In the days when no lines were drawn between Massachusetts and New Hampshire, the General Court of Massachusetts had an eye open for a stretch of salt-marsh a few miles north of the Merrimac River, near the sea. The forests were so thick that feeding places for the cattle were difficult to find. Here on these marshes salt was added to the food, which in those days was considered a most valuable possession. For that reason it was agreed that three men from Newbury and Ipswich should build a house on the edge of the marsh.
So on an October day in 1638 they went in a shallop up the winding Winnicunnet River. Where Hampton now stands, they built of logs the Bound House, to make good the claim of Massachusetts to the marsh.
Soon others followed, and the little settlement of Winnicunnet grew up in the wilderness, miles from other neighbors, except the Indians who had pitched their wigwams in the vicinity. Their trails along the river and over the marshes to the sea were used by the white men in hunting and fishing.
In this same wilderness Elizabeth dwelt in a cabin of logs, yet not without playmates or playthings. Chewannick, an Indian boy who lived in a wigwam, came often to play with her, and the little black lamb that was born in the spring was given to Elizabeth for her very own. As soon as she found it was hers, she called Chewannick within the palisade to see the little black thing with legs like sticks.
"When it is old enough to be sheared," she explained, "I shall help to do that myself. Then mymother will help me to card its nice black wool, and we will spin it into long threads. I shall then weave a thick cloth, which will make me a warm winter cloak."
Chewannick stood with wide-open eyes understanding by Elizabeth's motions much of what she was telling him. Together they made the little creature a comfortable bed in the big yard outside the cabin.
It was most necessary to have the high fence built about the house to protect the garden from foxes and other prowling creatures, and to keep the wolves and the bears away from the cattle and sheep at night. Through the day, the gate stood open. The cows and sheep wandered off to the marsh grass, and the children came and went as they wished, but before the sun went down, every creature was driven home, and the children were safely inside when the gate was barred. When Elizabeth petted her little black lamb at night, she could hear the howl of the wolves through the woods and often the growl of a bear just outside the enclosure.
One day when the children were outside the palisade, Chewannick attempted to climb it. Elizabeth laughed and declared he could not do it. He then fastened a prop between the closely planted posts and tried again, but he could not spring with enough force to get over. Again and again on succeeding days he tried, determined at every failure to reach the top some day.
Late one afternoon as the cows came wandering in at their usual hour, the children watched the sheep huddle together. Elizabeth noticed that the little black lamb was not with them.
"And the sheep came from the woods, not the marsh," she added after her first word of surprise.
"Come, Chewannick, we must find my lamb!"
Unnoticed by her mother, who was busy in the yard, Elizabeth led the Indian boy over the well trodden path to the woods. Already the sun had dropped, but on and on the children went until they paused to listen. From the far-distance came a faint cry like that of a child.
"It is my precious, black woolly lamb!" cried Elizabeth, frantically. "It is in the thorn bushes!"
Farther still they pushed into the woods, hardly noticing how dark the shadows were growing. The cry seemed close at hand.
"Yes, here's my darling lamb!" Elizabeth tugged at the poor little thing, caught by its woolly fleece in the long sharp thorns of a bush.
"Help, Chewannick, pull hard!"
Great tufts of black wool were left on the bush, but the frightened little creature was freed at last.
The woods seemed very dark by that time, as they half pulled, half carried the lamb homeward. Darker still it grew. Howls could be heard in the distance. The children hurried on. Suddenly a wolf barked on their very trail. They were then within sight of the house, but with horror they saw that the gate was closed. The hastening wolf had caught the scent of the lamb. The children tried to shout, but they could make no sound.
Chewannick bounded ahead. With desperate force he sprang upon the fence, grasped the top, and fairly fell over the other side. He had the door unbarred for Elizabeth and the lamb, as the fiery eyes of the wolf could be seen but a few rods up the path. The gate was closed in time to shut the creature out, while Elizabeth's surprised mother caught up her little girl as if she feared the wolf might even then spring through the bolted door.
Those who sailed the sea came always to these shores with accounts of the white and shining hills seen far back over the land. From other travelers were gathered wonderful tales of lakes stocked with delicate fish, fine forests rich in game, and fair valleys abounding in fruits, nuts, and vines.
The immediate needs of the settlements held most of the colonists close to their homes, but the spirit of adventure was too strong for Darby Field. It was soon reported among the few households of Exeter that he was going to explore the country to the North, an enterprise which was of great interest to them all. He hoped to find gold and precious stones added to all the other wonders. It was thought that a trip of a hundred miles might take him to the river of Canada, or perhaps to the Great Lakes.
Susan, Edward, Joseph, and all the other children stood about with wide-eyed wonder at the courage and daring that could carry one so far into an unknown wilderness. With two Indians as companions, and a pack strapped to his back, Darby Field waved his good-bye to the group of settlers and started off.
For some forty miles they traveled past lakes large and small, over Indian trails, and through pathless forests. From this time on they seemed to be tramping upward. Field felt sure that they had reached the lower slopes of the shining hills so often seen from the sea.
At last they climbed to a moss-grown level. Here they found an encampment of some two hundred Indians, who proved to be friendly. The travelers rested and looked about. Not far away appeared[A]"a rude heap of massive stones, piled upon one another a mile high, on which one might ascend from stone to stone, like a pair of winding stairs."
Darby Field was moved by the charm of that peak which seemed to be the highest of all. When he expressed a determination to climb to the top, the Indians, horrified at the thought, begged him for his life to refrain. It was, they assured him, Agiochook, the abode of the Great Spirit whom they could see in the clouds about the summit. His voice could be heard in the thunder of the storms from cliff to cliff. The winds were manifestations of His power. His gentleness was revealed through the sunset colors that lingered on the slopes. This sacred mountain had never been climbed by an Indian. Now they begged the white man not to risk his life.
In spite of this warning, Darby Field persisted in his plan. A group of Indians accompanied him to within eight miles of the top. There they waited for his return, for this daring act was of great concern to them. The two Indians who had followed Field from home took courage by his example and held to the party, which was undoubtedly the first that ever climbed our Mount Washington.
From the summit they saw waters to the westward, which they thought to be the great lake from which the Canada river flows. To the North, the country was said to be[A]"daunting terrible, full of rocky hills as thick as mole hills in a meadow, and clothed with infinite thick woods." Perhaps the outlook was too terrible for adventure, for after they had picked up clear shining stones which proved to be crystals, they descended the mountain and presented themselves safe to the waiting Indians. Then instead of continuing their explorations, they decided to return home.
After an absence of eighteen days, they reached home. On a cold night in June of 1642, the grown folk and children gathered about a blazing hearth to hear of the country that lay to the North.
The travelers reported a wonderful trip of at least a hundred miles from home. They felt sure that their discovery of the Great Lakes[A]"wanted but one day's journey of being finished," but for lack of sufficient provisions they had been obliged to return. The glistening stones were passed on to the wondering children, and Field announced that he had gone as far as the Crystal Hills,—the name at one time of the White Mountains of New Hampshire.
[A]Quoted from Jeremy Belknap's History of New Hampshire, Chapter I.
[A]Quoted from Jeremy Belknap's History of New Hampshire, Chapter I.
The thread dropped from the spinning wheel as Elizabeth earnestly leaned forward in the firelight, that late afternoon of May in 1643.
"Uncle Richard, is there any school for boys—"
"Sh! here comes your father!" whispered her uncle.
Francis Norton, absorbed in thought, entered the large east room of Mason Manor house and wandered to the window, where he scanned the ocean distance for a sail. Elizabeth silently picked up her thread.
"Things have become serious, Richard," exclaimed Norton. "Since Mason's death, few supplies have come from England, as you know, and the amounts due the workers here have long been unpaid. I am here to manage the Mason affairs and consequently get the blame, yet my own interests are at stake. My boy must be educated—"
"Oh, I say, Father, six cows are missing!" It was a rugged, healthy boy who burst into the room. "They have wandered off somewhere, and now it's milking time. Shall I hunt them up?"
Norton continued his conversation, quite ignoring his son, who respectfully awaited his father's reply.
"There is a school at Cambridge, near Boston. The only one I know of in New England. A Charlestown minister, John Harvard, left eight hundred pounds for it a few years ago—"
"Don't lose those cows, Francis," interrupted his brother-in-law. "They are a valuable lot, a Denmark breed sent over by Mason, while I was a boy."
Jacob then caught a nod of assent from his father and cast a quick glance at his sister, Elizabeth, whose wheel was again whirring busily. She jumped to her feet.
"May I go too, father?" she cried.
He gave his consent absent-mindedly and then turned to the subject in question.
Meantime the girl and boy chased off together.
"I believe the cows have wandered through the woods to the salt-marsh," declared Elizabeth; so they turned in that direction, following a crooked path for a long time. At last a breaking of the bushes opened a way to the discovery of five of the cows. The children were pushing on for the sixth, when a distant shout was heard on the opposite shore of the marshy stream. There in the mud and mire stood a horse and rider. Each step plunged them deeper and brought them nearer to the stream.
"Is this the ford?" the stranger called.
Jacob at once saw he had mistaken a cow-path for a trail.
"Back, quick!" cried the frightened children. "You cannot cross there!"
The horse, about to plunge again, turned suddenly, while the children shouted the direction to the ford, much farther up the stream.
The last cow had by that time appeared. Driving the sixahead, Jacob and Elizabeth wondered together who the strange rider might be, and then turned their discussion to family affairs which kept the home atmosphere constantly clouded.
"Elizabeth, I must find some way to go to school," declared Jacob, "but I know father cannot send me now. They say all the furs, lumber, and fish that have been sent from here to England cannot cover the expense of these people. What can be done?"
"We must find a way, Jacob," replied Elizabeth thoughtfully, "for you to go to that Cambridge school called Harvard College. All boys ought to be educated." She gave no thought to herself, for in those days girls were taught only home interests.
Still deep in conversation, the children reached home to find that the same stranger, caught so dangerously on the marshes, had arrived at the Manor. He brought Francis Norton a written message, which had come by way of Boston from a newly-arrived English ship.
Norton, standing at the door while the rider waited, read the word and exclaimed—
"So we're to shift for ourselves! The owners of the Mason property can no longer be responsible for their New Hampshire estate."
Many settlers who had come for the purpose of furthering the interests of this estate were involved in this crisis. With no returns from England and back dues long unpaid, the situation seemed hard and serious. Some of the occupants claimed the land they lived upon; some the creatures they cared for; but the most daring of all was the plan of Francis Norton.
Jacob heard it first and hurried the astonishing news to Elizabeth, whom he found at the well.
"Beth, father is going to drive a hundred oxen to Boston, almost sixty miles! He is to sell them there! What is more, we are all to go with him!"
This crafty plan was actually carried out. It was a long, slow journey, but successfully made. The cattle sold in Boston at twenty pounds sterling a head, the current price of that day, which brought Norton a snug little sum. He did not return to Strawberry Bank, but established a home in Charlestown. He was then able to give Jacob an education.
So many settlers had come to New Hampshire that, as early as 1641, the need of a government was felt, and therefore Massachusetts was asked to extend her law to this colony. It was then arranged for two deputies to represent New Hampshire life in the General Court of Massachusetts.
On a summer's day in 1649, at the boat-landing not far from the Great House, the power of this General Court was under discussion by Jonathan Low and Thomas Berry, as they threw their lines into the river and waited for the fish to bite.
"The Court can make a man do anything!" remarked Jonathan. Thomas seemed to doubt it.
"My father has told me," continued Jonathan, "that not more than four years ago Mr. Williams bought an African slave from Captain Smith. The General Court considered it wrong for a man to own a slave and made Mr. Williams give him up. Then they sent the black man home to Africa."
"Hush, here comes Mr. Williams now! Who is that with him?"
"That," replied Jonathan, "is Ambrose Gibbons. They are both magistrates."
Evidently the men were talking on the same subject that was interesting the boys, for, as Ambrose Gibbons stepped into his boat, he remarked emphatically, "The Court has the power to control this evil. Hugh Peters returned to England a few years ago and announced before Parliament that he had not seen a drunken man, nor heard a profane oath during the six years he had spent in the colonies. We can surely then control this ungodly habit that is threatening to corrupt us."
The boys were alert to find out what the evilmight be.
"As magistrates," replied Williams, "we control undue pride and levity of behavior. We oblige the women to wear their sleeves to their wrists and close their gowns about their throats. Our men must now overcome this sinful habit of wearing the hair long."
Gibbons picked up his oars, remarking, "We will enforce the law after we have met the governor and deputies, as is planned." He pushed off his boat, and Williams walked thoughtfully away, while the boys agreed that the Court was a power.
For several days the matter remained in Jonathan's mind. He noticed as never before the trig little cuffs about his mother's wrists, and the narrow collar that enclosed her throat. He was so troubled by the long hair that swept his father's shoulders that, at last, one afternoon he talked the matter over with his mother as she sat by the open door. They both knew Roger Low to be a determined man and slow to accept new customs.
Little Mary was playing with her dolls under the spreading lilac bushes. She glanced at the two as they talked earnestly together and caught bits of the conversation, but continued with her play. After an early tea Jonathan and his mother wandered down by the river, while Roger Low, the father, weary with a hard day's work, settled himself inhis big chair and soon dropped to sleep.
Little Mary had put her dolls to bed and, feeling much alone, snuggled close to her sleeping father. Looking at the long locks as they hung from his bent head, she recalled the afternoon's conversation.
"His hair is too long," she thought. "Jonathan says it is not right to wear long hair."
Stepping to the shelf she took down the scissors and quickly gave a delicious snip to her father's thick locks. Another snip-snap and more hair fell. The sleeping man roused a little, but finding only his little Mary playing about him, nodded off again. His head this time fell in a more favorable position for Mary to continue the clipping, which she did most thoroughly.
It was dark when her mother returned and passed her sleeping husband to put Mary to bed.
Just what happened in that home the next day I cannot tell you, but Roger Low appeared to the towns-people with closely cut hair, an astonishing example, just as the proclamation of the magistrates was announced.
It read as follows:
[A]"For as much as the wearing of long hair, after the manner of ruffians and barbarous Indians, has begun to invade New England, we, the magistrates do declare and manifest our dislike and detestation against the wearing of such long hair, asagainst a thing uncivil, and unmanly, whereby men do deform themselves and do corrupt good manners. We do, therefore, earnestly entreat all elders of this jurisdiction to manifest their zeal against it, that such as shall prove obstinate and will not reform themselves, may have God and man to witness against them."
[A]Adams, Annals of Portsmouth. Page 34.
[A]Adams, Annals of Portsmouth. Page 34.
"Yes, we have given up the name of Strawberry Bank," exclaimed Richard Chadborn, as he settled back before the bright firelight on a sharp October evening in 1653. His brother Samuel had just returned from his clearing in Rhode Island, and was eager to know all that had happened in the years of absence.
"The townsmen petitioned the General Court of Massachusetts," Richard continued, "to change the name to Portsmouth, 'it being the river's mouth and good as any in the land'."
But the name of Strawberry Bank had caught the ears of Hannah and small Sam, who rushed to the spot begging for the story of the first berries picked there by these very men when they were boys.
Uncle Samuel pulled the two children to his knees, offering instead a true bear story.
"Now, all this happened," he explained, "to my Cynthia and John, your cousins, way down in Rhode Island. They had been to the edge of the clearing and had gathered a basket of fine blackberries for their mother.
"'Just what I want for a pasty,' she told them, 'and so well picked that I will make you a gingerbread man for dinner.'
"Their eyes shone like the berries, as their mother pulled the molasses pitcher from the shelf. But there was not a drop in it.
"'Our very last,' she reported, as she looked into the keg in the corner.
"The shine went out of their eyes until Cynthia suggested that she and John go to the neighbors and borrow some. Their mother hesitated, for the children had never been there alone, but those little things looked so disappointed that she let them go.
"Well, they got there all right, I suppose, and had the pitcher filled. They started home, probably talking about their gingerbread dolls, when little John called out eagerly, 'See the big dog, sister; he is coming right to us!'
"Cynthia knew that the creature was a bear. The sight of him so startled her that she jerked the pitcher and spilled a great spot of molasses on the ground.
"The bear was very near by that time and ran for the molasses.
"'Run, Johnny, run!' Cynthia cried, pulling him on. She stopped a moment later to pour out more molasses for the hungry bear, who was already chasing after them.
"'Run, Johnny, run!' she cried again, anxious not to lose a moment for those little short legs, and so the two kept on. When the last drop of molasses was poured out, and Cynthia had dropped the pitcher for the bear, little John stubbed his toe and fell just before the turn of the path to the cabin.
"Now it happened," explained Uncle Samuel, "that a few minutes before this accident word had reached me that two bears had been seen in the woods that morning, and I had rushed home to say that the children must not go out. Before I had finished speaking, their mother had grabbed the gun from the wall and had dashed down the path.
"I tore ahead with my musket. We made the turn as the bear was bounding away from the well-licked pitcher after the children.
"They had no gingerbread dolls that day, but later I brought them home a fine bearskin rug, on which they now sit for their bedtime stories."
Strawberry Bank had not only taken the name of Portsmouth, but other changes had also crept in. In place of logs, houses were built of bricks burned in the dooryard; or else were constructed of frames of oak, often with pitched roofs that sloped to the ground.
It was in such a house as this that Hannah Puddington lived. Old Buff, her large, yellow cat, would sometimes run to the ridgepole and from there watch for the river boats as they returned with fresh fish.
One April morning Old Buff hungrily followed little Hannah to the landing, where she went with her mother to secure a fresh supply of fish to salt and dry, as well as some to cook at once.
As they returned, Goodman Trimmings stopped them to tell of the sad condition of his wife. "She has surely been bewitched by Goody Walford, whom she met in the woods. When she first came home, she could not speak. Her breathing troubled her, but later she complained that her back was as a flame of fire and her limbs numb with cold. Goody Walford told her that she would take a long journey but would never return, and then the witch seemed to vanish in the shape of a cat. My wife has since been very ill."
Goodwife Puddington listened with alarm. "How frightful to find witchcraft on our own shores! Charlestown and Salem have been so invaded by it. There even children have been accused." Fearfully she grasped little Hannah by the hand and hurried home.
When the fish were well cooked, Mrs. Puddington laid one temptingly on a hot pewter plate and covered it.
"There, Hannah, take this to Goodwife Trimmings. It may tempt her appetite. Yes, little Jacob may go with you."
Old Buff followed the two children down the grassy path and through a short stretch of woods to the neighbor's. As they returned, Hannah saw a queer looking figure digging roots in the woods. Her waistcoat and petticoat were red; her old apron green. She wore a black hat over a white linen hood tied under her chin. It was Goody Walford. Friendly Old Bluff darted to her side, while Hannah seized Jacob's hand and ran for home. Her haste and fright moved the little fellow to howls and tears.
"Stop," commanded Hannah, "you must not cry, for then they will say that I have bewitched you, and may be they will hang me as they do the Salem witches."
He caught her meaning, though he did not fully understand, and manfully gulped back his sobs.
Another fear came. Hannah had seen the old witch stretch out her hand and stroke the soft, yellow fur of Old Buff.
"She might have bewitched him," thought the little girl, "but I'll tell no one."
At noon Hannah's father came in with more trouble to tell of Goody Walford. Her husband would not let her feed his cattle for fear she would bewitch them.
After sunset Goodwife Evans, frightened by the reports, came to the Puddington house and begged that she might stay for the night.
"I am followed by a yellowish cat wherever I go. I am sure 'tis the witch work of Goody Walford. Oh, don't open that door!" she cried. "It will come in." She dropped trembling to the settle.
Little Hannah's fright was quite as great in her secret fear that Old Buff might be the witch-cat. She gasped when she saw her father take his gun from the wall.
"We'll put an end to these witch-cats," he declared, and stalked out.
Hannah held her breath in fear. She heard no shot, however. At last her father came in and looked over his gun.
"It wouldn't work," he muttered.
"There is more witchwork going on inside this house," his wife remarked as she looked over his shoulder at the gun. "Your new stockings that I finished last week have holes in them already."
When on the following morning a large hole was found under the door that led to the shed, the family blame was directed to Old Buff. He was without doubt the yellowish cat that had followed Goodwife Evans. Hannah had not seen her dearly loved pet since she had left him in the woods the day before. She feared to have him come home, yet her heart yearned for Old Buff.
That day it was discovered that much of the homemade soap stored under the pitch of the roof haddisappeared.
"Cat-witchery it surely is!" declared Mrs. Puddington.
Little Hannah, miserably unhappy, tossed in her bed that night. Perhaps she slept a little. She was, however, quick to awake upon hearing a cry at her window. Like a flash she bounded out of bed, pushed up the sash, and pulled in her own dear Buff.
"You're not bewitched, I know you're not, my dear Old Buff. You wouldn't cry in that same old way if you were! Come quick and let me hide you so you won't get shot!"
She pushed the cat under the bedclothes and in her happy relief dropped to sleep.
In the morning Old Buff, proud and dignified, sat like a king before the kitchen fire, while at his feet lay the body of the huge rat he had killed. It was the rat that had eaten the stockings, had gnawed the door, and had carried off the soap, afterward found in the walls. Old Buff was the hero of the house.
This strange experience of the Puddington household was told throughout the village. Some were satisfied that witchery was no longer to be feared, but others still held their belief. In course of time, however, the witch acts believed of Jane Walford were forgotten.
John Hinkson led his saddled horse from the stable one September morning in 1662. Things had gone hard with John, for taxes were due, and bills were demanding immediate payment. As he needed money at once, he was now starting for Exeter to borrow, if possible, from his brother Peter, until his grist-mill should bring him the fall returns.
As he mounted the horse, his wife opened the door.
"John," she asked, "if you go to Peter's home, do not fail to ask Miranda for a bottle of her pine syrup. I ought not to be without it, for already little Anthony has a heavy cold. When shall you be back?"
"I must return on Wednesday," John replied, "for there is to be a town-meeting that afternoon." Then, adjusting his gun, he called, "Good-bye," and was off.
When Wednesday came, and the townsmen had gathered at their meeting, John Hinkson was not there. Thomas Keats, whose home was on the outskirts of Portsmouth, reported that Hinkson had passed his house on the way to Exeter a day or two before, but had not yet returned. Richard Webster remarked that he had just spoken with Mrs. Hinkson at her gate. She was looking anxiously for John. Their boy was seriously ill, and she needed the medicine John would bring. She was equally worried lest in his delay night should overtake him, when there was grave danger of attack by wolves. Another townsman emphatically declared:
"It seems as if measures should be taken immediately to overcome this pest of wolves. There is no safety in the woods after dark, and even our door-yards are in danger from straggling beasts. Since Portsmouth has grown to be a town of a hundred inhabitants, though we are widely scattered, we ought to be able to make some headway against them."
The meeting was then called to order, and that very question was placed under formal discussion.
Meanwhile, John Hinkson had reached Exeter, only to find that his brother was crippled for funds and could give him no help. He obtained the syrup that his sister-in-law had made from the pine sap and, after indulging in a short visit, made an early start for home.
The roads were very rough, and the horse loosened a shoe on the way. His progress was so slow that darkness had overtaken Hinkson by the time he had reached the isolated home of Thomas Keats on the edge of Portsmouth.
The rider kept on his way, hoping that the distant cries he heard might not come nearer. He was less than half a mile from Keats' home when the howl of the wolves became more distinct. Soon he knew that a pack was on his trail. The horse seemed to sense his master's fear and dashed forward. At a bend in the path Hinkson turned and caught the gleam of the fiery eyes in full speed behind him. He fired, and the pack stopped to devour the fallen leader, while the horse plunged on. Again Hinkson's good aim brought another wolf to the ground, but a few of the pack, mad with the taste of blood, kept on in hot pursuit. Hinkson brought down a third and dodged a fourth that sprang at the horse's flanks. Again the wolf jumped and would have crippled horse and rider had not the crack of another gun sounded upon the frosty air. It belonged to Thomas Keats, then on his way home from town meeting. The wolves, frightened by the double-attack and weakened in numbers, slunk away into the woods.
"This is a lucky shot for you, Hinkson," called Keats. "The town today voted a bounty of five pounds for every head, provided the nearest neighbor would stand witness that they were shot within the town's boundaries. I'm that neighbor, and I'll stand witness for you." Then, as John Hinkson fastened his bloody trophies to the saddle, Keats added, "The heads must be nailed to the meeting-house door."
The two men parted and later Hinkson rode into his own dooryard, where he found an anxious little wife.
She begged for the pine syrup, for her little Anthony was choking with croup. One glance at thesaddle told of the story yet to be heard, but not until an hour of troubled watching had passed could she listen. The little boy then rested in comfortable sleep, and John related to his wife his exciting adventure with the wolves, adding, "I have brought home four heads, which give me twenty pounds bounty. With my good eye and my steady gun, I can yet relieve the town of an even greater number, and taxes at least will be paid."
Little Peter White was so filled with the pride he took in his older brother Thomas that he had no thought for himself.
Thomas was just sixteen years old, which was a very important matter that June of 1666, when King Charles the Second of England ordered the harbors of the New England colonies fortified.
Although the King's Commissioners had had some trouble with the General Court, nevertheless, the Governor and Council of Massachusetts had appointed a committee to visit the New Hampshire settlements and determine upon the most suitable place for a fort. The eastern point of Great Island, now known as New Castle, had been the spot selected. The matter of building had been left to the decision of the townsmen of Portsmouth.
Now it happened that little Peter was feeding his pet rabbits with plantain just outside the doors of the town-meeting that afternoon of June 19th. As the dignified men adjourned from the gathering, they still discussed the measures adopted for the erection of the fort. Peter's sharp ears overheard the mystic words "sixteen years." Had not his Thomas reached that wonderful age? They must be speaking of him. Peter caught every word that followed, and although the conversation was not about his Thomas, it was of utmost interest to Peter.
With a white rabbit under one arm and a brown bunny bulging from the other, Peter ran full tilt down the beaten path to his snug home on the river bank, where Thomas was weeding the garden.
"Oh, Tom," cried the little fellow excitedly, "you are to help build the King's Fort at Great Island, because you are sixteen years old." This surprising news was explained a few minutes later when theboys' father returned from the meeting.
Eager to learn what was meant, Tom rested on his rake with an inquiring look in his eyes. Mrs. White, who from within the house had caught Peter's words, had come to the rose-arbored doorway, while Peter, still hugging his rabbits, called, "Tell them, father."
"It has been voted," explained Abram White, "that every dweller in this town, above the age of sixteen years, shall promise a week's work on the new fort before next October. He must be there from seven in the morning until six at night and will be paid three shillings a day. The King has sent eleven guns, six pounders, to defend the fort."
"Just think, Tom, you're to work on the King's fort!" exclaimed little Peter, fairly bursting with brotherly pride, for a direct order from the King seemed to the little boy a great honor.
"That will mean another pound for Harvard," replied practical Tom as he bent again to the rake.
Harvard College, the only institution of learning in the country at that time, was the ambition of many a growing lad in the remote districts.
When the call actually came for Tom to work on the fort, Peter announced, "I'll do the home work while Tom's away. I'll weed the gardens and drive the cows to pasture."
"You'll be my right-hand man," declared his father with a gentle slap on the little fellow's back.
For six days Tom had taken the early start, rowing down the river to Great Island and then at a brisk pace crossing it to the ocean side, where fortifications were being erected for protection from attack by sea. On the last morning his father, whose week was just beginning, accompanied him.
Peter in consequence felt himself doubly important as the only man at home. In the forenoon as he was passing the boat-landing, he chanced to see the basket containing the dinners which had been forgotten.
"They must have it," thought Peter and stepped into the one remaining boat, which he pushed into the stream.
Peter had had little experience alone on the water. So interested was he in watching the boat swing into the current of the outgoing tide, that he did not notice the darkening clouds above. Soon there came a flash followed by the deep roll of thunder. The swift Piscataqua tide held the boat amid stream, and the small arms could turn it neither to the right nor the left. Flash and roar repeatedly followed each other. The boat swung past the usual landing on Great Island and on down the river. As the wind tossed the water into white-caps, Peter, who had long before pulled in the oars, clung frightened to the sides. On sped the small craft until it had rounded the curve to the great ocean beyond.
Dinner time had come for the men at the fort,but Tom and his father, with nothing to eat, stood on the rocks, watching the ocean toss in this yet rainless storm.
Suddenly a little boat swept into sight from the river. Above its side was seen a small head too far away to be recognized. Instantly the two watchers, with the same thought, dashed for a boat drawn up on the shore. Pushing it off, they jumped in and grasped the oars. With strong, even strokes they made steady headway, while the stray boat plunged on and out into the sea. It was a mighty pull even for sturdy arms, but nearer and nearer they came until they saw the pale, frightened face of their own little Peter. With redoubled energy, they overtook the little fellow and held his boat while he scrambled into theirs, announcing, as he lifted the lunch basket over, "I was bringing your dinner to you."
Thankfully they carried him safe to shore, where together they ate with relish the rescued dinner.
Early that afternoon Peter's father took him home to relieve the anxiety he knew the boy's mother must be feeling.
When Tom returned that night with his newly-earned shillings, he passed half of them over to Peter.
"There, Pete, put them aside for college. Harvard will want such a man as you will make."
Peter went to bed that night, happy with the new thought that he, himself, might some day go to college.
"Have you never seen a fringed gentian?" asked little blue-eyed Jane. "If you will go down that path with me, I'll show you where they grow."
Benjamin was about to follow, when his father reined in his horse at the gate and called, "Come, Ben, we must start for home!"
"Never mind," whispered little Jane, "I'll bring one to you at the meeting-house on the Sabbath."
John Cutts lifted his boy to the horse's back, and with the bag of meal behind the saddle they started homeward over beaten paths through the woods to the clearing, some two miles from the settlement. This happened as long ago as 1671, when the fire on the hearth was the only kind used. Benjamin was glad to get close to it this cold fall night, as he listened to his father's account of the many wolves shot that week, whose heads, Benjamin knew, would be hung on the meeting-house door until the captors received their bounty.
On Sunday morning John Cutts examined his musket closely, for he dared not start to meeting without it. Indians as well as wolves were feared. His wife sat on the horse behind him, and Benjamin rode before. Traveling over the narrow paths, they passed but few people on their way.
Sunday was a day of fear for Benjamin, for outside the church door was built a large wooden cage which held the stocks, while a pillory was constructed on top, both of which were to hold in most uncomfortable positions those who disturbed the meeting.
Inside the church his mother sat on one side, his father on the other. Benjamin was always left at the back with a row of boys under the piercing eye of Nicholas Bond, the tything man, who kept strict order with his rod and an occasional nod to the cage outside.
On this particular morning when Benjamin dropped into his seat at the end of the row and near the door, he thought seriously of the whispered word he had overheard outside.
"Little Jane is lost. There are several searching parties out!"
"This is the morning," thought Benjamin, "that little Jane was going to bring me the gentians. I wonder if anyone would think of searching that path for her!"
He glanced at the unusual number of wolves' heads hung on the door and thought of those still living in the woods. The guns stacked by the doorway suggested lurking Indians. His fear for little Jane's safety so increased that he became restless and soon received a sharp rap on the shins from the tything man.
It was during the long prayer when all heads were bowed that his fear for Jane became greater than his fear of the cage. Could it be that Nicholas Bond was nodding? Benjamin slipped from his seat, crept out the door, and flew down the road outside. The risk was great, for if he should be caught, the horror of the cage awaited him.
He was soon out of sight of the church and had turned down the gentian path without meeting any one. He knew enough of woodcraft to break a branch here and turn a stone there to mark his way. The gentians were found, and some had been picked, but Jane answered none of his shouts. He returned the same way until he found a branching path.
"She might have taken that by mistake," he thought.
It was a long search before Benjamin came upon the little girl asleep on the ground, with her hands full of gentians. "Oh, Jane, Jane, wake up and come quickly! The wolves or the Indians might find us!"
Together they ran down the path to the turn and up the right one to the church, which they reached just as the people came out, troubled by the disappearance of Benjamin. A searching party came fromthe opposite direction, and Jane's father caught his little girl up in his arms, while Benjamin told his part of the story. His father proudly patted him on the back and swung him up on the saddle, but little Jane scrambled to her feet and darting to his side reached up her plump little hand, exclaiming, "I picked these gentians for you, Benjamin!"
It was now 1675. Four years had passed since Jane Fryer gathered the gentians for Benjamin. Her father, Jonathan Fryer, had moved from the neighborhood of the meeting-house far up the river-side, where he found better land for cultivation. He still held a strong church interest and built for his family a small shed at the rear of the meeting-house. Here they could warm themselves by a hearth fire before the service in the unheated building and take a hot dinner before the long walk home.
Jane was now an energetic girl of ten. One February afternoon she rested her bucket of water on the icy edge of the well as she watched her father striding homeward down the hill slope. As he reached her, he picked up the heavy bucket and entered the house, where his boy Tom was placing a huge log on the fire, and his wife stood ready to fill the kettle with water and hang it on the crane. Jane had followed her father and waited with expectant silence until Jonathan Fryer announced—
"I am going to Boston!"
"Father!" exclaimed Tom.
"This winter?" asked his wife, while Jane embraced her dearly loved father as if he were off for the moon. Boston was fifty-eight miles away.
"I have just attended town-meeting," he explained. "The sixty pounds which we have pledged to Harvard College annually must be paid. There are also town matters for consultation."
As it was February, Jonathan Fryer decided to travel on horseback by an inland route to Boston.
During his absence, the family had cause for anxiety in the weather. Storms and a moderating temperature were bad, for Jonathan Fryer had frozen rivers to cross.
On the night of the second Saturday after his departure, he returned weary and exhausted from a hard and perilous trip. Jane had spent many hours watching for her father and was eager to make him comfortable. She hung about him with every attention, and laughed when he nodded with sleep.
"Father, you must go to bed, for if your head should tip like that in the meeting-house, the cage would await you."
It had been decreed that the old wooden cage before the church door should punish—"those who use tobacco or sleep during public exercise."
The next morning Jonathan Fryer arose aching in every limb. His family begged him to break his custom of attending meeting, but his strong spirit asserted itself, and he was ready at the usual time. With a basket of dinner, the four started afoot at an early hour that they might be well warmed before meeting.
Mr. Moody, famous for his long sermons, had preached some forty minutes when a lusty snore brought the already straight listeners to an alert posture. It awoke the sleeper himself, no other than Jonathan Fryer. The preaching continued to its customary length of an hour or more. Then silently, shamed beyond endurance, Jonathan, his goodwife, his Tom, and his Jane, sought shelter in their small house. Words were useless. They knew what would follow.
The tramp of four tything men was soon heard crunching the ice. Some eight or ten men with that title had been chosen to "look after the good morals" of the neighbors of their home district.
Tything-man Eliot was the spokesman as the four stood to administer justice.
"We regret, Goodman Fryer, that since you have disobeyed the strict orders of the Church, not only by sleeping, but also by disturbing the meeting with an audible snort, we must comply with our laws and place you in the stocks, within the cage built for that purpose."
There was no chance for reply, for like a tiger Jane pounced before these men of dignity and burst forth, "It is not right. My father, in service for the town, has faced great hardships and almost lost his life. That he came to meeting at all, he should be thanked. If you place him in the stocks, you shall place me there too!"
Her flashing eyes and angered face seemed to burn themselves into the stolid four as she stamped her foot for emphasis. The spokesman turned and quietly remarked to his companions, "There is need for further council!" They left. Jane threw herself into her father's arms. He dropped his head.
"My daughter, this conduct doubles the insult to the Church. Your action is unrighteous, though well meant. Your father's disgrace was great enough, but this from a child to our worthy tything men cannot be overlooked. There was need for further council."
No greater punishment could have been given Jane than these words from her father. The barley-cakes, porridge, and cheese were left untouched by the shame-faced group.
Soon the heavy steps were again heard. The moment of suspense was stinging. The door opened and the tything men entered. The same spokesman, perhaps the gentlest of the four, began:
"Goodman Fryer, it is deemed best that the punishment to be administered to your untamed daughter for her unruly tongue shall be determined by her parents. It is left to their discretion. Yet there is truth in her words. The council of the Church commends you for your recent service to the town and grants you pardon for your unseemly conduct in the meeting."
Since the days when Nonowit had welcomed the English to his shores and had taught Roger Low the ways of the wood, there had been little serious trouble between the white man and the red.
The New Hampshire coast was at this time fortified against an enemy from over the seas, but the homes were rarely protected by palisades, save the larger ones used as garrison houses, where the neighbors gathered in case of an attack by Indians. Up to this time, however, there had been but little need of the garrisons.
Roger Low had become the father of Jonathan, and even Jonathan now had a boy Robert, for some fifty years had passed since Robert's grandfather had crossed the ocean to this land. The Portsmouth house in which the three lived had been the scene of Jonathan's boyhood and recalls the time when his little sister, Mary, cut off her father's hair.
The winter months of 1675 had passed. Frightful stories of Indian troubles were coming to the ears of the colonists. Robert Low had loved to sit on his grandfather's knee and in the warm light of the hearth fire to listen to stories of Indian life and of Nonowit, of whom nothing had been heard for many years.
The two were sitting by the fire one evening, when Jonathan Low, leaving them alone, had gone to Exeter for the night. A neighbor happened in. His face was grave, and he shook his head in doubt as he seated himself on the opposite settle.
"Philip, that chief in Massachusetts, the son of Massasoit, is a dangerous fellow. He is turning his Indians against the white men. And have you heard what has happened on the Saco River, at our east?"
Robert wasalert for a new story, though his interest was now mingled with a sense of fear.
"The squaw of the sachem Squando," continued the caller, "was crossing the river in a canoe with her pappoose, when two sailors upset the craft just for the sport of it. The child sank, but the mother dived to the bottom and brought it up alive. Later the child died, and Squando is now rousing the Indians of the east against the colonists. With Philip south of us and Squando, a chief of wide influence, at the east, we stand in great danger."
"Yet peace must exist between the white man and the red," confidently replied the grandfather, "for Passaconaway, the great sachem of the Penacooks, that wonderful chieftain, fifteen years ago urged peace when he called the river and the mountain Indians together at Pawtucket Falls. At a great dance and a feast held there Passaconaway spoke to his people and bade them live in peace, for it was the only hope for the race. They might do some harm to the English, but it would end in their own destruction. This the Great Spirit had said to him. Then," continued Roger Low, "he gave up his chieftainship to his son Wonolancet, who has heeded his father's warning, as have other tribes about us. They had faith in old Passaconaway, who had the power to make water burn and trees to dance. He could even turn himself into a flame. Yet he accepted our Christianity as preached by John Eliot and finally, the Indians say, he was carried in a sleigh drawn by wolves up the slope of our highest mountain, whence he rose toward the heaven of the white man in a chariot of fire."
The neighbor again shook his head doubtfully and bade them good-night. Little Robert, torn by the fears of the Indian raids, and his grandfather's assurance of peace, lay awake many hours. His grandfather was breathing heavily in his sleep, when Robert distinctly heard a footstep outside. Thinking his father might have returned, he hurried to the window in time to see the figure of an Indian. The little boy threw himself upon his sleeping grandfather in fright. As the old gentleman awoke, a heavy knock was heard at the door.
"'Tis an Indian, grandfather," shrieked the boy.
At that moment the outline of the Indian's face was seen at the window which he was trying to open. Roger Low jumped from his bed, seized his gun, and stood ready for an attack. The Indian spoke. Low dropped his gun and listened. Something more was said outside, Grandfather hastily unbolted the door. "Was he mad?" He seemed eager to meet the Indian. Then Robert heard his grandfather cry, "Nonowit!" for the old-time friend had at last come back.
They stirred the fire and seated themselves to hear Nonowit's story of peace and trouble between whitemen and Indians. Robert gained no promise of peace. However, the friendliness of such a powerful Indian as Nonowit was reassuring, and he dropped to sleep in his grandfather's arms.
Toby Tozer dropped the rock which would have completed his house of stones, as he saw a sail tacking across the river straight to his point at Newichewannock.
"Look, Susanna! Here comes Mistress Lear, and she has brought Henry with her," he cried excitedly.
Susanna hurried up the bank to carry the news. She was a sturdy girl of eighteen, with neither home nor people. The little group at the settlement took care of her, and she gratefully served them all.
Hearing of the arrival, Mistress Tozer hurried to the shore, bidding Susanna notify the few neighbors and invite them all to her home for the day. Spinning, weaving, and other household cares were always pushed aside for such an occasion as a visit.
"And may we keep her for days, Jacob?" Mrs. Tozer asked anxiously of Mr. Lear, who was then pushing off his boat.
"Just an over-night trip," he called. "I'm on my way to Dover and will come around for her on my return."
Already the good-wives, with knitting in hand, were gathering to greet Mistress Lear. Some fifteen or more, including the children, were soon settled about the Tozer fireplace, eager to learn of the happenings in Portsmouth.
"How dared you come so far, Mistress Lear, when the Indians are committing such terrible deeds? Since King Philip has stirred up the creatures in Massachusetts, even the settlements of Maine have felt their treachery."
By this time Susanna had caught the winks and nods of Toby and Henry, who were tired of sitting primly on the settle.
"Shall I draw you a bucket of water, Mistress Tozer?" asked Susanna, as eager as the boys for an excuse to get out to theopen. She glanced at the boys, who followed to help her. Secretly she held the fear of an Indian attack and, for days, had been keeping watch over the river.
"My great-grandfather, Ambrose Gibbons, dug this well!" exclaimed Henry, knowingly, as Susanna let down the bucket. "His little girl, Becky Gibbons, was my grandmother, and she traded some corn for a beaver skin with the Indians."
Since Susanna and Toby seemed interested, Henry continued his story as they turned to the shore. "Almost all the Indians were friendly in those days," he added.
"But they are not now," replied Susanna. Her alert eye, at that moment, had caught a distant movement of paddles on the water. As a nearer view brought the dreaded Indians to sight, she cried, "Run for your lives, boys!"
The frightful feathered savages were gliding straight toward the point.
The two children made a mad dash for the house. Susanna, ahead, broke into the peaceful group gathered there.
"Indians! Run! Out the back door, over the fence to the Knight's house! Don't let them see you!"
Susanna slammed the front door and threw her full weight against it, while the women in mad haste rushed through the narrow doorway and scrambled over the fence to the more secure protection of the neighboring house. A moment later the howling Indians slashed their tomahawks into the door which Susanna, to gain time for the others, still held. The savages now forced the door open. The girl was thrown to the floor by the blow, and the Indians, thinking her dead, rushed through the house. Finding it deserted, they dashed through the back door on toward the neighboring house. Shot after shot from this direction startled the pursuing Indians and made them realize that their party was too small to face such fire. They then wheeled about and struck for the canoe.
After a long and fearful waiting, Mrs. Tozer crept cautiously back to her home, sure that Susanna had been carried off captive. No, there she lay on the floor by the door. Could it be that she moved? Her eyes opened. Mrs. Tozer dropped to her side and, with the assistance of those who had followed, brought her quick relief. The girl was tenderly cared for, and in time she entirely recovered her strength.
When Henry Lear returned to Portsmouth, he told a tale of Newichewannock life wilder than the stories of his grandmother's day.