Historic Events of Colonial Days
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Title: Historic Events of Colonial Days
Author: Rupert Sargent Holland
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HISTORIC EVENTS OF COLONIAL DAYS ***
The Historic Series for Young People
By RUPERT S. HOLLAND
+Historic Boyhoods+
Stories of the Boyhoods of Famous Men.
+Historic Girlhoods+
Stories of the Girlhoods of Famous Women.
+Historic Inventions+
Stories of the Great Inventors.
+Historic Poems and Ballads+
The Heroic Poems of All Lands.
+Historic Adventures+
Stories of Our Nation's Heroes.
+Historic Heroes of Chivalry+
Stories of Brave Knights of Old.
Each 12mo. Cloth, Illustrated, $1.50 net
"_Ideal Books for Young Americans_"
[Illustration: ANDROSS STARED AT GOVERNOR TREAT]
Historic Events of Colonial Days
By RUPERT S. HOLLAND
_Author of "Historic Boyhoods," "Historic
Girlhoods," "Historic Inventions," etc._
[Illustration: Logo]
PHILADELPHIA
GEORGE W. JACOBS & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
Copyright, 1916, by
GEORGE W. JACOBS & COMPANY
_Published, October, 1916_
_All rights reserved_
Printed in U. S. A.
Contents
I. A PURITAN HERO 9
(_Rhode Island, 1630_)
II. PETER STUYVESANT'S FLAG 21
(_New York, 1661_)
III. WHEN GOVERNOR ANDROSS CAME TO CONNECTICUT 55
(_Connecticut, 1675_)
IV. THE STRUGGLE BETWEEN NATHANIEL BACON
AND SIR WILLIAM BERKELEY 70
(_Virginia, 1676_)
V. AN OUTLAW CHIEF OF MARYLAND 105
(_Maryland, 1684_)
VI. IN THE DAYS OF WITCHES 139
(_Massachusetts, 1692_)
VII. THE ATTACK ON THE DELAWARE 174
(_Pennsylvania, 1706_)
VIII. THE PIRATES OF CHARLES TOWN HARBOR 206
(_South Carolina, 1718_)
IX. THE FOUNDER OF GEORGIA 245
(_Georgia, 1732_)
X. THE GREEN MOUNTAIN BOYS AND THE YORKERS 287
(_Vermont, 1774_)
Illustrations
Andross Stared at Governor Treat _Frontispiece_
Stuyvesant Bit His Lips as His Gunners Waited _Facing page_ 46
"I Yield as Your Prisoner" " " 116
Nick Turned to Lead the Way " " 210
I
A PURITAN HERO
(_Rhode Island, 1630_)
The good ship _Lyon_ had been sixty-seven days outward bound from the
port of Bristol, in England, when she dropped anchor early in February,
1630, at Nantasket, near the entrance of Boston Harbor, in New England.
The ship had met with many winter storms, and passengers and crew were
glad to see the shores of Massachusetts. On the ninth of February the
_Lyon_ slipped through a field of drifting ice and came to anchor before
the little settlement of Boston. On board the ship was a young man who
was to play an exciting part in the story of the New World.
Yet this young man, Roger Williams by name, seemed simple and quiet
enough, as he and his wife came ashore and were welcomed by Governor
John Winthrop. He was a young preacher, filled with a desire to carry
his teaching to the new lands across the Atlantic Ocean, and he had been
asked to be the minister of the First Church in Boston. As it turned
out, however, his ideas were not the ideas of the people of Boston, and
he soon found that the First Church was not the place for him.
So after a short stay in Boston Roger Williams and his wife went to
Plymouth, which was then a colony separate from Massachusetts Bay.
William Bradford, the governor of Plymouth, and his neighbors made the
young preacher welcome, and there Roger Williams stayed for two years,
teaching and exhorting and prophesying, as ministers were said to do in
those days. There his daughter Mary was born. Roger Williams, however,
was given to argument and could be very obstinate at times, and
presently he fell out with his neighbors at Plymouth, and moved again,
this time to Salem. There he was given charge of the church, and there
he, like many other free-thinking men, fell under the displeasure of the
governor of Massachusetts Bay. For some things he taught he was summoned
before the General Court of the Bay, and the Court ordered him to leave
the colony. He did not go at once, and Governor Winthrop let him stay
until the following January, when rumors came to Boston that Roger
Williams was planning to lead twenty men of his own way of thinking to
the country about Narragansett Bay, and there establish a colony of his
own. John Winthrop objected seriously to any such performance.
The governor sent Captain John Underhill in a sailboat to Salem, with
orders to seize Roger Williams and put him on board a ship that was
lying at Nantasket Roads, ready to sail for England. But when Captain
Underhill and his men marched up to the house of Williams they found
that the man they wanted had fled three days before. There was no
knowing which way he had gone, the wilderness stretched far and wide to
west and south, and so they gave up the search for him and reported to
Governor Winthrop that Roger Williams had disappeared.
Five friends of Williams, knowing that he had been commanded to leave
Massachusetts Bay, had gone into the wilderness and built a camp for him
on the banks of a river which was called by the three names of the
Blackstone, for the first settler there, the Seekonk, and the Pawtucket.
There Williams joined them, and there they stayed during the winter and
planted their crops in the spring. Then a messenger from the governor of
Plymouth came, saying that their plantation was within the borders of
the Plymouth Colony, and asking in a friendly way that Roger Williams
and his friends should move to the other side of the river.
The settlers did not like to lose the harvest of their new crops, but
neither did they want to make enemies at Plymouth, and so they launched
their canoe and paddled down the river in search of a new site. As they
went down the stream tradition says that a group of Indians, standing on
a great rock near the river's bank, recognized Roger Williams as a man
who had once befriended them. They cried their greetings to the white
men, and the latter landed and went up the rock and talked with the
Indians. Then, taking their canoe again, the white men went on down the
river to its mouth, rounded a promontory, and came into an estuary of
Narragansett Bay. Here they paddled north a short distance, until they
reached the point where the Woonasquatucket and the Moshassuck Rivers
joined, and there they landed, near a spring of sweet water. Here they
pitched their camp, founding what was to be known in time as the
Providence Plantations.
The little colony of six men was soon joined by others, and presently a
government was formed, somewhat like those of Massachusetts Bay and
Plymouth. There were many Indians along the shores of Narragansett Bay,
and Roger Williams made it his concern to be on friendly terms with all
of them. When he had lived at Plymouth and at Salem he had met many
Indians and had been liked by them. Canonicus and his nephew
Miantonomoh, chiefs of the Narragansetts, ruled over all this new
region. When the six settlers reached their new plantation these chiefs
were at odds with a chief to the north named Ausamaquin. Williams set to
work to reconcile the hostile Indians, and while he did so he made such
friends of the Narragansett chiefs that they gave him a large tract of
land, stretching from the Pawtucket to the Pawtuxet Rivers. In his turn
Roger Williams sold the land to his company for thirty pounds.
Here, as the little colony of Providence Plantations grew, Roger
Williams tended to the government of it and preached constantly to his
people. All was not smooth sailing, however, even here in the
wilderness. Men disagreed with the preacher, and he found it hard to
keep them from continually fighting with each other. When there was no
danger of trouble with the Indians, the settlers stirred up trouble for
themselves, and Roger Williams had his hands full trying to keep first
the white, and then the red, men in order.
Every little while there would be some dispute, usually ending in
bloodshed, between Indians and white men. Two white traders, venturing
into the country between the two rivers now known as the Pawcatuck and
the Thames, were killed by chiefs of the Pequods, who were the strongest
tribe in all New England. News of this came to Plymouth, and was sent
from there by messenger to the governor of Massachusetts Bay. Not long
afterward a settler named John Oldham was killed by a party of Indians
as he was sailing his own boat off Block Island. The white men, putting
this and that together, decided that the Pequods were planning to kill
all the settlers that came into their country, and thought it likely
they were trying to get the Narragansett chiefs to join them in this. If
these two tribes joined forces it would go hard with the white men, and
so the people of Massachusetts Bay sent a message to Roger Williams,
urging him to see his friends the Narragansetts, and try to keep them
from joining with the Pequods.
Williams was brave, and he had need to be when he made his visit to the
wigwam of the chief, Canonicus. He found men of the Pequods there,
trying to induce Canonicus and the other Narragansett sachems to join
them in war on the whites. He came as a friend, he showed no fear, and
he stayed for several days, sleeping among them at night, as if he had
no suspicion that the Pequods might want to kill him, alone and unarmed
among so many of them. And the Pequods did not touch him. He had learned
something of the Indian tongue while he lived at Plymouth and Salem, and
he talked with them and the Narragansetts, urging them to be friends
with the white men who had come to live among them.
His visit to Canonicus was successful. The Narragansett chiefs renewed
their promises of friendship for Roger Williams' men and sent the Pequod
envoys away. The disappointed Pequods, however, told the Narragansetts
that the English were treacherous folk and warned them that they would
not always find these new settlers as friendly as Roger Williams had
said. And in part the Pequods were right, for there were white men who
were fully as treacherous as any Indians.
Not long afterward four young men set out from Massachusetts Bay to go
to the Dutch settlement on Manhattan Island. Somewhere between Boston
and the Providence Plantations they sat down to rest and smoke. A
Narragansett Indian came in sight, and they called to him to stop and
smoke a pipe with them. The Indian accepted their invitation. The white
men saw that he was a trader and had a large stock of wampum, and also
cloth and beads with him, and so, as he sat with them, they suddenly
attacked him, and, robbing him, left him for dead. The Narragansett,
though very badly wounded, was able after a while to drag himself back
to the wigwams of his tribe. There he told his story before he died.
Some of the chiefs set out on the trail at once, and capturing three of
the whites, took them to the settlers at Aquidneck. They were tried for
the robbery and murder, found guilty, and executed, though some settlers
murmured against Englishmen being condemned for doing harm to Indians.
But wise men such as Governor Bradford and Roger Williams knew that they
must use the same justice toward Indians as toward white men if they
were ever to live in peace with their neighbors.
So the Narragansetts kept peace with the newcomers who were building
their homes on the shores of the great bay that bore the name of the
Indian tribe, and Roger Williams turned his attention to the needs of
his people. He wanted a charter from the king of England for his new
colony, and to get it he had to go back to England. Instead of going to
Boston or Plymouth to take ship he traveled south to the Dutch seaport
of New Amsterdam. The Dutch were also having trouble with their Indian
neighbors, and Roger Williams was urged to try to pacify the red men.
Governor Winthrop of Massachusetts Bay kept record of most of the
important things that were taking place in the English colonies, and
this is what he wrote:
"1643. Mo. 4, 20.--There fell out hot wars between the Dutch and the
Indians thereabout. The occasion was this. An Indian being drunk had
slain an old Dutchman.... The Indians also of Long Island took part with
their neighbors upon the main, and as the Dutch took away their corn, so
they fell to burning the Dutch houses. But these, by the mediation of
Mr. Williams, who was there to go in a Dutch ship for England, were
pacified and peace reëstablished between the Dutch and them."
Roger Williams sailed from New Amsterdam in June or July, 1643, and on
the voyage he spent much time in writing a remarkable book, "A Key into
the Languages of America," as he called it. He reached England at a most
exciting time. Parliament had rebelled against King Charles the First,
the king had fled from London, the battle of Edge Hill had been fought
between the Cavaliers and the Roundheads, and the country was an armed
camp. Williams tried to get his charter from the Parliament, but matters
were so upset that such business took a long time. The people of London
were suffering for fuel, and he busied himself in plans to provide coal
and wood for them, and he went on with his writings, most of which were
religious arguments, such as many men of that period, among them
William Penn, were fond of writing.
At last he was able to get his charter from Parliament, and set out on
his return journey. He had not sailed from Boston on his outward voyage
because of the order of exile from the colony of Massachusetts Bay that
still stood against him. But he asked permission of that colony to let
him return by way of Boston, and this was granted. He landed at the same
place where he had made his first landing in America; journeyed,
probably on foot, to the Blackstone River, and paddled his canoe to
Narragansett Bay. As he approached the Bay he was met by a fleet of
canoes manned by the chief settlers of his colony, who gave him a royal
welcome. In return for his services in obtaining the charter for the new
Providence Plantations the three settlements of Newport, Portsmouth and
Providence agreed to pay him one hundred pounds.
Roger Williams' wife had joined him at the Providence Plantations, and
they now had a family of six children. He did not approve of a minister
being paid for his services, and so he, like many other preachers of the
Puritans, found other means to supply his family with bread and meat. He
had traded with the Indians for furs while he was at Salem, and since
then he had built a trading house on the west shore of Narragansett Bay,
at a place called Cawcawmsquissick by the Indians, about fifteen miles
south of Providence, and near where the town of Wickford now stands.
Ninigret, one of his powerful Indian friends, lived near by, and saw to
it that the best furs went to Roger Williams' house. It was a convenient
place for the hunters to bring their stores, and it was not far across
the bay to Newport, which was becoming the main shipping port of the
colony. To Newport he took his furs to sell them in the market or send
them by trading-vessel to England, and there he bought the stock of
cloth and beads, sugar and other supplies that he paid to the Indians.
He made at his trading-house at least one hundred pounds a year, the
equal of five hundred dollars in American money, and with a much greater
purchasing power in those days than now.
Meantime the Narragansetts and the Mohegans had been at war with each
other, and the former tribe winning, had made an alliance with the
Mohegans, and threatened a joint attack on the English colonies.
Williams and two or three others went out to the Indian chiefs and again
made a treaty of peace with them, for there was no white man in New
England for whom all the Indians had such affection as they had for
Roger Williams. Time and again he saved his own colony, and the
neighboring ones of Massachusetts Bay and Plymouth and Connecticut from
Indian attacks. His knowledge of the Indian tongues was of great
assistance to him, and his desire to be perfectly fair and frank with
them was even more valuable.
Once more he went to England, for a Mr. Coddington of Newport had
obtained from Parliament a commission as governor for life of the
settlements at Aquidneck, which interfered with the charter already
granted to the Providence Plantations. There he succeeded in having the
claims of his colony adjusted, there he wrote more religious pamphlets
and preached and lectured, and there he met Oliver Cromwell, the Lord
Protector of England, and John Milton the poet, and told them about the
Indians of New England, their language and their customs and the
missionary work the colonists were doing among them.
After he went back to Providence George Fox, the famous Quaker leader,
came to New England and preached to the people there. Roger Williams did
not agree with Fox in many of his teachings, and took the opposite side
at many public meetings. Whenever there was debate or argument over
religious matters Roger Williams wanted to have his share in it. He held
the same views as leader of the Providence Plantations that he had
voiced when he first came as minister to the First Church at Boston.
In many ways Roger Williams was something like William Penn. He founded
a colony that was in time to become one of the original Thirteen States
of the American Union. He was a religious leader, and he was always fair
in his dealings with the Indians. Probably he was greatest as a friend
of the Indians, for his little colony was spared the frequent attacks
and massacres that made life so hard for many of the small English
settlements along the Atlantic coast. He came to the New World seeking
liberty and justice between all men, and these he taught to the settlers
who followed and built their homes around his log house on the shores of
the great bay named for the Narragansetts.
II
PETER STUYVESANT'S FLAG
(_New York, 1661_)
I
The island of Manhattan, which is now tightly packed with the
office-buildings and houses of New York, was in 1661 the home of a small
number of families who had come across the Atlantic Ocean from the
Netherlands to settle this part of the new world for the Dutch West
India Company. There was a fort at the southern end of the island,
sometimes known as the Battery, and two roads led from it toward the
north. One of these roads followed the line of the street now called
Broadway, running north to a great open field, or common, and, skirting
that, leading on to the settlement of Harlaem. In time this road came to
be known as the Old Post Road to Boston. Another road ran to the east,
and in its neighborhood were the farms of many of the richer Dutch
settlers. Near where Third Avenue and Thirteenth Street now meet was the
bouwery, as the Dutchmen called a farm, of Peter Stuyvesant, the
governor of the colony of New Netherland. It was a large, prosperous
bouwery, with a good-sized house for the governor and his family.
This Dutch governor, sturdy, impetuous, obstinate, had lost a leg while
leading an attack on the Portuguese island of Saint Martin, in 1644, and
now used a wooden stump, which caused him to be nicknamed "Wooden-Legged
Peter." He was a much better governor than the others who had been sent
out by the West India Company to rule New Netherland. He had plenty of
courage, but he had also a very determined will of his own, which often
made him seem a tyrant to the other settlers.
Now there were two distinct classes of people in New Netherland: the
peasants who worked the land, and the landowners, called patroons, who
had bought vast tracts from the West India Company, and lived on them
like European nobles. It was the patroons who brought the peasants over,
paying for their passage, and the peasants worked for them until they
could repay the amount of their passage money, and then took up small
farms on their patroon's estate, paying the rental in crops, as tenants
did to the feudal lords of Europe. The great manors stretched north from
the little town of New Amsterdam at the point of Manhattan Island. Above
Peter Stuyvesant's bouwery was the manor of the Kip family, called Kip's
Bay. In the middle of the island lived the Patroon De Lancey. Opposite,
on Long Island, was the estate of the Laurences. And along the Hudson
were the homes of the powerful families of Van Courtland and of
Phillipse, of Van Rensselaer and of Schuyler. In spite of constant
danger from Indians and their great distance from Europe the patroons
lived in a certain magnificence, and grew in power down to the time of
the Revolution. Farming and fur-trading were the chief sources of profit
of the colony. There were a few storekeepers and mechanics, but they
lived close to the fort and stockade at the Battery. The trades that had
done so much to make the Netherlands in Europe rich played small part in
the life of this New Netherland.
In the year 1661 the West India Company bought Staten Island from its
patroon owner, a man named Cornelius Melyn. A block-house was built
which was armed with two cannon and defended by ten soldiers, and
invited the people of Europe who were called Waldenses and the Huguenots
of France to settle on the island. Fourteen families soon came and took
up farms there south of the Narrows. The West India Company, however,
had broader views on religion than their governor, Peter Stuyvesant,
had. John Brown, an Englishman, moved from Boston to Flushing, on Long
Island, and, having by chance attended a Quaker meeting, invited the
Quakers to meet at his new house. Neighbors told the governor that John
Brown was using his farm as a meeting-place for Quakers, and Stuyvesant
had him arrested. The quiet, unoffending farmer was fined twenty-five
pounds and threatened with banishment, and when he failed to pay, was
imprisoned in New Amsterdam for three months. Then Governor Stuyvesant
issued an order banishing Farmer Brown. "John Brown," so ran the order,
"is to be transported from this province in the first ship ready to
sail, as an example to others." Soon afterward he was sent to Holland in
the _Gilded Fox_, but the officers of the West India Company received
him kindly, rebuked the haughty governor for his severity, and persuaded
John Brown to return to Flushing. When he did go back Stuyvesant showed
by his acts that he was ashamed of what he had done. For the governor,
in spite of his headstrong acts, had sense enough to know that his
little colony needed all the settlers it could find, no matter what
their religion, and that Quakers made as trustworthy settlers as any
other kind.
Early in 1663 an earthquake shook New Netherland and the country round
it. Soon afterward the melting snows and very heavy rains caused a
tremendous freshet, which covered the meadow lands along the rivers, and
ruined all the crops. Then came an outbreak of smallpox, which spread
among the Dutchmen and the Indians like fire in a field of wheat. Over a
thousand of the Iroquois tribe died of the plague. Then, as if these
troubles were not sufficient for the colony, Peter Stuyvesant soon heard
that there was new danger of an Indian uprising against his people.
There had been a truce between the red men and the white, but the former
could not forget that after their last attack on the Dutch fifteen of
their warriors had been sent as slaves to the island of Curaçoa. There
were many Indians near the prosperous settlement of Esopus, up in the
Hudson country, and in the spring of 1663 settlers there sent word to
the governor that they needed more protection from their dark-skinned
neighbors. Stuyvesant replied that he would come himself soon and try to
settle any differences. The Indian chiefs heard of this reply of the
governor and in their turn sent him word that if he were coming to renew
their treaty of friendship they should expect him to come without arms,
and would then gladly meet in a council in the field outside the gate of
Esopus, and smoke the pipe of peace with him.
This was a friendly message, and the settlers at Esopus who lived within
the palisades, as well as those at the little village of Wildwyck, which
had sprung up a short distance from the fort, decided they had been
wrong in suspecting the Indians of intending to harm them, and went on
with their farming as usual. Peter Stuyvesant, busy in New Amsterdam,
had not yet had a chance to go up to Esopus. On the seventh of June, as
on other days, Indians came into the village, chatted with the settlers,
and sold corn and other provisions they had grown.
Then suddenly a war-whoop rang out inside the palisades, and was
instantly followed by a hundred more within and without the gates.
Indian blankets were thrown aside, and tomahawks and long knives
gleamed in the hands of the savages. The settlers were taken completely
by surprise. Each Indian had marked his man. Men, women, and children
were made prisoners or killed. Houses were plundered and set on fire,
and the flames, escaping to the farms, soon made havoc of the prosperous
village.
The settlers fought, and for several hours the savage war-whoops were
answered by the fire of muskets. The chief officer of the village,
called the Schout, Roelof Swartwout by name, rallied a few men around
him, and by desperate fighting at last drove the Indians outside the
palisades and shut the gates against them. But the outer village was in
ashes, the fields were strewn with bodies, and houses smoked to the sky.
Within the palisades matters were not quite so bad, for a change of the
wind had saved part of the buildings from the flames.
Twenty-one settlers had been killed, nine were badly wounded, and
forty-five, most of them women and children, had been taken captive. All
that night the Schout and his men stayed on guard at the gates, while in
the distance they heard the shouts of the triumphant red men.
The news of what had happened at Esopus spread rapidly through the
Hudson country. In the villages the men hurried to strengthen their
palisades, farmers fled with their families to the shelter of the
nearest forts. The news came to Governor Stuyvesant on Manhattan Island,
and he instantly sent forty-two soldiers to Esopus, and offered rewards
to all who would enlist. Some friendly Indians from Long Island joined
his forces, scouts were sent through the woods to find the hostile
Indians' hiding-places. The Mohawks tried to make peace, and capturing
some of the Dutch prisoners, sent them back to the village. The Mohawks
also sent word that the Indians who had gone on the war-path felt they
were only taking a just revenge for the act of the Dutch in sending some
of their chiefs to Curaçoa, that they would return their other prisoners
in exchange for rich presents, and were ready to make a new peace with
the settlers.
But Peter Stuyvesant thought it needful to teach his Indian neighbors a
lesson.
A white woman, Mrs. Van Imbrock, escaped from her captors, and finally
reached Esopus after many hardships. She brought word that the Indians,
some two hundred, had built a strong fort, and sent their prisoners
every night under guard to a distant place in the mountains, intending
to keep them as hostages. When he had heard her account, Stuyvesant sent
out a party of two hundred and ten men, under Captain Crygier, armed
with two small cannon, with which they hoped to make a breach in the
walls of the Indian fort, which were only bulletproof.
This little army set out on the afternoon of July 26th. They made their
way through forests, over high hills, and across rivers. They bivouacked
for the night, and next morning marched on until they were about six
miles from the fort. Half the men were sent on to make a
surprise-attack, while the rest followed in reserve.
Scouts had brought word to the fort of the approach of the Dutch, and
the Indians had gone into the mountains with their prisoners. So Captain
Crygier's men went into the fort and spent the night there, finding it
an unusually well-built and well-protected place. An Indian woman, not
knowing the white men were there, came back for some provisions, was
taken prisoner, and told the direction in which the chiefs had gone.
Next morning twenty-five men were left at the fort, and the others
followed the trail to a mountain, where the squaw said the Indians meant
to camp. There were no red men there, and the squaw told of another camp
yet farther on.
The Dutch soldiers marched all day, but their hunt proved fruitless.
Finally Captain Crygier gave the order to return to the captured fort.
Here they burned the buildings, and carried off all the provisions. Then
they returned to Esopus, to await other news.
Early in September word came that the Indians had built another fort, or
castle, as they called it, thirty-six miles to the southwest. Again
Captain Crygier set out with his men, and on the second day came in view
of the fort. It stood on a height, and was built of two rows of stout
palisades, fifteen feet high. Crygier divided his forces, and one-half
the men crept toward the fort. Then a squaw saw them, and by her cry
warned the Indians. Both parties of the Dutch rushed up the hill,
stormed the palisades, drove their enemies before them, and scattered
them in the fields. Behind the fort was a creek. The Indians waded and
swam it, and made a stand on the opposite bank. But the fire of the
Dutchmen was too much for them, and shortly they were flying wildly into
the wilderness.
The Indian chief, Papoquanchen, and fourteen of his warriors were killed
in the battle, twenty-two white prisoners were rescued, and fourteen
Indians were captured. The fort was plundered of provisions, and the
Dutch found eighty guns, besides, as they reported, "bearskins,
deerskins, blankets, elk hides and peltries sufficient to load a
shallop."
There was great joy at Esopus when the victorious little army returned.
Danger from that particular tribe of Indians seemed at an end, but to
make the matter certain a third expedition was sent out in the fall.
They scouted through the near-by country, but found only a few scattered
red men. Those that were left of the Esopus tribe after that last attack
on their fort had fled south and finally become part of the Minnisincks.
Again peace reigned in the Dutch settlements; the farmers went back to
their fields, and the soldiers returned to the capital at New Amsterdam.
To the north of the Dutch colony lay the English colonies of New
England, and the boundary between New Netherland and its neighbors had
never been fixed. Many Englishmen had settled along the Hudson and on
Long Island, and Governor Stuyvesant thought it was high time to reach
some agreement with the New England governors. So he went to Boston in
September, 1663; but scarcely had he left New Amsterdam when an English
agent, James Christie, arrived on Long Island, and told the people of
Gravesend, Flushing, Hempstead and Jamaica that they were no longer
under Dutch rule, but that their territory had been annexed to the
colony of Connecticut.
Now many of the settlers at Gravesend were English, and most of the
magistrates and officers. When Christie read his announcement to the
people one of the few faithful Dutch magistrates, Sheriff Stillwell,
arrested him on a charge of treason. Then the other magistrates ordered
the arrest of Stillwell in turn, and the public feeling against the
latter was so strong that he had to send word secretly to New Amsterdam,
asking for help. A sergeant and eight soldiers were sent from New
Amsterdam, and they again arrested Christie and placed him under guard
in Sheriff Stillwell's house.
Rumors came that the farmers meant to rescue Christie, so he was taken
at night to the fort on Manhattan Island. Sheriff Stillwell had to fly
from his own house to escape the neighbors, and hurried to New
Amsterdam, where he complained of the illegal acts of the Gravesend
settlers. Excitement ran high. People on Long Island demanded that
Christie be set free; but the Dutch council insisted on keeping him a
prisoner. The council sent an express messenger to Peter Stuyvesant in
Boston, asking him to settle the Long Island difficulties with the
English governor there.
But the officers of New England would not agree to the sturdy Dutchman's
terms. And other English colonists went through the land that belonged
to the Dutch, rousing the farmers against the West India Company.
Richard Panton, armed with sword and pistol, threatened the men of
Flatbush and other villages near by with the pillage of their property
unless they would swear allegiance to the government at Hartford and
fight against the Dutch. Such was the news that greeted Stuyvesant when
he came back to his capital from Boston. He knew that there were not
enough of the Dutch to resist an attack from the English, who had come
swarming in great numbers recently into Massachusetts and Connecticut.
His only hope lay in argument, and so he sent four of his leading men to
Hartford to try to arrange a peaceful settlement.
The four Dutchmen sailed from New Amsterdam, and after two days on the
water landed at Milford. There they took horses and rode to New Haven,
where they spent the night. Next day they went on to Hartford over the
rough roads of the wilderness. They were well received, and John
Winthrop, who was governor of Connecticut and a son of Governor
Winthrop of Massachusetts, admitted that some of the claims of the Dutch
were just. But the rest of the officers at Hartford stoutly insisted
that all that part of the Atlantic seacoast belonged to the king of
England, by right of first discovery and claim. "The opinion of the
governor," said these men, "is but the opinion of one man. The grant of
the king of England includes all the land south of the Boston line to
Virginia and to the Pacific Ocean. We do not know any New Netherland,
unless you can show a patent for it from the king of England."
Apparently the Dutch had no rights there at all; the whole tract between
Massachusetts and Virginia belonged to Connecticut.
Still the Dutchmen tried to reach some sort of friendly agreement. They
proposed that what was known as Westchester, the land lying north of
Manhattan Island, should be considered part of Connecticut, but that the
towns on Long Island should remain under the government of New
Netherland. "We do not know of any province of New Netherland," the
Hartford officers replied. "There is a Dutch governor over a Dutch
plantation on the island of Manhattan. Long Island is included in our
patent, and we shall possess and maintain it."
So the four Dutchmen had to return to Governor Stuyvesant with word that
the Connecticut men would yield none of their claims.
The state of affairs was going from bad to worse. Stuyvesant called a
meeting of men from all the neighboring villages, and the meeting sent
a report to the Dutch government in Europe.
The report had hardly been sent, however, when more startling events
took place in the colony. Two Englishmen, Anthony Waters and John Coe,
with a force of almost one hundred armed men, visited many of the
villages where there were English settlers, and told them they must no
longer pay taxes to the Dutch, as their country belonged to the king of
England. They put their own officers in place of the Dutch officers in
these villages, and then, marching to settlements where most of the
people were Dutch, they tried to make the people there take the oath of
allegiance to the English king.
A month later a party of twenty Englishmen secretly sailed up the
Raritan River in a sloop, called the chiefs of some of the neighboring
Indian tribes together, and tried to buy a large tract of land from
them. They knew all the while that the Dutch West India Company had
bought that same land from the Indians some time before.
As soon as he heard of this Peter Stuyvesant sent Crygier, with some
well-armed men, in a swift yacht, to thwart the English traders. He also
sent a friendly Indian to warn the chiefs against trying to sell land
they no longer owned. The Dutch yacht arrived in time to stop the
Indians from dealing with the English, and the latter, baffled there,
sailed their sloop down the bay to a place between Rensselaer's Hook
and Sandy Hook, where they met other Indians and tried to bargain with
them for land. The Dutch Crygier overtook them.
"You are traitors!" he cried. "You are acting against the government to
which you have taken the oath of fidelity!"
"This whole country," answered the men from the sloop, "has been given
to the English by His Majesty the King of England."
Then the two parties separated, Crygier and his men sailing back to New
Amsterdam.
While matters stood this way in the province of New Netherland an
Englishman, John Scott, petitioned King Charles the Second to grant him
the government of Long Island, which he said the Dutch settlers were
unjustly trying to take away from the king of England. Scott was given
authority to make a report to the English government on the state of
affairs in that part of the New World, and in order to do this he sailed
to America and went to New Haven, where he was warmly welcomed. The
colony of Connecticut gave him the powers of a magistrate throughout
Long Island, and he at once set to work to wrest the island from the
Dutch, whom he upbraided as "cruel and rapacious neighbors who were
enslaving the English settlers."
Some of the villages on Long Island, however, and especially those where
there were many Quakers and Baptists, did not want to come under the
rule of the Puritans. Therefore six towns, Hempstead, Gravesend,
Flushing, Middlebury, Jamaica and Oyster Bay, formed a government of
their own, asking John Scott to act as their president, until the king
of England should establish a permanent government for them. Scott
swelled with pride in his new power. He gathered an armed force of one
hundred and seventy men, horse and foot, and marched out to compel the
neighboring Dutch towns to join his new colony.
First he marched on Brooklyn. There he told the citizens that their land
belonged to the crown of England, and that he now claimed it for the
king. He had so many men with him that the Dutch saw it would be
impossible to arrest him, but one of them, the secretary, Van Ruyven,
suggested that he should cross the river to New Amsterdam and talk with
Peter Stuyvesant. Scott pompously answered, "Let Stuyvesant come here
with a hundred men; I will wait for him and run my sword through his
body!" And he scowled and marched up and down before the stolid Dutchman
like a fierce cock-o'-the-walk.
The Dutchmen of Brooklyn, however, did not seem anxious to exchange the
rule of Governor Peter Stuyvesant for that of Captain John Scott. As he
was strutting up and down Captain Scott spied a boy who looked as if he
would like to use his fists on the Englishman. The boy happened to be a
son of Governor Stuyvesant's faithful officer Crygier. Captain Scott
walked up to the boy, and ordered him to take off his hat and salute the
flag of England. Young Crygier refused, and the quick-tempered captain
struck at him. One of the men standing by called out, "If you have blows
to give, you should strike men, not boys!"
Four of Scott's men jumped at the man who had dared to speak so, and the
latter, picking up an axe, tried to defend himself, but soon found it
best to run. Scott ordered the people of Brooklyn to give the man up,
threatening to burn the town unless they did so. But the man was not
surrendered, and the captain did not dare to carry out his threat.
Instead he marched to Flatbush, and unfurled his flag before the house
of the sheriff. Settlers gathered round to see what was happening, and
Captain Scott made them a speech. "This land," said he to the Dutchmen,
"which you now occupy, belongs to His Majesty, King Charles. He is the
right and lawful lord of all America, from Virginia to Boston. Under his
government you will enjoy more freedom than you ever before possessed.
Hereafter you shall pay no more taxes to the Dutch government, neither
shall you obey Peter Stuyvesant. He is no longer your governor, and you
are not to acknowledge his authority. If you refuse to submit to the
king of England, you know what to expect."
But the men of Flatbush were no more ready to obey the haughty captain
than those of Brooklyn had been. One of the magistrates dared to tell
Scott that he ought to settle this dispute with Peter Stuyvesant.
"Stuyvesant is governor no longer," he retorted. "I will soon go to New
Amsterdam, with a hundred men, and proclaim the supremacy of His
Majesty, King Charles, beneath the very walls of the fort!"
The Dutch would not obey him, but neither would they take up arms
against him. Such treatment angered the fire-eating captain more and
more. He marched his troop to New Utrecht, where the Dutch flag floated
over the block fort, armed with cannon. Meeting no resistance from the
peace-loving settlers Scott hauled down their flag and replaced it with
the flag of England. Then, using the Dutch cannon and Dutch powder he
fired a salute to announce his victory. All those who passed the fort
were ordered to take off their hats and bow before the new banner, and
those who refused were arrested by his men, and some were bound and
beaten.
Peter Stuyvesant, in New Amsterdam, heard of these disturbances on Long
Island, and sent three of his leading men to meet Scott and try to make
some settlement with him. They met the captain at Jamaica, and after
much wrangling, at last reached what they thought might be an agreement.
But as they left Scott fired these words at their backs: "This whole
island belongs to the king of England. He has made a grant of it to his
brother, the Duke of York. He knows that it will yield him an annual
revenue of one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. He is soon coming
with an ample force, to take possession of his property. If it is not
surrendered peaceably he is determined to take, not only the whole
island, but also the whole province of New Netherland!"
This was alarming news. Some of the English settlers were rallying to
Scott's command, the Dutch in some of the villages fled to Dutch forts
for shelter. Even the prosperous men in New Amsterdam began to fear lest
the English captain should attack their homes. Fortifications were
hurriedly built, and men enrolled as soldiers.
Peter Stuyvesant, fearful lest he should lose his colony, knowing well
that the English greatly outnumbered the Dutch, found himself in a very
difficult situation. But "Wooden-Legged Peter" was a fighter, quite as
fiery as John Scott when his blood was up.
II
Peter Stuyvesant saw that he would have to make terms with the English
Captain Scott, or more English adventurers might come swarming down from
New England and speedily gobble up the whole of Manhattan Island. He
went to Hempstead on Long Island, on the third day of March, 1664, and
made an agreement with Scott that the villages on the western part of
the island, where the settlers were mainly English, should consider
themselves under English rule until the whole dispute could be settled
by King Charles and the Dutch government. The Dutch had now lost bit by
bit most of the colony they had started out to settle. First the English
had taken the valley of the Connecticut River, because there were more
English settlers there than Dutch, then they took Westchester, now the
four important villages of Flushing, Jamaica, Hempstead and Gravesend
were added to their list.
Meantime the States-General of Holland, receiving appeals for help from
Stuyvesant, sent him sixty soldiers, and ordered him to resist any
further demands of the English and to try to make the villages that had
rebelled return again to his flag. But the governor knew that he could
not possibly do this, his people were outnumbered six to one, and while
he was turning this matter over in his mind news came that the English
people in Connecticut were making a treaty of alliance with the Indians
who lived along the Hudson. Fearful lest all the tribes should side with
his rivals, Stuyvesant invited a number of the Indian chiefs to a
meeting at the fort of New Amsterdam.
The chiefs came to the council. One of them called upon Bachtamo, their
tribal name for the Great Spirit, to hear him. "Oh, Bachtamo," he said,
"help us to make a good treaty with the Dutch. And may the treaty we are
about to make be like the stick I hold in my hand. Like this stick may
it be firmly united, the one end to the other."
Then turning to Stuyvesant and his officers, he went on, "We all desire
peace. I have come with my brother sachems, in behalf of the Esopus
Indians, to conclude a peace as firm and compact as my arms, which I now
fold together."
He held out his hand to the governor. "What I now say is from the
fullness of my heart. Such is my desire, and that of all my people."
A treaty was drawn up, signed by the Dutch and the Indians, and
celebrated by the firing of cannon from the fort. Stuyvesant proclaimed
a day of general thanksgiving in honor of the new alliance with the
Indians.
Now it had been supposed that the English towns on Long Island would
join the colony of Connecticut, but instead the settlers proclaimed
their own independence and chose John Scott for their president. Then
the court at Hartford sent John Allyn, with a party of soldiers, to
arrest Captain Scott for treason. Scott met the Connecticut soldiers
with soldiers of his own, and demanded what they wanted on his land. The
Connecticut officer read the order for Scott's arrest. Then said Captain
Scott, "I will yield my heart's blood on this ground before I will give
in to you or any men from Connecticut!" The men from Hartford answered
readily, "So will we!"
But in spite of his bold words his opponents did succeed in arresting
Scott, and, taking him to Hartford, put him in prison there. Governor
Winthrop went to Long Island to appoint new officers in the English
villages in place of Scott's men, and Stuyvesant seized the chance to go
to meet the Connecticut governor and make some treaty with him. The
governor of New Netherland explained to the governor of the Connecticut
Colony that the Dutch claimed the land they occupied by the rights of
discovery, purchase, and possession, and reminded him that the boundary
between the two colonies had been defined in a treaty made in 1650. Said
that treaty, "Upon Long Island a line run from the westernmost part of
Oyster Bay, in a straight and direct line to the sea, shall be the
bounds between the English and the Dutch there; the easterly part to
belong to the English, the westernmost part to the Dutch."
Yet, in spite of this, Governor Winthrop was now many miles west of the
line, claiming villages that were clearly in Dutch territory. The truth
was that Governor Winthrop knew Peter Stuyvesant had not the needful
number of men to oppose the English claims. And the upshot of the
meeting was that Winthrop simply declared that the whole of Long Island
belonged to the king of England.
That king of England, Charles II, now took a hand in the matter himself.
On March 12, 1664, he granted to his brother, James, Duke of York, the
whole of Long Island, all the islands near it, and all the lands and
rivers from the west shore of the Connecticut River to the east shore of
Delaware Bay. It was a wide, magnificent grant, sweeping away the colony
of New Netherland as if it had been a twig in the path of a tornado.
Word reached New Amsterdam that a fleet of armed ships had sailed from
Portsmouth in England, bound for the Hudson River, to take possession of
the neighboring territory. The prosperous Dutch settlers were in a
panic. Peter Stuyvesant called his council, and they decided to lose no
time in making their fortifications as strong as possible. Money was
raised, powder was sent for, agents hurried to buy provisions all
through the countryside. In the midst of these preparations the Dutch
government, which had been completely fooled as to the plans of the
English king, sent a message to Governor Stuyvesant saying that he need
have no fear of any further trouble from the English.
This was pleasant word; it relieved the fears that had been raised by
the message of the armed fleet sailing from Portsmouth for the Hudson.
The work on the forts was stopped, and Stuyvesant went up the river to
Fort Orange to try to quiet Indian tribes in that neighborhood who were
threatening to take to the war-path.
The English fleet, four frigates, with ninety-four guns all told,
meantime came sailing across the Atlantic, and arrived at Boston the end
of July. Colonel Richard Nicholls was in command of the expedition, with
three commissioners sent out with him from England. Their instructions
were to reduce the Dutch to subjection. They were to get what aid they
could from the New England colonies. The people of Boston, however, were
too busy with their own affairs, and too content, to be interested in
helping to fight the Dutch. But Connecticut was quite ready to help, and
so Colonel Nicholls sent word to Governor Winthrop to meet the English
fleet at the west end of Long Island, to which place it would sail with
the first favoring wind.
A friend of Peter Stuyvesant's in Boston sent news of the English plans
to New Amsterdam. A fast rider carried the message to the governor at
Fort Orange. Stuyvesant hastened back to his capital, very angry at
having lost three weeks in which to make ready his defenses. He called
every man to work with spade, shovel and wheelbarrow. Six cannon were
added to the fourteen already on the fort. Messengers rode through the
country summoning other garrisons to come to the aid of New Amsterdam.
On August 20th the English frigates anchored in Nyack Bay, just below
the Narrows, between New Utrecht and Coney Island. All communication
between Long Island and Manhattan Island was cut off. Some small Dutch
boats were captured. Three miles away from the fleet's anchorage, on
Staten Island, was a small fort, a block-house, some twenty feet square.
It boasted two small guns, which shot one pound balls, and was
garrisoned by six soldiers. The English, sending some of their men
ashore, had little difficulty in capturing the fort and rounding up the
cattle that were grazing in the near-by fields.
The morning after he dropped anchor Colonel Nicholls despatched four of
his men to Fort Amsterdam on Manhattan Island, with a summons to the
garrison to surrender. At the same time he sent out word that if any of
the farmers furnished supplies to the fort he would burn their houses,
but that if they would quietly acknowledge the English flag they might
keep their farms in peace.
Now Peter Stuyvesant had only one hundred soldiers in his garrison, and
he could not hope for much real aid from the other men, undisciplined
and poorly armed as they were, who lived on Manhattan Island. But he
meant to resist these invaders as strongly as he was able, and so called
his council together to consider what they might do for defense.
The peace-loving Dutch citizens, however, lacked the fiery spirit of
their governor, and they too held a meeting, and voted not to resist the
English fleet, and asked for a copy of the demand to surrender that
Nicholls had sent to the fort. Governor Stuyvesant, angry though he was,
went to the citizens and tried to persuade them to stand by him. But the
citizens, fearful that a bombardment would destroy their little
settlement, were not in the humor to agree with his ideas.
The English commander sent another envoy, with a flag of truce, to Fort
Amsterdam, carrying a letter which stated that if Manhattan Island was
surrendered to him the Dutch settlers might keep all the lands and
buildings they possessed. Stuyvesant received the letter, and read it to
his council. The council insisted that the letter should be read to the
people. Stuyvesant refused, saying that he, and not the people, was the
best judge as to what New Amsterdam should do. The council continued to
argue and threaten, until Stuyvesant tore up the letter and trampled it
under his feet to settle the matter.
The citizens, however, had heard that such a letter had come with a flag
of truce, and they sent three men to demand the message from Peter
Stuyvesant. These men told him bluntly that the people did not intend to
resist the English, that resistance to such a large force was madness,
and that they would mutiny unless he let them see the letter Colonel
Nicholls had sent.
Again Governor Stuyvesant was forced to yield to pressure. A copy was
made of the letter from its torn pieces, and this was read to the
turbulent citizens. When they had heard it they declared that they were
ready to surrender. But the governor hated the notion of giving up his
province of New Netherland without a struggle; of yielding to highway
robbers, as he regarded the English fleet. So he sent a ship secretly
from Fort Amsterdam by night, bearing a message to the directors of the
Dutch Company in Europe. The message was short. "Long Island is gone and
lost. The capitol cannot hold out long," was what it said.
Then he sat down and wrote an answer to the letter of Colonel Nicholls.
It was a fair-spoken answer, pointing out that this land belonged to
the Dutch by right of discovery and settlement and purchase from the
Indians. He said that he was sure the king of England would agree with
the Dutch claims if they were presented to him. This was the end of his
letter: "In case you will act by force of arms, we protest before God
and man that you will perform an act of unjust violence. You will
violate the articles of peace solemnly ratified by His Majesty of
England, and my Lords the States-General. Again for the prevention of
the spilling of innocent blood, not only here but in Europe, we offer
you a treaty by our deputies. As regards your threats we have no answer
to make, only that we fear nothing but what God may lay upon us. All
things are at His disposal, and we can be preserved by Him with small
forces as well as by a great army."
The only answer the English commander saw fit to make to the Dutch
governor's letter was to order his soldiers to prepare to land from the
frigates.
III
Soldiers, both foot and cavalry, were landed on Long Island from the
English fleet, and marched double-quick through the forest toward the
small cluster of houses that stood along the shore where the city of
Brooklyn now rises. They met with no resistance; for the most part these
woods and shores were as empty of men as the day when Henryk Hudson
first sailed up the river that bears his name.
The fleet meanwhile went up through the Narrows, and two frigates
landed more soldiers a short distance below Brooklyn, to support those
that were marching down the island. Two other frigates, one of
thirty-six guns, the second of thirty, under full sail, passed directly
within range of Stuyvesant's little fort, and anchored between the fort
and Governor's Island. The English fleet meant to show their contempt
for the Dutch claims.
What was Peter Stuyvesant doing as the frigates so insolently sailed
past under his very eyes? He was a fighter by nature and by trade, as
peppery as some of the sauces he had brought with him from the West
Indies. The cannon of his fort were loaded, and the gunners stood ready
with their burning matches. A word, a nod, a wave of the hand from
Stuyvesant, and the cannon would roar their answer to the insolent
fleet. And what would happen then? Fort Amsterdam had only twenty guns;
and the two frigates sailing by had sixty-six, and the two other
frigates, almost within sight, had twenty-eight more. Stuyvesant bit his
lips as his gunners waited. The first roar of his cannon would almost
certainly mean the ruin of every house in New Amsterdam.
[Illustration: STUYVESANT BIT HIS LIPS AS HIS GUNNERS WAITED]
Yet could the governor see the flag of his beloved New Netherland
flouted in this fashion? Raging with anger, the word to fire trembling
on his lips, Stuyvesant turned to listen to the advice of two Dutch
clergymen who had hurried up to him. They begged him not to be the
first to shed blood in a fight that could only end in their utter
defeat. They were outnumbered, outmatched in every way. The governor
knew this was so; no one in the colony indeed knew it better than he. "I
won't open fire," he said, bitter rage in his heart, but he shook his
fist at the white sails of the frigates.
Stuyvesant left the rampart, leaving fifty men to defend the fort, and
took the rest of the garrison, one hundred soldiers, down to the shore,
to repel the English if they should try to land. He still had a faint
hope that the English commander would make some terms with him that
would allow him to keep the flag of Holland flying over New Amsterdam.
With this faint hope he sent four of his chief officers with a flag of
truce to Colonel Nicholls. They carried this message from Peter
Stuyvesant: "I feel obliged to defend the city, in obedience to orders.
It is inevitable that much blood will be shed on the occurrence of the
assault. Cannot some accommodation yet be agreed upon? Friends will be
welcome if they come in a friendly manner."
So spoke the Dutch governor, trying to be patient and reasonable, no
matter how hard such a course might be for him. Colonel Nicholls, sure
of his greater power in men and guns, cared not a whit to be either
reasonable or patient. He sent back a determined answer. "I have nothing
to do but to execute my mission," he said. "To accomplish that I hope
to have further conversation with you on the morrow, at the Manhattans.
You say that friends will be welcome, if they come in a friendly manner.
I shall come with ships and soldiers. And he will be bold indeed who
will dare to come on board my ships, to demand an answer or to solicit
terms. What then is to be done? Hoist the white flag of surrender, and
then something may be considered."
This haughty answer spread through New Amsterdam, and men and women
rushed to the governor to beg him to surrender. Bombardment by the fleet
would destroy all they owned, and doubtless kill many of them.
Stuyvesant would have fought until his flag fell over a heap of ruins,
but he knew that his people would not stand behind him. "I had rather,"
he told the men and women as they thronged about him, "be carried a
corpse to my grave than to surrender the city!"
The people went to the City Hall, and drew up a paper of protest to
their governor. The protest said that the people could only see misery,
sorrow, and fire in resistance, the ruin of fifteen hundred innocent
men, women and children, only two hundred and fifty of whom were capable
of bearing arms.
The words of the protest were true. "You are aware," it said, "that four
of the English king's frigates are now in the roadstead, with six
hundred soldiers on board. They have also commissions to all the
governors of New England, a populous and thickly inhabited country, to
impress troops, in addition to the forces already on board, for the
purpose of reducing New Netherland to His Majesty's obedience.
"These threats we would not have regarded, could we expect the smallest
aid. But, God help us, where shall we turn for assistance, to the north
or to the south, to the east or to the west? 'Tis all in vain. On all
sides we are encompassed and hemmed in by our enemies." Ninety-four of
the chief men of New Amsterdam signed this protest, one of them being
Stuyvesant's own son. In front of the governor were the guns of the
English fleet, behind him was the mutiny of his own people.
New Amsterdam, only a cluster of some three hundred houses at the
southern end of Manhattan Island, was entirely open to attack from
either the East or the North River. An old palisade, built to protect
the houses from Indian attacks, stretched from river to river on the
north, and in front of this palisade were the remains of an old
breastwork, three feet high and two feet wide. These might be of use
against the Indians, but hardly against well-trained white soldiers.
Fort Amsterdam itself had only been built to withstand Indians, not
white men. An earthen rampart, ten feet high and four feet thick,
surrounded it, but there were no ditches or palisades. At its back,
where the crowds of Broadway now daily pass, were a number of low wooded
hills, with Indian trails leading through them. These hills, if held by
an enemy, could easily command the fort. The little Dutch garrison
hadn't five hundred pounds of powder on hand. The store of provisions
was equally small, and there was not a single well of water within the
fortifications. To cap the climax, the garrison itself couldn't be
trusted; it was largely made up of the lowest class of the settlers,
unfit to do any other work than shoulder a gun.
So Peter Stuyvesant saw that he must yield. He chose six of his men to
meet with six of the English at his own bouwery on the morning of August
27th. There was little for the Dutchmen to do but agree to the terms
their enemies offered them. The terms were that the province of New
Netherland should belong to the English. The Dutch settlers might keep
their own property or might leave the country if they chose. They might
have any form of religion they pleased. Their officers, to be chosen at
the next election, would have to take the oath of allegiance to the king
of England.
Peter Stuyvesant only yielded because he saw that he must. He pulled
down his flag that was flying above the ramparts, and "the fort and town
called New Amsterdam, upon the island of Manhatoes," as the treaty
called it, passed from the ownership of the Dutch to that of the
English. The officers and soldiers of the fort were allowed to march out
with their arms, their drums beating and their colors flying. Most of
the soldiers, many of the settlers, cared little what flag flew above
their colony, so long as they were permitted a peaceful living, but at
least one Dutchman, the governor, "Wooden-Legged Peter," cared much when
he saw the flag of the Netherlands come fluttering down.
The English Colonel Nicholls and his men marched into the fort and took
possession of the government. They changed the name of the little
settlement from New Amsterdam to New York, in honor of the Duke of York,
who was the brother of the king of England. The fort was christened Fort
James, the name of the Duke of York. Then Colonel Nicholls sent troops
up the Hudson to take possession of the Dutch settlement of Fort Orange,
and other troops to the Delaware River to raise the English flag over
the small Dutch colony of New Amstel. The name of Fort Orange was
changed to Fort Albany, the second title of the king's brother, the Duke
of York. The settlers there were well treated, and given the same
liberty as was given the people on Manhattan Island. But those at New
Amstel, on the Delaware, did not fare so well. Peter Stuyvesant
indignantly reported that "At New Amstel, on the South River,
notwithstanding they offered no resistance, but demanded good treatment,
which however they did not obtain, they were invaded, stript bare,
plundered, and many of them sold as slaves in Virginia."
The flag of England now flew where the flag of the Netherlands had waved
for half a century. There was no excuse for this seizing of the Dutch
colony by the English. The Dutch were peaceful neighbors, fair in their
dealings with the other colonies. But while the Dutch had not greatly
increased the number of their settlers in the New World, the English
had. New England was growing fast, so was Virginia, and in between these
two English settlements lay the small Dutch one, at the mouth of a great
river, and with the finest harbor of the whole seacoast. The English had
cast envious eyes upon Manhattan Island. They wanted to own the whole
seacoast; and so, being strong enough, they took it. And the Dutch, like
the Indians before them, had to bow to the stronger force.
The Dutch Government in Europe called Peter Stuyvesant there to explain
why he had surrendered his colony. He went to Holland and made his acts
so clear to the States-General that they held him guiltless of every
charge against him. Then he returned to New York and settled down at his
bouwery, where he lived comfortably and well, like most of his Dutch
neighbors, unvexed by the constant troubles he had known when he was the
governor.
The colony of New York grew and prospered. The patroons lived on their
big estates, rich, hospitable families, much like the wealthy planters
of Virginia. The Dutch people in the towns were a thrifty, peaceable
lot, glad to welcome new settlers, no matter from where they came. Most
of the settlers came now from England, very few from the Netherlands;
and in time there were more English than Dutch in the province. By the
time of the Revolution the people of the two nations were practically
one in their ideas and aims. Dutch and English fought side by side in
that war, and helped to make the great state of New York. But the Dutch
blood and the Dutch virtues persisted, and many of the greatest men of
the new state bore old Dutch names. And so, though Peter Stuyvesant and
his neighbors had to haul down their flag from their primitive ramparts
at Fort Amsterdam, they and their descendants left their stamp upon that
part of the New World they had been the first to settle.
III
WHEN GOVERNOR ANDROSS CAME TO CONNECTICUT
(_Connecticut, 1675_)
One of the most interesting stories in the history of the American
colonies is that of the adventures of the judges who voted for the
execution of King Charles I of England and who fled across the water
when his son came to the throne as Charles II. They were known as the
regicides, a name given to them because they were held to be responsible
for the king's death. When Charles II came back to England as king,
after the days when Oliver Cromwell was the Lord Protector, he pardoned
many of the men who had taken sides against his father, but his friends
urged him not to be so generous in his treatment of the judges. So he
issued a proclamation, stating that such of the judges of King Charles I
as did not surrender themselves as prisoners within fourteen days should
receive no pardon. The regicides and their friends were greatly alarmed.
Nineteen surrendered to the king's officers; some fled across the ocean;
and others were arrested as they tried to escape. Ten of them were
executed. Two, Edward Whalley and William Goffe, reached Boston Harbor
in July, 1660. Another, John Dixwell, came afterward.
Governor Endicott and the leading men of Boston, not knowing how King
Charles intended to treat the judges, welcomed them as men who had held
posts of honor in England. They were entertained most hospitably in the
little town, and they went about quite freely, making no attempt to
conceal from any one who they were.
Then word came to Boston that the king regarded the escaped judges as
traitors. Immediately many of those who had been friendly to the
regicides slunk away from them, avoiding them as if they had the plague.
The judges heard, moreover, that now Governor Endicott had called a
court of magistrates to order them seized and turned over to the
executioner. So, as they had fled from England before, the hunted
regicides now fled from the colony of Massachusetts Bay.
At the settlement of New Haven there were many who had been friends and
followers of Oliver Cromwell, and the regicides turned in that
direction. They reached that town in March, 1661, and found a haven in
the home of John Davenport, a prominent minister. Here they were among
friends, and here they went about as freely as they had done at first in
Boston; and everybody liked them, for they were fine, honorable men, who
had done their duty as they saw it when they had decreed the execution
of King Charles I.
There came a royal order to Massachusetts, requiring the governor to
arrest the fugitives. The governor and his officers were anxious to show
their zeal in carrying out all the wishes of the new king, and so they
gave a commission to two zealous young royalists, Thomas Kellond and
Thomas Kirk, authorizing them to hunt through the colonies as far south
as Manhattan Island for the missing judges and to bring them back to
Boston.
The searchers set out at once, and went first to Governor Winthrop at
Hartford. He gave them permission to arrest the regicides anywhere in
the colony of Connecticut, but he assured them that he understood that
the judges were not in his colony, but had gone on to the colony of New
Haven. So they set forth again, and next day reached the town of
Guilford, where they stopped to procure a warrant from Governor Leete,
who lived there.
Governor Leete appeared to be very much surprised at the news the two
men brought. He said that he didn't think the regicides were in New
Haven. He took the papers bearing the orders of Governor Winthrop and
read them in so loud a voice that the two men begged him to keep the
matter more quiet, lest some traitors should overhear. Then he delayed
furnishing them with fresh horses, and, the next day being Sunday, the
pursuers were forced to wait over an extra day before they could
continue their hunt.
In the meantime an Indian messenger was sent to New Haven in the night,
to give warning of the pursuers. Then Governor Leete refused either to
give the pursuers a warrant or to send men with them to arrest the
regicides until he should have had a chance to consult with the
magistrates, which meant that he himself would have to go to New Haven.
The upshot of all this was that the pursuers stayed chafing in Guilford
while the men they were hunting had plenty of time to escape.
John Davenport, the minister at New Haven, preached that Sunday morning
to a congregation that had heard the news of the pursuit of the English
judges. Davenport knew that the king of England had ordered the capture
of the judges and that this colony of New Haven was part of the English
realm. Yet, for the sake of mercy and justice, he urged his hearers to
protect the fugitives who had taken refuge among them. Not in so many
words did he urge it, but his hearers knew what he meant, for the text
of his sermon, taken from the sixteenth chapter of Isaiah, read: "Take
counsel, execute judgment, make thy shadow as the night in the midst of
noonday; hide the outcasts, bewray not him that wandereth. Let mine
outcasts dwell with thee; Moab, be thou a covert to them from the face
of the spoiler." The congregation understood his meaning.
Early Monday morning Kellond and Kirk rode into New Haven, where the
people met them with surly faces. They had to wait until Governor Leete
arrived, and when he did he refused to take any steps in the matter
until he had called the freemen together. The two pursuers, now growing
angry, told the governor flatly that it looked to them as if he wanted
the regicides to escape. Spurred on by this the governor called the
magistrates together, but their decision was that they would have to
call a meeting of the general court.
More exasperated than ever, the two hunters spoke plainly to Governor
Leete. They pointed out that he was not behaving as loyally as the
governors of Massachusetts and Connecticut had; they warned him against
giving aid to traitors, and then they flatly asked whether he meant to
obey King Charles or not.
"We honor His Majesty," answered Governor Leete, "but we have tender
consciences."
The pursuers lodged at a little inn in New Haven. There the governor
went that evening, and taking one of them by the hand, said, "I wish I
had been a plowman, and had never been in office, since I find it so
weighty."
"Will you own His Majesty or no?" demanded the two men from
Massachusetts.
"We would first know whether His Majesty would own us," was the
governor's guarded answer.
The officers of New Haven would not help them, the people were openly
hostile, and so Kellond and Kirk left the colony, without having dared
to search a single house. They went south to Manhattan Island, where
the Dutch Governor Stuyvesant received them very politely, and promised
to help them arrest the fugitives if the latter came to New Netherland.
Then they went back to Boston, baffled of their quarry.
Now when the Indian messenger had come to New Haven the fugitive judges
had fled from the town and spent the night at a mill two miles away.
Then they went to a place called "Hatchet Harbor," where they stayed a
couple of days, and from there to a cave upon a mountain that they
called Providence Hill. This cave, ever since known as the "Judges'
Cave," was a splendid hiding place. On the top of the mountain stood a
group of pillars of trap rock, like a grove of trees. These rocks
slanted inwards and so formed a room, the door of which could be hidden
with boughs. Here the regicides hid for almost a month. A friend named
Sperry, who lived in the neighborhood, brought them food. Sometimes he
sent the provisions by his small son, who left the basket on the stump
of a tree near the top of the mountain. The boy couldn't understand what
became of the food and how it happened that he always found the basket
empty when he returned for it the next day. The only answer the cautious
father would give him was, "There's somebody at work in the woods who
wants the food."
That part of the country near the "Judges' Cave" was full of wild
animals. One night the regicides were visited by a panther that thrust
its head in at the door of their cave and roared at them. One of the
judges fled down the mountain to Sperry's house and gave the alarm, and
the farmer and the fugitives hunted the panther the rest of the night.
After a while the fugitives decided that it would be better for their
friends in the colony, and particularly for Mr. Davenport, if they
should give themselves up in obedience to the command of King Charles.
They left their cave and went to Guilford to see Governor Leete. But the
governor and the other officers did not want to surrender them to the
king. The judges hid in the governor's cellar, and were fed from his
table, while he considered the best course to adopt. The colony of New
Haven decided that it would not arrest them, and so the fugitives moved
to the house of a Mr. Tompkins in Milford, where they stayed in hiding
for two years.
The people of Milford did not know that the fugitives were there. One
day a girl came to the house and happened to sing a ballad lately come
from England, that made sport of the fugitive regicides. She sang the
song in a room just above the one where the fugitives were, and they
were so amused by the words that they asked Mr. Tompkins to have her
come again and again and sing to her unseen audience.
Officers came out from England in 1664, charged, among other duties,
with the arrest of the fugitive judges, and the friends of the regicides
thought it best that they should leave Milford for some new hiding
place. So in October they set out for the small town of Hadley, on the
frontier of Massachusetts, a hundred miles from Milford, and so distant
from Boston, Hartford and New Haven that it was thought that no one
could trace them there. They traveled only at night, lying hidden in the
woods by day. The places where they stopped they called Harbors, and the
name still remains attached to one of them, now the flourishing town of
Meriden, which bears the title of Pilgrim's Harbor. They reached Hadley
in safety, and were taken in at the house of John Russell, a clergyman.
He gave them room in his house, and there they spent the rest of their
lives, safe from royal agents and spies in the small frontier
settlement. So three of the men, who, doing their duty as they saw it,
had voted for the execution of King Charles I, found a refuge in the
American wilderness from the pursuit of his son, King Charles II.
Ten years later a very different sort of man came to the colony of
Connecticut. King Charles I had made large grants in America to his
brother the Duke of York, and among other territory that which had
belonged to the Dutch, called New Netherland. The Duke of York made
Major Edmund Andross, afterward Sir Edmund Andross, governor of all his
territories, and sent him out to New England. With full powers from the
Duke, Andross expected to do about as he pleased, and rule like a king
in the new world.
By way of making a good start Edmund Andross at once laid claim to all
the land that had belonged to the Dutch and also to that part of
Connecticut that lay west of the Connecticut River. Unless the settlers
in that part of Connecticut consented to his rule he threatened to
invade their land with his soldiers. Now the people of Connecticut had
received the boundary of their colony in an early grant, and though they
already had the prospect of a war with the Indians under King Philip on
their hands, their governor and his council determined to resist the
cutting in two of their colony.
Word came to Hartford that Andross was about to land at the port of
Saybrook and intended to march to Hartford, New Haven and other towns,
suppress the colonial government and establish his own. At once colonial
soldiers were sent to Saybrook and New London, and Captain Thomas Bull,
in command at the former place, strengthened the fortifications there to
resist the Duke of York's new governor.
July 9, 1675, the people of Saybrook saw an armed fleet heading for
their fort. The men hurried to the fort and put themselves under the
command of Captain Bull. Then a letter came from the governor at
Hartford telling them what to do. "And if so be those forces on board
should endeavor to land at Saybrook," so ran the order, "you are in His
Majesty's name to forbid their landing. Yet if they should offer to
land, you are to wait their landing and to command them to leave their
arms on board; and then you may give them leave to land for necessary
refreshing, peaceably, but so that they return on board again in a
convenient time."
Major Andross sent a request that he might be allowed to land and meet
the officers of Saybrook. The request was granted, and Captain Bull,
with the principal men of the town, met the Englishman and his officers
on the beach. Captain Bull stated the orders he had received from the
governor of Connecticut. Andross, with great haughtiness, waved the
orders aside, and told his clerk to read aloud the commission he held
from the Duke of York.
But Captain Bull was not easily cowed. He ordered the clerk to stop his
reading of the commission. The surprised clerk hesitated a minute, then
went on with the reading. "Forbear!" thundered the captain, in a tone
that startled even Major Andross.
The major, however, haughty and overbearing though he was, could not
help but admire the other man's determined manner. "What is your name?"
he asked.
"My name is Bull, sir," was the answer.
"Bull!" said Andross. "It is a pity that your horns are not tipped with
silver."
Then, seeing that the captain and his men would not listen to his
commission from the Duke of York, Andross returned to his small boat,
and a few hours later his fleet sailed away from the harbor.
The colony of Connecticut, like those of Massachusetts and New York,
now had a checkered career. Governor John Winthrop, who had done so much
for his people, died. False reports of the colony were carried to
England, the people were accused of harboring pirates and other outlaws.
Finally, in 1686, Andross, now Sir Edmund Andross, was given a royal
commission as governor of New England.
Sir Edmund went to Boston, and from there sent a message to the governor
of Connecticut saying that he had received an order from the king to
require Connecticut to give up its charter as a colony. The governor and
council answered that, though they wished to do the king's bidding in
all things, they begged that they might keep the original grants of
their charter.
Sir Edmund's answer to that was to go to Hartford. October 31, 1687, he
entered Hartford, accompanied by several gentlemen of his suite and with
a body-guard of some sixty soldiers. He meant to take the charter in
spite of all protests.
The governor and council met him with all marks of respect, but it was
clear that they were not over-pleased to see him. Andross marched into
the hall where the General Assembly was in session, demanded the
charter, and declared that their present government was dissolved.
Governor Treat protested, and eloquently told of all the early hardships
of the colonists, their many wars with the Indians, the privations they
had endured. Finally he said that it was like giving up his life to
surrender the charter that represented rights and privileges they had so
dearly bought and enjoyed for so long a time.
Sir Edmund listened to the governor's speech attentively. Looking about
him at the citizens who had gathered in the Assembly Hall he realized
that it would be well for him to obtain the charter as quietly as he
could, and without waking too much spirit of resentment in the men of
Hartford. Governor Treat's speech was long, the sun set, twilight came
on, and still the charter of the colony had not been handed over to Sir
Edmund.
The governor and the people knew that Sir Edmund meant to have the
charter; he himself was prepared to stay there until they should hand
the paper over to him. Candles were brought into the hall and their
flickering light showed the spirited governor still arguing with the
determined, haughty Sir Edmund. More people pressed into the room to
hear the governor's words. Sir Edmund Andross glanced at the crowd; now
they seemed peaceful people, not of the kind likely to make trouble.
Sir Edmund had listened to Governor Treat long enough. He grew
impatient. He slapped his hand on the table in front of him, and stated
again that he required the people of Connecticut to hand him over their
charter, and that at once. The governor saw that Sir Edmund's patience
was at an end, and whispered a word to his secretary. The secretary
left the room, and when he returned he brought the precious charter in
his hand.
The charter was laid on the table in full view of Sir Edmund and the men
of the Assembly and the people who had crowded into the hall. Sir Edmund
smiled; he had taught these stubborn Connecticut colonists a
well-deserved lesson. He leaned forward in his chair, reaching out his
hand for the parchment. At that very instant the candles went out, and
the room was in total darkness.
No one spoke, there were no threats of violence, no motion toward Sir
Edmund. In silence they waited for the relighting of the candles.
The clerks relighted the candles. Andross looked again at the table. The
charter had disappeared. Andross stared at Governor Treat and the
governor stared back at him, apparently as much amazed as was Sir Edmund
at the disappearance. Then both men began to hunt. They looked in every
corner of the room where the charter might have been hidden. But the
charter had vanished in the time between the going-out of the candles
and their relighting.
Sir Edmund, baffled and indignant, hid his anger as well as he could,
and with his gentlemen and soldiers left the Assembly Room. Next day he
took over control of the colony, and issued a proclamation that stated
that by the king's order the government of the colony of Connecticut was
annexed to that of Massachusetts and the other colonies under his rule.
The orders he gave were harsh and tyrannical, and the people of the
colony had little cause to like him.
What had become of the charter? When Governor Wellys, a former governor
of Connecticut, had come to America he had sent his steward, a man named
Gibbons, to prepare a country home for him. Gibbons chose a suitable
place, and was cutting trees on a hill where the governor's house was to
stand when some Indians from the South Meadow came up to him and begged
him not to cut down an old oak that was there. "It has been the guide of
our ancestors for centuries," said the leader of the Indians, "as to the
time of planting our corn. When the leaves are of the size of a mouse's
ears, then is the time to put the seed in the ground."
The tree was allowed to stand, and flourished, in spite of a large hole
near the base of its trunk.
When the candles had been blown out in the Assembly Hall Captain
Wadsworth had seized the charter and stolen away with it. He knew of the
oak with the hole that seemed purposely made for concealing things.
There he took the charter and hid it, and neither Andross nor his men
ever laid hands on it. The tree became famous in history as the Charter
Oak.
As long as James II was king of England Andross and other despotic
governors like him had their way in the colonies. But when James was
driven from his throne by William, the Prince of Orange, conditions
changed. William sent a messenger with a statement of his new plans for
the government of New England, and when the messenger reached Boston he
was welcomed with open arms. Andross, however, had the man arrested and
thrown into jail. Then on April 18, 1689, the people of Boston and the
neighboring towns rose in rebellion, drove Andross and his fellows from
their seats in the government and put back the old officers they had had
before. They thought that William III would treat them more justly than
James II had done, and they were not disappointed.
Already, in their protection of the regicides and in their saving of
their charter, the people of Connecticut had shown that love of liberty
that was to burst forth more bravely than ever in the days of the
Revolution.
IV
THE STRUGGLE BETWEEN NATHANIEL BACON AND SIR WILLIAM BERKELEY
(_Virginia, 1676_)
I
There was great excitement in that part of the American colony of
Virginia where Edmund Porter lived. It was in the month of May, 1676,
and the place was the country just below the settlement of Henricus, on
the James River, as one went down-stream toward the capital city of
Jamestown. The Porters had a plantation not very far from Curles, which
was the name of the place where their friend Nathaniel Bacon lived; and
Nathaniel Bacon seemed to be the centre of the exciting events that were
taking place.
Nathaniel Bacon was a young man, of a good family in England, who had
come out to Virginia with his wife, and settled at Curles on the James.
He had another estate farther up the river, a place called "Bacon
Quarter Branch," where his overseer and servants looked after his
affairs, and to which he could easily ride in a morning from his own
home, or go in his barge on the James, unless he objected to being rowed
seven miles around the peninsula at Dutch Gap. He was popular with his
neighbors, and seemed as quiet as any of them until trouble with the
Indians in the spring of that year made him declare that he was going to
see whether the governor would protect the farms along the river, and if
the governor wouldn't, then he had a mind to take the matter into his
own hands.
Now Edmund, who was a well-grown boy of sixteen, wanted to be wherever
there was excitement, and so spent as much time as he could at Curles.
He was out in the meadow back of the house, watching one of the men
break in a colt, when a messenger came with news that Indians had
attacked Mr. Bacon's other estate; killed his overseer and one of his
servants, and were carrying fire and bloodshed along the frontier. The
news spread like wild-fire, as news of Indian raids always did, for
there was nothing else so fear-inspiring to the white settlers. Edmund
jumped on his pony, and rode home as fast as he could to tell his
father. Then father and son, each taking a gun, with powder-horn and
bullet-pouch, dashed back to Nathaniel Bacon's. Other planters had
already gathered there, armed and ready to ride on the track of the
Indians. There was much talk and debate; some wanted to know whether
Governor Berkeley, down the river at Jamestown, would send soldiers to
protect the plantations farther up the James; others wondered whether
the governor, who was not very prompt or ready in dealing with the
Indians in this far-off part of the colony, would be willing to
commission the planters to take the war into their own hands. In the
midst of all the talk Bacon himself appeared, and the crowd of horsemen
called on him to take command, it being known he had often said openly
that he intended to protect Curles and his other farms from the
redskins.
Bacon agreed to lead his neighbors, but told them he thought it would be
best to send a messenger to Sir William Berkeley, and ask for the
governor's commission. A man was sent at once down the river to
Jamestown, and the neighbors rode home to wait for the governor's
answer. Next afternoon they met again at Curles, and heard the answer
Sir William Berkeley sent. It was very polite, and spoke highly of
Nathaniel Bacon and his neighbors. It further said that the times were
very troubled, that the governor was anxious to keep on good terms with
the Indians, and was afraid that the outcome of an attack on them might
be dangerous, and urged Mr. Bacon, for his own good interests, not to
ride against them. He did not actually refuse the commission that Bacon
had asked for, but, what amounted to the same matter, he did not send
it.
The horsemen were very angry. Sir William Berkeley, a man seventy years
old, and safe at Jamestown, might care little what the Indians did, but
the men whose plantations were threatened cared a great deal. Again they
urged Bacon to lead them, and he, nothing loath now that he had set the
matter fairly before the governor, jumped into his saddle and put
himself at the head of the troop. All were armed, some had fought
Indians before; in those days such a ride was not uncommon. A few boys
rode with their fathers, and among them Edmund Porter.
Bacon's band rode fast, and were marching through the woods of Charles
City when a messenger came dashing after them. The company stopped to
hear him. He said that he came from Sir William, and that Sir William
ordered the band to disperse, on pain of being treated as rebels against
his authority. The message made it clear that they would ride on at
their peril.
This threat cooled the ardor of some, but not of many. Bacon snapped his
fingers at the governor's messenger, and rode on, with fifty-seven other
followers. They were not the men to leave their frontiers unguarded, no
matter what Sir William might call them.
Bacon led on to the Falls, and there he found the Indians entrenched on
a hill. Several white men went forward to parley, but as they advanced
an Indian in ambush fired a shot at the rear of the party, and their
captain gave the word to attack. Edmund and a few others formed a
rear-guard by the river, while the rest waded through a stream; climbed
the slope; stormed and set fire to the Indian stockade, and so blew up a
great store of powder that the red men had collected. The rout of the
marauding Indians was complete, and when the fighting was over one
hundred and fifty of them had been killed, with only a loss of three in
Bacon's party. Victory had been won, the Indians were driven back to the
mountains, leaving the plantations along the James safe, for some time
at least. With a train of captives, Bacon and his neighbors rode
homeward. The Porters went to their plantation, and the others scattered
to their houses farther down the river. Edmund and his father thought
the excitement was over, and everybody in the neighborhood had only
words of the highest praise for the gallant Nathaniel Bacon.
Sir William Berkeley, however, was very angry, and he was a man of his
word. He had sent his messenger to say that if Bacon marched against the
Indians he should consider Bacon a rebel and the men who rode with him
rebels as well. He meant to be master in Virginia, and therefore as soon
as the news of what was called the Battle of Bloody Run came to him he
made his plans to teach all rebellious colonists a lesson. He called for
a company of officers and horsemen and set out hot foot, in spite of his
seventy years, to capture the upstart Bacon and make an example of him.
But Sir William had not ridden far when disquieting news reached him.
The people along the coast had heard how Bacon had sent to the governor
for a commission and had been refused, and they also knew how he had
fought the Indians in spite of the governor's warning. They were proud
of him; they liked his dash and determination, and they meant to stand
by him, no matter what Sir William might have to say.
The governor, who had always had his own way in Virginia, was thoroughly
furious now. There were rebels before him, and rebels behind him, for
that was the name he gave to all who dared to dispute his orders. But
with the lower country in a blaze he didn't dare attend to Nathaniel
Bacon then, so he ordered his troop of horse to countermarch, and
galloped back to Jamestown as fast as he could go.
When he reached his capital he found it in a tumult; word came to him
that all the counties along the lower James and the York Rivers had
rebelled. It looked as if the colony were facing a civil war like the
one that had broken out in England thirty years before. Then, realizing
that this was no time for anger, but for cool, calm words, Sir William
mended his manners. He didn't pour oil on the colonists' fire; instead
he met their demands half-way. When the leaders of the colonists
protested that the forts on the border were more apt to be a danger to
them than a help, Sir William agreed that the forts should be
dismantled. When the leaders said that the House of Burgesses, which was
the name of the Virginia parliament, no longer represented the people,
but in fact defied the people's will, Sir William answered that the
House of Burgesses should be dissolved and the people given a chance to
send new representatives to it. And the governor kept his word after the
angry planters had gone back to their homes. He didn't want such a civil
war in Virginia as the one that had cost King Charles the First his
throne in England.
Sir William might have forgiven Nathaniel Bacon's disobedience, and
forgotten all about it, but the owner of Curles Manor bobbed up into
public notice again almost immediately. As soon as orders were sent out
through the colony that new elections were to be held for the House of
Burgesses, as the governor had promised, Bacon declared that he was a
candidate to represent Henrico County. He was so popular now that when
the election was held he was chosen by a very large vote. Many men
voting for him who had no right to vote at all, according to the law,
which said that only freeholders, or men who owned land, should have the
right to vote in such a case. So now the man who had been called a rebel
by the governor was going to Jamestown to sit in the House of Burgesses
and help make laws for the colony. Many a man might have hesitated to do
that, but not such a good fighter as Mr. Bacon.
The new burgesses were summoned to meet at Jamestown early that June,
and they traveled there through the wilderness in many ways. Some rode
on horseback, fording or swimming the numerous streams and rivers, for
bridges were few, some came by coach, and some went down the river by
barge or by sloop, the easiest way for those who lived near the James.
Bacon chose the last way, and on a bright morning in June left his house
at Curles, and with thirty neighbors sailed down the river. Mr. Porter
and Edmund went with him, for the father had often promised his son to
take him to Jamestown, and this seemed a good opportunity.
The voyage started pleasantly, but ended in disaster. Sir William now
considered himself doubly flouted by this man from Curles, and vowed
that the rebel Bacon should never sit in the new House of Burgesses. As
the sloop came quietly sailing down to Jamestown a ship that was lying
at anchor in front of the town trained its cannon on the smaller vessel,
and the sheriff, who was on board the ship, sent men to the sloop to
arrest Bacon and certain of his friends. There was no use in resisting;
the cannon could blow the sloop out of the water at a word. Bacon
surrendered to the sheriff's men, and he and the others who were wanted
were landed and marched up to the State House, while Edmund Porter and
the others rowed themselves ashore, wondering what was going to happen
to their friend.
Governor Berkeley was at the State House when Bacon was brought in. Each
of the two men was quick-tempered and haughty, but they managed to keep
their anger out of their words. Sir William said coldly, "Mr. Bacon,
have you forgot to be a gentleman?"
Bacon answered in the same tone, "No, may it please your honor."
"Then," said Sir William, "I'll take your parole."
That was all that was said, and Bacon was released on his word as a
gentleman that he would do no more mischief. Doubtless the haughty
governor would have liked to lodge the other man in jail, but he didn't
dare attempt that, for the newly elected burgesses were reaching
Jamestown every hour. Further almost all of them were known to side with
Bacon, and in addition the town was fast filling with planters from the
counties along the river that had revolted against the governor. So for
the second time that spring Sir William saw the advantage of bending his
stiff pride in order to ride out the storm.
The governor knew, however, that Bacon would be a thorn in his side
unless he could be made to bend the knee to his own authority. So Sir
William went to Bacon's cousin, a man who was very rich and prominent in
the colony, and a member of the governor's council. He urged this man,
who was known as Colonel Nathaniel Bacon, Senior, to go to his cousin,
Nathaniel, Junior, and try to induce him to yield to Sir William's
wishes. Colonel Bacon agreed, and was so successful with his arguments
that the younger man, proud and headstrong as he was, at last consented
to write out a statement, admitting that he had been in the wrong in
disobeying Sir William Berkeley's orders, and to read it on his knees
before the members of the Assembly, which was another name for the House
of Burgesses. This was a great victory for the governor. Events had
followed one another fast. In the space of little more than a week the
owner of Curles Plantation had been proclaimed a rebel, had marched
against the Indians and beaten them, had been a candidate for the House
of Burgesses and been elected, had sailed down to Jamestown, been
arrested, and paroled, and was now to admit on his knees that he had
indeed been a rebel.
On June 5, 1676, Bacon went to the State House. The governor and his
council sat with the burgesses, and Sir William Berkeley spoke to them
about recent border fights between Virginians and Indians. He denounced
the killing of six Indian chiefs in Maryland, who, he said, had come to
treat of peace with white soldiers, and he added, "If they had killed my
grandfather and grandmother, my father and mother and all my friends,
yet if they had come to treat of peace, they ought to have gone in
peace."
Sir William sat down; then after a few minutes stood up again. "If there
be joy in the presence of the angels over one sinner that repenteth,"
said he, with solemn humor, "there is joy now, for we have a penitent
sinner come before us. Call Mr. Bacon."
Bacon came in, and knelt down before the governor and his council and
his fellow Virginians. He read from a paper he held, confessing that he
had been guilty of "unlawful, mutinous, and rebellious practices," and
promised that if the governor would pardon him he would act "dutifully,
faithfully, and peaceably," under a penalty of two thousand pounds
sterling. He pledged his whole estate for his good behavior for one
year.
When Bacon had finished, Sir William said, "God forgive you; I forgive
you." And to make the words more impressive he repeated them three
times.
"And all that were with him," said Colonel Cole, a member of the
council, meaning the men who had rebelled with Bacon and fought the
Indians.
"Yes, and all that were with him," the governor agreed. Then Sir William
added, "Mr. Bacon, if you will live civilly but till next
quarter-day,--but till next quarter-day," he repeated the words, "I'll
promise to restore you to your place there!" and he pointed to the seat
which Bacon had sometimes occupied during meetings of the council.
All was peace again; the black sheep had repented and been allowed to
return to the fold. It was generally understood that in return for
Bacon's apology the governor would now give him the commission he had
asked for before, the commission as "General of the Indian Wars," which
would allow him to protect outlying plantations against Indian raids.
Sir William pardoned the rebel on Saturday, and "General Bacon," as many
people in Jamestown already spoke of him, took up his lodgings at the
house of a Mr. Lawrence, there to wait until his expected commission
should be sent him early the next week. Mr. Porter and his son, and many
of the friends who had come in Bacon's sloop, took rooms at near-by
houses, for their leader might be going back to Curles as soon as he had
his commission, and they wanted to go with him.
Monday came and Tuesday, but no commission arrived from Sir William. On
Wednesday there was no message for Bacon from the governor. Instead
rumors began to spread abroad. Mr. Lawrence, who had an old grudge
against Sir William, was reported to be busy with some plot against him;
men of doubtful reputation were seen about the house, and it was
whispered that possibly there might be further trouble. Edmund heard
these rumors; he knew that there were men in Jamestown who wanted
Nathaniel Bacon to defy the governor, and he kept his eyes and ears wide
open. Then one morning, as he and his father came out from the house
where they were staying, they met a crowd of their friends. "Bacon is
fled!" cried these men. "Bacon is fled!"
Edmund listened to the excited words. Sir William had been frightened as
he heard that more and more planters were flocking into Jamestown, he
doubted that Bacon meant to keep his word, he knew that Lawrence's house
was a hot-bed of disorder, and he determined that he would crush any
rebellion before it got a start, and put the popular leader where he
could do no harm. Bacon's cousin, the colonel, who was fond of his
kinsman, though he disapproved of what he had done, had sent word the
night before to Nathaniel, bidding him fly for his life. At daybreak
the governor's officers had gone to Lawrence's house; but the man they
wanted was gone; he had fled into the country, wisely heeding his
cousin's warning.
"Bacon is fled!" were the words that sped through Jamestown that June
morning. And many who heard the words were glad, for now they hoped that
the rebel would raise a force and overthrow Sir William, who had made
many enemies in his long and strict rule as governor. Men stole away
from the capital in twos and threes, some by the river, more on
horseback through the country. They were afraid to stay lest Berkeley
should put them in irons as partisans of Bacon's. Mr. Porter found a man
with horses to sell, bought two, and with his son rode out of Jamestown
before noon. West along the river bank they galloped. Bacon would make
for Henrico County, and there they wanted to join him. "And I may ride
with you and General Bacon, father?" Edmund begged.
"I don't know," said the father. "This may be more serious business than
looking after the rear-guard in a skirmish with Indians."
"But I'm almost a man, father," Edmund urged. "And even if I didn't
fight, there's other things I could do."
"I hope there'll be no fighting. It's bad when settlers turn their guns
against each other. We'll have to wait till we find Nat, Edmund, and
learn what he's going to do. If it's a fight it's a fight for liberty
and the safety of our homes. The governor's wrong; he hasn't treated us
fair."
All that day they rode through the river country, and wherever they came
to settlements they found armed men mounting, for the news had spread
rapidly that Nathaniel Bacon was raising an army to fight the governor.
II
From big plantations and from small farms, from manor-houses in the
lowlands and from log cabins in the uplands, grown men and half-grown
boys, armed with guns or swords, hurried to join General Bacon, who was
sending out his call for recruits from his headquarters up the James
River. The colonists were a hardy lot, used to hunting and fighting, and
well pleased now at the prospect of upsetting the tyrannical governor at
Jamestown. Within three days after Bacon's escape from the capital he
was at the head of about six hundred men, stirring them with his
speeches, for he was a very fine and fiery orator, until they were ready
to follow wherever he led. The Porters, father and son, succeeded in
joining his ranks, and when the young commander set out on his march to
Jamestown they rode among his men.
What was Sir William Berkeley doing meantime? Bacon was a fighter, but
the white-haired governor was a fighter also. He sent riders from
Jamestown to summon what were called the "train-bands" of York and
Gloucester, counties that lay along Chesapeake Bay and the Atlantic
Ocean. But the spirit of rebellion had spread from the plantations along
the James down to the seaboard settlements, and only a hundred soldiers,
and not all of them very loyal to the governor, answered his summons.
They marched so slowly that Bacon reached Jamestown before they were in
sight of the town. At two in the afternoon the rebel leader entered the
capital at the head of his men and drew up his troops on the green, not
an arrow's flight from the State House where he had knelt for the
governor's pardon less than ten days before.
At his order his men sentineled the roads, seized all the firearms they
could find, and disarmed or arrested all men coming into Jamestown by
land or river, except such as joined their own ranks.
The little capital was in a turmoil. Sir William and his council sat in
a room at the State House, debating what course to take. They ordered a
drummer to summon the burgesses, and those burgesses who were not
already in Bacon's army came trooping to the State House. It seemed as
if war was to break out then and there. Bacon marched across the green
with a file of fusileers on either side, and reached the corner of the
State House. Sir William and his council came out, and the two leaders
fronted one another, Bacon fairly cool and collected, but the aged
governor raging at this affront to his dignity.
Sir William walked up to Bacon, and tearing open the lace at the breast
of his coat, cried angrily, "Here! Shoot me! 'Fore God, a fair
mark--shoot!"
Bacon answered calmly, "No, may it please your honor; we will not hurt a
hair of your head, nor of any other man's. We are come for a commission
to save our lives from the Indians, which you have so often promised,
and now we will have it before we go."
But though his words were mild, Bacon was really very angry. As the
governor, still raging and shaking his fist, turned and walked back to
the State House with his council, Bacon followed him with his soldiers,
one hand on his sword-hilt, the other threatening Berkeley. As the
governor and council continued their retreat, Bacon and his men grew
more threatening. The leader shook his fist, the fusileers cocked their
guns. And as they came to the windows of the room where the burgesses
sat some of the soldiers pointed their guns at the men inside, shouting
again and again, "We will have it! We will have it!"
Presently one of the burgesses waved his handkerchief from the window,
and called out, "You shall have it! You shall have it!" by which he
meant the commission that Bacon wanted. The soldiers uncocked their
guns, and stood back, waiting further orders from their leader. Bacon
had grown as angry meantime as the governor had been before, and had
cried, "I'll kill governor, council, Assembly and all, and then I'll
sheathe my sword in my own heart's blood." And it was afterward said
that Bacon had ordered his men, if he drew his sword, to fire on the
burgesses. But the handkerchief waved from the window, and the words,
"You shall have it!" calmed him somewhat, and soon afterward he went
into the State House and discussed the matter fully with Sir William and
his council.
Later that same day Bacon went to the room of the burgesses and repeated
his request for a commission. The speaker answered that it was "Not in
their province, or power, nor of any other save the king's vicegerent,
their governor, to grant it." Bacon replied by saying that the purpose
of his coming to Jamestown was to secure some safe way of protecting the
settlers from the Indians, to reduce the very heavy taxes, and to right
the calamities that had come upon the country. The burgesses gave him no
definite answer, and he left, much dissatisfied. Next day, however, Sir
William and his council yielded, Nathaniel Bacon was appointed general
and commander-in-chief against the Indians, and pardon was granted to
him and all his followers for their acts against the Indians in the
west.
This was a great triumph for the rebel leader. Berkeley hated and feared
him as much as ever, but had seen that he must pocket his pride in the
face of such a popular uprising.
The owner of Curles Plantation was now commander-in-chief of the
Virginia troops, and although it was intended that he should use his
army only in defending the colony from Indian attacks, it was generally
believed that he could do whatever he wished with his men. The colony
was practically under his absolute control. The colonists would do
whatever he ordered, and as they hailed Bacon's leadership they paid
less and less heed to Sir William Berkeley. And the governor, knowing
that many adventurers, many men of doubtful reputation, and many who
were his own enemies, were now much in Bacon's company, feared for their
influence on the impulsive young commander.
Having seen their neighbor win his commission, Mr. Porter and Edmund
rode back to their own plantation, and took up the work that was always
waiting to be done in summer. They were busy, and heard only from time
to time of what Nathaniel was doing. They knew he was planning to take
the field against the Indians with a good-sized troop of men.
Full of energy, and eager to show the colony that he was in truth a
great commander, Bacon made his headquarters near West Point, at the
head of the York River, a place frequently called "De la War," from Lord
Delaware, who belonged to the West family. He disarmed all the men who
opposed his command, and then set out, with an army of between five
hundred and a thousand men, to attack the Indians in the neighborhood
of the head waters of the Pamunkey. His scouts scoured the woods and
drove out all hostile Indians; he cleared that part of the frontier of
red men, and in a short time had made the border plantations safer than
they had ever been before. He had justified all his friends had said of
him, he had acted as a loyal Virginian, and he had proved his worth as
general-in-chief of the colony's army.
Edmund Porter, going to the store at the crossroads on a July day, heard
men discussing news that had just come from Jamestown. The rumor was
that, despite Nathaniel Bacon's success as a commander, Sir William
Berkeley had again denounced him as a rebel and traitor, and had fled to
York River and set up his banner there not only as governor, but as
general also. The report proved true. Sir William had nursed his anger
for a short time, and now it flamed forth afresh and even more bitterly
than before. In spite of Bacon's success he was still a rebel in the
governor's eyes; he had forced the Assembly at Jamestown to do his
bidding, and had acted as if the colony belonged to Bacon and his
followers, and not to the king of England and the royal officers. This
matter the governor meant to decide when he flew his flag at York River
and summoned all loyal Virginians to come to his aid. Some came; there
were many planters who honestly believed that Berkeley was in the right
and Bacon in the wrong; but the great mass of the people sided with the
latter, and it began to look as if Sir William might still call himself
the governor, but would find that he had no people to govern.
Then, when the old Cavalier, proud in his defeat as the Cavaliers of
England had been when the Roundheads beat them in battle after battle,
was beginning to see his men desert him, a messenger came post-haste
from Gloucester County, to the north of the York River, with word that
the planters there were still loyal to the king's governor, and begged
him to come to their county and to protect them from the Indians. The
loyalists of Gloucester, some of whom Bacon had disarmed, were ready to
rally round Sir William.
Sir William was overjoyed; he went to Gloucester at once, he flew his
flag there, and called all loyalists to join him. Twelve hundred people
came on the day Sir William set. But, with the exception of the wealthy
planters who had sent the message, even these men of Gloucester were
unwilling to take the field against General Bacon, as Sir William
wanted. Some of them said that Bacon was fighting the common enemy, the
Indians, with great success, and that as good Virginians they ought to
help, and not to hinder, his work. The governor urged and argued with
them, but as he talked men began to leave, muttering "Bacon! Bacon!
Bacon!" as they went. A short stay showed that Sir William was not to
find, even in Gloucester, the support he wished. Where could he go?
There was one place where men might yet listen to him, the distant
country that was sometimes called the "Kingdom of Accomac." It lay
across Chesapeake Bay, remote from the rest of Virginia. The governor
took ship and sailed across the thirty miles that divided it from the
mainland, a romantic, apparently defeated figure, like some of the
English Royalists who fled before the victorious troops of Oliver
Cromwell.
On July 29, 1676, Berkeley posted his proclamation, declaring that
Nathaniel Bacon was a traitor and outlaw. Bacon heard the news as he was
in camp on the upper waters of the James. He was hurt at what he felt
was the governor's injustice to him. To a friend he said, "It vexes me
to the heart to think that while I am hunting wolves, tigers, and foxes
(meaning Indians), which daily destroy our harmless sheep and lambs,
that I and those with me should be pursued with a full cry, as a more
savage or a no less ravenous beast."
The general marched his men down the river, arresting such as were known
to side with the governor, but leaving their property unharmed.
Presently he made his quarters at Middle-Plantation, which was situated
half-way between Jamestown and the York River. Here his riders
bivouacked around the small group of houses that formed the settlement,
and their commander set to work to try to bring some sort of order out
of the tangle into which Virginia had fallen. Sir William Berkeley was
away in the distant country of Accomac, a country that was hardly looked
upon at that time as part of Virginia, and Bacon was to all intents now
the governor as well as the general-in-chief. Some of his friends
advised him to do one thing, some another. Mr. Drummond, an old enemy of
Berkeley's, who knew what Sir William thought of him, and who had once
said of himself as a rebel, "I am in, over shoes; I will be over boots,"
now advised Bacon to proclaim that Berkeley was deposed from the
governorship and that Sir Henry Chicheley should rule in his place. But
Bacon would not go so far as that; he was quick-tempered, but fairly
cool when it came to planning action, and he knew that to overthrow Sir
William would make him clearly a rebel in the eyes of England.
So, instead of acting rashly, he issued what he called a "Remonstrance,"
which protested against Sir William's calling him and his men traitors
and rebels, when they were really faithful subjects of His Majesty the
King of England, and had only taken up arms to protect themselves
against the savages. Besides that, he complained that the colony was not
well managed, and called on all who were interested in Virginia to meet
at Middle-Plantation on August 3d, and make a formal protest to the
English king and Parliament.
Many men met at the village on that day, four members of the governors
council among them. Bacon made a fiery speech, and all agreed to pledge
themselves not to aid Sir William Berkeley in any attack on General
Bacon or his army. Then Bacon went further; he asked the meeting to
promise that each and every man there would rise in arms against Sir
William if he should try to resist General Bacon, and further that if
any soldiers should be sent from England to aid Sir William each man
there would fight such troops until they had a chance to explain matters
to the king of England.
That was going too far; the men had no desire to rebel against their
king. They were willing to sign the first pledge, but not the second. In
the midst of their arguing Bacon interrupted angrily. "Then I will
surrender my commission, and let the country find some other servant to
go abroad and do its work!" he exclaimed. "Sir William Berkeley hath
proclaimed me a rebel, and it is not unknown to himself that I both can
and shall charge _him_ with no less than treason!" He added that
Governor Berkeley would never forgive them for signing either part of
the pledge, and that they might as well sign both as one. Then into the
stormy meeting rushed a gunner from York Fort, shouting out that the
Indians were marching on his fort, that the governor had taken all the
arms from the fort, and that he had no protection for all the people who
had fled there from the woods of Gloucester in fear of the Indians'
tomahawks.
The gunner's words settled the matter. All the men agreed to sign the
whole pledge, promised to fight not only Sir William Berkeley but the
king's troops as well if they came to Virginia to support him. The oath
was taken, the paper signed by the light of torches near midnight on
that third day of August, 1676. Just a hundred years later another
Declaration of Independence was to be signed by men, some from this same
colony of Virginia, in Independence Hall in Philadelphia.
The next business was to organize a new government, and Bacon sent word
through the colony for men to choose representatives to meet early in
September. Then the general marched off with his army to protect the
people who had fled to York Fort, and try to finish his war with the
Indians.
There was great rejoicing throughout the length and breadth of Virginia
when news came to town and plantation that Nathaniel Bacon had set up a
new government in place of the old one that had failed to protect the
colony and that had suppressed the people's liberty. They gloried in
their defiance of the royal governor. Sarah Drummond, the wife of
Bacon's friend, said to her neighbors:
"The child that is unborn shall have cause to rejoice for the good that
will come by the rising of the country!"
One of her neighbors objected, "We must expect a greater power from
England that will certainly be our ruin."
Mrs. Drummond picked up a stick, and breaking it in two, said
scornfully, "I fear the power of England no more than a broken straw!"
And when others shook their heads doubtfully, she said bravely, "We will
do well enough!" That was the feeling of most of the people. They were
back of Bacon, and pledged themselves to support him through thick and
thin.
At the plantation near Curles Mr. Porter brought the news of the oath at
Middle-Plantation to his family, and his wife and son and the men and
women who worked for him celebrated the event as a great victory for all
true Virginians.
Meantime General Bacon crossed the James River, attacked the Appomattox
Indians, and killed or routed the whole tribe. He then marched along the
south side of the river toward the Nottoway and Roanoke, scattered all
the Indians he met, and ultimately returned north to West Point, where
he dismissed all his army but a small detachment, bidding the others go
back to their own plantations to harvest the autumn crops.
Scarcely had the men of Bacon's army reached their homes when a new
message electrified the whole countryside. From man to man the news ran
that Sir William Berkeley, with seventeen ships and a thousand men, had
come back from far-away Accomac, had sailed up the James River, had
taken possession of Jamestown, and was now flying his flag above the
State House there.
III
Sir William Berkeley had met few friends in that distant country of
Accomac when he had first flown there. Rebellion was in the air there as
it was on the mainland of Virginia, and only a few of the planters of
the eastern shore welcomed the king's governor and agreed to stand by
him in his fight with Nathaniel Bacon. Still he stuck to his
determination to try conclusions with the rebels, and meantime he waited
as patiently as he could, hoping that the tide of fortune would
presently turn in his favor.
General Bacon, when he set out from Middle-Plantation to fight the
Indians, sent Giles Bland to keep Governor Berkeley in Accomac, and, if
possible, to induce the people there to surrender him. Giles Bland
started on his mission with two hundred and fifty men, and one ship with
four guns, commanded by an old sailor, Captain Carver. One ship was not
enough, however, to carry the men across to the Eastern Shore, and so
Bland seized another that happened to be lying in the York River, and
that belonged to Captain Laramore, a friend of Governor Berkeley.
Captain Laramore was seized by Bland's men, and locked up in his cabin,
but after a time he sent word to Bland that he would fight with him
against the governor, and Bland, thinking that the captain was sincere,
restored command of the vessel to him. Two more ships were captured, and
so it was a fleet of four vessels that ultimately carried the rebel
party to the Eastern Shore.
When he saw this fleet nearing Accomac Sir William gave up his cause as
lost. He knew that he must surrender, as King Charles the First of
England had surrendered to Oliver Cromwell's men. Then suddenly a
loophole of escape offered itself most unexpectedly. Captain Laramore,
still very angry with the rebels for having seized his ship in such a
high-handed manner, secretly sent word to Sir William, that if
assistance were given him he would betray Giles Bland. The fleet was at
anchor, and Captain Carver had gone ashore to try to find the governor.
Laramore's offer looked as if it might be a trap, but Colonel Philip
Ludwell, a friend of Berkeley's, offered to vouch for Laramore's honesty
and moreover to lead the party that was to capture Bland. Sir William
agreed to this offer, and Colonel Ludwell got ready a boat in a near-by
creek, out of sight of the fleet. At the time set by Laramore Colonel
Ludwell's crew rowed out toward Laramore's ship. Bland thought he came
to parley, and did not fire. The boat pulled under the ship's stern, one
of Ludwell's men leaped on board, and aiming a pistol at Bland's breast,
cried, "You're my prisoner!" The crew of the rowboat followed, and with
the help of Laramore and those sailors who sided with him, quickly
captured the rebels on board. When Captain Carver returned he and his
crew were seized in the same way, and Colonel Ludwell and Laramore took
Bland and Carver and their officers ashore and presented them to Sir
William as his prisoners.
Sir William was stern in dealing with men he considered traitors. He put
Giles Bland and his officers in chains, and he hung Captain Carver on
the beach of Accomac. This victory won him recruits also among the
longshoremen, and now one of his own followers, Captain Gardener,
reached the harbor in his ship, the _Adam-and-Eve_, with ten or twelve
sloops he had captured along the coast. Counting Bland's ships the
governor now had a fleet numbering some seventeen sail, and on these he
embarked his army of nearly a thousand men. Many of them were merely
adventurers, lured by Sir William's promise to give them the estates
that belonged to the men who had taken the oath with Bacon at
Middle-Plantation. Sir William also proclaimed that the servants of all
those who were fighting under Bacon's flag should have the property of
their masters if they would enlist under the king's standard.
The governor set sail for Jamestown, and reached it on the sixth day of
September. One of the bravest of Bacon's commanders, Colonel Hansford,
held the town with eight or nine hundred men. The governor called on
Hansford to surrender, promising pardon to all except his old enemies,
Lawrence and Drummond, who were then in Jamestown. Hansford refused to
surrender, but Lawrence and Drummond advised him to retreat with his
army, and so he evacuated the town during the night. At noon next day
Sir William landed, and kneeling, gave thanks for his safe return to his
former capital.
Colonel Hansford, with Drummond and Lawrence, rode north to find General
Bacon. They found him at West Point and told him the startling news that
Sir William had come back with an army. The fight was to be waged all
over again, the question whether Bacon or Berkeley was to rule Virginia
was yet to be settled.
Bacon had only a body-guard with him, but he mounted in haste and rode
toward Jamestown, sending couriers in all directions to rouse the
countryside and bring his men to his flag. The message came to Curles,
and Edmund Porter and his father and their neighbors armed and hurried
to join their general. So swiftly did the planters take to horse that by
the time Bacon was in sight of Jamestown he was followed by several
hundred men.
Sir William had built an earthwork and palisade across the neck of the
island where Jamestown stands. Bacon ordered his trumpets to sound, and
then a volley to be fired into the town. No guns answered his, and Bacon
ordered his troops to throw up breastworks in front of the palisade,
while he made his headquarters at "Greenspring," a house that belonged
to Sir William.
Now Bacon, although usually a gentleman, resorted to a trick that was a
blot on his character. He sent horsemen through the near-by country to
bring the wives of some of the men who were fighting on Berkeley's side
into his camp. He sent one of these women, under a flag of truce, into
the town to tell her husband and the others there that Bacon meant to
place these wives in front of his own men while they were building the
earthworks, so that any shots fired would hit the women first. This he
did. He made these women stand as a shield before his men. The
governor's party would not fire a shot. The earthworks were finished,
and then Bacon had the women escorted to a place of safety. The trick
savored more of the customs of some of the Indian tribes the settlers
had been fighting than of the warfare of Virginia gentlemen.
When the women were gone, Sir William burst out of Jamestown with eight
hundred men and attacked Bacon's troopers. But the rabble that made up
the governor's army, longshoremen, fishermen from Accomac, a rabble
attracted by the hope of plunder, was no match for the well-drilled and
well-armed planters. At the first touch of steel they turned and fled
back to the town, leaving a dozen wounded on the ground. Sir William
lashed them with a tongue of scorn, but his anger did no good. He saw
that he could not rely on this new following, and so embarked on his
ships again that night, and sailed away from Jamestown.
Bacon marched in, took counsel with his officers, and determined that
Sir William should make no further use of his capital. Orders were
given to set fire to all the houses, and shortly the town, founded by
that great adventurer, John Smith, was only a mass of burned and
blackened timbers.
Sir William had sailed down the river, but a courier from York County
brought word that a force of his friends were advancing from the
direction of the Potomac to attack Bacon's men. So, when Jamestown was
only ruins, the general left that place and marched at the head of his
horsemen to meet this new enemy. He was as full of courage as ever, but
he had caught a fever in the trenches before Jamestown, and instead of
stopping to cure it he insisted on pushing on and trying to settle
matters with his opponents as soon as possible.
His men crossed the York in boats at Ferry Point and marched into
Gloucester. There Bacon called on all the men of Gloucester who had
taken the oath with him at Middle-Plantation to join him promptly.
Another courier arrived, with word that Colonel Brent was coming against
him with a thousand soldiers. Bacon did not wait for any more recruits,
but marched at once up country in the direction of the Rappahannock
River. But there was to be no fighting. The spirit of rebellion had
spread so far that even Colonel Brent's men, supposed to be very loyal
to the governor, deserted to Bacon's standard, and Brent himself, with a
few faithful followers, had to retire from the field, and leave the
rebel chief in entire command.
Bacon went back to Gloucester, and again summoned the men of that
county to meet him at the court-house. Six or seven hundred came, but
they did not want to fulfil their pledge and take up arms, it might be
against the king's own soldiers. They said that they wanted to take no
sides in the matter. Bacon insisted that they should pledge themselves
to follow him. The fever had hold of him, his temper was short, and he
spoke in such a domineering way that at last the men of Gloucester gave
him the pledge he wanted. Having had his way Bacon closed the meeting,
and, seeing that all the mainland of Virginia was now under his control,
laid plans to follow Sir William Berkeley to Accomac, where the governor
had fled again.
But now Nathaniel Bacon, at the very moment when he had driven all his
enemies out of the colony, and had made himself the master of Virginia,
fell very ill of the fever he had brought from Jamestown. His old
friends, Mr. Porter among them, urged him to give up command of his army
and rest. In spite of his wish to go to Accomac and settle accounts with
Berkeley, he had to take their advice. He went to the house of a friend,
Major Pate, in Gloucester, and there, after a few weeks' illness, he
died, in October, 1676.
Sorrowing for their brave leader and friend, Mr. Porter and Edmund went
back to their plantation on the James. They had stood by him when he
needed their aid, but, in spite of all the exciting events of that
summer, they had not had to take part in any actual fighting except the
brief battle with the Indians in May and the short skirmish outside
Jamestown. Neither father nor son were known as officers in Bacon's
army, and as they stayed quietly at home the storm that followed blew
safely over their heads.
In four months Nathaniel Bacon had risen from the position of a
little-known planter to be the ruler of Virginia, and because the king's
governor would not give him a commission to march against the Indians
who had attacked his farm he had driven the governor out of the colony.
It was a remarkable story, packed full of strange happenings.
When Bacon died, however, the rebellion fell to pieces. A man named
Ingram tried to rally his army, but the men of Virginia would not fight
under any other leader than Bacon. Sir William Berkeley came back from
the county of Accomac with a wolfish thirst for vengeance. His chief
enemy had escaped him, but he meant to take his revenge on the other
leaders of the rebellion against him. And take his revenge he did, not
like an honorable governor who wishes to make peace in his country, but
more like that Judge Jeffreys in England, whose name became a byword for
cruelty. He captured Colonel Hansford, who was a fine Virginian, and
hung him as a rebel. Lawrence escaped, but Drummond was caught in his
hiding-place in the Chickahominy swamp, and brought before Sir William.
"Mr. Drummond," said the governor, "you are very welcome! I am more
glad to see you than any man in Virginia. Mr. Drummond, you shall be
hanged in half an hour!"
"When your Honor pleases," Drummond coolly replied.
Drummond was hung, and his brave wife, who had broken the stick to show
how easily the planters could defeat Sir William, was driven into the
wilderness with her children.
Bland was found in Accomac and executed. Men were hung in almost every
county, and the settlers hated the name of Berkeley more than they hated
raiding Indians. In all Sir William executed twenty-three rebels, as he
called them, and King Charles II of England, when he heard the report,
said indignantly, "That old fool has hanged more men in that naked
country than I have done for the murder of my father."
At last the Assembly begged the governor to stop. He reluctantly agreed
that all the rest of the rebels should be pardoned except about fifty
leaders. The property of these leaders was confiscated, and they were
sent away from the colony.
Sir William, however, was no longer popular with any in Virginia. Soon
afterward he sailed to England, and never came back again to the colony
he had ruled with an iron hand. Salutes were fired and bonfires blazed
when he sailed, for the people were all still rebels at heart. Other
governors came from England, but they found the Virginians harder to
rule since they had tasted independence in that summer of 1676.
By many boys of Virginia, like Edmund Porter, Nathaniel Bacon was always
remembered as a gallant hero, one who had fought for them against the
tyranny of Sir William Berkeley.
V
AN OUTLAW CHIEF OF MARYLAND
(_Maryland, 1684_)
I
"I'm riding south to St. Mary's to-morrow, Michael," said George Talbot.
He gave his horse a slap on the flank that sent it toward the stable.
"Want to come with me, and see something of the Bay?"
"Yes indeed," said Michael Rowan. "You know, Mr. George, I always like
to ride with you."
Talbot smiled at the red-cheeked boy, whose black hair and blue eyes
gave proof of his Irish blood. "You're loyal to the chief of the clan,
aren't you, Michael? Well, if I were warden of the Scottish marches I
wouldn't ask for better followers than such as you."
Michael flushed. "My father has taught me always to do your bidding, Mr.
George. It seems to me the right thing to do."
"I hope it always will. There's some who don't think as well of me as
your father does." Talbot slapped his riding-whip against his boot. "But
we don't care what they think, do we? A fig for all critics, I say! Each
man to his own salvation!" He went up the steps to his house, while
Michael watched him with frank admiration.
George Talbot, Irish by birth, was a prominent man in the province that
belonged to Lord Baltimore. He was a kinsman of Sir William Talbot, who
was Chief Secretary of Maryland. George had obtained a large grant of
land on the Susquehanna River, when Lord Baltimore was anxious to have
the northern part of his province settled. Three years after he staked
out his plantation on the Susquehanna he was made surveyor-general of
the province. That was in 1683. The next year Lord Baltimore went to
England, leaving his son, a boy, as nominal governor. A commission of
leading men was chosen to take charge of the actual work of the
governorship, and George Talbot was at the head of the commission. In
much of that sparsely-settled country he ruled like the chieftain of a
Scottish clan. He built a fort near the head of Chesapeake Bay;
garrisoned it with Irish followers, and sometimes set out from it with
his troop to check Indian raids; sometimes rode into the land that was
in dispute between Lord Baltimore and William Penn, and lectured or
bullied or drove away some of Penn's settlers. He ruled with a high
hand, both at his fort and on his plantation, with the usual result that
he was tremendously admired by his retainers, among whom was Fergus
Rowan, the father of Talbot's young squire Michael.
Next day the adventurous Talbot and the faithful Michael set out south.
They rode through a country almost as untouched by men as it was before
the first white explorers landed on its coast. Then there had been
Indians to hunt game in its woods and marshes; to fish its streams and
bay, to plant their crops in its open arable fields. But the Indians
were like the birds and beasts, essentially migratory; they built few
permanent homes, they wasted little labor on bridges or mills, clearings
or farm-stockades. When the hunting or the crops grew poor in one place
they packed their tents on their ponies or in their canoes and set out
for a new, untouched country. The white men were very different; they
wanted to own, to fence off, to build, to make travel and commerce
easier. But in 1684 there were so few of them that one might ride all
day and see no sign of a human habitation. Talbot and Michael had to
hunt the streams for fording-places, had to push through underbrush that
threatened to hide the trails, and to rely on the provisions they
carried in their saddle-bags to furnish them food and drink.
Every now and then the riders caught sight of the blue waters of
Chesapeake Bay to the east. Whenever they reached a farmhouse in the
wilderness they stopped and chatted with the settlers, giving them any
news from the north. They spent one night at a hunter's log cabin;
another at a miller's house built on the bank of a river. Many times
they had to go far out of the route as the crow flies in order to cross
wide estuaries and streams. But they were in no particular haste, and
rested their horses often. It took them the better part of a week to
reach the Patuxent River and cross into St. Mary's County.
Many small fishing-hamlets were to be found along this southern shore of
Chesapeake Bay, and Talbot stopped at each one, announced who he was,
and questioned the fishermen for news. The chief complaint of the
settlers was against the tyrannical manners and methods of the
revenue-collectors, or excisemen, who levied taxes for the king of
England on all goods coming into the province or going out of it. Men
who collect such taxes have almost always been unpopular; in Maryland
they were pretty generally hated. To judge from what Talbot was told by
the fishermen some of the collectors had acted as if they were Lord
Baltimore himself. They took horses, servants, boats, as they pleased,
and dared the owners to complain of them to the king. The most unpopular
of the race of collectors appeared to be Christopher Rousby, who lived
at the town of St. Mary's, and made trips up and down St. Mary's River
and along the shores of the bay to collect taxes from unwilling settlers
and threaten them with dire punishments if they dared refuse obedience
to his orders.
"The knave ought to be whipped!" Talbot declared to Michael, as they
left one of the hamlets. "I know him, an arrogant, conceited fool! It's
fortunate I'm not one of these folk here, or I might run him through
some dark night."
Down to St. Mary's they rode, where Talbot took lodgings for himself and
Michael. The lodgings were at a tavern known as "The Bell and Anchor,"
where a great anchor lay on the lawn before the tavern door and a bell
hung over the porch, used by the wife of the tavern-keeper to inform her
guests when their meals were ready for them. The inn faced St. Mary's
River, which was wide here, and the beach in front of it was a
gathering-place for sailors and fishermen and longshoremen, whose boats
were pulled up on the sand or anchored in the small harbor to the south
of the town. Talbot and Michael went among the men, the chieftain
hobnobbing with the simple folk, as he was fond of doing, though he
never allowed them to forget his dignity.
There were ships lying in St. Mary's River, one of them a ketch
belonging to His Majesty's navy. Men on the beach told Talbot and
Michael that the captain of the ketch was very friendly with Christopher
Rousby, the tax-collector, and the other excisemen. They also told
Talbot that neither the captain of the ketch nor Rousby nor his mates
paid any attention to Lord Baltimore's officers in St. Mary's. The
former treated the latter as if they were stable-boys, made to be
ordered about, the longshoremen told Talbot.
At first Talbot only listened and swore under his breath. Then he began
to swear openly, and to look angry and shake his fist at the royal ship
out in the bay. "These dogs of sea-captains and tax-collectors think
they own the whole province!" he muttered to Michael. "I'd like nothing
better than to teach them a lesson!"
The man and boy happened to be standing near the door of "The Bell and
Anchor" when a long-boat landed passengers from the ketch, and the
captain and Christopher Rousby and two other men came up to the tavern
door. All four men glanced at Talbot, whose bearing and dress made him a
conspicuous figure. He gave them a curt nod. The captain and one of the
other men acknowledged his greeting, but Rousby strode past him with a
shrug of the shoulders and a sneer on his lips.
George Talbot was not used to such treatment; when he gave a man a nod
he expected at least a bow in return. Hot blood flushed his cheeks, and
his fingers gripped the hilt of the hunting-knife he wore at his belt.
Michael could not hear what he murmured, but he could guess at what he
meant. Michael grew angry too; he expected people to treat his master
with as much deference as they would show the king.
The four men went into the tavern, and soon Michael caught the sound of
a drinking song. To get away from the noise Talbot and his page walked
up the street. Presently they met the chief magistrate of St. Mary's,
who recognized George Talbot, and greeted him, as was proper, by taking
off his hat and making a low bow.
"Things go badly here, Mr. Talbot," said the magistrate, with a shake of
his head. "The captain of that ship yonder and the collectors laugh at
Lord Baltimore. They do what they will with me and my men. They sit in
the tavern all night, carousing, and then they take any boats they see
or anything they like, and threaten the owners with their pistols and
His Majesty's vengeance if they dare object. I've gone to see them about
it. They snap their fingers at me and the governor."
"I've seen the brutes," said Talbot. "I think I'd best take it on myself
to explain the matter to them."
"Be careful," warned the other. "They think themselves above all the law
of the province."
"By Heaven, they're not above me!" ejaculated Talbot. "I'll tell Rousby
so to his face, and let him take the consequences!"
Talbot and Michael went back to "The Bell and Anchor." The singing was
still going on. The man and boy went into the tap-room, and ordered two
cups of ale. They sat at a small table in a corner, some distance from
where the four men were drinking, laughing, and singing. This was no
time for Talbot to speak to them; their wits were too befuddled to pay
any heed to what he might have to say.
Presently the man and boy went up to their rooms. The noise of the
revelers reached their ears. Talbot was very angry. He told Michael
that he should have a settlement with Christopher Rousby the next day.
So loud was the noise down-stairs that Michael had to pull the
bedclothes up about his head in order to get to sleep.
The next day was cold and dark--early winter. Talbot spent the morning
going from house to house, questioning each owner as to unjust taxes
that Rousby had collected, or any other injury the collector had done.
He made a note of each complaint, and by noon he had a long list.
The two dined at the tavern, and afterward Talbot engaged a fisherman to
row them out to the royal ketch in the river. Rain was falling now, and
a wind had sprung up. Whitecaps dotted the water. The fisherman rowed
them to the ship, and Talbot and Michael climbed up the rope-ladder that
hung down over the side. A sailor stepped up to them. "What do you
want?" he asked.
"I want to see the captain and Christopher Rousby," said Talbot. "I'm
told that Rousby came out to the ship this morning."
"Aye, Mr. Rousby's still here," said the sailor.
"I am George Talbot," announced the other man, and, as if that were
sufficient warrant for him to do as he chose, he walked across the deck
and went down the companionway to the cabin. Michael kept close behind
him.
A bottle and glasses stood on the cabin table. The captain, Christopher
Rousby, and an officer of the ship sprawled in chairs. Rousby's face
was red and bloated. At sight of George Talbot he smiled, but made no
motion to get up from his chair.
Talbot didn't take off his hat or cloak, though both were wet with rain
and spray. He stepped to the table and leaned on it with one hand, while
he pointed his other gloved hand at the insolent-looking tax-collector.
"You know who I am," said Talbot, in his deep, positive voice, "and I
know who you are. I am chief of the deputy governors Lord Baltimore has
appointed to care for his province during his absence; and you are a
tax-collector."
"A representative of His Majesty the King of England," said the captain
of the ship, as if to make out that his friend Rousby was a more
important man.
"Let the fellow talk," said Rousby to the captain. "I've heard he was
clever at making speeches."
His tone and manner were the height of insult. Talbot's face flushed,
and Michael saw that his hand on the table doubled itself into a fist.
"Yes, I will talk," said Talbot, in a voice that could have been heard
on deck. "And you will listen to me, whether you want to or no! I have a
list of unjust taxes you've levied here in St. Mary's. The Devil only
knows how many you've levied elsewhere." He put his hand into his pocket
and pulled out the list he had made.
"I'll not listen to such speech on my own ship," said the captain, his
hands on the arms of his chair as if he was about to stand up.
"Indeed you will!" roared Talbot. "This list is a list of crimes
committed by your friend Christopher Rousby, representative of His
Majesty the King of England in the province of Maryland." He opened the
list and began to read the items, giving the names of the men in St.
Mary's who had been unjustly taxed and the amount they had been forced
to pay to the greedy collector.
The three men at the table grew restless; Rousby picked up his glass and
drained it, the captain drummed on the arm of his chair with his
fingers, the third man stared at the cabin-ceiling.
Talbot went on with his reading until he had finished the first page and
turned to the second. Then Rousby broke in. "You can read all night,"
said he, "but I tell you now that all those taxes stand, and I'll
collect more in future as pleases me."
"Even if you know they're illegal and unjust?" asked Talbot.
"Look you here," said Rousby, leaning forward. "The fact that I collect
them makes them both legal and just. I am the law hereabouts, and I do
as I please. If you don't like it, ride back to your own plantation, and
leave matters here to your betters." His small bloodshot eyes sneered at
Talbot.
Now Talbot's Irish blood was very quick and fiery. That word "betters"
stung him, the look on Rousby's face infuriated him. "I don't admit any
betters," said he. "In fact I only see inferiors before me." His voice
was cold as steel, and as biting. Michael had never heard him speak like
that before.
Rousby and the captain started to their feet.
"Keep out of this, you!" Talbot roared at the captain, and leaning
across the table gave him such a push that he set him down in his chair.
Then Talbot's gloved hand struck Rousby on the cheek. "Take that!" he
cried. "If you want to settle the matter now, I'm ready!"
Rousby bellowed with rage. He gave the table a shove that sent it
flying, and his fist shot out at Talbot. Talbot caught it and whirled
the man around. Then Rousby grabbed the dagger he wore at his side and
rushed at Talbot with it. Talbot stepped to one side, and the same
instant drew his own knife. Rousby swung round at him again, dagger
uplifted; but Talbot was the quicker. He struck with his knife, in the
breast, pressed Rousby back and back until he leaned on the table.
It had all happened in the twinkling of an eye. Now the captain and the
third man sprang forward. Each caught one of Talbot's arms and held it
They were too late to save the collector, however. Talbot had stabbed
him in the heart, and Christopher Rousby was dead.
The captain seized a pistol from a rack and leveled it at Talbot. "Drop
your knife!" he ordered, "and surrender to His Majesty's officers! This
is bad business for you! Murder of a royal agent!"
Talbot dropped the knife. "At your orders," he said. "I yield as your
prisoner."
[Illustration: "I YIELD AS YOUR PRISONER"]
The other man caught up a rope and soon had the prisoner's hands bound
behind him.
"Take him up on deck," said the captain. "And send two of the sailors
down here to me."
The other officer marched Talbot up the companionway. Michael followed.
On deck the officer stepped away from his prisoner long enough to speak
to one of the sailors. While he was doing this Talbot whispered to
Michael. "Get ashore," he whispered, "and tell the magistrate at St.
Mary's what has happened. Then get word if you can to Sir William Talbot
and to my wife."
It was dark on deck, a murky evening. Michael slipped over to the side
of the ship, found the rope-ladder, and crawled down it to where the
fisherman was still waiting in his boat. He didn't like to leave his
master in the hands of his enemies, but he knew that Talbot wanted to be
obeyed.
"Mr. Talbot is going to stay on board," Michael said to the boatman.
"You're to row me to shore."
A little later he landed at St. Mary's. He was soaking wet and very
cold, but he gave no thought to that.
II
Michael Rowan asked the boatman where the chief magistrate of St. Mary's
lived, and, on being directed, went straight to the latter's house. To
this man he told what had happened in the cabin of the ketch, how
Rousby and Talbot had had a quarrel, how high words had passed between
them, how Talbot had stabbed the tax-collector, and was now the
captain's prisoner. The magistrate was very much alarmed.
"There's no knowing what they'll do to him!" he exclaimed with
excitement. "Rousby treated us ill, there's no doubting that. But he was
His Majesty's exciseman, and the killing of such, even in a righteous
quarrel, is a mighty bad business! What's the captain going to do with
Mr. Talbot?"
"I know no more about it than you," said Michael. "My master bade me
give you the true account of what happened, and then told me to ride
north to tell Mistress Talbot and help her rouse his friends to do what
they could for him. You see he's kinsman to Sir William Talbot, and Sir
William is nephew to Lord Baltimore."
The magistrate shook his head. "That might be of some avail if this
affair concerned the province of Maryland alone," said he. "But Rousby
was one of His Majesty's officers,--there's the difficulty."
"I must get my horse and start at once," declared Michael.
The magistrate went to "The Bell and Anchor" with Michael, helped him
put bread and cheese in his saddle-bags, saw him mount his horse, and
waved his hand as Michael set out up the village street. When the
magistrate went to the water-front he learned that the ketch had
weighed anchor and sailed to the south.
The night was cold and wet, and the road was dark and hard to follow;
but Michael put his horse to the gallop and rode recklessly. His one
thought was to reach Talbot's plantation on the Susquehanna as quickly
as he could.
He rode until it grew so dark that he could not see to avoid overhanging
boughs and holes in the road. Then he stopped at the next farmer's
cabin, asked for a night's lodging, and was given a place to sleep
before the hearth. At dawn he was off again, following the rude trail
through the wilderness, making his meals from the food in his
saddle-bags, and only stopping when he felt he must rest his horse.
That night he spent in a hunter's lodge, the next at a log house on the
edge of a small village. He told the people who asked his business that
he was on an errand for George Talbot, but he gave them no inkling of
what the errand was.
He remembered the fords they had found on their journey south, and
sought them again without much loss of time. Presently he came into
country that he knew well, the upper shores of Chesapeake Bay where he
had often ridden and hunted. Then he saw the familiar landmarks of
Talbot's plantation, and was riding up the road to the door of the
manor-house. He had pushed his horse to the utmost; he himself was tired
and aching in every sinew and muscle. Late in the afternoon he threw
himself from his mount and ran up the steps. He opened the main door and
walked into the living-room, a muddy, bedraggled figure.
Mrs. Talbot was sitting at a spinet, a luxury brought out to Maryland
from England. She stopped her playing and looked up as Michael entered.
She saw he had important news. "What is it, Michael?" she asked.
He told her what had happened. She listened without interrupting him.
Then she stood up. "Send your father and Edward Nigel to me at once,"
she said.
Michael went to his father's house, only a short distance from the big
house, and then to the cabin of Edward Nigel. He gave each of them the
message of Mrs. Talbot. Then he stabled the horse that had carried him
so well all the way from St. Mary's. By that time the boy was too tired
and sleepy even to taste the food that his mother had set out for him.
He fell into his bed and was sound asleep.
Mrs. Talbot had great strength of character. She told her husband's two
faithful Irish retainers that their master was now a prisoner, charged
with the murder of a royal tax-collector. She said that they must set to
work at once to see what could be done to aid him. She wrote out
messages, one for Rowan to take immediately to influential friends in
Baltimore City, the other for Nigel to carry to Annapolis. Then, when
the two had set out, she and her maid prepared to journey to Baltimore
City next day.
In a very short time the news had spread through the province. Men of
influence, the members of the provincial council, met and took action in
behalf of George Talbot. They had all disliked Rousby and the other
royal excisemen, and almost all of them were close friends of the
prisoner. The council sent messengers south to find out what the captain
of the ketch had done with Talbot. The messengers returned with word
that Talbot had been put in irons, that the captain had landed him in
Virginia, and delivered him over to the governor, Lord Howard of
Effingham, who had put him in prison at a small town on the Rappahannock
River.
Lord Howard of Effingham had the name of being a greedy and tyrannical
governor. The council of Maryland sent a request to him that Talbot
should be tried by a court in Maryland. Lord Howard treated the request
with contempt, saying that he meant to try Talbot himself, since the
latter had killed one of His Majesty's officers, and he represented His
Majesty in that part of the country. Talbot's friends knew what that
meant. If Lord Howard sat in judgment on him Talbot's fate was sealed.
There was a chance that a huge bribe might influence the governor of
Virginia, but the chance was slim. So the council sent a messenger to
Lord Baltimore in England, urging him to rescue his nephew's kinsman
from Lord Howard's clutches.
Mrs. Talbot had done all she could through the council and other men of
influence to help her husband, and their efforts seemed likely to bear
very small results. Meantime Lord Howard of Effingham might decide to
try George Talbot at any time. So the devoted wife determined to see
what she could do herself. She had several long talks with Edward Nigel
and Fergus and Michael Rowan, and they worked out a scheme for
themselves.
On a cold day in the middle of winter a little skiff set sail from the
landing-place at Talbot's plantation and headed for Chesapeake Bay. In
the skiff were Mrs. Talbot, her two friends and retainers, Nigel and
Rowan, and the faithful Michael. Fergus Rowan was a skilful sailor; he
knew the river and the bay from long experience. He took the tiller, and
the others, muffled up for protection from the high wind, watched water
and shore as their little boat bobbed up and down on the waves.
The wind was favoring, and they made much better time than they would
have done by riding through the wilderness. They spent the night at a
small fishing-village, and were off again in the skiff next day. They
sailed past Annapolis, on the River Severn, and went scudding down the
bay to where the broad waters of the Potomac flowed into it. Rowan kept
fairly close to the shore on their right, and presently changed his
course to the west. Now they had come to the Rappahannock, and were
sailing up it, keeping a close watch for a good place to land.
By night they had run into a little creek and made the skiff fast. A
farmer's house was not far away, and the four headed for it. Fergus
knocked on the door, and when a woman opened it he explained that they
had expected to sail to a plantation farther up the Rappahannock, but
that the darkness made navigation dangerous for one who was unfamiliar
with the river. "There's a lady and three of us men," he said, "would be
thankful for a night's lodging." Mrs. Talbot pushed back her fur hood,
and the farmer's wife, looking at her, saw that she appeared to be of
the quality, as the saying was, and invited them to step in.
The cabin was small; Fergus and Nigel and Michael shared the attic with
the farmer, Jonas Dunham, while Mrs. Talbot was taken into Mrs. Dunham's
room. They ate their supper on a table close to the kitchen hearth for
warmth. Afterward Fergus inquired about the plantations farther up the
river. Presently he chanced to say that he understood that the governor
was holding Mr. Talbot of Maryland a prisoner somewhere in the
neighborhood. That remark, innocently made, started Farmer Dunham's
tongue to wagging. He said that the prison was about two miles distant,
on the southern side of the river, and that it was true that Talbot was
kept there. He made it pretty clear from what he said that the governor
was not very popular along the Rappahannock, and that in his opinion
Talbot had done a good job in killing one of the royal tax-collectors.
Mrs. Talbot and Fergus and Nigel each carried a bag of gold pieces, all
that they had been able to gather in Maryland; and next morning they
paid the farmer well for their food and lodging. They sailed up the
river, close to the southern shore, in mist and rain, keeping a sharp
lookout for the building that Dunham had described.
There was a small settlement on the shore, then woods, then a log
building, square like a frontier fort, which they took for their goal.
Fergus brought the skiff up to the bank, dropped the sail, and helped
Mrs. Talbot to land. The mist had grown so thick that it hid objects a
score of yards away.
Mrs. Talbot and Nigel stayed in the shelter of the woods while Fergus
and Michael went up to the log house. They rapped on the door. A man
with a grizzled beard opened it. Fergus asked him a few questions about
the neighborhood, explaining that they were very wet and cold, and would
like to find a tavern or some place where they could get a bottle of ale
or brandy. The jailer said that one of his neighbors had spirits for
sale, and suggested that he should show them the place. Fergus accepted
the offer, and they went about half a mile down the road to the
neighbor's, where Fergus showed a gold piece and was provided with a
bottle of brandy.
Fergus saw that the jailer's glass was kept well filled. They became
great friends across the table, and presently the jailer was telling his
new acquaintances everything he knew. He had only one prisoner at
present, a very fine gentleman from Maryland, Mr. George Talbot, and he
felt very sorry for his prisoner because the latter's only crime was of
falling foul of a tax-collector. Fergus suggested that the jailer hardly
needed many assistants to keep guard over one man. The jailer answered
that he only had two assistants, a young fellow only just lately arrived
from England, and a lout of a boy.
When Fergus had learned all he wanted he paid for the bottle of brandy,
tucked the bottle under his arm, and with Michael, walked back to the
log house with the bearded man. There he thanked the latter for his
kindness, and presented him with the bottle, which was still half
filled. It seemed very probable that the jailer would use up the rest of
the brandy on such a damp day.
The two went back to the woods and made their report. In the skiff there
were provisions, and Mrs. Talbot and her friends had dinner there, and
tried to keep as much out of the wet as they could. Then they waited for
dusk, and the two men and the boy looked to the priming of their
pistols.
The men, muffled in greatcoats, the woman, in fur cloak and hood, went
up to the log house in the winter twilight. Nigel beat on the door with
his fist, and after a considerable wait the door was opened by a young
fellow, who looked as if he had only just been waked from a sound nap.
Mrs. Talbot, slipping her hood back from her head, smiled at the rather
dull-looking fellow. "Can you shelter me from the storm?" she asked, in
most appealing tones. "I'm wet and cold, and I'm afraid we've lost our
way."
The boy didn't often see such a fine-looking woman, evidently no
farmer's wife, but one of the gentry. "I'll go ask Master Hugh," he
said. "Step in from the wet. This is no tavern, but a prison, my lady.
Howsomever, I'll go ask Master Hugh."
The fellow hurried away, and Mrs. Talbot and her three companions
stepped in. In a minute the serving-lad was back. "Master Hugh'll see
you in his room," he announced, jerking his head in the direction of
that apartment.
He stood aside, while the lady, Nigel and Michael went to the jailer's
room. Fergus, hanging back a minute, slipped a gold piece into the
fellow's hand, whispering, "A lady of quality. Be sure you speak her
fairly." The youth squinted at the piece of money, a coin of greater
value than any he had seen.
Master Hugh was drinking the last of the brandy as the party entered his
room. The candle-light showed that he was far more disposed to be merry
than suspicious. "A lady!" he exclaimed, getting to his feet and bowing.
"'Tis a shame things are so rude here! Be seated, my lady." Then,
recognizing Fergus and Michael, he smiled broadly. "Well met, my
friends. Sit ye down. 'Tis a raw night. We must make ourselves
comfortable." He glanced at the brandy bottle. "If I'd known company was
coming, I'd have been more ready to give welcome," he added.
Mrs. Talbot loosened her cloak and smiled at the jailer as if she was
delighted at his hospitality. "It's very agreeable here, I do assure
you, Master Hugh," she said. "Good company is better than wine or food."
"So I think," said the jailer, flattered at the lady's graciousness.
"If my son and I might go out to the kitchen to dry our feet----"
suggested Fergus.
"George, show them to the kitchen fire," the jailer ordered the boy, who
stood staring in the doorway.
Mrs. Talbot drew her chair a little closer to Master Hugh. "My skiff met
with a mishap as I was on my way to visit friends up the river," she
said. And then she used all her arts to fascinate the jailer.
Fergus and Michael followed George to the kitchen. A man was scouring an
iron pot on the hearth and looked up in some surprise. "They wants to
dry their feet," George explained.
Fergus and his son pulled off their boots, showing their wet stockings.
"Could Master Hugh spare you long enough to run down to the village and
fetch us a bottle of brandy?" Fergus asked, and he held another shining
gold piece so that George could catch its glitter.
George thought he had never seen such attractive strangers. "I think he
might," he said, and left the room in haste, intent on winning the
second coin.
The man at the hearth, seeing the gold piece, made room for the two
strangers to stand near the fire. He also grew talkative, as Fergus, in
a very friendly fashion, asked him various questions. He said there were
only four men in the house at present, Master Hugh, the boy George,
himself, and a prisoner, who lodged in a small room off the kitchen. He
indicated the door to the prisoner's room.
"We have a lady with us," Fergus said after a time. "She's cold with
being so long out in the rain. If you could build up the fire I might
ask her in here to warm herself. She'll pay you well for your trouble."
He held out a gold piece to the man, who took it readily enough, slipped
it into his pocket, and straightway commenced to put new logs on the
fire.
As the man placed the last log and turned to stand up again he found
himself confronting a pistol-barrel. "Not a word!" murmured Fergus.
"Keep your hands at your side!" He nodded to Michael, who had pulled a
cord from under his jacket. "Bind him fast," he ordered. "Now we've no
wish to do you harm," he added to his prisoner. "Only a rope round your
hands and a cloth over your mouth. We'll put a couple more gold pieces
in your pocket too, so that if you lose this place you'll have enough to
find you another."
The pistol kept the man quiet until he was bound and gagged. Then Fergus
slipped two coins into his pocket. That done, he ran to the door and
drew back the bolt. But he found the door was not only bolted, but
locked as well. He had no time to hunt for the key, so he threw himself
against the door, and at the third try found the lock gave way. On a
stool inside sat George Talbot. To his amazed master Fergus explained
quickly what they must do.
Fergus and Michael and Talbot, all in their stocking-feet, their boots
in their hands, stole down the hall. The lady who was entertaining
Master Hugh had asked Nigel to close the door behind her so as to shut
out the draught. The three men crept down the hall, past the jailer's
door, and slipped out of the house. There they drew their boots on. Then
Michael hurried his master down to the edge of the woods and the waiting
skiff.
Fergus went back to the jailer's room. "I've sent my boy to the village
to engage you a room for the night, my lady," said he. "If you are warm
and rested, we might make our start."
"Certainly," agreed the lady. She smiled at Master Hugh. "You've been
most kind to me," she said. "I shall tell all my friends how courteous a
gentleman you are."
The jailer beamed his pleasure. "'Tis a thousand shames such a gentle
lady should have to walk to the village," said he. "I own I could give
you only poor quarters here. But I could saddle you a horse." He rose.
"Where's that rascal George?"
"No, no," said Mrs. Talbot. "I'm afraid we've put you out more than we
should already." She opened a bag at her belt and laid a piece of money
on the table. "For your hospitality, Master Hugh," she said, with a
gracious smile.
The jailer made his best bow. "A pleasure, madam, a pleasure," he
assured her. "I ask no pay for that." But he let the coin lie on the
table instead of returning it.
Mrs. Talbot and Nigel and Fergus went to the door, Master Hugh after
them. There the jailer made more bows and spoke more pleasant words as
the lady fastened her cloak and pulled her hood over her hair. "You can
find the road?" he asked Fergus.
"Yes, I know the road," said Fergus.
As they left the log house they saw some one coming toward them. It was
George with the precious bottle. "Take it to Master Hugh with my
compliments," said Fergus. Then as they moved away he murmured, "That
ought to keep our friend from finding out what's happened for some
time."
They sped to the woods and the skiff. Talbot and Michael were waiting in
the boat with the sail raised. "Oh, my dear wife!" exclaimed Talbot, as
he clasped the devoted woman in his arms. "'Twas almost worth being in
such peril to find you here again!"
The skiff stole down the Rappahannock in the rain and darkness, carrying
the outlaw Talbot back to his plantation.
III
The skiff retraced its course up Chesapeake Bay. The only landings it
made were for food and water, and at such times George Talbot kept
closely hidden, while Fergus or Michael or Edward Nigel did the
parleying. For Talbot was known by sight to almost every one who lived
on the shore of the great bay, and they all knew as well that he had
been a prisoner of the governor of Virginia. News could travel
surprisingly fast through the wilderness, and the hunters and farmers,
though having the best of intentions toward him, might hinder his escape
from Lord Howard of Effingham.
The skiff brought them safely to the Susquehanna, and Talbot, his wife,
and his three friends landed and went up to his manor-house. There was
great rejoicing among all his retainers, and the story of his rescue
from the Virginia prison was told again and again, and each time it was
told it gained in thrills. But Fergus Rowan told every man, woman, and
child on the plantation that no whisper of the chief's whereabouts must
get beyond the limits of his farms. The chief was safely out of
Virginia, but Lord Howard had great influence in Maryland, and might
try to capture George Talbot again.
A fortnight later Michael, who had been sent to Baltimore City on
business, brought back word that the governor of Virginia had raised a
great hue and cry when he found his prisoner escaped, had sent his
agents into Maryland to find out where Talbot had gone, and had
compelled Lord Baltimore's own agents to help him in the search.
"The first place where they would look is here," Mrs. Talbot said to her
husband. "We must find some hiding-place for you."
"Can you think of one, Michael?" asked Talbot. "Boys are apt to know the
most concerning places to hide."
Michael thought of all the places near the plantation. "There's a cave
in the river bank up in the woods," he said presently. "I don't think
any one could find you there."
So Talbot and his wife and Michael looked for the hiding-place. The cave
was large, and was surrounded by thickets, and screened by bushes from
any one on the river. It seemed just the place that was wanted. Fergus
and Nigel were told about it, but no one else; and plans were made to
send provisions by a roundabout path.
There were wild fowl in the marshes of the river, and Talbot could hunt
them almost from the door of his cave. He caught two hawks and trained
them to catch wild fowl and so help to stock his larder. While Nigel
and Fergus kept watch at the plantation, always on the lookout for any
suspicious-appearing stranger, Michael, fowling-piece in his hand, would
make his way along the Susquehanna, and, joining his master, spend hours
with him training the pair of hawks.
The outlaw,--for that was what Talbot was now, with a price set on his
head,--had only been in hiding for a few days when officers, both of
Lord Baltimore and of the governor of Virginia, came to the plantation.
Mrs. Talbot was at the manor-house with Fergus. To the officers'
questions as to where her husband had fled, she answered with a
question: "Would he come back here, where he would expect his enemies to
be certain to search for him?"
It was clear that neither she nor Fergus would tell the men anything
they might know about Talbot. She told them to search the house and the
plantation. The officers made their search, while Michael, hunting fowls
along the river, kept watch, ready to warn his master to draw back into
his cave, in case the searchers should hunt along the bank.
The men didn't go anywhere near the cave, and left the plantation
without any inkling of where Talbot had gone. But for several days his
wife and friends were careful not to go near his hiding-place, lest
spies might be watching them.
Lord Howard of Effingham had had all ships sailing from Virginia and
Maryland searched for the fugitive. He had spread a net pretty well
over both provinces, for he was determined to catch George Talbot if he
possibly could. Another man might have given up the chase when he found
no clue, but not so the determined governor of Virginia. As a result his
agents came to the plantation time and again, and Talbot had to stay in
his hiding-place while winter changed to spring, and spring to summer,
and the next autumn came. Michael was his companion much of the time,
but idleness was hard for a man of Talbot's nature.
The people on the plantation were faithful to their master, and gave no
sign that they suspected he might be in hiding not very far away. But
such a secret was hard to keep through many months, and at last some of
Lord Baltimore's officers got wind in some way of the farmers'
suspicions. They waited until they heard from London that Lord Baltimore
had been successful in getting an order from the Privy Council of
England directing that the governor of Virginia should send Talbot to
London for trial instead of trying him in the province, and then they
swooped down on the plantation, found Talbot, and forced him to
surrender.
The outlaw chief rode to Baltimore City a prisoner. His wife went with
him, and Michael to wait on her. In the town he learned from his friends
that he was to be tried in England, not in Virginia. That was some
comfort, and his wife told him that as soon as she learned that he had
sailed for Europe she would take ship too, and meet him there. She had
friends in London, and they might have much influence with the Privy
Council.
The Maryland officers handed their prisoner over to the agents of the
Virginia governor. These took him to Lord Howard, who had him put in a
prison that was more securely guarded than the one on the Rappahannock
had been. In prison George Talbot cooled his heels for some time, while
his wife and Michael waited in Baltimore City to learn of his sailing
for England.
Lord Howard of Effingham had grown so arbitrary as governor of
Virginia,--where he had almost as much power as the king had in
England,--that, instead of obeying the order of the Privy Council and
sending his prisoner to London, he kept him in prison during the winter
of 1685, and then in April of that year actually dared to announce that
he meant to place Talbot on trial in Virginia for the killing of
Christopher Rousby.
Word of this came to Mrs. Talbot and her friends in Maryland. Lord
Howard was disobeying the law of England in not sending Talbot there for
trial, but, notwithstanding that, he might, in his tyrannical fashion,
try Talbot, convict him, and even execute him. His wife could do nothing
to prevent this if she stayed in Maryland; so, faithful and brave as
ever, she took passage in a merchantman for England, and crossed the
Atlantic Ocean, with Michael as her squire.
Michael, used to the wilderness of the colonies, with only a few
scattered settlements to break the stretches of woods and meadows,
opened his eyes very wide at the multitude of houses, the throngs of
people, that he saw in the city by the Thames. He went with Mrs. Talbot
to call on Lord Baltimore, the owner of the province of Maryland. Lord
Baltimore listened intently to Mrs. Talbot's story, and grew red in the
face with anger when he heard how the governor of Virginia was making
light of the order of the Privy Council.
"I will at once see the most influential members of the Council,
Madame," said Lord Baltimore. "I will see my friend Tyrconnel, I will go
to His Majesty himself, if need be, to secure Mr. Talbot his rights. I
knew Lord Howard to be a headstrong knave; I'd not suspicioned him to be
a traitor also! I'll bring him to time right soon!"
"It must be soon, my lord," said Mrs. Talbot. "The governor may bring
Mr. Talbot to trial any day."
"I'll go at once," Lord Baltimore assured her. "We'll have a message
sent to Virginia by the next ship out."
Mrs. Talbot and Michael went back to their lodgings, and Lord Baltimore
hastened to his influential friend Tyrconnel, who took him to the king,
James II. Hot with indignation, Baltimore denounced the illegal act of
the governor of Virginia. He made it plain that Lord Howard was actually
daring to defy His Majesty's orders in his province.
The king frowned. "Indeed, my Lord Baltimore, it does look as if our
governor of Virginia were growing somewhat overfed with pride. Our Privy
Council orders your man Talbot sent here for trial on the charge of
killing a tax-collector, and instead Lord Howard holds him and threatens
to try him there. I will teach my obstinate governor a lesson." He
turned to a page and bade him fetch writing materials.
The king wrote a few lines in his own hand, and handed the paper to
Baltimore. It was a pardon in full for George Talbot. "Send that to
Virginia as fast as you can," said the king. "If Howard fails to heed
that, I shall have to appoint another governor in his stead."
Lord Baltimore went directly to Mrs. Talbot's lodgings and showed her
the king's pardon. "We must send it to Virginia at once," said he.
"Let my boy Michael Rowan take it," said Mrs. Talbot. "There is none
would do more for my husband."
So Michael sailed for America with the precious document. His ship made
a quick passage to Virginia; and it was fortunate it did, for no sooner
had he landed at Jamestown than he heard that Talbot had been put on
trial, had been convicted of murder, and was waiting execution.
Michael carried the king's pardon to Lord Howard. The governor read it
and considered it. Apparently he realized that this was an order he did
not dare disobey. So he gave directions to his officers to set the
prisoner free.
Michael was the first friend George Talbot saw when he came out of
prison, no longer an outlaw with a price upon his head, but a free man.
"You were with me when I caused this trouble, Michael," said Talbot,
gripping the boy by the hand, "and you're with me now when the trouble's
at an end. God bless you for a faithful friend to me!"
He asked news of his wife, and when he learned that she had gone to
London and had besought Lord Baltimore to rescue him from the governor
of Virginia he said, "We must go to her, Michael. First a trip to the
plantation to get the funds and set matters straight there, and then
over the sea to England!"
So Talbot and Michael rode north to the manor-house on the Susquehanna
in the summer. It was not like the voyage in the skiff, when the outlaw
had to keep constantly in hiding. Now he rode openly, and everywhere
people who knew who he was flocked to shake his hand and welcome him
back to Maryland.
They reached the plantation and there Fergus Rowan and Edward Nigel and
all the other retainers gave their chief a great welcome. But his
thoughts were over the ocean, and he quickly gave directions what should
be done in his absence, and went to Baltimore City to take ship. He
wanted Michael to go with him, and Michael's parents consented, for the
boy was now grown to be a man, and they thought it well that he should
see something of the world.
Husband and wife met in London, and Michael made his home with them
there, serving as Talbot's secretary, and learning the ways of a world
vastly different from that of the plantation on the Susquehanna.
Talbot never returned to Maryland. He had not been in England long when
the revolution broke out that placed William of Orange on the throne.
Talbot, ever an adventurous spirit, took the side of James II and the
Stuarts, fought as a Jacobite, and when the Stuart cause was lost, went
to France and entered the service of the French king.
Michael, however, went back, was granted land by Lord Baltimore, and
made his own farm in the fertile country of northern Maryland. George
Talbot had always been more of an adventurer than a planter or farmer,
but Michael Rowan preferred to till his own fields, though he never
forgot the thrill of excitement of the days when he had served his
outlawed chief.
VI
IN THE DAYS OF WITCHES
(_Massachusetts, 1692_)
I
The schoolmaster closed his book with a snap. "That's all for to-day,"
he said. "Be sure you know your lessons well to-morrow, for I expect
visitors any day now, and I want my classes to make a good appearance."
He was a pale young man with pleasant blue eyes, and his shoulders
stooped as though he were used to sitting much of the time bent over a
table. Most boys and girls liked him, because of his kindness and
patience with them, but a few, such as there are to be found in almost
every school, made fun of him behind his back because he wasn't harsher
with them. Sometimes they made fun of him too because of his strange
pets, a lame sheep-dog, birds that had hurt their wings and couldn't fly
far, any sort of animal that other people didn't care for.
Matthew Hamlin and Joseph Glover left school together, and walked down
one of the miry streets of Salem. "My father talked about them last
night," said Matthew. "He thought I didn't hear him. He said 'Witches!'
and laughed."
"And didn't he say anything more?" demanded Joseph.
"Oh, yes. He said, 'Nonsense! A pack of old wives' tales! Folks ought to
be ashamed to hearken to such things.'"
"Well," said Joseph, "I was sitting in the corner of the smithy shop,
and two men came in, and they said to the smith, 'You've got a
good-sized chimney here, and you'd best keep an eye out, or the
witches'll be flying down it.' The smith didn't laugh; he frowned and
shook his head, and said, 'There's no telling. But if they do come, I'll
be ready for them.'"
Matthew dug his fists hard into the pockets of his jacket, and his
round, rosy face looked unusually serious. "Let's go by the smithy,
Joe," he suggested. "I'd like to have a look at the chimney."
So when they came to the next lane they turned down it, and presently
reached the wide doors of the blacksmith's shop, which stood hospitably
open. The smith was working at his anvil, striking great sparks with his
hammer as he beat a crooked horseshoe. He nodded to the two boys, who
threw their school-books on a bench, and walked over to the hearth, as
if to warm their hands.
"Well, lads," said the smith, after a minute, "and what did ye learn
to-day?" He rested his brawny arms on his hammer. "Folks tell me that
Master Thomas Appleton is mighty learned and a great teacher; and,
faith, he looks it, though I caught him chuckling on the road the other
night."
"And he laughs sometimes in school too, and tells us stories," said Joe.
"I like him. Most of us do; only that John Rowley and Mercy Booth and
Susan Parsons don't, because he caught them beating a dog and scolded
them for it. But when they talk about him, the rest of us shut them up,
don't we, Mat?"
Mat, however, appeared to be much more interested in examining the
smithy chimney than he was in Master Appleton. He had bent forward and
was trying to look up the great sooty throat. "Do you think it's big
enough for any one to come down?" he asked. "And is it clear to the
top?"
Jacob Titus, the smith, rested his hammer on the anvil, and slowly wiped
his hands on his leather apron. "Some might come down it--or fly up it,"
he answered. "Witches."
The word carried a thrill. Mat stood up straight again, facing the
smith. Joe stopped warming his hands at the blaze. Titus nodded his head
slowly. "Witches might," he said. "And they wouldn't need it clear to
the top, they wouldn't."
Joe laughed. "But there aren't such things as witches, Mr. Titus.
They're like fairies. People tell stories about them to frighten
children."
"People tell stories about them right enough," agreed the smith, "but it
ain't so sure they only do it to frighten children. They've found
witches, and proved them witches, and not so very far from Salem. A man
from Boston was in here yester eve, a likely-looking man, too, and he
stood there by the fire, where you be standing, and he gave me facts and
figures. Seems he was well acquainted with the matter. He says they hung
a woman in Charlestown for trying to cure sick people by mixing magic
with simples and herbs, contrary to what the doctors allowed, and they
found another witch at Dorchester, and yet a third at Cambridge. Seems
as if the witches sometimes took hold of children, and used their magic
on 'em so's they did strange things, things no children would do usual."
The smith's voice had grown low and mysterious, and in his interest in
the subject he had left his anvil and walked over to the boys by the
hearth. He was gazing at them when there came a sound at the door and
the boys saw a man's figure appear against the winter dusk that had
settled on the lane. Jacob Titus wheeled about. "The very man I was
speaking of!" he muttered. And in a louder voice he added,
"Good-evening, sir, good-evening."
The stranger came into the shop. He was very tall, and his black clothes
seemed to increase his height and the darkness of his face. He took off
his high-crowned hat and ran his fingers through his long, uncombed
hair. Then he flung his cloak back over his shoulders as if he found the
smithy warm. "Good-evening to you, friend smith," he said, "and to you,
young men." His voice was deep and oily, with a fawning sound to it.
"Don't let me disturb your talk. I'll rest a few minutes with your kind
permission."
Titus drew a stool near the hearth. "Sit here, sir. It happens I was
telling these boys about you, and about your talk of yester eve, about
the witches," he added.
The stranger sat down, stood his tall hat on the floor, and spread out
his fingers, fan-like, on his knees. "About the witches?" he repeated in
his deep voice. "Hardly a pleasing subject. And yet one that concerns
folks everywhere. Moreover, unless I'm mistaken, it concerns the people
of Salem very particularly."
Mat and Joe could not help being impressed; there was something very
mysterious in the man's voice and manner; he seemed to carry a strange,
uncanny atmosphere about with him, and to give the impression that, if
there were such creatures as witches, he would be precisely the person
who would know most about them. As for the smith, it was very evident
that he held his visitor in great awe.
"I told you of Goody Jones, of Charlestown," said the stranger. "I
hadn't told you of the strange case of the woman Glover, who was
laundress for John Goodwin of Boston. One day Martha, John Goodwin's
oldest daughter, who was thirteen, told her parents that the laundress
was stealing pieces of linen from the family washing. They spoke to her
about it, and the woman dared to answer them with many strange threats
and curses. Thereupon the little Martha fell down in a fit, and soon the
same thing happened to the three other children, who were eleven, seven,
and five years old. Afterward they all plainly showed that the laundress
had bewitched them; they became deaf and dumb for stretches of time,
they said they were being pricked with pins and cut with knives, they
barked like dogs and purred like cats, they could even skim over the
ground without touching it, or, in the words of the worthy Cotton
Mather, seemed to 'fly like geese.' This lasted for several weeks."
"Saints above!" murmured the smith. "To think of that!"
"Yes," went on the stranger. "Doctors and ministers studied the case,
and agreed that undoubtedly the Glover woman had bewitched the children,
and she was hanged for trading in black magic."
"Aye," agreed Jacob Titus, "no doubt she was a witch. What those
children did tallies with all stories of bewitchments."
Joe and Mat kept silent, but they could not help acknowledging to
themselves that the children had acted very much as if the woman had
bewitched them. Moreover, the stranger's manner made a great impression
on his hearers; he never smiled as he spoke, was evidently very much in
earnest, and looked tremendously wise.
His very next words served to increase this impression. "I have given
much time and thought to this matter of witches," said he, "and it's
that which has fetched me to your town of Salem. You know Salem Village,
or Salem Farms, as some appear to call it?"
Of course they all knew Salem Village, a little group of farms that lay
four or five miles out from their own town.
"There," said the stranger, "lives one Samuel Parris, minister of the
Gospel, and his family." As he spoke he made marks and lines on his leg,
as if to indicate the people he was naming. The boys looked back and
forth from his lean finger tracing these lines to his deep, glowing
eyes. "Samuel Parris," continued the speaker, "lived in the West Indies
for a time, and when he came here he brought two colored servants with
him, a man called John Indian, and his wife, who was known as Tituba,
who was part Indian and part negro. These two brought with them from the
Indies a knowledge of palm-reading, fortune-telling, second-sight, and
various strange incantations, such as the natives use there. They soon
attracted to them by these tricks a number of children, chiefly girls,
some as old as twenty, one child, Mr. Parris's daughter Elizabeth, only
nine. At first the girls simply did the tricks these Indian servants
taught them, but before long they gave signs of being bewitched in
earnest; they crawled about on their hands and knees, they spoke a
language no one could understand, they fell into trances. When these
'Afflicted Children,' as they call them, were asked who made them do
these things, they pointed to the Indian Tituba, and to two elderly
women, one named Sarah Good, the other Sarah Osburn. People have watched
these three, and they find that whenever Sarah Good quarrels with her
neighbors their cattle have been apt to sicken and die. Naturally the
three women are now under arrest. Such things savor strongly of the Evil
Eye, methinks."
"I think so too," said the smith stoutly. "That bewitching of the
neighbors' cattle is bad business!"
It was now dark outside, and the only light in the smithy was the fire
on the hearth. "Folks here in Salem should be on watch that this
witchcraft comes no nearer home," muttered the stranger in his deep
voice. "I have come here partly to warn them."
"That's good of you," said Titus.
The stranger picked up his hat, as if about to leave.
"Might we know your name?" asked the smith, very respectfully.
"Jonathan Leek," said the other. "One time I was in business with a man
of Salem, Richard Swan. He took more than his fair share of the profits
of our ventures, and left me poor. But I forgave him."
"Oh, I knew Richard Swan well," said the smith. "He died some years ago.
We all thought well of him here in Salem. His widow lives here now,
Mistress Ann Swan."
"Her house is near ours," spoke up Mat.
"The schoolmaster boards with her," volunteered Joe. "He has a little
shed at the back where he keeps his dogs."
"I forgave him," repeated Jonathan Leek in his oily tones. He put on his
high-crowned hat and stood up. "Let us all beware of the evil eye, my
friends," he added, and, drawing his cloak close about him, strode out
through the doorway.
The smith and the two boys stared after him, and then looked at each
other. He had certainly brought mysterious stories with him, and the
effect of them seemed to remain. "What was I telling you?" said Titus.
"Don't be making sport of such business." He went back to his work at
the anvil.
The boys said good-night, and left the smithy. The air was colder now
that darkness had settled on the lane, and they buttoned their coats
tight and stuck their hands in their pockets. "He knows a good deal
about them, doesn't he?" said Mat.
Joe nodded his head. "It does sound mighty strange," said he.
"I wonder what father would have said if he'd heard Mr. Leek," observed
Mat. "He couldn't have called all that just old wives' tales."
At a corner the boys parted, and Mat trudged home alone. He glanced with
new interest at the house where Mistress Swan and the schoolmaster
lived. He would have liked to know what Mr. Appleton would say about
this business of witches. Would he laugh and say, "What nonsense!" or
would he look as much impressed as Jacob Titus had looked? Jacob was no
fool, and it was very clear that this Mr. Jonathan Leek was an unusually
wise man.
But when Mat came into his own warm house, and found the sitting-room
brightly lighted and the family there, he couldn't help doubting whether
all he had just heard was true. He didn't mention the matter at all at
supper, or until he had finished his studying for the next day. When he
was through, however, he pulled his stool up to his father's chair, and
told him all that he and Joe had heard that afternoon. All, that is,
except what Mr. Leek had said about the business dealings he had once
had with Richard Swan.
"And did this make you believe in witches and the Evil Eye?" asked Mr.
Hamlin.
"I don't know," answered Mat, doubtfully. "Joe and I didn't know what to
think. The stories folks are telling about the witches and about what
they do to children and to animals are so strange; and then so many
grown-up people believe them. How's a boy to know whether they're true
or not?"
"Only by using his seven wits, Mat," said Mr. Hamlin. "Before you
believe any of these unnatural things, see them happen with your own
eyes. And when a boy or girl cries out that a witch is sticking pins
into them, make sure that they're not pretending; you know children love
to pretend things, and they like it all the better if they can get
grown people to believe what they pretend. I don't think any witch will
try sticking pins or knives in you or Joe, or make you fly over the
ground like geese. The witch won't, that is, unless you help her."
Mat chuckled. "Trust Joe and me for keeping away from creatures like
that," he declared.
Mat started whittling a whistle from a willow stick, and Mr. Hamlin
began adding a column of figures in a cash-book, but after a few minutes
he looked up at his wife, who had come into the room and was knitting.
"I can't blame the children for talking of witches and magic things," he
said, "when all the province of Massachusetts Bay seems to be thinking
about the same matters. Everybody's whispering about them, and every
man, woman, and child seems suddenly to know exactly what witches do.
Three men told me to-day about those poor women they've jailed over at
Salem Village. And the men seemed almost to believe that the women
really had dealt in witchcraft, although they were all three sober men,
and one was a minister of the Gospel."
"And I've been hearing the same things," said his wife. "Men don't do
all the gossiping, my dear."
Mr. Hamlin turned again to his cash-book, but his counting was
interrupted in a few minutes by a loud rapping at the street-door. Mat
opened the door, and Mr. Samuel Glover and his son Joe came hurrying
in. "There's strange news afoot," said Mr. Glover, "and I thought it
only neighborly to share it with you." He threw his hat and cloak on a
chair. "Some one has charged Mistress Ann Swan with dealing in
witchcraft, with being a familiar of the Evil One."
"Mistress Swan!" exclaimed husband and wife, while Mat stood listening
with his mouth wide open.
"It's said she's bewitched the children, makes them act like cats and
dogs, sends them into trances, and misuses them in many different ways."
"She's a most kind-hearted woman, and loves children dearly," said
Mistress Hamlin. "She always gives them sweets when they come to see
her."
"Aye," agreed Mr. Glover, "so the children say, but they add that she
gives them the sweets so she may have a chance to work her evil on
them."
"What children say this?" demanded Mr. Hamlin.
"Mercy Booth and Susan Parsons and John Rowley," answered Mr. Glover.
"They're the main ones."
Mat looked at Joe. "Serves 'em right," said he. "They're mean enough to
be bewitched!"
"They stone dogs and cats," put in Joe. "And the schoolmaster caught 'em
at it, and gave 'em a good scolding."
"But who started the story?" asked Mr. Hamlin. "Did the children tell
these things themselves?"
"A man who's lately come from Boston took the matter to the town
clerk," answered Mr. Glover. "It seems the children had told their
strange stories to him. His name is Jonathan Leek."
Mat gave a long whistle. "Jonathan Leek!" he echoed. "Why, he's the man
Joe and I met at the smithy!"
"Yes," said Joe, nodding vigorously. "And he knows all about
witchcraft."
"I should think he did," agreed Mat.
"Poor Ann Swan," said Mistress Hamlin. "As fine a woman as ever lived.
And to be charged with being a witch!"
"That's what I say," assented Mr. Glover. "And I'm doubtful if the
matter stops there. There's talk already that another had some part in
mistreating the children."
"Who?" demanded Mr. Hamlin.
"Who but the man who lives in the house with her, Mr. Appleton the
schoolmaster."
"And what can they say against him?" asked Mr. Hamlin. "He's as
straightforward a man as ever I met."
"He has a little shed back of the house where he keeps some dogs,"
explained the other. "The children say that he cures these dogs of
broken bones by magic. They say they've seen him do it; take a stray cur
who limps and say a few words they can't understand, and soon the dog
doesn't limp any more. And the three afflicted children say that he
makes them suffer instead of his wounded pets."
"They've been put up to this!" exclaimed Mr. Hamlin. "They'd never have
thought of all this for themselves."
"Maybe," agreed Mr. Glover. "But you know how such matters go. Speak a
word or two against a man or woman, never mind how honest they may be,
and folks seize on it, and before you know it they have a dozen ill
stories to tell against them."
"The schoolmaster a witch! I'll not believe it!" declared Mat.
"Nor will I," said Joe.
Mr. Hamlin smiled. "That's right, boys. Stand to your guns. Mr. Appleton
has some skill at setting broken bones, probably, and that's how he
mends these wounded animals. It's those who believe these charges of
witchcraft who are crazy, in my opinion; not the folks they charge with
having dealings with the Evil One. As for calling Mistress Swan a witch
because of what those children said, any woman might accuse a neighbor
of being a witch because her milk wouldn't churn into butter while that
neighbor happened to be chatting with her."
"That's about what they have said of some of their witches in Boston,"
put in Mr. Glover. "Yet, absurd as this may seem to us, it's likely to
prove fairly serious to Mistress Swan and Mr. Appleton. People don't
stop to use their wits in such affairs nowadays. Call man or woman a
witch, and you're two-thirds of the way to provin
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