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[Illustration: [See page 43
HE MANAGED TO PULL HIM UP BEHIND]
STRANGE STORIES
OF
COLONIAL DAYS
BY
FRANCIS STERNE PALMER, G. T. FERRIS
HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH
FRANCIS S. DRAKE
ROWAN STEVENS
AND OTHERS
ILLUSTRATED
[Illustration]
NEW YORK AND LONDON
HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
Copyright, 1907, by Harper & Brothers.
***
All rights reserved.
Published May, 1907.
CONTENTS
I
THE CROWNING OF POWHATAN
Adventures in Early Indian History
By Francis S. Drake
II
CORNELIS LABDEN'S LEAP
A Legend of 1645 Retold
By G. T. Ferris
III
TOMMY TEN-CANOES
A Tale of King Philip's Scouts
By Hezekiah Butterworth
IV
JONATHAN'S ESCAPE
A Young Hero of Hadley who Fought at Turner's
Falls in 1676
By Robert H. Fuller
V
THE CROWN OF AN AMERICAN QUEEN
In the Days of Bacon's Rebellion in Virginia
By Sally Nelson Robins
VI
HOW A BLACKSMITH'S BOY BECAME A KNIGHT
The Treasure-hunt of William Phipps in the late
Seventeenth Century
By Paul Hull
VII
THE GIRL CAPTAIN OF CASTLE DANGEROUS
How Three Children Fought the Iroquois in 1692
By G. T. Lanigan
VIII
HOW MARC WAS MADE CAPTAIN
A Rescue from the "Lords of the Woods" in 1695
By Francis Sterne Palmer
IX
CAPTAIN KIDD
An Overrated Pirate
By Rowan Stevens
X
HOWARD THE BUCCANEER
A Captain of Many Ships
By Rowan Stevens
XI
TEW, OF RHODE ISLAND
A Fighter from the Seas
By Rowan Stevens
XII
THE VROUW VAN TWINKLE'S KRULLERS
A Story of Old New York
By Agnes Carr Sage
XIII
THE SIGN OF THE SERPENT
A Story of Louisiana in the Early Eighteenth
Century
By G. T. Ferris
XIV
A DRUMMER OF WARBURTON'S
How a Boy Held Fort George at Cape Canso, in
1757
By Percie W. Hart
XV
ROGER'S RANGERS
The Famous New Hampshire Scouts of the Old
French War
By Francis S. Drake
XVI
THE PLOT OF PONTIAC
How Detroit was Saved in 1763
By Francis S. Drake
ILLUSTRATIONS
HE MANAGED TO PULL HIM UP BEHIND Frontispiece
"MEIN VROUW! MEIN GILDREN!" THE DUTCHMAN GROANED Facing p. 16
"GOOD-BYE, TOMMY FIVE-CANOES" " 32
THE THONGS WERE CUT " 92
HE PLUNDERED AND BURNED " 108
THE HELPLESS PIRATES WERE SWEPT BACK " 122
HE WAS KNOCKED OVERBOARD BY A PIKE-THRUST " 144
SHE ROLLED AND PITCHED LIKE A MAD THING " 204
INTRODUCTION
These pictures of Colonial life and adventure make up a panorama which
extends from Powhatan and John Smith, in the days of the Jamestown
colony, to Pontiac's attempt upon Detroit in the period which preceded
the Revolution. Here one may read stories which are strange indeed, of
King Philip's War in New England, of a Dutch hero's exploit on the
shores of Long Island Sound, of conflicts with the fierce Iroquois in
the North, of a young New Englander's successful treasure-hunt, and of
famous or infamous pirates of Colonial times. They carry the reader from
a boy's defence of Fort George in Nova Scotia to battle against the
Natchez at an advance post of the Louisiana colony. For the most part
these thrilling tales are in the form of fiction, but it is fiction
based upon historical incidents. The imaginative stories, and others
which are historical narratives, will, it is believed, illustrate many
unfamiliar dramas in Colonial life, and will help to give a clearer view
of the men and boys who fought and endured to clear the way for us upon
this continent.
STRANGE STORIES OF COLONIAL DAYS
I
THE CROWNING OF POWHATAN
Adventures in Early Indian History
The first European visitors to the shores of North America met with a
most friendly reception from the natives. Powhatan, the Indian Emperor
of Virginia, who ruled in savage state over twenty-six Indian nations,
on more than one occasion kept the Virginia colonists from starvation by
sending them corn when they were almost famished. To retain his
good-will a crown was sent over from England, and the Indian monarch was
crowned with as much ceremony as possible. A present from King James of
a basin and ewer, a bed, and some clothes was also brought to Jamestown,
but Powhatan refused to go there to receive it.
"I also am a King, and gifts should be brought to me," said the proud
monarch of the Virginia woods. They were accordingly taken to him by the
colonists.
The coronation was "a sad trouble," wrote Captain John Smith, but it had
its laughable side also, as we shall see. Custom required that the
Indian ruler should kneel. Only by bearing their whole weight upon his
shoulders could the English upon whom this duty devolved bring the chief
from an up-right position into one suitable to the occasion. By main
force he was made to kneel.
The firing of a pistol as a signal for a volley from the boats in honor
of the event startled his copper-colored Majesty. Supposing himself
betrayed, Powhatan at once struck a defensive attitude, but was soon
reassured. The absurdity of the whole affair reached its climax when
Powhatan gave to the representatives of his royal brother in England
his old moccasins, the deer-skin he used as a blanket, and a few bushels
of corn in the ear.
* * * * *
On the New England coast the anger of the natives had been aroused by
the conduct of visiting sailors, who would persuade them to come on
board their ships, and then carry them off and sell them into slavery.
One of these natives, named Epanow, "an Indian of goodly stature,
strong, and well proportioned," after being exhibited in London as a
curiosity, came into the service of Sir Ferdinand Gorges, Governor of
Plymouth. This gentleman was much interested in New England, and was
about fitting out a ship for a voyage to this country.
The Indian soon found out that gold was the great object of the
Englishman's worship, and he was cunning enough to take advantage of the
fact. He assured Sir Ferdinand that in a certain place in his own
country gold was to be had in abundance. The Englishman believed him,
and Epanow sailed in Gorges's vessel to point out the whereabouts of
the supposed gold-mine.
When the ship entered the harbor many of the natives came on board.
Epanow arranged with them a plan of escape, which was successfully
carried out the next morning.
At the appointed time twenty canoes full of armed Indians came to within
a short distance of the ship. The captain invited them to come on board.
Epanow had been clothed in long garments, that he might the more easily
be laid hold of in case he attempted to escape, and he was also closely
guarded by three of Gorges's kinsmen.
The critical moment arrived. Epanow suddenly freed himself from his
guards, and springing over the vessel's side, succeeded in reaching his
countrymen in safety, though many shots were fired after him by the
English.
In this affair the European was completely outwitted by the ignorant
savage. Gorges was bitterly disappointed. Writing of it he says, "And
thus were my hopes of that particular voyage made void and frustrate."
And thus, we may add, the first gold-hunting expedition to the coast of
Maine "ended in smoke"--from the Englishmen's guns.
* * * * *
For many years after the landing of the Pilgrims at Plymouth the
relations of the English with the Massachusetts Indians were peaceful.
Only once was there any attempt to disturb them. To try the mettle of
the colonists, Canonicus, the powerful Narragansett chief, sent them by
a messenger a bundle of arrows wrapped in the skin of a snake--a
challenge to fight. Governor Bradford returned the skin filled with
powder and shot, with the message that if they had rather have war than
peace they might begin when they pleased, he was ready for them. This
prompt defiance impressed the chief. He would not receive the skin, and
wisely concluded to keep the peace.
* * * * *
What is known as King Philip's War broke out in 1675. Though it lasted
but little over a year, it was terribly destructive, and it carried
misery to many a hearth-stone.
Philip of Pokanoket, the chief of the Wampanoags, had for years been
suspected of plotting against the English. He had resisted all their
efforts to convert his people to Christianity, and had told the
venerable apostle Eliot himself that he cared no more for the white
man's religion than for the buttons on his (Eliot's) coat. On another
occasion he refused to make a treaty with the Governor of Massachusetts,
sending him this answer:
"Your Governor is but a subject of King Charles of England. I shall not
treat with a subject. I shall treat of peace only with the King, my
brother. When he comes, I am ready."
On the morning of April 10, 1671, the meeting-house on Taunton Green
presented a scene of extraordinary interest. Seated on the benches upon
one side of the house were Philip and his warriors, and on the other
side were the white men. Both parties were equipped for battle. The
Indians looked as formidable as possible in their war-paint, their hair
"trimmed up in comb fashion," with their long bows and quivers of
arrows, and here and there a gun in the hands of those best skilled in
its use. The English wore the costume of Cromwell, with broad-brimmed
hats, cuirasses, long swords, and unwieldly guns. Each party looked at
the other with unconcealed hatred.
The result of this conference was that the Indians agreed to give up all
their guns, and Philip, upon his part, also promised to send a yearly
tribute of five wolves' heads--"If he could get them."
As the Indians had almost forgotten how to use their old weapons, the
taking of their fire-arms away was a serious grievance. Other causes of
enmity arose, and at last the war begun, which in its course caused the
destruction of thirteen towns and hundreds of valuable lives.
Philip was joined by the Nipmucks, as the Indians of the interior were
called, and by the Narragansetts, whose stronghold was captured in the
winter of 1675-76. Here seven hundred of this hapless tribe perished by
fire or the sword. The death of Philip, in August, 1676, ended the war.
Many of the Indians fled to the west, and a large number died in slavery
in the West Indies. The power of the Indians of southern New England was
broken forever.
* * * * *
Captain Benjamin Church, a prominent actor in this war, was the most
celebrated Indian fighter of his day. One of his most remarkable feats
was the capture of Annawan, Philip's chief captain. Annawan often said
that he would never be taken by the English.
Informed by a captured Indian where Annawan lay, Church, with only one
other Englishman and a few friendly Indians, succeeded in gaining the
rear of the Indian camp.
The approach to this secluded spot was extremely difficult. It was
nearly dark when they reached it, and the Indians were preparing their
evening meal. A little apart from the others, and within easy reach of
the guns of the party, the chief and his son were reclining on the
ground. An old squaw was pounding corn in a mortar, the noise of which
prevented the discovery of Church's approach, as he and his companions
cautiously lowered themselves from rock to rock. They were preceded by
an old Indian and his daughter, whom they had captured, and who, with
their baskets at their backs, aided in concealing their approach.
By these skilful tactics Church succeeded in placing himself between the
chief and the guns, seeing which, Annawan suddenly started up with the
cry, "Howoh!" ("I am taken.") Perceiving that he was surrounded, he made
no attempt to escape.
After securing the arms, Church sent his Indian scouts among Annawan's
men to tell them that their chief was captured, and that Church with his
great army had entrapped them, and would cut them to pieces unless they
surrendered. This they accordingly did, and, on the promise of kind
treatment, gave up all their arms. This well-executed surprise was the
closing event of King Philip's War.
II
CORNELIS LABDEN'S LEAP
A Legend of 1645 Retold
The scene was only thirty miles from New York, on the shores of Long
Island Sound. At the time of which we write it was a sweep of dense
forest.
Outside of the block-house, built where the Myanos River enters a bay of
the Sound, one September day in 1645 walked two elderly men, grizzled of
beard and soldierly in bearing. Broadswords swung from their cross-belts
and huge pistolets were stuck in their girdles. These were famous
fighting men in New England history, Daniel Patrick and John Underhill.
Bred to camps, they had chafed under Puritan laws, and had finally
deserted the older settlements. Indeed, Captain Patrick had been the
leader of the little colony which had made this beautiful place its
home.
"I tell thee, John, I trust not the savage any longer. Ponus hath been
as surly as a bear with a sore head of late. I fear the Sagamore plots
evil."
"Belike you are right, good Captain," said Underhill, "and we must match
craft with craft."
"Rumor hath it, too," said Captain Patrick, with growing trouble on his
face, "that strange runners have been back and forth during the month at
the Sinoway village. We cannot look to our English friends for help,
since we signed the pact with his Excellency Governor Kieft, accepting
the rule of New Netherland. If an outbreak occurs, it must be from the
Manhattans that relief will come. But look! there rides Dutch Cornelis
with a bale of peltries to his crupper."
Among a few Dutch who mingled with the English of the settlement was
Cornelis Labden, a bold hunter and trapper, who, unlike the rest of the
colonists, got his livelihood by the fur-trade. He sold his pelts at the
Dutch trading-post about seven miles west, just over the line which now
separates New York from Connecticut. Thither he was riding when accosted
by the two captains. Cornelis was noted for his daring and skill in
woodcraft, and had always lived on specially friendly terms with the
Indians, as was, indeed, his interest. His log house was built on the
brow of a great precipice of beetling rock one hundred feet or more in
height, in the heart of a gloomy forest two miles from the outskirts of
the settlement. The spot is still known as Labden's Rock, and the writer
has shot many a squirrel there in woods still solemn with deepest
shadow. Here Cornelis lived with his English wife and two children, Hans
and Anneke.
"Well met, Cornelis," said Patrick. "We were holding counsel concerning
our Indian neighbors. What think you of their peaceful purpose?"
The Dutchman shook his head. He was a man of few words. "Der outlook ist
pad, Cabdain. Dot yoong Gief Owenoke say to me toder day, 'Cornelis,
Indian's friend, bedder go 'way. Indian very angry at bale-faces.'
Owenoke's vader, Ponus, means misgief. But no tanger dill der snow
vlies. Der Indians, if dey addack, waid dill grops all in."
"You are bound, I suppose, to Byram Fort with your peltries. Tarry
awhile, and carry me a letter for the Governor. I will write it
forthwith." Captain Patrick disappeared in the block-house, and wrote to
the Dutch Governor as follows:
"_To his Excellency, Wilhelm Kieft, Governor-General of New
Netherland at New Amsterdam, greeting_:
"This in haste:--Whereas it cometh to me with some surety that
the savages on our border plot an early outbreak, I would urge
that a company of musketeers be sent to the trading-post at
Byram to protect the outlying country. Thence sure help may
reach this settlement. Once the savages break loose they will
ravage the region for many miles with torch and tomahawk. I
would entreat your Excellency to act right speedily in this
affair. Cornelis Labden, who is well skilled in Indian
matters, bears this letter.
"DANIEL PATRICK."
It will be seen by this that Captain Patrick did not share the
confidence of Cornelis. But all the people were very busy afield at that
time gathering their crops, and they were loath to think that danger was
pressing. The women and children, however, were gathered every night in
the block-house. It may be that this measure of care on the part of the
settlers quickened the action of the Indians in the fear that their
purpose had been discovered. Within three days the outbreak came. The
forest was glowing with all the rich hues of autumn, when through its
arches burst at different points bands of naked warriors, painted with
as many colors as the leaves themselves, and yelling their shrill
war-whoops. Every colonist amid the yellowing corn-stalks of the fields
had his firelock close at hand. They all skirmished back through this
cover and across the rye and buckwheat stubble towards the block-house,
firing and loading as they ran. Yet several fell under the cloud of
arrows before the fugitives reached the little fort. The two captains,
each with a party of men, charged the savages fiercely on either flank
as they leaped into the open, and drove them back with heavy loss. The
settlers then withdrew behind the palisades, awaiting attack.
The red besiegers, having exhausted their arts of attack and met with
heavy loss, for musket-balls told with terrible effect against flint
arrows, determined to starve out the little garrison. It was on the
morning of the third day that a rider galloped furiously from the west
to the bank of the Myanos, where the log bridge had been destroyed by
the Indians. Dutch Cornelis had ridden daringly through the midst of
them. A band of howling braves swarmed almost at his horse's tail. He
leaped his beast into the river amid the whizzing arrows, several of
which stung both steed and rider sharply. Captain Underhill, with a
score of colonists, sallied out from the palisades, driving the redskins
from their front and opening a heavy fire on those lining the opposite
bank. Under cover of this Cornelis landed safely. He had been sent on
from Byram to New Amsterdam with Patrick's letter, and it was only by
hard spurring that he had made such speed in return. He brought the good
news that even then a company of Dutch musketeers was on the march.
The women and children trooped out of the block-house to hear the
tidings. Cornelis cast his eyes over them with agony stamped on his
usually stolid face.
"Mein vrouw! mein gildren!" the Dutchman groaned. "What for you leave
dem to de mercy of de savage?" with a look of fierce reproach at the two
English captains.
[Illustration: "MEIN VROUW! MEIN GILDREN!" THE DUTCHMAN GROANED]
"Nay! nay! Cornelis, blame us not," they answered, almost in a breath.
"We were sharp beset. 'Twas not easy to gather in all the outlying
people in season. There be others as well not saved in the block. The
savage, too, is far more friendly to you than to us English. There's
right good hope that at the worst the lost are but captives."
This cold comfort seemed to madden the bereaved man. Muttering to
himself in his own tongue, and darting wild looks around, as if his
brain were turned and he were about to run amuck, he suddenly sprang on
his horse, which panted there, fagged and dripping.
"Oben der gate!" he shouted, in a tone so commanding that, though
several tried to seize his horse's head by the bit, fearing some act of
desperate folly, others unbarred the entrance. Cornelis dashed through
as swiftly as an Indian arrow. Two miles of clearing and forest lay
between him and his cabin. The way was thick with savages thirsting for
blood. Cornelis spurred on, numb to all sense of danger. The smoke even
yet curled from the embers of smouldering homesteads at every turn. But
he saw only one house in his mind's eye--that was a cabin perched in the
midst of a clearing on top of a great rock, with flames bursting from
its roof; he heard but one sound--the shrieking of wife and children in
their last peril.
Perhaps it was the wild gestures of the rider, signalling as if to
unseen beings, the motions of a maniac, which barred any pursuit at the
outset, for the American Indian as well as the Mohammedan of the East
fancies the madman under the protection of God; perhaps it was that many
of the savages felt more kindly to Cornelis than to other whites. It was
not till he neared the base of the precipice, on the crest of which he
had built his home, that he saw six Indians on his track, leaping at a
pace which outran the strides of his weary horse.
The Dutchman turned in his saddle, and his unerring aim dropped one of
the pursuers; then he urged his way amid the gloom of the great trees up
the hill. When he gained the clearing at the top he saw what had once
been his happy home, now only a pile of cold ashes and half-charred
logs. He had no time to search if by chance there might yet remain some
ghastly relic of those he had loved and lost. The red men were upon him,
running as fleetly as stag-hounds, for now they were on the level.
They were sure of their prey. A triumphant whoop rang out. Tomahawks
whizzed through the air, one of them striking Cornelis in the shoulder,
as the savages pressed on at top speed. The white man laughed loud and
long with a laughter that filled the forest with shrill echoes, and
motioning to them as if he were their leader, leaped his horse from the
top of the terrible rock, crashing through the branches of trees down,
down a hundred feet. The human hounds so hot in the chase were going
with a rush which could not be stayed, and they too plunged to death in
the pathway of their victim. Cornelis escaped with broken limbs, though
his horse was killed, and all the Indians perished but one, who saved
himself by clutching at the limb of a tree. He fled and carried the
story to his tribe.
With the coming of the Dutch soldiers the settlers were strong enough to
scatter their assailants. But most of the colonists, discouraged,
drifted away to the New Netherlands or to the more easterly settlements.
It was not till two years later that a force of Dutch and English
stormed the Sinoway village and crushed the power of the tribe, after
which the town was successfully settled.
* * * * *
Ten years have passed. The skill and toil of the whites have swept away
the scars of Indian warfare. Pleasant homes rise amid smiling fields of
maize and rye. One summer day, Cornelis Labden, a helpless cripple and
almost half-witted, sat on the porch of Captain Underhill's house,
smoking his long Dutch pipe and looking at the shining waters of the
Sound. Here or in the good Captain's hearth-corner he would doze and
mumble all day long summer and winter. An Indian youth, nearly grown,
walked up the lane and stood before this poor wreck of a man. Cornelis
shut his eyes, and waved him off as if to drive away some thought that
troubled his weak brain.
"Lapten, me find Lapten," said the Indian, whose blue eyes and brown
hair were queerly amiss with the copper skin, the breech-clout, and the
moccasins of the savage.
The sound of the voice stirred Cornelis strangely, and as if by some
instinct he spoke in Dutch. The lad listened eagerly, for the words
seemed to be half known to him, and he repeated them. Cornelis watched
him with an intent look, like the gaze of one just awakened from a long
sleep. He trembled, and for the first time in years intelligence burned
in his eyes. Without another word he led the Indian lad within and began
to rub the skin of his face with soap and water, and in a few moments
the clear white was shown. While he was thus engaged over the
unresisting youth, Captain Underhill entered.
"Cabdain, Cabdain," said Cornelis, with a shaking voice, "mein Hans ist
goom back. Done ye know yer old vader, leedle Hans? Vare ist Anneke?"
And he threw his arms with a passion of sobs about the lad's neck. This
opened the gates of memory for father and son, and the identity was soon
made clear. In recovering his son, Dutch Cornelis had also regained his
reason.
By gradual questioning, the facts were fully obtained as the
half-forgotten language of childhood came back. Hans and Anneke had been
carried off by strange Indians of the more northern tribes, who had
sent warriors to join in the Sinoway attack. The children had been
separated, and Anneke was lost forever. As Hans grew up, forgetting
much, he still remembered his father's name and his white blood. He had
finally escaped from his adopted tribe, and worked his way by a strange
series of accidents and guesses back to the place of his birth. Such, in
the main, is the legend of Labden's Rock.
III
TOMMY TEN-CANOES
A Tale of King Philip's Scout
There once lived in New York an Indian warrior by the name of Peter
Twenty-Canoes. Tommy Ten-Canoes lived in New England, at Pokanoket, near
Mount Hope, on an arm of the Mount Hope Bay.
He was not a warrior, but a runner; not a great naval hero, as his
picturesque name might suggest, but a news agent, as it were; he used
his nimble feet and his ten canoes to bear messages to the Indians of
the villages of Pokanoket and to the Narragansetts, and, it may be, to
other friendly tribes.
Pokanoket? You may have read Irving's sketch of Philip of Pokanoket, but
we doubt if you have in mind any clear idea of this beautiful region,
from whose clustering wigwams the curling smoke once rose among the
giant oaks along the many waterways. The former site of Pokanoket is now
covered by Bristol and Warren (Rhode Island) and Swansea
(Massachusetts). It is a place of bays and rivers, which were once rich
fishing-grounds; of shores full of shells and shellfish; of cool springs
and wild-grape vines; of bowery hills; and of meadows that were once
yellow with maize.
Tommy Ten-Canoes was a great man in his day. As a news agent in peace he
was held in high honor, but as a scout in war and a runner for the great
chiefs he became a heroic figure. There were great osprey's nests all
about the shores of old Pokanoket on the ancient decayed trees, and
Tommy made a crown of osprey feathers, and crowned himself, with the
approval of the great Indian chiefs.
Once when swimming with this crown of feathers on his head, he had been
shot at by an Englishman, who thought him some new and remarkable bird.
But while his crown was shattered, it was not the crown of his head. He
was very careful of both his crowns after that alarming event.
Tommy Ten-Canoes was a brave man. He was ready to face any ordinary
danger for his old chief Massasoit, and for that chief's two sons,
Wamsutta (Alexander) and Pomebacen (Philip). He would cross the Mount
Hope or the Narragansett bay in tempestuous weather. He used to convey
the beautiful Queen Weetamoc from Pocassett to Mount Hope to attend
Philip's war-dances under the summer moons, and when the old Indian war
began he offered his two swift legs and all of his ten canoes to the
service of his chief.
"Nipanset"--for this was his Indian name--"Nipanset's bosom is his
chief's, and it knows not fear. Nipanset fears not the storm or the foe,
or the gun of the pale-face. Call, call, O ye chiefs; in the hour of
danger call for Nipanset. Nipanset fears not death."
So Tommy Ten-Canoes boasted at the great council under the moss-covered
cliff at Mount Hope.
He was honest; but there was one thing that Nipanset, or Tommy
Ten-Canoes, did fear. It was enchantment. He would have faced torture or
death without a word, but everything mysterious filled him with terror.
If he had thought that a bush contained a hidden enemy and flintlock, he
would have been very brave; but had he thought that the same bush was
stirred by a spirit, or was enchanted, he would have run.
Tommy Ten-Canoes had been friendly to the white people who had settled
in Pokanoket. There was a family by the name of Brown, who lived on
Cole's River, that he especially liked, and he became a companion of one
of the sons named James. The two were so often together that the people
used to speak of those who were very intimate as being "as _thick_ as
little James Brown and old Tommy Ten-Canoes," or rather as "Jemmie
Brown" and our young hero of the many birch boats.
The two hunted and fished together; they made long journeys together; in
fact, they did everything in common, except work. Tommy did not work,
at least in the field, while James did at times, when he was not with
Tommy.
When the Indian war began, King Philip sent word to the Brown family,
and also to the Cole family, who lived near them, both of whom had
treated him justly and generously, that he would do all in his power to
protect them, but that he might not be able to restrain his braves.
Tommy Ten-Canoes brought a like friendly message to Jemmie Brown.
"I will always be true to you," he said; "true as the north wind to the
river, the west wind to the sea, and the south wind to the flowers.
Nipanset's heart is true to his friends. Our hearts will see each other
again."
The Indian torch swept the settlements. One of the bravest scouts in
these dark scenes was Tommy Ten-Canoes. He flew from place to place like
the wind, carrying news and spying out the enemy.
Tommy grew proud over his title of "Ten-Canoes." He felt like ten
Tommies. He wore his crown of osprey feathers like a royal king. His
ten canoes ferried the painted Indians at night, and carried the chiefs
hither and thither.
There was a grizzly old Boston Captain, who had done hard service on the
sea, named Moseley. He wore a wig, a thing that the Indians had never
seen, and of whose use they knew nothing at all.
Tommy Ten-Canoes had never feared the white man nor the latter's
death-dealing weapons. He had never retreated; he had always been found
in front of the stealthy bands as they pursued the forest trails. But
his courage was at last put to a test of which he had never dreamed.
Old Captain Moseley had led a company of trained soldiers against the
Indians from Boston. Tommy Ten-Canoes had discovered the movement, and
had prepared the Indians to meet it. Captain Moseley's company, which
consisted of one hundred men, had first marched to a place called Myles
Bridge in Swansea. Here was a garrison house in which lived Rev. John
Myles. The church was called Baptist, but people of all faiths were
welcome to it; among the latter, Marinus Willett, who afterwards became
the first Mayor of New York. It was the first church of the kind in
Massachusetts, and it still exists in Swansea.
Over the glimmering waterways walled with dark oak woods came Tommy
Ten-Canoes, with five of his famous boats, and landed at a place near
the thrifty Baptist colony, so that his little navy might be at the
ready service of Philip. It was the last days of June. There had been an
eclipse of the moon on the night that Tommy Ten-Canoes had glided up the
Sowans River towards Myles Bridge. He thought the eclipse was meant for
him and his little boats, and he was a very proud and happy man.
"The moon went out in the clear sky when we left the bay," said he; "so
shall our enemies be extinguished. The moon shone again on the calm
river. For whom did the moon shine again? For Nipanset."
Poor Tommy Ten-Canoes! He was not the first hero of modern times who
has thought that the moon and stars were made for him and shone for him
on special occasions.
In old Captain Moseley's company was a Jamaica pilot who had visited
Pokanoket and been presented to Tommy, and told that the latter was a
very renowned Indian.
"_What_ are you?" asked the Pilot.
"I am Tommy One-Canoe."
"Ah!"
"I am Tommy Two-Canoes."
"Indeed! Ah!"
"I am Tommy Three-Canoes."
"Oh! Ah! Indeed!"
"I am Tommy Four-Canoes, _and_ I am Tommy Five-Canoes, _and_ I am Tommy
Six-Canoes, _and_ I am Tommy TEN-Canoes."
"Well, Tommy Ten-Canoes," said the Pilot, "don't you ever get into any
trouble with the white people, because you might find yourself merely
Tommy No-Canoes."
Tommy was offended at this. He had no fears of such a fall from power,
however.
The old Jamaica pilot had taken a boat and drifted down the Sowans
River one long June day, when he chanced to discover Tommy and his five
canoes. The canoes were hauled up on the shore under the cool trees
which overshadowed the water. The Pilot, who had with him three men,
rowed boldly to the shore and surprised Tommy Ten-Canoes, who had gone
into the wood, leaving his weapons in one of his canoes.
The Pilot seized the canoe with the weapons and drew it from the shore.
Tommy Ten-Canoes beheld the movement with astonishment. He called to the
old Pilot, "I am Tommy Ten-Canoes!"
"No, no," answered the Pilot. "You are Tommy Nine-Canoes."
Presently the Pilot drew from the shore another canoe. Tommy called
again:
"Don't you know me? I am--"
"Tommy Eight-Canoes," said the Pilot.
Another boat was removed in like manner, and the Pilot shouted, "And now
you are Tommy Seven-Canoes." Another, and the Pilot called again, "Now
you are Tommy Six-Canoes." Another. "Good-bye, Tommy Five-Canoes," said
the Pilot, and he and his men drew all of the light canoes after them up
the river.
[Illustration: "GOOD-BYE, TOMMY FIVE-CANOES"]
Xerxes at Salamis could hardly have felt more crushed in heart than
Tommy Ten-Canoes. But hope revived; he was Tommy Five-Canoes still. He
was not quite so sure now, however, that the moon on that still June
night had been eclipsed expressly for him.
The scene of the war now changed to the western border, as the towns of
Hadley and Deerfield were called, for these towns in that day were the
"great west," as afterwards was the Ohio Reserve. Tommy having lost five
of his canoes, now used his swift feet as a messenger. He still had
hopes of doing great deeds, else why had the moon been eclipsed on that
beautiful June night?
But an event followed the loss of his five canoes that quite changed his
opinion. As a messenger or runner he had hurried to the scene of the
brutal conflicts on the border, and had there discovered that Captain
Moseley, the old Jamaica pirate, was subject to some spell of
enchantment; that he had two heads.
"Ugh! ugh! him no good!" said one of the Indians to Tommy; "he take off
his head and put him in his pocket. It is no use to fight him. Spell set
on him--enchanted."
Tommy Ten-Canoes' fear of the man with two heads, one of which he
sometimes took off and put in his pocket, spread among the Indians. One
day in a skirmish Tommy saw Moseley take off one of his enchanted heads
and hang it on a blueberry bush. Other Indians saw it. "No scalp him,"
said they. "Run!" And run they did, not from the open foe, but from the
supposed head on the bush. Moseley did not dream at the time that it was
his wig that had given him the victory.
Across the Mount Hope Bay, among the sunny headlands of Pocassett, there
was an immense cedar swamp, cool and dark, and in summer full of
fire-flies. Tommy Ten-Canoes called it the swamp of the fire-flies. It
was directly opposite Pokanoket, across the placid water. A band of
Indians gathered there, and covered their bodies with bushes, so that
they might not be discovered on the shore.
One moonlight night in September Tommy went to visit these masked
Indians in four of his canoes. He rowed one of his canoes, and three
squaws the others. On reaching the fire-fly cedar swamp the party met
the masked Indians, and late at night retired to rest, the three Indian
squaws sleeping on the shore under their three canoes.
Captain Moseley had sent the old Jamaica pilot to try to discover the
hiding-place of this mysterious band of Indians. The Pilot had seen the
four canoes crossing the bay from Pokanoket under the low September
moon, and had hurried with a dozen men to the place of landing. He
surprised the party early the next morning, when they were disarmed and
asleep.
The crack of his musket rang out in the clear air over the bay. A naked
Indian was seen to leap up.
"Stop! I am Tommy Ten-Canoes."
"No, Tommy Five-Canoes," answered the Pilot; "and now you are only
Tommy Four-Canoes." Saying which, the Pilot seized the _sixth_ canoe.
A shriek followed; another, and another. Three canoes hidden in the
river-weeds were overturned, and three Indian squaws were seen running
into the dark swamp.
"And now you are Tommy Three-Canoes," said the Pilot, seizing the
seventh canoe. "And now Tommy Two-Canoes," seizing the eighth.
"And only Tommy One-Canoe," taking possession of the ninth canoe. "And
now you are Tommy No-Canoes, as I told you you would be if you went to
war," said the Pilot, taking according to this odd reckoning the
Indian's last canoe.
But Tommy had one canoe left, notwithstanding the dark Pilot had taken
his _tenth_. He was glad that it was not here. It would have been his
_eleventh_ canoe, although he had but ten. He knew that the Pilot was
one of Moseley's men, the Captain who put his head at times in his
pocket or hung it upon a bush. Poor Tommy Ten-Canoes! He uttered a
shriek, like the fugitive squaws, and fled.
"Don't shoot at him," said the old Pilot to his men. "I have taken from
him all of his ten canoes; let him go."
Tommy had not a mathematical mind or education, but he knew that somehow
he had no eleventh canoe, and that one of his ten canoes yet remained.
And even the old Pilot must have at last seen that his count of ten was
only nine. Tommy fled to a point on the Titicut River at which he could
swim across, and then made his solitary way back to the shores of
Pokanoket and to his remaining canoe, which did not belong to
mathematics.
One morning late in September Tommy Ten-Canoes turned his solitary canoe
towards Cole's River, near which lived his boy friend, James Brown. He
paddled slowly, and late in the dreamy afternoon reached the shore
opposite the Brown farm. He landed and tied his one canoe to Jemmie
Brown's boat, in which the two had spent many happy hours before the
war.
The canoe was found there the next day; but Tommy Ten-Canoes? He was
never seen again; he probably sought a grave in the waters of the bay.
But he had fulfilled his promise. He had been true in his heart as "the
north wind to the river, the west wind to the sea, and the south wind to
the flowers."
IV
JONATHAN'S ESCAPE
A Young Hero of Hadley who Fought at Turner's Falls in 1676
Though the Indians of New England were for many years vastly superior in
numbers to the white men, they were never wholly united, and their
cowardice and lack of discipline were weaknesses for which their
treachery and deceit could not compensate. The long conflict between the
races culminated in 1675 in King Philip's War, when the wily Wampanoag
sachem succeeded in forming a confederation, embracing nearly all the
New England tribes, for a final desperate struggle.
It seemed for a time as though the combination might succeed. At the end
of the summer the scattered settlements, and especially those along the
Connecticut River, which formed the outposts of the colonies, were
panic-stricken. Everywhere the savage allies had been victorious. A
dozen towns had been attacked and burned, bands of soldiers had been cut
off, and isolated murders without number had been committed. Prowling
bands of Indians lurked about the stockaded towns, driving off cattle
and rendering impossible the cultivation of the fields, so that the
settlers were called upon to face starvation as well as the
scalping-knife and tomahawk.
There was no meeting the Indians face to face, except by surprise. They
fought from ambush, or by sudden assault on unprotected points, and
would be gone before troops could be brought to the scene. The white men
were unable to follow them without Indian allies, and they were slow to
adapt themselves to the Indian mode of fighting. Flushed by their
success, the confederates became overconfident, and grew to despise
their clumsy opponents. In the spring of 1676 more than five thousand
of them were encamped on the Connecticut River, twenty miles north of
Hadley. Here they planted their corn and squashes, and amused themselves
with councils, ceremonies, and feasts, boasting of what they had done
and what they would do. They judged the white men by themselves, and did
not suspect the iron courage and stubborn determination that were urging
the people in the towns below them "to be out against the enemy." On the
night of May 18th they indulged in a great feast, and after it was over,
slept soundly in their bark lodges, all but the wary Philip, who,
scenting danger, had withdrawn across the river.
On that same evening about two hundred and fifty men and boys gathered
in Hadley street. Of this number fifty-six were soldiers from the
garrisons of Hadley, Northampton, Springfield, Hatfield, and Westfield.
The rest were volunteers, among whom was Jonathan Wells, of Hadley,
sixteen years old, whose adventures and miraculous escape have been
preserved.
The party was under the command of Captain William Turner, and the
expedition which it was about to undertake was inspired by a daring
amounting to rashness. The plan was to attack the Indian camp, which
contained four times their number of well-armed braves. Defeat meant
death, or captivity and torture worse than death. The march began after
nightfall so as not to attract the attention of the Indian scouts, and
the little band made its way safely through swamps and forests, past the
Indian outposts, and at daybreak arrived in the neighborhood of the
camp. Here the horses were left under a small guard among the trees,
while the men crept forward to the lodges of the enemy.
The surprise was complete. The panic-stricken savages, crying that the
dreaded Mohawks were upon them, were shot down by scores, or, plunging
into the river, were swept over the falls which now bear Captain
Turner's name. The backbone of Philip's conspiracy was broken, and he
himself was driven to begin soon afterwards the hunted wanderings which
were to end in the fatal morass.
But the attacking party, though victorious, was not yet out of danger.
It was still heavily outnumbered by the surviving Indians. While the
soldiers were destroying arms, ammunition, and food, or scattered in
pursuit of the fleeing enemy, the warriors rallied, and opened fire upon
them from under cover of the trees. Captain Turner became alarmed and
ordered a retreat. The main body hastily mounted and plunged into the
forest, seeking to shake off the cloud of savages who hung upon their
flanks like a swarm of angry bees.
Young Jonathan was with a detachment of about twenty who were some
distance up the river when the retreat began. They ran back to the
horses and found their comrades gone. The Indians pressed upon them in
numbers they could not hope to withstand. It was every man for himself.
In the confusion the boy kept his wits about him, and managed to find
his horse. As he plunged forward under the branches three Indians
levelled their pieces and fired. One shot passed through his hair,
another struck his horse, and the third entered his thigh, splintering
the bone where it had been broken by a cart-wheel and never properly
healed. He reeled, and would have fallen had he not clutched the mane of
his horse. The Indians, seeing that he was wounded, pursued him, but he
pointed his gun at them, and held them at bay until he was out of their
reach. As he galloped on he heard a cry for help, and reining in his
horse, regardless of the danger which encompassed him, found Stephen
Belding, a boy of his own age, lying sorely wounded on the ground. He
managed to pull him up behind, and they rode double until they overtook
the party in advance. This brave act saved Belding's life.
The retreat had become a rout. All was panic and dismay; but Jonathan
was unwilling to desert the comrades left behind. He sought out Captain
Turner, and begged him to halt and turn back to their relief. "It is
better to save some than to lose all," was the Captain's answer. The
confusion increased, and to add to it the guides became bewildered and
lost their way. "If you love your lives, follow me!" cried one. "If you
would see your homes again! follow me," shouted another, and the party
was soon split up into small bands. The one with which Jonathan found
himself became entangled in a swamp, where it was once more attacked by
the Indians. He escaped again, with ten others, who, finding that his
horse was going lame from his wound, and that he himself was weak from
loss of blood, left him with another wounded man and rode away. His
companion, thinking the boy's hurt worse than his own, concluded that he
would stand a better chance of getting clear alone, and riding off on
pretence of seeking the path, failed to return. Jonathan was now wholly
deserted. Wounded, ignorant even of the direction of his home,
surrounded by bloodthirsty Indians, and weak with hunger, he pushed
desperately on. He was near fainting once, when he heard some Indians
running about and whooping near by; but they did not discover him, and a
nutmeg which he had in his pocket revived him for a time.
After straying some distance farther he swooned in good earnest, and
fell from his horse. When he came to he found that he had retained his
hold on the reins, and that the animal stood quietly beside him. He tied
him to a tree, and lay down again; but he soon grew so weak that he
abandoned all hope of escape, and out of pity loosed the horse and let
him go. He succeeded in kindling a fire by flashing powder in the pan of
his gun. It spread in the dry leaves and burned his hands and face
severely. Feeling sure that the Indians would be attracted by the smoke
and come and kill him, he threw away his powder-horn and bullets,
keeping only ammunition for a single shot. Then he stopped his wound
with tow, bound it up with his neckcloth, and went to sleep.
In the morning he found that the bleeding had stopped and that he was
much stronger. He managed to find a path which led him to a river which
he remembered to have crossed on the way to the camp. With great pain
and difficulty, leaning on his gun, the lock of which he was careful to
keep dry, he waded through it, and fell exhausted on the farther bank.
While he lay there an Indian in a canoe appeared, and the boy, who could
neither fight nor run, gave himself up for lost. But he remembered the
three Indians in the woods, and putting a bold face on the matter, aimed
his gun, though its barrel was choked with sand. The savage, thinking he
was about to shoot, leaped overboard, leaving his own gun in the canoe,
and ran to tell his friends that the white men were coming again.
Jonathan knew that pursuit was certain, and as it was broad daylight,
and he could only hobble at best, he assured himself that there was no
hope for him. Nevertheless he looked about for a hiding-place, and
presently, a little distance away, noticed two trees which, undermined
by the current, had fallen forward into the stream close together. A
mass of driftwood had lodged on their trunks. Jonathan got back into the
water so as to leave no tracks, and creeping between the trunks under
the driftwood, found a space large enough to permit him to breathe. In a
few minutes the Indians arrived in search of him, as he had expected.
They ransacked the whole neighborhood, even running out upon the mat of
driftwood over his head, and causing the trees to sink with their weight
so as to thrust his head under water; but they could find no trace of
him, and at last retired, completely outwitted.
The boy limped on, tortured by hunger and thirst, and so giddy with
weakness that he could proceed but a short distance without stopping to
rest. Happily he saw no more of the Indians, and at last, on the third
day of his painful journey, he arrived at Hadley, where he was welcomed
as one risen from the dead.
The story of his escape was told for years around the wide fireplaces
throughout the country-side, and was thought so remarkable that one who
heard it, unwilling that the record of so much coolness and courage
should be lost, wrote it down for future generations of boys to read.
V
THE CROWN OF AN AMERICAN QUEEN
In the Days of Bacon's Rebellion in Virginia
In the age when America was but a name and Virginia only a hamlet, there
was a dusky queen who wore a silver crown by order of his most sacred
Majesty King Charles II., King of England, Scotland, France, Ireland,
and Virginia.
There are few distinct Indian personalities. Powhatan, Pocahontas,
Opechancanough, Totopotomoi and his wife, the Queen of the Pamunkeys,
are savage heroes who sentinel the seventeenth century; they all
belonged to the Pamunkey tribe of the great Powhatan Confederacy, the
most powerful Indian combination that ever existed.
When the boisterous and heroic Nathaniel Bacon[A] was in the flush of
his wonderful success, and had brought his followers to Jamestown, he
demanded of the Governor redress for Indian depredations and outrages.
When the Assembly in council was sitting, the Queen of the Pamunkeys
came in, leading her son by the hand. She came to tell of grievances
also. She wore a dress of black and white wampum peake and a mantle of
deer-skin, "cut in a frenge" six inches from the outer edge. It fell
loosely from her shoulders to her feet. On her head was a crown of
"purple bead of shell, drilled." She was a beautiful woman, old
chronicles tell us, and she walked in with a proud but aggrieved
countenance.