to
set out in search of gold mines.
The mutineers separated with gloomy faces; they were by no means
satisfied with Laudonnière's answer, and the discontent was as deep
as ever. Laudonnière now again became very ill and the malcontents
had it all their own way. Soon nearly every one in the fort was on
their side, and they resolved to put an end to Laudonnière's tyranny.
Late one night about twenty men all armed to the teeth gathered
together and marched to Laudonnière's hut. Arrived there they beat
loudly on the door demanding entrance. But Laudonnière and his few
remaining friends knew well what this loud summons meant, and they
refused to open the door. The mutineers, however, were not to be
easily held back; they forced open the door, wounding one man who
tried to hinder them, and in a few minutes with drawn swords in
hand, and angry scowls on their faces, they crowded round the sick
man's bed. Then holding a gun at his throat they commanded him to
give them leave to set forth for Spanish waters. But the stern old
Huguenot knew no fear. Even with the muzzle of the gun against his
throat he refused to listen to the demands of the lawless crew.
His calmness drove them to fury. With terrible threats, and more
terrible oaths, they dragged him from his bed. Loading him with
fetters they carried him out of the fort, threw him into a boat
and rowed him out to the ship which lay anchored in the river. All
the loyal colonists had by this time been disarmed, and the fort
was completely in the hands of the mutineers. Their leader then drew
up a paper giving them leave to set forth to Spanish possessions.
And this he commanded Laudonnière to sign.
Laudonnière was completely in the power of the mutineers. He was
a prisoner and ill, but his spirit was unbroken, and he refused to
sign. Then the mutineers sent him a message saying that if he did
not sign they would come on board the ship and cut his throat. So,
seeing no help for it, Laudonnière signed.
The mutineers were now greatly delighted at the success of their
schemes. They made haste to finish the two little ships which they
had been building, and on the 8th of December they set sail. As
they went they flung taunts at those who stayed behind, calling
them fools and dolts and other scornful names, and threatening
them with all manner of punishments should they refuse them free
entrance to the fort on their return.
As soon as the mutineers were gone Laudonnière's friends rowed out
to him, set him free from his fetters, and brought him back to the
colony.
They were now but a very small company, but they were at peace with
each other, and there was plenty to do. So the weeks went quickly
by. They finished the fort, and began to build two new ships to
take the place of those which the mutineers had stolen. But they
never thought of tilling the ground and sowing seed to provide
bread for the future. Thus more than three months passed. Then one
day an Indian brought the news that a strange ship was in sight.
Laudonnière at once sent some men to find out what ship this might
be, and whether it was friend or foe.
It proved to be a Spanish vessel which the mutineers had captured
and which was now manned by them. But the mutineers who had sailed
away full of pride and insolence now returned in very humble mood.
Their buccaneering had not succeeded as they had hoped. They were
starving, and instead of boldly demanding entrance, and putting
in force their haughty threats, they were eager to make terms. But
Laudonnière was not sure whether they really came in peace or not.
So he sent out a little boat to the mutineers' ship. On the deck
of it there was an officer with one or two men only. But below,
thirty men, all armed to the teeth, were hidden. Seeing only these
one or two men in the boat the mutineers let her come alongside.
But what was their astonishment when armed men suddenly sprang from
the bottom of the boat and swarmed over the sides of their vessel.
Many of the mutineers were stupid with drink, all of them were
weak with hunger, and before they could seize their arms, or make
any resistance, they were overpowered and carried ashore.
There a court-martial was held, and four of the ringleaders were
condemned to death. But these bold bad men were loath to die.
"Comrades," said one, turning to the loyal soldiers near, "will
you stand by and see us die thus shamefully?"
"These," replied Laudonnière, sharply, "are no comrades of mutineers
and rebels."
All appeals for mercy were in vain. So the men were shot and their
bodies hanged on gibbets near the mouth of the river as a lesson
to rebels.
After this there was peace for a time in Fort Caroline. But it
soon became peace with misery, for the colony began to starve. The
long-expected ship from France did not come. Rich and fertile land
spread all round them, but the colonists had neither ploughed nor
sown it. They trusted to France for all their food. Now for months
no ships had come, and their supplies were utterly at an end.
So in ever increasing misery the days passed. Some crawled about the
meadows and forest, digging for roots and gathering herbs. Others
haunted the river bed in search of shell-fish. One man even gathered
up all the fish bones he could find and ground them to powder to
make bread. But all that they scraped together with so much pain
and care was hardly enough to keep body and soul together. They
grew so thin that their bones started through the skin. Gaunt,
hollow-eyed spectres they lay about the fort sunk in misery, or
dragged themselves a little way into the forest in search of food.
Unless help came from France they knew that they must all soon die
a miserable death. And amid all their misery they clung to that
last hope, that help would come from France. So, however feeble they
were, however faint with hunger, they would crawl in turns to the
top of the hill above the fort straining their dimming eyes seaward.
But no sail appeared.
At length they gave up all hope, and determined to leave the hated
spot. They had the Spanish ship which the mutineers had captured,
and another little vessel besides which they had built. But these
were not enough to carry them all to France, so gathering all their
last energy they began to build another boat. The hope of getting
back to France seemed for a time to put a little strength into their
famine stricken bodies. And while they worked Laudonnière sailed
up the river in search of food. But he returned empty-handed.
Famishing men cannot work, and soon the colonists began to weary
of their labours.
The neighbouring Indians, too, who might have given them food, were
now their enemies. They indeed now and again brought scant supplies
of fish to the starving men. But they demanded so much for it that
soon the colonists were bare of everything they had possessed. They
bartered the very shirts from their backs for food. And if they
complained of the heavy price the Indians laughed at them.
"If thou makest so great account of thy merchandise," they jeered,
"eat it and we will eat our fish."
But summer passed. The grain began to ripen, and although the Indians
sold it grudgingly the colony was relieved from utter misery for
the time being.
But now fresh troubles arose, for the Frenchmen quarreled with the
chief of the Thimagoes for whose sake they had already made enemies
of Satouriona and his Indians.
Thinking themselves treated in an unfriendly manner by the Thimagoes
the Frenchmen seized their chief, and kept him prisoner until the
Indians promised to pay a ransom of large quantities of grain.
The Indians agreed only because they saw no other means of freeing
their chief. They were furiously angry with the Frenchmen and,
seething with indignation against them, they refused to pay an
ounce of grain until their chief had been set free: and even then
they would not bring it to Fort Caroline, but forced the Frenchmen
to come for it. The Frenchmen went, but they very quickly saw
that they were in great danger. For the village swarmed with armed
warriors who greeted the colonists with scowls of deepest hatred.
After a few days, therefore, although only a small portion of the
ransom had been paid, the Frenchmen decided to make for home as
fast as possible.
It was a hot July morning on which they set off. Each man besides
his gun carried a sack of grain, so the progress was slow. They had
not gone far beyond the village when a wild war whoop was heard.
It was immediately followed by a shower of arrows. The Frenchmen
replied with a hot fire of bullets. Several of the Indians fell
dead, and the rest fled howling into the forest.
Then the Frenchmen marched on again. But they had scarcely gone
a quarter of a mile when another war whoop was heard in front.
It was answered from behind, and the Frenchmen knew themselves
surrounded. But they stood their ground bravely. Dropping their
bags of corn they seized their guns. A sharp encounter followed,
and soon the Indians fled again into the forest. But again and
again they returned to the attack, and the Frenchmen had to fight
every yard of the way. At nine o'clock the fight began, and the sun
was setting when at length the Indians gave up the pursuit. When
the Frenchmen reached their boats they counted their losses. Two
had been killed, and twenty-two injured, some of them so badly
that they had to be carried on board the boats. Of all the bags of
grain with which they had started out only two remained. It was a
miserable ending to the expedition.
The plight of the colony was now worse than ever. The two sacks
of grain were soon consumed; the feeble efforts at building a ship
had come to nothing. But rather than stay longer the colonists
resolved to crowd into the two small vessels they had, and sail
homeward if only they could gather food enough for the voyage. But
where to get that food none knew.
One day full of troubled, anxious thoughts Laudonnière climbed
the hill and looked seaward. Suddenly he saw something which made
his heart beat fast, and brought the colour to his wasted cheeks.
A great ship, its sails gleaming white in the sunlight was making
for the mouth of the river. As he gazed another and still another
ship hove in sight. Thrilling with excitement Laudonnière sent
a messenger down to the fort with all speed to tell the news, and
when they heard it the men who had seemed scarce able to crawl arose
and danced for joy. They laughed, and wept, and cried aloud, till
it seemed as if joy had bereft them of their wits.
But soon fear mingled with their joy. There was something not
altogether familiar about the cut and rig of the ships. Were they
really the long-looked-for ships from France, or did they belong
to their deadly and hated enemies, the Spaniards? They were neither
one nor the other. That little fleet was English, under command
of the famous admiral, John Hawkins, in search of fresh water of
which they stood much in need. The English Admiral at once showed
himself friendly. To prove that he came with no evil intent he
landed with many of his officers gaily clad, and wearing no arms.
The famine-stricken colonists hailed him with delight, for it seemed
to them that he came as a deliverer.
Gravely and kindly Hawkins listened to the tale of misery, yet he
was glad enough when he heard that the Frenchmen had decided to
leave Florida, for he wanted to claim it for Queen Elizabeth and
England. When, however, he saw the ships in which they meant to
sail homewards he shook his head. "It was not possible," he said,
"for so many souls to cross the broad Atlantic in those tiny
barques." So he offered to give all the Frenchmen a free passage
to France in his own ships. This Laudonnière refused. Then Hawkins
offered to lend him, or sell him, one of his ships. Even this
kindness Laudonnière hesitated to accept.
Thereupon there arose a great uproar among the colonists, they
crowded round him clamouring to be gone, threatening that if he
refused the Englishman's offer they would accept it and sail without
him.
So Laudonnière yielded. He told Hawkins that he would buy the
ship he offered, but he had no money. The Englishman, however, was
generous. Instead of money he took the cannon and other things now
useless to the colonists. He provided them with food enough for
the voyage, and seeing many of the men ragged and barefoot, added
among other things fifty pairs of shoes.
Then with kindly good wishes Hawkins said farewell and sailed away,
leaving behind him many grateful hearts. As soon as he was gone
the Frenchmen began to prepare to depart also. In a few days all
was ready, and they only waited for a fair wind in order to set
sail. But as they waited, one day, the fort was again thrown into
a state of excitement by the appearance of another fleet of ships.
Again the question was asked, were they friends or foes, Spaniards
or Frenchmen? At length, after hours of sickening suspense, the
question was answered, they were Frenchmen under the command of
Ribaut.
The long-looked-for help had come at last. It had come when it was
no longer looked for, when it was indeed unwelcome to many. For
the colonists had grown utterly weary of that sunlit cruel land,
and they only longed to go home. France with any amount of tyranny
was to be preferred before the freedom and the misery of Florida.
But to abandon the colony was now impossible, for besides supplies
of food the French ships had brought many new colonists. This
time, too, the men had not come alone but had brought their wives
and families with them. Soon the fort which had been so silent and
mournful was filled with sounds of talk and laughter. Again, the
noise of hatchet and hammer resounded through the woods, and the
little forsaken corner of the world awoke once more to life.
__________
Chapter 9 - How the Spaniards Drove the French Out of Florida
Scarcely a week had passed before the new peace and happiness of
the French colony was brought to a cruel end.
Late one night the men on board the French ships saw a great black
hulk loom silently up out of the darkness. It was followed by
another and another. No word was spoken, and in eerie silence the
strange ships crept stealthily onwards, and cast anchor beside the
French. The stillness grew terrible. At length it was broken by a
trumpet call from the deck of one of the silent new-comers.
Then a voice came through the darkness. "Gentlemen," it asked,
"whence does this fleet come?"
"From France," was the reply.
"What are you doing here?" was the next question.
"We are bringing soldiers and supplies for a fort which the King of
France has in this country, and for many which he soon will have."
"Are you Catholics or Lutherans?"
The question came sharply across the dark water. It was answered
by many voices.
"We are Lutherans," cried the French, "we are of the new religion."
Then it was the Frenchmen's turn to ask questions.
"Who are you," I they cried, "and whence come ye?"
"I am Pedro Menendez," replied the voice out of the darkness. "I
am Admiral of the fleet of the King of Spain. And I am come into
this country to hang and behead all Lutherans whom I may find by
land or by sea. And my King has given me such strict commands that
I have power to pardon no man of them. And those commands I shall
obey to the letter, as you will see. At dawn I shall come aboard
your ship. And if there I find any Catholic he shall be well-treated,
but every heretic shall die."
In reply to this speech a shout of wrath went up from the Frenchmen.
"If You are a brave man," they cried, "why wait for dawn? Come on
now, and see what you will get."
Then in their anger they heaped insults upon the Spaniards, and
poured forth torrents of scoffing words. Thereupon Menendez was
so enraged that he swore to silence those Lutheran dogs once and
for ever. So the order was given, and his great ship slowly moved
towards the French.
The threats of the French had been but idle boasting; they could not
withstand the Spaniards, for their leader was ashore with most of
his soldiers. So cutting their cables they fled out to sea pursued
by the foe.
There was a mad chase through the darkness. But the heretic devils,
as the Spaniards called them, were skilful sailors. Menendez could
not catch them, and when day dawned he gave up the chase and moodily
turned back to Fort Caroline.
Here he found the French ready for him, and they seemed so strong
that he would not attack, but sailed away southwards until he
reached the river of Dolphins.
Here Menendez landed and took possession of the country in the
name of the King of Spain. While cannon boomed and trumpets blew
he stepped on shore followed by his officers and gentlemen. In
all the gay trappings of knighthood, with many-coloured banners
fluttering in the breeze, they marched. Then as they advanced another
procession came toward them. At the head of it was a priest in all
the pomp and splendour of his priestly robes. He carried a gilded
crucifix in his hand, and as he marched he sang a Te Deum.
When the two processions met Menendez and all his company knelt,
and baring their heads kissed the crucifix. So was the land claimed
for Spain and the Catholic faith, and St. Augustine, the oldest
town in the United States, was founded.
Meanwhile, the fleeing French ships had turned, followed the Spaniards,
and seen them land. Then they went back to Fort Caroline with the
news.
While these things had been happening Laudonnière had been very
ill. He was still in bed when Ribaut, followed by several of his
chief officers, came to his room to tell him the news which the
returning ships had just brought. And beside his sickbed they held
a council of war. It was decided to attack the Spaniards and drive
them from the land. But how?
First one plan and then another was discussed, and to each some
one objected. But at length it was decided to go by sea and attack
the Spaniards suddenly in their newly-founded fort.
So almost every man who could hold a gun set forth with Ribaut,
and Laudonnière was left in the fort with the feeble and sick, and
scarcely a man besides who had ever drawn a sword or fired a shot.
Their leader was as sick and feeble as any of them. But he dragged
himself from his bed to review his forces. They were poor indeed,
but Laudonnière made the best of them. He appointed each man to a
certain duty, he set a, watch night and day, and he began to repair
the broken-down walls of the fort, so that they would be able to
make some show of resistance in ease of attack.
While Laudonnière was thus ordering his poor little garrison
the ships carrying the rest of the colonists sailed on their way.
The wind was fair, and in the night they crept close to where the
Spanish vessels lay.
But when day dawned and the Spaniards saw the French vessels close
to them they fled to the shelter of their harbour. And a sudden
storm arising the French were driven out to sea again.
As Menendez watched them from the shore he rejoiced. He knew by
the number of the ships that most of the French colonists must be
in them, and he hoped that they would all be lost in the storm.
Then as he watched a sudden thought came to him. While the Frenchmen
were battling with wind and waves he resolved to move quickly over
land and take Fort Caroline. For he knew that it must be almost,
if not quite, unprotected.
One of the French mutineers who had deserted Laudonnière was now
in the Spanish fort. He would show the way. Full of this splendid
idea, eager to carry it out at once, he ordered Mass to be said,
then he called a council and laid his plan before his officers.
They, however, met his eagerness with coldness. It was a mad and
hopeless plan, they thought, and they did their best to dissuade
Menendez from it. But Menendez was determined to go.
"Comrades," he said, "it is now that we must show our courage and
our zeal. This is God's war, and we must not turn our backs upon
it. It is war against heretics, and we must wage it with blood and
with fire."
But the Spanish leader's eager words awoke no response in the
hearts of his hearers. They answered him only with mutterings.
Still Menendez insisted. The debate grew stormy, and angry words
were flung this way and that.
At length, however, Menendez had his way. The clamour was stilled,
the officers gave a grudging consent, and preparations for the
march were begun. In a few days all was ready, and the expedition
set out. It was a simple matter. There was no great train of
sumpter mules or baggage wagons. Each man carried his own food and
ammunition, and twenty axemen marched in front of the little army
to cleave a way through the forest.
The storm still raged. Rain fell in torrents, and the wind howled
ceaselessly as on and on the men trudged. They plunged through
seas of mud, and grass which grew waist high, and threaded their
way along the narrow paths cloven for them by the axemen.
So for three days they toiled onward. Their food was gone, their
ammunition soaked, they were drenched to the skin, footsore and
famishing, when upon the third night they lay down upon the muddy
ground, cursing their leader for having brought them forth to
died thus miserably. But while the men cursed Menendez prayed. All
night he prayed. And before day dawned he called his officers to a
council. They were now within a mile of Fort Caroline, and he was
eager to attack.
But his officers were sick of the whole business. The men were
utterly disheartened; one and all they clamoured to return.
Yet once again Menendez bent them to his will. In the darkness of
the forest he spoke to the wretched, shivering, rain-drenched men.
He taunted, he persuaded, and at length wrung from them a sullen
consent to follow him.
So once again the miserable march was begun, and when day
dawned they stood on the hill above the fort .
No sound came from it, no watchman stood upon the ramparts. For
towards morning, seeing that it rained harder than ever, the captain
of the guard had sent his men to bed, for they were soaked to the
skin and he was sorry for them. In such rain and wind what enemy
would venture forth? he asked himself. It was folly to stay abroad
on such a night he thought. So he dismissed the guard, and went
off to bed.
Thus none heard or saw the approach of the Spaniards. Then suddenly
the silence of the dawn was broken with fierce war cries.
"At them," shouted the Spaniards, "God is with us!"
The sleeping Frenchmen started from their beds in terror. Half
naked they sprang to arms. On every side the Spaniards poured in.
The dim light of dawn showed the dark cruel faces, and the gleam
of drawn swords. Then clash of steel, screams of frightened women
and children, curses, prayers, all mingled together in terrible
confusion.
At the first alarm Laudonnière sprang from his bed, and seizing his
sword called his men to follow him. But the Spaniards surrounded
him, his men were slain and scattered, and he himself was forced
back into the yard of his house. Here there was a tent. This
stopped his pursuers, for they stumbled over the cordage and became
entangled with it. The confusion gave Laudonnière a few minutes'
respite in which he escaped through a breach in the ramparts, and
took refuge in the forest. A few others fleeing this way and that
escaped likewise. But some, the first moment of terror past, resolved
to return and throw themselves on the mercy of the Spaniards rather
than face starvation in the woods.
"They are men" said one; "it may be when their fury is spent they
will spare our lives. Even if they slay us what of that? It is but
a moment's pain. Better that than to starve here in the woods or
be torn to pieces by wild beasts."
Still some held back, but most agreed to throw themselves upon the
mercy of the Spaniards.
So unarmed and almost naked as they were, they turned back to give
themselves up. But little did these simple Frenchmen understand
the fury of the foe. When they neared the fort the Spaniards rushed
out upon them and, unheeding their cries for mercy, slew them to
a man. Those who had held back, when they saw the fate of their
companions, fled through the forest. Some sought refuge among the
Indians. But even from that refuge the Spaniards hunted them forth
and slew them without pity. Thus the land was filled with bloodshed
and ruin. Many were slain at once by the sword, others were hanged
on trees round the fort, and over them Menendez wrote, "I do this
not as to Frenchmen but as to Lutherans." Only a few miserable
stragglers, after untold sufferings, reached the little ship which
still lay at anchor in the river. Among these was Laudonnière.
Their one desire now was to flee homewards, and unfurling their
sails they set out for France.
The colony of Fort Caroline was wiped out, and rejoicing at the
success of his bold scheme, Menendez marched back to St. Augustine
where a Te Deum was sung in honour of this victory over heretics.
Meanwhile the Frenchmen who had set forth to attack St. Augustine
by sea had been driven hither and thither by the storm, and at length
were wrecked. But although the ships were lost all, or nearly all,
of the men succeeded in reaching the shore in safety. And not knowing
what had happened at Fort Caroline they set out in two companies
to try to reach the fort by land.
But they never reached the fort. For one morning scarcely ten days
after the destruction of Fort Caroline some Indians came to Menendez
with the news that they had seen a French ship wrecked a little to
the south.
The news delighted Menendez, and he at once set out to capture the
shipwrecked men. It was not long before he saw the lights of the
French camp in the distance. But on coming nearer it was seen that
they were on the other side of an arm of the sea, so that it was
impossible to reach them. Hiding, therefore, in the bushes by the
water's edge Menendez and his men watched the Frenchmen on the other
side. The Spaniards soon saw that their enemies were in distress.
They suspected that they were starving, for they could be seen
walking up and down the shore seeking shellfish. But Menendez
wanted to make sure of the state they were in, and he made up his
mind to get nearer to the Frenchmen. So he put off his fine clothes,
and dressing himself like a common sailor, got into a boat and
rowed across the water.
Seeing him come one of the Frenchmen swam out to meet him. As he
drew near Menendez called out to him: "Who are you, and whence come
ye?"
"We are followers of Ribaut, Viceroy of the King of France," answered
the Frenchman."
"Are you Catholics or Lutherans?" asked Menendez.
"We are Lutherans," answered the man.
Then after a little more talk Menendez told who he was.
With this news the man swam back to his companions. But he soon
returned to the boat to say that five of the French leaders wished
to speak with the Spanish leader, and begged for safe conduct to
his camp.
To this Menendez readily agreed, and returning to his own side he
sent the boat back to bring the Frenchmen over.
When they landed Menendez received them courteously. And after
returning his ceremonious greetings the Frenchmen begged the
Spaniards to lend them a boat so that they might cross the river
which lay between them and Fort Caroline.
At this request Menendez smiled evilly. "Gentlemen," he said, "it
were idle for you to go to your fort. It has been taken, and every
man is slain."
But the Frenchmen could not at first believe that he spoke the truth.
So in proof of his words the Spanish leader bade his men show the
heretics the plunder which had been taken from their fort. As they
looked upon it the hearts of the Frenchmen sank.
Then ordering breakfast to be sent to them Menendez left them, and
went to breakfast with his own officers.
Breakfast over he came back to the Frenchmen, and as he looked at
their gloomy faces his heart rejoiced. "Do you believe now," he
asked, "that what I told you is true?"
"Yes," replied the Frenchmen, "we believe. It would be useless now
to go to the fort. All we ask of you is to lend us ships so that
we may return home."
"I would gladly do so," replied Menendez, "if you were Catholics,
and if I had ships. But I have none."
Then seeing that he would give them no help to reach home, the
Frenchmen begged Menendez at least to let them stay with his people
until help came to them from France. It was little enough to ask,
they thought, as France and Spain were at peace. But there was no
pity or kindliness in the Spanish general's heart.
"All Catholics," he replied sternly, "I would defend and succour.
But as for you, you are Lutherans, and I must hold you as enemies.
I will wage war against you with blood and fire. I will wage it
fiercely, both by land and sea, for I am Viceroy for my King in
this country. I am here to plant the holy Gospel in this land ,
that the Indians may come to the light and knowledge of the Holy
Catholic, faith of our Lord Jesus Christ, as taught by the Roman
Church. Give up your banners and your arms, and throw yourselves
on my mercy, and I will do with you as God gives me grace. In no
other way can you have truce or friendship with me."
To this the Frenchmen knew not what to say. First they consulted
together, then some of them went back across the water to take
counsel with those who waited there. They talked long, and anxiously
those on the Spanish side awaited their return. At length one of
their messengers returned, and going to Menendez he offered him a
large sum of money if he would swear to spare their lives.
But Menendez would promise nothing. The Frenchmen were helpless.
They were starving and in his hands. And both he and they knew it.
They saw no hope anywhere, so they yielded to the Spanish general's
demands.
Once more the boat was sent across the water, and this time it came
back laden with banners, arms and armour. Then guarded by Spanish
soldiers the Frenchmen were brought across by tons. As each batch
landed they found themselves prisoners; their arms were taken from
them and their hands were tied behind their backs.
All day, hour after hour, the boat plied to and fro: and when all
the Frenchmen had been brought over they were ordered to march
forward. The Spanish general walked in front. But he did not go
far, for the sun was already setting, and it was time to camp for
the night. So but a little way from the shore he stopped, and drew
a line in the sand. And when the wretched Frenchmen reached that
line, weaponless and helpless as they were, they were one and all
put to death. Then, glorying in his deed, Menendez returned to St.
Augustine.
But he had not yet completely wiped out the French colony. For
besides those he had so ruthlessly slain there was another large
party under Ribaut, who, ignorant of all that had happened, were
still slowly making their way to Fort Caroline. But again news of
their whereabouts was brought to Menendez by Indians, and again he
set off to waylay them.
He found them on the same spot as he had found the first party. But
this time the Frenchmen had made a raft, and upon this they were
preparing to cross the water when the Spaniards came upon them. The
Frenchmen were in such misery that many of them greeted the appearance
of their enemies with joy. But others were filled with misgiving.
Still they resolved to try to make terms with the Spaniards. So
first one of his officers, and then Ribaut himself, rowed across
the strip of water to parley with the Spanish leader. They found
him as pitiless as their companions had found him. And seeing that
they could make no terms with him many of the Frenchmen refused to
give themselves up, and they marched away. But after much parleying,
and many comings and goings across the river, Ribaut, believing
that Menendez would spare their lives, yielded up himself and the
rest of his company to the Spaniards.
He was soon undeceived. For he was led away among the bushes, and
his hands were tied behind his back. As his followers came over
they, too, were bound and led away. Then as trumpets blew and drums
beat the Spaniards fell upon their helpless prisoners and slew them
to a man.
When Ribaut saw that his hour was come he did not flinch. "We are
but dust," he said, "and to dust we must return: twenty years more
or less can matter little." So with the words of a psalm upon his
lips he met the swordthrust.
Not till every man lay dead was the fury of the Spaniards sated.
Then, his horrible labour ended, Menendez returned once more in
triumph to his fort.
Those of the French who had refused to give themselves up to Menendez
now wandered back to the shore where their ship had been wrecked.
Out of the broken pieces they tried to build a ship in which they
might sail homeward. But again news of their doings was brought to
Menendez by the Indians. And again he set out to crush them. When
the Frenchmen saw the Spaniards come they fled in terror. But Menendez
sent a messenger after them promising that if they yielded to him
he would spare their lives. Most Of them yielded. And Menendez kept
his promise. He treated his prisoners well. But, when an opportunity
arrived, he sent them home to end their lives as galley slaves.
__________
Chapter 10 - How a Frenchman Avenged the Death of His Countrymen
When the news of these terrible massacres reached France it was
greeted with a cry of horror. Even the boy King, Charles IX, Catholic
though he was, demanded redress. But the King of Spain declared
that the Frenchmen had been justly served. The land upon which they
had settled was his, he said, and they had no right to be there.
He was sorry that they were Frenchmen, but they were also pirates
and robbers, and had received only the just reward of their misdeeds.
Neither Charles nor his mother, who was the real ruler in France
at this time, wished to quarrel with the King of Spain. So finding
that no persuasions would move him, and that instead of being punished
Menendez was praised and rewarded, they let the matter drop.
But there was one man in France who would not thus tamely submit to
the tyranny of Spain. His name was Dominique de Gourges. He hated
the Spaniards with a deadly hatred. And when he heard of the Florida
massacre he vowed to avenge the death of his countrymen. He sold
all that he had, borrowed what money he could, and with three ships
and a goodly company of soldiers and sailors set sail.
At first, however, he kept, his real object secret. Instead of
steering straight for Florida he steered southward, making believe
that he was going to Africa for slaves. But after encountering storms
and contrary winds he turned westward, and when off the coast of
Cuba he gathered all his men together and told them what he had
set out to do.
In vivid, terrible words he recounted to them the horrible slaughter.
"Shall we let such cruelty go unpunished?" he asked. "What fame
for us if we avenge it! To this end I have given my fortune, and
I counted on you to help me. Was I wrong?"
"No," they all cried, "we will go with you to avenge our countrymen!"
So with hearts filled with thoughts of vengeance they sailed onward
to Fort Caroline.
The Spaniards had repaired the fort and now called it Fort Mateo.
They had also built two small forts nearer the mouth of the river
to guard the entrance to it. Now one afternoon the men in these
forts saw three ships go sailing by. These were the French ships
bringing Gourges and his companions. But the men in the forts
thought that they were Spanish ships and therefore fired a salute.
Gourges did not undeceive them. He fired a salute in reply and,
sailing on as if he were going elsewhere, was soon lost to sight.
At length, having found a. convenient place out of sight of
the forts, he drew to the shore. But when he would have landed he
saw that the whole beach was crowded with savages armed with bows
and arrows and ready for war. For the Indians, too, had taken the
strange ships to be Spanish. And as they had grown to hate the
Spaniards with a deadly hatred they were prepared to withstand
their landing.
Fortunately, however, Gourges had on board a trumpeter who had been
in Florida with Laudonnière. So now he sent him on shore to talk
with the Indians. And as soon as they recognised him they greeted
him with shouts of joy. Then they led him at once to their chief
who was no other than Satouriona, Laudonnière's one-time friend.
So amid great rejoicings the Frenchmen landed. Then Satouriona.
poured into their ears the tale of his wrongs. He told them how the
Spaniards stole their corn, drove them from their huts and their
hunting grounds, and generally ill-treated them. "Not one peaceful
day," he said, "have the Indians known since the Frenchmen went
away."
When Gourges heard this he was well pleased. "If you have been
ill-treated by the Spaniards," he said, "the French will avenge
you."
At this Satouriona, leaped for joy.
"What!" he cried, "will you fight the Spaniards?"
"Yes," replied Gourges, "but you must do your part also."
"We will die with you," cried Satouriona, "if need be."
"That is well," said Gourges. "How soon can you be ready? For if
we fight we should fight at once."
"In three days we can be ready," said the Indian.
"See to it then," said Gourges, "that you are secret in the matter
so that the Spaniards suspect nothing."
"Have no fear," replied Satouriona; "we wish them more ill than
you do."
The third day came and, true to his word, Satouriona appeared
surrounded by hundreds of warriors, fearful in paint and feathers.
Then some by water, some by land, the French and Indians set
forth, and after many hardships and much toil they reached one of
the forts which the Spaniards had built near the river Is mouth.
From the shelter of the surrounding trees they gazed upon it.
"There!" cried Gourges, "there at last are the thieves who have
stolen this land from our King. There are the murderers who slew
our countrymen."
At his words the men were hardly to be restrained. In eager whispers
they begged to be led on. So the word was given, and the Frenchmen
rushed upon the fort.
The Spaniards had just finished their mid-day meal when a cry was
heard from the ramparts. "To arms! to arms! the French are coming!"
They were taken quite unawares, and with but short resistance they
fled. The French and Indians pursued them and hemmed them in so
that not one man escaped. In like manner the second fort was also
taken, and every man slain or made prisoner.
The next day was Sunday, and Gourges spent it resting, and making
preparations to attack Fort Mateo.
When the Spaniards in Fort Mateo saw the French and their great
host of yelling, dancing Indians they were filled with fear. And
in order to find out how strong the force really was one of them
dressed himself as an Indian and crept within the French lines. But
almost at once he was seen by a young Indian chief. And his disguise
being thus discovered he was seized and questioned. He owned that
there were scarce three hundred men in the fort and that, believing
the French to number at least two-thousand, they were completely
terror-stricken. This news delighted Gourges, and next morning he
prepared to attack.
The fort was easily taken. When the Spaniards saw the French
attack, panic seized them and they fled into the forest. But there
the Indians, mad with the desire of blood and vengeance, met them.
Many fell before the tomahawks; others turned back choosing rather
to die at the hands of the French than of the Indians. But which
way they turned there was no escape. Nearly all were slain, a few
only were taken prisoner.
When the fight was over Gourges brought all the prisoners from the
three forts together. He led them to the trees where Menendez had
hanged the Frenchmen a few months before. There he spoke to them.
"Did you think that such foul treachery, such, abominable cruelty
would go unpunished?" he said. "Nay, I, one of the most lowly of
my King's subjects, have taken upon myself to avenge it. There is
no name shameful enough with which to brand your deeds, no punishment
severe enough to repay them. But though you cannot be made to suffer
as you deserve you shall suffer all that an enemy may honourably
inflict. Thus your fate shall be an example to teach others to keep
the peace and friendly alliance, which you have broken so wickedly."
And having spoken thus sternly to the trembling wretches Gourges
ordered his men to hang them on the very same trees upon which
Menendez had hanged the Frenchmen. And over their heads he nailed
tablets of wood upon which were burned the words "Not as Spaniards
or as Mariners, but as Traitors, Robbers and Murderers."
Then at length the vengeance of Gourges was satisfied. But indeed
it was scarce complete, for Menendez the chief over and leader
of the Spaniards was safe in Europe, and beyond the reach of any
private man's vengeance. The Spaniards, too, were strongly entrenched
at St. Augustine, so strongly indeed that Gourges knew he had not
force enough to oust them. He had not even men enough to keep the
three forts he had won. So he resolved to destroy them.
This delighted the Indians, and they worked with such vigour that
in one day all three forts were made level with the ground. Then,
having accomplished all that he had come to do, Gourges made ready
to depart. Whereupon the Indians set up a wail of grief. With
tears they begged the Frenchmen to stay, and when they refused they
followed them all the way to the shore, praising them and giving
them gifts, and praying them to return.
So leaving the savages weeping upon the shore the Frenchmen sailed
away, and little more than a month later they reached home.
When they heard of what Gourges had done the Huguenots rejoiced,
and they greeted him with honour and praise. But Philip of Spain
was furiously angry. He demanded that Gourges should be punished,
and offered a large sum of money for his head. King Charles, too,
being in fear of the King of Spain, looked upon him coldly, so that
for a time he was obliged to flee away and hide himself.
Gourges had used all his money to set forth on his expedition, so
for a few years he lived in poverty. But Queen Elizabeth at length
heard of him and his deeds. And as she, too, hated the Spaniards
she was pleased at what he had done, and she asked him to enter
her service. Thus at length he was restored to honour and favour.
And in honour and favour he continued all the rest of his life.
__________
Chapter 11 - The Adventures of Sir Humphrey Gilbert
The terrible disasters in Florida did not altogether stop French
adventurers from going to the New World. But to avoid conflict with
Spain they sailed henceforth more to the northern shores of erica,
and endeavoured to found colonies there. This made. Englishmen
angry. For by right of Cabot's voyages they claimed all America.
from Florida to Newfoundland, which, says a writer in the time of
Queen Elizabeth, "they bought and annexed unto the crowne of England."
The English, therefore, looked upon the French as interlopers and
usurpers. The French, however, paid little attention to the English
claims. They explored the country, named mountains, rivers, capes,
and bays, and planted colonies where they liked. Thus began the
long two hundred years' struggle between the French and English
for possession of North America.
The French had already planted a colony on the St. Lawrence when
an Englishman, Sir Humphrey Gilbert, determined also to plant one
in North America.
He was the first Englishman ever to attempt to found a colony in
America. Many Englishmen had indeed sailed there before him. But
they had only gone in quest of gold and of adventures, and without
any thought of founding a New England across the seas. This now,
with Queen Elizabeth's permission, was what Sir Humphrey hoped to
do.
He set out with a little fleet of five ships. One of these was
called the Raleigh, and had been fitted out by the famous Sir Walter
Raleigh who was Gilbert's step-brother. Walter Raleigh, no doubt,
would gladly have gone with the company himself. But he was at the
time in high favour with Good Queen Bess, and she forbade him to
go on any such dangerous expedition. So he had to content himself
with helping to fit out expeditions for other people.
The Raleigh was the largest ship of the little fleet, and Sir
Walter spared no cost in fitting it Out. But before they had been
two days at sea the Captain of the Raleigh and many of his men
fell ill. This so greatly discouraged them that they turned back
to Plymouth.
Sir Humphrey was sad indeed at the loss of the largest and best-fitted
ship of his expedition, but he held on his way undaunted. They
had a troublous passage. Contrary winds, fogs and icebergs delayed
them. In a fog two of the ships named the Swallow and the Squirrel
separated from the others. But still Sir Humphrey sailed on.
At length land came in sight. But it was a barren, unfriendly coast,
"nothing but hideous rocks and mountains, bare of trees, and void
of any green herbs," says one who went with the expedition. And
seeing it so uninviting they sailed southward along the coast,
looking for a fairer land.
And now to their great joy they fell in again with the Swallow. The
men in the Swallow were glad, too, to see the Golden Hind and the
Delight once more. They threw their caps into the air and shouted
aloud for joy.
Soon after the re-appearance of the Swallow the Squirrel also turned
up, so the four ships were together again. Together they sailed
into the harbour of St. John's in Newfoundland. Here they found
fishermen from all countries. For Newfoundland had by this time
become famous as a fishing-ground, and every summer ships from all
countries went there to fish.
Sir Humphrey, armed as he was with a commission from Queen Elizabeth,
was received with all honour and courtesy by these people. And on
Monday, August 5th, 1583, he landed and solemnly took possession
of the country for two hundred leagues north, south, east and west,
in the name of England's Queen.
First his commission was read aloud and interpreted to those of
foreign lands who were there. Then one of Sir Humphrey's followers
brought him a twig of a hazel tree and a sod of earth, and put them
into his hands, as a sign that he took possession of the land and
all that was in it. Then proclamation was made that these lands
belonged to her Majesty Queen Elizabeth of England by the Grace of
God. "And if any person shall utter words sounding to the dishonour
of her Majesty, he shall lose his ears, and have his ship and goods
confiscated." The arms of England, engraved on lead and fixed to a
pillar of wood, were then set up, and after prayer to God the ceremony
came to an end. Thus Newfoundland became an English possession, and
by right of Sir Humphrey Gilbert's claims it is the oldest colony
of the British Empire.
Sir Humphrey Gilbert had taken possession of the land. But it soon
became plain that it would be impossible to found a colony with the
wild riff-raff of the sea of which his company was formed. Troubles
began at once. A few indeed went about their business quietly, but
others spent their time in plotting mischief. They had no desire
to stay in that far country; so some hid in the woods waiting a
chance to steal away in one or other of the ships which were daily
sailing homeward laden with fish. Others more bold plotted to steal
one of Sir Humphrey's ships and sail home without him. But their
plot was discovered. They, however, succeeded in stealing a ship
belonging to some other adventurers. It was laden with fish and
ready to depart homeward. In this they sailed away leaving its
owners behind.
The rest of Sir Humphrey's men now clamoured more than ever to be
taken home. And at length he yielded to them. But the company was
now much smaller than when he set out. For besides those who had
stolen away, many had died and many more were sick. There were not
enough men to man all four ships. So the Swallow was left with the
sick and a few colonists who wished to remain, and in the other
three Sir Humphrey put to sea with the rest of his company.
He did not, however, sail straight homeward. For he wanted to explore
still further, and find, if he could, an island to the south which
he had heard was very fertile. But the weather was stormy, and
before they had gone far the Delight was wrecked, and nearly all
on board were lost.
"This was a heavy and grievous event, to lose at one blow our chief
ship freighted with great provision, gathered together with much
travail, care, long time, and difficulty. But more was the loss of
our men to the number almost of a hundred souls." So wrote Master
Edward Hay who commanded the Golden Hind, and who afterwards wrote
the story of the expedition.
After this "heavy chance" the two ships that remained beat up and
down tacking with the wind, Sir Humphrey hoping always that the
weather would clear up and allow him once more to get near land.
But day by day passed. The wind and waves continued as stormy as
ever, and no glimpse of land did the weary sailors catch.
It was bitterly cold, food was growing scarce, and day by day the
men lost courage. At length they prayed Sir Humphrey to leave his
search and return homeward. Sir Humphrey had no wish to go, but
seeing his men shivering and hungry he felt sorry for them, and
resolved to do as they wished.
"Be content," he said. "We have seen enough. If God send us safe
home we will set forth again next spring."
So the course was changed, and the ships turned eastward. "The
wind was large for England," says Hay, "but very high, and the sea,
rough." It was so rough that the Squirrel in which Sir Humphrey
sailed was almost swallowed up. For the Squirrel was only a tiny
frigate of ten tons. And seeing it battered to and fro, and in
danger of sinking every moment, the captain of the Golden Hind and
many others prayed Sir Humphrey to leave it and come aboard their
boat. But Sir Humphrey would not.
"I will not forsake my little company going homeward,' he said.
"For I have passed through many storms and perils with them."
No persuasions could move him, so the captain of the Golden Hind
was fain to let him have his way. One afternoon in September those
in the Golden Hind watched the little Squirrel anxiously as it
tossed up and down among the waves. But Sir Humphrey seemed not a
whit disturbed. He sat in the stern calmly reading. And seeing the
anxious faces of his friends he cheerfully waved his hand to them.
"We are as near to heaven by sea as by land," he called, through
the roar of waves.
Then the sun went down. Darkness fell over the wild sea, and
the ships could only know each other's whereabouts by the tossing
lights.
Suddenly to the men on the Golden Hind it seemed as if the lights
of the little frigate went out. Immediately the watch cried out
that the frigate was lost.
"It was too true. For in that moment the frigate was devoured and
swallowed up by the sea."
Yet the men on the Golden Hind would not give up hope. All that night
they kept watch, straining their eyes through the stormy darkness
in the hope of catching sight of the frigate or of some of its
crew. But morning came and there was no sign of it on all the wide
waste of waters. Still they hoped, and all the way to England they
hailed every small sail which came in sight, trusting still that
it might be the Squirrel. But it never appeared. Of the five ships
which set forth only the Golden Hind returned to tell the tale.
And thus ended the first attempt to found an English colony in the
New World.
__________
Chapter 12 - About Sir Walter Raleigh's Adventures in the Golden
West
The first attempt to found an English colony in America had been
an utter failure. But the idea of founding a New England across
the seas had now taken hold of Sir Humphrey's young step-brother,
Walter Raleigh. And a few months after the return of the Golden
Hind he received from the Queen a charter very much the same as his
brother's. But although he got the Charter Raleigh himself could
not sail to America, for Queen Elizabeth would not let him go. So
again he had to content himself with sending other people.
It was on April 27th, 1584, that his expedition set out in two
small ships. Raleigh knew some of the great Frenchmen of the day,
and had heard of their attempt to found a colony in Florida. And
in spite of the terrible fate of the Frenchmen he thought Florida
would be an excellent place to found an English colony.
So Raleigh's ships made their way to Florida, and landed on Roanoke
Island off the coast of what is now North Carolina. In those days
of course there was no Carolina, and the Spaniards called the whole
coast Florida right up to the shores of Newfoundland.
The Englishmen were delighted with Roanoke. It seemed to them a
fertile, pleasant land, "the most plentiful, sweete, fruitfull and
wholesome of all the worlde." So they at once took possession of
it "in the right of the Queen's most excellent Majesty as rightful
Queen and Princess of the same."
The natives, too, seemed friendly "and in their behaviour as
mannerly and civil as any man of Europe." But the Pale-faces and
the Redskins found it difficult to understand each other.
"What do you call this country?" asked an Englishman.
"Win gan da coa," answered the Indian.
So the Englishmen went home to tell of the wonderful country of
Wingandacoe. But what the Indian had really said was "What fine
clothes you have!"
However, the mistake did not matter much. For the Englishmen now
changed the name of the land from whatever it had been to Virginia
in honour of their Queen.
This first expedition to Roanoke was only for exploring, and after
a little the adventurers sailed home again to tell of all that they
had seen. But Raleigh was so pleased with the report of Roanoke
Island which they brought home, to him that he at once began to
make plans for founding a colony there. And the following April
his ships, were ready and the expedition set out under his cousin,
Sir Richard Grenville.
But now almost as soon as they landed troubles began with the
Indians. One of them stole a silver cup, and as it was not returned
the Englishmen in anger set fire to the corn-fields and destroyed
them. This was a bad beginning. But the Englishmen had no knowledge
yet of how cruel and revengeful the Redman could be. So it was with
no misgivings that Sir Richard left a colony of over a hundred men
in the country. And promising to return with fresh supplies in the
following spring he sailed homeward.
The Governor of this colony was named Ralph Lane. He was wise
and able, but he was soon beset with difficulties. He found that
the place chosen for a colony was not a good one, For the harbour
was bad, the coast dangerous, and many of the Indians were now
unfriendly. So he set about exploring the country, and decided as
soon as fresh supplies came from England to move to a better spot.
Spring came and passed, and no ships from England appeared. The men
began to starve. And seeing this the Indians who had feared them
before, now began to be scornful and taunt them.
"Your God is not a true god," they said, "or he would not leave
you to starve."
They refused to sell the colonists food no matter what price was
offered. Their hatred of the English was so great indeed that they
resolved to sow no corn in order that there should be no harvest;
being ready to suffer hunger themselves if they might destroy the
colony utterly.
As the days passed the Englishmen daily felt the pinch of hunger
more and more. Then Lane divided his company into three, and sent
each in a different direction so that they might gather roots and
herbs and catch fish for themselves, and also keep a lookout for
ships.
But things went from bad to worse; the savages grew daily bolder
and more insolent, and the colonists lived constantly in dread of
an attack from them.
At length, although he had tried hard to avoid it, Lane was forced
to fight them. They were easily overcome, and fled to the woods. But
Lane knew well that his advantage was only for the moment. Should
help not come the colony would be wiped out. Then one day, about a
week after the fight with the Indians, news was brought to Lane that
a great fleet of twenty-three ships had appeared in the distance.
Were they friends, or were they foes? That was the great question.
The English knew the terrible story of Fort Caroline. Were these
Spanish ships? Fearing that they might be Ralph Lane looked to
his defenses, and made ready to withstand the enemy, if enemy they
proved to be, as bravely as might be.
But soon it was seen that their fears were needless, the ships
were English, and two days later Sir Francis Drake anchored in the
wretched little harbour.
Drake had not come on purpose to relieve the colony. He had been
out on one of his marauding expeditions against the Spaniards. He
had taken and sacked St. Domingo, Cartagena, and Fort St. Augustine.
And now, sailing home in triumph, chance had brought him to Raleigh's
colony at Roanoke. And when he saw the miserable condition of the
colonists, and heard the tale of their hardships, he offered to take
them all home to England. Or, he said, if they chose to remain he
would leave them a ship and food and everything that was necessary
to keep them from want until help should come.
Both Lane and his chief officers who were men of spirit wanted to
stay. So they accepted Drake's offer of the loan of a ship, agreeing
that after they had found a good place for a colony and a better
harbour, they would go home to England and return again the next
year.
Thus the matter was settled. Drake began to put provisions on board
one of his ships for the use of the colony. The colonists on their
side began writing letters to send home with Drake's ships. All
was business and excitement. But in the midst of it a great storm
arose. It lasted for four days and was so violent that most of
Drake's ships were forced to put out to sea lest they should be
dashed to pieces upon the shore.
Among the ships thus driven out to sea was that which Drake had
promised to give Ralph Lane. And when the storm was over it was
nowhere to be seen.
So Drake offered another ship to Lane. It was a large one, too large
to get into the little harbour, but the only one he could spare.
Lane was now doubtful what was best to do. Did it not seem as if
by driving away their ship God had stretched out His hand to take
them from thence? Was the storm not meant as a sign to them?
So not being able to decide by himself what was best to do, Lane
called his officers and gentlemen together, and asked advice of
them.
They all begged him to go home. No help had come from Sir Richard
Grenville, nor was it likely to come, for Drake had brought the
news that war between Spain and England had been declared. They knew
that at such a time every Englishman would bend all his energies to
the defeat of Spain, and that Raleigh would have neither thoughts
nor Money to spare for that far-off colony.
At length it was settled that they should all go home. In haste
then the Englishmen got on board, for Drake, was anxious to be gone
from the dangerous anchorage "which caused him more peril of wreck,"
says Ralph Lane, "than all his former most honourable actions
against the Spaniards."
So on the 19th of June 1586, the colonists set sail and arrived
in England some six weeks later. They brought with them two things
which afterward proved to be of wit great importance. The first
was tobacco. The use of it had been known ever since the days of
Columbus, but it was now for the first time brought to England.
The second was the potato. This Raleigh planted on his estates in
Ireland, and to this day Ireland is one of the great potato growing
countries of the world.
But meanwhile Raleigh had not forgotten his colonists, and scarce
a week after they had sailed away, a ship arrived laden "with all
manner of things in most plentiful manner for the supply and relief
of his colony."
For some time the ship beat up and down the coast searching vainly
for the colony. And at length finding no sign of it, it returned to
England. About a fortnight later Sir Richard Grenville also arrived
with three ships. To his astonishment when he reached Roanoke he
saw no sign of the ship which he knew had sailed shortly before
him. And to his still greater astonishment he found the colony
deserted. Yet he could not believe that it had been abandoned. So
he searched the country up and down in the hope of finding some of
the colonists. But finding no trace of them he at length gave up
the search and returned to the forsaken huts. And being unwilling
to lose possession of the country, he determined to leave some of
his men there. So fifteen men were left behind, well provided with
everything necessary to keep them for two years. Then Sir Richard
sailed homeward.
In spite of all these mischances Raleigh would not give up his great
idea. And the following year he fitted out another expedition. This
time there were a few women among the colonists, and John White,
who had already been out with Lane, was chosen as Governor.
It was now decided to give up Roanoke which had proved such an
unfortunate spot, and the new company of colonists was bound for
Chesapeake Bay. But before they settled there they were told to go
to Roanoke to pick up the fifteen men left by Sir Richard Grenville
and take them to Chesapeake also.
When, however, they reached Roanoke the Master of the vessels, who
was by birth a Spaniard, and who was perhaps in league with the
Spanish, said that it was too late in the year to go seeking another
spot. So whether they would or not he landed the colonists, and
sailed away, leaving only one small boat with them.
Thus perforce they had to take up their abode in the old spot. They
found it deserted. The fort was razed to the ground, and although
the huts were still standing they were choked with weeds and
overgrown with wild vines, while deer wandered in and out of the
open doors. It was plain that for many months no man had lived
there. And although careful search was made, saving the bones of
one, no sign was found of the fifteen men left there by Sir Richard.
At length the new colonists learned from a few friendly Indians
that they had been traitorously set upon by hostile Indians. Most
of them were slain; the others escaped in their boat and went no
man knew whither.
The Englishmen were very angry when they heard that, and wanted to
punish the Indians. So they set out against them. But the Indians
fled at their coming, and the Englishmen by mistake killed some
of the friendly Indians instead of their enemies. Thus things were
made worse instead of better.
And now amid all these troubles on the 18th of August, 1587, a
little girl was born. Her father was Ananias Dare, and her mother
was the daughter of John White, the Governor. The little baby was
thus the grand-daughter of the Governor, and because she was the
first English child to be born in Virginia she was called Virginia.
But matters were not going well in the colony. Day by day the men
were finding out things which were lacking and which they felt
they must have if they were not all to perish. So a few days after
Virginia was christened all the chief men came to the Governor and
begged him to go back to England to get fresh supplies, and other
things necessary to the life of the colony. John White, however,
refused to go. The next day not only the men but the women also came
to him and again begged him to go back to England. They begged so
hard that at last the Governor consented to go.
All were agreed that the place they were now in was by no means the
best which might be chosen for a colony, and it had been determined
that they should move some fifty miles further inland. Now it was
arranged that if they moved while the Governor was away they should
carve on the trees and posts of the door the name of the place to
which they had gone, so that on his return he might be able easily
to find them. And also it was arranged that if they were in any
trouble or distress they should carve a cross over the name.
All these matters being settled John White set forth. And it was
with great content that the colonists saw their Governor go. For
they knew that they could send home no better man to look after
their welfare, and they were sure he would bring back the food and
other things which were needed.
But when White arrived in England he found that no man, not even
Raleigh, had a thought to spare for Virginia. For Spain was making
ready all her mighty sea power to crush England. And the English
were straining every nerve to meet and break that power. So John
White had to wait with what patience he could. Often his heart was
sick when he thought of his daughter and his little granddaughter,
Virginia Dare, far away in that great unknown land across the sea.
Often he longed to be back beside them. But his longings were of no
avail. He could but wait. For every ship was seized by Government
and pressed into the service of the country. And while the Spaniards
were at the gate it was accounted treason for any Englishman to
sail to western lands.
So the summer of 1588 passed, the autumn came, and at length the
great Armada sailed from Spain. It sailed across the narrow seas
in pride and splendour, haughtily certain of crushing the insolent
sea dogs of England. But "God blew with His breath and they were
scattered." Before many days were over these proud ships were fleeing
before the storm, their sails torn, their masts splintered. They
were shattered upon the rocky shores of Scotland and Ireland. They
were swallowed by the deep.
The sea power of Spain was broken, and the history of America truly
began. For as has been said "the defeat of the Invincible Armada
was the opening event in the history of the United States."
Free now from the dread of Spain, ships could come and go without
hindrance. But another year and more passed before John White
succeeded in getting ships and provisions and setting out once more
for Virginia.
It was for him an anxious voyage, but as he neared the place where
the colony had been, his heart rejoiced, for he saw smoke rising
from the land. It was dark, however, before they reached the spot,
and seeing no lights save that of a huge fire far in the woods
the Governor sounded a trumpet call. The notes of the trumpet rang
through the woods and died away to silence. There was no answer. So
the men called and called again, but still no answer came. Then
with sinking heart John White bade them sing some well-known English
songs. For that, he thought, would surely bring an answer from the
shore.
So through the still night air the musical sound of men's voices
rang out. But still no answer came from the silent fort. With a
heart heavy as lead the Governor waited for the dawn. As soon as it
was light he went ashore. The fort was deserted. Grass and weeds
grew in the ruined houses. But upon a post "in fair capital letters"
was carved the word "Croatoan." This was the name of a neighbouring
island inhabited by friendly Indians. There was no cross or sign
of distress carved over the letters. And when the Governor saw that
he was greatly comforted.
He spent some time searching about for other signs of the colonists.
In one place he found some iron and lead thrown aside as if too
heavy to carry away, and now overgrown with weeds. In another he
found five chests which had evidently been buried by the colonists,
and dug up again by the Indians.
They had been burst open and the contents lay scattered about the
grass. Three of these chests John White saw were his own, and it
grieved him greatly to see his things spoiled and broken. His books
were torn from their covers, his pictures and maps were rotten with
the rain, and his armour almost eaten through with rust.
At length, having searched in vain for any other signs of the colonists,
the English returned to the ships and set sail for Croatoan.
But now they encountered terrible storms. Their ships were battered
this way and that, their sails were torn, their anchors lost. And
at length in spite of all entreaties, the captain resolved to make
sail for England. So John White never saw Croatoan, never knew what
had become of his dear ones. And what happened to little Virginia
Dare, the first English girl to be born on the soil of the United
States, will never be known. But years afterwards settlers were
told by the Indians that the white people left at Roanoke had gone
to live among the Indians. For some years it was said they lived
in a friendly manner together. In time, however, the medicine men
began to hate the Pale-faces, and caused them all to be slain,
except four men, one young woman, and three boys. Was the young
woman perhaps Virginia Dare? No one can tell.
All Raleigh's attempts at founding a colony had thus come to nothing.
Still he did not despair. Once again he sent out an expedition. But
that too failed and the leader returned having done nothing. Even
this did not break Raleigh's faith in the future of Virginia. "I
shall yet live to see it an English nation," he said.
But although Raleigh's faith was as firm as before, his money was
gone. He had spent enormous sums on his fruitless efforts to found
a colony. Now he had no more to spend.
And now great changes came. Good Queen Bess died and James of Scotland
reigned in her stead. Raleigh fell into disgrace, was imprisoned
in the Tower, and after a short release was beheaded there. Thus
an end came to all his splendid schemes. Never before perhaps had
such noble devotion to King and country been so basely requited.
At the time it was said that "never before was English justice so
injured or so disgraced" as by the sentence of death passed upon
Raleigh. No man is perfect, nor was Raleigh perfect. But he was
a great man, and although all his plans failed we remember him as
the first great coloniser, the first Englishman to gain possession
of any part of North America.
PART II STORIES OF VIRGINIA
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Chapter 13 - The Adventures of Captain John Smith
Raleigh was the true father of England beyond the seas. He was a
great statesman and patriot. But he was a dreamer too and all his
schemes failed. Other men followed him who likewise failed. But
it would take too long to tell of them all, of Bartholomew Gosnold
who discovered and named Martha's Vineyard and Cape Cod; of Bartholomew
Gilbert, brave Sir Humphrey's son, who was slain by Indians, and
of many more besides.
Again and again men tried to plant a colony on the shores of
America. Again and again they failed. But with British doggedness
they went on trying, and at length succeeded.
Raleigh lay in the Tower of London, a prisoner accused of treason.
All his lands were taken from him. Virginia, which had been granted
to him by Queen Elizabeth was the King's once more to give to whom
he would. So now two companies were formed, one of London merchants
called the London Company, one of Plymouth merchants called the
Plymouth Company. And both these companies prayed King James to grant
them permission to found colonies in Virginia. Virginia therefore
was divided into two parts; the right to found colonies in the
southern half being given to the London Company, the right to found
colonies in the northern half being given to the Plymouth Company
upon condition that the colonies founded must be one hundred miles
distant from each other.
These companies were formed by merchants. They were formed for
trade, and in the hope of making money, in spite of the fact that
up to this time no man had made money by trying to found colonies.
in America, but on the contrary many had lost fortunes.
Of the two companies now formed it was only the London Company
which really did anything. The Plymouth Company indeed sent out an
expedition which reached Virginia. But the colony was a failure,
and after a year of hardships the colonists set sail for England
taking home with them such doleful accounts of their sufferings
that none who heard them ever wished to help to found a colony.
The expedition of the London Company had a better fate. It was in
December, 1606, that the little fleet of three ships, the Susan
Constant, the Godspeed and the Discovery, put out from England,
and turned westward towards the New World.
With the expedition sailed Captain John Smith. He was bronzed and
bearded like a Turk, a swaggering, longheaded lovable sort of man,
ambitious, too, and not given to submit his will to others. Since
a boy of sixteen he had led a wandering adventurous life - a life
cramful of heroic deeds, of hairbreadth escapes of which we have
no space to tell here. But I hope some day you will read his own
story of these days. For he was a writer as well as a warrior, and
"what his sword did his pen wrote." Every American boy and girl
should read his story, for he has been called the first American
writer.
Now with this saucy, swaggering fellow on board, troubles were not
far to seek. The voyage was long and tedious. For six weeks adverse
winds kept the little fleet prisoner in the English Channel within
sight of English shores, a thing trying to the tempers of men used
to action, and burning with impatience to reach the land beyond
the seas. They lay idle with nothing to do but talk. So they fell
to discussing matters about the colony they were to found. And from
discussing they fell to disputing until it ended at length in a
bitter quarrel between Smith and another of the adventurers, Captain
Edward Wingfield.
Captain Wingfield was twice John Smith's age, and deemed that he knew
much better how a colony ought to be formed than this dictatorial
youth of twenty-seven. He himself was just as dictatorial and
narrow into the bargain. So between the two the voyage was by no
means peaceful.
Good Master Hunt, the preacher who went with the expedition, in
spite of the fact that he was so weak and ill that few thought he
would live, did his best to still the angry passions.
To some extent he succeeded. And when a fair wind blew at length
the ships spread their sails to it and were soon out of sight of
England. Two months of storm and danger passed before the adventurers
sighted the West Indies. Here they went ashore on the island of
San Dominica. Delighted once more to see land and escape from the
confinement of the ship, they stayed three weeks among the sunny
islands. They hunted and fished, traded with the savages, boiled
pork in hot natural springs, feasted on fresh food and vegetables,
and generally enjoyed themselves.
But among all this merry-making Wingfield did not forget his anger
against John Smith. Their quarrels became so bad that Wingfield
decided to end both quarrels and John Smith. So he ordered a gallows
to be set up and, having accused Smith of mutiny, made ready to
hang him. But John Smith stoutly defended himself. Nothing could be
proved against him. He laughed at the gallows, and as he quaintly
puts it "could not be persuaded to use them."
Nevertheless, although nothing could be proved against him, there
were many who quite agreed that Captain John Smith was a turbulent
fellow. So to keep him quiet they clapped him in irons and kept him
so until their arrival in Virginia. After leaving the West Indies
the adventurers fell into more bad weather, and lost their course;
but finally they arrived safely in Chesapeake Bay.
They named the capes on either side Henry and Charles, in honour
of the two sons of their King. Upon Cape Henry they set up a brass
cross upon which was carved "Jacobus Rex" and thus claimed the
land for England. Then they sailed on up the river which they named
James River, in honour of the King himself. Their settlement they
named Jamestown, also in his honour. Jamestown has now disappeared,
but the two capes and the river are still called by the names given
them by these early settlers.
Before this expedition sailed the directors of the Company had
arranged who among the colonists were to be the rulers. But for
some quaint reason they were not told. Their names, together with
many instructions as to what they were to do, were put into a sealed
box, and orders were given that this box was not to be opened until
Virginia was reached.
The box was now opened, and it was found that John Smith was named
among the seven who were to form the council. The others were much
disgusted at this, and in spite of all he could say, they refused
to have him in the council. They did, however, set him free from
his fetters. Of the council Wingfield was chosen President. All
the others, except John Smith, took oath to do their best for the
colony. Then at once the business of building houses was begun.
While the council drew plans the men dug trenches and felled trees
in order to clear space on which to pitch their tents, or otherwise
busied themselves about the settlement.
The Indians appeared to be friendly, and often came to look
on curiously at these strange doings. And Wingfield thought them
so gentle and kindly that he would not allow the men to build any
fortifications except a sort of screen of interwoven boughs.
Besides building houses one of the colonists' first cares was
to provide themselves with a church. But indeed it was one of the
quaintest churches ever known. An old sail was stretched beneath
a group of trees to give shelter from the burning sun. And to make
a pulpit a plank of wood was nailed between two trees which grew
near together. And here good Master Hunt preached twice every
Sunday while the men sat on felled trunks reverently listening to
his long sermons.
While the houses were being built Smith, with some twenty others,
was sent to explore the country. They sailed up the river and found
the Indians to all appearance friendly. But they found no gold
or precious stones, and could hear nothing of a passage to the
Pacific Ocean which they had been told to seek. So they returned
to Jamestown. Arriving here they found that the day before the
Indians had attacked the settlement and that one Englishman lay
slain and seventeen injured.
This was a bitter disappointment to Wingfield who had trusted in
the friendliness of the Indians. But at length he was persuaded to
allow fortifications to be built. Even then, however, the colonists
were not secure, for as they went about their business felling
trees or digging the ground the savages would shoot at them from
the shelter of the surrounding forest. If a man strayed from the
fort he was sure to return wounded if he returned at all; and in
this sort of warfare the stolid English were no match for the wily
Indians. "Our men," says Smith, "by their disorderly straggling
were often hurt when the savages by the nimbleness of their heels
well escaped."
So six months passed, and the ships which had brought out the
colonists were ready to go back to England with a cargo of wood
instead of the gold which the Company had hoped for. But before
the ships sailed Smith, who was still considered in disgrace, and
therefore kept out of the council, insisted on having a fair trial.
For he would not have Captain Newport go home and spread evil
stories about him.
Smith's enemies were unwilling to allow the trial. But Smith would
take no denial. So at length his request was granted, the result
being that he was proved innocent of every charge against him, and
was at length admitted to the council.
Now at last something like peace was restored, and Captain Newport
set sail for home. He promised to make all speed he could and to
be back in five months' time. And indeed he had need to hasten. For
the journey outward had been so long, the supply of food so scant,
that already it was giving out. And when Captain Newport sailed it
was plain that the colonists had not food enough to last fifteen
weeks.
Such food it was too! It consisted chiefly of worm-eaten grain. A
pint was served out daily for each man, and this boiled and made
into a sort of porridge formed their chief food. Their drink was
cold water. For tea and coffee were unknown in those days, and
beer they had none. To men used to the beer and beef of England
in plenty this indeed seemed meagre diet. "Had we been as free of
all sins as gluttony and drunkenness," says Smith, "we might have
been canonised as saints, our wheat having fried some twenty-six weeks
in the ship's hold, contained as many worms as grains, so that we
might truly call it rather so much bran than corn. Our drink was
water, our lodging castles in the air."
There was fish enough in the river, game enough in the woods. But
the birds and beasts were so wild, and the men so unskilful and
ignorant in ways of shooting and trapping, that they succeeded
in catching very little. Besides which there were few among the
colonists who had any idea of what work meant. More than half the
company were "gentlemen adventurers," dare devil, shiftless men who
had joined the expedition in search of excitement with no idea of
labouring with their hands.
Badly fed, unused to the heat of a Virginian summer the men soon
fell ill. Their tents were rotten, their houses yet unbuilt. Trees
remained unfelled, the land untilled, while the men lay on the bare
ground about the fort groaning and in misery. Many died, and soon
those who remained were so feeble that they had scarce strength
to bury the dead or even to crawl to the "common kettle" for their
daily measure of porridge.
In their misery the men became suspicious and jealous, and once
more quarrels were rife. Wingfield had never been loved. Now many
grew to hate him, for they believed that while they starved he
kept back for his own use secret stores of oil and wine and other
dainties. No explanations were of any avail, and he was deposed
from his office of President and another chosen in his place.
As autumn drew on the misery began to lessen. For the Indians, whose
corn was now ripe, began to bring it to the fort to barter it for
chisels, and beads, and other trifles. Wild fowl too, such as ducks
and geese, swarmed in the river.
So with good food and cooler weather the sick soon began to mend.
Energy returned to them, and once more they found strength to build
and thatch their houses. And led by Smith they made many expeditions
among the Indians, bringing back great stores of venison, wild
turkeys, bread, and grain in exchange for beads, hatchets, bells
and other knick-knacks.
But all the misery through which the colonists had passed had taught
them nothing. They took no thought for the time to come when food
might again be scarce. They took no care of it, but feasted daily
on good bread, fish and fowl and "wild beasts as fat as we could
eat them," says Smith.
Now one December day Smith set out on an exploring expedition up
the Chickahominy River. It was a hard journey, for the river was so
overgrown with trees that the men had to hew a path for the little
vessel. At length the barque could go no further, so Smith left it,
and went on in a canoe with only two Englishmen, and two Indians
as guides.
For a time all went well. But one day he and his companions went
ashore to camp. While the others were preparing a meal, Smith, taking
one of the Indians with him, went on to explore a little further.
But he had not gone far when he heard the wild, blood-curdling war
whoop of the Indians. Guessing at once that they had come against
him he resolved to sell his life as dearly as might be. So seizing
the Indian guide he tied his arm fast to his own with his garters.
Then with pistol in his right hand, and holding the Indian in
front of him as a shield, he pushed as rapidly as he could in the
direction of the camp.
Arrows flew round him thick and fast, but Smith's good buff coat turned
them aside. The whole forest was alive with Indians, but although
from the shelter of the trees they showered arrows upon Smith
none dared approach him to take him. For they knew and dreaded the
terrible fire stick which he held in his hand. Smith fired again
and yet again as he retreated, and more than one Indian fell, never
more to rise. He kept his eyes upon the bushes and trees trying
to catch glimpses of the dusky figures as they skulked among them,
and paid little heed to the path he was taking. So suddenly he
found himself floundering in a quagmire.
Still he fought for dear life, and as long as he held his pistol
no Redman dared come near to take him. But at length, chilled and
wet, and half dead-with cold, unable to go further, he saw it was
useless to resist longer. So he tossed away his pistol. At once
the savages closed in upon and, dragging him out of the quagmire,
led him to their chief.
Smith had given in because he knew that one man stuck in a quagmire
could not hope to keep three hundred Indians long at bay. But he
had sharp wits as well as a steady hand, and with them he still
fought for his life. As soon as he was brought before the chief he
whipped out his compass, and showing it to the chief, explained to
him that it always pointed north, and thus the white men were able
to find their way through the pathless desert.
To the Indians this seemed like magic; they marvelled greatly at the
shining needle which they could see so plainly and yet not touch.
Seeing their interest Smith went on to explain other marvels of
the sun, and moon, and stars, and the roundness of the earth, until
those who heard were quite sure he was a great "medicine man."
Thus Smith fought for his life. But at length utterly exhausted, he
could say no more. So while the chief still held the little ivory
compass, and watched the quivering needle, his followers led Smith
away to his own camp fire. Here lay the other white men dead, thrust
through with many arrows. And here the Indians warmed and chafed
his benumbed body, and treated him with all the kindness they knew.
But that brought Smith little comfort. For he knew it was the Indian
way. A famous warrior might be sure of kindness at their hands if
they meant in the end to slay him with awful torture.
And so, thoroughly warmed and restored, in less than an hour Smith
found himself fast bound to a tree, while grim warriors, terribly
painted, danced around him, bows and arrows in hand. They were about
to slay him when the chief, holding up the compass, bade them lay
down their weapons. Such a medicine man, he had decided, must not
thus be slain. So Smith was unbound.
For some weeks Smith was marched hither and thither from village to
village. He was kindly enough treated, but he never knew how long
the kindness would last, and he constantly expected death. Yet he
was quite calm. He kept a journal, and in this he set down accounts
of many strange sights he saw, not knowing if indeed they would
ever be read.
At length Smith was brought to the wigwam of the great Powhatan*,
the chief of chiefs, or Emperor, as these simple English folk
called him. To receive the white prisoner the Powhatan put on his
greatest bravery. Feathered and painted, and wearing a wide robe
of raccoon skins he sat upon a broad couch beside a fire. On either
side of him sat one of his wives and behind in grim array stood his
warriors, row upon row. Behind them again stood the squaws. Their
faces and shoulders were painted bright red, about their necks they
wore chains of white beads, and on their heads the down of white
birds.
It was a weird scene, and the flickering firelight added to its
strangeness. Silent and still as statues the warriors stood. Then
as John Smith was led before the chief they raised a wild shout.
As that died away to silence one of the Powhatan's squaws rose and
brought a basin of water to Smith. In this he washed his hands,
and then another squaw brought him a bunch of feathers instead of
a towel, with which to dry them.
After this the Indians feasted their prisoner with savage splendour.
Then a long consultation took place. What was said Smith knew not.
He only knew that his life hung in the balance. The end of the
consultation he felt sure meant life or death for him.
At length the long talk came to an end. Two great stones were placed
before the chief. Then as many as could lay hands on Smith seized
him, and dragging him to the stones, they threw him on the ground,
and laid his head upon them. Fiercely then they brandished their
clubs and Smith knew that his last hour had come, and that the
Indians were about to beat out his brains.
But the raised clubs never fell, for with a cry Pocahontas, the
chief's young daughter, sprang through the circle of warriors. She
stood beside the prisoner pleading for his life. But the Indians
were in no mood to listen to prayers for mercy. So seeing that all
her entreaties were in vain she threw herself upon her knees beside
Smith, put her arms about his neck, and laid her head upon his,
crying out that if they would beat out his brains they should beat
hers out too.
Of all his many children the Powhatan loved this little daughter
best. He could deny her nothing. So Smith's life was saved. He
should live, said the Powhatan, to make hatchets for him, and bells
and beads for his little daughter.
Having thus been saved, Smith was looked upon as one of the tribe.
Two days later he was admitted as such with fearsome ceremony.
Having painted and decorated himself as frightfully as he could,
the Powhatan caused Smith to be taken to a large wigwam in the
forest. The wigwam was divided in two by a curtain and in one half
a huge fire burned. Smith was placed upon a mat in front of the
fire and left alone. He did not understand in the least what was
going on, and marvelled greatly what this new ceremony might mean.
But he had not sat long before the fire when he heard doleful
sounds coming from the other side of the curtain. Then from behind
it appeared the Powhatan with a hundred others as hideously painted
as himself, and told Smith that now that they were brothers he
might go back to his fort.
So with twelve guides Smith set out. Yet in spite of all their
feasting and ceremonies Smith scarcely believed in the friendship
of the Indians, and no one was more surprised than himself when he
at length reached Jamestown in safety.
*This chief's name was Wahunsunakok, the name of the tribe Powhatan
and the English called the chief the Powhatan.
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Chapter 14 - More Adventures of Captain John Smith
Smith had been away from the settlement nearly a month, and he
returned to find the colony in confusion and misery. Many had died,
and those who remained were quarrelling among themselves. Indeed
some were on the point of deserting and sneaking off to England in
the one little ship they had. They were not in the least pleased
to see Smith return, and they resolved once more to get rid of
him. So they accused him of causing the death of the two men who
had gone with him, and condemned him to death. Thus Smith had only
escaped from the hands of the Indians to be murdered by his own
people.
The order went forth. He was to be hanged next day.
But suddenly all was changed, for a man looking out to sea saw a
white sail. "Ship ahoy!" he shouted, "ship ahoy!"
At the joyful sound the, men forgot their bickerings, and hurrying
to the shore welcomed the new arrival. It was Captain Newport with
his long promised help. He soon put a stop to the hanging business,
and also set poor Captain Wingfield free. For he had been kept
prisoner ever since he had been deposed.
Newport had brought food for the colony, but he had also brought
many new settlers. Unfortunately, too, one day the storehouse was
set on fire, and much of the grain was destroyed. So that in spite
of the new supplies the colony would soon again have been in the
old starving condition had it not been for Pocahontas. She was
resolved that her beloved white chief should want for nothing,
and now every four or five days she came to the fort laden with
provisions. Smith also took Captain Newport to visit the Powhatan,
and great barter was made of blue beads and tinsel ornaments for
grain and foodstuffs.
After a time Captain Newport sailed home again, taking the deposed
President Wingfield with him. He took home also great tales of the
savage Emperor's might and splendour. And King James was so impressed
with what he heard that he made up his mind that the Powhatan
should be crowned. So in autumn Captain Newport returned again to
Jamestown, bringing with him more settlers, among them two women.
He also brought a crown and other presents to the Powhatan from
King James, together with a command for his coronation. So Smith
made a journey to the Powhatan's village and begged him to come to
Jamestown to receive his presents. But the Powhatan refused to go
for he was suspicious and stood upon his dignity.
"If your King has sent me presents," he said, "I also am a king,
and this is my land. Eight days will I wait here to receive them.
Your Father Newport must come to me, not I to him."
So with this answer Smith went back, and seeing nothing else for
it Captain Newport set out for the Powhatan's village with the
presents. He did not in the least want to go, but the King had
commanded that the Powhatan was to be crowned. And the King had
to be obeyed. He arrived safely at Weronocomoco, and the next day
was appointed for the coronation.
First the presents were brought out and set in order. There was a
great four-poster bed with hangings and curtains of damask, a basin
and ewer and other costly novelties such as never before had been
seen in these lands.
After the gifts had been presented the Englishmen tried to place a
fine red cloak on the Powhatan's shoulders. But he would not have
it. He resisted all their attempts until at last one of the other
chiefs persuaded him that it would not hurt him, so at last he
submitted.
Next the crown was produced. The Powhatan had never seen a crown,
and had no idea of its use, nor could he be made to understand that
he must kneel to have it put on.
"A foul trouble there was," says one of the settlers who writes
about it. No persuasions or explanations were of any avail. The
Englishmen knelt down in front of him to show him what he must do.
They explained, they persuaded, until they were worn out. It was
all in vain. The Powhatan remained as stolid as a mule. Kneel he
would not.
So at length, seeing nothing else for it, three of them took the
crown in their hands, and the others pressed with all their weight
upon the Powhatan's shoulders so that they forced him to stoop
a little, and thus, amid howls of laughter, the crown was hastily
thrust on his head. As soon as it was done the soldiers fired a
volley in honour of the occasion. At the sound the newly-crowned
monarch started up in terror, casting aside the men who held him.
But when he saw that no one was killed, and that those around him
were laughing, he soon recovered from his fright. And thanking
them gravely for their presents he pompously handed his old shoes
and his raccoon cloak to Captain Newport as a present for King
James. Thus this strangest of all coronations came to an end.
This senseless ceremony did no good, but rather harm. The Powhatan
had resisted being crowned with all his might, but afterwards he was
much puffed up about it, and began to think much more of himself,
and much less of the white people.
Among others, Smith thought it was nothing but a piece of tomfoolery
and likely to bring trouble ere long.
For some months now he had been President, and as President he
wrote to the London Company, "For the coronation of Powhatan," he
said, "by whose advice you sent him such presents I know not, but
this give me leave to tell you, I fear they will be the confusion
of us all, ere we hear from you again."
Smith told the Company other plain truths. They had been sending
out all sorts of idle fine gentlemen who had never done a day's
work in their lives. They could not fell a tree, and when they
tried the axe blistered their tender fingers. Some of them worked
indeed cheerfully enough, but it took ten of them to do as much work
as one good workman. Others were simply stirrers up of mischief. One
of these Smith now sent back to England "lest the company should
cut his throat." And Smith begged the Company to keep those sort of
people at home in the future, and send him carpenters and gardeners,
blacksmiths and masons, and people who could do something.
Captain Newport now sailed home, and Smith was left to govern the
colony and find food for the many hungry mouths. He went as usual
to trade with the Indians. But he found them no longer willing to
barter their corn for a little copper or a handful of beads. They
now wanted swords and guns. The Powhatan too grew weary of seeing
the Pale-faces squatting on the land of which he was crowned king.
He forgot his vows of friendship With Smith. All he wanted was to
see the Palefaces leave his country. And the best way to get rid
of them was to starve them.
But although the Powhatan had grown tired of seeing the Pale-faces
stride like lords through his land, he yet greatly admired them.
And now he wanted more than anything else to have a house, a palace
as it seemed to him, with windows and fireplaces like those they
built for themselves at Jamestown. For in the little native houses
which his followers could build there was no room for the splendid
furniture which had been sent to him for his coronation. So now he
sent to Smith asking him to send white men to build a house. Smith
at once sent some men to begin the work, and soon followed with
others.
On their way to the Powhatan's town Smith and his companions stopped
a night with another friendly chief who warned them to beware of
the Powhatan.
"You will find him use you well," he said. "But trust him not. And
be sure he hath no chance to seize your arms. For he hath sent for
you only to cut your throats."
However in spite of this warning Smith decided to go on. So he
thanked the friendly chief for his good counsel, and assuring him
that he would love him always for it, he went on his way.
It was winter time now, and the rivers were half frozen over, the
land was covered with snow, and icy winds blew over it. Indeed the
weather was so bad that for a week Smith and his men could not go
on, but had to take refuge with some friendly Indians. Here in the
warm wigwams they were cosy and jolly. The savages treated them
kindly, and fed them well on oysters, fish, game and wild-fowl.
Christmas came and went while they were with these kindly savages,
and at length, the weather becoming a little better, they decided
to push on. After many adventures they reached the Powhatan's
village. They were very weary from their long cold journey, and
taking possession of the first houses they came to they sent a
message to the Powhatan, telling him that they had come, and asking
him to send food.
This the old chief immediately did, and soon they were dining royally
on bread, venison and turkeys. The next day, too, the Powhatan
sent them supplies of food. Then he calmly asked how long they were
going to stay, and when they would be gone.
At this Smith was greatly astonished, for had not the Powhatan sent
for him?
"I did not send for you," said the wily old savage, "and if you have
come for corn I have none to give you, still less have my people.
But," he added slyly, "if perchance you have forty swords I might
find forty baskets of corn in exchange for them."
"You did not send for me?" said Smith in astonishment. "How can
that be? For I have with me the messengers you sent to ask me to
come, and they can vouch for the truth of it. I marvel that you
can be so forgetful."
Then, seeing that he could not fool the Pale-faces the old chief
laughed merrily, pretending that he had only been joking. But
still he held to it that he would give no corn except in exchange
for guns and swords.
"Powhatan," answered Smith, "believing your promises to satisfy my
wants, and out of love to you I sent you my men for your building,
thereby neglecting mine own needs. Now by these strange demands you
think to undo us and bring us to want indeed. For you know well as
I have told you long ago of guns and swords I have none to spare.
Yet steal from you or wrong you I will not, nor yet break that
friendship which we have promised each other, unless by bad usage
you force me thereto."
When the Powhatan heard Smith speak thus firmly he pretended to give
way and promised that within two days the English should have all
the corn he and his people could spare. But he added, "My people fear
to bring you corn seeing you are all armed, for they say you come
not hither for trade, but to invade my country and take possession
of it. Therefore to free us of this fear lay aside your weapons,
for indeed here they are needless, we being all friends."
With such and many more cunning words the Powhatan sought to make
Captain Smith and his men lay aside their arms. But to all his
persuasions Smith turned a deaf ear.
"Nay," he said, "we have no thought of revenge or cruelty against
you. When your people come to us at Jamestown we receive them with
their bows and arrows. With you it must be the same. We wear our
arms even as our clothes."
So seeing that he could not gain his end, the old chief gave in.
Yet one more effort he made to soften the Englishman's heart.
"I have never honoured any chief as I have you," he said, with
a sigh, "yet you show me less kindness than any one. You call me
father, but you do just as you like."
Smith, however, would waste no more time parleying, and gave orders
for his men to fetch the corn. But while he was busy with this
the Powhatan slipped away and gathered his warriors. Then suddenly
in the midst of their business Smith and one or two others found
themselves cut off from their comrades, and surrounded by a yelling
crowd of painted savages. Instantly the Englishmen drew their
swords and, charging into the savages, put them to flight. Seeing
how easily their warriors had been routed and how strong the
Pale-faces were, the savage chiefs tried to make friends with them
again, pretending that the attack upon them was a mistake, and that
no evil against them had been intended.
The Englishmen, however, put no more trust in their words and
sternly, with loaded guns and drawn swords in hand, bade them to
talk no more, but make haste and load their boat with corn. And so
thoroughly cowed were the savages by the fierce words and looks of
the Pale-faces that they needed no second bidding. Hastily laying
down their bows and arrows they bent their backs to the work, their
one desire now being to get rid as soon as possible of these fierce
and powerful intruders.
When the work was done, however, it was too late to sail that night,
for the tide was low. So the Englishmen returned to the house in
which they lodged, to rest till morning and wait for high water.
Meanwhile the Powhatan had by no means given up his desire for
revenge, and while the Englishmen sat by their fire he plotted to
slay them all. But as he talked with his braves Pocahontas listened.
And when she heard that the great Pale-face Chief whom she loved
so dearly was to be killed, her heart was filled with grief, and
she resolved to save him. So silently she slipped out into the
dark night and, trembling lest she should be discovered, was soon
speeding through the wild lonesome forest towards the Englishmen's
hut. Reaching it in safety she burst in upon them as they sat in
the firelight waiting for the Powhatan to send their supper.
"You must not wait," she cried, "you must go at once. My father
is gathering all his force against you. He will indeed send you a
great feast, but those who bring it have orders to slay you, and
any who escape them he is ready with his braves to slay. Oh, if
you would live you must flee at once," and as she spoke the tears
ran down her cheeks.
The Englishmen were truly grateful to Pocahontas for her warning.
They thanked her warmly, and would have laden her with gifts of
beads and coloured cloth, and such things as the Indians delighted
in, but she would not take them.
"I dare not take such things," she said. "For if my father saw
me with them he would know that I had come here to warn you, and
he would kill me." So with eyes blinded with tears, and her heart
filled with dread, she slipped out of the fire-lit hut, and vanished
into the darkness of the forest as suddenly and silently as she
had come.
Left alone, the Englishmen, cocking their guns and drawing their
swords, awaited the coming of the foe. Presently eight or ten lusty
fellows arrived, each bearing a great platter of food steaming hot
and excellent to smell. They were very anxious that the Englishmen
should at once lay aside their arms and sit down to supper. But
Captain Smith would take no chances. Loaded gun in hand he stood
over the messengers and made them taste each dish to be certain
that none of them were poisoned. Having done this he sent the men
away. "And bid your master make haste," he said, "for we are ready
for him."
Then the Englishmen sat down to supper; but they had no thought of
sleep and all night long they kept watch.
Powhatan too kept watch, and every now and again he would send
messengers to find out what the Englishmen were about. But each
time they came the savages found the Englishmen on guard, so they
dared not attack. At last day dawned, and with the rising tide the
Englishmen sailed away, still to all seeming on friendly terms with
the wily Indians.
Smith had now food enough to keep the colony from starvation for
a short time at least. But his troubles were by no means over. The
Indians were still often unfriendly, and the colonists themselves
lazy and unruly. Some indeed worked well and cheerfully, but many
wandered about idly, doing nothing.
At length it came about that thirty or forty men did all the work,
the others being simply idle loiterers. Seeing this, Smith called
all the colonists together one day and told them that he would
suffer the idleness no longer. "Every one must do his share," he
said, "and he who will not work shall not eat." And so powerful
had he grown that he was obeyed. The idle were forced to work, and
soon houses were built and land cleared and tilled.
At length there seemed good hope that the colony would prosper.
But now another misfortune befell it. For it was found that rats
had got into the granaries and eaten nearly all the store of corn.
So once again expeditions set forth to visit the Indians and gather
more from them. But their supply, too, was running short; harvest
was still a long way off, and all the colonists could collect
was not enough to keep them from starvation. So seeing this Smith
divided his men into companies, sending some down the river to
fish, and others into the woods to gather roots and wild berries.
But the lazy ones liked this little. They would have bartered
away their tools and firearms to the savages for a few handfuls of
meal rather than work so hard. They indeed became so mutinous that
Smith hardly knew what to do with them. But at length he discovered
the ringleader of these "gluttonous loiterers." Him he "worthily
punished," and calling the others together, he told them very
plainly that any man among them who did not do his share should
be banished from the fort as a drone, till he mended his ways or
starved.
To the idlers Smith seemed a cruel task-master; still they obeyed
him. So the colony was held together, although in misery and hunger
and without hope for the future.
At length one day to the men on the river there came a joyful sight.
They saw a ship slowly sailing towards them. They could hardly
believe their eyes, for no ship was expected; but they greeted it
with all the more joy. It was a ship under Captain Samuel Argall,
come, it is true, not to bring supplies, but to trade. Finding,
however, that there was no hope of trade Captain Argall shared what
food he had with the famished colonists, and so for a time rescued
them from starvation. He also brought the news that more ships were
setting out from home bringing both food and men.
In June, 1609, this fleet of nine ships really did set out. But
one ship was wrecked on the way, another, the Sea Venture, was cast
ashore on the Bermudas; only seven arrived at length at Jamestown,
bringing many new colonists. Unfortunately among these new arrivals
there were few likely to make good colonists. They were indeed for
the most part wild, bad men whose friends had packed them off to
that distant land in the hope of being rid of them forever. "They
were," said one of the old colonists who wrote of them, "ten times
more fit to spoil a Commonwealth than either to begin one or but
help to maintain one."
Now with all these "unruly gallants" poured into his little commonwealth
Smith found his position of President even more difficult than
before. Still, for a time, if he could not keep them altogether in
order he at least kept them in check.
Then one day by a terrible accident his rule was brought to a sudden
end. He was returning from an expedition up the James River when,
through some carelessness, a bag of gunpowder in his boat was
exploded. Smith was not killed by it, but he was sorely hurt. In
great pain, and no longer able to think and act for others, he was
carried back to Jamestown.
Here there was no doctor of any kind, and seeing himself then only
a useless hulk, and in danger of death, Smith gave up his post,
and leaving the colony, for which during two and a half years he
had worked and thought and fought so hard, he sailed homeward.
Many of the unruly sort were glad to see him go, but his old
companions with whom he had shared so many dangers and privations
were filled with grief. "He ever hated baseness, sloth, pride and
indignity," said one of them. "He never allowed more for himself
than for his soldiers with him. Upon no danger would he send them
where he would not lead them himself. He would never see us want
what he either had or could by any means get us. He loved action
more than words, and hated falsehood and covetousness worse than
death."
So, loved and hated, but having all unknown to himself made a name
which would live forever in the history of his land, the first
great Virginian sailed from its shores. He returned no more. Some
twenty years later he died in London, and was buried in the church
of St. Sepulchre there. Upon his tomb was carved a long epitaph
telling of his valiant deeds. But in, the great Fire of London the
tomb was destroyed, and now no tablet marks the resting-place of
the brave old pioneer.
__________
Chapter 15 - How the Colony was Saved
After Smith left, the colony of Jamestown fell into wild disorder.
Every one wanted to go his own way. A new President named Percy had
indeed been chosen. But although an honest gentleman he was sickly
and weak, and quite unfit to rule these turbulent spirits. So twenty
or more would-be presidents soon sprang up, and in the whole colony
there was neither obedience nor discipline.
No work was done, food was recklessly wasted, and very quickly
famine stared the wretched colonists in the face. The terrible time
afterwards known as the Starving Time had begun. When their stores
were gone the settlers tried to get more in the old way from the
natives. But they, seeing the miserable plight of the Pale-faces,
became insolent in their demands, and in return for niggardly
supplies of food exacted guns and ammunition, swords and tools.
And now there was no man among the colonists who knew how to manage
the Indians as Smith had managed them. There was no man among them
who thought of the future. All they wanted was to stay for a time
the awful pangs of hunger. So they bartered away their muskets and
powder, their tools, and everything of value of which they were
possessed. But even so the food the Indians gave them in return
was not enough to keep body and soul together.
The colony became a place of horror, where pale skeleton-like
creatures roamed about eyeing each other suspiciously, ready to kill
each other for a crust or a bone. They quarreled among themselves,
and they quarreled with the natives. And the natives, now no longer
filled with awe, lay in wait for them and killed them almost without
resistance if they ventured to crawl beyond the walls of the fort.
Many more died of hunger and of disease brought on by hunger.
So less than eight months after Smith had sailed away, of the
five hundred men he had left behind him but sixty remained alive.
The colony was being wiped out, and the little town itself was
disappearing; for the starving wretches had no strength or energy
to fell trees and hew wood, and as soon as a man died his house was
pulled down by his comrades and used as firewood. Already, too,
weeds and briers overgrew the land which had been cleared for
corn. Greater misery and desolation it is hard to imagine. Yet the
unhappy beings sank into a still deeper horror. Unable to relieve
the pangs of hunger, they turned cannibal and fed upon each other.
Thus the last depths of degradation were sounded, the last horrors
of the Starving Time were reached.
Then at length one May day two ships came sailing up the James
River and anchored in the harbour. From their decks bronzed men in
patched and ragged garments looked with astonished eyes upon the
desolate scene.
These were the men of the wrecked Sea Venture, who had been cast
ashore upon the Bermudas. Their ship had gone down, but they had
been able to save both themselves and nearly everything out of
her. Some of the best men of the expedition had sailed in the Sea
Venture. Their leaders were brave and energetic; so instead of
bemoaning their fate they had set to work with right good will,
and after ten months' labour had succeeded in building two little
ships which they named the Patience and the Deliverance. Then, having
filled them with such stores as they could muster, they set sail
joyfully to join their comrades at Jamestown. But now what horror
and astonishment was theirs! They had hoped to find a flourishing
town, surrounded by well tilled fields. Instead they saw ruins
and desolation. They had hoped to be greeted joyfully by stalwart,
prosperous Englishmen. Instead a few gaunt, hollow-cheeked spectres,
who scarce seemed men, crawled to meet them.
Lost in amazement the newcomers landed, and as they listened to
the tragic tale pity filled their hearts. They gave the starving
wretches food, and comforted them as best they could. They had no
great stores themselves, and they saw at once that with such scant
supplies as they had it would be impossible to settle at Jamestown.
Even if they could get through the summer, the autumn would bring
no relief, for the fields, where the corn for the winter's use
should already have been sprouting, lay neglected and overgrown
with weeds and briers. The houses where the newcomers might have
lodged had disappeared. The very palisading which surrounded the
settlement as a bulwark against the Indians had been pulled down
for firewood. All the tools and implements which might have been
used to rebuild the place had been bartered away to the Indians. The
Indians themselves were no longer friendly, but hostile. Whichever
way they looked only misery and failure stared them in the face.
The Captains of the Patience and Deliverance talked long together,
but even they could see no ray of hope. So with heavy hearts they
resolved once more to abandon Virginia. They were loath indeed to
come to this decision, loath indeed to own themselves defeated.
But there seemed no other course left open to them.
So one day early in June the pitiful remnant of the Jamestown
Colony went on board the two waiting ships. Sir Thomas Gates, the
brave and wise captain of the expedition, was the last to leave
the ruined town. With backward looks he left it, and ere he weighed
anchor he fired a last salute to the lost colony. Then the sails
were set, and the two little ships drifted down stream towards the
open sea, carrying the beaten settlers back to old England.
Another attempt to plant a New England beyond the seas had failed.
But next day as the little ships dropped down stream the sailors on
the lookout saw a boat being rowed towards them. Was it an Indian
canoe? Did it come in peace or war? It drew nearer. Then it was
seen that it was no Indian canoe, but an English tug boat manned
by English sailors. With a shout they hailed each other, and news
was exchanged. Wonderful news it was to which the brokenhearted
colonists listened.
Lord Delaware, the new Governor of Virginia, had arrived. His three
good ships, well stored with food and all things necessary for the
colony, were but a little way down stream. There was no need for
the settlers to flee home to escape starvation and death.
It may be that to some this news was heavy news. It may be that
some would gladly have turned their backs forever upon the spot
where they had endured so much misery. But for the most part the
colonists were unwilling to own defeat, and they resolved at once
to return. So the ships were put about, and three days after they
had left Jamestown, as they believed forever, the colonists once
more landed there.
As Lord Delaware stepped on shore he fell upon his knees giving
thanks to God that he had come in time to save Virginia. After
that the chaplain preached a sermon, then the new Governor, with
all his company about him, read aloud the commission given to him
by King James.
This was the first royal commission ever given to a governor of
an English colony in America. In it Lord Delaware was given the
power of life and death over "all and every person and persons now
inhabiting, or which shall hereafter inhabit within the precincts
of the said colony." The colonists were in fact to be his subjects. And
having read aloud his commission, and having thus as it were shown
his authority, Lord Delaware next spoke sternly to his new subjects. He
warned them that he would no longer endure their sluggish idleness
or haughty disobedience. And if they did not amend their ways they
might look to it that the most severe punishment of the law would
come upon them. Having thus spoken his mind plainly, to cheer them
he told of the plentiful and good stores he had brought with him,
of which all those who worked well and faithfully should have a
share.
Now a new life began for the colony. All the settlers were made
to work for some hours every day. Even the gentlemen among them,
"whose breeding never knew what a day's labour meant," had to
do their share. Soon the houses were rebuilt, the palisades stood
again in place, two forts were erected to guard against attacks
by the Indians, and at length the colony seemed to be on the fair
way to success.
Of course this did not all happen at once. The idlers were not easily
turned into diligent workers, or unruly brawlers into peaceful
citizens. Indeed it was only through most stern, and what would
seem to us now most cruel punishments, that the unruly were forced
to keep the law.
The winter after Lord Delaware came out as Governor, although not
so hard as that of the Starving Time, was yet severe, and many of
the colonists died. Lord Delaware, too, became so ill that in the
spring he sailed home to England, and after a little time Sir Thomas
Dale took his place as Deputy Governor.
Sir Thomas Dale was both a soldier and a statesman. He was full
of energy and courage. Far-seeing and dogged, he was merciless to
the evildoers, yet kindly to those who tried to do well. Under his
stern yet righteous rule the colony prospered.
At first only men settlers had come out, then one or two women
joined them, and now many more women came, so that the men, instead
of all living together, married and had homes of their own. Then,
too, at first all a man's labour went into the common stock, and
the men who worked little fared as well as those who worked a great
deal. So the lazy fellow did as little as he could. "Glad when he
could slip from his labour," says an old writer, "or slumber over
his task he cared not how."
Thus most of the work of the colony was left to the few who were
industrious and willing. Sir Thomas Dale changed that. In return
for a small yearly payment in corn he gave three acres of land to
every man who wished it, for his own use. So, suddenly, a little
community of farmers sprang up. Now that the land was really their
own, to make of it what they would, each man tilled it eagerly, and
soon such fine crops of grain were raised that the colony was no
longer in dread of starvation. The settlers, too, began to spread
and no longer kept within the palisade round Jamestown, "more
especially as Jamestown," says an old writer, "was scandalised for
an unhealthy aire." And here and there further up the river little
villages sprang up.
Since Smith had gone home the Indians had remained unfriendly, and
a constant danger to the colonists. And now as they became thus
scattered the danger from the Indians became ever greater. Old Powhatan
and his men were constantly making raids upon the Pale-faces with
whom he had once been so friendly. And in spite of the watch they
kept he often succeeded in killing them or taking them prisoner.
He had also by now quite a store of swords, guns and tools stolen
from the English. And how to subdue him, or force him to live on
friendly terms with them once more, none knew.
Pocahontas, who had been so friendly and who had more than once
saved the Pale-faces from disaster, might have helped them. But
she now never came near their settlement; indeed she seemed to have
disappeared altogether. So the English could get no aid from her.
But now it happened one day that one of the adventurers, Samuel
Argall, who was, it is written, "a good Marriner, and a very civil
gentleman," went sailing up the Appomattox in search of corn for
the settlement. He had to go warily because no one could tell how
the Indians would behave, for they would be friends or foes just
as it suited them. If they got the chance of killing the Pale-faces
and stealing their goods they would do so. But if they were not
strong enough to do that they would willingly trade for the coloured
cloths, beads and hatchets they so much wanted.
Presently Argall came to the country of one of the chiefs with
whom he had made friends. While here he was told that Pocahontas,
the great Powhatan's daughter, was living with the tribe. As soon
as he heard this Captain Argall saw at once that here was a means
of forcing the Powhatan to make peace, and he resolved at all costs
to get possession of Pocahontas. So sending for the chief he told
him he must bring Pocahontas on board his ship.
But the chief was afraid and refused to do this.
"Then we are no longer brothers and friends," said Argall.
"My father," said the chief, "be not wroth. For if I do this thing
the Powhatan will make war upon me and upon my people."
"My brother," said Argall," have no fear; if so be that the
Powhatan shall make war upon you I will join with you against him
to overthrow him utterly. I mean, moreover, no manner of hurt to
Pocahontas, but will only keep her as hostage until peace be made
between the Powhatan and the Pale-faces. If therefore you do my
bidding I will give to you the copper kettle which you desire so
much."
Now the chief longed greatly to possess the copper kettle. So he
promised to do as Argall asked, and began to cast about for an excuse
for getting Pocahontas on board. Soon he fell upon a plan. He bade
his wife pretend that she was very anxious to see the Englishman's
ship. But when she asked to be taken on board he refused to go with
her. Again and again she asked. Again and again the chief refused.
Then the poor lady wept with disappointment and at length the chief,
pretending to be very angry, swore that he would beat her if she
did not cease her asking and her tears. But as she still begged
and wept he said he would take her if Pocahontas would go too.
To please the old woman Pocahontas went. Captain Argall received
all three very courteously, and made a great feast for them in his
cabin. The old chief, however, was so eager to get his promised
kettle that he could little enjoy the feast, but kept kicking
Captain Argall under the table as much as to say, "I have done my
part, now you do yours."
At length Captain Argall told Pocahontas that she must stay with
him until peace was made between her father and the white men. As
soon as the old chief and his wife heard that they began to howl,
and cry, and make a great noise, so as to pretend that they knew
nothing about the plot. Pocahontas too began to cry. But Argall
assured her that no harm was intended her, and that she need have
no fear. So she was soon comforted and dried her eyes.
As for the wily old Indians they were made quite happy with the
copper kettle and a few other trifles, and went merrily back to
the shore.
A messenger was then sent to the Powhatan telling him that his
daughter, whom he loved so dearly, was a prisoner, and that he
could only ransom her by sending back all the Pale-faces he held
prisoner, with all their guns, swords and tools which he had stolen.
When Powhatan got this news he was both angry and sorry. For he
loved his daughter very dearly, but he loved the Englishmen's tools
and weapons almost more. He did not know what to do, so for three
months he did nothing. Then at last he sent back seven of his
prisoners, each one carrying a useless gun.
"Tell your chieftain," he said, "that all the rest of the arms of
the Pale-faces are lost, or have been stolen from me. But if the
Pale-faces will give back my daughter I will give satisfaction
for all the other things I have taken, together with five hundred
bushels of corn, and will make peace forever."
But the Englishmen were not easily deceived. They returned a message
to the chief saying, "Your daughter is well used. But we do not
believe the rest of our arms are either lost or stolen, and therefore
until you send them we will keep your daughter."
The Powhatan was so angry when he got this message that for a long
time he would have no further dealings with the Pale-faces, but
continued to vex and harass them as much as he could.
At length Sir Thomas Dale, seeking to put an end to this, took
Pocahontas, and with a hundred and fifty men sailed up the river
to the Powhatan's chief town.
As soon as the savages saw the white men they came down to the river's
bank, jeering at them and insulting them, haughtily demanding why
they had come.
"We have brought the Powhatan's daughter," replied the Englishmen.
"For we are come to receive the ransom promised, and if you do not
give it willingly we will take it by force."
But the savages were not in the least afraid at that threat. They
jeered the more.
"If so be," they cried, "that you are come to fight you are right
welcome, for we are ready for you. But we advise you, if you love
your lives, to retire with haste. Else we will serve you as we have
served others of your countrymen."
"Oh," answered the Englishmen, "we must have a better answer than
that," and driving their ship nearer to the shore they made ready
to land.
But as soon as they were within bow shot the savages let fly their
arrows. Thick and fast they fell, rattling on the deck, glancing
from the men's armour, wounding not a few. This reception made the
Englishmen angry, so without more ado they launched their boats and
made for the shore. The savages fled at their coming, and so enraged
were the colonists against them that they burned their houses, and
utterly destroyed their town. Then they sailed on up the river in
pursuit of the Redmen.
Next day they came up again with the savages. They were now not so
insolent and sent a messenger to ask why the Pale-faces had burned
their town.
"Why did you fire upon us?" asked the Englishmen, sternly.
"Brothers," replied the Redmen, "we did not fire upon you. It was
but some stray savages who did so. We intend you no hurt and are
your friends."
With these and many other fair words they tried to pacify the
Pale-faces. So the Englishmen, who had no wish to fight, made peace
with them. Then the Indians sent a messenger to the Powhatan who
was a day's journey off; and the Englishmen were told they must
wait two days for his answer.
Meanwhile the Englishmen asked to see their comrades whom the
Indians had taken prisoner.
"We cannot show them to you," replied the wily Redmen, "for they have
all run away in fear lest you should hang them. But the Powhatan's
men are pursuing after them, and will doubtless bring them back."
"Then where are the swords and guns which you have stolen from us?"
demanded the Englishmen.
"These you shall have to-morrow," replied the Redmen.
But, as the Englishmen well knew, this was all idle talk and deceit,
and next day no message came from the Powhatan, neither were any
swords nor guns forthcoming. So once more the Englishmen set sail
and went still further up the river.
Here quite close to another village belonging to the Powhatan they
came upon four hundred Indians in war paint. When they saw the
Englishmen the Indians yelled and danced, and dared them to come
ashore. This the Englishmen, nothing daunted, accordingly did. The
Redmen on their side showed no fear, but walked boldly up and down
among the Englishmen, demanding to speak with their captain.
So the chiefs were brought to Sir Thomas.
"Why do you come against us thus?" they asked. "We are friends and
brothers. Let us not fight until we have sent once again to our
King to know his pleasure. Then if he sends not back the message
of peace we will fight you and defend our own as best we may."
The Englishmen knew well that by all this talk of peace the Indians
wanted but to gain time so that they might be able to carry away
and hide their stores. Still they had no desire to fight if by any
other means they might gain their end. So they promised a truce
until noon the day following. "And if we then decide to fight you,
you shall be warned of it by the sounding of our drums and trumpets,"
they said.
The truce being settled Pocahontas' two brothers came on board the
Englishmen's ships to visit their sister. And when they saw that
she was well cared for, and appeared to be quite happy they were
very glad, for they had heard that she was ill treated and most
miserable. But finding her happy they promised to persuade their
father to ransom her, and make friends again with the Pale-faces.
Seeing them thus friendly Sir Thomas suggested that Pocahontas' two
brothers should stay on board his vessel as hostages while he sent
two of his company to parley with the Powhatan. This was accordingly
done, and Master John Rolfe and Master Sparkes set off on their
mission. When, however, they reached the village where the Powhatan
was hiding they found him still in high dudgeon, and he refused to
see them, or speak with them. So they had to be content with seeing
his brother, who treated them with all courtesy and kindness and
promised to do his best to pacify the Powhatan.
It was now April, and high time for the colonists to be back
on their farms sowing their corn. So with this promise they were
fain to be content in the meantime. And having agreed upon a truce
until harvest time they set sail once more for Jamestown, taking
Pocahontas with them.
One at least among the company of Englishmen was glad that
the negotiations with the Powhatan had come to nothing, and that
Pocahontas had not been ransomed. That was Master John Rolfe. For
Pocahontas, although a savage, was beautiful and kind, and John
Rolfe had fallen madly in love with her. So he had no desire that
she should return to her own tribe, but rather that she should
return to Jamestown and marry him.
Pocahontas, too, was quite fond of John Rolfe, although she had
never forgotten her love for the great White Chief whose life she
had saved. The Englishmen, however, told her that he had gone away
never to come back any more, and that very likely he was dead.
Pocahontas was then easily persuaded to marry John Rolfe. But he
himself, although he loved her very much, had some misgivings. For
was this beautiful savage not a heathen?
That difficulty was, however, soon overcome. For Pocahontas made no
objection to becoming a Christian. So one day there was a great
gathering in the little church at Jamestown when the heathen
princess stood beside the fort, and the water of Christian baptism
was sprinkled on her dark face, and she was given the Bible name
of Rebecca.
And now when the Powhatan heard that his daughter was going to
marry one of the Pale-faces he was quite pleased. He forgot all
his anger and sulkiness, sent many of his braves to be present at
the wedding, and swore to be the friend and brother of the Pale-faces
forever more.
Sir Thomas Dale was delighted. So every one was pleased, and one
morning early in April three hundred years ago all the inhabitants
of the country round, both Redman and White, gathered to see the
wedding. And from that day for eight years, as long as the Powhatan
lived, there was peace between him and his brothers, the Pale-faces.
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Chapter 16 - How Pocahontas Took a Journey Over the Seas
At peace with the Indians, the colonists could till their fields
without fear of attack. And now, besides corn, they began to grow
tobacco.
You remember that Columbus had noticed how the natives of his "India"
smoked rolled-up dried leaves. But, no one paid much attention to
it. Then the men of Raleigh's expedition again noticed it. They
tried it themselves, found it comforting, and brought both tobacco
and the habit home with them. And soon not only the seafaring
adventurers but many a man who was never likely to see the ocean,
or adventure beyond his native town, had taken to smoking. That,
too, despite his king's disgust at it. For James thought smoking
was "a custom loathsome to the eye, hateful to the nose, harmful to
the brain, dangerous to the lungs, and in the black smoking fumes
thereof nearest resembling the horrible Stygian smoke of the pit
that is bottomless." He indeed wrote a little book against it,
which he called "A Counterblaste to Tobacco." But no one paid much
attention to him. The demand for tobacco became greater and greater,
and soon the Virginian farmers found that there was a sale for as
much tobacco as they could grow, and that a crop of it paid better
than anything else.
Up till now the colony had. been a constant disappointment to the
"adventurers" - that is, to the people who had given the money to
fit out the expeditions - the shareholders we would now call them.
Most of them had adventured their money, not with any idea of
founding a New England beyond the seas where men should settle down
as farmers and tillers of the soil. They had adventured it rather
for the finding of gold and pearls, jewels and spices, so that it
might be repaid quickly, and a hundredfold. But year by year passed,
and all these glittering hopes were doomed to disappointment. No
gold was found. The adventurers saw their money being swallowed
up for nought. They grew discontented and grumbled, some of them
refused to pay any more, refused to throw more away on an empty
dream. They little knew that they were helping to found a new State
which in time was to become one of the world's greatest powers.
They little knew that in days to come their money should produce
a harvest a thousand, thousandfold, and that from the broad land,
of which they had helped to settle a tiny corner, was to come wealth
such as in their wildest imaginings, they had never dreamt.
Meanwhile, anything a Virginian wanted he could buy with tobacco.
Indeed, after a time the Virginians threw themselves with such
complete enthusiasm into the growing of tobacco that they were
reproached for neglecting everything else because of it.
The English were not the only people who had set forth to find
golden wealth and broad lands beyond the seas. Both the French and
the Dutch had carried their standard across the ocean, and planted
it upon the further shores. Already, too, the struggle for possession
began.
Captain Argall, in one of his many expeditions, sailing northward
to the Bay of Fundy, found a French colony settled there. Argall
swooped down upon them, and claiming the whole continent by right
of Cabot's discovery, he utterly destroyed the colony, burning the
houses to the ground, and carrying off the cattle.
Argall next found a Dutch colony on the Hudson River. Here he
contented himself with ordering the Governor to pull down the Dutch
flag and run up the English one. To save his colony the Dutchman
did as he was commanded. But as soon as the arrogant Englishman
was out of sight he calmly ran up his own flag once more.
Meanwhile under Sir Thomas Dale Virginia continued to prosper. Then
after five years' rule Sir Thomas went home and the colony was left
to a new ruler. With him went John Rolfe and his wife Pocahontas,
together with their little baby son.
Now began a wonderful new life for the beautiful Indian. Only a
few years before she had been a merry, little, half naked savage,
turning cart wheels all over the Jamestown fort, and larking with
the boys. Now she found herself treated as a great lady.
In those days the people in England had very little idea of the
life out in the wilds. The Powhatan, they had heard, was a king, a
sort of emperor, indeed, and they doubtless pictured him as living in
a stately palace, wearing a golden crown and velvet robes. That a
"king" should be a half-naked savage, living in a mud hut, wearing
a crown of feathers on his head, and a string of beads about
his neck, they could not imagine. As the Powhatan was a king then
his daughter was a princess, and as such must be treated with all
respect.
It is even said that John Rolfe was roundly scolded by King James
for daring to marry a princess without first asking leave.
"For," he gravely pointed out, "if the Powhatan was a king and
Pocahontas his daughter, when the Powhatan died Rolfe or his baby
son might become King of Virginia. It was not meet or right that a
commoner should thus lightly take upon himself to marry the daughter
of a brother sovereign."
Every one, then, was ready to treat Pocahontas with deference. Besides
this John Smith wrote to the Queen relating all that she had done
for the Colony of Virginia and begging her to be kind to the Indian
girl who had done so much for England. For that or some other reason
the Queen took an interest in the little dusky Princess. Pocahontas
was presented to her, and was often seen at the theatre or other
entertainment with her. The ladies of the court were made to treat
Pocahontas with great ceremony. They addressed her as "Princess"
or "Lady," remained standing before her, and walked backwards when
they left her presence; famous artists painted her portrait; poets
wrote of her, and in one of his plays Ben Johnson calls her
The Blessed Pokahontas, as the historian calls her And great King's
daughter of Virginia.
In fact she became the rage. She was the talk of the town. Even
coffee-houses and taverns were named after her,-La Belle Sauvage
(the beautiful savage). And it is interesting to remember that a
great publishing house in London takes its name from one of these
old taverns. Books go out to all the world from the sign of La
Belle Sauvage, thus forming a link between the present and that
half-forgotten American "princess" of so long ago.
In spite of all the homage and flattery poured upon her, Pocahontas
yet remained modest and simple, enchanting all who met her. And
among all the new delights of England she had the joy of seeing once
again the great White Chief she had loved and called her father in
days gone by.
Her joy was all the greater because she had believed him to be
dead. When Smith first came to see her her feelings were so deep
that at first she could not speak. She greeted him in silence,
then suddenly turning away she hid her face and wept. But after a
little she recovered herself, and began to speak of the old days,
and of how she had thought he was dead. "I knew no other," she
said, "until I came to Plymouth."
In many ways Pocahontas showed her joy at again recovering her old
friend. But when she found that Smith was not going to treat her
as an old friend, but as if she were a great lady, and call her
Princess like all the others round her, she was hurt.
"You did promise the Powhatan that what was yours should be his,
and he did promise the like to you," she said. "A stranger in his
land you called him father, and I shall do the same by you."
"Lady," replied Smith, "I dare not allow that title, for you are
a King's daughter."
But from the man who had known her in those strange, wild days in
far-off Virginia, from the man she had looked upon as a great and
powerful chief, Pocahontas would have no such nonsense. She laughed
at him.
"You were not afraid," she said defiantly, "to come into my father's
country, and cause fear in him, and in all his people save me.
And fear you here that I should call you father? I tell you then
I will. And you shall call me child. And so I will be forever and
ever your countryman."
Pocahontas took all the strangeness of her new surroundings very
simply. But some of her attendants were utterly overwhelmed with
wonder and awe at the things they saw. One man in particular, who
was accounted a very clever man among his own people, had been sent
by the Powhatan to take particular note of everything in England.
Among other things he had been charged to count the people! So
on landing at Plymouth he provided himself with a long stick and
proceeded to make a notch in it for every man he met. But he met
so many people that he could not make notches fast enough; so in
a very short time he grew weary of that and threw his stick away.
Coming to London he was more amazed than ever. Never had he seen
so great a city nor so many folk all gathered together, and among
them not one familiar face. So he welcomed Captain John Smith like
an old friend, and eagerly questioned him as to the wonders of this
strange country. More especially he asked to see God, the King and
Queen, and the Prince.
Captain Smith tried as best he could to explain to the poor heathen
about God, telling him He could not be seen. As, to the King, he
added, "you have seen him."
"No," said the Indian, "I have not seen your great King."
Then when Captain Smith explained that the little man with a jeweled
feather in his cap and sword by his side, who had one day spoken
to him was the King, the Indian was much disappointed.
"You gave Powhatan a white dog," he said, "which Powhatan fed as
himself. But your King gave me nothing."
However if the old Indian was disappointed with the manner in which
the King had received him he was much made of by others. For every
one was eager to see this wild savage. And often to please these
new friends he would sing to them and make their blood creep by
his wild dances.
Pocahontas loved England where she was so kindly treated. She took
to the new life so well that it is said she soon "became very formal
and civil after our English manner." But she who had been used to
roam the wild woods could not live in the confinement of towns,
and soon she became very ill. So she made up her mind at length,
sorely against her will, to go back to Virginia with her husband.
Captain Argall was about to return there as Deputy Governor. So
Pocahontas and her husband took passages in his boat.
But Pocahontas was never again to see her native shore. She went on
board Captain Argall's boat, the George, and indeed set sail from
London, but before she reached Gravesend she became so ill that
she had to be taken ashore, and there she died. She was buried in
the chancel of the Parish Church. Later the Church was burned down,
but it was rebuilt, and as a memorial to Pocahontas American ladies
have placed a stained glass window there, and also a pulpit made
of Virginian wood.
John Rolfe returned alone to Virginia, leaving his little son
Thomas behind him in the care of an uncle. He remained in England
until he was grown up, and then went to his native land. There he
married, and had a daughter, and became the ancestor of several
Virginian families who are to this day proud to trace their descent
from beautiful Pocahontas and her English husband.
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Chapter 17 - How the Redmen Fought Against Their White Brothers
The Colony of Virginia which had prospered so greatly under Sir
Thomas Dale had fallen again on evil days. For Samuel Argall, who
now governed, proved a tyrant. Dale had been autocratic, but he had
been autocratic for the good of the colony. Argall was autocratic
for his own gains. He extorted money and tribute from the colonists
to make himself rich, and profits which should have gone to the
company went into his pocket. Again and again the colonists sent
home complaints of Argall's doings. At length these complaints became
so loud and long that the company once more sent Lord Delaware out
as Governor.
But on the way Lord Delaware died, and the party of settlers he was
bringing out arrived without him. On their arrival Argall at once
took possession of Lord Delaware's private papers, and much to his
disgust he found among them one telling Lord Delaware to arrest
Argall and send him back to England.
This made Argall very angry; it also made him more despotic and
cruel than ever. In consequence still more bitter complaints reached
home from the colonists.
At this time the company at home were quarrelling among themselves.
But in the end they sent out a new Governor called Sir George
Yeardley. He, too, had orders to arrest Argall and send him home.
But Argall somehow came to know of it, and he made up his mind not
to go home a prisoner. So before the new Governor could arrive he
packed up his goods, and leaving the colony to take care of itself,
sailed gaily off to England.
The Virginians now were heartily tired of despots, and thought
that it was time that they had some say in the matter of governing
themselves. At the head of the company at home there was at this
time a wise man named Sandys. He also thought that it would be best
for the colony to be self-governing.
And so on July 30th, 1619, the first General Election was held in
Virginia, and the first Parliament of Englishmen in America met.
There were by this time about two thousand people living in the
colony, and the settlements were scattered about on both sides
of the river for sixty miles or so above Jamestown. So the colony
was divided into eleven parts or constituencies, each constituency
sending two members to the little parliament. These members
were called burgesses, and the parliament was called the House of
Burgesses. But there was no special building in which the burgesses
could gather, so the meetings were held in the little wooden church
at Jamestown. And thus with such small beginnings were the first
foundations of a free and independent nation laid. And because of
the founding of this House of Burgesses 1619 stands out as the year
most to be remembered in all the early days of Virginia.
But 1619 has to be remembered for another, and this time a sad reason:
for it saw not only the beginnings of freedom, but the beginnings
of slavery.
Just a month after the opening of the House of Burgesses a Dutch
vessel anchored at Jamestown. The captain had been on a raiding
expedition off the coast of Africa, and he had on board a cargo of
negroes, whom he had stolen from their homes. Twenty of these he
sold to the farmers. And thus slavery was first introduced upon
the Virginian plantations.
In 1619, too, there arrived the first ship-load of women colonists.
Nearly all the settlers were men. A few indeed had brought their
wives and daughters with them, but for the most part the colony
was a community of men. Among these there were many who were young,
and as they grew rich and prosperous they wanted to marry and have
homes of their own. But there was no one for them to marry. So
at length some one at home fell upon the plan of persuading young
women to go out to Virginia to settle there, and in 1619 a ship-load
of ninety came out. As soon as they arrived they found many young
men eager to marry them, and sometimes they must have found it
difficult to make a choice. But as soon as a young man was accepted
he had to pay the Company 120 Ibs., afterwards raised to 150 Ibs.,
of tobacco as the price of his bride's passage across the seas.
Then they were free to marry as soon as they pleased.
After this from time to time women went out to the colony. Sometimes
we read of "a widow and eleven maids," or again of "fifty maids for
wives." And always there came with them a letter from the company
at home to the old men of the colony reminding them that these
young women did not come to be servants. "We pray you therefore to
be fathers to them in their business, not enforcing them to marry
against their wills, neither send them to be servants," they wrote.
And if the girls did not marry at once they were to be treated as
guests and "put to several householders that have wives till they
can be provided of husbands."
Helped in this quaint fashion and in others the colony prospered
and grew ever larger. It would have prospered even more had it
not been for the outbreak of a kind of plague, which the colonists
simply called "the sickness." It attacked chiefly the new settlers,
and was so deadly that in one year a thousand of them died. Doctors
were not very skilful in those days, and although they did their
best, all their efforts were of little use, till at length the
dread disease wore itself out.
But in spite of all difficulties the colony grew, the settlements
extended farther and farther in a long line up and down both banks
of the James from Chesapeake Bay to what is now Richmond. Had the
Indians been unfriendly, the colony could not have stretched out
in this fashion without great danger to the settlers. But for eight
years the Redmen had been at peace with their white brothers, and
the settlers had lost all fear of attack from them. The Indians,
indeed, might be seen wandering freely about the towns and farms.
They came into the houses, and even shared the meals of the farmer
and his household. Nothing, to all outward seeming, could be more
friendly than the relations between the Redmen and the settlers.
Then after eight years, old Powhatan, the father of Pocahontas,
died, and his brother became chief of the tribe. It may be that
this new chief was known not to be so friendly to the Pale-faces as
his brother had been. In any case the Governor took the precaution
of sending a messenger to him with renewed expressions of friendship.
Opekankano received the messenger kindly and sent him back to his
master. "Tell the Pale-faces," he said, "that I hold the peace so
sure that the skies shall fall sooner than it should be broken."
But at this very time he and his people were plotting utterly to
destroy the settlers. Yet they gave no hint of it. They had planned
a general massacre, yet two days before the 22nd of March, the day
fixed for it, some settlers were safely guided through the woods by
the Indians. They came as usual, quite unarmed, into the settlers'
houses, selling game, fish and furs in exchange for glass beads and
such trifles. Even on the night of the 21st of March they borrowed
the settlers' boats so that many of their tribe could get quickly
across the river. Next morning in many places the Indians were
sitting at breakfast with the settlers and their families when
suddenly, as at a given signal, they sprang up, and, seizing the
settlers own weapons, killed them all, sparing neither men, women
nor children. So sudden was the onslaught that many a man fell dead
without a cry, seeing not the hand which smote him. In the workshops,
in the fields, in the gardens, wherever they were, wherever their
daily work took them, they were thus suddenly and awfully struck
down.
For days and weeks the Indians had watched the habits of the
settlers until they knew the daily haunts of every man. Then they
had planned one swift and deadly blow which was to wipe out the
whole colony. And so cunning was their plot, so complete and perfect
their treachery, that they might have succeeded but for the love
of one faithful Indian. This Indian, named Chanco, lived with one
of the settlers named Pace, and had become his servant. But Pace
treated him more as a son than as a servant, and the Indian had
become very devoted to him. When, then, this Indian was told that
his chief commanded him to murder his master he felt that he could
not do it. Instead, he went at once to Pace and told him of the
plot. Pace then made ready to defend himself, and sent warnings
to all the other settlers within reach. Thus a great many of the
colonists were saved from death, but three hundred and fifty were
cruelly slain.
This sudden and treacherous attack, after so many years of peace,
enraged the white men, and they followed the Redmen with a terrible
vengeance. They hunted them like wild beasts, tracking them down
with bloodhounds, driving them mercilessly from place to place,
until, their corn destroyed, their houses burned, their canoes
smashed to splinters, the Indians were fain to sue for mercy, and
peace once more was restored for more than twenty years.
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Chapter 18 - How Englishmen Fought a Duel With Tyranny
At last Virginia prospered. But while it prospered the man who had
first conceived the idea of this New England beyond the seas had
fallen on evil days. Sir Walter Raleigh had been thrown into prison
by King James. There for twelve long years he languished, only to
be set free at length on condition that he should find a gold-mine
for his King. He failed to find the mine, and by his efforts only
succeeded in rousing to greater heights than before the Spanish
hatred against him. For Spain claimed the land and gold of which
Raleigh had gone in search. And now the King of Spain demanded that
he should be punished. And James, weakly yielding to his outcry,
condemned Sir Walter to death. So on 29th of October, 1618,
this great pioneer laid his head upon the block, meeting death as
gallantly as ever man died.
"I shall yet live to see it (Virginia) an English nation," he had
said, after his own fifth failure to found a colony, and his words
had come true. But long ere his death Raleigh had ceased to have
any connection with Virginia. And perhaps there was scarce a man
among those who had made their homes there who remembered that it
was Raleigh who had prepared the way, that but for Raleigh a new
Spain and not a New England might have been planted on the American
shores.
So the death of Raleigh made no difference to the fortunes of
Virginia. But the same stupidity, that same "wonderful instinct for
the wrong side of every question" which made James kill his great
subject, also made him try to stifle the infant colony. So while
in spite of sickness and massacre the colony prospered, the company
at home was passing through strenuous times. The head or treasurer
of the company was still that Sir Edwin Sandys who had been the
chief mover in giving the colony self-government. King James, who
was full of great ideas about the divine right of kings, had never
forgiven him that. He was as eager as any of his people to build
up a colonial Empire, but he desired that it should be one which
should be dependent on himself. He had no intention of allowing
colonies to set themselves up against him.
Now the time came to elect a new treasurer, and the company being
very pleased with Sandys, decided to elect him again. But when King
James heard that, he was very angry. He called the company a school
of treason and Sandys his greatest enemy. Then, flinging himself
out of the room in a terrible passion, he shouted "Choose the Devil
if you will, but not Sir Edwin Sandys."
Still in spite of the King's anger the company decided to go its
own way. They had their charter sealed with the King's seal, signed
with the King's name, which gave them the right of freely electing
their own officers, and not even the King should be allowed to
interfere with that right.
On the day of the election nearly five hundred of the "adventurers"
gathered together. Three names were put up for election, Sir
Edwin's heading the list. But just as the voting was about to begin
a messenger from the King arrived.
"It is not the King's pleasure that Sir Edward Sandys should be
chosen," he said, "so he has sent to you a list of four, one of
which you may choose."
At this, dead silence fell upon the company, every man lost in
amazement at this breach of their charter. For minutes the heavy
silence lasted. Then there arose murmurs which grew ever louder until
amid cries of anger it was proposed to turn the King's messengers
out.
"No," said the Earl of Southampton, "let the noble gentlemen keep
their places. Let them stay and see that we do everything in a
manner which is fair and above board. For this business is of so
great concernment that it can never be too solemnly, too thoroughly
or too publicly examined."
Others agreed that this was right. So the messengers stayed. Then
there came impatient cries from every part of the hall, "The Charter!
The Charter! God save the King!"
So the charter was brought and solemnly read.
Then the secretary stood up. "I pray you, gentlemen," he said, "to
observe well the words of the charter on the point of electing a
Governor. You see it is thereby left to your own free choice. This
I take it is so very plain that we shall not need to say anything
more about it. And no doubt these gentlemen when they depart will
give his Majesty a just information of the case."
This speech was received with great noise and cheering. In the midst
of it a friend of Sir Edwin's stood up and begged for silence. And
when the noise had abated a little he said, "Sir Edwin asks me to
say that he withdraws his name for election. I therefore propose
that the King's messengers choose two names and that we choose
a third. Then let all these three names be set upon the balloting
box. And so go to the election in God's name. And let His will be
done."
Thereupon with one voice the whole assembly cried out, "Southampton!
Southampton!"
The King's messengers then pretended that they were quite pleased.
"The King," they said, "had no desire to infringe their rights. He
desired no more than that Sir Edwin Sandys should not be chosen."
Then they named two from the King's list, and the ballot was
immediately taken; the result being that one of the King's men had
two votes, the other but one, and the Earl of Southampton all the
rest.
When the King heard of this result he was a little anxious and
apologetic. The messengers, he said, had mistaken his intention.
He had only meant to recommend his friends, and not to forbid the
company to elect any other. But once again Englishmen had fought
a duel with tyranny, and won.
From this day, however, the King's hatred of the company became
deadly. He harassed it in every way and at last in 1624 took its
charter away, and made Virginia a Crown Colony. Henceforth in theory
at least self-government was taken away from Virginia, and to the
King alone belonged the right of appointing the Governor and Council.
But in fact the change made little difference to the colony. For
in the spring of 1625 King James died, and his son Charles I, who
succeeded him upon the throne, had so much else to trouble him that
he paid little heed to Virginia.
__________
Chapter 19 - The Coming of the Cavaliers
With a new King on the throne life in Virginia went on much as
it had done. Governors came and went, were good or bad, strong or
weak. There were troubles with the Indians, and troubles at home
about the sale of tobacco; still the colony lived and prospered.
The early days of struggle were over.
Virginia now was no longer looked upon as a place of exile where with
luck one could make a fortune and return home to England to enjoy
it. Men now began to find Virginia a pleasant place, and look upon
it as their home. The great woods were full of game, the streams
were full of fish, so that the Englishman could shoot and angle to
his heart's content. The land was so fertile that he did not need
to work half so hard to earn a living as he had to do at home;
while the climate was far kindlier.
So the colony prospered. And it was to this prosperous colony
that in 1642 Sir William Berkeley was appointed Governor. He was
a courtly, hot-tempered, imperious gentleman, a thorough cavalier
who dressed in satin and lace and ruled like a tyrant. He did not
believe in freedom of thought, and he spent a good deal of time
persecuting the Puritans who had found refuge in Virginia.
For just about the time of Berkeley's appointment a fierce religious
war between Cavalier and Puritan was beginning in England, and
already some Puritans had fled to Virginia to escape persecution
at home. But Berkeley soon showed them that they had come to the
wrong place and bade them "depart the Colony with all convenience."
Berkeley did not believe in freedom of thought, and he disapproved
just as much of education, for that had encouraged freedom of
thought. "I thank God," he said some years later, "there are no
free schools in Virginia or printing, and I hope we shall not have
them these hundred years. For learning has brought disobedience and
heresy, and sects into the world, and printing has divulged them,
and libels against the best government. God keep us from both."
In England the quarrel between King and people grew ever fiercer
and more bitter. Virginia so far away heard the echo of it, and
there, as in England, men took sides. The men in Virginia were
ready enough to stand up to the King and speak their mind when he
threatened their liberties. But when they heard that the people in
England had taken the King prisoner and were talking of beheading
him they were horrified. To lay bands upon his person, to lead him
to the block, to take his life! That seemed to them very terrible.
And when at length the news of the King's death reached Virginia
the Virginians forgot their grievances, they became King's men.
And Berkeley, a fervent Royalist, wrote to his brother Royalists at
home asking them to come out to Virginia, there to find new homes
far from the rule of the hated "usurper" Cromwell.
Many came, fleeing from their native land "in horror and despairs
at the bloody and bitter stroke." Before the year was out at least
a thousand Cavaliers had found a home in Virginia. They were kindly,
even affectionately, received. Every house was open to them, every
hand stretched out to help.
In October the House of Burgesses met and at once declared that the
beheading of "the late most excellent and now undoubtedly sainted
King" was treason. And if any one in Virginia dared to defend "the
late traitorous proceedings against the aforesaid King of most
happy memory" they too would be found guilty of treason and worthy
of death. Worthy of death too should be any one who seemed by word
or deed to doubt the right of "his Majesty that now is" to the Colony
of Virginia. Thus Charles II, a homeless wanderer, was acknowledged
King of Virginia.
In this manner did little Virginia fling down the gauntlet to Great
Britain. It was a daring deed, and one not likely to go unheeded by
the watchful Cromwell. Yet two years and more passed. Then British
ships appeared off Jamestown. At once the Virginians made ready to
resist; cannon were mounted; the gay Cavaliers turned out in force,
sword by side, gun in hand. Then a little boat flying a white flag
was seen to put off for the shore. It was a messenger from the
British captain.
It would be much better for them, he said, to yield peacefully than
to fight and be beaten. For hold out against the great strength of
Britain they could not. His words had weight with the Virginians.
Yet long and seriously they debated. Some would have held out,
but others saw only misery and destruction in such a course. So at
length they surrendered to the might of Cromwell.
The conditions were not severe. They had to submit, and take the
oath of allegiance to the British Parliament. Those who refused
were given a year's time in which to leave the colony. And as for
their love of the King? Why, they might pray for him, and drink
his health in private, and no man would hinder them. Only in public
such things would not be tolerated.
In bitterness of heart the Cavalier Governor gave up his post, sold
his house in Jamestown, and went away to live in his great country
house at Green Spring. Here amid his apple-trees and orchards he
lived in a sort of rural state, riding forth in his great coach,
and welcoming with open arms the Cavaliers who came to him for aid
and comfort in those evil times.
These Cavaliers were men and women of good family. They came from
the great houses of England, and in their new homes they continued to
lead much the same life as they had done at home. So in Virginia.
there grew up a Cavalier society, a society of men and women
accustomed to command, accustomed to be waited upon; who drove
about in gilded coaches, and dressed in silks and velvets. Thus the
plain Virginian farmer became a country squire. From these Cavalier
families were descended George Washington, James Madison and other
great men who helped to make America.
The years of the Commonwealth passed quietly in Virginia. Having
made the colonists submit, the Parliament left them to themselves,
and Virginia for the first time was absolutely self-governing.
But the great Protector died, the Restoration followed, when the
careless, pleasure-loving King, Charles II was set upon the throne.
In Virginia too there was a little Restoration. When the news was
brought the Cavaliers flung up their caps and shouted for joy.
Bonfires were lit, bells were rung and guns fired, and to the sound
of drum and trumpet Charles by the Grace of God King of England,
Scotland, France, Ireland and Virginia was proclaimed to all the
winds of heaven. A new seal was made upon which were the words
"En dat Virginia quintum" meaning "Behold Virginia gives the fifth
(dominion)." Henceforth Virginia was often called by the name of
the "Old Dominion."
Nor was that all. For with the Restoration of the Stuarts Berkeley
too was restored. The haughty Cavalier left his country manor
house and came back to rule at Jamestown once more, as Governor
and Captain General of Virginia.
During the Commonwealth there had been little change made in the
government of Virginia, except that the right of voting for the
Burgesses had been given to a much larger number of people.
That did not please Sir William Berkeley at all. He took away the
right from a good many people. When he came back to power too he
found the House of Burgesses much to his liking. So instead of having
it re-elected every year he kept the same members for fourteen years
lest the people should elect others who would not do his bidding.
This made the people discontented. But they soon had greater causes
for discontent. First there was the Navigation Law. This Law had
been passed ten years before, but had never really been put in
force in America. By this Law it was ordered that no goods should
be exported from the colonies in America except in British ships.
Further it was ordered that the colonies should not trade with any
country save England and Ireland or "some other of His Majesty's
said plantations." It was a foolish law, meant to hurt the Dutch,
and put gold into the pockets of British merchants. Instead it
drove the colonies to rebellion.
Virginia had yet another grievance. Virginia, which for eight years
had been self-governing, Virginia which had begun to feel that
she had a life of her own, a place of her own among the nations,
suddenly found herself given away like some worthless chattel to two
of the King's favourites -the Earl of Arlington and Lord Culpeper.
The careless, laughter-loving King owed much to his friends who
had rescued him from beggary, and set him upon his father's throne.
Here was an easy way of repaying two of them. If they really
desired that wild land beyond the seas, where only savages lived,
and where the weed which his pompous grandfather had disliked so much
grew, why they should have it! So he carelessly signed his royal
name and for a yearly rent of forty shillings "all that dominion of
land and water commonly called Virginia" was theirs for the space
of thirty-one years.
It was but a scratch of the pen to the King. It was everything to
the Virginians, and when news of it reached them all Virginia was
ablaze. They who had clung to the King in his evil days, they who
had been the last people belonging to England to submit to the
Commonwealth to be thus tossed to his favourites like some useless
toy, without so much as a by your leave! They would not suffer it.
And they sent a messenger to England to lay their case before the
King.
As to Charles, he was lazily astonished to find that any one
objected to such a little trifle. And with his usual idle good nature
he promised that it should be altered. But he had no intention of
hurrying. Meanwhile out in Virginia events were hastening.
__________
Chapter 20 - Bacon's Rebellion
For some time now the Indians had been an increasing terror to
the white men. They had grown restless and uneasy at the constantly
widening borders of the settlements. Day by day the forest
was cleared, the cornfields stretched farther and farther inland,
and the Redman saw himself driven farther and farther from his
hunting-ground.
So anger arose in the Redman's heart. He lurked in the forests
which girded the lonely farms and, watching his opportunity, crept
stealthily forth to slay and burn. Settler after settler was slain
in cold blood, or done to death with awful tortures, and his pleasant
homestead was given to the flames. Day by day the tale of horror
grew, till it seemed at length that no farm along the borders of
the colony was safe from destruction. Yet the Governor did nothing.
Helplessly the Virginians raged against his sloth and tyranny. He
was a traitor to his trust, they declared, and feared to wage war
on the Indians lest it should spoil his fur trade with them. But
that was not so. A deadlier fear than that kept Berkeley idle. He
knew how his tyranny had made the people hate him, and he feared
to arm them and lead them against the Indians, lest having subdued
these foes they should turn their arms against him.
But the men of Virginia were seething with discontent and ripe for
rebellion. All they wanted was a leader, and soon they found one.
This leader was Nathaniel Bacon, a young Englishman who had but
lately come to the colony. He was dashing and handsome, had winning
ways and a persuasive tongue. He was the very man for a popular
leader, and soon at his back he had an army of three hundred armed
settlers, "one and all at his devotion."
Bacon then sent to the Governor asking for a commission to go
against the Indians. But Berkeley put him off with one excuse after
another; until at length goaded into rebellion Bacon and his men
determined to set out, commission or no commission.
But they had not gone far when a messenger came spurring behind
them in hot haste. He came with a proclamation from the Governor
denouncing them all as rebels, and bidding them disperse at once
on pain of forfeiting their lands and goods. Some obeyed, but the
rest went on with Bacon, and only returned after having routed the
Indians. Their defeat was so severe that the battle is known as the
Battle of Bloody Run, because it was said the blood of the Indians
made red the stream which flowed near the battlefield.
The Indians for the time were cowed, and Bacon marched slowly home
with his men.
Meanwhile Berkeley had gathered horses and men and had ridden out
to crush this turbulent youth. But hearing suddenly that the people
had risen in revolt, he hastened back to Jamestown with all speed.
He saw he must do something to appease the people. So he dissolved
the House of Burgesses which for fourteen years had done his bidding,
and ordered a new election. This pacified the people somewhat. But
they actually elected the rebel Bacon as one of the members of the
House.
Bacon was not, however, altogether to escape the consequences of
his bold deeds. As soon as he returned he was taken prisoner and
led before the Governor. The stern old Cavalier received this rebel
with cool civility.
"Mr. Bacon," he said, "have you forgot to be a gentleman?"
"No, may it please your honour," answered Bacon,
"Then," said the Governor, "I will take your parole."
So Bacon was set free until the House of Burgesses should meet.
Meantime he was given to understand that if he made open confession
of his misdeeds in having marched against the Indians without a
commission, he would be forgiven, receive his commission, and be
allowed to fight the Indians. It was not easy to make this proud
young man bend his knee. But to gain his end Bacon consented to
beg forgiveness for what he deemed no offence. The Governor meant
it to be a solemn occasion, one not lightly to be forgotten. So when
the burgesses and council were gathered the Governor stood up.
"If there be joy in the presence of the angels over one sinner
that repenteth," he said, "there is joy now, for we have a penitent
sinner come before us. Call Mr. Bacon."
The doors were thrown wide open and in marched Bacon, tall and
proud, looking grave indeed but little like a repentant sinner.
At the bar of the House he knelt on one knee, and reading from a
paper written out for him confessed his crimes, begging pardon from
God, the King, and the Governor.
When his clear young voice ceased the old Governor spoke.
"God forgive you," he said, solemnly. "I forgive you." Three times
he repeated the words and was silent.
"And all that were with him?" asked one of the council.
"Yea," said the Governor, "and all that were with him."
Thus the matter seemed ended. There was peace again and the House
could now proceed to further business.
Part of that business was to settle what was to be done about the
Indian war. Some of the people hoped that they might get help from
friendly Indians. So the Indian Queen, Pamunky, had been asked to
come to the Assembly and say what help she would give. Her tribe
was the same as that over which the Powhatan had ruled so long
ago. And although it was now but a shadow of its former self she
had still about a hundred and fifty braves at command whose help
the Englishmen were anxious to gain.
Queen Pamunky entered the Assembly with great dignity, and with
an air of majesty walked slowly up the long room. Her walk was so
graceful, her gestures so courtly, that every one looked at her
in admiration. Upon her head she wore a crown of black and white
wampum. Her robe was made of deer skin and covered her from shoulders
to feet, the, edges of it being slit into fringes six inches deep.
At her right hand walked an English interpreter, at her left her
son, a youth of twenty.
When Queen Pamunky reached the table she stood still looking at
the members coldly and gravely, and only at their urgent request
did she sit down. Beside her, as they had entered the room, stood
her son and interpreter on either hand.
When she was seated the chairman asked her how many men she would
send to help them against the enemy Indians. All those present were
quite sure that she understood English, but she would not speak
to the chairman direct, and answered him through her interpreter,
bidding him speak to her son.
The young Indian chieftain however also refused to reply. So again
the Queen was urged to say how many men she could send.
For some minutes she sat still, as if in deep thought. Then in a
shrill high voice full of passionate fervour, and trembling as if
with tears, she spoke in her own tongue, and ever and anon amid the
tragic torrent of sound the words "Tatapatamoi chepiack, Tatapatamoi
chepiack" could be heard.
Few present understood her. But one of the members did, and shook
his head sadly.
"What she says is too true, to our shame be it said," he sighed. "My
father was general in that battle of which she speaks. Tatapatamoi
was her husband, and he led a hundred men against our enemies,
and was there slain with most of his company. And from that day to
this no recompense has been given to her. Therefore she upbraids
us, and cries, 'Tatapatamoi is dead.'"
When they heard the reason for the Indian Queen's anger many were
filled with sympathy for her.
The chairman however was a crusty old fellow, and he was quite
unmoved by the poor Queen's passion of grief and anger. Never a word
did he say to comfort her distress, not a sign of sympathy did he
give. He rudely brushed aside her vehement appeal, and repeated
his question.
"What men will you give to help against the enemy Indians?"
With quivering nostrils, and flashing eyes, the Indian Queen drew
herself up scornfully, she looked at him, then turned her face
away, and sat mute.
Three times he repeated his question.
Then in a low disdainful voice, her head still turned away, she
muttered in her own language "Six."
This would never do. The lumbering old chairman argued and persuaded,
while the dusky Queen sat sullenly silent. At length she uttered
one word as scornfully as the last. "Twelve," she said. Then rising,
she walked proudly and gravely from the hall.
Thus did the blundering old fellow of a chairman, for the lack of
a few kindly words, turn away the hearts of the Indians, and lose
their help at a moment when it was sorely needed.
The new House had many other things to discuss besides the Indian
wars, and the people, who had been kept out of their rights for
so long, now made up for lost time. They passed laws with feverish
haste. They restored manhood suffrage, did away with many class
privileges, and in various ways instituted reforms. Afterwards
these laws were known as Bacon's Laws.
But meanwhile Bacon was preparing a new surprise for every one.
One morning the town was agog with news. "Bacon has fled, Bacon
has fled!" cried every one.
It was true. Bacon had grown tired of waiting for the commission
which never came. So he was off to raise the country. A few days
later he marched back again at the head of six hundred men.
At two o'clock one bright June day the sounds of drum and trumpet
were heard mingled with the tramp of feet and the clatter of horses'
hoofs; and General Bacon, as folk began to call him now, drew up
his men not an arrow's flight from the State House.
The people of Jamestown rushed to the spot. Every window and balcony
was crowded with eager excited people. Men, women and children
jostled each other on the green, as Bacon, with a file of soldiers
on either hand, marched to the State House.
The white-haired old Governor, shaking with anger, came out to
meet the insolent young rebel. With trembling fingers he tore at
the fine lace ruffles of his shirt, baring his breast.
"Here I am!" He cried. "Shoot me! 'Fore God 'tis a fair mark. Shoot
me! Shoot me!" he repeated in a frenzy.
But Bacon answered peaceably enough. "No, may it please your honour,"
he said, "we will not hurt a hair of your head, nor of any other
man's. We are come for a commission to save our lives from the
Indians which you have so often promised. And now we will have it
before we go."
But when the stern old Cavalier refused to listen to him, Bacon too
lost his temper, and laying his hand on his sword, swore he would
kill the Governor, Council, Assembly and all, rather than forego
his commission. His men, too, grew impatient and filled the air
with their shouts.
"We will have it, we will have it!" they cried, at the same time
pointing their loaded guns at the windows of the State House.
Minute by minute the uproar increased, till at length one of the
Burgesses, going to a window, waved his handkerchief ("a pacifeck
handkercher" a quaint old record calls it) and shouted, "You shall
have it, you shall have it."
So the tumult was quieted. A commission was drawn up making Bacon
Commander-in-Chief of the army against the Indians, and a letter
was written to the King praising him for what he had done against
them. But the stern old Governor was still unbending, and not till
next day was he browbeaten into signing both papers.
The young rebel had triumphed. But Berkeley was not yet done with
him, for the same ship which carried the letter of the Burgesses
to the King also carried a private letter from Berkeley in which
he gave his own account of the business. "I have for above thirty
years governed the most flourishing country the sun ever shone
over," he wrote, "but am now encompassed with rebellion like waters."
And as soon as Bacon was safely away, and at grips once more with
the Indians, the Governor again proclaimed him and his followers
to be rebels and traitors.
Bacon had well-nigh crushed the Indian foe when this news was
brought to him. He was cut to the quick by the injustice.
"I am vexed to the heart," he said, "for to think that while I am
hunting Indian wolves, tigers, and foxes which daily destroy our
harmless sheep and lambs, that I, and those with me, should be pursued
with a full cry, as a more savage and no less ravenous beast."
So now in dangerous mood he marched back to Jamestown. Things were
looking black for him, but his men were with him heart and soul.
When one of them, a Scotsman named Drummond, was warned that this
was rebellion he replied recklessly, "I am in over shoes, I will
be in over boots."
His wife was even more bold. "This is dangerous work," said some
one, "and England will have something to say to it."
Then Sarah Drummond picked up a twig, and snapping it in two, threw
it down again. "I fear the power of England no more than that broken
straw," she cried.
Bacon now issued a manifesto in reply to Berkeley's proclamation,
declaring that he and his followers could not find in their hearts
one single spot of rebellion or treason. "Let Truth be bold," he
cried, "and let all the world know the real facts of this matter."
He appealed to the King against Sir William, who had levied unjust
taxes, who had failed to protect the people against the Indians, who
had traded unjustly with them, and done much evil to his Majesty's
true subjects.
So far there had only been bitter words between the old Governor and
the young rebel, and Bacon had never drawn his sword save against
the Indians. Now he turned it against the Governor, and, marching
on Jamestown, burned it to the ground, and Berkeley, defeated, fled
to Accomac.
Everywhere Bacon seemed successful, and from Jamestown he marched
northward to settle affairs there also "after his own measures."
But a grim and all-conquering captain had now taken up arms against
this victorious rebel-Captain Death, whom even the greatest soldier
must obey. And on October 1st, 1676, Bacon laid down his sword for
ever. He had been the heart and soul of the rebellion, and with
his death it collapsed swiftly and completely.
Bacon was now beyond the Governor's wrath, but he wreaked his
vengeance on those who had followed him. For long months the rebels
were hunted and hounded, and when caught they were hanged without
mercy. The first to suffer was Colonel Thomas Hansford. He was a
brave man and a gentleman, and all he asked was that he might be
shot like a soldier, and not hanged like a dog. But the wrathful
Governor would not listen to his appeal, and he was hanged. On the
scaffold he spoke to those around, praying them to remember that
he died a loyal subject of the King, and a lover of his country.
He has been called the first martyr to American liberty.
Another young Major named Cheesman was condemned to death, but died
in prison, some say by poison.
The Governor, when he was brought before him, asked fiercely: "What
reason had you for rebellion?"
But before the Major could reply his young wife stepped from the
surrounding crowd, and threw herself upon her knees before the
Governor. "It was my doing," she cried. " I persuaded him, and but
for me he would never have done it. I am guilty, not he. I pray
you therefore let me be hanged, and he be pardoned."
But the old Cavalier's heart was filled to overflowing with a
frenzy of hate. He was utterly untouched by the poor lady's brave
and sad appeal, and answered her only with bitter, insulting words.
Drummond too was taken. He was indeed "in over boots" and fearless
to the last. The Governor was overjoyed at his capture, and with
mocking ceremony swept his hat from his head, and, bowing low,
cried exultantly, "Mr. Drummond, you are very welcome. I am more
glad to see you than any man in Virginia. Mr. Drummond, you shall
be hanged in half an hour."
"What your honour pleases," calmly replied Drummond. And so he
died.
It seemed as if the Governor's vengeance would never be satisfied.
But at length the House met, and petitioned him to spill no more
blood. "For," said one of the members, "had we let him alone he
would have hanged half the country."
News of his wild doings, too, were carried home, and reached even
the King's ears. "The old fool," cried he, "has hanged more men
in that naked country than I did for the murder of my father." So
Berkeley was recalled.
At his going the whole colony rejoiced. Guns were fired and bonfires
lit to celebrate the passing of the tyrant.
Berkeley did not live long after his downfall. He had hoped that
when he saw the King, and explained to him his cause, that he would
be again received into favour. But his hopes were vain. The King
refused to see him, and he who had given up everything, even good
name and fame, in his King's cause died broken-hearted, a few months
later.
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Chapter 21 - The Story of the Knights of the Golden Horseshoe
Bacon was driven into rebellion by evil government and tyranny.
But the rising did little good. Bacon's Laws were done away with
and Lord Culpeper, one of the two nobles to whom Charles II had
given Virginia, came out as Governor. He soon showed himself a
greedy tyrant, caring nothing for the happiness of his people, and
bent only on making money for himself.
Other governors followed him, many of them worthless, some never
taking the trouble to come to Virginia at all. They stayed at
home, accepting large sums of money, and letting other people do
the work. But they were not all worthless and careless. Some were
good, and one of the best was a Scotsman, Alexander Spotswood. He
was a lieutenant governor. That is, the Governor in name was the
Earl of Orkney, who was given the post as a reward for his great
services as a soldier. But he never crossed the Atlantic to visit
his noble province. Instead he sent others to rule for him. They
were in fact the real governors, although they were called lieutenant
governors.
Spotswood loved Virginia, and he did all he could to make the
colony prosperous. He saw that the land was rich in minerals, and
that much could be done with iron ore. So he built smelting furnaces,
and altogether was so eager over it that he was called the Tubal
Cain of Virginia. For Tubal Cain, you remember, "was an instructor
of every artificer in brass and iron."
Spotswood also planted vines, and brought over a colony of Germans
to teach the people how to grow them properly, and make wine. It
was he, too, who first explored "the West."
Virginia up till now had lain between the sea and the blue range
of mountains which cut it off from the land behind. To the English
that was a land utterly unknown. All they knew was that the French
were claiming it. But Governor Spotswood wanted to know more. So
one August he gathered a company of friends, and set forth on an
exploring expedition. With servants and Indian guides they made
a party of about fifty or so, and a jolly company they were. They
hunted by the way, and camped beneath the stars. There was no lack
of food and drink, and it was more like a prolonged picnic than an
exploring expedition.
The explorers reached the Blue Ridge, and, climbing to the top of
a pass, looked down upon the beautiful wild valley beyond, through
which wound a shining river. Spotswood called the river the Euphrates.
But fortunately the name did not stick, and it is still called by
its beautiful Indian name of Shenandoah.
Spotswood named the highest peak he saw Mount George in honour of
the King, and his companions gave the next highest peak the name
of Mount Alexander in honour of the Governor whose Christian name
was Alexander. Then they went down into the valley below, and
on the banks of the river they buried a bottle, inside which they
had put a paper declaring that the whole valley belonged to George
I, King by the Grace of God of Great Britain, France, Ireland and
Virginia.
After that the merry party turned homewards. They climbed to the
top of the gap, took a last look at the fair valley of the unknown
West, and then went down once more into the familiar plains of
Virginia.
For this expedition all the horses were shod with iron, a thing
very unusual in Virginia where there were no hard or stony roads.
So as a remembrance of their pleasant time together Spotswood gave
each of his companions a gold horseshoe set with precious stones for
nails. Graven upon them were the Latin words, Sic juvat transcendere
montes which mean, "Thus it is a pleasure to cross the mountains."
Later all those who took part in the expedition were called Knights
of the Golden Horseshoe.
Up to about this time the people in Virginia had been altogether
English. Now a change came.
In France Louis XIV was persecuting the Protestants, or Huguenots,
as they were called. He ordered them all to become Catholics or
die, and he forbade them to leave the country. But thousands of
them refused to give up their religion, and in spite of the King's
commands they stole away from the country by secret ways. Many of
them found a refuge in America.
In the north of Ireland, which had been settled chiefly by Scotsmen,
the Presbyterians were being persecuted by the Church of England;
at the same time the English Parliament was hampering their trade
with unfair laws. So to escape from this double persecution many
Scotch-Irish fled to America.
In Germany too the Protestants were being persecuted by the Catholic
Princes. They too fled to America.
All these widely varying refugees found new homes in other colonies
as well as in Virginia, as we shall presently hear. In Virginia it
was chiefly to the Shenandoah Valley that they came, that valley
which Spotswood and his knights of the Golden Horseshoe had seen
and claimed for King George. The coming of these new people changed
Virginia a good deal.
After the death of King Charles the coming of the Cavaliers had
made Virginia Royalist and aristocratic, so now the coming of those
persecuted Protestants and Presbyterians tended to make it democratic.
That is, the coming of the Cavaliers increased the number of those
who believed in the government of the many by the few. The coming
of the European Protestants increased the number of those who
believed in the government of the people by the people.
So in the House of Burgesses there were scenes of excitement. But
these were no longer in Jamestown, for the capital had been removed
to Williamsburg. Jamestown, you remember, had been burned by Bacon.
Lord Culpeper however rebuilt it. But a few years later it was again
burned down by accident. It had never been a healthy spot; no one
seemed very anxious to build it again, so it was forsaken, and
Williamsburg became and remained the capital for nearly a hundred
years.
Today all that is left of Jamestown, the first home of Englishmen
in America, is the ivy-grown ruin of the church.
PART III STORIES OF NEW ENGLAND
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Chapter 22 - The Story of the Pilgrim Fathers
While the Colony of Virginia was fighting for life, and struggling
against tyranny, other colonies were taking root upon the wide
shores of America.
You will remember that in 1606 a sort of double company of adventurers
was formed in England, one branch of which - the London Company -
founded Jamestown. The other branch - the Plymouth Company - also
sent out an, expedition, and tried to found a colony at the mouth
of the Kennebec River. But it was a failure. Some of the adventurers
were so discouraged with the cold and bleak appearance of the land
that they sailed home again in the ship which had brought them
out. Only about forty-five or so stayed on. The winter was long
and cold, and they were so weary of it, so homesick and miserable,
that when in the spring a ship came out with provisions they all
sailed home again. They had nothing good to say of Virginia, as
the whole land was then called by the English. It was far too cold,
and no place for Englishmen, they said.
Still some of the adventurers of the Plymouth Company did not
give up hope of founding a colony. And nine years after this first
attempt, our old friend Captain John Smith, recovered from his wounds
received in Virginia and as vigorous as ever, sailed out to North
Virginia. In the first place be went "to take whales, and also to
make trials of a mine of gold and of copper" and in the long run
he hoped to found a colony.
It was he who changed the name from North Virginia to New England,
by which name it has ever since been known. He also named the great
river which he found there Charles River after Prince Charles,
who later became King Charles I, and all along the coast he marked
places with the names of English towns, one of which he named
Plymouth.
But Smith did not succeed in founding a colony in New England;
and several adventurers who followed him had no better success.
The difficulties to be overcome were great, and in order to found
a colony on that inhospitable coast men of tremendous purpose and
endurance were needed. At length these men appeared.
Nowadays a man may believe what he likes either in the way of politics
or religion. He may belong to any political party he pleases, or
he may belong to none. He may write and make speeches about his
opinions. Probably no one will listen to him; certainly he will
not be imprisoned for mere opinions. It is the same with religion.
A man may go to any church he likes, or go to none. He may write
books or preach sermons, and no one will hinder him.
But in the days of King James things were very different. In those
days there was little freedom either in thought or action, in
religion or politics. As we have seen King James could not endure
the thought that his colony should be self-governing and free to
make laws for itself. Consequently he took its charter away. In
religion it was just the same. In England at the Reformation the
King had been made head of the Church. And if people did not believe
what the King and Clergy told them to believe they were sure, sooner
or later, to be punished for it.
Now in England more and more people began to think for themselves
on matters of religion. More and more people found it difficult to
believe as King and Clergy wished them to believe. Some found the
Church of England far too like the old Church of Rome. They wanted
to do away with all pomp and ceremony and have things quite simple.
They did not wish to separate from the Church; they only wanted to
make the Church clean and pure of all its errors. So they got the
name of Puritans. Others however quite despaired of making the Church
pure. They desired to leave it altogether and set up a Church of
their own. They were called Separatists, or sometimes, from the
name of a man who was one of their chief leaders, Brownists.
These Brownists did not want to have bishops and priests, and they
would not own the King as head of the Church. Instead of going
to church they used to meet together in private houses, there to
pray to God in the manner in which their own hearts told them was
right. This of course was considered treason and foul wickedness.
So on all hands the Brownists were persecuted. They were fined and
imprisoned, some were even hanged. But all this persecution was in
vain, and the number of Separatists instead of decreasing increased
as years went on.
Now at Scrooby, a tiny village in Nottinghamshire, England, and
in other villages round, both in Nottinghamshire and Lincolnshire,
there were a number of Separatists. Every Sunday these people would
walk long distances to some appointed place, very likely to Scrooby,
or to Babworth, where there was a grave and reverent preacher, to
hold their meetings.
But they were never left long in peace. They were hunted and persecuted
on every side, till at length they decided to go to Holland where
they heard there was freedom of religion for all men.
To many of them this was a desperate adventure. In those days few
men traveled. For the most part people lived and died without once
leaving their native villages. To go into a new country, to learn
a new language, to get their living they know not how, seemed to
some a misery almost worse than death. Still they determined to
go, such was their eagerness to serve God aright.
The going was not easy. They were harassed and hindered in every
fashion. Again and again evil men cheated them, and robbed them
of almost all they possessed, leaving them starving and penniless
upon the sea shore. But at length, overcoming all difficulties, in
one way or another, they all reached Amsterdam.
Even here however they did not find the full freedom and peace
which they desired, and they next moved to Leyden.
They found it "a beautiful city and of a sweet situation." Here
they settled down and for some years lived in comfort, earning
their living by weaving and such employments, and worshipping God
at peace in their own fashion.
But after about eleven or twelve years they began once more to think
of moving. They had many reasons for this, one being that if they
stayed longer in Holland their children and grandchildren would
forget how to speak English, and in a few generations they would
no longer be English, but Dutch. So they determined to go to some
place where they could still remain English, and yet worship God
as they thought right.
And the place their thoughts turned to was the vast and unpeopled
country of America. But which part of America they could not at
first decide. After much talk however they at length decided to
ask the Virginian Company to allow them to settle in their land,
but as a separate colony, so that they might still have religious
freedom.
Two messengers were therefore despatched to London to arrange
matters with the company. The Virginian Company was quite willing
to have these Separatists as settlers. But do what they would they
could not get the King to promise them freedom to worship God. All
that they could wring from him was a promise that he would take
no notice of them so long as they behaved peaceably. To allow or
tolerate them by his public authority, under his broad seal, was
not to be thought of.
That was the best the Virginian Company or any of their friends
could do for the Separatists. And with this answer the messengers
were obliged to return to Leyden. When the English men and women
there heard it they were much disturbed. Some felt that without
better assurance of peace they would be foolish to leave their safe
refuge. But the greater part decided that poor though the assurance
was they would be well to go, trusting in God to bring them safely
out of all their troubles. And after all they reflected "a seal as
broad as the house floor would not serve the turn" if James did not
wish to keep his promise, so little trust did they put in princes
and their oaths.
So it was decided to go to the New World, and after much trouble
everything was got ready. A little ship called the Speedwell was
bought and fitted up. Then those who had determined to go went down
to the sea shore accompanied by all their friends.
Their hearts were heavy as they left the beautiful city which had
been their home for the last twelve years. But they knew that they
were pilgrims and strangers upon the earth, and they looked only
to find in heaven an abiding place. So steadfastly they set their
faces towards the sea. They went on board, their friends following
sorrowfully. Then came the sad parting. They clung to each other
with tears, their words of farewell and prayers broken by sobs. It
was so pitiful a sight that even among the Dutchmen who looked on
there was scarce a dry eye.
At length the time came when the last farewell had to be said. Then
their pastor fell upon his knees on the deck, and as they knelt
round him he lifted his hands to heaven, and with tears running
down his cheeks prayed God to bless them all.
So the sails were hoisted and the Speedwell sailed away to Southampton.
Here she found the Mayflower awaiting her, and the two set forth
together. But they had not gone far before the captain of the
Speedwell complained that his ship was leaking so badly that he
dared not go on. So both ships put in to Dartmouth, and here the
Speedwell was thoroughly overhauled and mended, and again they set
out.
But still the captain declared that the Speedwell was leaking. So
once more the pilgrims put back, this time to Plymouth. And here
it was decided that the Speedwell was unseaworthy, and unfit to
venture across the great ocean. That she was a rotten little boat
is fairly certain, but it is also fairly certain that the Captain
did not want to sail to America, and therefore he made the worst,
instead of the best, of his ship.
If it is true that he did not want to cross the ocean he now had
his way. For the Speedwell was sent back to London with all those
who had already grown tired of the venture, or who had grown fearful
because of the many mishaps. And the Mayflower, taking the rest
of the passengers from the Speedwell, and as many of the stores as
she could find room for, proceeded upon her voyage alone.
Among those who sailed in her were Captain Miles Standish and Master
Mullins with his fair young daughter Priscilla. I daresay you have
read the story Longfellow made about them and John Alden. At the
first John Alden did not go as a Pilgrim. He was hired at Southampton
as a cooper, merely for the voyage, and was free to go home again
if he wished. But he stayed, and as we know from Longfellow's poem
he married Priscilla.
Now at length these Pilgrim Fathers as we have learned to call them
were really on their way. But all the trouble about the Speedwell
had meant a terrible loss of time, and although the Pilgrims bad
left Holland in July it was September before they finally set sail
from Plymouth, and their voyage was really begun.
And now instead of having fair they had foul weather. For days and
nights, with every sail reefed, they were driven hither and thither
by the wind, were battered and beaten by cruel waves, and tossed
helplessly from side to side. At length after two months of terror
and hardships they sighted the shores of America.
They had however been driven far out of their course, and instead
of being near the mouth of the Hudson River, and within the area
granted to the Virginian Company, they were much further north,
near Cape Cod, and within the area granted to the Plymouth Company,
where they had really no legal right to land. So although they
were joyful indeed to see land, they decided to sail southward to
the mouth of the Hudson, more especially as the weather was now
better.
Soon however as they sailed south they found themselves among
dangerous shoals and roaring breakers, and, being in terror of
shipwreck, they turned back again. And when they once more reached
the shelter of Cape Cod harbour they fell on their knees and most
heartily thanked God, Who had brought them safely over the furious
ocean, and delivered them from all its perils and miseries.
They vowed no more to risk the fury of the tempest, but to settle
where they were in the hope of being able to make things right
with the Plymouth Company later on. So in the little cabin of
the Mayflower the Pilgrims held a meeting, at which they chose a
Governor and drew up rules, which they all promised to obey, for
the government of the colony. But this done they found it difficult
to decide just what would be the best place for their little town,
and they spent a month or more exploring the coast round about. At
length they settled upon a spot.
On Captain John Smith's map it was already marked Plymouth, and
so the Pilgrims decided to call the town Plymouth because of this,
and also because Plymouth was the last town in England at which they
had touched. So here they all went ashore, choosing as a landing
place a flat rock which may be seen to this day, and which is now
known as the Plymouth Rock.
"Which had been to their feet as a doorstep, Into a world unknown-the
corner-stone of a nation!"
The Pilgrim Fathers had now safely passed the perils of the sea.
But many more troubles and miseries were in store for them. For
hundreds of miles the country lay barren and untilled, inhabited
only by wild Redmen, the nearest British settlement being five
hundred miles away. There was no one upon the shore to greet them,
no friendly lights, no smoke arising from cheerful cottage fires,
no sign of habitation far or near. It was a silent frost-bound
coast upon which they had set foot.
The weather was bitterly cold and the frost so keen that even
their clothes were frozen stiff. And ere these Pilgrims could find
a shelter from the winter blasts, trees had to be felled and hewn
for the building of their houses. It was enough to make the stoutest
heart quake. Yet not one among this little band of Pilgrims flinched
or thought of turning back. They were made of sterner stuff than
that, and they put all their trust in God.
"May not and ought not the children of those fathers rightly say,"
writes William Bradford, who was their Governor for thirty-one years,
"our fathers were Englishmen which came over this great ocean and
were ready to perish in the wilderness? But they cried unto the
Lord and He heard their voice." The winter was an unusually severe
one. And so, having no homes to shelter them or comfort of any kind,
many of the Pilgrims died. Many more became seriously ill. Indeed
at one time there were not more than six or seven out of a hundred
and more who were well and able to work. And had it not been for
the wonderful devotion and loving kindness of these few the whole
colony might have perished miserably. But these few worked with a
will, felling trees, cooking meals, caring for the sick both day
and night.
The first winter the Pilgrim Fathers, it was said, "endured
a wonderful deal of misery with infinite patience." But at length
spring came, and with the coming of warmth and sunshine the sickness
disappeared. The sun seemed to put new life into every one. So
when in April the Mayflower, which had been in harbour all winter,
sailed homeward not one of the Pilgrims sailed with her.
The little white-winged ship was the last link with home. They had
but to step on board to be wafted back to the green hedgerows and
meadows gay with daisies and buttercups in dear old England. It
was a terrible temptation. Yet not one yielded to it. With tears
streaming down their faces, the Pilgrims knelt upon the shore and
saw the Mayflower go, following her with prayers and blessings until
she was out of sight. Then they went back to their daily labours.
Only when they looked out to sea the harbour seemed very empty with
no friendly little vessel lying there.
Meanwhile among all the miseries of the winter there had been one
bright spot. The Pilgrims had made friends with the Indians. They
had often noticed with fear Redmen skulking about at the forest's
edge, watching them. Once or twice when they had left tools lying
about they had been stolen. But whenever they tried to get speech
with the Indians they fled away.
What was their surprise then when one morning an Indian walked
boldly into the camp and spoke to them in broken English!
He told them that his name was Samoset, and that he was the
Englishmen's friend. He also said he could tell them of another
Indian called Squanto who could speak better English than he could.
This Squanto had been stolen away from his home by a wicked captain
who intended to sell him as a slave to Spain. But he had escaped
to England, and later by the help of Englishmen had been brought
back to his home. All his tribe however had meantime been swept
away by a plague, and now only he remained.
Samoset also said that his great chief named Massasoit or Yellow
Feather wished to make friends with the Palefaces. The settlers were
well pleased to find the Indian ready to be friendly and, giving
him presents of a few beads and bits of coloured cloth, they sent
him away happy. But very soon he returned, bringing Squanto and
the chief, Yellow Feather, with him. Then there was a very solemn
pow-wow; the savages gorgeous in paint and feathers sat beside the
sad-faced Englishmen in their tall black hats and sober clothes,
and together they swore friendship and peace. And so long as Yellow
Feather lived this peace lasted.
After the meeting Yellow Feather went home to his own wigwams,
which were about forty miles away. But Squanto stayed with the
Englishmen. He taught them how to plant corn; he showed them where
to fish and hunt; he was their guide through the pathless forests.
He was their staunch and faithful friend, and never left them till
he died. Even then he feared to be parted from his white friends,
and he begged them to pray God that he too might be allowed to go
to the Englishmen's heaven.
Besides Yellow Feather and his tribe there were other Indians who
lived to the east of the settlement, and they were by no means
so friendly. At harvest time they used to steal the corn from the
fields and otherwise harass the workers. As they went unpunished
they grew ever bolder until at length one day their chief, Canonicus,
sent a messenger to the Governor with a bundle of arrows tied
about with a large snakeskin. This was meant as a challenge. But
the Governor was not to be frightened by such threats. He sent
back the snakeskin stuffed with bullets and gunpowder, and with it
a bold message.
"If you would rather have war than peace," he said, "you can begin
when you like. But we have done you no wrong and we do not fear
you."
When the chief heard the message and saw the gunpowder and bullets
he was far too much afraid to go to war. He was too frightened to
touch the snakeskin or even allow it to remain in his country, but
sent it back again at once.
This warlike message however made the settlers more careful, and
they built a strong fence around their little town, with gates in
it, which were shut and guarded at night. Thus the Pilgrims had
peace with the Redmen. They had also set matters right with the
Plymouth Company, and had received from them a patent or charter
allowing them to settle in New England. Other Pilgrims came out
from home from time to time, and the little colony prospered and
grew, though slowly.
They were a grave and stern little company, obeying their Governor,
fearing God, keeping the Sabbath and regarding all other feast days
as Popish and of the evil one.
It is told how one Christmas Day the Governor called every one out
to work as usual. But some of the newcomers to the colony objected
that it was against their conscience to work on Christmas Day.
The Governor looked gravely at them. "If you make it a matter of
conscience," he said, "I will release you from work upon this day
until you are better taught upon the matter." Then he led the others
away to fell trees and saw wood. But when at noon he returned he
found those, whose tender consciences had not allowed them to work,
playing at ball and other games in the streets. So he went to them,
and took away their balls and other toys. "For," said he, "it is
against my conscience that you should play while others work."
And such was the power of the Governor that he was quietly obeyed,
"and," we are told, "since that time nothing hath been attempted
that way, at least openly."
They were stern, these old settlers, and perhaps to our way of
thinking narrow, and they denied themselves much that is lovely
in life and quite innocent. Yet we must look back at them with
admiration. No people ever left their homes to go into exile for
nobler ends, no colony was ever founded in a braver fashion. And
it is with some regret we remember that these brave Pilgrim Fathers
have given a name to no state in the great union. For the Colony
of Plymouth, having held on its simple, severe way for many years,
was at length swallowed up by one of its great neighbours, and
became part of the State of Massachusetts. But that was not till
1692. Meanwhile, because it was the first of the New England colonies
to be founded, it was often called the Old Colony.
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Chapter 23 - The Founding of Massachusetts
For ten years after the coming of the Pilgrim Fathers charters were
constantly granted to "adventurers" of one kind or another for the
founding of colonies in New England. And, driven by the tyranny of
King James and of his son Charles I, small companies of Puritans
began to follow the example of the Pilgrim Fathers and go out to
New England, there to seek freedom to worship God. For King James,
although brought up as a Presbyterian himself, was bitter against
the Puritans. "I shall make them conform themselves," he had said,
"or I will harry them out of the land."
And as he could not make them conform he "harried" them so that
many were glad to leave the land to escape tyranny. King James has
been called the British Solomon, but he did some amazingly foolish
things. This narrow-minded persecution of the Puritans was one.
Yet by it he helped to form a great nation. So perhaps he was not
so foolish after all.
As has been said many companies were formed, many land charters
granted for Northern Virginia, or New England, as it was now called.
At length a company of Puritans under the name of the Massachusetts
Bay Company got a charter from Charles I, granting them a large
tract of land from three miles south of the Charles River to three
miles north of the Merrimac, and as far west as the Pacific. Of
course no one in those days realised what a huge tract that would
be. For no man yet guessed how great a continent America was,
or by what thousands of miles the Pacific was separated from the
Atlantic. This charter was not unlike that given to Virginia. But
there was one important difference. Nowhere in the charter did it
say that the seat of government must be in England.
So when Charles dismissed his Parliament, vowing that if the members
would not do as he wished he would rule without them, a great many
Puritans decided to leave the country. They decided also to take
their charter with them and remove the Company of Massachusetts
Bay, bag and baggage, to New England.
Charles did nothing to stop them. Perhaps at the time he was pleased
to see so many powerful Puritans leave the country, for without
them he was all the freer to go his own way. So in the spring of
1630 more than a thousand set sail, taking with them their cattle
and household goods.
Many of these were cultured gentlemen who were thus giving up money,
ease and position in order to gain freedom of religion. They were
not poor labourers or artisans, not even for the most part traders
and merchants. They chose as Governor for the first year a Suffolk
gentleman named John Winthrop. A new Governor was chosen every year,
but John Winthrop held the post many times, twice being elected
three years in succession. Although we may think that he was narrow
in some things, he was a man of calm judgment and even temper, and
was in many ways a good Governor. From the day he set forth from
England to the end of his life he kept a diary, and it is from
this diary that we learn nearly all we know of the early days of
the colony.
It was in June of 1630 that Winthrop and his company landed at
Salem, and although there were already little settlements at Salem
and elsewhere this may be taken as the real founding of Massachusetts.
Almost at once Winthrop decided that Salem would not be a good
centre for the colony, and he moved southward to the Charles River,
where he finally settled on a little hilly peninsula. There a
township was founded and given the name of Boston, after the town
of Boston in Lincolnshire, from which many of the settlers had
come.
Although these settlers had more money and more knowledge of
trading, the colony did not altogether escape the miseries which
every other colony had so far suffered. And, less stout-hearted
than the founders of Plymouth, some fled back again to England.
But they were only a few, and for the most part the new settlers
remained and prospered.
These newcomers were not Separatists like the Pilgrim Fathers but
Puritans. When they left England they had no intention of separating
themselves from the Church of England. They had only desired a
simpler service. But when they landed in America they did in fact
separate from the Church of England. England was so far away; the
great ocean was between them and all the laws of Church and King.
It seemed easy to cast them off, and they did.
So bishops were done away with, great parts of the Common Prayer
Book were rejected, and the service as a whole made much more
simple. And as they wished to keep their colony free of people who
did not think as they did the founders of Massachusetts made a law
that only Church members might have a vote.
With the Plymouth Pilgrims, however, Separatists though they were,
these Puritans were on friendly terms. The Governors of the two
colonies visited each other to discuss matters of religion and
trade, and each treated the other with great respect and ceremony.
We read how when Governor Winthrop went to visit Governor Bradford
the chief people of Plymouth came forth to meet him without the town,
and led him to the Governor's house. There he and his companions
were entertained in goodly fashion, feasting every day and holding
pious disputations. Then when he departed again, the Governor of
Plymouth with the pastor and elders accompanied him half a mile
out of the town in the dark.
But although the Puritans of Massachusetts were friendly enough
with dissenters beyond their borders they soon showed that within
their borders there was to be no other Church than that which they
had set up.
Two brothers for instance who wanted to have the Prayer Book used
in full were calmly told that New England was no place for them,
and they were shipped home again. Later a minister named Roger
Williams was banished from Massachusetts, for he preached that
there ought to be no connection between Church and State; that a
man was responsible to God alone for his opinions; and that no man
had a right to take from or give to another a vote because of the
Church to which he belonged.
It seemed to him a deadly sin to have had anything whatever to do
with the Church of England, a sin for which every one ought to do
public penance. He also said that the land of America belonged to
the natives, and not to the King of England. Therefore the King of
England could not possibly give it to the settlers, and they ought
to bargain for it with the natives. Otherwise they could have no
right to it.
This idea seemed perfectly preposterous to those old settlers, for,
said they, "he chargeth King James to have told a solemn, public
lie, because in his patent he blessed God that he was the first
Christian prince that had discovered this land." They might think
little enough of their King in their hearts, but it was not for a
mere nobody to start such a ridiculous theory as this.
We, looking back, can see that Williams was a good and pious man,
a man before his time, right in many of his ideas, though not very
wise perhaps in his way of pressing them.
upon others who did not understand them. But to his fellow colonists
he seemed nothing but a firebrand and a dangerous heretic. So they
bade him be gone out of their borders. He went southward to what
is now Rhode Island, made friends with the Indians there, bought
from them some land, and founded the town of Providence.
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Chapter 24 - The Story of Harry Vane
About this time there came to Massachusetts a handsome young
adventurer named Sir Harry Vane. His face "was comely and fair,"
and his thick brown hair curly and long, so that he looked more
like a Cavalier than a Puritan. He was in fact the eldest son of
a Cavalier, one of the King's chosen councilors. But in spite of
his birth and upbringing, in spite even of his looks, Harry Vane
was a Puritan. And he gave up all the splendour of life at court,
he left father and mother and fortune, and came to New England for
conscience' sake.
"Sir Henry Vane hath as good as lost his eldest son who is gone to
New England for conscience' sake," wrote a friend. "He likes not
the discipline of the Church of England. None of our ministers would
give him the Sacrament standing: no persuasions of our Bishops nor
authority of his parents could prevail with him. Let him go."
As soon as Harry Vane arrived in Massachusetts he began to take an
interest in the affairs of the colony. And perhaps because of his
great name as much as his fair face, grey-haired men who had far
more experience listened to, his youthful advice and bowed to his
judgment. And before six months were passed he, although a mere
lad of twenty-three, was chosen as Governor. A new Governor, you
remember, was chosen every year.
At home Harry Vane had been accustomed to the pomp and splendour
of courts and now he began to keep far greater state as Governor
than any one had done before him. Because he was son and heir to a
Privy Councilor in England the ships in the harbour fired a salute
when he was elected, and when he went to church or court of justice
a bodyguard of four soldiers marched before him wearing steel
corslet and cap, and carrying halberds. He made, too, a sort of
royal progress through his little domain, visiting all the settlements.
But although begun with such pomp Vane's year of office was by no
means a peaceful one. He was young and inexperienced, and he was
not strong enough to deal with questions which even the oldest among
the settlers found hard to settle. Yet with boyish presumption he
set himself to the task. And although he failed, he left his mark
on the life of the colony. His was one more voice raised in the cause
of freedom. His was one more hand pointing the way to toleration.
But he was too tempestuous, too careless of tact, too eager to
hurry to the good end. So instead of keeping the colony with him
he created dissension. People took sides, some eagerly supporting
the young Governor, but a far larger party as eagerly opposing him.
So after nine months of office Harry Vane saw that where he had
meant to create fair order his hand created only disorder. And
utterly disheartened he begged the Council to relieve him of the
governorship and allow him to go home to England.
But when one of his friends stood up and spoke in moving terms of
the great loss he would be, Harry Vane burst into tears and declared
he would stay, only he could not bear all the squabbling that had
been going on, nor to hear it constantly said that he was the cause
of it.
Then, when the Council declared that if that was the only reason
he had for going they could not give him leave, he repented of
what he had said, and declared he must go for reasons of private
business, and that anything else he had said was only said in
temper. Whereupon the court consented in silence to his going.
All this was not very dignified for the Governor of a state, but
hardly surprising from a passionate youth who had undertaken a task
too difficult for him, and felt himself a failure. However Vane
did not go. He stayed on to the end of his time, and even sought
to be re-elected.
But feeling against him was by this time far too keen. He was
rejected as Governor, and not even chosen as one of the Council.
This hurt him deeply, he sulked in a somewhat undignified manner,
and at length in August sailed home, never to return.
He had flashed like a brilliant meteor across the dull life of the
colony. He made strife at the time, but afterwards there was no
bitterness. When the colonists were in difficulties they were ever
ready to ask help from Harry Vane, and he as readily gave it. Even
his enemies had to acknowledge his uprightness and generosity. "At
all times," wrote his great-hearted adversary, Winthrop, "he showed
himself a true friend to New England, and a man of noble and generous
mind."
He took a great part in the troublous times which now came upon
England, and more than twenty years later he died bravely on the
scaffold for the cause to which he had given his life.
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Chapter 25 - The Story of Anne Hutchinson and the Founding of Rhode
Island
About a year before Harry Vane came to Massachusetts another
interesting and brilliant colonist arrived. This was a woman named
Anne Hutchinson. She was clever, "a woman of a ready wit and bold
spirit." Like Williams she was in advance of her times, and like
him she soon became a religious leader. She was able, she was deeply
interested in religion, and she saw no reason why women should not
speak their minds on such matters.
Men used to hold meetings to discuss questions of religion and
politics to which women were not allowed to go. Anne Hutchinson
thought this was insulting; and she began to hold meetings for
women in her own home. These meetings became so popular that often
as many as a hundred women would be present. They discussed matters
of religion, and as Mrs. Hutchinson held "dangerous errors" about
"grace and works" and justification and sanctification, this set
the whole colony agog.
By the time that Harry Vane was chosen Governor the matter had
become serious. All the colony took sides for or against. Harry Vane,
who stood for toleration and freedom, sided with Mrs. Hutchinson,
while Winthrop, his great rival, sided against her. Mrs. Hutchinson
was supported and encouraged in her wickedness by her brother-in-law
John Wheelright, a "silenced minister sometimes in England." She
also led away many other godly hearts.
The quarrel affected the whole colony, and was a stumbling-block
in the way of all progress. But so long as Harry Vane was Governor,
Mrs. Hutchinson continued her preaching and teaching. When he sailed
home, however, and Winthrop was Governor once more, the elders
of the community decided that Mrs. Hutchinson was a danger to the
colony, and must be silenced. So all the elders and leaders met
together in assembly, and condemned her opinions, some as being
"blasphemous, some erroneous, and all unsafe."
A few women, they decided, might without serious wrong meet together
to pray and edify one another. But that a large number of sixty
or more should do so every week was agreed to be "disorderly and
without rule." And as Mrs. Hutchinson would not cease her preaching
and teaching, but obstinately continued in her gross errors, she
was excommunicated and exiled from the colony.
Like Williams, Mrs. Hutchinson went to Rhode Island. To the sorrow
of the godly, her husband went with her. And when they tried to
bring him back he refused. "For," he said, "I am more dearly tied
to my wife than to the Church. And I do think her a dear saint and
servant of God."
In Rhode Island Mrs. Hutchinson and her friends founded the towns
of Portsmouth and Newport. Others who had been driven out of one
colony or another followed them, and other towns were founded;
and for a time Rhode Island seems to have been a sort of Ishmael's
land, and the most unruly of all the New England colonies. At
length however all these little settlements joined together under
one Governor.
At first the colony had no charter, and occupied the land only
by right of agreement with the Indians. But after some time Roger
Williams got a charter from Charles II. In this charter it was
set down that no one should be persecuted "for any difference in
opinion on matters of religion." Thus another new state was founded,
and in Rhode Island there was more real freedom than in almost any
other colony in New England.
Massachusetts was at this time, as we can see, not exactly an
easy place to live in for any one whose opinions differed in the
slightest from those laid down by law. Those same people who had
left their homes to seek freedom of conscience denied it to others.
But they were so very, very sure that their way was the only
right way, that they could not understand how any one could think
otherwise. They were good and honest men. And if they were severe
with their fellows who strayed from the narrow path, it was only
in the hope that by punishing them in this life, they might save
them from much more terrible punishment in the life to come.
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Chapter 26 - The Founding of Harvard
One very good thing we have to remember about the first settlers of
Massachusetts is that early in the life of the colony they founded
schools and colleges. A good many of the settlers were Oxford and
Cambridge men, though more indeed came from Cambridge than from
Oxford, as Cambridge was much the more Puritan of the two. But
whether from Oxford or from Cambridge they were eager that their
children born in this New England should have as good an education
as their fathers had had in Old England. So when Harry Vane was
Governor the colonists voted £400 with which to build a school.
This is the first time known to history that the people themselves
voted their own money to found a school.
It was decided to build the school at "Newtown." But the Cambridge
men did not like the name, so they got it changed to Cambridge,
"to tell their posterity whence they came."
Shortly before this a young Cambridge man named John Harvard had
come out to Massachusetts. Very little is known of him save that he
came of simple folk, and was good and learned. "A godly gentleman
and lover of learning," old writers call him. "A scholar and pious
in his life, and enlarged towards the country and the good of it,
in life and in death."
Soon after he came to Boston this godly gentleman was made minister
of the church at Charlestown. But he was very delicate and in a
few months he died. As a scholar and a Cambridge man he had been
greatly interested in the building of the college at Cambridge. So
when he died he left half his money and all his books to it. The
settlers were very grateful for this bequest, and to show their
gratitude they decided to name the college after John Harvard.
Thus the first University in America was founded. From the beginning
the college was a pleasant place, "more like a bowling green than
a wilderness," said one man. "The buildings were thought by some to
be too gorgeous for a wilderness, and yet too mean in others'
apprehensions for a college. "
"The edifice," says another, "is very faire and comely within and
without, having in it a spacious hall, and a large library with
some bookes to it."
Of Harvard's own books there were nearly three hundred, a very good
beginning for a library in those far-off days. But unfortunately
they were all burnt about a hundred years later when the library
accidentally took fire. Only one book was saved, as it was not in
the library at the time.
Harvard's books are gone, nor does anything now remain of the first
buildings "so faire and comely within and without." But the memory
of the old founders and their wonderful purpose and energy is still
kept green, and over the chief entrance of the present buildings
are carved some words taken from a writer of those times. "After
God had carried us safe to New England, and we had builded our
houses, provided necessaries for our livelihood, rear'd convenient
places for God's worship, and settled the Civil Government, one
of the next things we longed for and looked after was to advance
learning and perpetuate it to Posterity, dreading to leave
an illiterate ministry to the Churches when our present ministers
shall be in the Dust."
John Harvard was a good and simple man. In giving his money to
found a college he had no thought of making himself famous. But "he
builded better than he knew," for he reared for himself an eternal
monument, and made his name famous to all the ends of the earth.
And when kings and emperors are forgotten the name of Harvard will
be remembered.
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Chapter 27 - How Quakers First Came to New England
It was about the middle of the seventeenth century when a new kind
of religion arose. This was the religion of the Quakers. George
Fox was the founder of this sect, and they called themselves the
Friends of Truth. The name Quaker was given to them by their enemies
in derision because they "trembled before the Lord."
The Quakers were a peace-loving people; they tried to be kind and
charitable; they refused to go to law; and they refused to fight.
They also gave up using titles of all kinds. For, "my Lord Peter
and my Lord Paul are not to be found in the Bible." They refused
to take off their hats to any man, believing that that was a sign
of worship which belonged to God only. They refused also to take
oath of any kind, even the oath of allegiance to the King, because
Christ had said, "Swear not at all." They used "thee" and "thou"
instead of "you" in speaking to a single person (because they thought
it more simple and truthful), and they refused to say "goodnight"
or "goodmorrow," "for they knew night was good and day was good
without wishing either." There was a great deal that was good in
their religion and very little, it would seem, that was harmful,
but they were pronounced to be "mischievous and dangerous people."
Men did not understand the Quakers. And, as often happens when men
do not understand, they became afraid of them. Because they wore
black clothes and broad-brimmed hats they thought they must be
Jesuits in disguise. So ignorance bred fear, and fear brought forth
persecution, and on all sides the Quakers were hunted and reviled.
They were fined and imprisoned scourged and exiled and sold into
slavery. Then, like other persecuted people, they sought a refuge
in New England across the seas. But the people there were just as
ignorant as the people at home, and the Quakers found no kindly
welcome.
The first Quakers to arrive in New England were two women. But
before they were allowed to land officers were sent on board the
ship to search their boxes. They found a great many books, which
they carried ashore, and while the women were kept prisoner on board
the ship the books were burned in the market place by the common
hangman. Then the women were brought ashore and sent to prison,
for no other reason than that they were Quakers.
No one was allowed to speak to them on pain of a fine of £5, and
lest any should attempt it even the windows of the prison were
boarded up. They were allowed no candle, and their pens, ink, and
paper were taken from them. They might have starved but that one
good old man named Nicholas Upshal, whose heart was grieved for
them, paid the gaoler to give them food. Thus they were kept until
a ship was ready to sail for England. Then they were put on board,
and the captain was made to swear that he would put them ashore
nowhere but in England.
"Such," says an old writer, "was the entertainment the Quakers first
met with at Boston, and that from a people who pretended that for
conscience' sake they had chosen the wilderness of America before
the well-cultivated Old England."
The next Quakers who arrived were treated much in the same fashion
and sent back to England; and a law was made forbidding Quakers
to come to the colony. At this time the same good old man who had
already befriended them was grieved. "Take heed," he said, "that
you be not found fighting against God, and so draw down a judgment
upon the land." But the men of Boston were seized with a frenzy of
hate and fear, and they banished this old man because he had dared
to speak kindly of the accursed sect."
It is true the men of New England had some excuse for trying to keep
the Quakers out of their colony. For some of them were foolish, and
tried to force their opinions noisily upon others. They interrupted
the Church services, mocked the magistrates and the clergy, and
some, carried away by religious fervour, behaved more like mad folk
than the disciples of a religion of love and charity.
Yet in spite of the law forbidding them to come, Quakers kept on
coming to the colony, and all who came were imprisoned, beaten,
and then thrust forth with orders never to return. But still they
came. So a law was made that any Quaker coming into the colony
should have one of his ears cut off; if he came again he should
have a second ear cut off; if he came a third time he should have
his tongue bored through with a hot iron.
But even this cruel law had no effect upon the Quakers. They heeded
it not, and came in as great or even greater numbers than before.
The people of Boston were in despair. They had no wise to be cruel;
indeed, many hated, and were thoroughly ashamed of, the cruel
laws, made against these strange people. But they were nevertheless
determined that Quakers should not come into their land. So now
they made a law that any Quaker who came to the colony and refused
to go away again when ordered should be hanged. This, they thought,
would certainly keep these pernicious folk away. But it did not.
For the Quakers were determined to prove to all the world that they
were free to go where they would, and that if they chose to come
to Boston no man-made laws should keep them out. So they kept on
coming. The magistrates knew not what to do. They had never meant
to hang any of them, but only to frighten them away. But having
made the law, they were determined to fulfil it, and five Quakers
were hanged, one of them a woman. But while the fifth was being
tried another Quaker named Christison, who had already been banished,
calmly walked into the court.
When they saw him the magistrates were struck dumb. For they saw
that against determination like this no punishment, however severe,
might avail. On their ears Christison's words fell heavily.
"I am come here to warn you, he cried, "that you should shed no more
innocent blood. For the blood that you have shed already cries to
the Lord God for vengeance to come upon you."
Nevertheless he too was seized and tried. But he defended himself
well. By what law will you put me to death?" he asked.
"We have a law," replied the magistrates, "and by our law you are
to die."
"So said the Jews to Christ," replied Christison: " 'We have a law,
and by our law you ought to die.' Who empowered you to make that
law? How! Have you power to make laws different from the laws of
England?"
"No," said the Governor.
"Then," said Christison, "you are gone beyond your bounds. Are you
subjects to the King? Yea or nay?"
"Yea, we are so."
"Well," said Christison, "so am I. Therefore, seeing that you and
I are subjects to the King, I demand to be tried by the laws of
my own nation. For I never heard, nor read, of any law that was in
England to hang Quakers."
Yet in spite of his brave defence Christison was condemned to
death. But the sentence was never carried out. For the people had
grown weary of these cruelties; even the magistrates, who for a
time had been carried away by blind hate, saw that they were wrong.
Christison and many of his friends who had lain in prison awaiting
trial were set free.
The Quakers, too, now found a strange friend in King Charles. For
the doings of the New Englanders in this matter reached even his
careless ears, and he wrote to his "Trusty and well-beloved" subjects
bidding them cease their persecutions, and send the Quakers back
to England to be tried. This the people of Massachusetts never did.
But henceforth the persecutions died down. And although from time
to time the Quakers were still beaten and imprisoned no more were
put to death. At length the persecution died away altogether and
the Quakers, allowed to live in peace, became quiet, hard-working
citizens.
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Chapter 28 - How Maine and New Hampshire Were Founded
North of Massachusetts two more colonies, New Hampshire and Maine,
were founded. But they were not founded by men who fled from tyranny,
but by statesmen and traders who realised the worth of America,
not by Puritans, but by Churchmen and Royalists. The two men who
were chiefly concerned in the founding of these colonies were Sir
Ferdinando Gorges and Captain John Mason. They were both eager
colonists, and they both got several charters and patents from the
King, and from the New England Company.
It would be too confusing to follow all these grants and charters,
or all the attempts at settlements made by Mason and Gorges and
others. The land granted to them was often very vaguely outlined,
the fact being that the people who applied for the land, and those
who drew up the charters, had only the vaguest ideas concerning the
land in question. So the grants often overlapped each other, and
the same land was frequently claimed by two people, and of course
confusion and quarrels followed.
In 1629 Mason and Gorges, being friends, agreed to divide the province
of Maine between them, and Mason called his part New Hampshire,
after the county of Hampshire in England, of which he was fond.
Mason and Gorges each now had an enormous tract of land, but they
wanted still more.
The French, as you know, had already made settlements in Canada,
But just at this time that buccaneering sea captain, David Kirke,
besieged Quebec, took it and carried its brave governor, Champlain,
away prisoner. Now, as soon as they heard of this Gorges and Mason
asked the King to give them a grant of part of the conquered land,
for it was known to be a fine country for fur trade, and was also
believed to be rich in gold and silver mines. In answer to this
petition the King granted a great tract of land to Gorges and Mason.
This they called Laconia, because it was supposed to contain many
lakes. They never did much with it however, and in a few years
when peace was made with France it had all to be given back to the
French.
Both Mason and Gorges spent a great deal of money trying to encourage
colonists to settle on their land, and the people of Massachusetts
were not at all pleased to have such powerful Churchmen for their
neighbours.
As has been said, land grants often overlapped, and part of the
land granted to Gorges and Mason was also claimed by Massachusetts.
The Massachusetts colonists insisted on their rights. Both Gorges
and Mason therefore became their enemies, and did their best
to have their charter taken away. To this end Gorges got himself
made Governor General of the whole of New England, with power to
do almost as he liked, and he made ready to set out for his new
domain with a thousand soldiers to enforce his authority.
When this news reached Massachusetts the whole colony was thrown
into a state of excitement. For in this appointment the settlers
saw the end of freedom, the beginning of tyranny. Both Gorges and
his friend Mason were zealous Churchmen and the Puritans felt sure
would try to force them all to become Churchmen also.
This the settlers determined to resist with all their might. So
they built forts round Boston Harbour and mounted cannon ready to
sink any hostile vessel which might put into port. In every village
the young men trained as soldiers, and a beacon was set up on
the highest point of the triple hill upon which Boston is built.
And daily these young men turned their eyes to the hill, for when
a light appeared there they knew it would be time to put on their
steel caps and corslets and march to defend their liberties. Ever
since the hill has been called Beacon Hill.
But the danger passed. The new ship which was being built for
Ferdinando Gorges mysteriously fell to pieces on the very launching
of it, and Captain Mason died. "He was the chief mover in all the
attempts against us," says Winthrop. "But the Lord, in His mercy,
taking him away, all the business fell on sleep."
But still Gorges did not give up his plans. He did not now go out
to New England himself as he had meant to do, but sent first his
nephew and then his cousin instead. They, however, did not trouble
Massachusetts much.
Over the Province of Maine, Sir Ferdinando ruled supreme. He could
raise troops, make war, give people titles, levy taxes. No one
might settle down or trade in his province without his permission,
and all must look upon him as the lord of the soil and pay him
tribute. It was the feudal system come again, and Sir Ferdinando
Gorges was as near being a king as any ruler of America ever has
been. He drew up a most elaborate constitution, too, for his kingdom,
making almost more offices than there were citizens to fill them.
For, after all, his kingdom was a mere wilderness containing two
fishing villages and here and there a few scattered settlements.
And when the deputy governor arrived to rule this kingdom he found
his "palace" merely a broken-down store house with "nothing of
household stuff remaining but an old pot, a pair of tongs and a
couple of irons."
Thus side by side with the Puritan colonies of New England,
colonies which were almost republics, there was planted a feudal
state which was almost a monarchy. Of all the New England colonies,
New Hampshire and Maine were the only two which were not founded
for the sake of religion. For although the English Church was
established in both as the state religion that was merely because
the proprietors were of that Church. The colonies were founded for
the sake of trade and profit. But they grew very slowly.
In 1647 Sir Ferdinando Gorges died, and Maine was left much to
itself. For his son John took little interest in his father's great
estate. Thirty years later his grandson, another Ferdinando, sold
his rights to Massachusetts. From that time till 1820, when it
was admitted to the Union as a separate state, Maine was a part of
Massachusetts.
Neither did the heirs of Mason pay much attention to their estates
at first. And when they did there was a good deal of quarrelling
and a good deal of trouble, and at length they sold their rights
to twelve men, who were afterwards known as the Masonian Proprietors.
There was a great deal of trouble, too, before New Hampshire was
finally recognised as a separate colony. It was joined to Massachusetts
and separated again more than once. But at last, after many changes,
New Hampshire finally became a recognised separate colony. And
although Captain John Mason died long before this happened he has
been called the founder of New Hampshire.
"If the highest moral honour," it has been said, "belongs to founders
of states, as Bacon has declared, then Mason deserved it. To seize
on a tract of the American wilderness, to define its limits, to give
it a name, to plant it with an English colony, and to die giving
it his last thoughts among worldly concerns, are acts as lofty and
noble as any recorded in the history of colonisation."
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Chapter 29 - The Founding of Connecticut and War with the Indians
Many of the people who founded Massachusetts Colony were well-to-do
people, people of good family, aristocrats in fact. They were men
accustomed to rule, accustomed to unquestioning obedience from their
servants and those under them. They believed that the few were meant
to rule, and the many meant to obey. The idea that every grown-up
person should have a share in the government never entered their
heads. Their Governor, Winthrop, was an aristocrat to the backbone.
He believed heartily in the government of the many by the few, and
made it as difficult as possible for citizens to obtain the right
of voting.
But there were many people who were discontented with this
aristocratic rule. Among them was a minister named Thomas Hooker,
like John Harvard a graduate of Emmanuel College, Cambridge.
So, being dissatisfied, he and his congregation decided to move
away and found a new colony. They were the more ready to do this,
as the land round Boston was not fertile, and so many new settlers
had come, and their cattle and flocks had increased so rapidly,
that it was already difficult to find food and fodder for man and
beast. Adventurers who had traveled far afield had brought back
glowing reports of the beauty and fertility of the Connecticut
Valley, and there Hooker decided to settle.
But for several reasons many of the people of Massachusetts objected
to his going. He and his people, they said, would be in danger from
the Dutch, who already had a settlement there, and who claimed the
whole valley. They would also be in danger from the Indians, who
were known to be hostile, and lastly, they would be in danger from
the British Government because they had no charter permitting them
to settle in this land. The people at home, they said, "would not
endure they should sit down without a patent on any place which
our King lays claim unto."
The people of Massachusetts were keeping quiet and going along
steadily in their own way, without paying any heed to the British
Government. They wanted to be left alone, and they did not want
any one else to do things which might call attention to them.
And besides all this they were greatly troubled at the thought
of losing an eloquent preacher like Hooker. Every church was like
a candlestick giving light to the world. "And the removing of
a candlestick," they said, "is a great judgment, which is to be
avoided."
But in spite of all arguments Hooker determined to go. So one June
morning he and his congregation set forth. They sent their furniture
by water and they themselves, both men and women, started to walk
the hundred miles, driving their cattle before them; only Mrs.
Hooker, who was ill, being carried in a litter.
They went slowly, allowing the cattle to graze by the wayside, living
chiefly on the milk of the cows and the wild fruits they found.
It was no easy journey, for their way led through the pathless
wilderness, their only guides being the compass and the sun. For in
those days we must remember that beyond the settlements the whole
of America was untrodden ground. Save the Indian trails there were
no roads. Here they had to fell trees and make a rough bridge to
cross a stream; there they hewed their way through bushy undergrowth.
Again they climbed steep hillsides or picked their way painfully
through swamps, suffering many discomforts and fatigues.
But there were delights, too, for the sky was blue above them:
birds sang to them night and morning, and wild flowers starred the
ground and scented the air. All day they marched beneath the sunny
blue sky, every evening they lit their watch-fires as a protection
against wild beasts and lay down to rest beneath the stars, for
"they had no cover but the heavens, nor any lodgings but those
which simple nature afforded them."
For a fortnight they journeyed thus through the wilderness. Then
they reached the Connecticut River and their journey's end. And
here they built a little town which they called Hartford.
Other communities followed the example of Hooker and his flock,
and Wethersfield and Windsor were built. At first all these towns
remained a part of Massachusetts in name at least. But after a time
the settlers met together at Hartford and, agreeing to form a little
republic of their own, they drew up a set of rules for themselves;
the chief difference from those of Massachusetts being that the
religious tests were done away with, and a man need no longer be a
member of a church in order to have the right to vote. It is also
interesting to remember that in these Fundamental Orders, as they
called their Constitution, there is no mention of the British
King or Government. These colonists had settled new land without a
charter, and they made laws without recognising any authority but
their own. Thus the Colony of Connecticut was founded.
Besides these towns, John Winthrop, the son of the Governor
of Massachusetts, founded a fort at the mouth of the Connecticut
River. For he saw it was a good place for trade with the Indians.
This fort was called SayeBrook after Lord Saye and Sele and Lord
Brook, two Puritan lords who had obtained a grant of land along
the Connecticut River.
But this new colony was very nearly wiped out as soon as begun.
For one of the dangers which the people of Massachusetts foretold
proved a very real one. This was the danger from the Indians. The
Indians are divided into several families, such as the Algonquins,
the Hurons, the Iroquois, each of these families again containing
many tribes. All the Indians in New England belonged to the Algonquin
family, but were, of course, divided into many tribes. One of these
tribes was called the Pequots. They were very powerful, and they
tyrannised over the other tribes round about. They hated the white
men, and whenever they had the opportunity they slew them.
The new Colony of Connecticut was far nearer their hunting-ground
than Massachusetts. It was a far easier prey, and from the very
beginning the Pequots harassed the settlers. They made no open
attack, but skulked about, murdering men and women, now here, now
there, appearing suddenly and vanishing again as swiftly.
This sort of thing could not be endured, and the English determined
to put a stop to it. So messengers were sent to the Indians to
demand that the murderers should be given up to the English. When
the Indians saw the English boats appear they did not seem in the
least afraid, but came running along the water-side shouting, "What
cheer, Englishmen, what cheer? What do you come for?"
But the Englishmen would not answer.
And the Pequots, never thinking that the Englishmen meant war, kept
running on beside the boats as they sailed up the river.
"What cheer, Englishmen, what cheer?" they kept repeating. "Are
you angry? Will you kill us? Do you come to fight?"
But still the Englishmen would not answer.
Then the Indians began to be afraid. And that night they built
great fires on either side of the river, fearing lest the Englishmen
might land in the darkness. All night long, too, they kept up a
most doleful howling, calling to each other and passing the word
on from place to place to gather the braves together.
Next morning early they sent an ambassador to the English captain.
He was a big, splendid-looking man, very grave and majestic. "Why
do you come here?" he asked.
"I have come," answered the captain, "to demand the heads of those
who have slain our comrades. It is not the habit of the English to
suffer murderers to live. So if you desire peace and welfare give
us the heads of the murderers."
"We knew not," answered the wily Indian, "that any of our braves
had slain any of yours. It is true we have slain some white men. But
we took them to be Dutch. It is hard for us to know the difference
between Dutch and English."
"You know the difference between Dutch and English quite well,"
answered the captain sternly. "And therefore seeing you have slain
the King of England's subjects, we come to demand vengeance for
their blood."
"We knew no difference between the Dutch and English," declared
the Indian. "They are both strangers to us, and we took them to be
all one. Therefore we crave pardon. We have not wilfully wronged
the English."
"That excuse will not do," insisted the captain. "We have proof
that you know the English from the Dutch. We must have the heads of
those persons who have slain our men, or else we will fight you."
Then, seeing that he could not move the English captain from his
determination, the ambassador asked leave to go back to his chief,
promising to return speedily with his answer. He was allowed to go;
but as he did not return very soon the Englishmen followed. Seeing
this, the ambassador hurried to them, begging them not to come
nearer, and saying that his chief could not be found, as he had
gone to Long Island.
"That is not true," replied the English. "We know he is here. So
find him speedily or we will march through the country and spoil
your corn."
Hour after hour went past; the Englishmen always patiently waiting;
the wily Indian always inventing some new excuse for delay. But
at length the patience of the English was exhausted, and, beating
their drums, they charged the savages. Some were killed, and, the
rest fleeing, the English burned their wigwams and destroyed their
corn, and carried off their mats and baskets as booty.
But the Pequots were not in the least subdued, and more than ever
they harassed the colonists of Connecticut. So the men of Connecticut
sent to Massachusetts and to Plymouth asking for help. The people
of Plymouth, however, said the quarrel was none of theirs and sent
no help, but from Massachusetts about twenty men were sent. Besides
this, a few friendly Indians, glad at the chance of punishing their
old tyrants, joined with the white men.
So one moonlight night the little company embarked, and, sailing
along the coast, landed at a spot about two days' journey from the
Pequot fort. As they got near to it most of the Indians who had come
with the English took fright and ran away. So less than a hundred
Englishmen were left to attack seven hundred Indians.
A little before dawn they reached the fort. The Indians were
all sleeping and keeping no guard, so the Englishmen quietly took
possession of both entrances to the fort.
Then suddenly through the still morning air the sharp sound of a
volley of musketry rang out "as though the finger of God had touched
both match and flint." Affrighted, the Indians sprang from their
sleep yelling in terror. They scarce had time to seize their bows
and arrows when, sword in hand, the Englishmen stormed into the
fort. A fierce fight followed, showers of arrows fell upon the
Englishmen, but they did little hurt, and glanced off for the most
part harmless from their thick buff coats and steel corslets.
During the fight some of the huts were set on fire, and soon the
whole village was a roaring mass of flames. Many perished miserably
in the fire, others who fled from it were cut down by the Englishmen,
or escaping them, fell into the hands of their own countrymen. They
found no mercy, for they had given none; and, remembering the awful
tortures which their fellow-countrymen had suffered, the Englishmen
had no compassion on their murderers.
Ere an hour had passed the fight was over. Out of four hundred
Indians not more than five escaped. The Pequots were utterly wiped
out and their village a heap of smoking ruins. Never before had
such terrible vengeance overtaken any Indian tribe. And all the
other tribes were so frightened and amazed that for forty years
there was peace in New England. For no Redmen dare attack these
terrible conquerors.
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Chapter 30 - The Founding of New Haven
In spite of the menace of the Redmen, Englishmen continued to settle
in the land they claimed. Even while the Pequot war was going on
a new colony had been founded, still further south upon the shores
of New England. This colony was founded by a minister named John
Davenport.
John Davenport had fled from persecution in England, and, followed
by his congregation, including many wealthy people, had sought,--like
so many other Puritans,--a refuge in New England. The newcomers
however, would not join the other Puritans, but decided to found a
colony all to themselves which should be ruled only by laws found
in the Bible. They called their settlement New Haven, and here
the law that none but church members should vote was very strictly
enforced.
Each of the towns was governed by seven men known as the Pillars of
the Church. These men served as judges, but no juries were allowed,
because no mention of them is found in the Bible. The laws were
very strict, but the famous pretended "Blue Laws" of New Haven,
which people used to make fun of, never existed. In these it was
pretended that there were such absurd laws as, "No one shall cook,
make beds, sweep house, cut hair or shave on the Sabbath. No woman
shall kiss her child on the Sabbath or fasting day. No one shall
keep Christmas, make minced pies, dance, play cards or play on any
instrument of music except the drum, trumpet or jew's-harp." Some
of the old Puritan laws seem to us indeed quaint enough, but there
are none quite so absurd as these. They were invented by an early
"tourist," who sought to make fun of these earnest, God-fearing
colonists.
The New Haven colonists, like those of Connecticut, had no charter
from the King of England. They settled the land not by agreement
with him, but by agreement with the Indians.
Davenport and his followers bought the land upon which they settled
from the Indians. To one chief they gave "twelve coats of English
trucking cloth, twelve alchemy spoons, twelve hatchets, twelve hoes,
two dozen of knives, twelve porringers, and four cases of French
knives and scissors." To another, "eleven coats of trucking cloth,
and one coat of English cloth."
The agreement was all duly and properly written out and signed by
the chiefs, but, of course, as the chiefs could not write they made
their marks. The first agreement was signed not only by the chief
and his council, but also by the chief's sister.
We have now heard of seven New England colonies being founded.
But later on, as we shall see, Plymouth joined with Massachusetts,
and New Haven with Connecticut, thus making only five New England
colonies as we know them today. And of those five, one (Maine) was
not recognised as a separate colony but as part of Massachusetts
after 1677. It remained part of Massachusetts until 1820, when it
entered the Union as a state.
Meanwhile Massachusetts, New Hampshire, Plymouth, Connecticut,
and New Haven all joined together, promising to help each other in
case of war with the Indians, Dutch, or French, who were constant
dangers to them all alike. They called themselves the United Colonies
of New England. This union, however, was only for defence. Each
colony was still quite independent of the others and managed its
own affairs as before. It was only the first shadow of the great
Union which was to come many years later. It was also one more proof
that the colonies were growing up and thinking for themselves for
they asked no one's leave to form this union. They thought it was
necessary to their safety, so they entered into it. Only Rhode
Island was not asked to join; there was still too much bitterness
over religious matters between the settlers there and in the other
colonies.
There were no more Puritan colonies founded, for Puritans ceased
now to come to New England in large numbers. The reason was that the
great fight between King and People, between Cavalier and Puritan
had begun in old England. And when the Puritans won, and could have
their own way at home, they were no longer so eager to set forth
to seek a New England beyond the seas. So the Puritans ceased to
cross the seas, and as we have seen, in their place many Cavaliers
came to Virginia.
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Chapter 31 - The Hunt for the Regicides
The Commonwealth of England did not last long. In 1660 King Charles
II was restored. England then became an unsafe abode for all those
who had helped to condemn Charles I to death, and two of those men,
General Edward Whalley and William Goffe, fled to America. They
were kindly received by the Puritans of Boston, and after a time
they moved on to New Haven. But even in America they were not safe,
and Royalist messengers were sent from England to arrest them, and
take them home to be tried.
The Governor of Massachusetts pretended to be very eager to help
these messengers. In reality he did nothing to help, but hindered
them, rather. News of the search for the fugitives soon reached
New Haven, and at once the people there helped them to hide. For
their minister, John Davenport, had bidden them to "hide the outcasts
and betray not him that wandereth."
Goffe and Whalley knew that the people of New Haven would not betray
them. But lest their enemies should gain any inkling of their being
there they left the town and, going to another, showed themselves
openly. Then secretly by night they returned to New Haven.
For a whole month they lay hid there in the cellars of the minister's
house. But soon that refuge became no longer safe, for the men in
search of them had, in spite of their strategy, traced them to New
Haven and set out to arrest them.
One Saturday the Royalists reached Guilford, not sixteen miles
away. Here they demanded horses from the Governor to take them on
to New Haven. But the Governor had little desire to help them. So
with one excuse after another he put them off until it was too late
to start that night. The next day was Sunday, and it was strictly
against the laws of Puritan New England to ride or drive on Sunday
save to church. So the Royalist messengers, chafing with impatience,
might bribe and command as much as they liked; not a man would stir
a hand to help them till Monday morning.
Meanwhile a messenger was speeding on his way to New Haven to warn
the Parliamentarians. And while their pursuers were kicking their
heels in enforced idleness they slipped away, and found a new hiding
place in a mill some miles off. But even this was thought not to
be safe, and they fled once more, and at length found refuge in a
cave deep in the forest.
So on Monday when at length the Royalists arrived, the birds had
flown. The minister owned that they had been there, but declared
that they had vanished away, no man knowing when or whither.
The Royalists scoured the country far and wide in search of the
fugitives. But their efforts were in vain. They were very much in
earnest, but they were strangers, and they did not know the country.
No one would help them in their search, and at length, very angry
with the people of New Haven, they gave it up and returned to
Boston.
Then, having spent several months in their cave, the Parliamentarians
crept forth again. For two years they lived hidden in a friendly
house. The King, however, was not satisfied, and after two years
messengers again came out from England, and the search was again
begun, more eagerly than before. Again, however, Goffe and Whalley
were warned, and again they fled to the cave.
Here they lived in safety while the Royalists swept the country
round in search of them. But they had many narrow escapes.
Once when they had left the shelter of their cave they were almost
caught. Their pursuers were upon their heels, and to reach the cave
without being taken prisoner seemed impossible. As the two men fled
before their foes they came to a little river crossed by a wooden
bridge. It was their last hope. Instead of crossing the bridge
they crept beneath it, and crouched close to the water. On came
the pursuers. They made no pause. Their horses thundered across
the bridge and galloped away and away, while beneath the fugitives
waited breathlessly. Then when all was quiet again they crept back
to the shelter of their cave.
But at length the cave became a safe retreat no longer, for it
was discovered by the Indians. And the fugitives, afraid lest the
Indians, tempted by the large reward offered, might betray their
hiding-place, resolved to seek another.
By this time the fury of the search for them had somewhat abated
and another minister, John Russell, offered them a refuge in his
house. This minister lived at a place called Hadley. Hadley was
many miles from New Haven. It was a lonely settlement on the edge
of the wilderness, and to reach it about a hundred miles of pathless
forest had to be crossed. But with stout hearts the hunted men
set out. By day they lay hidden in some friendly house, or in some
lonely cave or other refuge. By night they journeyed onward. At
length they reached their new hiding-place.
It was wonderfully contrived. The minister had lately made some
alterations in his house, and in doing so he had made a safe retreat.
In the attic there was a large cupboard with doors opening into
rooms on either side. In the floor of the cupboard there was a trap
door which led down into another dark cupboard below, and from
there a passage led to the cellar. So that, should the house be
searched, any one in the upper rooms could slip into the cupboard,
from there reach the cellar, and thus escape. Here the regicides
now took up their abode. And so well was their secret kept that
they lived there for ten or fifteen years, their presence being
unsuspected even by the inhabitants of the little town.
Henceforth the world was dead to them, and they were dead to the world.
They were both soldiers. On many a field of battle,-Gainsborough,
Marston, Naseby, Worcester, and Dunbar,-they had led their men to
victory. They had been Members of Parliament, friends of the Great
Protector, and had taken part in all the doings of these stirring
times.
Now all that was over. Now no command, no power was left to them.
The years went by, dragging their slow length of days, and bringing
no change or brightness to the lives of these two men who lived
in secret and alone. It was a melancholy life, the monotony only
broken by visits from the minister, or a few other friends, who
brought them all the gossip and news of the town. These were but
small matters. But to the two men shut off from all other human
beings they seemed of rare interest.
After ten years Whalley died. It is believed that he was buried
in the cellar of the house in which for so long he had found a
hiding-place. Then, for five years or so more, Goffe dragged out
his life alone.
As one might imagine, the King was not at all pleased with
Massachusetts and New Haven for thus sheltering the regicides; and
in 1665 he suppressed New Haven as a separate colony and joined it
to Connecticut.
The New Haven people did not like this at all, and they fought
against it with all their might. But at length they gave way and
joined Connecticut.
The King was angry with Massachusetts, too, not only for protecting
the regicides, but also because of what is known as the Declaration
of Rights. In this the people of Massachusetts acknowledged the King
as their ruler. But they also made it plain that so long as they
did not make laws which ran counter to English laws they expected
to be let alone. This made King Charles angry, and if it had not
been that he was busy fighting with Holland very likely the people
of Massachusetts would have had to suffer for their boldness at
once. As it was they were left in peace a little longer.
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Chapter 32 - King Philip's War
Meanwhile the people of New England had another foe to fight.
You remember that the Pilgrim Fathers had made a treaty with the
Indians when they first arrived. As long as the old Chief Massasoit
lived he kept that treaty. But now he was dead, and his son Philip
ruled.
You will wonder, perhaps, why an Indian chief should have a name
like Philip. But Philip's real name was Metacomet. He, however,
wanted to have an English name, and to please him the English called
him Philip. And by that name he is best known.
For a time all went well. But very soon Philip and his tribe grew
restless and dissatisfied. When they saw the white men coming in
always greater and greater numbers, and building towns and villages
further and further into the land, they began to fear them and long
to drive them away. And at length all their thoughts turned to war.
Friendly Indians and "praying Indians," as those who had become
Christians were called, came now to warn the Pale-faces and tell
them that Philip was gathering his braves, and that he had held a
war dance lasting for several weeks. In the night, too, people in
lonely farms awoke to hear the wild sound of drums and gun shots.
But still the English hoped to pacify Philip. So they sent him a
friendly letter telling him to send away his braves, for no white
man wished him ill.
But Philip returned no answer.
Then one Sunday while the people were at church and the houses were
all deserted Indians attacked the little town of Swansea, burning
and plundering. The next day and the next they returned, tomahawk
and firebrand in hand, and so the war began.
Other tribes joined with King Philip, and soon New England was
filled with terror and bloodshed. The men of New England gathered
in force to fight the Indians. But they were a hard foe to fight,
for they never came out to meet the Pale-faces in open field.
At first when the British began to settle in America they had made
it a rule never to sell firearms to the Indians. But that rule had
long ago been broken through. Now the Indians not only had guns,
but many of them were as good shots as the British. Yet they kept
to their old ways of fighting, and, stealthily as wild animals, they
skulked behind trees, or lurked in the long grass, seeking their
enemies. They knew all the secret forest ways, they were swift of
foot, untiring, and mad with the lust of blood. So from one lonely
village to another they sped swiftly a the eagle, secretly as the
fox. And where they passed they left a trail of blood and ashes.
At night around some lonely homestead all would seem quiet. Far as
the eye could see there would be no slightest sign of any Redman,
and the tired labourer would go to rest feeling safe, with his
wife and children beside him. But ere the first red streaks of dawn
shivered across the sky he would be awakened by fiendish yells.
Ere he could seize his gun the savages would be upon him. And the
sun when it rose would show only blackened, blood-stained ruins
where but a few hours before a happy home had been.
Yet with this red terror on every side the people went on quietly
with their daily life. On week days they tilled their fields and
minded their herds, on Sundays they went, as usual, to church,
leaving their homes deserted. But even to church they went armed,
and while they knelt in prayer or listened to the words of their
pastor their guns were ever within reach of their hands.
One Sunday, while in the village of Hadley the people were all
at church, the Indians crept up in their usual stealthy fashion.
Suddenly the alarm was given, and, seizing their guns which stood
by their sides, the men rushed out of the meeting-house. But they
were all in confusion: the attack was sudden, they were none of
them soldiers, but merely brave men ready to die for their homes
and their dear ones, and they had and they had no leader.
Then suddenly a stranger appeared amongst them. He was dressed
in quaint old-fashioned clothes. His hair and beard were long and
streaked with grey. He was tall and soldierly, and his eyes shone
with the joy of battle.
At once he took command. Sharply his orders rang out. Unquestioningly
the villagers obeyed, for he spoke as one used to command. They were
no longer an armed crowd, but a company of soldiers, and, fired by
the courage and skill of their leader, they soon put the Indians
to flight.
When the fight was over the men turned to thank their deliverer.
But he was nowhere to be found. He had vanished as quickly and
mysteriously as he had come.
"What did it mean?" they asked. "Who was the strange leader? Had
God in His mercy sent an angel from heaven to their rescue ?"
No one could answer their questions, and many decided that indeed
a miracle had happened, and that God had sent an angel to deliver
them.
This strange leader was no other than the regicide, Colonel Goffe,
who, as we know, had for many years lived hidden in the minister's
house. From his attic window he had seen the Indians creeping
stealthily upon the village. And when he saw the people standing
leaderless and bewildered, he had been seized with his old fighting
spirit, and had rushed forth to lead them. Then, the danger being
over, he had slipped quietly back to his hiding-place. There he
remained hidden from all the world as before, until he died and
was buried beside his friend.
Autumn passed and winter came, and the Indians gathered to their
forts, for the bare forests gave too little protection to them in
their kind of warfare. When spring came they promised themselves
to come forth again and make an end of the Pale-faces. But the
Pale-faces did not wait for spring.
The Indians had gathered to the number of over three thousand
into a strong fortress. It was surrounded by a marsh and the only
entrance was over a bridge made by a fallen tree.
This fortress the New Englanders decided to attack and take. So,
a thousand strong, they set out one morning before dawn and, after
hours of weary marching through the snow, they reached the fort.
Across the narrow bridge they rushed, and although many of their
leaders fell dead, the men came on, nothing daunted. A fierce fight
followed, for each side knew that they must win or die. Shut in on
all sides by impassable swamps there was no escape. But not till
dark was falling did the white men gain the victory. The ground
was strewn with dead and dying, and in the gathering darkness the
remaining Indians stole quietly away, and vanished like shadows.
Then the New Englanders set fire to the wigwams, and, taking their
wounded, marched back to their headquarters.
This was a sad blow to the Indians, but it did not by any means end
the war which, as spring came on, broke out again in full fury. But
gradually the white men got the upper hand. Instead of attacking,
the Redmen fled before them. They lost heart and began to blame King
Philip for having led them into war, and at length he was slain by
one of his own followers.
Soon after this the war came to an end. But whole tracts of New
England were a desert, a thousand of the bravest and best of the
young men were killed. Many women and children, too, had been slain,
and there was hardly a fireside in the whole of Massachusetts where
there was not a vacant place. Numbers of people were utterly ruined
and the colonies were burdened with a great debt.
As to the Indians their power was utterly broken, and their tribes
were almost wiped out. Except the Mohegans, who had remained
friendly throughout the war, there were few Indians left in south
New England, where there was never again a war between white men
and Indians.
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Chapter 33 - How The Charter of Connecticut Was Saved
Meanwhile King Charles had not forgotten his anger against the
people of Massachusetts. Besides the fact that they had harboured
the regicides, he had many other reasons for being angry with them.
For they refused to obey the Navigation Laws, and they refused to
allow the Church of England to be established within the colony.
They had coined money of their own, never made their officials
swear allegiance to the throne, and had done many things just as
they liked.
In fact Massachusetts seemed to Charles like a badly brought-up
child, who, having come to manhood, wants to go his own way and
cares nothing for the wishes or commands of his parents. He made
up his mind not to have any more of this disobedience, and he took
away the charter and made Massachusetts a Crown Colony. Thus after
fifty-five years of practical freedom Massachusetts once more
belonged to the King of England, by right of the discovery of John
and Sebastian Cabot. Of course, the people of Massachusetts fought
against this as hard as they could, but their struggle was useless,
and a royal Governor was appointed to rule the colony.
Almost immediately, however, Charles died, and it was not until his
brother, James II, was on the throne that Sir Edmund Andros came
out as royal Governor. He came not only as Governor of Massachusetts
but as Governor of all the New England Colonies. For the King wanted
to make an end of all these separate colonies and unite them into
one great province.
Andros soon made himself very much disliked, for he tried to rule
New England too much as his master tried to rule Great Britain. He
levied taxes as he pleased, he imprisoned innocent men if he chose,
he allowed nothing to be printed without his permission, he seized
lands and goods at will.
All New England felt the weight of the Governor's hand. He demanded
Rhode Island's charter. But the Governor of Rhode Island replied
that the weather was so bad he really could not send it. So Sir
Edmund went to Rhode Island, dissolved its government and smashed
its seal.
To Connecticut also Sir Edmund wrote in vain, demanding its charter.
The men of Connecticut were, it seemed to him, an unruly lot. So
one October day in 1687 he set out to visit this rebellious state
and subdue it to his will.
He arrived in Hartford with a great train of gentlemen and soldiers.
They made a mighty stir in the little town as they rode, jingling
and clanking through the quiet streets, and drew rein before the
state house. Into the chamber where the Council sat strode Andros
looking pompous and grand in lace, and velvet, and a great flowing
wig. Up to the table he strode, and in tones of haughty command,
demanded the charter.
But the men of Connecticut would not lightly give up the sign of
their beloved liberty. They talked and argued and persuaded. They
spoke of the hardships they had endured, of the blood they had
poured forth to keep their freedom in their new found homes, upon
the edge of the wilderness.
But with such a man as Andros all appeals, all persuasions were in
vain. To every argument he had but one answer,-he must and would
have the charter.
Long and long the argument lasted. The day drew to a close and
twilight fell. Through the dusky gloom men could hardly see each
other's flushed, excited faces. Lights were called for, and candles
were brought. Some were placed upon the table beside the metal box
in which lay the charter. Still the debate went on, either side as
unbending as before. Now many citizens, anxious to know how things
went, slipped into the room and stood behind the members, listening
as the debate was flung this way and that. Outside the night was
dark, within the woodpanelled room the flickering candles shed but
a dim, uncertain light.
They made strange dancing shadows, shining fitfully on the stern,
eager faces of the men who sat round the table, but scarcely
revealing against the gloom the crowd of anxious citizens behind.
Sir Edmund was weary of the talk. He would have no more of it, and,
suddenly rising, he stretched out his hand to seize the charter.
Then, swiftly from out the shadowy circle of listeners, a cloak was
flung upon the table. It fell upon the candles and put them out.
In a moment the room was in total darkness.
There was an outcry and a scuffling of feet, the sound of an opening
window, a call for lights. But lights were no such speedy matters
in those days when matches had not been invented. When at length
the scratching of the tinder boxes was done and the candles relit,
every one looked eagerly at the table. Behold, the charter was
gone!
Sir Edmund stormed, and citizens and councilors looked blankly at
each other. But meanwhile through the darkness a man sped. In his
hand he held a parchment, and he never halted in his run till he
reached a great oak tree. This oak he knew was hollow. Reaching it
he thrust the parchment deep into the hole and carefully covered it
up with dried leaves and bark. Thus was the charter of Connecticut
saved.
The man who saved it was Captain Wadsworth. Ever afterwards the
tree was called the Charter Oak, and until about sixty years ago
it stood a memorial of his deed. But some wise folk say this story
of the Charter Oak is all a fairy tale. That may be so. But it
deserves to be true.
Yet though the men of Connecticut may have succeeded in saving the
sign and symbol of their freedom, they could not save the reality.
For whether Sir Edmund Andros was in possession of their charter
or not he stamped upon their liberties just the same. In the public
record the secretary wrote: "His Excellency Sir Edmund Andros,
Knight Captain General and Governor of His Majesty's Territory and
Dominion in New England, by order from his Majesty, King of England,
Scotland and Ireland, the 31st of October, 1687, took into his
hands the government of this Colony, of Connecticut, it being by
his Majesty annexed to the Massachusetts and other Colonies under
his Excellency's Government.
"Finis."
"Finis, " as you know, means "the end." And one cannot but feel
sorry for that stern, old, freedom loving Puritan gentleman who
wrote the words. For indeed to him the loss of freedom must have
seemed the end of all things.
Sir Edmund's rule, however, did not last long. For the British
soon grew tired of James II and his tyrannous ways, and they asked
Prince William of Orange to come and be their King. William came,
the people received him with delight, King James fled away to France,
and the "glorious Revolution," as it was called, was accomplished.
When the news reached New England there, too, was a little revolution.
One spring morning there was a great commotion among the people of
Boston. There was beating of drums, noise and shouting, and much
running to and fro of young men carrying clubs. Soon it was seen that
the city was in arms. The men marched to the castle, and demanded
its surrender. And Andros, knowing himself to be helpless, yielded,
though not without some "stomachful reluctances." The proud
Governor's rule was at an end. He was taken prisoner, and through
the streets where he had ridden in splendour he was now led a
captive. Then the colonies set about restoring their governments
as they had been before Sir Edmund Andros came.
But Andros had no mind to remain a prisoner. He and his friends
who were imprisoned with him had a good deal of freedom. They were
locked into their rooms at night, but during the day they were
allowed to walk about anywhere within sight of the sentries, and
their friends were allowed to come to see them quite freely. It
would not be difficult to escape, thought Andros, and he resolved
to do it. So he bribed one of his jailers, and, having procured
woman's clothes, he dressed himself in them and calmly walked out
of his prison.
He passed two sentries safely. But the third looked sharply at the
tall woman who strode along so manfully. He looked at her boots. At
once the sentry's suspicions were aroused; for Sir Edmund had not
thought of changing them. No woman ever wore such boots as these,
thought the sentry, and he challenged and stopped her. Then, peering
beneath the rim of her bonnet, he saw no bashful woman's face, but
the well-known features of the Governor.
So back to prison Andros went. After this he was not allowed so
much freedom. But again he tried to escape, and this time he was
more successful. He got not only out of Boston, but out of the
colony. Once more, however, he was recognised and brought back.
The whole of New England had been agog with excitement, but at
length things began to calm down, and "the world moved on in its
old orderly pace," says a writer of the times.
In the midst of this calm two ships arrived from England with an
order to those in power to proclaim William and Mary King and Queen.
Then the colonies went mad with joy. From far and near the people
flocked to Boston. Bells were rung, bonfires blazed, and after
a great procession through the streets there was feasting at the
Townhall. Thus "with joy, splendour, appearance and unanimity, as
had never before been seen in these territories," were William and
Mary proclaimed.
Sir Edmund Andros was now sent home to England a prisoner. But King
William was not altogether pleased with all the colonists had done,
and he was set free without any trial. He was not really a bad man,
but he was dogged and pig-headed, without sympathy or imagination,
and altogether the wrong man in the wrong place. Later on he came
back to America as Governor of Virginia, and this time he did much
better.
Meanwhile several changes were made in New England. Rhode Island
and Connecticut kept their old charters, to which they had clung
so lovingly. New Hampshire, too, remained a separate colony. But
Plymouth, sad to say, that gallant little colony founded by the Pilgrim
Fathers lost separate existence and became part of Massachusetts.
Maine and even Nova Scotia, lately won from the French, were for
the meantime also joined to Massachusetts.
Massachusetts was now a great colony and received a new charter.
But things were not the same. The colony was now a royal province,
and the Governor was no longer appointed by the people, but by the
King. This chafed the people greatly, for they felt that their old
freedom was gone. So for a time the history of Massachusetts was
hardly more than a dreary chronicle of quarrels and misunderstandings
between Governor and people.
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Chapter 34 - The Witches of Salem
We have all read stories about witches, but we do not really believe
in them. They are exciting enough to read about, but we know they
are merely bad-fairy sort of folk who are only to be met with in
books, and not in real life. We should be very much astonished, and
rather frightened perhaps, if we thought that witches were real,
and that we might some day meet one.
But in those far-off days more than two hundred years ago very
many people believed in witches. Although not always so, it was
generally very old people, people who had grown ugly and witless
with age who were accused of being witches. In almost any village
might be seen poor old creatures, toothless, hollow cheeked,
wrinkled, with nose and chin almost meeting. Bent almost double,
they walked about with a crutch, shaking and mumbling as they went.
If any one had an ache or a pain it was easily accounted for. For
why, they were bewitched! The poor old crone was the witch who had
"cast the evil eye" upon them. And sometimes these poor creatures
were put to death for their so-called deeds of witchcraft.
People believed that these witches sold themselves to the Evil One,
and that he gave them power to harm other people. And what made
them more dangerous was the fact that they did not need to go near
people to harm them, but could do evil at a distance by thinking
wicked thoughts, or saying wicked words. Some even of the most
saintly and most learned people, believed in witches and witchcraft.
So there is nothing surprising in the fact that suddenly, in 1692,
whole towns and villages of New England were thrown into a ferment
of terror by stories of witchcraft.
It came about quite simply. Two little girls of nine and eleven, the
niece and daughter of a minister named Samuel Parris, who lived in
Salem village, began suddenly to behave in a most curious manner.
They would creep into holes, hide under chairs and benches, twist
themselves into queer positions, make curious gestures and weird
noises, and talk arrant nonsense. Their parents knew not what to
make of it, and so they called in the doctors. Nowadays a clever
doctor would have found out pretty soon that the children were
merely pretending and playing a foolish trick upon their elders.
But in those days doctors were not very wise, and they knew not
what to make of this new and strange disease. One of them, however,
said he thought that the children must be bewitched.
That was a terrible thought, and at once the minister called in all
the other ministers from round about and they spent a day fasting
and praying that the children might be released from the evil
enchantment. All the neighbours, too, came crowding to the house,
eager to hear about the dreadful happenings. And the children,
finding themselves all at once people of the first importance, and
no doubt enjoying the fuss which was being made, went on more than
ever with their mad antics.
It was quite plain to every one that the children were bewitched. But
who had done it? Every day the children were asked this question,
and at length they accused a poor old Indian woman, who was a servant
in the family. And the poor old creature was beaten and terrified
until she actually confessed that she was a witch, and in league
with the Evil One.
Perhaps the children had a spite against the old woman, perhaps they
did not realise at first how wicked and cruel they were. Certainly
when they found what excitement they caused, and how interesting
they had become to every one they forgot all else. They became
bolder now and accused other old women. Soon more and older girls
joined them, and many innocent people, both men and women, were
accused by them of witchcraft.
They did all sorts of things to make people believe in these
accusations. As soon as an old woman was brought in they would
fall down on the ground screaming. If she moved they would cry out
that she was crushing them to death; if she bit her lip they would
declare that she was biting them and so on. They told strange
tales, too, of how they had been made to write in a long, thick, red
book,--the book of the Evil One. They talked a jumble of nonsense
about a Black Man, a black dog and a yellow bird. They would seem
to fall down in fits or to be struck dumb. And they so worked upon
the superstitious fears of those present that at length both judges
and jury, carried away by mysterious terror, would condemn the old
woman to death.
Soon a kind of madness took possession of the people. Person after
person was accused; wrongs and misfortunes ten or even twenty years
old were remembered, and charged to this person or that. No man or
woman was safe. Neither age nor youth, beauty, learning nor goodness
were any safeguard. Not only the good name, but the very life of
every Man was at the mercy of every other man. Terror and mistrust
stalked abroad, and entered every home. Parents accused their
children, children their parents, husbands and wives turned against
each other until the prisons were filled to overflowing.
It was quite useless for the prisoners to declare that they were
innocent. Few believed them. If any did they hardly dare say so,
lest they should find themselves accused in their turn and lodged
in prison. Yet at length some were brave enough to stand by their
loved ones.
One determined young man with great difficulty succeeded in rescuing
his mother from prison. In getting out the poor woman broke her
leg, but her son lifted her on to his horse and carried her away
to a swamp near by. Here he built her a hut and brought her food
and kept her safe until all danger was passed.
One or two other men escaped with their wives and fled beyond the
borders of the colony. Twenty, however, were put to death by hanging,
among them a minister. All these twenty to the last declared their
innocence. Many others, strange to say, confessed to being witches.
They confessed because they were terrified into it. Many confessed
because they saw that by so doing they might save their lives. But
some, having confessed, were so distressed at having lied that they
took back their confession. Then they were hanged without mercy.
For a year this terrible madness lasted. Then it passed as suddenly
as it had come. The people awoke again to their right senses. The
prison doors were opened and the poor innocent people were set
free. The wicked children who had accused them were never punished
unless their own hearts punished them. One of them at least repented
bitterly, and years later openly acknowledged her sorrow for her
share in the sad business.
The minister in whose house the persecution began was punished. For
the people were so angry with him and the part he had taken that
they would have no more to do with him, and he was obliged to leave
Salem village.
Some others who had taken as great a part as he in hounding guiltless
people to death remained impenitent and unpunished. But the jury
and some of the judges made some amends. They did a hard thing,
for they publicly acknowledged that they had been wrong. The jury
wrote and signed a paper in which they said, "We do hereby declare
that we justly fear that we were sadly deluded and mistaken, for
which we are much disquieted and distressed in our minds. And do
therefore humbly beg forgiveness."
One of the judges, Judge Sewall, was bitterly grieved at the part
he had played. And on a day of general intercession he stood up
before the whole congregation, acknowledging his guilt and praying
God to forgive him. And throughout all his life he kept one day a
year upon which he prayed and fasted in repentance.
Perhaps you may think that there is nothing in this story to make
you proud of your ancestors. But think again. Think of the courage
of those men and women who cheerfully went to death rather than
save their lives by lying and making false confessions. Truth to
those brave men and women was worth more than life. And is there
nothing to be proud of in the fact that the judge and jury, when
they found themselves in the wrong, had the manliness to own it
publicly and without reserve?
To some of us nothing in all the world seems so hard as to own
ourselves in the wrong.
Part IV STORIES OF THE MIDDLE AND SOUTHERN COLONIES
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Chapter 35 - The Founding of Maryland
About the same time as Gorges was making laws for his little kingdom
of New Hampshire another English gentleman was doing much the same
somewhat farther south. This was Lord Baltimore.
The first Lord Baltimore was a Yorkshire gentleman named Calvert;
he was a favourite of James I, who made him a baron, and he took
his title from a tiny village in Ireland.
Like so many other men of his time Lord Baltimore was interested
in America, and wanted to found a colony there. First he tried to
found one in Newfoundland. There he received a large grant of land
which he called Avalon after the fabled land in the story of King
Arthur, and he had a kind of fairy vision of the warmth and sunny
delights which were to be found in his new land.
But instead of being warm and sunny he found that Newfoundland was
bleak and cold, so his fairy vision shriveled and died, and be came
home and asked for a grant of land on the Potomac instead. In 1632
King James gave Lord Baltimore what he asked and called the land
Maryland in honour of his wife, Queen Henrietta Maria.
But before the grant was sealed "with the King's broad seal" Lord
Baltimore died. Not he, therefore, but his son, Cecilius, was the
first "Lord Proprietary" of Maryland, and for his broad lands all
he had to pay to King James was two Indian arrows, to be delivered
at Windsor Castle every year on Tuesday in Easter week. He had
also to pay one-fifth part of all the gold and silver which might
be found within his borders. But no gold or silver was found in
the colony, so there was nothing to pay.
Lord Baltimore did not himself go to America, but sent his brother,
Leonard Calvert, as Governor. Maryland was not founded like the
Puritan colonies for religious purposes, but like New Hampshire,
merely for trade and profit. But in those days religion and religious
strife entered into everything. So it did into the founding of
Maryland.
For Lord Baltimore was a Catholic, and in England Roman Catholics
in their turn, as well as dissenters, were persecuted, and Lord
Baltimore hoped to found a refuge for them in his new possessions
in America. So although, in the charter given by a Protestant King
the Church of England was recognised as the state religion, in
reality there was great religious freedom in Maryland, and for a
time it was there only that Catholics found freedom in America.
But in order to secure toleration for the Catholic religion Lord
Baltimore found himself obliged to tolerate all others. So men of
all creeds came to settle in Maryland and find freedom.
The people of Virginia were very far from pleased when they heard
of the new colony about to be planted so near them. For part of the
land which had been given to Lord Baltimore they claimed as their
own, and they looked upon the newcomers as intruders on their
territory and resolved to maintain their rights. They did all they
could to prevent the new settlers coming. Nevertheless, in spite
of everything, Leonard Calvert set sail with his colonists, many
of whom were well-to-do people, in two ships called the Ark and
the Dove.
They had a prosperous voyage and landed in Virginia full of doubt
lest the inhabitants, who were very angry at their coming, should
be plotting something against them. But the letters which they
carried from the King seemed to appease the anger of the Virginians
for a little, and the newcomers sailed on again to their own
destination in Chesapeake Bay.
So at length they reached the "wished-for country" and Calvert
landed with solemn state to take possession of the land in the name
of God and the King of England.
As he stepped ashore a salute was fired from the boats. Then,
reverently kneeling, the colonists listened while Mass was said for
the first time in English America. Mass being over, they formed a
procession at the head of which a rough wooden cross was carried.
Then when they reached a spot chosen beforehand they planted the
cross, and, kneeling round it, chanted the Litany of the Sacred
Cross with great fervour.
And thus a new colony was begun.
With the Indians Calvert made friends, for he was both just and
kind to them, paying them for their land in hoes, hatchets, coloured
cloths and the beads and gew-gaws they loved. So in those early
days there were no Indian wars and massacres in Maryland.
But although at peace with the Redmen the Marylanders were not at
peace with their fellow white men. For the Virginians could not
forget that Lord Baltimore had taken land which they had looked
upon as their own. They had done their best to hinder him coming
at all. And now that he had come they did their best to drive him
away again. They tried to stir up mischief between the newcomers
and the Indians by telling the Indians that these newcomers were
Spaniards, and enemies of the English nation. They complained to
the people in power at home, and did everything they could to make
Maryland an uncomfortable dwelling place for those they looked upon
as interlopers.
The chief enemy of the Marylanders among the Virginians was a man
named William Clayborne. Before the coming of these new colonists
he had settled himself upon the Isle of Kent, which was within
their bounds, and now he absolutely refused either to move or to
recognise the authority of Calvert as Governor; for he claimed the
Isle of Kent as part of Virginia.
Calvert on his side insisted on his rights, and as neither would
give way it came at length to fighting. There was bloodshed on both
sides, now one, now the other getting the upper hand. Each appealed
in turn to King, Parliament, or Protector, and so for more than
twenty years the quarrel went on. But when the great Cromwell came
to power he took Lord Baltimore's part, Catholic though he was. And
at length in 1657, weary perhaps of the struggle, each side gave
way a little and there was peace between the two colonies.
But in spite of the constant trouble with Clayborne the colony grew
and prospered, for there was greater religious freedom to be found
there than anywhere else either in England or America. And in the
seventeenth century religion bulked more largely in an Englishman's
thoughts than almost anything else. Then in 1649 the Governor issued
an Act called the Toleration Act, which has made him famous. It
gave freedom to every one to follow his own religion save Jews and
Unitarians, and for those days it was a wonderfully liberal and
broad-minded Act. It threatened with a fine of ten shillings any one
who should in scorn or reproach call any man such names as popish
priest, Roundhead, heretic. It declared that no person whatsoever
within the Province professing to believe in Jesus Christ should
be in any way troubled or molested for his or her religion.
This was the first law of its kind ever brought into force in
America, and although suspended once or twice for short periods it
remained almost continuously in force for many years.
Maryland becomes a royal province, 1691 Time went on and the great
estate of Maryland passed from one Lord Baltimore to another. Although
founded as a refuge for Catholics there were far more Protestants
than Catholics within the colony. And when William III, the Protestant
King, came to the throne he deprived Baltimore of his rights, and
made Maryland a royal province. The Church of England was then
established, and Catholics forbidden to hold services. Thus Lord
Baltimore's dream of providing a refuge for the oppressed was at
an end.
But in 1715 Benedict, the fourth Lord Baltimore, became a Protestant,
and Maryland was given back to him. It remained in possession of
his family until the Revolution.
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Chapter 36 - How New Amsterdam Became New York
All the colonies which we have so far talked about were founded by
Englishmen. Now we come to one which was founded by another people
who, like the English, were great sea rovers and adventurer's-the
Dutch. Even before the landing of the Pilgrim Fathers the Dutch
laid claim to the valleys of the Hudson and the Delaware.
In those days people still knew very little about the continent
of North America. They knew it was a continent, but they did not
believe it to be very wide, as is proved by charters like that
of Virginia which made the colony extend from sea to sea. Nor did
people know how long the continent was. They had no idea that the
great double continent stretched from north to south all across the
hemisphere, and they were continually seeking for that North-West
passage which would lead them to India by way of the west.
Now in 1609 Henry Hudson, an English sailor in the pay of the Dutch,
came seeking the North-West passage. He did not find it, but sailed
into Delaware Bay and up the beautiful river which is now known
by his name as far as where the town of Albany now stands. It was
autumn when Hudson sailed up the river; the sky was gloriously
blue, and the woods aflame with red and yellow, and he went home
to tell the Dutch that he had found "as pleasant a land with grass
and flowers and goodly trees as ever he had seen," "a very good
land to fall with, and a pleasant land to see."
By right of Hudson's discoveries the Dutch claimed all the land
between Cape Cod and Chesapeake Bay, and, tempted by his glowing
descriptions, they very soon established trading ports upon the
Hudson which they called the North River. The Delaware they called
the South River.
The English too claimed the same land, and it was not until some
years after the landing of the Pilgrim Fathers that the Dutch
settled in the country. Then they formed a company and bought the
Island of Manhattan where New York now stands from the Indians for
about five pounds' worth of glass beads and other trifles.
Here they built a little fort which they called New Amsterdam in
1626.
The colony grew slowly. For the life was by no means an easy one,
and the people of Holland lived in freedom and religious peace at
home, so they had no need to cross the Atlantic to seek them. But
the company wanted settlers. They therefore offered to give an
estate with eighteen miles' bay or river frontage to every man who
would bring, or send, fifty colonists. Many people at once became
eager to win such a prize, and very soon there were little settlements
all along the shores of the Hudson.
The men who received these huge estates were called patroons,
which is the same word as our English patron, and they had power
not unlike the feudal lords of old time. They were bound to supply
each of their settlers with a farm, and also to provide a minister
and a schoolmaster for every settlement. But on the other hand they
had full power over the settlers. They were the rulers and judges,
while the settlers were almost serfs, and were bound to stay for
ten years with their patroon, to grind their corn at his mills,
and pay him tribute.
Over the whole colony there was a Governor who was as a rule
autocratic and sometimes dishonest, and there was a good deal of
unrest in the colony. The patroons were soon at loggerheads with
each other and with the Governor. There were quarrels with the
Swedes, who had settled on the Delaware, and there was terrible
fighting with the Indians.
At length the state of the colony became so bad that the settlers
wrote home to Holland complaining of their Governor and blaming
him for all their troubles. The people in Holland listened to this
complaint and a new Governor was sent out. This was Peter Stuyvesant,
the last and most famous of the Governors of New Amsterdam.
Peter Stuyvesant, Governor from 1647-1664; He was a fiery old
fellow, with a great love of pomp, and a tremendous opinion of his
own importance. He had lost a leg in the Spanish Wars, and now he
stamped about with a wooden one. But as no plain wooden leg would
please his taste for grandeur he had it bound with silver.
The people were heartily tired of their old Governor, so they
hailed the coming of Stuyvesant with joy. But no sooner had their
new Governor arrived than they began to wonder if after all the
change was a happy one. For Stuyvesant seemed to look down upon
them all. He landed with great state and pomp, and some of the chief
inhabitants who had come to meet him were left standing bareheaded
for several hours while he kept his hat on, as if he were Tsar of
all the Russias.
When he took over the direction of affairs from the late Governor,
he did it with great ceremony in presence of all the colonists.
And the late Governor, thinking to make a good impression before
he left, made a speech thanking the people for their faithfulness
to him. But the stolid Dutchmen were not going to have any such
farce. So they up and told him boldly that they would not thank
him, for they had no reason to do so.
Stuyvesant, however, would not have any wrangling; he loudly and
proudly declared that every one should have justice done to him,
and that he would be to them as a father to his children. But his
bearing was so haughty that some of them went away shaking their
heads, and fearing that he would be but a harsh father.
And so it proved. If the settlers' lot had been hard under the rule
of other governors, it was still harder under that of Stuyvesant.
He was autocratic and hectoring. He stumped about with his wooden
leg, and shouted every one else down, and no one dared oppose him.
Some indeed, more brave than others, declared that they would write
home to Holland to complain of his tyranny. But when Stuyvesant
heard it he got so angry that he foamed at the mouth. "If any one
appeals from my judgments," he shouted, "I shall make him a foot
shorter and send the pieces to Holland. Let him appeal in that
way."
But Stuyvesant with all his faults was a far better Governor than
those who had gone before him. And he had no easy post, for on every
side he found himself surrounded by other States, the inhabitants
of which were constantly encroaching on the borders of New Netherland.
The English, both from Massachusetts and Connecticut, seemed to
think that the Dutch had no rights at all. Where they found good
land they settled, scoffing at the Dutch remonstrances.
Stuyvesant too was soon at loggerheads with the Swedes who had
settled on the Delaware. The Dutch claimed both sides of the river
and the Swedes laughed at their claims. They would sail up the river
past the Dutch fort without stopping and displaying their colours,
and when challenged, and asked for their reason, replied boldly
that they would certainly do it again.
Then the Dutch began to build a new fort on land which the Swedes
claimed, and the Swedes came and destroyed it. So things went from
bad to worse, until at length Stuyvesant decided to put an end to
it. He gathered an army of six hundred men, the largest army that
had ever been gathered in North America, and with seven ships
entered the Delaware.
Against a force like this the Swedes could not defend themselves,
so they yielded on condition that they should march out of their
forts with all the honours of war. This was granted to them and
with colours flying, drums beating and trumpets playing the Swedes
marched out and the Dutch marched in. Thus without a blow, after
seventeen years of occupation, New Sweden became part of New
Netherland. Later on this land captured from the Swedes was to
become the State of Delaware.
From his triumph over the Swedes Stuyvesant was recalled by the
news that there was war with the Indians. He soon brought that to
an end also. But he was not always to be victorious, and at length
the time came when the power of the Dutch was to be swept away
before a still greater power.
Stuyvesant had ruled New Netherland for seventeen years. The
colony had prospered, and the number of new settlers had steadily
increased. During these same years Great Britain had been passing
through stormy times. King Charles had been beheaded, the kingdom
had been declared a Commonwealth with Cromwell at its head, but
he was now dead, the Stuarts once more ruled, and King Charles II
sat upon the throne. He cast a greedy eye upon New Netherland, for
he wanted it for his brother, the Duke of York.
There was peace between Holland and Britain, but Charles II cared
little about that. So in 1664 he secretly granted all the land
lying between the Delaware and Connecticut rivers to his brother,
and sent a fleet of four ships and about four hundred soldiers
under Colonel Richard Nicolls to take possession of the country.
When Stuyvesant heard of it he made ready to resist. He gathered
in what powder and shot be could from the surrounding settlements;
he mounted cannon, he ordered every able-bodied man to take his turn
at strengthening the fortifications and keeping guard. And having
done all he could he sent a messenger to Nicolls asking why he had
come.
Nicolls' reply was a summons to surrender the town. At the same
time he promised that any one who would submit quietly should be
protected by "his Majesty's laws and justice." "Any people from the
Netherlands may freely come and plant here," he wrote, "vessels of
their own country may freely come hither, and any of them may as
freely return home in vessels of their own country."
But Peter Stuyvesant was hot to fight. So lest the easy terms should
make any of the settlers willing to give in he tried to keep them
secret. But the Council would not have it so.
"All that regards the public welfare must be made public," they
said, and held to it.
Then, seeing he could not move them from their determination, in a
fit of passion Stuyvesant tore Nicolls' letter in pieces, swearing
that he would not be answerable for the consequences.
The people were growing impatient, and leaving their work upon
the fortifications they stormed into the Council Chamber. In vain
Stuyvesant tried to persuade them to return to their work. They
would not listen to him. They replied to him only with curses and
groans. Then from all sides came cries of, "The letter, the letter,
we will have the letter."
So at last Stuyvesant yielded; the torn fragments were gathered
together and a copy made. And when the people heard the terms they
bade him yield. Still he would not, and he sent another message to
Nicolls.
But Nicolls would not listen. "To-morrow," he said, "I will speak
with you at Manhattan."
"Friends will be welcome," replied the messenger, "if they come,
in friendly fashion."
"I shall come with my ships and my soldiers," answered Nicolls.
"Hoist the white flag of peace on the fort, and then something may
be considered."
When this answer was known terror seized the town. Women and children
came to implore the Governor with tears to submit.
He would not listen to them. Like the fierce old lion he was he
knit his brows and stamped with his wooden leg. "I would rather be
carried a corpse to my grave than give in," he cried.
But he alone had any desire to fight. For in the whole fort there
was not enough powder to last one day, from the river front there
was absolutely no protection, and on the north there was only a
rickety fence three or four feet high. There was little food within
the fort, and not a single well. So all the chief inhabitants wrote
a letter to the Governor begging him to give in.
"You know, in your own conscience," they said, "that your fortress
is incapable of making head three days against so powerful an enemy.
And (God help us) whether we turn us for assistance to the north,
or to the south, to the east or to the west 'tis all in vain! On
all sides are we encompassed and hemmed in by our enemies. Therefore
we humbly and in bitterness of heart, implore your Honour not to
reject the conditions of so generous a foe."
This letter was signed by all the most important people of the
town, even by Stuyvesant's own son. With every one against him he
could hold out no longer. So he yielded and at eight o'clock on
Monday morning, the 8th of September, 1664, he marched out of Fort
Amsterdam at the head of his soldiers. With colours flying and drums
beating they marched down to the riverside where a ship awaited
them, and getting on board they set sail for Holland.
Then the Dutch flag was hauled down, the British flag was hoisted
in its place, and New Amsterdam became New York, a name given it
in honour of the King's brother, the Duke of York.
A few weeks later every other Dutch settlement had yielded to the
British. Fort Orange became Fort Albany, so named for the Duke of
York's second title, and Dutch dominion in North America was at an
end.
As to Stuyvesant, he sailed home and was severely scolded by the
West India Company for his "scandalous surrender." He was, however,
able to defend himself, and prove to the directors that he had
done his best. Then he returned to America and spent the rest of
his life quietly on his farm, or "bowery" as it was called in Dutch.
Those of you who are familiar with New York know that there is
still a part of it called The Bowery, and it may interest you to
learn that it is so called in memory of the farm where this arrogant
old lion of a Dutchman spent his last days. He spent them peacefully
and happily. Now that he was no longer a ruler he lost much of his
overbearing pride, and all that was kindly in his nature showed
itself. Many who had feared and hated him came to love and admire
him. Among others he made friends with the Englishman who had
ousted him, and many a jolly evening he and Nicolls spent together
cracking jokes and listening to each other's stories of the brave
days gone by.
Peter Stuyvesant died at the age of eighty, and was buried in what
is now St. Mark's Church, where a tablet on the wall marks the spot
where he lies.
New York was now a proprietary colony like Maryland, its overlord
being the Duke of York, and when in 1685 he became King of England
New York became a Crown Colony.
The Dutch rule had been autocratic, the people having little say in
the government. They had chafed against it and had hoped that the
change of ruler would bring a change of government, and that they
would be allowed freedom like the New England Colonies. But James
was not the sort of man to allow freedom to people when he could
prevent it. So the government of New York continued as autocratic
as before.
Meanwhile New York once more changed hands. In a time of peace the
British had calmly and without a shadow of right taken the colony
from the Dutch. Nine years later when the two countries were at
war the Dutch took it back again.
It was just the same nine-year-old story over again. Only this time
it was the Dutch who marched in and hoisted the Dutch flag over
the fort.
Once more the names were changed; New York became New Orange, and
the province was once more New Amsterdam.
But this was only for a month or two. The following year Holland
and Britain made peace, and by the Treaty of Westminster all Dutch
possessions in North America were given back to Britain, and Dutch
rule in North America was at an end for ever.
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Chapter 37 - How a German Ruled New York
When Sir Edmund Andros came to America, he had been made Governor
of New York as well as of all New England. And while Massachusetts
was having its revolution upon the accession of William and Mary
there were exciting times in New York also. When the news of the
imprisonment of Andros reached New York there was great agitation.
Almost at the same time came the news that the French had
declared war on England, which added to the people's excitement.
For they suspected Nicholson, whom Andros had left in charge as
Lieutenant-Governor, of being a Catholic; and a quite groundless
idea got about that he meant to betray the colony into the hands
of the French, or burn it to the ground.
There were very few Catholics in New York, and the Protestants had
little need to fear them. But many of the Protestants were filled
with a burning zeal for their faith, and of these Jacob Leisler,
an honest, ignorant German, now became the leader. He refused to
pay a tax because the tax collector was a "Papist," and therefore
no fit person to receive the money. Other people followed his
example, and day by day excitement grew.
At length Leisler was at the head of a great following. He got
command of the fort, and drew up a declaration which he forced
the captain of the militia and others to sign. In this he declared
that the city was in danger, and that he would take possession of
it until King William should appoint a Governor. Nicholson had no
grit. He could not stand against a bold blusterer like Leisler,
so he ran away. He went home "to render an account of the present
deplorable state of affairs" to King William. But in order that
Nicholson should not have it all his own way at home Leisler on
his side sent an innkeeper, Joost Stoll, as his ambassador to King
William to explain matters from his point of view.
Leisler now became very autocratic. He called himself Lieutenant-Governor,
he disarmed and arrested all the "Papists," and every one was a
"Papist" who did not yield readily to him. He had enormous power in
his hands for good or evil, but he was far too ignorant and vain
to use it well. Indeed he used it so badly that even some of the
men who had hailed him with delight turned against him.
Leisler by many signs knew his popularity was failing. Then
his friend, the innkeeper, returned from England with the doleful
news that King William had taken not the slightest notice of him.
The King indeed would not deign to recognise the existence of the
upstart German "governor," and had appointed a new Governor who
would shortly arrive in New York.
This was bad news for Leisler, and it seemed to drive him crazy.
He grew more and more tyrannical. At length his tyranny became so
bad that many of the chief people of New York wrote a letter to
the King and Queen complaining of it.
In this letter they told the King and Queen that they were sore
oppressed by "ill men" who ruled in New York "by the sword, at the
sole will of an insolent alien, assisted by some few, whom we can
give no better name than a rabble." From other parts of the colony
too letters were written calling Leisler a bold usurper, and begging
the King to do something "to break this heavy yoke of worse than
Egyptian bondage."
Nor did the people confine themselves to writing letters. Leisler
found himself insulted at every turn. He was mobbed, and stoned,
and called "Dog Driver," "General Hog" and other ugly names.
Meanwhile on the stormy seas the ships bringing out the new Governor
and Lieutenant-Governor were being tossed hither and thither. The
waves dashed high, the wind drove the ships helplessly before it,
and the Archangel, which bore the Governor was separated from the
others, and driven far out of its course. Thus it happened that
Ingoldsby, the Lieutenant-Governor, arrived in New York without the
Governor. However he sent to Leisler asking him to allow the soldiers
he had brought to enter the fort. This request made Leisler very
angry. He refused to allow the soldiers to enter the fort unless
Ingoldsby showed him orders in writing either from the King or
Governor.
This Ingoldsby could not do, for all the orders were in the
Governor's ship, and where that was he could not tell. And finding
that Leisler would yield to no reasoning, after four days he landed
his men with as much care as if he had been making a descent into
an enemy's country, and lodged them in the town hall.
So six weeks passed. Ingoldsby was determined to stay, Leisler just
as determined that he should go. At length Leisler sent Ingoldsby
a notice to disband his force in two hours, or take the consequences.
Ingoldsby refused to disband his force. So from the fort Leisler
fired upon the soldiers in the town hall, and several were killed.
More trouble seemed likely to follow, but some of Leisler's soldiers
had already had enough, so they laid down their arms and went home.
Next day Governor Sloughter arrived. Hearing of all the commotion
he landed hastily, and going to the town hall ordered the bell to
be rung, and his commission to be read to the people.
Then he sent Ingoldsby to demand the surrender of the fort.
But Leisler was by this time crazy with the idea of his own importance.
He refused to give up the fort until he received orders from the
King direct, addressed to his very own self. This was absurd, for
the King was hardly conscious of Leisler's existence. The Governor
therefore paid no attention to these proud demands, and sent
Ingoldsby again to demand possession of the fort.
Again Leisler refused. It could not be done so easily as all that,
he said.
Still a third time the Governor demanded the fort. And again with
scorn Leisler refused.
It was now nearly midnight, and the Governor decided to do nothing
more till morning.
With morning reason seemed to return to Leisler. He wrote a letter
to the Governor begging him to take the fort. But the Governor
took no notice of the letter. He simply sent Ingoldsby to command
the garrison to give up their arms and march out, promising at the
same time free pardon to every one except Leisler and his Council.
The men obeyed at once. They marched out and Leisler found himself
a prisoner.
For two years he had lorded it in New York. Now his day was done.
After a short trial he and his friend and son-in-law Milborne were
condemned to death, and hanged as traitors.
At the time many applauded this severity, but afterwards most people
were sorry. For after all Leisler had meant well, and in spite of
his arrogance he had still many friends left. He was now looked
upon as a martyr, and for many a long day New York was torn asunder
with bitter strife over his tragic ending.
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Chapter 38 - Pirates!
Colonel Sloughter whose rule began in such stormy times proved
no good Governor. Indeed he was a bad man as well as a bad ruler.
Others followed who were not a bit better, one at least being accused
of being in league with the pirates who were now the terror of the
seas.
The seventeenth century has been called "The Golden Age of Piracy."
Never before or since have pirates had such a splendid time. After
the discovery of America, the number of ships sailing the seas
increased rapidly, until all the chief countries of Europe had
far more ships afloat than they could possibly protect with their
navies. So they readily became a prey to pirates.
Then, as they could not protect their merchantmen with their
warships, most countries allowed private people in time of war to
fit out ships armed with guns to capture the merchant shipping of
the enemy. These ships were simply private men of war, and were
called privateers. They always carried "letters of marque and
reprisal" Which gave them the legal right to commit against enemy
ships acts which, without those letters of marque, would have been
considered acts of piracy. In the long run these privateers often
became little better than pirates, and it has been said "privateers
in time of war were a nursery for pirates against a peace."
The pirates' life was one of reckless daring. They were idle,
swaggering, brutal. All the summer they sailed the seas, a terror
to peaceful merchantmen, and when winter came, or when they were
tired of plundering, they would retire to the West India Islands
or Madagascar. Here, hidden in the depths of forests, they built
for themselves strong castles surrounded by moats and walls. The
paths leading to these castles were made with the greatest cunning.
They were so narrow that people could only go in single file. They
crossed and re-crossed in every direction, so that the castle was
surrounded by a maze, and any one not knowing the secret might wander
for hours without being able to find the dwelling which could not
be seen until one was close upon it.
In these savage fastnesses the pirates lived in squalid splendour.
They had numbers of slaves to wait upon them, the finest wines and
foods, the richest dress and jewels, spoils of their travels. And
when they had drunk and rioted in idleness to their heart's content
they would once more set sail, and roam the seas in search of fresh
adventure.
All sorts of people took to piracy, and scampish sons of noble
houses might be found side by side with the lowest of scoundrels and
vagabonds. In fact in those days any man who had a grudge against
the world might turn pirate. Even women were found among them.
A jovial, brutal crew, they swaggered and swore their way through
life. And if the gallows at the end always loomed over them what
then? There was always plenty of rum in which to drown the thought.
Some of the pirates became very famous. The very sight of the Jolly
Roger, as the pirates' black flag was called, struck terror to the
hearts of merchantmen, and it is said that one pirate captured and
sunk as many as four hundred ships before he was caught. Yet these
ruffians often had dealings with seemingly respectable tradesmen.
Having captured a few ships, and taken all the booty on board his
own, the pirate would sail for some port. There he would show some
old letters of marque, swear that he was a privateer, and had captured
the goods lawfully from the enemy, for the world was always at war
in those days. And as the goods were going cheap, too many questions
would not be asked. Thus a profitable trade was done.
The Navigation Laws too helped pirates to thrive on the coasts
of America. For they seemed so unjust and burdensome that people
thought it no wrong to evade them. So, often, piracy and smuggling
went hand in hand.
At length piracy grew so bad that people felt that something must
be done to stop it. And when an Irishman named Lord Bellomont came
out as Governor in 1696 he set about doing it. It was decided that
the best way to do it was to send a swift and well-armed frigate
under a captain who knew their haunts and ways, to catch these
sea-robbers. For this, Captain Kidd, a tried sailor, was chosen, and
he set sail with a somewhat ruffianly crew in the ship Adventure.
But Captain Kidd was unlucky. Though he roamed the seas and sought
the pirates in the haunts he knew so well he found never a one.
Nor could he find even enemy ships which, as a privateer, he might
have attacked. Dutch ships, ships of the Great Mogul he met. But
Britain was at peace with Holland and on most friendly terms with
the heathen potentate. Pirates and ships of France he could not
find.
Food and money were nearly gone, the crew grew mutinous. They had
come forth for adventure, and not to sail the seas thus tamely and
on short rations to boot. So there was angry talk between the crew
and captain. Plainly they told him that the next ship which came
in sight, be it friend or foe, should be their prey. Kidd grew
furious, and, seizing a hatchet, he hit one of the men on the head
so that he fell senseless on the deck and died. Alone he stood
against his mutinous crew. But in the end he gave way to them. He
turned pirate, and any ship which came his way was treated as a
lawful prize.
For two years after Captain Kidd left New York nothing was heard of
him. Then strange and disquieting rumours came home. It was said
that he who had been sent to hunt pirates had turned pirate himself;
that he who had been sent as a protection had become a terror to
honest traders. So orders were accordingly sent to Lord Bellomont
to arrest Captain Kidd. A royal proclamation was also issued offering
free pardon to all pirates save two, one of whom was William Kidd.
This was the news which greeted the new-made pirate when he arrived
one day at a port in the West Indies. But those were lawless days.
Captain Kidd's ship was laden with great treasure-treasure enough,
he thought, to win forgiveness. At least he decided to brazen it
out, and he set sail for New York.
His ship was no longer the Adventure but the Quedah Merchant. For
the Adventure, being much battered after two years' seafaring, he
had sunk her, and taken one of his many prizes instead. But on the
way home he left the Quedah Merchant at San Domingo with all her
rich cargo and, taking only the gold and jewels, he set sail again
in a small sloop.
As he neared New York his heart failed him, and he began to think
that after all forgiveness might not be won so easily. Cautiously
he crept up to New York, only to learn that the Governor was at
Boston. So he sent a messenger to the Governor confessing that acts
of piracy had been committed, but without his authority. They were
done, he said, when the men were in a state of mutiny, and had
locked him up in his cabin.
Lord Bellomont was broad-minded and just, and had no desire to
condemn a man unheard; so he sent back a message to Captain Kidd
saying, "If you can prove your story true you can rely on me to
protect you."
But Captain Kidd's story did not satisfy Lord Bellomont; so he was
put into prison, and later sent home to England to be tried. There
he was condemned to death and hanged as a pirate in 1701. Some
people, however, never believed in his guilt. Whether he was guilty
or not there is little doubt that he did not have a fair trial,
and that he was by no means the shameless ruffian he was made out
to be.
What became of the Quedah Merchant and all her rich cargo was
never known. Indeed the most of Kidd's ill-gotten gains entirely
disappeared. For when his sloop was searched very little treasure
was found. So then it was said that Captain Kidd must have buried
his treasure somewhere before he reached Boston. And for a hundred
years and more afterwards all along the shore of Long Island Sound
people now and again would start a search of buried treasure. But
none was ever found.
Before his pirate friend met his end Lord Bellomont died. He was
one of the few Governors the people had loved, and they sorrowed
truly at his death. He was followed by Lord Cornby, a very bad man.
Nevertheless in spite of Governors good and bad New York prospered.
Every fresh tyranny in Europe which sent freedom-seekers to America
added to the population. And as the first settlers were Dutch, New
York had a more un-English population than almost any other of the
colonies.
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Chapter 39 - The Founding of New Jersey
Out of New York another state had been carved. For before New York
had been taken from the Dutch, before Nicholls had so much as reached
the shores of America, James, Duke of York, had already given part
of the land which he did not yet possess to two of his friends, Lord
Berkeley and Sir George Carteret. Sir George had been Governor of
the Island of Jersey in the English Channel. When the Revolution
broke out in England he had defended the island stoutly against
the soldiers of the Parliament, and had kept the King's flag flying
on British soil longer than any other man. So now that the Stuarts
were restored King Charles remembered Carteret's loyalty, and he
called this tract of land New Jersey in his honour. For this great
estate Sir George and Lord Berkeley had to pay only ten shillings
a year and a peppercorn.
Nicholls of course knew nothing about these grants, and when he
heard of them he was grieved that the Duke should have given away
so much valuable land. He had besides allowed some Puritans from
New England and others to settle on the land after making agreements
with the natives. And this led to trouble later on.
Meanwhile Sir George lost no time in settling his land in his own
way. He at once sent out some colonists and Philip Carteret, a
cousin of his own, as Governor.
On a summer day in 1665 Philip Carteret landed. He set up no
crosses, and made no prayers, but with a hoe over his shoulder he
marched at the head of his men, as a sign that he meant to live
and work among them. A little way inland he chose a spot on which
to build his town and called it Elizabeth, in honour of Sir George
Carteret's Wife.
Things went well enough until the time came for rents to be paid.
Then many of the settlers, who had been there before Carteret
came, refused to pay. For they said they had bought their land from
the Indians, and owed nothing to Sir George. But as the Governor
insisted on his right they rose in rebellion. They held a meeting
at Elizabethtown, deposed Philip Carteret, and chose James Carteret
a weak and bad son of Sir George, as their Governor. Seeing nothing
else for it Philip went home and laid his case before Sir George and
the Duke. They both supported him, so the rebels submitted, James
Carteret went off to New York, and Philip again became Governor of
New Jersey.
Meanwhile Lord Berkeley had grown tired of all the trouble, and
he sold his part of New Jersey to some Quakers. So henceforth New
Jersey was divided into two, East Jersey and West Jersey, East
Jersey belonging to Carteret, West Jersey to the Quakers.
In 1680 Sir George Carteret died, and his part of New Jersey was
also sold to Quakers, one of whom was William Penn, afterwards to
become famous in American history. Soon after this New Jersey fell
on very troublous times, of which it would take too long to tell.
But at length the two Jerseys were again made into one, and in the
time of Anne the colony became a Royal Province. Then for thirty-six
years it was united to New York, but in 1738 was again divided and
has remained a separate state ever since.
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Chapter 40 - The Founding of Pennsylvania
Like other persecuted people, the Quakers sought a refuge in America.
But even there they were not welcomed. The Puritans of Massachusetts
who had fled from persecution, themselves turned persecutors as we
have seen. The Quakers discovered that for them there was no Paradise
of Peace in the lands beyond the sea. But when George Carteret
sold his part of New Jersey Quakers bought it, a young man named
William Penn being one of these Quakers.
This William Penn was the son of Sir William Penn, an admiral in
the British Navy, and a friend of King Charles I. He was a Royalist
and a Churchman, and when his handsome young son turned Quaker he
was greatly grieved. At first indeed he was so angry that he turned
young William out of the house. Later, however, seeing that his
son was quite determined to be a Quaker, the Admiral forgave him,
and before he died he asked the Duke of York to be kind to him.
The Duke of York promised he would. And then there began a strange
friendship between the Catholic Prince and the Quaker.
After the Quakers bought New Jersey a great many went there. They
found not only a large amount of freedom, but a kindly government,
for William Penn framed the laws.
The Quaker colony of New Jersey was to a certain extent a success,
but there were troubles with neighbouring states, and troubles with
other claimants of the land. So at length (exactly when we do not
know), the idea of founding a real Quaker colony came into Penn's
mind.
When Admiral Penn died the King owed him £16,000 and William Penn
inherited that claim. So he asked the King to pay the debt not
in money but in land in America. The extent of the land asked for
was exceedingly vague, but it was at least as big as the whole of
England. Charles however was always in want of money. So in 1681
he was pleased enough to give away this great tract of land, which
after all was his more by imagination than anything else, and get
rid of his debt; and acquire also the possibility of getting some
gold as well. For in return for his land Penn agreed to pay two
beaver skins a year, and a fifth of all the gold or silver which
might be mined within his territory.
Charles not only gave Penn the land, but named it too. Penn meant
to call his new country New Wales, but a Welshman who hated the
Quakers objected to the name of his land being given to a Quaker
colony, so Penn changed it to Sylvania, meaning Woodland, because
of the magnificent forests which were there. But the King added
Penn to Sylvania thus calling it Penn's Woodlands.
William Penn, however, was afraid that people would think that this
was vanity on his part, and that he had called his province after
himself; so he tried to have the name changed. He even bribed the
King's secretary to do it, but in vain. As some one has said, if
he had bribed the King himself he might have succeeded better. As
it was he did not succeed, for King Charles was very pleased with
the name.
"No," laughed the merry monarch, when Penn asked him to change it,
"we will keep the name, but you need not flatter yourself that it
is called after you. It is so called after your gallant father."
So as the King insisted Penn had to submit, and he consoled himself
by thinking that as Penn means "hill" the name might be taken to
mean Wooded Hills.
The tract of land of which Penn now became possessed was smiling
and fertile and altogether desirable. It had only one fault, and
that was that it had no sea coast.
In a new country where there were no roads, and where communication
inland was difficult that was a great drawback. So Penn persuaded
the Duke of York to give him that part of his province on which the
Swedes had settled and which the Dutch had taken from the Swedes,
on the west shores of Delaware Bay. Later this formed the State
of Delaware, but in the meantime it was governed as a part of
Pennsylvania.
Everything thus being settled, and the charter being granted, Penn
drew up a form of government for his colony, chose his cousin,
William Markham, as Governor, and sent him off in the autumn of
1681 with three shiploads of settlers.
With Markham, Penn sent a kindly letter to the Swedes of Delaware,
telling them that he was now their Governor. "I hope you will not
be troubled at the change," he said, "for you are now fixed at the
mercy of no Governor who comes to make his fortune. You shall be
governed by laws of your own making, and live a free and, if you
will, a sober and industrious people. I shall not usurp the right
of any, or oppress his person."
Penn also sent a letter to the Indians.
"There is a great God," he said, "that hath made the world and
all things therein, to Whom you, and I, and all people, owe their
being. This great God hath written His law in our hearts, by which
we are taught and commanded to love and help, and do good to one
another. Now this great God hath been pleased to make me concerned
in your part of the world, and the King of the country where I live
hath given me a great province therein. But I desire to enjoy it
with your love and consent, that we may always live together as
neighbours, and friends, else what would the great God do to us?"
With this letter Penn sent presents to the Indian chiefs and told
them that he would soon come to see them himself, and make arrangements
about the land.
But it was not till the following year that Penn set out for his
colony. When he landed the Dutch and Swedes greeted him with joy.
And to show that they acknowledged him as their Governor they
presented him, as in old feudal times, with a sod of earth, a bowl
of water, and a branch of a tree. Penn then passed on to the spot
which he had chosen for his capital. And as showing forth the spirit
in which his colony was founded, he called his city Philadelphia
or the city of brotherly love.
It was near this town that Penn met the Indian chiefs and made a
treaty with them as he had promised to do. In the Indian language
the spot was called the Place of Kings, and had been used as a
meeting place by the surrounding tribes for long ages. Here there
grew a splendid elm, a hoary giant of the forest which for a hundred
years and more had withstood the tempests.
Beneath the spreading branches of this tree Penn took his stand.
He was young and handsome, and although he wore the simple garb
of the Quakers he had not yet perhaps quite forgotten the "modish"
ways of his younger days, for about his waist he had knotted a pale
blue scarf. Beside him stood his cousin, the deputy governor, and
a few more soberly clad Quakers. In front of them, in a great half
circle were ranged the Indians, the old men in front, the middle-aged
behind, and last of all the young men. They were gorgeous in paint
and feathers, and armed with hatchets, bows and arrows, but the
Quakers carried no weapons of any kind.
Greetings being over, an ancient warrior advanced, and amid deep
silence, tied a horn upon his forehead. This was the sign of his
greatness, and also a sign that the spot was sacred. Immediately
all the braves threw down their weapons, and seated themselves upon
the grass. Then the old warrior announced that they were ready to
hear the words of the White Chief.
Then Penn spoke to the gathered Indians reminding them that the
Great Spirit wished all men to live in love and brotherhood, and
as the Redman listened his heart went out in love to this White
Chief who had friendship in his eyes, and kindliness in his voice.
And there under the spreading branches of the great elm tree they
swore to live in peace and brotherly love "as long as the rivers
shall run, and while the sun, moon and stars endure."
These Indians never broke their word and for the next seventy years
there was peace in Pennsylvania between the Redman and the White.
The Indians gave Penn the name of Onas which is the Algonquin
word for Feather. Ever afterwards too they called the Governor of
Pennsylvania Onas, and whoever and whatever he was, for them he
was great and good.
But Penn was not only the great Chief Onas, he was also Father
Penn. For he roamed the woods with the Indians, talking with them,
and sharing their simple food like one of themselves. This greatly
delighted the Indians, and to show their pleasure they would perform
some of their wild dances. Then up Penn would spring and dance with
the best of them. So he won their hearts. They loved him so much
that the highest praise they could give any man was to say "he is
like the great Onas," and it was said that any one dressed like a
Quaker was far safer among the Indians than one who carried a gun.
Life seemed so easy in Pennsylvania that in the first years thousands
of colonists came flocking to the new colony. It grew faster than
any other colony, so fast indeed that houses could not be built
quickly enough. So for a time many of the new settlers had to live
in caves dug out of the banks of the Delaware River. It was in one
of these caves that the first baby citizen of the city of brotherly
love was born.
Pennsylvania prospered and grew fast, but there were constant troubles
with Lord Baltimore about the border line between his province and
Penn's. The British Kings in those days gave land charters in the
most reckless fashion and over and over again the boundaries of
one province overlapped those of the others. Then of course there
was trouble. This had happened with Virginia and Maryland. Now it
happened with Maryland and Pennsylvania.
The quarrel at length became so bad that Penn went home to England
to have the matter settled; after that for a time things were
better, but the quarrel was not really settled. It was not settled
until many years after both Penn and Lord Baltimore were dead.
Then, in 1767, two English astronomers, Charles Mason and Jeremiah
Dixon, surveyed and fixed the boundary which ever since has been
known as the Mason and Dixon Line. Every mile a small stone was
placed with B on one side and P on the other. Along the eastern
part, too, every five miles a larger stone was placed with the
arms of Penn on one side and those of Baltimore on the other. But
further west these were discontinued. For in those days when there
were few roads it was difficult to get these heavy stones carried
to the proper places.
When Penn went back to England he had meant to return to his colony
very soon. But fifteen years passed before be was able to do so.
During this time King Charles II, who had given him the charter for
his great Possessions, died, and his brother James, who as Duke of
York had been Penn's friend, was driven from the throne. Then for
a time Penn's great province was taken from him, because he was
suspected of helping his old friend, the dethroned king. The colony
was then placed under the control of the Governor of New York.
Two years later, however, Penn was cleared from the charge of
treason and his right to Pennsylvania was again recognised. Then
once more he crossed the seas to visit his possessions in the New
World.
He found that in fifteen years great changes had been wrought.
The two or three thousand inhabitants had now increased to twenty
thousand. Many of the new settlers were not Quakers but Protestants
from Germany, Holland and Sweden, and Presbyterians from Scotland
and Ireland. Penn welcomed them all, but they on their side had
grown apart from him. They were no longer his children. He was no
longer Father Penn, but the Governor and proprietor.
From this Governor the settlers demanded greater liberties than they
had. Penn was grieved, but he met the clamour in the most generous
spirit. "Friends," he said, "if in the constitution there be
anything that jars, alter it." So it was altered until practically
the colonists became a self-governing people.
Now for a second time Penn felt himself obliged to return to England.
He did not want to go, but longed to live out the rest of his life
in his colony which, in spite of all troubles and difficulties, be
loved dearly.
"I cannot think of such a voyage without great reluctance," he
said. "For I promised myself that I might stay so long, at least,
with you, as to render everybody entirely easy and safe. For my
heart is among you, as well as my body, whatever some people may
please to think. And no unkindness or disappointment shall ever be
able to alter my love to the country."
So with just a little soreness in his heart Penn sailed away never
to return. At home trouble and misfortune awaited him. And in
the midst of his troubles sickness fell upon him. For six years a
helpless invalid with failing mind, he lingered on. Then in 1718
he died. He was seventy-four. Only four years of his long life had
been spent in America. Yet he left his stamp upon the continent
far more than any other man of his time. He was the greatest, most
broad-minded of all the colony builders. As he said himself he had
sailed against wind and tide all his life. But the buffetings of
fortune left him sweet and true to the end.
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Chapter 41 - How Benjamin Franklin Came to Philadelphia
After Penn left his colony there was frequent trouble between the
Governors and the people. Some of the Governors were untrustworthy,
some were weak, none was truly great. But about ten years after
Penn's death a truly great man came to Philadelphia. This was
Benjamin Franklin. Of all the men of colonial times Franklin was
the greatest.
Benjamin was the fifteenth child of his father, a sturdy English
Nonconformist who some years before had emigrated from Banbury
in England to Boston in America. As the family was so large the
children had to begin early to earn their own living. So at the
age of ten Benjamin was apprenticed to his own father, who was a
tallow chandler, and the little chap spent his days helping to make
soap and "dips" and generally making himself useful.
But he did not like it at all. So after a time he was apprenticed
to his elder brother James, who had a printing press, and published
a little newspaper called the Courant. Benjamin liked that much
better. He soon became a good printer, he was able to get hold of
books easily, and he spent his spare time reading such books as the
"Pilgrim's Progress" and the "Spectator." Very soon too he took
to writing, and became anxious to have an article printed in his
brother's paper.
But as he was only a boy he was afraid that if his brother knew he
had written the article he would never print it. So he disguised his
handwriting, and slipped his paper under the door of the printing
house at night. It was found next morning, and to Benjamin's
delight was thought good enough to be printed in the paper. After
that Benjamin wrote often for the little paper. In time however he
and his brother began to quarrel, and when he was seventeen Benjamin
decided to go to New York to seek his fortune there.
He took ship to New York in 1723 and arrived there one October day
with very little money in his pocket and not a friend in the town.
He did not find work in New York, but an old printer advised him
to go to Philadelphia where he knew his son was in need of a printer.
Benjamin was already three hundred miles from home, and Philadelphia
was another hundred miles farther, but he resolved to go.
Fifty miles of the way he trudged on foot, the rest he went by
boat, and after nearly a week of most uncomfortable traveling he
arrived one Sunday morning at Philadelphia. He was soaked to the
skin, dirty and untidy, hungry and tired. His pockets bulged out
with shirts and stockings, but save for one Dutch dollar they were
empty of money.
Benjamin was tired and dirty, but before everything he was hungry;
so he went to a baker's shop and bought three big rolls. As his
pockets were full he tucked two of the rolls under his arm and
strolled down the street devouring the third, while the clean tidy
folk all ready to go to meeting stared at him in wonder.
Such was the first entry of one of America's greatest statesmen into
the town which was henceforth to be his home and where he was to
become famous; and as a clever Frenchman said "invent the Republic."
In Philadelphia Benjamin found work, and although after a year he
left his new home and sailed for England, he soon returned. In ten
years' time he was one of the fore most men of Philadelphia and took
an interest in everything which concerned the life of the people.
He established a circulating library; he was chosen Clerk of the
General Assembly; he was appointed postmaster; he established a
police force and fire brigade, and helped to found the University
of Pennsylvania and the Philadelphia Hospital.
In fact he took an interest in everything connected with the welfare
of his adopted city, and of Pennsylvania. And when troubles arose
with the British Government Franklin was chosen to go to England
to try to put matters right. Later on other colonies too asked
for his help, and he went to England as the agent, not only of
Pennsylvania but of Massachusetts, New Jersey and Georgia.
He was a philosopher and scientist as well as a diplomatist, and
he was the first American whose fame spread all over the world.
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Chapter 42 - The Founding of North and South Carolina
It was in the part of the United States which we now call North
Carolina, you remember, that Sir Walter Raleigh tried to found a
colony. That colony came to nothing, and the land which the white
men had reclaimed from the wilderness returned once more to the
wilderness.
Nearly a hundred years went past before white men again appeared in
that part of the country. In 1629 King Charles I granted all this
region to Sir Robert Heath, but he made no attempt to colonise it.
Then a few settlers from Virginia and New England and the Barbados,
finding the land vacant and neglected, settled there.
Meanwhile Charles II had come to the throne, and, wanting to
reward eight of his friends who had been staunch to him during the
Commonwealth, in 1663 he gave them all the land between latitude
30° and 36° and from sea to sea. If you look on the map you will
see that this takes in nearly the whole of the Southern States.
Sir Robert Heath was by this time dead, and his heirs had done
nothing with his great territory in America, but as soon as it was
given to others they began to make a fuss. Charles II, however,
said as Sir Robert had failed to plant a colony his claim no longer
held good. So the eight new proprietors took possession of it.
This tract of land had already been named Carolina by the Frenchman
Ribaut in honour of Charles IX of France, and now the Englishmen
who took possession of it kept the old name in honour of Charles
II.
The Lords Proprietary then set about drawing up laws for their new
country. After an old English title they called the oldest among
them the Palatine. Palatine originally meant a person who held
some office about a king's palace. It has come to mean one who has
royal privileges. So a Prince Palatine is really a little king.
When the Palatine died it was arranged that the next in age should
take his place. As to the other seven proprietors they all had grand
sounding titles, such as Chamberlain, Chancellor, Constable, High
Steward, and so on.
Having settled all these grand sounding titles the proprietors went
on to frame a system of laws. They called it the Grand Model or
Fundamental Constitutions, but it was more like some old English
feudal system than anything else. It might have done for the
ancient Saxons of the ninth century; it was quite unsuitable for
rough colonists in a new and almost uninhabited country. It was
quite unsuited for men who had left Europe because they wanted to
get away from old conventions and be more free.
Yet the Lords Proprietors said that the Grand Model was to be the
law of Carolina for ever and ever. The settlers however, would
have nothing to do with the Grand Model, for it was altogether too
fanciful for them. The proprietors on their side persisted. But
when they found it impossible to force the settlers to obey their
laws they changed their Grand Model and tried again. Still it was
of no use. The colonists would not have it. So at length, having
altered their unalterable rules five times, they gave them up
altogether and took to something more simple.
But among much that was foolish and unsuitable in the Grand Model
there was one good thing. That was that every one was free to
worship God in the way he thought right. If only seven men agreed
together, said the Grand Model, they were enough to form a church.
All it insisted upon was that people must acknowledge a God, and
that they must worship Him openly. Nevertheless, in spite of this
they made no provision for worship. No clergymen went with the
settlers, and indeed for many years no clergymen settled among
them.
But because there was religious freedom people of all religions came
to Carolina. Quakers and dissenters of every description sought a
refuge there. They came not only from England, but from the other
colonies and from foreign countries.
You remember that the Protestants of France were called Huguenots,
and that they had had to suffer many things at the hands of Catholic
rulers until the good King Henry of Navarre protected them by the
Edict of Nantes. Now Louis XIV, who was at this time on the throne
of France, revoked that edict. He forbade the Huguenots to worship
God in their own way, and he also forbade them to leave the country
on pain of death.
But thousands braved death rather than remain and be false to their
religion. Some were caught and cruelly punished, but many succeeded
in escaping to Holland, England and even to America. So many Huguenots
now settled in Carolina. They were hard-working, high-minded people
and they brought a sturdiness and grit to the colony which it might
otherwise have lacked. Germans too came from the Palatinate, driven
thence also by religious persecutions. Irish Presbyterians came
fleeing from persecution in Ulster. Jacobites who, having fought
for the Stuarts, found Scotland no longer a safe dwelling-place
came seeking a new home.
These were all hardy industrious people. But besides these there
came many worthless idlers who came to be known as "poor whites."
These came because in the early days when the colony was but
sparsely peopled, and more settlers were wanted, a law was passed
that a new settler need not pay any debts he had made before he came
to the colony; and for a year after he came he need pay no taxes.
These laws of course brought many shiftless folk who, having got
hopelessly into debt somewhere else, ran away to Carolina to get
free of it. Indeed so many of these undesirables came that the
Virginians called Carolina the Rogues' Harbour.
Besides all these white people there were a great many negroes
especially in South Carolina. This came about naturally. The climate
of Carolina is hot; there is also a lot of marshy ground good for
growing rice. But the work in these rice fields was very unhealthy,
and white men could not stand it for long. So a trade in slaves
sprang up. Already men had begun to kidnap negroes from the West
Coast of Africa and sell them to the tobacco planters of Virginia.
In those days no one saw anything wrong in it. And now that the
rice fields of South Carolina constantly required more workers the
trade in slaves increased. Whole shiploads were brought at a time.
They were bought and sold like cattle, and if they died at their
unhealthy work it mattered little, for they were cheap, and there
were plenty more where they came from.
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Chapter 43 - War With the Indians in North and South Carolina
At first there had been no intention of making two provinces of
Carolina. But the country was so large and the settlements made
so far apart that very soon it became divided into North and South
Carolina. The first settlements made in North Carolina were made
round Albemarle Sound, and those of South Carolina at Charleston.
One Governor was supposed to rule both states, but sometimes each
had a governor. And in all the early years there was trouble between
the governors and the people. Sometimes the governors were good
men, but more often they were rascals who cared for nothing but
their own pockets. So we hear of revolutions, of governors being
deposed and imprisoned, of colonists going to England to complain
of their governors, of governors going to complain of the colonists.
But far worse than the quarrel between people and governor were
the troubles with the Indians. Many thousands of white people had
by this time settled in the Carolinas, and the Redman saw himself
year by year being driven further and further from his old hunting
grounds; so year by year his anger grew. At first he had been
friendly to the white man because he brought with him beads and
copper ornaments and "fire water." But now he began to hate him.
At length the Indians in North Carolina plotted to kill all the
white people. Many tribes of Indians dwelt round the settlements,
but the chief among them were the Tuscaroras. These Tuscaroras
now arranged with all the other tribes that early on the morning
before the new moon they should all with one accord, tomahawk and
firebrand in hand, fall upon the Pale-faces and wipe them utterly
from the face of the earth.
From tribe to tribe the word was passed till hundreds knew the
secret. But the Redman is silent and crafty, and neither by sign
nor word did he betray it to the Palefaces.
Suspecting nothing, with perfect faith in their friendship, the
white people allowed the Indians to come and go freely in their
settlements. Then one night in 1711 a great many appeared, asking
for food. Still the white people had no suspicion of evil, and many
Indians were allowed even to spend the night in their houses.
The Pale-faces slept peacefully, but for the Redmen there was
little rest. They waited impatiently for the dawn. At length the
first streaks of light shivered across the sky, and from the woods
came a loud fierce war whoop. It was answered by the Indians within
the settlements, and with tomahawk in one hand and firebrand in
the other they fell upon the still sleeping settlers.
They spared neither man nor woman, neither the old nor the young;
and when they could find no more to slay they set fire to the houses.
Then those who had hidden themselves were forced to flee from the
flames, only to fall beneath the tomahawk. The Swiss and Germans
round New Berne and the Huguenots of Bath were the chief sufferers.
But the wonder is that any white men escaped. For their cruel
work at an end, and the settlements nought but flaming ruins, the
Indians marched through the woods seeking any who had escaped,
gathering at length to a spot arranged beforehand. Here they drank
"fire water," rejoicing savagely over their victory. Then drunk
with brandy and with blood they staggered forth again to continue
their horrible labours. For three days the slaughter lasted, for
three days the forests rang with terrifying war cries, and village
after village was laid in ashes. Then too weary and too drunk for
further effort, the Indians ceased their awful work.
At first the white people had been utterly stunned by the suddenness
and horror of the uprising, and they were quite incapable of
suppressing it by themselves. But soon help came, both from South
Carolina and Virginia. Friendly Indians too, who wished to prove
to the Pale-faces that they had had no part in the massacre, joined
the forces.
Hundreds of the Indians were slain in battle, others were driven from
fort to fort. But not for two years were they thoroughly subdued.
Then at length, finding themselves no match for the white men, those
who were left fled from the province and joined the Five Nations
in New York, making from this time forward Six Nations.
In South Carolina too there was war with the Indians. The Yamassees
had been among the Indians who marched from South Carolina to fight
against their brothers, the Tuscaroras. Yet a little later they
too rose against the Pale-faces.
Several causes led to the war, but it was chiefly brought about by
the Spaniards who had a settlement at St. Augustine to the south
of Carolina. They hated the British, and although the two countries
were now at peace the Spaniards did all they could to injure the
British colonies in America and elsewhere. So now they sympathised
with the Yamassees, both with their real and imaginary grievances,
and encouraged them to rise against the British.
Secretly and silently then the Redmen laid their plans. But this
time the war did not burst forth entirely without warning. For
when the Redman has truly given his faith and love nothing makes
him false.
Now there was a chieftain named Sanute who had given his friendship
to a Scotsman named Fraser, and he could not bear to think of his
friend being slaughtered. So one day Sanute came to Fraser's wife
to warn her.
"The British are all bad," he said, "they will all go to an
evil place. The Yamassees also will go there if they allow these
Pale-faces to remain longer in the land. So we will slay them all.
We only wait for the sign of a bloody stick which the Creeks will
send. Then the Creeks, the Yamassees, and many other nations will
join with the Spaniards to slay the British. So fly in all haste
to Charleston. And if your own boat is not large enough I will lend
you my canoe."
Mrs. Fraser was very much frightened when she heard Sanute speak
like this. But when she told her husband he laughed at her fears.
The idea that the Spaniards should join with the Indians against
the British seemed to him quite absurd.
"How can the Spaniards go to war with us," he said, "while they
are at peace with Great Britain?"
"I know not," replied Sanute." But the Spanish Governor has said
that soon there will be a great war between the British and the
Spaniards, and while we attack on land he will send great ships to
block up the harbours, so that neither man nor woman may escape."
Then laying his hand upon his heart Sanute implored his white friends
to flee with all haste. "But if you are determined to stay," he
added, "then I will take on myself one last office of friendship,
and so that you may not be tortured I will slay you with my own
hand."
Still Fraser doubted. But his wife was so terrified that he yielded
to her entreaties. And gathering his goods together he got into
his canoe with his wife and child, and paddled away to Charleston.
Unfortunately in the hurry of departure Fraser either forgot to warn
his friends in the plantation near him, or they, being warned,
disregarded it; and a few days later the slaughter began. At
daybreak the signal was given, and at the sound of the war whoop
the seemingly peaceful Indians were turned suddenly into raging
demons who, with tomahawk and torch in hand, sowed destruction
and death around. So the land was filled with blood and wailing,
pleasant homesteads were laid in ruins, and only heaps of smouldering
ashes marked where they had been.
But Governor Craven was one of the best governors of his time. He
was a man of action and courage as well as a wise ruler, and he
quickly gathered an army with which to march against the savages.
The North Carolinians too, remembering gratefully the help which
South Carolina had given to them in their need, sent men. Soon
the Yamassees, and their friends were defeated and driven from the
province. They fled across the border and took refuge in Spanish
territory, where they were received with great rejoicing. They might
indeed have been heroes returning from a victorious campaign, for
the church bells were rung and salutes were fired in their honour.
The Yamassees were crushed, but they were not utterly conquered,
from henceforth their hearts were filled with hatred against all
the Carolinians. This hatred the Spaniards did their best to keep
alive. They supplied the Indians with weapons, and made them valiant
with "fire water." Thus encouraged they broke across the borders in
small scalping parties, seizing and slaying, often with unspeakable
tortures, all those who dwelt in lonely places. These frays were
so unceasing, and so deadly, that at length hardly any one dared
live in all the border region.
Meanwhile the war against the Indians had cost a great deal of
money. And as the Lords Proprietor made a good deal of money out
of the colony, the settlers thought they might as well bear some
of the expense also. So they sent messengers home to arrange this
matter. But the Lords Proprietor seemed to care little about their
possessions except as a means of making money. And they refused to
pay any of the cost of the war. This made the settlers angry.
The settlers revolt and Carolina becomes a royal province, 1719
They had never liked the rule of the Lords Proprietor; now they
were heartily tired of it and they refused to stand it longer. King
William III was now upon the throne, and the settlers asked him to
make South Carolina a Crown Colony. To this King William agreed.
Ten years later North Carolina also became a Crown Colony, and the
two Carolinas from henceforth continued to be separate states.
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Chapter 44 - The Founding of Georgia
South Carolina extended as far as the River Savannah, and between
that river and the Spanish settlement at St. Augustine there stretched
a great waste of country inhabited only by the Redmen who ever and
anon made raids into Carolina. Southward from this the Spaniards
claimed the land and called it Florida; but they made no effort to
colonise the wilderness which stretched between Florida and the
borders of South Carolina. So at length the idea of founding a
British colony there occurred to an Englishman named James Oglethorpe.
He was a truly great man, and in an age when men were cruel to each
other out of mere thoughtlessness he tried to make people kinder
to their fellows.
In those days in England people could be imprisoned for debt. And
if they could not pay they remained in prison often for years, and
sometimes till they died. They were starved and tortured, loaded
with fetters, locked up in filthy dungeons, herded together with
thieves and murderers, or those suffering from smallpox and other
loathsome diseases. It was horrible, but no one troubled about it.
There had always been misery in the world, there always would be,
men thought, and no one had pity for prisoners.
But now young Oglethorpe had a friend who was imprisoned for debt,
and, being treated in this horrible fashion, he died of smallpox.
Oglethorpe's generous heart was grieved at the death of his
friend, and he began to enquire into the causes of it. The things
he discovered were so awful that he stood aghast with horror at
the misery of the imprisoned debtors. And what was more he did not
rest until he had made other people see the horror of it also. Soon
there was an outcry all over England, and some of the worst evils
were done away with.
Then the idea came to Oglethorpe that he would found a colony in
America, where poor debtors who had regained their freedom might
find a refuge and make a new start in life. He decided to found
this colony to the south of South Carolina, so that it might not
only be a refuge for the oppressed, but also form a buffer state
between the Carolinas and Spanish Florida. So from George II
Oglethorpe got a charter for the land lying between the Savannah
and the Altamaha rivers, and in honour of the King the colony was
called Georgia.
Many well-to-do people were by this time interested in his scheme.
They gave him money for it, and he also got a large grant from
Parliament. This was the first time that Parliament ever voted
money to found a colony in America. Of all the thirteen colonies
now founded Georgia alone received aid from the State.
Trustees were appointed to frame the laws, and a kind of proprietory
government was created. The colonists were to be granted all the
liberties of Englishmen, but they were not to be allowed to frame
the laws or take any part in the government. After twenty-one years
the rule of the trustees was to come to an end, and Georgia was to
become a Crown Colony.
All these matters being arranged, men were sent round to visit the
jails, and choose from among the prisoners those who were really
good men and who through misfortune, rather than roguery, found
themselves in prison. The Commissioners refused to take lazy or
bad men, or those who, in going to Georgia, would leave wife or
children in want at home. Besides poor debtors those who were being
persecuted because of their religion in any European State were
invited to come and find a refuge in Georgia. No slavery was to
be allowed, and the sale of rum was forbidden throughout the whole
colony. For Oglethorpe knew how the Redman loved "fire-water" and
how bad it was for him, and he wanted the settlement of Georgia
to be a blessing and not a curse to the Redman, as well as to the
white man.
Soon far more people wanted to go than Oglethorpe could take. So
crowds of poor wretches had to be turned away, bitterly disappointed
that they could not go to this new land which, after their terrible
sufferings, seemed to them a very paradise.
The preparations took some time, and it was about the middle of
November, 1732, when at length the Anne hoisted her sails and turned
her prow towards the west. There were about a hundred and twenty
colonists on board with Oglethorpe as Governor, and it was nearly
the end of January when the colonists landed on the southern shores
of the Savannah and founded the town of the same name.
One of the first things Oglethorpe did was to make a treaty with
the Indians, for he knew how greatly the peace and safety of the
little colony depended on their friendship.
There were eight tribes of Creeks who claimed the land upon which
Oglethorpe had settled. But before he allowed the colonists to land
he himself went ashore and sought out the chieftain whose village
was close to the spot he had chosen for his town. This chieftain
was an old man of over ninety years, and at first he did not seem
at all pleased at the idea of white men settling on his land. But
Oglethorpe was kindly and friendly, he spoke gently to the old
chief, and soon won his consent to the settlement, and a promise
of friendship.
When then the colonists landed, instead of being greeted with
a flight of arrows they were received with solemn ceremony, the
braves coming down to the water's edge to greet them. First came the
Medicine Man carrying in either hand a fan made of white feathers
as signs of peace and friendship. Behind him followed the chieftain
and his squaw, with twenty or thirty braves, who filled the air
with wild yells of welcome.
When the Medicine Man reached Oglethorpe he paused, and dancing
round him he swept him on every side with the white feather fans,
chanting the while a tale of brave deeds. This done the chieftain
next drew near, and in flowery words bade the White Chief and his
followers welcome. Thus peacefully the settlement was begun.
But Oglethorpe wanted to be friends with the other tribes round,
so he asked Tomo-chi-chi, the old chieftain, to invite them
to a conference. And a few months later they all came. Oglethorpe
received them in one of the new houses built by the settlers, and
when they were all solemnly seated an old and very tall man stood
up and made a long speech. He claimed for the Creeks all the land
south of the Savannah.
"We are poor and ignorant," he said, "but the Great Spirit who gave
the Pale-faces breath gave the Redmen breath also. But the Great
Spirit who made us both has given more wisdom to the Pale-faces."
Then he spread his arms abroad and lengthened the sound of his words.
"So we feel sure," he cried, "that the Great Spirit who lives in
heaven and all around has sent you to teach us and our wives and
children. Therefore we give you freely the land we do not use. That
is my thought and not mine alone but the thought of all the eight
nations of the Creeks. And in token thereof we bring you gifts of
skins which is our wealth."
Then one by one the chief men of each nation rose up and laid a
bundle of buck skins at Oglethorpe's feet.
In return Oglethorpe gave each of the chiefs a coat and hat trimmed
with gold lace. Each of the braves likewise received some present.
So a treaty of peace was signed, the Redmen promising to keep the
good talk in their hearts as long as the sun shone, or water ran in
the rivers. And so just and wise was Oglethorpe in all his dealings
with the natives that in the early days of the settlement there
were no wars with the natives.
Oglethorpe worked unceasingly for the good of the colony. He kept
no state, but slept in a tent and ate the plainest of food, his
every thought being given to the happiness of his people. And in
return they loved him and called him father. If any one were sick
he visited him, and when they quarreled they came to him to settle
their disputes. Yet he kept strict discipline and allowed neither
drinking nor swearing.
The work of the colony went on apace. About six weeks after the
settlers landed some of the settlers from Charleston came to visit
Oglethorpe, and they were astonished to find how quickly things
had got on.
"It is surprising," one wrote, "to see how cheerfully the men work,
considering they have not been bred to it. There are no idlers
there. Even the boys and girls do their parts. There are four houses
already up, but none finished. . . . He has ploughed up some land,
part of which he has sowed with wheat. . . . He has two or three
gardens, which he has sowed with divers sort of seeds. . . . He was
palisading the town round. . . . In short he has done a vast deal
of work for the time, and I think his name justly deserves to be
immortalised."
But if Georgia had peace with the Indians it was far otherwise with
the Spaniards. For the Spaniards were very angry with the British
for daring to settle south of the Savannah. They vowed to root them
out of America, and they set out to attack the little colony.
But Oglethorpe was a daring soldier as well as a wise statesman,
and he succeeded in beating the Spaniards. It was at Frederica
where the greatest battle took place. This town had been founded
after Savannah and named Frederica, in honour of Frederick, Prince
of Wales. It was built on an island off the coast called St. Simon,
and, being near the Spanish border, it was well fortified. At
the little village of St. Simon which was at the south end of the
island, there were barricades and a high watch-tower where a constant
watch was kept for ships. As soon as they were sighted a gun was
fired, and a horseman sped off to the barracks with the news.
they attack the settlements, 1742 Here one day in July, 1742, a
great fleet of Spanish vessels came sailing. They made a brave show
with their high painted prows and shining sails, and they brought
five thousand men who vowed to give no quarter.
Oglethorpe had but eight hundred men. Some were regular soldiers,
some were fierce Highlanders glad to have a chance of a shot at the
Spaniards, and not a few were friendly Indians. But small though
his force was Oglethorpe did not despair. He had sent to Carolina
for help which he was sure would come if he could but hold out for
a few days. He thought, however, that the position at St. Simon
was too dangerous. So he spiked his guns, destroyed all stores,
and retreated to Frederica.
The Spaniards soon landed and, taking possession of St. Simon, set
out to attack Frederica. But they found it no easy matter, for the
town was surrounded by dense and pathless woods. And struggling
through them the Spaniards stumbled into marshes, or got entangled
in the dense undergrowth until in their weariness they declared
that not the Evil One himself could force a passage through. Added
to their other difficulties they were constantly harassed by scouting
parties of wild Indians, and almost as wild Highlanders, sent out
from Frederica by Oglethorpe.
But meanwhile no help appeared, and at length Oglethorpe, having
discovered that the Spanish force was divided, decided to make a
sortie and surprise one part of it. So with three hundred chosen
men he marched out one dark night, and stole silently through the
woods until he had almost reached the enemy's camp.
Then suddenly a Frenchman who was with the little British force
discharged his musket, and fled towards the Spanish camp.
All hope of a surprise was at an end, and Oglethorpe returned
hastily to the fort. But that the surprise had failed was not the
worst. It was certain that the deserter would tell the Spaniards
how weak the British were, and that thus heartened they would soon
attack in force. Something, Oglethorpe decided, must be done to
prevent that.
So he wrote a letter in French addressing it to the French deserter.
This letter was written as if coming from a friend. It begged the
Frenchman to tell the Spaniards that Frederica was in an utterly
defenseless state, and to bring them on to an attack. Or if he
could not persuade them to attack at least he must persuade them
to remain three days longer at Fort Simon. For within that time
two thousand men would arrive from Carolina and six British ships
of war "which he doubted not would be able to give a good account
of themselves to the Spanish invaders." Above all things the writer
bade the Frenchman beware of saying anything about Admiral Vernon,
the British admiral who was coming against St. Augustine. He ended
by assuring him that the British King would not forget such good
services, and that he should be richly rewarded.
This letter Oglethorpe gave to one of the Spanish prisoners they
had taken, who for a small sum of money and his liberty, promised
to deliver it to the French deserter. But instead of doing that
he gave it, as Oglethorpe had expected he would, to the leader of
the Spanish army.
The French deserter at once denied all knowledge of the letter or
its writer, but all the same he was fettered and kept a prisoner
while the Spanish leaders held a council of war. They knew not what
to do. Some thought that the letter was a ruse (as indeed it was)
merely meant to deceive them. But others thought that the British
really had them in a trap. And while they were thus debating by
good luck some British vessels appeared off the coast. And thinking
them to be the men-of-war mentioned in the letter the Spaniards
fled in such haste that although they had time to set fire to the
barracks at St. Simon they left behind them a great cannon and
large stores of food and ammunition.
Thus was the little colony saved from destruction.
By his brave stand and clever ruse Oglethorpe had saved not only
Georgia but Carolina too. Yet South Carolina had cause for shame,
for her Governor had paid no heed to Oglethorpe's call for help,
and so far as he was concerned Georgia might have been wiped out.
He indeed cared so little about it that when the governors of the
other more northerly colonies wrote to Oglethorpe thanking and
praising him he did not join with them. But much to his disgust,
seeing their Governor so lax, some of the people of South Carolina
themselves wrote to Oglethorpe to thank him.
"It was very certain," they wrote, "had the Spaniards succeeded in
those attempts against your Excellency they would also have entirely
destroyed us, laid our province waste and desolate, and filled our
habitation with waste and slaughter. We are very sensible of the
great protection and safety we have long enjoyed, by your Excellency
being to the southwards of us, and keeping your armed sloops cruising
on the coasts, which has secured our trade and fortunes more than
all the ships of war ever stationed at Charleston. But more by
your late resolution against the Spaniards when nothing could have
saved us from utter ruin, next to the Providence of Almighty God,
but your Excellency's singular conduct, and the bravery of the
troops under your command. We think it our duty to pray God to
protect your Excellency and send you success in all your undertakings."
But, although Oglethorpe had many friends, he had also enemies,
some even within the colony he had done so much to serve. There
were those within the colony who wanted rum and wanted slavery and
said that it would never prosper until they were allowed. Oglethorpe,
with all his might, opposed them, so they hated him. Others were
discontented for far better reasons: because they had no share in
the government, and because the land laws were bad.
Oglethorpe, too, had his own troubles, for he had spent so much on
the colony that he was deeply in debt. So, having ruled for twelve
years, he went home, and although be lived to a great old age, he
never returned again to Georgia. At the age of fifty-five he married;
then he settled down to the quiet life of an English gentleman.
Learned men and fine ladies called him friend, poets sang of his
deeds, and the great Samuel Johnson wanted to write his life.
"Heroic, romantic, and full of the old gallantry" to the end,
he lived out his last days in the great manor house of an English
village, and was laid to rest in the peaceful village church in
1785.
"But the Savannah repeats to the Altamaha the story of his virtues
and of his valor, and the Atlantic publishes to the mountains the
greatness of his fame, for all Georgia is his living, speaking
monument."
Oglethorpe was the only one of all the founders of British colonies
in America who lived to see their separation from the mother-country.
But long ere that he had to see many changes in the settlement.
For the colonists would not be contented without rum and slaves,
and in 1749 both were allowed. A few years later the trustees gave
up their claims and Georgia became a Crown Colony, and the people
were given the right to vote and help to frame the laws under which
they had to live.
PART V STORIES OF THE FRENCH IN AMERICA
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Chapter 45 - How the Mississippi was Discovered
While the shores of the Atlantic from Nova Scotia to Georgia were
being claimed and peopled by the British another and very different
nation laid claim also to the mighty continent. Before Jamestown
was founded the French had already set foot upon the St. Lawrence.
Long before the Pilgrim Fathers sailed from Plymouth the flag of
France was floating from the citadel of Quebec; and the French laid
claim to the whole of Canada.
But the French and the British claimed these new lands in very
different ways. The Englishmen came seeking freedom and a new home.
The Frenchmen came seeking adventure. The Englishman painfully
felled trees and cleared land, toiling by the sweat of his brow for
the comfort of a home. The Frenchman set up crosses on the edge of
pathless forests, claiming unknown lands for God and his King. He
came as missionary, trader and adventurer rather than as farmer.
And, led on by zeal for religion or desire for adventure, he pushed
his settlements far into the wilderness.
So, long years went by. All along the Atlantic coasts spread fertile
fields and fair homesteads. The British were content to live on the
lands which they had cleared and tilled, and no adventurer sought
to know what lay beyond the blue mountain range which shut him from
the West.
Far otherwise was it with the French. Priests and traders were
both full of a desire for conquest and adventure. Many of them
indeed were so driven by the roving spirit that they left the
towns altogether and lived alone among the forests, tracking the
wild animals, and only coming to towns to sell the skins and get
provisions.
These trappers brought back with them many strange tales of the
forests and unknown wilds. They spoke of the Mississippi or "great
water" of which the Indians told marvelous tales. And at length
it seemed to their hearers that this great water could be no other
than the long sought passage to India and the East.
Many people, fired by these tales, went in search of this great
water. In 1673 two priests named Marquette and Joliet were the first
to discover it. For many miles they floated down the Mississippi.
On either side stretched endless forests and plains of waving grass,
haunts of wild animals and of the Indians, - almost as wild. On
they went, past the mouth of the yellow Missouri, on still till
they came to the river Arkansas. At last, sure that the great river
went southward and not westward as they had supposed, they decided
to return.
It had been easy enough floating down, but now they had to battle
against the stream, and it was only after weeks of toil that they
at length reached Canada again with their news.
When he heard their story another adventurer named René Robert
Cavelier Sieur de la Salle became eager to make certain of their
discovery, and follow the river all the way to its mouth.
With great care and trouble he made his arrangements. He thought
it would be impossible to compass so great a journey by canoes,
so he built a little ship which he called the Griffin. It was the
first ship which had been seen by the Indians round Lake Erie, and
in amazement and fear they came to stare at it. In their ignorant
terror they would have destroyed it had not careful watch been
kept.
From the very beginning of his expedition La Salle found many
difficulties. But at length they all seemed to be overcome, and he
set out with his friend, Henri de Tonty, and about forty men.
Tonty was a man of courage, as bold and enterprising as La Salle
himself. He was, too, much feared by the Indians, who thought him
a great Medicine Man. For while fighting in Europe he had had one
hand shot off. But he had replaced it with an iron hand, which he
always wore covered with a glove. The Indians did not know this,
and once or twice when they had been troublesome he had brought
them to order by knocking them down with this hand. Not knowing the
secret of it they marvelled greatly at his strength, and, fearing
him accordingly, called him Iron Hand.
One of La Salle's great difficulties was lack of money. So before
leaving the great lakes he collected a quantity of furs. Then he
sent back the Griffin and half his men, with orders to sell these
furs, and return with supplies for the expedition as quickly as
possible. With the rest of his men La Salle journeyed on to the
head of Lake Michigan in canoes.
It was no easy journey, for storms swept the lake. The waves tossed
their frail canoes hither and thither so that they were often in
danger of drowning. They were harassed, too, by unfriendly Indians.
At length, worn out by fatigue, starving with cold and hunger, they
reached the appointed place to await the return of the Griffin.
But the Griffin never came. In vain La Salle scanned the grey
waters. Day after day passed, and no white sail flecked the dreary
expanse. The Griffin was never heard of more.
With a heavy heart La Salle at length gave up the weary watch, and
decided to go on with such men and supplies as he had. But with
every step fresh difficulties arose. La Salle had many enemies,
and they did their best to hinder and hamper him. His own men were
discontented and mutinous. They had no love for their leader, no
enthusiasm for the expedition, and the hardships and dangers of
the way made them sullen.
They were half starved and worn out with fatigue; all they wanted
was to get back to a comfortable life. They were sick of the
wilderness and its hardships. Added to this the Indians told them
bloodcurdling tales of the terrors of the "Father of Waters." It
was a raging torrent of whirlpools, they said, full of poisonous
serpents and loathly monsters. Those who ventured on it would never
return.
This was more than the men could face. They chose rather the
possibility of death among the Indians and the wilderness to its
certainty among such horrors, and some of them ran away.
Depressed by this desertion La Salle resolved to camp for the rest
of the winter. So on the banks of the river Illinois he built a
fort which he called Creve-Coeur, or Heart-break.
But La Salle's brave heart was not yet broken. And here he began
to build a new ship in which to sail down the Mississippi. There
was wood in plenty around, and the work was begun. But many things,
such as sails and rigging, which were necessary for the ship, the
wilderness could not supply. And, seeing no other way, La Salle
resolved to go back to Fort Frontenac to get them, leaving Tonty
meanwhile to look after the building of the ship.
It was March when La Salle set out on his tremendous walk of a
thousand miles. With him he took a faithful Indians guide and four
Frenchmen. And seldom have men endured a journey more terrible.
The spring sun was just beginning to thaw the ice and snow
of winter, so that the prairies were turned to marshes into which
the travelers sank knee deep. The forests were pathless thickets
through which they had to force a way with axe and hatchet. As a
pathway the rivers were useless to them, for the ice was so thin
that it would not bear their weight. And later when it thawed and
broke up they still could not use their canoes lest they should be
shattered by the floating masses of ice.
All day long they toiled knee deep in mud and half-melted snow,
laden with baggage, guns and ammunition. At night they lay down
without shelter of any kind. They were often hungry, they suffered
constantly both from cold and heat. For at noon the sun beat down
upon them fiercely, and at night the frost was so bitter that the
blankets in which they lay wrapped were frozen stiff.
The hardships of the journey were so tremendous that the marvel
is that any one lived to tell of them. Indeed, one by one the men
fell ill, and when at length after three months of pain and peril
they arrived at their journey's end only La Salle had strength or
courage left.
Here more bad news greeted La Salle, for he now heard that a ship
sent out from France laden with supplies for him had been wrecked.
But even this cruel stroke of fortune could not break his spirit.
Once more he set about gathering supplies, and made ready to return
to Fort Heart-break.
But worse was yet to come. La Salle was about to start when he received
a letter from Tonty. From this he learned that soon after he had
left nearly all his men had mutinied. They had rifled the stores
and demolished the fort; then, throwing into the river everything
they could not carry, had made off. Only three or four had remained
faithful. With these Tony was now alone in the wilderness.
This staggering news only made La Salle more eager to set out, for
he could not leave his brave friend thus helpless. So once more
the toilsome journey was begun. But when Heart-break was reached,
La Salle found no friend to welcome him. All around there was
nothing but silence and desolation, and ghastly ash-strewn ruins.
The unfinished ship, like some vast skeleton, huge and gaunt, alone
bore witness that white men had once been there.
Still La Salle would not despair. He spent the winter making friends
with the Indians and searching earnestly for some trace of Tonty.
The winter was unusually severe, the whole land was covered with
snow and both La Salle and some of his men became snow-blind for
days. But at last with the melting of the snows light and joy came
to him. The blindness passed, Tonty was found.
Once again the friends met. Each had a tale to tell, a tale of
bitter disappointments and defeats. Yet in spite of all the blows
of fortune Le Salle would not give in. Once more he set about making
preparations for the expedition. But now he gave up the idea of
building a ship, and decided to trust to canoes alone.
It was mid-winter when all was ready. The rivers were frozen hard.
So, placing their canoes on sledges, the men dragged them over the
ice. As they went southward and spring came on, the ice melted and
would no longer bear them. The stream was soon filled with floating
masses of broken ice, so they were obliged to land and wait until
it had melted.
Then once more they set out. Every day now they drifted farther
and farther into the heat of summer. The sun shone softly through
the overhanging trees, the river banks were gay with flowers,
and bright plumaged birds flashed through the sunlight. After the
tortures of the past winters this green and fertile land seemed a
very paradise. So on the adventurers passed where never white man
had passed before; and at length they reached the mouth of the
mighty river and stood upon the shore of the Gulf of Mexico.
And here, in 1682, while wondering savages looked on, this
mere handful of white men claimed all the land through which they
had passed for their King. The long silence of the wilderness was
awakened for the first time by the sound of Latin chants. Guns were
fired, and to the shouts of "God save the King," a pillar was set
up.
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Chapter 46 - King William's War and Queen Anne's War
At this time in Europe France and Britain were at war. When King
William came to take possession of Britain, James II ran away to
France. The King of France received him kindly, and soon declared
war upon William. The war was fought not only in Europe but in
America also, and it is known in America as King William's War,
because William was King of Great Britain at the time. It was
the beginning of a fierce struggle between British and French for
possession of the vast continent of America - a struggle which was
to last for seventy years; a struggle in which not only the white
people but the Indians also took part, some fighting for the British,
some for the French.
King William's War, 1690-1697 At this time Frontenac was Governor
of Canada. He was one of the greatest nobles of France and lived
surrounded with state and splendour. Proud and haughty and of a
fiery temper, with white men he quarreled often, but he knew better
than any other how to manage the Indians, and they feared him as
they feared no white ruler who came before or after him. He would
not allow the chiefs to call him brother as other governors had
done. They were his children; to them he was the Great Father. Yet
if need be he would paint his face, dress himself in Indian clothes,
and, tomahawk in his hand, lead the war dance, yelling and leaping
with the best of them.
King Louis now gave Frontenac orders to seize New York so that the
French might have access to the Hudson River, and a port open all
the year round and not frozen up for months at a time like Quebec.
So Frontenac made ready his forces. He gathered three armies and
sent them by different ways to attack the British. But few of these
forces were regular soldiers. Many of them were Indians, still more
were coureurs de bois, wild bush-rangers who dressed and lived more
like Indians than white men, and were as fearless, and lawless,
and learned in the secrets of the forest as the Indians.
These armies set out in the depth of winter. French and Indian
alike were smeared with war-paint and decked with feathers. Shod
with snow shoes they sped over the snow, dragging light sledges
behind them laden with food. For twenty-two days they journeyed
over plains, through forest, across rivers, but at length one of
the armies reached the village of Schenectady, the very farthest
outpost of New York.
The people had been warned of their danger, but they paid no heed.
They did not believe that the danger was real. So secure indeed did
they feel that the gates were left wide open, and on either side
for sentinels stood two snow men.
In all the village there was no sound, no light. Every one was
sleeping peacefully. Then suddenly through the stillness there rang
the awful Indian war whoop.
In terror the villagers leaped from their beds, but before they
could seize their weapons they were struck down. Neither man, woman
nor child was spared, and before the sun was high Schenectady was
a smoking, blood-stained ruin.
The other parties which Frontenac had sent out also caused terrible
havoc. They surprised and burned many villages and farms, slaughtering
and carrying prisoner the inhabitants. Thus all New England was
filled with bloodshed and terror.
But these horrors instead of making the British give in made them
determined to attack Canada. New York and the colonies of New
England joined together and decided to make an attack by land and
by sea. The British determined to attack Canada
But what, with mismanagement, sickness, and bickerings among the
various colonies, the land attack came to nothing. It was left for
the fleet to conquer Canada.
The little New England fleet was commanded by Sir William Phips,
a bluff, short-tempered sailor. He sailed up the St. Lawrence and
anchored a little below Quebec.
Then the watching Frenchmen saw a small boat put off, flying a white
flag. As it neared the shore some canoes went out to meet it and
found that it was bringing a young British officer with a letter
for Count Frontenac.
The officer was allowed to land, but first his eyes were blindfolded.
Then as he stepped on shore a sailor seized each arm, and thus he
was led through the streets.
Quebec is built on a height, and the streets are steep and narrow,
sometimes being nothing more than flights of steps. And now,
instead of being taken directly to the Governor, the young officer
was dragged up and down these steep and stony streets. Now here,
now there, he was led, stumbling blindly over stones and steps, and
followed by a laughing, jeering crowd, who told him it was a game
of blind man's bluff.
At last, thoroughly bewildered and exhausted, he was led into the
castle, and the bandage was suddenly taken from his eyes. Confused
and dazzled by the bright light he stood for a moment gazing stupidly
about him.
Before him, haughty and defiant, stood Frontenac surrounded by his
officers. Their splendid uniforms glittered with gold and silver
lace, their wigs were curled and powdered, their hats were decked
with feathers, as if for a ball rather than for war.
For a moment the young Englishman stood abashed before them. Then,
recovering himself, he handed his commander's letters to Frontenac.
The letter was written in English, but an interpreter read it
aloud, translating it into French. In haughty language it demanded
the surrender of Quebec, in the name of William and Mary, within
an hour.
When the reading was finished the officer pulled his watch out of
his pocket, and held it towards Frontenac.
"I cannot see the time," said he.
"It is ten o'clock," replied the Englishman. "By eleven I must have
your answer."
Frontenac's brow grew dark with anger. Hitherto he had held himself
in check, but now his wrath burst forth.
"By heaven," he cried, "I will not keep you waiting so long. Tell
your General that I do not acknowledge King William. The Prince
of Orange who calls himself so is a usurper. I know of no king of
England save King James."
The Englishman was quite taken aback by Frontenac's vehemence. He
felt he could not go back to his leader with such an answer.
"Will you give me your answer in writing?" he said.
"No," thundered Frontenac, "I will answer your general with the
mouths of my cannon only. Let him do his best, and I will do mine."
And with this answer the Englishman was forced to be content.
Once more his eyes were blindfolded, and again he was jostled and
hustled through the streets until he reached his boat.
When Phips received Frontenac's proud answer he prepared to attack.
But he was no match for the fierce old lion of a Frenchman. The
New Englanders were brave enough, but they had little discipline,
and, worse still, they had no leader worthy of the name. They spent
shot and shell uselessly battering the solid rock upon which Quebec
is built. Their aim was bad, and their guns so small that even when
the balls hit the mark they did little damage.
At length, having wasted most of their ammunition in a useless
cannonade, the British sailed away. The men were dejected and gloomy
at their failure. Many of their ships had been sorely disabled by
the French guns, and on the way home several were wrecked. As the
others struggled homeward with their tale of disaster, New England
was filled with sadness and dismay.
The attack on Canada had been an utter failure. Yet, had Phips but
known it, Quebec was almost in his grasp. For although there were
men enough within the fortress there was little food. And even
before he sailed away the pangs of hunger had made themselves felt.
For seven years more the war lingered on, but now it chiefly
consisted of border raids and skirmishes, and the New Englanders
formed no more designs of conquering Canada. And at length in 1697,
with the Treaty of Ryswick, King William's War came to an end.
In 1701 James, the exiled King of Britain, died; and Louis of
France recognised his son James as the rightful King of Britain.
This made King William angry. Louis also placed his grandson, the
Duke of Anjou, on the throne of Spain. This made King William and
the British people still more angry. For with a French King on the
throne of Spain they thought it very likely that France and Spain
might one day be joined together and become too powerful. So King
William again declared war on France, but before the war began he
died.
Queen Mary's sister Anne now became Queen; she carried on the war
already declared. This war brought fighting in America as well as
in Europe. In America it is called Queen Anne's War, and in Europe
the War of the Spanish Succession.
Queen Anne's War, 1702-1713 This war was carried on in much the same
manner as the last. There were Indian massacres, sudden sallies,
attacks by land and sea. But this time the British were more
determined. And although another attack on Quebec failed, just as
the attack made by Phips had failed, one on Nova Scotia succeeded.
In the South, too, the Spaniards were defeated at Charleston. Taken
altogether the British had the best of the fighting. And when at
length peace was made by the Treaty of Utrect in 1713 Nova Scotia,
Newfoundland, and the Hudson Bay Territory were given up to the
British. Thus both in west and north the British enclosed the French
possessions.
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Chapter 47 - The Mississippi Bubble
Being thus encroached upon by the British the French became more
determined to shut them out from the south. Already twelve years
after La Salle's death another attempt had been made to found
a town at the mouth of the Mississippi, and this time the attempt
was successful.
This time the expedition was led by Pierre Le Moyne, Sieur d'Iberville.
In 1698 with two ships he sailed out from France and, after some
trouble, found the mouth of the Mississippi. He did not, however,
build his fort here, but on the coast of what is now the State of
Mississippi. Then, leaving one of his officers and his brother in
command, he sailed home again to France.
While d'Iberville was away, his brother Bienville started on an
expedition to explore the Mississippi. And he soon discovered that
the French had taken possession none too soon, for not far from
where New Orleans now stands, he fell in with a British ship. On
board were a lot of French Huguenot families who had come to found
a settlement on the Mississippi. Bienville talked to the captain,
who told him that this was one of three ships sent out from England
by a company formed of Huguenots and Englishmen who intended to
found a colony on the Mississippi. They were not sure, however,
whether they were on the Mississippi or not.
Bienville at once assured them that they were not, but were instead
on a river which belonged to Louis of France, where already the
French had several settlements. The British captain believed what
he was told and, much to the Frenchmen's delight, turned back.
Just at the spot where this took place the river makes a bed, and
because of this it was given the name of English Bend, by which
name it is known to this day.
D'Iberville only stayed long enough in France to gather more
colonists and returned at once to Louisiana, where he founded two
more towns along the coast. But the colonists sent out by Louis
were of the lowest. Many of them were little more than rogues and
vagabonds. The mere off-scourings of the towns, they were idle and
extravagant, and the colony did not prosper.
Instead of putting gold into Louis' pockets, as he had hoped, he
had constantly to pour it out to maintain the colony. Of that Louis
soon grew tired. Besides this he wanted all the money he could
gather to carry on the war (Queen Anne's War), which was still
raging. So, in 1712, he handed Louisiana over to a wealthy merchant
named Crozat to make what he could out of it.
Such great power was given to this merchant that he was little less
than a king. He had every monopoly. Nobody in the colony could buy
or sell the smallest thing without his permission, and every one
had to work for him and not for themselves. But the people were
by no means willing workers. They were, said one of their priests,
"nearly all drunkards, gamblers, blasphemers and foes of everything
that was good," and when they found that they are expected to work
merely to put money into the proprietor's pocket they would not
work at all.
So very soon Crozat found he could make nothing out of the colony.
And after some vain efforts to make it pay he gave up his charter,
and Louisiana once more became a royal possession.
Meanwhile France itself was in sore straits for money. Louis XIV,
that magnificent and extravagant monarch, had died and left his
country beggared and in want. The Duke of Orleans now ruled as
Regent for little Louis XV. He was at his wit's end to know where
to find money, when a clever Scots adventurer names John Law came
to him with a new and splendid idea. this was to use paper money
instead of gold and silver. The Regent was greatly taken with the
idea, and he gave Law leave to issue the paper money. It was quite
a good idea had it been kept within bounds. But it was not kept
within bounds. All France went mad with eagerness to get some of
the paper money which was, they thought, going to make them rich
forever.
Besides issuing paper money, Law started what was known as the
Mississippi Scheme or Company of the Indies in 1717. Louisiana,
which had been received back from Crozat, was handed over to John
Law, who undertook to settle the country, and work the gold and
silver mines which were supposed to be there.
Law began at once to fill all France with stories of Louisiana and
its delights. Gold and silver mines, he said, had been discovered
there which were so rich that they could never be used up. Lumps of
gold lay about everywhere, and one might have them for the picking
up. As for silver, it was so common that it had little value except
to be used for paving the streets. In proof of these stories lumps
of gold said to have come from Louisiana were shown in the shops
of Paris.
As to the climate, it was the most perfect on earth. It was never
too hot, and never too cold, but always warm and sunny. The soil
was so fertile that one had but to scratch it to produce the finest
crops. Delicious fruits grew everywhere, and might be gathered all
the year round. The meadows were made beautiful, and the air scented,
with the loveliest of flowers. In fact Louisiana was painted as an
earthly paradise, where nothing the heart could desire was lacking.
People believed these stories. And, believing them, it was not
wonderful that they desired to possess for themselves some of these
delights. So, rich and poor, high and low, rushed to buy shares in
the Company. The street in Paris where the offices of the Company
were was choked from end to end with a struggling crowd. The rich
brought their hundreds, the poor their scanty savings. Great lords
and ladies sold their lands and houses in order to have money to
buy more shares. The poor went ragged and hungry in order to scrape
together a few pence. Peers and merchants, soldiers, priests, fine
ladies, servants, statesmen, labourers, all jostled together, and
fought to buy the magic paper which would make them rich and happy
beyond belief. Fortunes were made and lost in a day. Some who had
been rich found themselves penniless; others who had always lived
in poverty found themselves suddenly rolling in wealth which they
did not know how to use. And John Law was the wizard whose magic
wand had created all these riches. He was flattered and courted
by every one. The greatest princes in the land came to beg favours
of him. They came to him to beg, and he treated them haughtily as
beggars, and bade them wait.
Day by day, and month by month, the madness increased, and the
gigantic bubble grew larger and larger. Bienville, meanwhile, who
had been deprived of his governorship, was once more made Governor
of Louisiana. With a company of settlers, he returned again to the
colony in 1718, and he at once set about building a capital, which,
in honour of the Regent, he called New Orleans. The place he chose
for a capital was covered with forest. So before any building could
be done fifty men were set to fell the trees and clear a space.
And then the first foundations of the new great city of New Orleans
were laid.
But still the colony did not prosper. For the colonists were for
the most part rogues and vagabonds, sent there by force, and kept
there equally by force. They looked upon Louisiana as a prison,
and tried constantly to escape from it.
Meanwhile no ships laden with gold and gems reached France, for no
gold mines had ever been discovered. Then people began to grow tired
of waiting. Some of them began to suspect that all the stories of
the splendours of Louisiana were not true, and they tried to sell
their paper money and paper shares, and get back the gold which
they had given for them. Soon every one wanted to sell, and no one
wanted to buy. The value of the paper money fell and fell, until
it was worth less than nothing. People who had thought themselves
millionaires found themselves beggars. Law, who had been flattered
and courted, was now hated and cursed. And in terror of his life
he fled from France in 1790 to die miserably in Italy a few years
later.
As to Louisiana, a new set of stories were told of it. Now it was
no longer described as a sort of earthly paradise, but as a place
of horror and misery. It was a land of noisome marsh and gloomy
forest, where prowled every imaginable evil beast. At certain times
of the year the river flooded the whole land, so that the people
were obliged to take refuge in the trees. There they lived more
like monkeys than men, springing from tree to tree in search of
food. The sun was so hot that it could strike a man dead as if with
a pistol. This was called sunstroke. Luscious fruits indeed grew
around, but they were all poisonous and those who ate of them died
in agonies. In fact Louisiana was now pictured as a place to be
shunned, as a place of punishment. "Be good or I will send you to
the Mississippi" was a threat terrible enough to make the naughtiest
child obedient.
The Mississippi bubble burst, - but still France clung to Louisiana.
Once again it became a royal province, and at length after long
years of struggle it began to prosper. The French had thus two
great centres of power in America, one at Quebec amid the pine
trees and snows of the North, and one at New Orleans amid the palm
trees and sunshine of the South. And between the two fort after
fort was built, until gradually north and south were united. Thus
La Salle's dream came true.
It was during the time of peace after the end of Queen Anne's War
that the French had thus strengthened their hold on America and
joined Canada and Louisiana. They had also built a strong fortress
on the Island of Cape Breton which commanded the mouth of the St.
Lawrence. This fortress was called Louisburg in honour of King
Louis, and it was the strongest and best fortified in the whole of
New France. The walls were solid and high, and bristled with more
than a hundred cannon. The moat was both wide and deep. Indeed the
French believe that this fort was so strong that no power on earth
could take it.
But the days of peace sped fast. Soon once more Europe was ablaze
with war, France and Britain again taking opposite sides. In Europe
this war is called the War of the Austrian Succession, because it
was brought on by a quarrel among the nations of Europe as to who
should succeed to the throne of Austria. In America it is called
King George's War, as King George II was King of Britain at the
time.
Like the other wars before it, it was fought in America as well as
in Europe. The chief event in America was the capture of Louisburg
in 1745. That redoubtable fortress which it was thought would hold
off any attack, yielded after six weeks to an army chiefly composed
of New England farmers and fishermen, and led by Maine merchant
who had no knowledge of war.
When the news that Louisburg was taken reached New England the
people rejoiced. Bells were rung, cannons were fired and bonfires
blazed in all the chief towns. In England itself the news was received
with surprise and delight, and Pepperell, the merchant-soldier,
was made a baronet and could henceforth call himself Sir William
Pepperell.
But when the French heard that they had lost their splendid American
fortress they were filled with dismay. One after another, three
expeditions were sent to recapture it, but one after another they
miscarried. And when at length, in 1748, peace was agreed upon,
Louisburg was still in the hands of the New Englanders. The peace
which was now signed is called the Peace of Aix-la-Chapelle. By it,
it was agreed that each side should give back all its conquests,
so that after all the terrible loss and bloodshed neither side was
one whit the better.
The New Englanders had been greatly delighted at their conquest
of Louisburg. The French, on the other hand, were greatly grieved,
and when terms of peace were discussed Louis XV insisted that
Louisburg should be restored. "That cannot be," said King George.
"It is not mine to give, for it was taken by the people of Boston."
The French, however, were firm. So King George gave way, and Louisburg
was restored to France, and Madras in India, which the French had
taken, was in exchange restored to Britain. When the New Englanders
heard of it, they were very angry. Madras was nothing to them; it
was but a "petty factory" on the other side of the globe; while
Louisburg was at their very doors, and of vast importance to their
security. They had to obey and give it back. But they did so with
bitterness in their hearts against a King who cared so little for
their welfare.
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Chapter 48 - How a Terrible Disaster Befell the British Army
We have now seen something of the great struggle between French
and British for the continent of America. War after war broke out,
peace after peace was signed. But each peace was no more than a
truce, and even when the noise of cannon ceased there was nearly
always war with the Redman, for he took sides and fought for French
or British. And as years went past the struggle grew ever more and
more bitter. If the French had their way, the British would have
been hemmed in between the Alleghenies and the sea. If the British
had had their way the French would have been confined to a little
strip of land north of the St. Lawrence. It became plain at length
to every one that in all the wide continent there was no room for
both. One must go. But which?
The Peace at Aix-la-Chapelle was not a year old before the last,
great struggle began. Both French and British had now cast their
eyes on the valley of the Ohio, and the spot where Pittsburgh now
stands became known as the Gateway of the West. The British determined
to possess that gateway, but the French were just as determined to
prevent them ever getting through it. So the French began to build
a line of forts from Lake Erie southward to the gate of the west.
Now, Virginia claimed all this land, and when two French forts had
been built the Governor of Virginia began to be both alarmed and
angry. He decided, therefore, to send a messenger to the French
to tell them that they were on British ground, and bid them to be
gone.
It was not an easy task, and one which had to be done with courtesy
and firmness. Therefore Dinwiddie resolved to send a "person of
distinction." So as his messenger he chose a young man named George
Washington. He was a straightforward, tall young man, well used to
a woodland life, but withal a gentleman, the descendant of one of
the old Royalist families who had come to Virginia in the time of
Cromwell, and just the very man for the Governor's purpose.
It was a long and toilsome journey through pathless forest, over
hills, deep snows and frozen rivers, a journey which none but one
skilled in forest lore could endure.
But at length after weeks of weary marching Washington arrived at Fort
le Boeuf. The Frenchmen greeted him courteously, and entertained
him in the most friendly fashion during the three days which
the commander took to make up his answer. The answer was not very
satisfactory. The commander promised to send Dinwiddie's letter
to the Governor of Canada. "But meanwhile," he added, "my men and
I will stay where we are. I have been commanded to take possession
of the country, and I mean to do it to the best of my ability."
With this answer Washington set out again, and after many adventures
and dangers arrived safely once more at Williamsburg.
In the spring the Frenchmen marched south to the Gateway of the
West. Here they found a party of British, who had begun to build a
fort. The French, who were in far greater numbers, surrounded them
and bade them surrender. This the British did, being utterly unable
to defend themselves. The French then seized the fort, leveled
it to the ground, and began to build one of their own, which they
called Fort Duquesne.
Upon this, Dinwiddie resolved to dislodge the French, and he sent
a small force and when its leader died he took command. But he
was not able to dislodge the French. So after some fighting he was
obliged to make terms with the enemy and march home discomfited.
Up to this time the war was purely an American one. France and
Britain were at peace, and neither country sent soldiers to help
their colonies. It was the settlers, the farmers, fishermen and
fur traders of New England and New France who fought each other.
And in this the French had one great advantage over the British.
The French were united, the British were not. New France was like
one great colony in which every man was ready to answer the call
to battle.
The British were divided into thirteen colonies. Each one of the
thirteen colonies was jealous of all the others; each was selfishly
concerned with its own welfare and quite careless of the welfare of
the others. But already the feelings of patriotism had been born.
Among the many who cared nothing for union there were a few who
did. There were some who were neither Virginians nor New Englanders,
neither Georgians nor Carolinians, but Americans. These now felt
that if they were not to become the vassals of France they must
stand shoulder to shoulder.
A Congress of all the Northern Colonies was now called at Albany
to discuss some means of defense. And at this Congress Benjamin
Franklin proposed a plan of union. But the colonies would have nothing
to say to it. Some took no notice of it at all, others treated it
with scorn, or said it put too much power into the hands of the
King. As to the King, when he heard of it he rejected it also, for,
said he, it gave too much power to the colonies. So for the time
being nothing came of it. Meanwhile the Governors of the various
colonies wrote home to England, and, seeing how serious the matter
was becoming, the British Government sent out two regiments of
soldiers to help the colonies. They were about a thousand men in
all, and were under the leadership of Major-General Edward Braddock.
As so as the French heard this they, too, sent soldiers to Canada.
It was just like a game of "Catch who catch can." For as soon as
the British knew that French troops were sailing to America they
sent a squadron to stop them. But the French had got a start, and
most of them got away. The British ships, however, overtook some
which had lagged behind the others.
As soon as they were within hailing distance a red flag was suddenly
run up to the masthead of the British flagship.
"Is this peace or war?" shouted the French captain.
"I don't know," answered the British, "But you had better prepare
for war." He, however, gave the Frenchman little time to prepare,
for the words were hardly out of his mouth before the thunder of
cannon was heard.
The Frenchmen fought pluckily. But they were far outnumbered, and
were soon forced to surrender.
Thus both on land and sea fighting had begun. Yet war had not been
declared and King George and King Louis were still calling each
other "dear cousin" or "dear brother," and making believe that
there was no thought of war.
But the little success on sea was followed up by a bitter disaster
on land.
General Braddock now commanded the whole army both home and colonial.
He was a brave and honest man, but obstinate, fiery-tempered and
narrow. He had a tremendous idea of what his own soldiers could
do, and he was very scornful of the colonials. He was still more
scornful of the Indians. "These savages," he said to Franklin, "may
indeed be a formidable enemy to your raw American militia. But upon
the King's regular and disciplined troops, sir, it is impossible
that they should make any impression."
The haughty savages were quick to see that he looked down upon them.
"He looks upon us as dogs," they said, and drawing their ragged
blankets about them they stalked off deeply offended. With the same
narrow pride Braddock turned away another useful ally.
This was Captain Jack, the Black Hunter. He was a white man, but
he roamed the woods dressed like an Indian, followed be a band of
men as reckless and lawless as himself. The Black Hunter, however,
although he dressed like an Indian, was the white man's friend,
the Redman's deadly foe.
He had been at one time, it was said, a peaceful settler living
happily with his wife and children. But one day he returned from
hunting to find his cottage in ashes, and his wife and children dead
among the ruins. In his grief and rage he vowed eternal vengeance
on the Indians who had done the evil deed, robbing him for ever
of home and happiness. Henceforth he roamed the woods a terror to
the Redmen. For his aim was unerring, he could steal through the
forest as silently and swiftly as they, and was as learned in all
the woodland lore. His very name indeed struck terror to the hearts
of all his foes.
Black Hunter now with his wild band of followers offered his help
to Braddock. They were well armed, they cared neither for heat nor
cold. they required no tents nor shelter for the night; not did
they ask for any pay.
General Braddock looked at the gaunt weather-beaten man of the
woods, clad in hunting shirt and moccasins, painted and bedecked
with feathers like an Indian. Truly a strange ally, he thought. "I
have experienced troops," he said, "on whom I can depend."
And finding that he could get no other answer Black Hunter and his
men drew off, and disappeared into the woods whence they had come.
On the other hand Braddock had much to put up with. The whole
success of the expedition depended on swiftness. The British must
strike a blow before the French had time to arm. But when Braddock
landed nothing was ready; there were no stores, no horses, no
wagons. And it seemed impossible to gather them. Nobody seemed to
care greatly whether the expedition set out or not. So, goaded to
fury Braddock stamped and swore, and declared that nearly every
one he had to do with was stupid or dishonest.
But at length the preparations were complete, and in June the
expedition set out.
From the first things went wrong. Had Braddock gone through
Pennsylvania he would have found a great part of his road cleared
for him. But he went through Virginia, and had to hew his way
through pathless forest.
In front of the army went three hundred axemen to cut down trees and
clear a passage. Behind them the long baggage train jolted slowly
onwards, now floundering axle deep through mud, now rocking
perilously over stumps or stones. On either side threading in and
out among the trees marched the soldiers. So day after day the
many-coloured cavalcade wound along, bugle call and sound of drum
awakening the forest silences.
The march was toilsome, and many of the men, unused to the hardships
of the wilderness, fell ill, and the slow progress became slower
still. At length Braddock decided to divide his force, and leaving
the sick men and the heaviest baggage behind, press on more rapidly
with the others. It was George Washington who went with him as an
aide-de-camp who advised this.
So the sick and all baggage that could be done without were left
behind with Colonel Dunbar. But even after this the progress was
very slow.
Meanwhile news of the coming of the British army had been carried
to the French at Fort Duquesne. And when they heard how great the
force was, they were much alarmed. But a gallant Frenchman named
Beaujeu offered to go out and meet the British, lie in wait for
them and take them unawares. But to do this he had need of Indian
help. So council fires were lit and Beaujeu flung down the war
hatchet. But the Indians refused it, for they were afraid of the
great British force.
"Do you want to die, our father?" they asked, "and sacrifice us
also?"
"I am determined to go," said Beaujeu. "What! Will you let your
father go alone? I know we shall win."
Seeing him so confident the Indians forgot their fears, and the
war dance was danced. Then, smeared with paint and led by Beaujeu
himself dressed like a savage, they marched to meet the British.
There were about six hundred Indians and half as many Frenchmen.
Stealthily they crept through the forest, flitting like shadows
from tree to tree, closing ever nearer and nearer upon the British.
They, meanwhile, had reached the river Monongahela. They crossed
it gaily, for they knew now that Fort Duquesne was near; their
toilsome march was at an end, and victory was sure.
It was a glorious summer morning; the bands played, the men laughed
and shouted joyously. The long line swept onward, a glittering
pageant of scarlet and blue, of shining steel and fluttering banners.
Then suddenly out of the forest darted a man dressed like an Indian.
When he saw the advancing column he stopped. Then turning, he waved
to some one behind him. It was Beaujeu, and at his signal the air
was rent with the terrible Indian war cry, and a hail of bullets
swept the British ranks.
Shouting "God save the King" the British returned to fire. But it
availed little, for they could not see the enemy. From the shelter
of the forest, hidden behind trees, the French and Indians fired
upon the British. They were an easy mark, for they stood solidly,
shoulder to shoulder, their scarlet coats showing clearly against
the green background. Still the British stood their ground firing
volley after volley. It was quite useless, for they could see no
enemy. The puffs of smoke were their only guides. To aim at the
points where the smoke came from was all they could do. But for
the most part their bullets crashed through the branches, or were
buried in tree trunks, while the pitiless rain of lead mowed down
the redcoats.
The American soldiers fared better. For as soon as they were attacked
they scattered, and from behind the shelter of trees fought the
Indians in their own fashion. Some of the British tried to do the
same. But Braddock had no knowledge of savage warfare. To fight in
such a manner seemed to him shocking. It was unsoldierly; it was
cowardly. So he swore savagely at his men, calling them cowards,
and beat them back into line with the flat of his sword. And thus
huddled together they stood a brilliant, living target for the
bullets of the savages.
Braddock himself fought with fury. He dashed here and there, swearing,
commanding, threatening. Four horses were shot under him, and at
last he himself fell wounded to death.
Washington too fought with fearless bravery, trying to carry out
Braddock's frenzied orders. And although he escaped unhurt his
clothes were riddled with holes, and twice his horse was shot under
him.
For nearly three hours the terrible carnage lasted. Then flesh
and blood could stand no more, and the men broke rank and fled.
All night they fled in utter rout, bearing with them their wounded
leader.
At length they reached Dunbar's camp. But even them they did not
pause. For the news of the disaster had thrown the whole camp into
confusion. Frantic orders were given, and obeyed with frenzied
haste. Wagon loads of stores were burned, barrels of gunpowder
were staved in, and the contents poured into the river; shells and
bullets were buried. The, the work of destruction complete, the
whole army moved on again in utter rout.
And now Braddock's dark, last hour had come. Brooding and silent
he lay in his litter. This awful defeat was something he could not
grasp. "Who would have thought it?" he murmured. "Who would have
thought it?" But his stubborn spirit was yet unbroken. "We will
know better how to do it another time," he sighed. A few minutes
later he died.
His men buried him in the middle of the road, Washington reading
over him the prayers for the dead. Then lest the Indians should
find and desecrate his last resting-place the whole army passed
over his grave.
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Chapter 49 - The End of the French Rule in America
Braddock's campaign was a complete disaster. The French had
triumphed, and even those Indians who up till now had been willing
to side with the British were anxious to make friends with the
French. For were they not the stronger? Surely it seemed to them
the White Father of the St. Lawrence was more powerful than the
White Father of the Hudson.
"If the English will not suffer the branches of the Great Tree of
Peace to hide us from the French," they said, "we will go farther
off. We will lie down and warm ourselves by the war fires of the
French. We love to hear the sound of the war whoop. We delight
in the war yell. It flies from hill to hill, from heart to heart.
It makes the old heart young, it makes the young heart dance. Our
young braves run to battle with the swiftness of the fawn. If you
will not fight, the French will drive us from our hunting grounds.
The English King does not aid us, we must join the strong. Who is
strong? Who is strong? The French! The English have become weak."
War was now really declared between France and Britain and fighting
took place in Europe as well as in America. And in America things
went ill for the British. Defeats and disasters followed each other,
things were muddled and went wrong continually. For truth to tell
the British had no great leader either in England or in America,
while the French had the Marquess Montcalm, one of the best soldiers
in the French army, as their commander-in-chief.
At length, however, a great man came to power in England. This
was William Pitt, known as the Great Commoner. He was, it has been
said, the first Englishman of his time, and he made England the
first country in the world. He was a great judge of men, and he
had a happy way of choosing the right man for the right place. So
now instead of defeats came victories, not only in America, but all
over the world. "We are forced to ask every morning," said a witty
man of the time, "what victory there has been for fear of missing
one."
In America Louisburg fell once more into the hands of the British.
Fort Duquesne too was taken, and the misery of Braddock's disaster
was wiped out. Then in honour of the great statesman the name of
the fort was changed to Pittsburg. It is still called by that name
and is now one of the world's greatest manufacturing cities; and
where Braddock fought and fell stretches a network of streets.
But although the British had many successes the key of Canada
defied all efforts to take it. Quebec still frowned upon her rock,
invulnerable as in the days of old lion-hearted Frontenac.
Among the men Pitt had chosen to lead the armies in America
was Major-General James Wolfe. He was a long-legged, red-haired
Englishman. There was nothing of the hero about his appearance
except his bright and flashing eyes. It was this man who was sent
to capture Quebec. Many people were astonished at Pitt's choice.
"He is mad," said one stupid old man.
"Mad is he?" said King George. "Then I wish he would bite some
others of my generals."
Led by a daring old sea captain the British war ships passed safely
up the St. Lawrence and anchored off the Isle of Orleans a little
below Quebec.
Once more British guns thundered against the high rock fortress. The
town was laid in ruins, the country round was but a barren waste.
Yet the fortress of Quebec was no nearer being taken than before.
Weeks and months went past, the fleet rocked idly at anchor, the
troops lay almost as idle in their tents. Only the gunners had
work to do. And although they shattered the walls of Quebec the
Frenchmen were undaunted.
"You may ruin the town," they said, "but you will never get inside."
"I will have Quebec if I stay here till the end of November,"
replied Wolfe.
But Montcalm smiled grimly. Winter, he knew, would be his ally. For
then the St. Lawrence would be frozen from bank to bank and before
that the British must sail away or be caught fast in its icy jaws.
Wolfe, who was frail and sickly by nature, now broke down beneath
the strain and the constant disappointments. Helpless and in agony
he lay on his sickbed, his mind still busy with plans of how to
take Quebec.
"Doctor," he said, "I know you can't cure me but patch me up till
I see this business through."
Soon he was about again, and making plans for his last desperate
attempt to take Quebec.
Seeking to find a means of reaching the fortress he had himself
examined all the north shores of the St. Lawrence. And just a little
above the town he had found one spot where a narrow pathway led up
the steep cliffs. It was so steep and narrow that the French never
dreamed of any one making an attack that way, and it was carelessly
guarded. But dangerous though it was it seemed to Wolfe the only
way, and he determined to attempt it.
Soon his preparations were made, and one dark moonless night
in September a long procession of boats floated silently down the
river. In one of the boats sat Wolfe, and as they drifted slowly
along in the starlight in a low voice he repeated Gray's poem called
an Elegy in a Country Churchyard:
"The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty,
all that wealth e'er gave, Awaits alike th' inevitable hour, The
paths of glory lead but to the grave."
"Gentlemen," said Wolfe when he finished, "I would rather have
written those lines than take Quebec."
In dead silence now the boats drifted on. Then suddenly out of the
darkness rang a sharp challenge.
"Who goes there?" was asked in French.
"France," replied a Highland officer who spoke good French.
"What regiment?" shouted the sentry.
"The Queen's," answered the officer glibly, for luckily he had learned
from French prisoners that boats with provisions were expected by
the enemy, and that very likely the Queen's regiment would convoy
them.
The sentry was satisfied and let the boats pass. But they were not
safe yet. A little further on they were challenged again.
The same officer replied.
"Speak louder!" cried the sentry.
"Hush!" replied the Highlander, "provision boats, I say. Do not
make a noise; the British will hear us."
The sentry was quite deceived. He let the boats pass, and very soon
the men were safely landed.
Then the climb began. Like wild mountain cats the men dashed at it.
They swung themselves up by branches of trees, gripping projecting
stones and roots with hand and knee. It was hot, breathless work,
but soon they were near the top. But they had been heard. Once more
the challenge rang out, "Who goes there?"
"France," panted a voice from below. But this time the sentry was
not deceived. He could see nothing, but he fired at a venture down
into the darkness.
It was too late. The first men had reached the top, and the guard
was overpowered. So hour by hour up the steep cliff the red coats
swarmed unhindered. When morning dawned four thousand British stood
upon the plains of Abraham.
"This is a very serious business," said Montcalm when he heard of
it, "but it can only be a small party."
Soon, however, more news was brought to him. It was no small party.
"Then we must crush them," he said, and with pale set face he rode
forth to battle.
It was ten o'clock when the fight began. The French attacked first.
The British awaited them calmly as they dashed on over the plain.
On they came nearer and nearer. Then suddenly the order was given,
and , cheering wildly, the British charged.
A shot struck Wolfe in the wrist. Without pausing he tied a
handkerchief about it. Again he was hit. Still he went on. Then a
third shot struck his breast, and he fell. Hastily he was carried
to the rear, and laid upon the ground.
"It is all over with me," he sighed. Then he lay still in a sort
of stupor.
Suddenly one of the officers beside him cried out, "They run! They
run!"
"Who run?" said Wolfe, rousing himself.
"The enemy, sir," answered the officer, "they give way everywhere."
"Now God be praised," murmured Wolfe. "I die happy." Then turning
on his side he died.
Everywhere the French fled, and in their mad rush they carried along
with them their gallant leader, Montcalm. He was sorely wounded,
but still sat his horse as he rode within the gates of Quebec. Here
an excited, eager crowd was gathered, waiting for news. And when
they saw Montcalm's well-known figure on his black horse they were
seized with dismay. For his face was white and drawn and blood
flowed from his breast.
"Alas! Alas!" cried a woman in a piercing voice of despair, "the
Marquess is killed!"
"It is nothing, it is nothing, good friends," he replied. "Do not
trouble about me." So saying he fell from his horse into the arms
of one of his officers.
That night he died.
He was glad to go. "It is better for me," he said, "for I shall
not live to see Quebec surrender."
With him died the last hope of New France. The story of New France
was done. The Story of Canada was about to begin as well as that of
her mighty neighbour. For as a great English historian has said,
"With the triumph of Wolfe on the Heights of Abraham began the
history of the United States."
Meanwhile, however, the war still dragged on for another year.
Then the following summer Montreal surrendered to the British, and
French rule in America was completely at an end.
Fighting in America was over. But the war still went on in other
parts of the world. Spain had also joined in the struggle, and
from them the British took Cuba and the Philippine Islands. But at
length in 1763 peace was made by the Treaty of Paris.
By this treaty Britain was confirmed in her claim to nearly the
whole of French possessions in America. So that from the Atlantic
to the Mississippi and from the Gulf of Mexico to Hudson Bay was
now declared British except the peninsula forming Florida. That
the Spaniards claimed. So in exchange for it the British gave back
Cuba and the Philippines. And to make up to Spain for the loss
of Florida France gave them New Orleans and resigned to Spain all
claims to the land which La Salle had called Louisiana.
Thus nothing remained to France of all her great possessions
in America, and the vast continent was divided between Spain and
Britain. Never in all known history had a single treaty transferred
such enormous tracts of land from one nation to another.
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Chapter 50 - The Rebellion of Pontiac
"Do you not know the difference between the King of France and the
King of Britain?" a Frenchman once asked an Indian. "Go, look at
the forts which our King has built, you will see that you can still
hunt under their very walls. They have been built for your good
in the places where you go. The British on the other hand are no
sooner in possession of a place than they drive the game away, the
trees fall before them, the earth is laid bare, so that you can
scarcely find a few branches with which to make a shelter for the
night."
The Frenchman spoke truth. The British settlers were, for the most
part, grave and earnest men who had come to seek new homes. They
felled trees and built their houses, and ploughed the land, turning
wilderness into cornfields and meadow.
The Frenchmen came for the sake of religion or for adventure, they
set up crosses and claimed the land for God and the King. They
scattered churches and hamlets far in the wilderness, but left
the wilderness and the forest still the Redman's hunting ground.
The Frenchmen treated the Indians with an easy, careless sort of
friendliness, while most of the British looked down upon them as
savages.
So very soon after the British took possession of Canada the Indians
became very discontented. For now they got no more presents, they
were no longer treated as brothers, and they were hurt both in their
pockets and their pride. "The English mean to make slaves of us,"
they said, in haughty indignation, and soon a plot to murder all
the British was formed.
The French who still lived in Canada encouraged the Indians in
their discontent, telling them that the English meant thoroughly
to root them out. Then a great Medicine Man arose among them who
preached war.
"The Great Spirit himself appeared unto me," he said. "Thus he
spake. 'I am the Lord of Life. It is I who made all men. I work for
their safety, therefore I give you warning. Suffer not the English
to dwell in your midst, lest their poisons and their sickness
destroy you utterly.'"
When they heard the Medicine Man speak thus, the Indians were greatly
stirred. "The Lord of Life himself," they said, "moves our hearts
to war." They became ever more and more eager to fight. They only
wanted a leader, and found one in Pontiac, chief of the Ottawas.
He was subtle and fierce, haughty and ambitious, and by far the
most clever and powerful chief who ever took up arms against the
white man.
Now he sent messengers to all the Indian villages both far and near.
With them these messengers carried a hatchet, stained with blood,
and a war belt of scarlet wampum. When they came to a village they
called the braves together. Then in their midst their spokesman
flung down the blood stained hatchet, and holding the belt in his
hand he made a passionate speech, reminding the Redmen of their
wrongs, and calling upon them to be avenged upon their foes. And
wherever the messengers went the blood stained hatchet was seized,
and the war dance danced.
At length all was arranged and upon a certain day in May the Indians
were to rise in a body, and slay the British to a man. Only the
French were to be spared.
Pontiac himself was to attack Fort Detroit, and so quietly and
secretly were the preparations made that no one had the slightest
suspicion of what was going forward. But the day before the attack
a farmer's wife rowed across the river, and went to the Indian
village to buy some maple sugar. While she was there she was much
astonished to see some of the Indian braves filing off the barrels
of their guns. The sight made her uneasy. "I wonder what they are
up to?" she said.
When she got home she told her friends what she had seen.
"I believe they are up to some mischief," she repeated.
"I think so too," said a blacksmith, "they have been asking me to
lend them files and saws."
As the settlers talked the matter over they became at length so
uneasy that they sent to tell Major Gladwin, the commander of the
fort, of what they had seen. He, however, thought nothing of it.
But later in the day a young Indian girl came to see him, to bring
him a pair of moccasins which he had asked her to make. She seemed
very sad and downcast, and after she had given the Major the
moccasins she still loitered about.
"What's the matter?" asked a young officer.
The Indian girl did not answer, she only looked at him gravely with
sorrowful brown eyes.
Still she lingered about, it was nearly dark, time almost to close
the gates. At last the young officer watching her, became certain
that something was the matter, and he urged his commander to see
the girl again.
Major Gladwin at once called the girl to him. "What is the matter?"
he asked. "Why are you so sad?"
Still she would not speak. Then the Major talked to her kindly,
promising that whatever her secret was, it would be safe with him,
and that he would never betray her. So at length the Indian girl
spoke.
"The Indians mean to kill you all," she whispered; "the braves
have filed off the ends of their gun barrels so that the guns can
be hidden beneath their blankets. Tomorrow Pontiac will come with
many warriors, and will ask to hold a Council within the fort. He
will make a speech, and offer you a peace belt of wampum. At the
end of the speech he will turn the belt round - that will be the
signal. The chiefs will then spring up, draw the guns from their
hiding places, and kill you all. Indians outside will kill all your
soldiers. Not one of you will escape."
So saying the girl went sadly away.
Gladwin at once called his officers and told them what he had
heard. They were convinced now that evil was afoot, and all night
they kept watch lest the Indians should change their minds, and
make their attack during the night.
But the night passed peacefully. When morning came a great many
Indians were seen to be gathered about the fort, and at ten o'clock
Pontiac, followed by his chiefs, entered the gateway.
They stalked in proudly, garbed in all the glory of savage
splendours. They were cloaked in bright coloured blankets, and hung
about with beads and hawk-bells. Their heads were decorated with
eagle feathers, and their faces hideously painted.
Pontiac came first, and as he passed beneath the gateway, he started,
and drew a sharp, deep breath. For both sides of the narrow street
were lined with soldiers gun in hand. He had been betrayed! Yet
the haughty chiefs made no sign. In silence they stalked on, not
a muscle of their faces moving. Here and there as they passed on
they saw traders standing about in groups, every man fully armed.
Not a woman or child was to be seen.
At length the Indians reached the Council Hall. Here they found the
commander seated awaiting them, surrounded by his officers. They,
too, were armed, for every man of them wore a sword by his side
and a brace of pistols in his belt.
Ill at ease now, the Indians gazed at each other in doubt what to
do.
Then Pontiac spoke, "why," he asked, "do I see so many of my father's
braves standing in the street with their guns?"
"Because I exercise my soldiers," replied Gladwin calmly, "for the
good of their health, and also to keep discipline."
This answer made the Indians still more uneasy, but after some
hesitation they all sat down on the floor. Then with due ceremony
Pontiac rose, and holding the belt of peace in his hand began
to speak. His words were fair. They had come, he said, to tell of
their love for the English, "to smoke the pipe of peace, and make
the bonds of friendship closer."
As he spoke his false and cunning words, the officers kept a watchful
eye upon him. Would he give the signal or not, they asked themselves.
He raised the belt. At that moment Gladwin made a quick, slight
signal. Immediately from the passage with out came the sound of
grounding arms, and the rat-tat of a drum. Pontiac stood rigid, as
one turned to stone. Then after a moment's deathly silence he sat
down.
In the silence Gladwin sat looking steadily and fearlessly at the
Indians. Then he replied shortly to Pontiac's fine speech, "The
friendship of the British should be theirs," he said, "so long as
they deserved it."
The Council was at an end. The gates of the fort which had been
closed were now thrown open again, and the savages, balked in their
treachery, stalked back to their wigwams.
But Pontiac was not yet beaten, and again he tried to master the
fort by treachery. And when he found the gates of the fort shut
against him, his rage was terrible. Then seeing they could not win
Fort Detroit by treachery, the Indians attacked it in force. But
in spite of all his horde of warriors, in spite of all his wiles,
Pontiac could not take the fort although he besieged it for a whole
year.
Meanwhile the savages over-ran the whole country, and every other
fort, save Fort Pitt and Fort Niagara, fell into their hands. More
often than not, they won their way into the forts by treachery,
and having entered they slew, without mercy, men, women and children.
At Michilimackinac the Redskins invited the officers and soldiers
to watch a game of ball. The invitation was accepted, and nearly all
the soldiers stood about watching while the Indians with piercing
yells dashed madly hither and thither after the ball. Crowds of
Indians also looked on, among them many squaws wrapped in coloured
blankets. The game was played just outside the fort, the gates
stood open, and most of the soldiers had strolled out without their
weapons to watch.
Suddenly the ball flew through the air and landed close to the
gate of the fort. There was a mad rush after it. As they ran the
Indians snatched the hatchets and knives which till now the squaws
had hidden beneath their blankets. Screams of delight were changed
to war cries. The two officers who stood by the gate were seized
and carried away prisoner, while the rabble stormed into the fort
slaying and robbing at will. Every one of the British was either
killed or taken prisoner, but the French were left alone.
Thus all the land was filled with bloodshed and horror. There was
no safety anywhere. In every bush an Indian might lurk, and night
was made terrible with bloodcurdling war cries.
For nearly three years the war lasted. But by degrees Pontiac saw
that his cause was lost. The French did not help him as he had
expected they would. Some of his followers deserted, and other
tribes refused to join him, and at last he saw himself forced to
make peace. So there were flowery speeches, and the exchange of
wampum belts, and peace was made.
Then Pontiac's army melted away like snow in summer, and the great
Chief himself retired to the forest to live among his children and
his squaws. A few years later he was traitorously slain by one of
his own people.
PART VI: STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE FOR LIBERTY
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Chapter 51 - The Boston Tea party
All these wars which had been fought on American soil had cost a
great deal of money and many lives. Now it seemed to the British
Government that the best way to be sure of peace in the future
was to keep an army in America. They decided to do this. They also
decided that America should pay for the army. And in order to raise
the money a stamp tax was to be introduced. Newspapers, marriage
licenses, wills, and all sorts of legal papers were henceforth to
be printed on stamped paper, the price of stamps varying according
to the importance of the paper from a few pence to as many pounds.
But when the Americans heard that this Act had been passed without
their consent they were angry.
"No," they said to the British Government, "you cannot tax us without
our consent. It is one of the foundations of British freedom that
those who pay the tax must also consent to it. We are not represented
in the British Parliament, our consent has not been asked, and we
deny your right to tax us."
The whole country was filled with clamour. In every colony young
men banded themselves together, calling themselves Sons of Liberty,
and determined to resist the tax. "No taxation without representation"
was the cry.
When the first boxes of stamps arrived they were seized and destroyed.
Newspapers appeared with a skull and crossbones printed where the
stamp should have been. There were riots and mass meetings everywhere.
The Americans did not merely resist, they resisted in a body.
Nothing but the idea that their liberty was in danger made them act
together. Over everything else they had been divided. Over that
they were united. "There ought to be no New England men, no New
Yorkers, known on the continent," said one man; "but all of us
Americans."
Even in Britain there were people who thought this Stamp Act was a
mistake. The great Pitt had been ill when it was passed into law,
but when he returned to Parliament he spoke strongly against it.
"I was ill in bed," he said, "but if I could have been carried here
in my bed I would have asked some kind friend to lay my on this
floor, so that I might have spoken against it. It is a subject of
greater importance than ever engaged the attention of this House;
that subject always excepted, when nearly a century ago it was the
question whether you yourselves were to be bond or free."
Pitt was thinking of the time when Englishmen strove with Charles
I. He gloried in British liberty, and he could not bear to think
of Britons oppressing Britons. "Who that has an English heart," he
once said, "can ever be weary of asserting liberty?"
"I rejoice that America has resisted," he said later.
There were many against Pitt, but he won the day, and the Stamp
Act was repealed.
There was great rejoicing in America, and the matter seemed at an
end. But the very next year a new bill for taxing the Americans was
brought into Parliament. This time the tax was to be paid on tea,
glass, lead and a few other things brought into the country.
Once again the colonies were ablaze, and they refused to pay this
duty just as they had refused to pay the Stamp Tax. Everywhere
there were indignation meetings. But Boston seemed to be the heart
of the storm, and to Boston British troops were sent to keep order.
The soldiers had nothing to do, but the very sight of their red
coats made the colonists angry. They taunted the soldiers, and
worried them every way they knew, and the soldiers were not slow
to reply. So at last after eighteen months of bickering one March
evening it came to blows. Two or three exasperated soldiers fired
upon the crowd of citizens, five of whom were killed and several
others wounded.
This was afterwards known as the Boston Massacre. It made the people
terribly angry, and next day a great meeting was held in Old South
Church. At this meeting the people demanded that the troops should
be at once removed from the town. And seeing the temper of the
people the Lieutenant Governor withdrew them that same day to a
little island in the harbour.
And now finding how useless it was to try to force taxes on unwilling
subjects, the Government removed all the taxes except one. King
George wanted to show his power. He wanted to prove to the Americans
that he had the right to tax them if he liked. So he insisted that
there should still be a tax on tea.
"The King will have it so, he means to try the question with
America," said Lord North, the easy-going, stupid minister who was
now in power.
But to prove that neither the King nor any one else had the right
to tax them, without their consent, was exactly for what the Americans
were fighting. To them, one tax was as bad as a dozen. It was not
a question of money, but a question of right or wrong, of freedom
or slavery. So they refused to pay the tax on tea. They refused to
buy tea from Britain at all, and smuggled it from Holland. Ships
laden with tea came to port, and it was landed. But no one would
buy it, and it rotted and mouldered in the cellars. In Boston,
however, the people determined that it should not even land. And
when three ships laden with tea came into Boston harbour, the people
refused to allow them to unload.
"Take your tea back again to England," they said to the captain.
But the captain could not do that, for the customs officers would
not allow him to leave until he had landed his cargo. The people
were greatly excited. Large meetings were held, and every possible
manner of getting rid of the tea was discussed. But at length
some of the younger men grew tired of talk. Time was passing. If
something were not done, the tea would be landed by force.
That, these bold young men determined, should not be. So about
fifty of them dressed themselves as Red Indians, staining their
faces brown and painting them hideously. Then, tomahawk in hand,
they stole silently down to the ships, and uttering wild war cries
sprang on board. They seized the tea chests and with their hatchets
burst them open, and poured the tea into the harbour.
There were nearly three hundred and fifty chests, and soon the harbour
was black with tea. It was terrible waste, but no one stopped it.
From the shore people looked on quietly. And when the work was done
the "Red Indians" vanished away as silently as they had come. This
was afterwards called the Boston Tea Party. Certainly no greater
brewing of tea has ever been known.
When George III heard of the Boston Tea Party he was very angry, and
he resolved to punish the people of Boston. "They will be lions,"
he said, "as long as we are lambs, but if we show them that we mean
to be firm they will soon prove very meek."
So he closed the port and forbade any ships to go there, thus
cutting off Boston from the trade of the world. He also said that
Boston should no longer be the capital of Massachusetts, and made
Salem the capital instead.
Boston, of course, was well-nigh ruined by these acts. But instead
of looking coldly on her misfortunes, the other colonies rallied
to her aid. And grain, cattle and all sorts of merchandise poured
into Boston from them.
Boston could not be starved, neither could it be frightened into
submitting.
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Chapter 52 - Paul Revere's Ride - The Unsheathing of the Sword
All the colonies now felt that they must unite in truth, and that
they must have some centre to which all could appeal. So a Congress
of all the colonies was called at Philadelphia. This is called
the first Continental Congress, and to it all the colonies except
Georgia sent delegates.
This Congress drew up a Declaration of Rights. They also sent an
address to the King in which they declared that they had no wish
to separate from Britain.
But the King called the Congress an unlawful and seditious gathering,
and would not listen to anything it had to say. Still, far-seeing
statesmen with Pitt at their head struggled to bring about a
reconciliation.
"I contend, not for indulgence, but for justice to America," he said.
"The Americans are a brave, generous and united people, with arms
in their hands, and courage in their hearts. It is not repealing
this act of Parliament, it is not repealing a piece of parchment,
that can restore America to our bosom. You must repeal her fears and
her resentments. And you may then hope for her love and gratitude."
But few people listened to Pitt, the bill which he brought into
Parliament was rejected with scorn, and the great struggle which
was to last for eight years began.
Already in America, men's minds had begun to turn to war, and on
every village green the farmers might be seen drilling every evening.
Bands of minute men, that is, men who would be ready at a minute's
notice, were organised. All sorts of war stores were gathered.
Two of the leaders of the people in all these matters were Samuel
Adams and John Hancock. These men Governor Gage, who was also
commander of the troops, was ordered to arrest and send to England
to be tried as traitors. Gage having heard that both men were
staying at the village of Lexington decided to arrest them together.
For this he carefully laid his plans. Eight hundred men were to
leave Boston in secret at dead of night. First they were to go to
Lexington, and having arrested the "traitors" they were next to
march on to Concord to seize the large war stores which were known
to be gathered there.
All the preparations were made as silently and as secretly as possible.
But the colonists were on the alert. They knew that something was
afoot, and guessed what it was.
On the 18th of April Gage gave strict orders that no one was to
be allowed to leave Boston that night. But no orders could stop
determined men.
And as the moon was rising a little boat was rowed across the Charles
river almost under the shadow of the British man-of-war. The boat
reached the farther shore and a man booted and spurred, and if ready
for a long ride, leaped out upon the bank. This man was Paul Revere.
At ten o'clock the troops also were silently rowed across the
Charles River, and in the darkness set out for Lexington. But not
far off on the bank of the same river, a man stood waiting beside
a saddled horse. Quietly he waited, looking always towards the
tower of the Old North Church. It was Paul Revere, and he waited
for a signal to tell him which way the red coats were going.
Suddenly about eleven o'clock two twinkling lights appeared upon
the tower, and without a moment's loss Paul Revere leaped into
the saddle and dashed away. Swiftly he rode, urging his good horse
onward with voice and hand.
Near the lonely spot where stood the gallows he passed. Here under
a tree, two horsemen waited, and as Revere came nearer he saw that
they were British soldiers. Swiftly they darted at him. One tried
to seize his bridle, the other to head him off. But Revere was
a fearless rider, and knew the countryside by heart. He swerved
suddenly, doubled, and was soon clear of his pursuers.
Then on through the darkness he galloped unhindered till he reached
Medford. Here he stayed but to rouse the captain of the minute men,
and onward he sped once more. Now at the door of every cottage or
farmhouse which he passed he loudly knocked, shouting his news "the
soldiers are coming," and thundered off again in the darkness.
A little after midnight he reached Lexington and stopped before the
house where Adams and Hancock were sleeping. He found it guarded
by minute men, and as he excitedly shouted his news, they bade him
be quiet.
"Don't make such a noise," said the sergeant, "you will waken the
people in the house."
"Noise," cried Revere, "you will soon have noise enough - the
regulars are coming."
Hancock was awake, and hearing Revere's voice he threw up his
window, shouting to the guard to let him in. So Revere went into
the house and told all he knew. When they heard the news, Hancock
wanted to stay and fight, if fighting there was to be. But the
others would not hear of it, so as day dawned the two men quietly
walked away, and were soon on the road to Philadelphia.
Meanwhile the British troops were steadily marching nearer and nearer.
At first all was silent: save the clatter and jingle of their arms
and the tramp of their feet, there was no sound. No light was to
be seen far or near. Then suddenly a bell rang, a shout was heard,
lights twinkled here and there. The night was no longer silent and
dark. The country was no longer asleep.
The colonel in command of the troops grew anxious. He had expected
to take the people completely by surprise, and he had done so.
Somehow the secret had leaked out. The whole countryside was up
and awake, and fearing lest with his small company of soldiers, he
would not be able to do what he had set out to do, he sent back to
Boston for more men.
And sure enough, his fears were well founded, for when in the cold
grey of early dawn the advance party reached Lexington, they found
a little guard of sixty or seventy armed men drawn up to receive
them.
"Disperse, ye rebels, disperse," shouted the commander as he rode
towards them. But the men stood motionless and silent.
"Why don't you disperse, you villains?" he cried again.
Then seeing words had no effect, he gave the order to fire. The
soldiers obeyed, and eight minute men fell dead, and several more
were wounded. The minute men returned the fire, but just then more
British soldiers appeared in sight. And seeing that it was useless
to try to resist so great a force the Americans dispersed.
Thus the terrible war, which was almost a civil war, began. The
British now marched on to Concord. They had failed to arrest the
men they had been sent to arrest at Lexington. So there was all
the more reason to hurry on to Concord, and seize the war stores
before there was time to spirit them away. But when about seven
o'clock in the morning the troops arrived at Concord the stores for
the most part had been already safely hidden. A gun or two they
found, and a few barrels of flour. The guns were spiked, the barrels
staved in, the court house set on fire.
But meanwhile the minute men had been gathering, and now a force
four hundred strong appeared on the further side of a bridge known
as the North Bridge. The bridge was held by two hundred British,
and when they saw the minute men approach they began to destroy
it.
There was a sharp exchange of fire. Then the minute men charged
across the narrow bridge, sweeping all before them. The British
fled back to the village, and the minute men, hardly knowing what
they had done, retired again across the bridge and waited.
The British leader now decided to return to Boston. He had done
nothing which he had set out to do. But he saw this his position
was one of great danger. Everywhere he was surrounded with enemies.
His men were hungry and worn out, so about twelve o'clock the march
back to Boston began.
But the return was not easy, for all the way the troops were harassed
by the Americans. Every bush, every wall concealed an armed farmer,
whose aim was deadly and sure. Man after man fell, and beneath the
constant and galling fire coming, it seemed from everywhere and
nowhere, the nerves of the wearied, hungry men gave way. Faster and
faster the long red line swept along in every growing confusion.
There was no thought now of anything but safety, and the march
was almost a rout when at length the reinforcements from Boston
appeared. These were a thousand strong, and their leader, Lord
Percy, seeing the confusion and distress of the British formed
his men into a hollow square. Into this refuge the fugitives fled,
throwing themselves upon the ground in utter exhaustion, with their
tongues hanging out of their mouths "like those of dogs after a
chase."
Lord Percy had brought cannons with him, so with these he swept the
field, and for a time forced the colonists to retire. But they did
not disperse; they still hovered near, and as soon as the retreat
again began, there began with it the constant galling fire from
every tree or bush, before, behind, on either side. To return the
fire was useless, as the enemy were hidden. It was a sort of warfare
not unlike that which Braddock had had to meet, a sort of warfare
in which the American farmer was skilled, but of which the British
soldier knew nothing. So when, at length, as day darkened the British
troops reached Boston they were utterly spent and weary. And in a
huddled, disorganised crowd, they hurried into shelter.
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Chapter 53 - The First Thrust-The Battle of Bunker Hill
The sword was at length unsheathed. There was no more doubt about it.
There was to be a war between the Mother Country and her daughter
states. And now far and wide throughout the colonies the call to
arms was heard and answered. Farmers left their ploughs and seized
their rifles, trappers forsook their hunting grounds, traders left
their business, and hastened to join the army.
John Stark, a bold trapper learned in Indian ways and famous in
Indian warfare, marched from New Hampshire at the head of several
hundred men. Israel Putnam, more famous still for his deeds of daring
in the Indian wars, came too. He was busy on his farm at Pomfret,
Connecticut, when the news of the fight at Lexington reached him.
He was already a man of fifty-seven but there and then he left
his work and hastened round the neighbouring farms calling out
the militia. Then, commanding them to follow him with all speed,
he mounted his horse, and turned its head towards Cambridge. Hour
after hour throughout the night he rode onward, and as day dawned
on the 21st of April he galloped into Cambridge, having ridden a
hundred miles in eighteen hours without a change of horse. Handsome
young Captain Benedict Arnold, half sailor, half merchant, gathered
his men on New Haven green. And when the general of militia bade him
wait for regular orders and refused to supply him with ammunition
for his men, he threatened to break open the magazine if the
ammunition was not forthcoming at once. So, seeing that nothing
would restrain him, the general yielded, and Arnold, gallant and
gay, with sixty men behind him marched for Cambridge.
Thus day by day men of all classes, and of all ages, poured in from
the countryside, until an army of sixteen thousand was gathered
around Boston.
Meetings, too, were held throughout the country, when patriots
urged the need of arming and fighting. In the Virginian Convention,
Patrick Henry, the great orator, thrilled his hearers with his
fiery eloquence. "We must fight," he cried, "I repeat it, we must
fight! An appeal to arms and to the God of Hosts is all that is
left us." Brilliantly, convincingly he spoke, and ended with the
unforgettable words:-- "Is life so dear, or peace so sweet as to be
purchased at the price of chains and slavery! Forbid it, Almighty
God! I know not what course others may take, but as for me, give
me liberty or give me death!"
"His last exclamation," said one who heard him, "was like the shout
of the leader who turns back the rout of battle."
But even yet the leaders of the country hoped to avoid a war. The
second Continental Congress met at Philadelphia on the 10th of
May and the members talked anxiously of ways and means to restore
peace. But it was already too late. For the gathered army was no
longer to be restrained, and the very day upon which Congress met
a British fortress had been seized by the colonists.
The chain of lakes and rivers connecting the Hudson with the St.
Lawrence was felt to be of great importance to the colonists. For
if Britain had control of it it would cut the colonies in two, and
stop intercourse between New England and the south. It would also
give the British an easy route by which to bring troops and supplies
from Canada.
Among those who felt the importance of this route was Benedict Arnold,
and the day after he arrived at Cambridge he laid his ideas before
the Massachusetts Committee of Safety, and asked to be allowed to
attack the forts guarding this waterway. His request was granted.
He was given the rank of colonel, and authority to raise a company
of four hundred men for the purpose.
Arnold set out at once, but he soon found that he was not first in
the field. For the people of Connecticut, too, had felt the value
of this waterway and Ethan Allen with a hundred and fifty volunteers
who went by the name of Green Mountain Boys had set out for the
same purpose. These Green Mountain Boys took their name from the
district of Vermont which means Green Mountain. That district,
under the name of New Hampshire Grants, had been claimed by New
York colony. But the Green Mountain Boys had resisted the claim,
and by force of arms proved their right to be considered a separate
colony. Thus having settled their own little revolution they were
now ready to take part in the great one.
At Castleton, Vermont, Arnold met Ethan Allen and his men, and
claimed the leadership of the expedition. But the Green Mountain
Boys scouted the idea. They would fight under their own leader or
not fight at all, they said, and as Arnold had gathered very few
of his four hundred men he had to give way. So instead of leading
the expedition he joined it as a volunteer.
This matter settled the little company marched on to Lake Champlain,
and in the middle of the night they arrived at the southern
end, opposite Fort Ticonderoga. Here the lake is hardly more than
a quarter of a mile wide and the men began at once to row across.
But they had only two or three boats and when day began to dawn
only about eighty men had got over. With these Allen decided to
attack, for he feared if he waited till daylight that the garrison
would be awake and would no doubt resist stubbornly. So placing
himself at the head of his men with Arnold beside him, he marched
quickly and silently up the hill to the gateway of the fort. When
the astonished sentinel saw this body of men creeping out of the
morning dusk he fired at their leader. But his gun missed fire and
he fled into the fort.
After him dashed the colonists uttering a loud, blood-curdling,
Indian yell as they reached the parade ground within the fort. The
garrison which consisted of about forty men was completely taken
by surprise, and yielded with little resistance. They Allen marched
to the door of the commandment's quarters, and striking three
blows upon it with his sword hilt, commanded him to come forth and
surrender.
As Allen struck, the door was flung open, and half dressed and half
awake the commandment appeared.
"In whose name," he demanded, "do you order me to surrender!"
"In the name of the great Jehovah and the Continental Congress,"
thundered Allen.
Really the Continental Congress had nothing to do with the matter.
The commandment could not know that. But he had only to look about
him to see that the fort was already in the hands of the enemy. So
seeing no help for it he yielded; and all his great stores of cannon
and ammunition were sent to supply the needs of the New England
army.
Two days after this Crown Point, further down the lake, was also
seized, for it was only guarded by twelve men. Here a small ship
was found and Arnold's chance to lead came. For he was a sailor,
and going on board with his own men he made a dash for St. John's
at the northern end of the lake. When he was about thirty miles
from the fort the wind dropped, and his ship lay rocking idly on
the water. Arnold, however, was not the man to be easily beaten.
He had boats enough to carry thirty men, and with these he set off
to row to the fort. All night the men bent to the oars, and at six
o'clock in the morning they reached St. John's.
Once more the fort was easily taken. For here too, there were no
more than twelve men. Arnold, however, was only just in time, for
he learned from his prisoners that troops were expected from Canada.
He felt therefore that St. John's was no safe place for him and
his little band of thirty. So he seized a small ship which lay in
the harbour, sank everything else in the shape of a boat, and made
off. And when the Canadian troops arrived next day they found the
fort deserted alike by friend and foe, and the boats which should
have carried them on their way to Ticonderoga at the bottom of the
lake.
By these quick bold attacks the control of the great waterway was
for a time at least in the hands of the colonists. It was, moreover,
rendered useless to the British, for their boats being destroyed
they had no means of transporting soldiers southwards until new
boats could be built. This caused a long delay, a delay very useful
to the colonists.
In the meantime Allen was appointed commandment of Ticonderoga, and
Arnold, with a little soreness at his heart returned to Cambridge.
He had been appointed leader of the expedition, but had been forced
to join it as a volunteer under another leader. His knowledge and
dash had crowned the expedition with success, but another received
the rewards and praise.
When however the Continental Congress heard what had been done it
was rather taken aback. It was not at all sure at first whether
it was a case for rewards or reprimands, for it was still vainly
hoping for peace. So it ordered that an exact list of all cannon
and supplies which had been captured should be made, in order that
they might be given back to the Mother Country, "when the restoration
of the former harmony between Great Britain and these colonies
shall render it prudent and consistent."
Meanwhile the new army grew daily larger. It was still almost entirely
made up of New Englanders, but it was now called the Continental
Army, and the Continental Congress appointed George Washington to
be commander-in-chief.
Washington was now a tall, handsome man, little over forty. He was
as modest as he was brave, and he accepted the great honour and
heavy duties laid upon him with something of dread.
"Since the Congress desire it," he said, "I will enter upon this
momentous duty, and exert every power I possess in their service.
But I beg it may be remembered by every gentleman in this room
that I this day declare, with the utmost sincerity, I do not think
myself equal to the command I am honoured with,"
Meantime things had not been standing still; while Congress had
been choosing a commander-in-chief the army had been fighting. By
this time, too, new troops had come out from England, and the British
force was now ten thousand strong. Feeling sure that the Americans
would not stand against such a force, Governor Gage issued a
proclamation offering pardon to all who would lay down their arms,
except Samuel Adams and John Hancock. These two, he said, were too
bad to be forgiven. Instead they prepared to take possession of
the hills commanding Boston.
It was at Bunker Hill that the first real battle of the war was
fought. For Lexington had after all been a mere skirmish, only of
importance because it was the first in this long and deadly war.
The forts on Lake Champlain had been taken without the shedding of
blood.
The battle is called Bunker Hill although it was really fought on
Breed's Hill which is quite close. The mistake of the name was made
because the Americans had been sent to take possession of Bunker
Hill, but instead took possession of Breed's Hill.
It was during the night that the Americans took up their position
on the hill. And when day dawned and the British saw them there,
they determined to dislodge them, and the battle began.
Up the hill the British charged with splendid courage, only to be
met and driven back by a withering fire from the American rifles.
Their front riles were mowed down, and the hillside was strewn
with dead and dying. But again and yet again they came on. At the
third charge they reached the top, for the Americans had used up all
their ammunition, and could fire no longer. Still they would not
yield, and there was a fierce hand to hand fight before the Americans
were driven from their trenches and the hill was in possession of
the British.
For the British, it was a hard won victory, for they lost nearly
three times as many men as the Americans, among them some gallant
officers. As to the Americans in spite of their defeat they rejoiced;
for they knew now what they could do. They knew they could stand
up to the famous British regulars.
And now as Washington rode towards Charleston to take command of
the army, news of this battle was brought to him.
"Did our men fight?" asked Washington. And when he was told how
well, his grave face lighted up.
"Then the liberties of the country are safe," he cried.
So with hope in his heart Washington rode on, and at length after
a journey of eleven days reached Cambridge, the headquarters of
the army.
The next day, the 3rd of July, the whole army was drawn up upon
the plain. And mounted on a splendid white horse Washington rode
to the head of it. Under a great elm tree he wheeled his horse, and
drawing his sword solemnly took command of the army of the United
Colonies. And as the blade glittered in the sunshine, a great shout
went up from the soldiers. They were New Englanders, for the most
part, but they welcomed their Virginian commander whole heartedly.
For were they not all Americans? Were they not all ready to stand
shoulder to shoulder for the one great cause?
But the army of which Washington had taken command was, perhaps,
the rawest, worst equipped army which ever marched into the field.
The men had neither uniforms, tents, stores nor ammunition, many of
them had no arms. There was no organisation, and little discipline.
Even the exact numbers composing this army were not known. They
were, in fact, as one of Washington's own officers said, "only a
gathering of brave, enthusiastic, undisciplined country lads."
But out of this crowd of brave enthusiastic men, Washington set
himself to make an army fit to do great deeds. So he worked, and
rode, and wrote, unceasingly and unwearyingly. For he had not only
to deal with the army but with Congress also. He had to awaken
them to the fact that the country had to do great deeds, and that
to do them well money, and a great deal of money, was needed.
Meanwhile George III also was making free at preparations. More
soldiers he saw were needed to subdue these rebel farmers. And as
it was difficult to persuade Britons to go to fight their brothers
he hired a lot of Germans, and sent them out to fight the Americans.
Nothing hurt the Americans more than this; more than anything else
this act made them long to be independent. After this there was no
more talk of making friends.
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Chapter 54 - The War In Canada
After Bunker Hill there was a pause in the fighting round Boston
which gave Washington time to get his raw recruits in hand a little.
Then during the summer news came that Sir Guy Carleton, the Governor
of Canada, was making plans to retake Ticonderoga, and the colonists
determined to invade Canada. General Philip Schuyler was given
command of the expedition, and with two thousand men he set out for
St. John's, which Arnold had taken, but had been unable to hold,
earlier in the year.
This time the colonists found St. John's better guarded, and only at
the end of a two months' siege did it yield. By this time Schuyler
had become ill, and the command was given to General Richard
Montgomery who crossed the St. Lawrence, and entered Montreal in
triumph.
Almost at the same time Benedict Arnold set out with twelve hundred
men to attack Quebec. He marched through the forest of Maine, then
an almost unknown country and uninhabited save by Indians. It was
a tremendous march, and one that needed all the grit and endurance
of brave, determined men. They climbed hills, struggled through
swamps, paddled across lakes and down unknown streams. Sometimes
they waded up to their knees in icy waters pushing their canoes
before them against the rapid current, or again they carried them
over long portages, shouldering their way through forest so dense
that they could scarcely advance a mile an hour. At night soaked
with rain and sleet they slept upon the snowy ground. Their food
gave out, and the pangs of hunger were added to their other miseries.
Many died by the way; others, losing heart, turned back. But sick
and giddy, starving and exhausted the rest stumbled onward, and at
length little more than five hundred ragged half armed, more than
half famished men, reached the shores of the St. Lawrence.
They were a sorry little company with which to invade a vast
province. But their courage was superb, their hope sublime, and
without delay they set out to take the great fortress which had
withstood so many sieges, and had only fallen at last before the
genius and daring of Wolfe.
Across the St. Lawrence this little company of intrepid colonists
paddled, up the path where Wolfe had led his men they climbed, and
stood at length where they had stood upon the heights of Abraham.
They had no cannon, and half their muskets were useless. Yet Arnold
at the head of his spectral little company boldly summoned the town
to surrender.
The town did not surrender, the Governor refused to come out and
fight. So seeing the uselessness of his summons Arnold marched away
about twenty miles, and encamped to wait for Montgomery's arrival
from Montreal. He soon arrived. But even with hid men the colonists
only numbered about eight hundred, far too small a company with
which to besiege a fortress such as Quebec. Still they resolved to
take the place by storm.
It was early on the morning of the 1st of January, 1776, that they
made the attempt in the teeth of a blinding snow storm. Arnold
led the assault on one side of the town, Montgomery on the other.
With tremendous dash and bravery the colonists carried the first
barricades, and forced their way into the town. But almost at the
outset Montgomery was killed. A little later Arnold was sorely
wounded, and had to be carried back to the camp. Both leaders gone,
the heart went out of the men, and they retreated, leaving many
prisoners at the hands of the British.
The great assault had failed, but sick and wounded though he was,
Arnold did not lose heart. He still kept up a show of besieging
Quebec. "I have no thought of leaving this proud town, " he said,
"until I first enter it in triumph. I am in the way of my duty and
know no fear." But the only chance of taking Quebec was to take
it in the winter, while the St. Lawrence was closed with ice, so
that the British ships could not reach it with reinforcements and
supplies. Arnold therefore sent to Washington begging for five
thousand troops. Such a number it was impossible for Washington
to spare from his little army, and only a few reinforcements were
sent, most of whom reached Arnold utterly exhausted with their long
tramp through the pathless wilderness. Smallpox, too, became rife
in the camp, so although there at length two thousand men before
Quebec not more that a thousand were fit for duty. Yet what mere
men could do they did.
But winter passed and Quebec remained untaken. Then on April morning
Captain Charles Douglas arrived off the mouth of the St. Lawrence
with a fleet of British ships. He found the river still packed with
ice. But Quebec he knew must be in sore straits. It was no time for
caution, so by way of experiment he ran his flag ship full speed
against a mass of ice. The ice was shivered to pieces, and the good
ship sailed unharmed. For nine days the gallant vessel ploughed
on through fields of ice, but suffering no serious damage, her
stout-hearted captain having no thought but to reach and relieve
the beleaguered city.
His boldness was rewarded. Other vessels followed in his track,
and at their coming the colonists gave up their attempt to conquer
Canada, and marched away.
The attack on Canada had been an utter failure, but Arnold still
clung to the hope of commanding the great waterway from the St.
Lawrence to the Hudson. At Crown Point he began to build ships,
and by the end of September had a little fleet of nine. The British
also busied themselves building ships, and on the 11th of October
a fight between the two fleets took place on Lake Champlain, between
the island of Valcour and the mainland.
The British ships were far larger and more numerous than the
American, indeed in comparison with the British the American boats
were mere cockle shells, but the colonists put up a gallant fight
which lasted five hours, and the sun went down leaving them sadly
shattered but still unbeaten.
The British commander, however, felt sure of finishing them off in
the morning. So he anchored his ships in a line across the southern
end of the channel, between the island and the mainland, thus
cutting off all retreat. But Arnold knew his danger, and determined
to make a dash for freedom. The night was dark and foggy. The British
were so sure of their prey that they kept no watch. So while they
slept one by one the American ships crept silently through their
lines and sped away.
When day dawned the British with wrath and disgust saw an empty
lake where they had expected to see a stricken foe. They immediately
gave chase and the following day they again came up with the little
American fleet, for many of the ships were so crippled that they
could move but slowly. Again a five hours' battle was fought. One
ship, the Washington, struck her flag. But Arnold in his little
Congress fought doggedly on. Then seeing he could resist no more
he drove the Congress and four other small boats ashore in a creek
too narrow for any but the smallest one of the British ships to
follow. Here he set them on fire, and bade his men leap for the
shore, he himself being the last to leave the burning decks. On
land he waited until he was certain that the ships were safe from
capture, and that they would go down with their flags flying. Then he
marched off with his men, and brought them all safely to Ticonderoga.
The attack on Canada had been an utter failure, the little American
fleet had been shattered, save for Ticonderoga the coveted waterway
was in the hands of the British. Had the British commander known it
too he might have attacked Ticonderoga then and there, and taken
it with ease. But Arnold was there, and Arnold had made such a
name for himself by his dash and courage that Carleton did not dare
attack the fort. And contenting himself for the moment with having
gained control of Lake Champlain he turned to attack Canada. Arnold
had failed to take Quebec, and he has lost his little fleet. But
against his failure to take Quebec his countrymen put his wonderful
march through pathless forest; against the loss of the fleet the
fact that but for Arnold it would never have been built at all. So
the people cheered him as a hero, and Washington looked upon him
as one of his best officers.
But Arnold's temper was hot if his head was cool, he was ambitious
and somewhat arrogant. And while he had been fighting so bravely
he had quarreled with his brother officers, and made enemies of
many. They declared that he fought not for his country's honour
but for the glory of Benedict Arnold. So it came about that he did
not receive the reward of promotion which he felt himself entitled
to. When Congress appointed several new Major Generals he was
passed over, and once again, as after the taking of Ticonderoga,
bitterness filled his heart.
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Chapter 55 - The Birth of A Great Nation
While these things were happening in the north the British had been
forced to march away from Boston.
At first Washington could do little but keep his army before the
town, for he had no siege guns with which to bombard it. Nor had
he any desire to destroy the town." Burn it," said some, "if that
is the only way of driving out the British." Even John Hancock to
whom a great part of Boston belonged advised this. "Burn Boston,"
he said," and make John Hancock a beggar, if the public good requires
it." But Washington did not attempt to burn it.
After the taking of Ticonderoga and Crown Point however he got guns.
For many of the cannon taken at these forts were put on sledges
and dragged over the snow to Boston. It was Colonel Henry Knox
who carried out this feat. He was a stout young man with a lovely
smile and jolly fat laugh, who greatly enjoyed a joke. He had been
a bookseller before the war turned him into a soldier. And now as
he felled trees, and made sledges, and encouraged his men over the
long rough way he hugely enjoyed the joke of bringing British guns
to bombard the British out of Boston.
When Washington got these guns he quietly one night took possession
of Dorchester Heights, which commanded both Boston town and harbour.
So quick had been his action that it seemed to General Howe, the
British commander, as if the fortifications on Dorchester Heights
had been the work of magic. But magic or no magic they were, he
saw, a real and formidable danger. With siege guns frowning above
both town and harbour it was no longer possible to hold Boston. So
hastily embarking his troops General Howe sailed away to Halifax
in Nova Scotia, and Boston was left in peace for the rest of the
war.
By this time there had been fighting in the south as well as in New
England. For King George had taken it into his stubborn head that
it would be a good plan to attack the southern colonies in spite of
the fact that the war in the north was already more that he could
manage. Sir Peter Parker, therefore, was sent out from England with
a fleet of about fifty ships, and Lord Cornwallis with two thousand
men, to attack Charleston in South Carolina. Howe was also ordered
to send some soldiers southward, and although he could ill spare
them from Boston he sent General Sir Henry Clinton with a small
detachment.
According to arrangement the troops from Boston and England were
to attack together with the loyalists of the south and the friendly
Indians. But everything was bungled. The fleet, the land force,
the loyalists and the Indians all seemed to be pulling different
ways, and attacked at different times. The assault on Charleston
was a miserable failure, and to the delight of the colonists the
whole British force sailed away to join Howe in the north, and for
more than two years there was no fighting in the southern colonies.
The commander of the colonists in Charleston was General Charles
Lee. He was not really an American at all, but an Englishman, a
soldier of fortune and adventure. He had wandered about the world,
fighting in many lands, and had been in Braddock's army when it
was defeated. He never became an American at heart like some other
Englishmen who fought on their side. He cared little for them, he
cared as little for the cause in which they were fighting, merely
seeing in it a chance of making himself famous, and he had a very
poor opinion of their fighting qualities. He was a tall, spare man
with a hollow-cheeked, ugly face, and a disagreeable manner. He
had a great opinion of himself, and boasted to such purpose that
the Americans believed him to be a military genius. And in this
first tussle with the British in the south he did so well that
their belief in him seemed justified. He seemed to the people a hero
and a genius rolled in one. In all the war after he did nothing to
uphold the fame he gained at Charleston.
South as well as north had now had a taste of war. South as well as
north had seen the British sail away, foiled. Every royal governor
had by this time been driven from his post, and for six months
and more the colonies had practically ruled themselves. What then,
said many, was the use of talking any more about allegiance to the
mother country? It was time, they said, to announce to all the world
that the colonies of America were a free and independent nation.
There was much grave discussion in Congress and throughout the
country. Some patriots, even those who longed most ardently to see
America a free country, thought that it was too soon to make the
claim. Among those was Patrick Henry who had already ranged himself
so passionately on the side of freedom." The struggle is only
beginning," he said," and we are not yet united. Wait till we are
united. Wait until we have won our freedom, then let us proclaim
it."
But by degrees all those who hesitated were won over, and on the
4th of July, 1776, the colonies declared themselves to be free.
Many meetings were held in what has since been called Independence
Hall at Philadelphia. Much discussion there was, but at length the
solemn declaration was drawn up. "We, the Representatives of the
United States of America," so it ran," in General Congress assembled,
appealing to the supreme judge of the world for the rectitude of
our intention, do, in the name, and by the authority of the good
people of these colonies, solemnly publish and declare, that these
united colonies are, and of right ought to be, Free and Independent
States." These are but a few words of the long, gravely worded
declaration which was drawn up by Thomas Jefferson, and which is
familiar to every American to this day.
John Hancock was President of Congress at this time, and he was
the first to sign the declaration. Large, and clear, and all across
the page the signature runs, showing, as it were, the calm mind and
firm judgment which guided the hand that wrote. It was not until
a few days later that it was signed by the other members.
It was on the 4th of July that Congress agreed to the declaration,
and so that day has ever since been kept as a national holiday. It
was the birthday of the United States as a Nation. But it was not
until a few days later that the Declaration was read to the people
of Philadelphia from Independence Hall. It was greeted with cheers
and shouts of delight. The old bell upon the tower pealed joyfully,
and swift riders mounted and rode to bear the news in all directions.
The next day it was read at the head of each brigade of the army,
and was greeted with loud cheers.
This Declaration of Independence was a bold deed, it might almost
seem a rash one. For the British army was still in the land, and
the Americans by no means always victorious. But the very fact of
the boldness of the deed made them feel that they must be brave
and steadfast, and that having claimed freedom they must win it.
The Declaration drew the colonies together as nothing else had done,
and even those who had thought the deed too rash came to see that
it had been wise.
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Chapter 56 - The Darkest Hour - Trenton and Princeton
In many places the news of the Declaration of Independence and the
news of the victory at Charleston came at the same time, and gave
a double cause for rejoicing. It was the last good news which was
to come for many a long day. Indeed for months misfortune followed
misfortune, until it almost seemed as if the Declaration of
Independence had been the rash and useless action some had held it
to be.
By the end of June General Howe sailed southward from Halifax, and
landed on Staten Island southwest of New York, to await the arrival
from England of his brother, Admiral Howe. On July 12th, just eight
days after the declaration of independence, Admiral Howe arrived
with strong reinforcements of ships and men. But before he began
to fight he tried to come to terms with the rebel colonies, and
for a second time free pardon was offered to all who would submit
and own British rule once more. But the Americans were in no mood
to submit, and had no wish for "pardon."
"No doubt," said one, "we all need pardon from heaven, but the
American who needs pardon from his Britannic Majesty is yet to be
found."
So instead of submitting they made ready to fight. The British
also prepared to fight, and the force of the next blow fell upon
New York. There were now more than thirty thousand British troops
gathered here. It was the largest army which had ever been sent
out of England, and King George had never a doubt that this great
force, backed by his unconquerable navy, would soon bring the ten
or twenty thousand ragged, half starved rebels to their knees.
He little knew the men or the man which who he had to deal. The
army was indeed ragged and undisciplined. But as the great Napoleon
said later, "In war the man is everything." And Washington was
soon to show the world what could be done by brave undisciplined
men whose hearts were behind their muskets.
As soon as Washington had gained possession of Boston he left an
old general with a small force to guard it, and transported the
main body of his army to New York, feeling sure that the next attack
would be made there.
Brooklyn Heights on Long Island commanded New York, very much in
the same way as Bunker Hill and Dorchester Heights commanded Boston,
and Washington knew he must keep possession of those heights, if
New York was not to be given up without a blow being struck. He
did not want to give it up without striking a blow, for he feared
the effect on the spirits of the country. So he send General Putnam
with about eight thousand men to occupy the Heights.
In doing this Washington placed his army in a very dangerous position,
for the East River was large enough to allow British war ships to
sail up it and thus cut his army in two. But he could do nothing
else, for if the enemy got possession of the Heights the town was
at his mercy.
Howe was not slow to see this, and, having carefully and secretly
made his plans, he attacked the forces on Brooklyn Heights in the
early morning of August 27th in front, and flank, and rear, all at
once.
One division of the Americans was nearly wiped out, many being killed
and the rest being taken prisoner. A little band of Marylanders
put up a fine but hopeless fight for nearly four hours, the remnant
of them at length taking refuge in the fortifications. To make the
defeat a disaster for the colonists Howe had but to storm these
fortifications. But he refused to do so. Enough had been done for
one day, he said. Bunker Hill had taught the British to beware of
storming heights. A siege would be less costly, thought Howe.
Within the fortifications the colonists were in a miserable plight.
They had little shelter, the rain fell in torrents, and a cold
northeast wind chilled them to the bone. They had nothing to eat
except dry biscuit and raw pork. They were hungry and weary, wet
and cold. Yet one of their miseries was a blessing. For as long as
the northeast wind blew Howe could not bring his ships up the East
River and cut communications between Long Island and New York. For
in those days, it must be remembered, there were no steamers, and
sailing vessels had to depend on wind and tide.
Washington, however, knew his danger. He knew that he must withdraw
from Long Island. So secretly he gave orders that everything which
could be found in the shape of a boat was to be brought to Brooklyn
Ferry. They were soon gathered, and at eight o'clock in the evening,
two days after the battle of Long Island, quickly and quietly the
army was ferried across the wide river to the New York side. All
night the rowers laboured, but the work was by no means finished
when day dawned. The weather, however, still helped the colonists,
for a thick fog settled over the river and hid what was going on
from the British. Wounded, prisoners, cannon, stores, horses, were
all ferried over, and when later in the day the British marched
into the deserted camp they found not so much as a crust of bread.
It was about six in the morning when the last boat put off, and in
it was Washington, the last man to leave. For forty hours he had
hardly been off his horse, and had never for a minute lain down
to rest. He was unwearyingly watchful, and left nothing to chance,
and this retreat is looked upon as one of the most masterly in all
military history.
Having abandoned Brooklyn Washington knew that he could not hope
to hold New York against an attack. But for a fortnight neither
Admiral nor General Howe made any attack. Instead they talked once
more of peace. It almost seemed as if Lord Howe were on the side
of the Americans, as indeed he had always said he was, until he
was ordered out to fight against them. "He is either a very slow
officer, or else he is our very good friend," said one of them.
The fortnight which he now wasted gave Washington time to decide
what it was best to do, and when at last the British began the
attack on New York nearly all the stores and cannon had already
been removed to Harlem Heights, about ten miles away at the north
of Manhattan Island. All the troops, too, had gone except about
four thousand under General Putnam, who stayed to keep order, and
look after the removal of the last of the stores. When the attack
came these were very nearly caught. For the regiment who ought
to have guarded the landing place, and have kept the enemy from
advancing until Putnam could retire, ran away as soon as they saw
the red coats.
In vain their officers tried to rally them; panic had seized them,
and they fled like frightened sheep. In the confusion Washington
rode up. He was a man of fiery temper, and now when he saw his men
show such a lack of courage in the face of the enemy he lost all
control. Dashing his had upon the ground, and, drawing his sword,
he bade them cease their cowardly retreat. But even Washington
could not rally the fleeing men. Then his wrath and despair knew no
bounds, and spurring his horse, he rode alone towards the enemy.
Death, he felt, was better than such shame. But one of his officers,
dashing after him, seized his bridle and turned him back to safety.
Meanwhile Putnam was making frantic efforts to gather his men and
march them off to Harlem Heights. It was a day of violent heat,
and as the men struggled on, laden with their baggage, their breath
came short, and the perspiration trickled down their faces. Every
moment they expected to be attacked in the rear.
But the attack did not come. For as Howe and his officers were
passing the pleasant country house of Mrs. Robert Murray a servant
came out to ask them to lunch. It was a tempting invitation on a
hot day, --too tempting to be refused. So a halt was called, and
while Howe and his officers enjoyed a pleasant meal, and listened
to the talk of a clever, handsome lady, Putnam marched his panting
men to safety.
Washington was greatly cast down at what he called the "disgraceful
and dastardly" conduct of some of his troops that day. He knew
that an attack on Harlem Heights must come, and come soon. But what
would be the result? Would his men run away, or would they fight?
"Experience, to my extreme affliction," he wrote sadly, "has
convinced me that this is rather to be wished for than expected.
However, I trust there are many who will act like men, and show
themselves worthy of the blessings of freedom."
Washington had no real cause for fear. Next day the test came,
and the Americans wiped out the memory of the day before. In wave
after wave the British attacked, but again and again the colonists
met them, and at last drove them to their trenches; and there was
joy in the patriot camp.
Howe still pursued the war very slowly. After the battle of
Harlem Heights he left Washington along for nearly a month, during
which time the colonist fortified their camp strongly. But the
commander-in-chief soon became convinced that the place was little
better than a trap, in which Howe might surround him, and force
him to surrender with all his army. So he retreated northward to
White Plains, and the British settled down in New York, which they
held till the end of the war.
And now misfortunes fell thick and fast upon the patriots. They
still held Fort Washington on Manhattan Island, and Fort Lee on the
opposite side of the Hudson, the garrisons of which were under the
command of General Greene. Washington now advised him to abandon
the forts, but did not give him absolute orders to do so. It is
probably that he would have taken his commander's advice had not
Congress interfered and sent orders that Fort Washington was not
to be given up, except as a last necessity. Greene, believing that
it was possible to hold it, tried to obey Congress. But on the
16th of November, after a fierce fight against tremendous odds, the
fort was surrounded, and all the defenders to the number of about
three thousand were taken prisoner.
The loss was a bitter blow to Washington, for the men taken prisoners
were some of his best soldiers. Four days later Fort Lee was also
taken, and although the garrison escaped they left behind them
large stores of food, ammunition, baggage of all sorts, as well as
cannon, which they could ill spare.
Washington now resolved on a retreat towards Philadelphia, and gloom
settled on the ragged little army of patriots. They were weary of
retreats and defeats, and felt that their cause was already lost.
Winter was fast coming on and many shouldered their arms and marched
homeward. And so the once buoyant enthusiastic army melted away to
a hungry and dispirited troop of little more than four thousand.
General Lee had at this time but lately returned from his triumphs
in South Carolina, and he was more boastful and arrogant than ever.
After Washington he was second in command, but he had no doubt
in his own mind that he ought to be first. Now he was not slow to
let others know what he thought. And while Washington, noble and
upright gentleman as he was, trusted Lee as a friend, and believed
in him as a soldier, Lee schemed to supplant him.
Washington had left Lee at North Castle with seven thousand men.
Now he sent him orders to join him at once, so that if he should
have to fight a battle he could have at least some sort of army
to fight with. But Lee pretended to misunderstand. He made excuses
for delay, he argued, and lied, and stayed where he was. Perhaps
he thought that it would be no bad thing if Washington should be
defeated and captured. Then he would be commander-in-chief.
But it was Lee who was captured, not Washington. He had in a
leisurely fashion at last begun to move, and on the march he spent
a night at a wayside inn. The British, hearing of his whereabouts,
surrounded the inn and took him prisoner. For more than a year he
remained in their hands, a very comfortable captive, and his army,
under General John Sullivan, marched to join Washington, who was
still retreating southward through New Jersey before the overwhelming
force of the British.
It was weary work retreating. But with masterly generalship, and
untiring watchfulness, Washington avoided a battle, and slipped
through the toils. As the pursued and pursuers neared Philadelphia
something like panic laid hold of the city. All day long the rumble
of wagons might be heard carrying women and children to places of
safety. Congress was hurriedly removed to Baltimore; but hundreds
of men seized their rifles and marched to join the army to fight
for their country in its darkest hour.
But already the worst was over. Washington's army was now well
reinforced. He had the recruits from Philadelphia, he had Lee's
army, and he also had two thousand men sent him by Schuyler from the
north. So he resolved to make a bold bid for fortune. He resolved
to do or die. He gave as the password, "Victory or death," and
in the dark of Christmas night, 1771, he and his men crossed the
Delaware River above the town of Trenton, where the British lay,
together with a large company of the Hessian troops who had been
hired to fight the Americans. The river was full of floating ice,
which made the crossing dangerous and slow. But through the darkness
the men toiled on, fending off the ice blocks as best they could
as they steered their boats through the drifting mass. At length,
after ten hours' labour, they reached the other side without the
loss of one man.
It was four o'clock when the troops started off on their seven-mile
march to Trenton over the snowy ground, the icy wind driving the
sleet and snow in their faces. But by eight o'clock they had reached
Trenton. The British were utterly taken by surprise, and almost at
once the Hessians surrendered.
Having sent his prisoners, to the number of nearly a thousand,
to the other side of the river, Washington took possession of the
town. But he was not long allowed to remain there. For the British
commander, Lord Cornwallis, marched to dislodge him with an army
of eight thousand men.
Washington let him come, and on the 2nd of January, Cornwallis
encamped before Trenton, determined next morning to give battle.
He was sure of victory, and in great spirits. "At last we have run
down the old fox, and we will bag him in the morning," he said.
But Washington was not to be so easily caught. The two armies were
so near that the watchfires of the one could be plainly seen by
the other. All night the American watchfires blazed, all night men
could be heard working at the fortifications. But that was only
a blind. In the darkness Washington and his army quietly slipped
away to Princeton. There he fell upon the British reinforcements,
who were marching to join Cornwallis at Trenton, and put them to
flight.
When day came Cornwallis was astonished to find the American camp
empty. And when he heard the firing in the distance he knew what
had happened, and hastily retreated to New York, while Washington
drew off his victorious but weary men to Morristown in New Jersey.
Here for the next few months they remained, resting after their
labours, unmolested by the foe.
__________
Chapter 57 - Burgoyne's Campaign - Bennington and Oriskany
As many of the Americans had foreseen, the British had from the
first formed the design of cutting the colonies in two by taking
possession of the great waterway from the Hudson to the St. Lawrence.
Their plans had been long delayed, but in the spring of 1777, they
determined to carry them out.
General Burgoyne was now in command of the Canadian troops. He was
a genial man of fashion, a writer of plays, and a great gambler.
But he was a brave soldier, too, and his men adored him. For in days
when it was common to treat the rank and file as a little better
than dogs, Burgoyne treated them like reasoning beings.
It was arranged that Burgoyne should move southward with his main
force, by way of Lake Champlain to Ticonderoga, and that a smaller
force should go by Lake Ontario and seize Fort Stanwix. Howe, at
the same time, was in Albany, having, it was to be supposed, swept
the whole country free of "rebels."
It was a very fine plan, but it was not carried out as intended -
because, although Burgoyne received his orders, Howe did not receive
his. For the British minister, who ought to have sent them, went off
on a holiday and forgot all about the matter for several weeks.
When at length he remembered, and sent the order, Howe was far
away from the Hudson, at his old game of trying to run Washington
to earth.
Burgoyne, however, knew nothing of this and cheerfully set out from
Canada with a well drilled, well equipped, and well fed army of
about eight thousand men, and on the 1st of July reached Ticonderoga.
Since this fort had been taken by Ethan Allen it had been greatly
strengthened, and the Americans believed that now it could withstand
any assault, however vigorous. But while strengthening the fort
itself they failed to fortify a little hill near. They had already
much experience of the danger of heights commanding a town or
fort. But they thought that this hill was too steep and rugged to
be a danger. No cannon, it was said, could ever be dragged up to the
top of it. When the British came, however, they thought otherwise.
They at once saw the value of the hill, and determined that guns
should be dragged up it. For forty-eight hours they worked furiously,
and when day dawned on the 5th of August both men and guns were on
the summit.
The American commander, St. Clair, saw them with despair in his
heart. Every corner of the fort was commanded by the guns, and the
garrison utterly at the mercy of the enemy. To remain, he knew,
would mean the loss of his whole force. So he resolved to abandon
the fort, and as soon as the sun set the work was begun. Guns and
stores were laden on boats, cannon too heavy to be removed were
spiked, and nearly all the garrison had left when a fire broke out
in the officers' quarters.
The light of the flames showed the British sentinels what was going
on. The alarm was given. The British made a dash for the fort, and
as day dawned on July 6, 1777, the Union Jack was once more planted
upon its ramparts.
Then a hot pursuit began. At the village of Hubbardton the Americans
made a valiant stand, but they were worsted and fled, and five days
later St. Clair brought the remnant of his force into Fort Edward,
where the main army under Schuyler was stationed.
Burgoyne had begun well, and when King George heard the news he
clapped his hands with joy. "I have beat them," he cried, dashing
into the queen's rooms, "I have beat all the Americans." But over
America the loss cast a gloom. St. Clair and Schuyler were severely
blamed and court-martialled. But both were honourably acquitted.
Nothing could have saved the garrison from being utterly wiped out;
and when men came to judge the matter calmly they admitted that
it was better to lose the fort than to lose the fort and garrison
also. Meanwhile Burgoyne was chasing hot-foot after the fugitives.
As he approached, Schuyler abandoned Fort Edward, for it was a mere
shell and impossible of defence for a single day. But as he fell
back, he broke up the roads behind him. Trees were felled and laid
across them every two or three yards, bridges were burned, fords
destroyed. So thoroughly was the work done that Burgoyne, in
pursuit, could only march about a mile a day, and had to build no
fewer than forty bridges in a distance of little more than twenty-four
miles.
Besides destroying the roads Schuyler also made the country a desert.
He carried away and destroyed the crops, drove off the sheep and
cattle, sweeping the country so bare that the hostile army could
find no food, and were forced to depend altogether on their own
supplies. Before long these gave out, and the British began to
suffer from hunger.
Burgoyne now learned that at the village of Bennington the patriots
had a depot containing large stores of food and ammunition. These
he determined to have for his own army, and he sent a force of six
hundred men, mostly Germans and Indians, to make the capture.
This old trapper, Captain John Stark, was in command of the American
force at Bennington. He had fought in many battles from Bunker Hill
to Princeton. But, finding himself passed over, when others were
promoted, he had gone off homeward in dudgeon. But now in his country's
hour of need he forgot his grievances and once more girded on his
sword. He led his men with splendid dash and the enemy was utterly
defeated, and Stark was made a brigadier general as a reward. It
was a disaster for Burgoyne, and on the heels of this defeat came
the news that the second force marching by way of Lake Ontario had
also met with disaster at Oriskany near Fort Stanwix.
This force had surrounded Fort Stanwix, and General Nicholas Herkimer
had marched to its relief.
General Herkimer was an old German of over sixty, and although
he had lived all his life in America, and loved the country with
his whole heart, he spoke English very badly, and wrote it worse.
It must have sadly puzzled his officers sometimes to make out his
dispatches and orders. One is said to have run as follows: "Ser,
yu will orter yur bodellyen to merchs Immetdielich do ford edward
weid for das broflesen and amenieschen fied for en betell. Dis yu
will desben at yur berrel." This being translated means:" Sir, you
will order your battalion to march immediately to Fort Edward with
four days' provisions, and ammunition for one battle. This you will
disobey at your peril."
As this doughty old German marched to the relief of Fort Stanwix
he fell into an ambush prepared for him by the famous Indian chief,
Joseph Brant, who, with his braves, was fighting on the side of
the British. A terrible hand to hand struggle followed. The air
was filled with wild yells and still wilder curses as the two foes
grappled. It was war in all its savagery. Tomahawks and knives were
used as freely as rifles. Stabbing, shooting, wrestling, the men
fought each other more like wildcats than human beings. A fearful
thunderstorm burst forth, too. Rain fell in torrents, a raging
wind tore through the tree tops, thunder and lightning added their
terrors to the scene.
For five hours the savage warfare lasted. Almost at the beginning
a ball shattered Herkimer's leg and killed his horse. But the stout
old warrior refused to leave the field. He bade his men take the
saddle from his horse and place it at the root of a great beech
tree. Sitting there he directed the battle, shouting his orders in
his quaint guttural English, and calmly smoking a pipe the while.
They were the last orders he was to give. For, ten days after
the battle he died from his wound, serenely smoking his pipe, and
reading his old German Bible almost to the last.
Soon the noise of the battle was heard at Fort Stanwix, and the
garrison, led by Colonel Marinus Willett, sallied forth to the
aid of their comrades, put a detachment of the enemy to flight,
and captured their stores of food and ammunition, together with
five flags. And now for the first time the Stars and Stripes were
unfurled.
When Washington had taken command of the army there had still been
no real thought of separating from Britain. So for his flag he
had used the British ensign with the Union Jack in the corner. But
instead of a red ground he had used a ground of thirteen red and
white stripes, on stripe for each colony. But when all hope of
reconciliation was gone Congress decided that the Union Jack must
be cut out of the flag altogether, and in its place a blue square
was to be used with thirteen white stars in a circle, one star for
each state, just as there was one stripe for each state.
People, however, were too busy doing other things and had no time
to see to the making of flags. So the first one was hoisted by
Colonel Willett, after the battle of Orskany. He had captured five
standards. These, as victor, he hoisted on the fort. To make his
triumph complete, however, he wanted an American flag to hoist over
them. But he had none. So a soldier's wife gave her red petticoat,
some one else supplied a white shirt, and out of that and an old
blue jacket was made the first American flag to float upon the
breeze.
This, of course, was only a rough and ready flag, and Betsy Ross,
a seamstress, who lived in Arch Street, Philadelphia, had the honour
of making the first real one. While in Philadelphia Washington and
some members of council called upon Betsy to ask her to make the
flag. Washington had brought a sketch with him, but Betsy suggested
some alterations. So Washington drew another sketch, and there and
then Betsy set to work, and very soon her flag also was floating
in the breeze.
__________
Chapter 58 - Burgoyne's Campaign - Bemis Heights and Saratoga
After all the fierce fighting at Oriskany neither side could claim
a victory. The British had received a check, but were by no means
beaten. Fort Stanwix was still besieged, and unless relief came
must soon fall into the hands of the enemy.
Colonel Gansewoort, the commandant of the fort, therefore now sent to
Schuyler asking for help, and Benedict Arnold, who had but lately
arrived, volunteering for the service, was soon on his way with
twelve hundred men. Arnold was ready enough to fight, as he was. But
he knew that his force was much smaller than that of the British,
and, after some thought, he fell upon a plan by which theirs could
be made less.
A spy had been caught within the American lines, and was condemned
to death. He was an almost half-witted creature, with queer cunning
ways, and the Indians looked upon him as a sort of Medicine Man,
and feared him accordingly. Knowing this, Arnold thought that he
might be useful to him, and promised to spare his life if he would
go to the British camp and spread a report among their Indian allies
that the Americans were coming down upon them in tremendous force.
The man was glad enough to get a chance to escape being hanged, and
his brother being held as hostage, he set out. He acted his part
well. Panting and breathless, with his coat torn in many places
by bullets, and a face twisted with fear, he dashed into the enemy
camp. There he told his eager listeners that he had barely escaped
with his life from the Americans (which was true enough) and that
they were marching towards them in vast numbers, and showed his
bullet-riddled coat as proof of his story.
"How many are they?" he was asked.
In reply the man spread his hands abroad, pointing to the leaves
of the trees and shaking his head as if in awe.
The Indians were greatly disturbed, and began to hold a council. While
they were still consulting, an Indian, friendly to the Americans,
who was in the plot, arrived. He told the same story as the spy,
pointing like him to the numberless trees of the forest when asked
how many of the enemy were coming.
Then another and still another Indian arrived. They all told the
same tale. A mysterious bird had come to warn them, they said, that
the whole valley was filled with warriors.
At length the Indians could bear no more. Already many of their best
warriors had been slain. They would no longer stay to be utterly
wiped out, and they prepared to flee.
In vain the British commander implored them to stay. Bribes, threats,
and promises were all alike useless. At last he offered them "fire
water." For if only he could make them drunk, he thought, they
might forget their fear. But even the much coveted "fire water" had
no power to still their terrors. They refused to drink, and with
clamour and noise they fled.
The panic spread to the rest of the army. Two battalions of white men
followed in the wake of their redskin brothers, and the commander,
deserted by the bulk of his army, was forced to join in the general
retreat.
It was a humiliating and disorderly flight. The Indians, when they
recovered from their terror, had lost every vestige of respect
for their white brothers. Soon they became insolent, and amused
themselves by playing on their fears. "They are coming! They are
coming!" they would cry whenever the weary fugitives lay down to
rest. Then they would laugh to see the white men leap up again,
fling away their knapsacks and their rifles, so as to make the
greater haste, and stumble onward.
At length the shameful retreat came to an end, and, hungry and
ragged, a feeble remnant of the expedition reached the shores of
Lake Ontario, and passed over into Canada.
Such was the news brought to Burgoyne soon after the defeat at
Bennington. It make his dark outlook darker still. No help could
ever come to him now from the north, and all his hopes were fixed
on Howe's advancing host from the south. But no news of Howe's
approach reached him. Day by day the American force round him
was increasing. Day by day his own was growing weaker. At last
in desperation he decided to risk a battle. For he saw that he
must either soon cut his way through the hostile forces or perish
miserable.
General Horatio Gates was now in command of the Americans instead
of Schuyler. Gates was nothing of a soldier. Indeed it was said
of him that all throughout the beginning of the war he never so
much as heard the sound of a gun, and that when there was a battle
to the fore he always had business elsewhere. Like Lee he was an
Englishman by birth. And even as Lee had been jealous of Washington
so Gates was jealous of Schuyler, and at last he succeeded in ousting
him. He did so at a good time for himself, for all the hard work
of this campaign was done, and Gates stepped in time to reap the
glory.
Burgoyne thought little of Gates, and called him an old woman. So
he was the more ready to give battle. But the Americans were now
so thoroughly aroused that they would have fought well without a
leader. Besides, Arnold was with them, and Arnold they would have
followed anywhere.
The Americans were strongly entrenched on Bemis Heights, and on
the day of battle Gates would have done nothing but sit still and
let the enemy wear himself out in attacks. But this did not suit
Arnold's fiery temper, and he begged hard to be allowed to charge
the enemy. Bates grudgingly gave him leave, and with a small force
he bore down upon the British. The fight was fierce, and finding
his force too small Arnold sent to Gates asking for reinforcements.
But Gates, although he had ten thousand troops standing idle,
refused to send a man. So, with his always diminishing handful of
troops, Arnold fought on till night fell.
Again neither side could claim a victory. But Burgoyne had lost
nearly six hundred men, and his position was not one whit the
better. Gates took all the credit to himself, and when he sent his
account of the battle to Congress he did not so much as mention
Arnold's name. Out of this, and his refusal to send reinforcements,
a furious quarrel arouse between the two men, and Gates told Arnold
that he had no further use for his services and that he could go.
Arnold, shaken with wrath, would have gone had not his brother
officers with one voice begged him to stay. So he stayed, but he
had no longer any command.
Like a caged and wounded lion Burgoyne now sought a way out of
the trap in which he was. But turn which way he would there was no
escape. He was hemmed in on all sides. So eighteen days after the
battle of Bemis Heights he took the field again on the same ground.
It was a desperate adventure, for what could six thousand worn and
weary men do against twenty thousand already conscious of success?
The British fought with dogged courage. Chafing with impatience
Arnold watched the battle from the heights. He saw how an attack
might be made with advantage, how victory might be won. At length
he could bear inaction no longer, and, leaping on to his horse, he
dashed into the fray.
"Go after that fellow and bring him back," shouted Gates; "he will
be doing something rash."
The messenger sped after him. But Arnold was too quick, and the battle
was well nigh won before Gates' order reached him. As Arnold came
his men gave a ringing cheer, and for the rest of the day he and
Daniel Morgan were the leaders of the battle, Gates never leaving
his headquarters.
Where the bullets flew thickest, there Arnold was to be found. The
madness of battle was upon him, and, like one possessed, he rode
through flame and smoke, his clear voice raised above the hideous
clamour, cheering and directing his men.
The fight was fierce and long, but as the day wore on there could
be no more doubt about the end. The British were defeated. Yet so
long as daylight lasted they fought on.
Just as the sun was setting Arnold and his men had routed a party
of Germans, and a wounded German, lying on the ground, shot at
Arnold, killing his horse and shattering his leg - the same leg
which had been wounded at Quebec.
As Arnold fell, one of his men, with a cry of rage dashed at the
German and would have killed him where he lay. But Arnold stopped
him. "For God's sake, don't hurt him." he cried, "he's a fine
fellow." So the man's life was spared.
Arnold's leg was so badly shattered that the doctors talked of
cutting it off. Arnold, however, would not hear of it.
"If that is all you can do for me," he said, "put me on another
horse and let me see the battle out."
But the battle was over, for night had put an end to the dreadful
strife.
With this defeat Burgoyne's last hope vanished. To fight again
would be merely to sacrifice his brave soldiers. He had only food
in the camp for a week, and there was still no sign of help coming
from the south. There was nothing left to him but to surrender.
So on October 17th he surrendered to General Gates, with all his
cannon, ammunition, and great stores, and nearly six thousand men.
As his soldiers laid down their arms many of them wept bitterly.
But there was no one there to see or deride their grief. For the
Americans, having no wish to add to the sorrow of their brave foe,
stayed within their lines. Then, as the disarmed soldiers marched
away, Burgoyne stepped out of the ranks, and, drawing his sword,
gave it to General Gates.
"The fortune of war has made me your prisoner," he said.
"It was through no fault of yours," replied Gates, with a grave
courtesy, as he handed back the sword.
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Chapter 59 - Brandywine - Germantown - Valley Forge
Washington spent the winter of 1776-7 at Morristown. In May he once
more led his army out, and while the forces in the north, under
Schuyler and then Gates, were defeating Burgoyne, he was holding
his own against Howe's far more formidable army further south.
Howe had spent the winter at New York, which from the time of its
capture to the end of the war, remained the British headquarters.
In the spring he determined to capture Philadelphia, the "revel
capital," and began to march through New Jersey. But in every move
he made he found himself checked by Washington. It was like a game
of chess. Washington's army was only about half the size of Howe's,
so he refused to be drawn into an open battle, but harried and
harassed his foe at every turn, and at length drove Howe back to
Staten Island.
Having failed to get to Philadelphia by land, Howe now decided to
go by sea, and , sailing up Chesapeake Bay, he landed in Maryland
in the end of August. But there again he found Washington waiting
for him. And now, although his army was still much smaller than
Howe's, Washington determined to risk a battle rather than give up
Philadelphia without a blow.
With his usual care and genius Washington chose his position well,
on the banks of the Brandywine, a little river which falls into the
Delaware at Wilmington about twenty-six miles from Philadelphia.
On both sides the battle was well fought. But the British army was
larger, better equipped, and better drilled, and they gained the
victory.
This defeat made the fate of Philadelphia certain, and Congress
fled once more, this time to Lancaster. Yet for a fortnight longer
Washington held back the enemy, and only on the 26th of September
did the British march into the city. But before they had time to
settle into their comfortable quarters Washington gave battle again,
at Germantown, on the outskirts of Philadelphia.
It was a well contested battle, and at one time it seemed as if it
might end in victory for the Americans. But Washington's plan of
battle was rather a hard one for inexperienced troops to carry out.
They were as brave as any men who ever carried rifles, but they
were so ignorant of drill that they could not even form into column
or wheel to right or left in soldierly fashion. A thick fog, too,
which hung over the field from early morning, made it difficult to
distinguish friend from foe, and at one time two divisions of the
Americans, each mistaking the other for the enemy, fired upon each
other.
But although the battle of Germantown was a defeat for the Americans
it by no means spelled disaster. Another two months of frays and
skirmishes followed. Then the British settled down to comfortable
winter quarters in Philadelphia, and Washington marched his war-worn
patriots to Valley Forge, about twenty miles away.
Wile the Americans had been busy losing and winning battles, Pitt
in England was still struggling for peace and kindly understanding
between Britain and her colonies. "You can never conquer the
Americans," he cried. "If I were an American, as I am an Englishman,
while a foreign troop was landed in my country I would never lay
down my arms, --never, never, never!"
But Pitt talked in vain. For the King was deaf to all the great
minister's pleadings. In his eyes the Americans were rebels who
must be crushed, and Pitt was but the "trumpet of sedition."
But meanwhile all Europe had been watching the struggle of these
same rebels, watching it, too, with keep interest and admiration.
And now soldiers from many countries came to offer help to the
Americans. Among them the best known perhaps are Kosciuszko, who
later fought so bravely for his own land, Poland; and Lafayette,
who took a large share in the French Revolution.
Lafayette was at this time only nineteen. He had an immense admiration
for Washington, and after they met, in spite of the difference in
the their ages, they became lifelong friends, and Lafayette named
his eldest son after Washington.
But the Americans owed more perhaps to Baron von Steuben than to
any other foreigner. Von Steuben was a German, and had fought under
Frederick the Great.
Washington had taken up winter quarters at Valley Forge, which is
a beautiful little valley. But that winter it was a scene of misery
and desolation. The cold was terrible, and the army was ragged and
hungry. The men had neither coats, shirts, nor shoes, and often
their feet and hands froze so that they had to be amputated. For
days at a time they had but one poor meal a day. Even Washington
saw no hope of help. "I am now convinced beyond a doubt," he wrote,
"that unless some great and capital change takes place this army
must inevitably be reduced to one or other of these three things:
starve, dissolve, or disperse."
Much of this misery was due to the neglect and folly of Congress.
It had sadly changed from the brave days of the Declaration of
Independence. It was filled now with politicians who cared about
their own advancement rather than with patriots who sought their
country's good. They refused to see that money, and still more
money, was needed to keep a properly equipped army in the field.
They harassed Washington with petty interference with his plans.
They gave promotion to useless officers against his wishes and
better judgment. There was plenty of food in the country, stores
of clothing were ready for the army's use, but they lay by the
wayside, rotting, because there was no money to pay men to bring
it to the army. Washington wore himself out in fruitless efforts
to awaken Congress to a sense of its duty. And at length, utterly
despairing of any support, weary of seeing his men suffer and
dwindle day by day under the miseries of Valley Forge, he wrote out
his resignation as Commander-in-Chief of the army. And it needed
all the persuasions of his officers to make him tear it up.
It was to this camp of misery at Valley Forge that Baron von Steuben
came. And the ragged, hungry, perishing army he drilled. To these
men, brave enough, but all unused to discipline, he taught what
discipline meant.
At first it was by no means easy. For the Baron knew little English
and the men he tried to teach knew not a word of French or German.
So misunderstandings were many, and when one day a young American
officer named Walker, who knew French, came to von Steuben and offered
to act as interpreter he was overjoyed. "Had I seen an angel from
heaven," he cried, "I could not have been more glad."
But even then, between his own mistakes and the men's mistakes,
the Baron was often driven distracted, and lost his temper. Once,
it is said, utterly worn out, he turned the troops over to Walker.
"Come, my friend," he cried, "take them; I can curse them no longer."
But in spite of all hindrances and failings, both men and officers
learned so much from von Steuben that when the terrible winter was
over the army went forth again to fight far more fit to face the
foe than before.
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Chapter 60 - War on the Sea
Besides being themselves more fit to fight, the Americans now
received other help, for France joined with America in her struggle
against Britain. And after this the war was not confined to America
only. There was war on the sea, now, as well as on land, and whenever
the British and the French navies met there was fighting.
The Americans themselves also carried the war on to the sea. At
first they had no fleet, but very soon they began to build ships
and before long they had a little fleet of six. Of this fleet Esek
Hopkins was made commander-in-chief. He was an old salt, for he had
been captain of a trading vessel for thirty years. But as a naval
commander he was not a success. He had no knowledge of warfare, he
was touchy, obstinate, and could not get on with Congress, which
he said was a pack of ignorant clerks who knew nothing at all.
The fleet under him only made one cruise. Then he was dismissed,
and was succeeded by James Nicholson, the son of a Scotsman from
Berwick-on-Tweed.
As the war went on other vessels were added to the first six. But
the largest was not bigger than a small British cruiser, and in
the end they were nearly all taken, or sunk to prevent them being
taken. Still before their end they fought many gallant fights, and
did some good work for their country.
The first shot of the Revolution on the water was fired by Captain
Abraham Whipple when he chased a tender belonging to the British
cruiser Rose, and captured her. This was, however, not the first
shot the hardy Captain had fired against the British. For in 1772,
before the "Boston Tea Party," even, had taken place, he had seized
and burned the British revenue schooner, Gaspé, in Narragansett
Bay.
The commander of the Gaspé had been trying to put down smuggling
on the coast of Rhode Island. He stopped all vessels, and examined
even market boats, to see if they had any smuggled goods. This
made the Rhode Island people very angry. They had smuggled as they
liked for a hundred years; the British laws against it seemed to
them mere tyranny; and they looked upon the commander of the Gaspé
as little better than a pirate, who was interfering with their lawful
trade. So when one day the people learned that the Gaspé had gone
aground a few miles from Providence, and could not be got off before
three o'clock in the morning, they determined to attack her.
Abraham Whipple was chosen as captain for the expedition. He and
his men boarded the Gaspé, wounded the captain, overpowered the
crew, and burned the schooner to the water's edge.
When the British commander-in-chief heard of it he was furious,
and he wrote to Whipple.
"Sir," he said, "you, Abraham Whipple, on the 10th of June, 1772,
burned his Majesty's ship the Gaspé, and I will hang you at the
yardarm."
To this Whipple, nothing daunted, replied: "Sir, always catch a
man before you hang him."
Whipple was never caught until 1778, when with his ship the Providence
he tried to relieve Charleston, in South Carolina, which was at
that time besieged by the British. Then he was not hanged, but kept
prisoner until the end of the war.
Lambert Wickes, captain of the Reprisal, was another gallant naval
officer. When Benjamin Franklin was sent as United States ambassador
to France in 1776 he sailed in the Reprisal, which was the first
American warship to visit the shores of Europe.
It might be here interesting to note that besides being minister
to France, Franklin had to look after naval affairs in a general
way. He used his powers with wisdom, and often with great humanity.
Among other things he gave all American naval commanders orders
that they were not to attack the great discoverer, Captain Cook,
no matter in what part of the ocean they might meet him. They were
not merely forbidden to attack him, they were even commanded to
offer him any aid they could. For it would not beseem Americans,
said Franklin, to fight against one who had earned the admiration
of the whole world.
The Reprisal did not return home before it had made its presence
felt. For, having landed Franklin, Wickes cruised about the Bay of
Biscay and the English Channel, capturing many British merchantmen,
and taking them to France, where he sold them.
At this time France was still at peace with Britain, and the
British Government complained bitterly to the French at this breach
of neutrality. They were, therefore, forced to order the American
ships to leave France, and Wickes sailed for home.
On the way the Reprisal was chased by a British warship, and Wickes
only saved himself from capture by throwing his guns overboard. He
thus escaped one danger, however, only to fall into another, and
in a storm off the coast of Newfoundland the Reprisal went down,
and all on board were lost.
But of all the naval commanders on the American side, the Scotsman,
John Paul Jones, was the most famous. He was the son of a gardener,
and was born at Arbigland in Kirkcudbrightshire. From a child he
had been fond of the sea, and when still only a boy of twelve he
began his seafaring life on board a ship trading with Virginia.
For some years he led a roving and adventurous life. Then after a
time he came to live in America, which, he said himself, "has been
my favourite country since the age of thirteen, when I first saw
it."
His real name was John Paul. But he took the name of Jones out of
gratitude to Mr. Jones, a gentleman of Virginia, who had befriended
him when he was poor and in trouble.
When the War of the Revolution broke out Jones was a young man of
twenty-seven, and he threw himself heart and soul into the struggle
on the side of the Americans. He was the first man to receive a naval
commission after the signing of the Declaration of Independence.
He was, too, the first man to break the American naval flag from
the mast. This was not, however, the Stars and Stripes, but a yellow
flag with a pine tree and a rattlesnake, and the words, "Tread on
me how dares."
Jones became famous at once for his deeds of skill and daring, for
it was his sole ambition, he said, "to fight a battle under the
new flag, which will teach the world that the American flag means
something afloat, and must be respected at sea." But he never liked
the yellow flag. It was more fit for a pirate ship, he thought,
than to be the ensign of a great nation, and he it was who first
sailed under the Stars and Stripes, which he hoisted on his little
ship, the Ranger. This was only a vessel of three hundred tons. In
it in November, 1777, he crossed the Atlantic, harried the coasts
of England and Scotland, and then made his way to France.
From France Jones set out again with a little fleet of four ships.
His flagship he called Bonhomme Richard, as a compliment both to
France and Franklin. Franklin being the author of "Poor Richard's
Almanac," for which Bonhomme Richard was the French translation.
The Bonhomme Richard was the largest vessel of the American navy,
but it was only a worn-out old East India merchantman, turned into
a man-of-war by having portholes for guns cut in the sides. And,
although, Jones did not know it at the time, the guns themselves
had all been condemned as unsafe before they were sent on board.
The other ships of the squadron were also traders fitted up with
guns in the same way, but were all much smaller than the Bonhomme.
With this raffish little fleet Paul Jones set out to do great
deeds. His bold plan was to attack Liverpool, the great centre of
shipping, but that had to be given up, for he found it impossible
to keep his little squadron together. Sometimes he would only have
one other ship with him, sometimes he would be quite alone. So
he cruised about the North Sea, doing a great deal of damage to
British shipping, catching merchantmen, and sending them to France
as prizes.
At length one afternoon in September, when he had only the Pallas
with him, he sighted a whole fleet of merchantmen off the coast
of England and at once gave chase. The merchantmen were being
convoyed by two British men-of-war, the Serapis and the Countess of
Scarborough, and they at once got between Jones and his prey. Then
the merchantmen made off as fast as they could, and the men-of-war
came on. Presently the captain of the Serapis hailed the Bonhomme
Richard.
"What ship are you?" he shouted.
"I can't hear what you say," replied Jones, who wanted to get
nearer.
That made the British captain suspicious. Nearer and nearer the
two vessels drew on to each other.
"Hah," he said, "it is probably Paul Jones. If so there is hot work
ahead."
Again the Serapis sent a hail.
"What ship is that? Answer immediately, or I shall be obliged to
fire into you."
Paul Jones answered this time - with a broadside - and a terrible
battle began. The carnage was awful. The decks were soon cumbered
with dead and dying. The two ships were so near that the muzzles
of the guns almost touched each other. Both were soon riddled with
shot, and leaking so that the pumps could hardly keep pace with
rising water. Still the men fought on.
Jones was everywhere, firing guns himself, encouraging his men,
cheering them with his voice and his example. "The commodore had
but to look at a man to make him brave," said a Frenchman, who was
there. "Such was the power of one heart that knew no fear."
The sun went down over the green fields of England, and the great
red harvest moon came up. Still through the calm moonlit night the
guns thundered, and a heavy cloud of smoke hung over the sea. Two
of the rotten old guns on the Bonhomme Richard had burst at the
first charge, killing and wounding the gunners; others were soon
utterly useless. For a minute not one could be fired, and the
Captain of the Serapis thought that the Americans were beaten.
"Have you struck?" he shouted, through the smoke of the battle.
"No," cried Jones, "I haven't begun to fight yet."
The next instant the roar and rattle of the musketry crashed forth
again. Both ships were now on fire, and a great hole smashed in
the side of the Bonhomme.
"For God's sake, strike, Captain," said one of his officers.
Jones looked at him silently for a minute. The he answered: "No,"
he cried, "I will sink. I will never strike."
The ships were now side by side, and Jones gave orders to lash
the Bonhomme Richard to the Serapis. He seized a rope himself and
helped to do it. The carpenter beside him, finding the lines tangled
rapped out a sailor's oath.
But Jones was calm as if nothing was happening.
"Don't swear, Mr. Stacy," he said. "We may soon all be in eternity.
Let us do our duty."
Lashed together now the two ships swung on the waves in a death
grapple. The guns on the Bonhomme Richard were nearly all silenced.
But a sailor climbed out on to the yards, and began to throw hand
grenades into the Serapis. He threw one right into the hold, where
it fell upon a heap of cartridges and exploded, killing about twenty
men. That ended the battle. With his ship sinking and aflame, and
the dead lying thick about him, the British captain struck his
flag, and the Americans boarded the Serapis and took possession.
In silence and bitterness of heart Captain Pearson bowed and handed
his sword to Jones. But Jones had only admiration for his gallant
foe. He longed to say something to comfort him, but he looked so
sad and dignified that he knew not what to say. At length he spoke.
"Captain Pearson," he said "you have fought like a hero. You have
worn this sword to your credit, and to the honour of your service.
I hope your King will reward you suitably."
But Captain Pearson could not answer, his heart was still too sore.
Without a word he bowed again and turned away.
While this terrible fight had been going on the Pallas had engaged
the Countess of Scarborough, and captured her, and now appeared,
not much worse for the fight. But the Bonhomme Richard was an
utter wreck, and was sinking fast. So as quickly as possible, the
sailors, utterly weary as they were with fighting, began to move the
wounded to the Serapis. The crew of the British ship, too, worked
with a will, doing their best to save the enemies of the night
before. At length all were safely carried aboard the Serapis, and
only the dead were left on the gallant old Bonhomme Richard.
"To them," says Jones, in his journal, "I gave the good old ship
for their coffin, and in it they found a sublime sepulchre. And the
last mortal eyes ever saw of the Bonhomme Richard was the defiant
waving of her unconquered and unstricken flag as she went down."
So this strange sea-duel was over. The victorious ship went down, and
the victorious captain sailed away in his prize. But the Serapis,
too, was little more than a wreck. Her main mast was shot away.
Her other masts and spars were badly damaged, and could carry but
little sail, and it seemed doubtful if she would ever reach port.
But, after a perilous journey, the coasts of Holland were sighted,
and the Serapis was duly anchored in the Texel.
With deeds like these the little American navy realised Jones'
desire. But beyond that they did little to bring the war to an end.
Far more was done by the privateers, which were fitted out by the
hundred. They scoured the seas like greyhounds, attacking British
merchantmen on every trade route, capturing and sinking as many
as three hundred in one year. This kind of warfare paid so well,
indeed that farming was almost given up in many states, the farmers
having all gone off to make their fortunes by capturing British
merchantmen.
As for Paul Jones he never had a chance again of showing his great
prowess. When the war was over he entered the service of Russia,
and became an admiral. He died in Paris in 1792, but for a long time
it was not known where he was buried. His grave was discovered in
1905, and his body was brought to America by a squadron of the navy
which was sent to France for the purpose, and reburied at Annapolis
with the honour due to a hero.
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Chapter 61 - The Battle of Monmouth - The Story of Captain Molly
While the Americans were learning endurance in the hard school of
Valley Forge the British were having a gay time in Philadelphia.
The grave old Quaker town rang with song and laughter as never
before. Balls and parties, theatricals and races, followed each
other in a constant round of gaiety. And amid this light-hearted
jollity Howe seemed to forget all about the war.
Had he chosen he could easily have attacked Valley Forge, and crushed
Washington's perishing army out of existence. Or if he grudged
to lose men in an attack, he might have surrounded the Americans,
and starved them into submission. But he did neither. He was too
comfortable in his winter quarters, and had no wish to go out in
the snow to fight battles.
Those in power in England had long been dissatisfied with Howe's
way of conducting the war. Time and again he had seemed to lose his
chance of crushing the rebellion and now this idle and gay winter
in Philadelphia seemed the last straw. Such bitter things indeed
were said of him that he resigned his commission, and went home,
and the supreme command was given to General Clinton.
Now that France had joined with America, Britain was in a very
different position than before. She could no longer afford to send
out large armies such as Howe had been given to subdue the colonies.
For she had to keep troops at home to protect Great Britain from
invasion.
She had to send ships and men all over the word, to repel the
attacks of the French on her scattered colonies and possessions.
Clinton therefore was left with only an army of about ten thousand.
And with this force he was expected to conquer the country which
Howe had been unable to conquer with thirty thousand.
Clinton knew that his task was a hard one. He saw that the taking of
Philadelphia had been a mistake, and that from a military point of
view it was worthless. So he decided at once to abandon Philadelphia,
and take his army back to New York. And on the morning of the 18th
of June the British marched out. A few days later Congress returned,
and the city settled back to its quiet old life once more.
It was no easy task for Clinton to cross New Jersey in grilling
summer weather, with a small force, an enormous baggage train, and
Washington hanging threateningly about is path, harassing him at
every step. That he did accomplish it brought him no little renown
as a soldier.
For some time, following the advice of his officers, Washington
did not make a general attack on the British. But near the town of
Monmouth he saw his chance, and determined to give battle.
General Lee had by this time been exchanged, and was now again
with Washington's army as second in command, and for this battle
Washington gave him command of an advance party of six thousand
men. With him were Anthony Wayne and Lafayette.
On the morning of the battle Lee's division was in a very good
position. It seemed as if the British might be surrounded with ease,
but when Wayne and Lafayette were about to attack Lee stopped them.
"You do not know British soldiers," he said to Lafayette. "We are
certain to be driven back. We must be cautious."
"That may be so, General," replied Lafayette, "but British soldiers
have been beaten, and may be so again. At any rate, I should like
to try."
But for answer, Lee ordered his men to retreat.
At this Lafayette was both angry and astonished, and he hurriedly
sent a message to Washington, telling him that his presence was
urgently needed.
The soldiers did not in the least know from what they were retreating,
and they soon fell into disorder. Then suddenly Washington appeared
among them. He was white to the lips with wrath.
"I desire to know, " he said, in a terrible voice, turning to Lee,
"I desire to know, sir, what is the reason--whence arises this
disorder and confusion?"
Lee trembled before the awful anger of his chief. He tried to make
excuses. Then Washington's fury knew no bounds. He poured forth a
torrent of wrath upon Lee till, as one of his officers who heard
him said, "the very leaves shook on the trees." Then halting the
retreating troops, he formed them for battle once more. Later in
the day meeting Lee he sent him to the rear.
Soon the battle was raging fiercely. Some of the hottest fighting
took place round the American artillery, which was commanded by
General Knox. The guns were doing deadly work, yet moving about
coolly amidst the din and smoke of battle, there might be seen a
saucy young Irish girl, with a mop of red hair, a freckled face,
and flashing eyes. She was the wife of one of the gunners, and so
devoted was she to her husband that she followed him even to battle,
helping him constantly with his gun. His comrades looked upon her
almost as one of the regiment, and called her Captain Molly, and
she wore an artilleryman's coat over her short red skirt, so that
she might look like a soldier.
Captain Molly was returning from a spring nearby with a bucket full
of water, when her husband, who was just about to fire, was killed
by a shot from the enemy. The officer in command, having no one to
take his place, ordered the gun to be removed.
Molly saw her husband fall, heard the command given, and she dropped
her bucket and sprang to the gun.
"Bedad no," she cried. "I'll fire the gun myself, and avenge my
man's death."
It was not the first time that Molly had fired a gun. She was with
her husband at Fort Clinton, when it was taken by the British. As
the enemy scaled the walls the Americans retreated. Her husband
dropped his lighted match and fled with the rest. But Captain
Molly was in no such haste. She picked up the match, fired the gun,
and then ran after the others. Hers was the last gun fired on the
American side that day.
Now all the long day of Monmouth she kept her gun in action,
firing so skillfully and bravely, that all around were filled with
admiration, and news of her deeds was carried through the army.
Even Washington heard of them.
Next day he ordered her to be brought to him, and there and then he
made her a sergeant, and recommended her for an officer's pension
for life. But now that her husband was dead Molly's heart was no
longer with the army. Soon after the battle of Monmouth she left
it, and a few years later she died.
All through the long summer day of pitiless heat the battle raged.
Again and again the British charged. Again and again they were thrown
back, and at length were driven across a ravine. Here Washington
would have followed, but the sun went down, and darkness put an
end to the fight.
Washington, however, was determined to renew the battle next day,
and that night the army slept on the field. He himself slept under
a tree, sharing a cloak with Lafayette. But the battle was never
renewed, for during the night Clinton marched quietly away. When
day dawned he was already too far off to pursue, and at length he
got safely into New York.
This was the last great battle to be fought in the northern states,
and a few weeks later Washington took up his quarters on White
Plains. There for nearly three years he stayed, guarding the great
waterway of the Hudson, and preventing the British from making any
further advance in the north.
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Chapter 62 - The Story of a Great Crime
For his strange conduct at the battle of Monmouth General Lee was
court-martialled, and deprived of his command for one year. Before
the year was out, however, he quarreled with Congress, and was
expelled from the army altogether. So his soldiering days were
done, and he retired to his farm in Virginia. He was still looked
upon as a patriot, even if an incompetent soldier. But many years
after his death some letters that he had written to Howe were found.
These proved him to have been a traitor to the American cause. For
in them he gave the British commander advice as to how the Americans
cold best be conquered.
Thus his strange conduct at the battle of Monmouth was explained.
He had always given his voice against attacking the British on
their way to New York. And doubtless he thought that if Washington
had been defeated, he could have proved that it was because his
advice had not been followed. If in consequence Washington's command
had been taken from him, he would have been made commander-in-chief
and cold have easily arranged terms of peace with the British.
But his plans miscarried. He lived to see American victorious, but
died before peace was signed.
Lee was a traitor. But he had never been a real American. He had
taken the American side merely for his own glory, and had never
done anything for it worthy of record. But now a true American, one
who had fought brilliantly and gallantly for this country, turned
traitor, and blackened his fair name, blotting out his brave deeds
for all time.
When the Americans took possession of Philadelphia again Benedict
Arnold was still too crippled by his wound to be able for active
service. So the command of Philadelphia was given to him.
There he soon got into trouble. He began to live extravagantly,
and grew short of money. He quarreled with the state government,
and with Congress, was accused of inviting loyalists to his house,
of getting money by dishonest acts, and of being in many ways untrue
to his duty. He also married a beautiful young loyalist lady, and
that was another offence.
Arnold was arrogant and sensitive. He grew restive under all these
accusations, and demanded an enquiry. His demand was granted,
and a court-martial, although acquitting him of everything except
imprudence, sentenced him to be reprimanded by the Commander-in-chief.
Washington loved his high-spirited, gallant officer, and his
reprimand was so gentle and kind that it seemed more like praise
than blame. But even Washington's gracious words chafed Arnold's
proud spirit. He was hurt and angry. He had deserved well of
his country, and he was reprimanded. He had fought gallantly, and
had been passed over for others. He had been twice wounded in his
country's service, and he was rewarded by jealousy, caviling, and
a court-martial.
Soon these feelings of bitterness turned to thoughts of treachery,
when exactly is not known. But turn they did, and Arnold began in secret
to write letters to General Clinton, the British commander-in-chief.
In the summer of 1780, his wound still making him unfit for active
service, Arnold was given command of the fortress of West Point,
which guarded the approaches to the Hudson Valley. This fortress
he agreed to betray into the hands of the enemy, and thus give them
command of that valley for which Burgoyne had made such a gallant
and hopeless fight. For a long time Arnold carried on a secret
correspondence with Major André, a British officer, and at length
a meeting between them was arranged. One September night Arnold
waited until all was still and dark in the fort. Then stealthily
he crept forth and reached in safety a clump of trees on the bank
of the Hudson just beyond the American lines. Here he lay waiting.
Soon through the darkness the British warship, the Vulture, crept
up the river. Presently Arnold heard the soft splash of oars, and
in a few minutes Major André stepped ashore.
For hours the two conspirators talked until at length all details
of the plot were settled. But day had dawned before Arnold returned
to West Point, and André set out to regain the Vulture, with plans
of the fort, and all other particulars hidden in his boots. By
this time, however, the batteries on shore had begun to fire upon
the ship, and André, finding it impossible to get on board, decided
to go back to New York by land.
It was a dangerous journey, but for a little while he crept on
unseen. Then suddenly his way was barred by three Americans, and
he found himself a prisoner.
"Have you any letters?" asked his captors.
"No," he answered.
They were not satisfied with his answer, and began to search him.
But finding nothing they were just about to let him go when one of
them said, "I'm not satisfied, boys. His boots must come off."
André made every kind of excuse to prevent them taking off his boots.
They were hard to pull off, he said, and it would take a long time.
He was already late, so he begged them not to hinder him more. But
the more unwilling he was to take off his boots, the more determined
were his captors that they should come off.
So they forced him to sit down, his boots were pulled off, and the
papers discovered.
Only one of the three Americans could read. He seized the papers
and glanced hastily over them.
"By heaven," he cried, "he is a spy!"
It was in vain that André now begged to be set free. First he tried
persuasion, and when that failed he tried bribery. But his captors
would not listen, and marched him off to headquarters.
Arnold was just about to sit down to breakfast, with some other
officers as his guests, Washington being expected every minute to
join them, when a letter was handed to him, telling him that a spy
had been captured. It was an awful moment for Arnold. If André was
captured then all too surely his own treachery was known. He could
not stay to face the disgrace. But he made no sign. He calmly folded
the letter, and put it in his pocket. Then saying that he had been
suddenly called to the fort, he begged his guests to excuse him, and
went out, and mounting the horse of the messenger who had brought
the letter, he sped away, never staying his flight until he was
safe aboard the Vulture.
Very soon after Arnold had escaped Washington arrived. And when the
traitorous papers which had been found in André's possession were
placed in his hands he was overcome with grief.
"Arnold is a traitor, and has fled to the British," he said. "Whom
can we trust now?"
As he spoke the tears ran down his cheeks, bitter tears rung from
his noble soul at the thought of this "one more devil's-triumph
and sorrow for angels."
The chief sinner had escaped. But he had left his fellow conspirator
to pay his debt. For a spy could expect no mercy. André was young,
brave, and gay. He had such winning ways with him that even his
captors came to love him, and they grieved that such a gay young
life must be brought to a sudden and dreadful end. His many friends
did their best to save him. But their efforts were all in vain.
Nothing could alter the fact that he was a spy caught in the act,
and the punishment was death.
So one morning André was led out to die. He begged to shot as a
soldier, and not hanged like a felon. But even that was denied him.
Calm and brave to the end he met his death.
When Arnold's treachery was known a cry of rage rang through the
country. Yet in spite of his foul deed people could not quite forget
how nobly he had fought. "Hang him," they cried, "but cut off the
leg that was wounded at Saratoga first!"
Arnold, however, was beyond their vengeance, safe in the British
lines. There he at once received a commission, and turned his sword
against his own country.
Thus a brave man cast his valour in the dust, and made his name a
scorn and a by-word. But who shall say that the men who belittled
his deeds, and followed him with jealousy and carping, were wholly
blameless?
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Chapter 63 - A Turning Point in the World's History
After nearly four years' fighting the British had utterly failed
to subdue the rebel colonies. They had lost one whole army, had
poured out treasures of blood and money, and all they had in return
was New York and the coast town of Newport. Besides this they were
at war with half Europe. For in 1779 Spain declared war against
Britain, more indeed from anger against the British than from any
love of the Americans. The following year Holland also declared
war against Britain, who thus found herself surrounded by foes.
Still, in spite of all, the British stuck doggedly to their task
of conquering the Americans. But as Pitt had told them again and
again, it was an impossible task. At length, having failed to make
any impression in the north they decided to change the seat of war
and attack the weaker colonies in the south.
Here for a time they were more successful. Georgia was overrun,
then South Carolina, and Charleston, which had made such a brave
defence at the beginning of the war, surrendered to the British,
with all its stores of food and ammunition.
Things were going badly for the patriots in the south, and Gates,
who was still looked upon as a hero, because Burgoyne had surrendered
to him, was sent to take command. Now he had a chance to prove of
what stuff he was made. He proved it by being utterly defeated at
the battle of Camden.
This defeat was a bitter blow. Never since before the battle of
Trenton had the patriot cause seemed so much in danger. But the
dark days passed, and once more the Americans began to win instead
of lose battles. South Carolina was re-conquered, and Cornwallis,
who was commander-in-chief of the British army in the south, retired
into Virginia, and occupied Yorktown.
Just at this time Washington learned that a French fleet was sailing
for Chesapeake Bay, and he determined to make a grand French-American
attack on the British in the south. He made his plans very secretly,
and leaving General Heath with four thousand men to guard the
Hudson, he marched southwards, moving with such quickness that he
had reached the Delaware before Clinton in New York knew what he
was about. His army now consisted of two thousand Americans, and
four thousand French, and this was the only time throughout the
war that French and Americans marched together.
On the 6th of October the siege of Yorktown began. It was soon seen
that its defenses were of no use against the seventy heavy siege
guns of the allied army, and the surrender of Cornwallis was only
a matter of time - for he was caught in a trap, just as Burgoyne
had been. He could not escape to the south, for Lafayette barred the
way to the Carolinas. He could not escape by sea, for the French
and British fleets had fought a battle at the entrance of Chesapeake
Bay, in which the British ships had been so badly damaged that they
were obliged to sail to New York to refit. He could not escape to
the north or the east, for Washington's army shut him in.
Still for a few days the British made a gallant stand. But their
ammunition was running short, their defenses were crumbling to
bits, and on the 19th of October, almost four years to a day after
Burgoyne's surrender to Gates, Cornwallis surrendered to Washington.
Two days later the British soldiers marched out with flags furled,
while the bands played a tune called "The World Turned Upside Down."
To them indeed the world must have seemed turned upside down, for
the all-conquering British had been conquered at last, and that by
a nation of farmers unskilled in war. Yet they may have found some
comfort in the thought that after all they had been beaten by their
equals, by men of their own race.
On either side there was the same grit and endurance, the same
love of fair play. But added to that the Americans had fought for
a great cause. Their hearts were in it, as the hearts of the British
had never been. This was their great advantage. This nerved their
arm.
For two years after this Clinton still held New York, but there was
no more fighting between the regular armies, and the surrender of
Cornwallis may be said to have ended the war. When Lord North heard
the news he was distracted with grief. He dashed wildly up and down
the room, waving his arms and crying over and over again, "O God,
it is all over, it is all over."
As for King George, he would not admit that it was all over, and
he swore he would rather give up his crown than acknowledge the
States to be free. But at length he, too, had to give way, and the
treaty of peace was signed in Paris in November, 1782. This Peace,
however, was only a first step, for Europe was still at war,
and it was difficult to settle matters. But in September of the
following year the real peace was signed, and the United States were
acknowledged to be free. By this treaty Florida was given back to
Spain, the Mississippi was made the western boundary, and the Great
Lakes the northern boundary of the United States.
Thus a new great power came into being, and as an English historian
has said, "the world had reached one of the turning points of its
history."
Part VII STORIES OF THE UNITED STATES UNDER THE CONSTITUTION
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