Chapter 5

During his absence, the family had cause for anxiety in the weather. Storms and a moderating temperature were bad, for Jonathan Fryer had frozen rivers to cross.

On the night of the second Saturday after his departure, he returned weary and exhausted from a hard and perilous trip. Jane had spent many hours watching for her father and was eager to make him comfortable. She hung about him with every attention, and laughed when he nodded with sleep.

"Father, you must go to bed, for if your head should tip like that in the meeting-house, the cage would await you."

It had been decreed that the old wooden cage before the church door should punish--"those who use tobacco or sleep during public exercise."

The next morning Jonathan Fryer arose aching in every limb. His family begged him to break his custom of attending meeting, but his strong spirit asserted itself, and he was ready at the usual time. With a basket of dinner, the four started afoot at an early hour that they might be well warmed before meeting.

Mr. Moody, famous for his long sermons, had preached some forty minutes when a lusty snore brought the already straight listeners to an alert posture. It awoke the sleeper himself, no other than Jonathan Fryer. The preaching continued to its customary length of an hour or more. Then silently, shamed beyond endurance, Jonathan, his goodwife, his Tom, and his Jane, sought shelter in their small house. Words were useless. They knew what would follow.

The tramp of four tything men was soon heard crunching the ice. Some eight or ten men with that title had been chosen to "look after the good morals" of the neighbors of their home district.

Tything-man Eliot was the spokesman as the four stood to administer justice.

"We regret, Goodman Fryer, that since you have disobeyed the strict orders of the Church, not only by sleeping, but also by disturbing the meeting with an audible snort, we must comply with our laws and place you in the stocks, within the cage built for that purpose."

There was no chance for reply, for like a tiger Jane pounced before these men of dignity and burst forth, "It is not right. My father, in service for the town, has faced great hardships and almost lost his life. That he came to meeting at all, he should be thanked. If you place him in the stocks, you shall place me there too!"

Her flashing eyes and angered face seemed to burn themselves into the stolid four as she stamped her foot for emphasis. The spokesman turned and quietly remarked to his companions, "There is need for further council!" They left. Jane threw herself into her father's arms. He dropped his head.

"My daughter, this conduct doubles the insult to the Church. Your action is unrighteous, though well meant. Your father's disgrace was great enough, but this from a child to our worthy tything men cannot be overlooked. There was need for further council."

No greater punishment could have been given Jane than these words from her father. The barley-cakes, porridge, and cheese were left untouched by the shame-faced group.

Soon the heavy steps were again heard. The moment of suspense was stinging. The door opened and the tything men entered. The same spokesman, perhaps the gentlest of the four, began:

"Goodman Fryer, it is deemed best that the punishment to be administered to your untamed daughter for her unruly tongue shall be determined by her parents. It is left to their discretion. Yet there is truth in her words. The council of the Church commends you for your recent service to the town and grants you pardon for your unseemly conduct in the meeting."

PEACE OR WARFARE

Since the days when Nonowit had welcomed the English to his shores and had taught Roger Low the ways of the wood, there had been little serious trouble between the white man and the red.

The New Hampshire coast was at this time fortified against an enemy from over the seas, but the homes were rarely protected by palisades, save the larger ones used as garrison houses, where the neighbors gathered in case of an attack by Indians. Up to this time, however, there had been but little need of the garrisons.

Roger Low had become the father of Jonathan, and even Jonathan now had a boy Robert, for some fifty years had passed since Robert's grandfather had crossed the ocean to this land. The Portsmouth house in which the three lived had been the scene of Jonathan's boyhood and recalls the time when his little sister, Mary, cut off her father's hair.

The winter months of 1675 had passed. Frightful stories of Indian troubles were coming to the ears of the colonists. Robert Low had loved to sit on his grandfather's knee and in the warm light of the hearth fire to listen to stories of Indian life and of Nonowit, of whom nothing had been heard for many years.

The two were sitting by the fire one evening, when Jonathan Low, leaving them alone, had gone to Exeter for the night. A neighbor happened in. His face was grave, and he shook his head in doubt as he seated himself on the opposite settle.

"Philip, that chief in Massachusetts, the son of Massasoit, is a dangerous fellow. He is turning his Indians against the white men. And have you heard what has happened on the Saco River, at our east?"

Robert was alert for a new story, though his interest was now mingled with a sense of fear.

"The squaw of the sachem Squando," continued the caller, "was crossing the river in a canoe with her pappoose, when two sailors upset the craft just for the sport of it. The child sank, but the mother dived to the bottom and brought it up alive. Later the child died, and Squando is now rousing the Indians of the east against the colonists. With Philip south of us and Squando, a chief of wide influence, at the east, we stand in great danger."

"Yet peace must exist between the white man and the red," confidently replied the grandfather, "for Passaconaway, the great sachem of the Penacooks, that wonderful chieftain, fifteen years ago urged peace when he called the river and the mountain Indians together at Pawtucket Falls. At a great dance and a feast held there Passaconaway spoke to his people and bade them live in peace, for it was the only hope for the race. They might do some harm to the English, but it would end in their own destruction. This the Great Spirit had said to him. Then," continued Roger Low, "he gave up his chieftainship to his son Wonolancet, who has heeded his father's warning, as have other tribes about us. They had faith in old Passaconaway, who had the power to make water burn and trees to dance. He could even turn himself into a flame. Yet he accepted our Christianity as preached by John Eliot and finally, the Indians say, he was carried in a sleigh drawn by wolves up the slope of our highest mountain, whence he rose toward the heaven of the white man in a chariot of fire."

The neighbor again shook his head doubtfully and bade them good-night. Little Robert, torn by the fears of the Indian raids, and his grandfather's assurance of peace, lay awake many hours. His grandfather was breathing heavily in his sleep, when Robert distinctly heard a footstep outside. Thinking his father might have returned, he hurried to the window in time to see the figure of an Indian. The little boy threw himself upon his sleeping grandfather in fright. As the old gentleman awoke, a heavy knock was heard at the door.

"'Tis an Indian, grandfather," shrieked the boy.

At that moment the outline of the Indian's face was seen at the window which he was trying to open. Roger Low jumped from his bed, seized his gun, and stood ready for an attack. The Indian spoke. Low dropped his gun and listened. Something more was said outside, Grandfather hastily unbolted the door. "Was he mad?" He seemed eager to meet the Indian. Then Robert heard his grandfather cry, "Nonowit!" for the old-time friend had at last come back.

They stirred the fire and seated themselves to hear Nonowit's story of peace and trouble between whitemen and Indians. Robert gained no promise of peace. However, the friendliness of such a powerful Indian as Nonowit was reassuring, and he dropped to sleep in his grandfather's arms.

SUSANNA'S RESCUE

A Tale of 1675

Toby Tozer dropped the rock which would have completed his house of stones, as he saw a sail tacking across the river straight to his point at Newichewannock.

"Look, Susanna! Here comes Mistress Lear, and she has brought Henry with her," he cried excitedly.

Susanna hurried up the bank to carry the news. She was a sturdy girl of eighteen, with neither home nor people. The little group at the settlement took care of her, and she gratefully served them all.

Hearing of the arrival, Mistress Tozer hurried to the shore, bidding Susanna notify the few neighbors and invite them all to her home for the day. Spinning, weaving, and other household cares were always pushed aside for such an occasion as a visit.

"And may we keep her for days, Jacob?" Mrs. Tozer asked anxiously of Mr. Lear, who was then pushing off his boat.

"Just an over-night trip," he called. "I'm on my way to Dover and will come around for her on my return."

Already the good-wives, with knitting in hand, were gathering to greet Mistress Lear. Some fifteen or more, including the children, were soon settled about the Tozer fireplace, eager to learn of the happenings in Portsmouth.

"How dared you come so far, Mistress Lear, when the Indians are committing such terrible deeds? Since King Philip has stirred up the creatures in Massachusetts, even the settlements of Maine have felt their treachery."

By this time Susanna had caught the winks and nods of Toby and Henry, who were tired of sitting primly on the settle.

"Shall I draw you a bucket of water, Mistress Tozer?" asked Susanna, as eager as the boys for an excuse to get out to the open. She glanced at the boys, who followed to help her. Secretly she held the fear of an Indian attack and, for days, had been keeping watch over the river.

"My great-grandfather, Ambrose Gibbons, dug this well!" exclaimed Henry, knowingly, as Susanna let down the bucket. "His little girl, Becky Gibbons, was my grandmother, and she traded some corn for a beaver skin with the Indians."

Since Susanna and Toby seemed interested, Henry continued his story as they turned to the shore. "Almost all the Indians were friendly in those days," he added.

"But they are not now," replied Susanna. Her alert eye, at that moment, had caught a distant movement of paddles on the water. As a nearer view brought the dreaded Indians to sight, she cried, "Run for your lives, boys!"

The frightful feathered savages were gliding straight toward the point.

The two children made a mad dash for the house. Susanna, ahead, broke into the peaceful group gathered there.

"Indians! Run! Out the back door, over the fence to the Knight's house! Don't let them see you!"

Susanna slammed the front door and threw her full weight against it, while the women in mad haste rushed through the narrow doorway and scrambled over the fence to the more secure protection of the neighboring house. A moment later the howling Indians slashed their tomahawks into the door which Susanna, to gain time for the others, still held. The savages now forced the door open. The girl was thrown to the floor by the blow, and the Indians, thinking her dead, rushed through the house. Finding it deserted, they dashed through the back door on toward the neighboring house. Shot after shot from this direction startled the pursuing Indians and made them realize that their party was too small to face such fire. They then wheeled about and struck for the canoe.

After a long and fearful waiting, Mrs. Tozer crept cautiously back to her home, sure that Susanna had been carried off captive. No, there she lay on the floor by the door. Could it be that she moved? Her eyes opened. Mrs. Tozer dropped to her side and, with the assistance of those who had followed, brought her quick relief. The girl was tenderly cared for, and in time she entirely recovered her strength.

When Henry Lear returned to Portsmouth, he told a tale of Newichewannock life wilder than the stories of his grandmother's day.

TO THE GARRISON HOUSE!

One September day in 1675, near their home on the Upper Plantation, now known as Dover, Betty Haines, a girl of ten, stood in the cornfield with her little apron outstretched to hold the ears of ripe corn her father was plucking. Suddenly her brother Joseph, twice her age, bounded over the meadow and into the field.

"Father," he cried excitedly, "the Indians have made an attack at Newichewannock. They are likely to be down upon us at any moment. The garrison house is our only safety."

His mother, at the door of their home, caught Joseph's alarming words and took immediate command of the situation. The rest of the family hurried in from the cornfield and followed her directions.

"Get your heavy coat, Joseph! Betty, pack the bread into that basket and ask your father to bring down our heaviest blankets!"

"I hope nothing will happen to this nice home of ours," sighed Betty as her father on their departure locked the door.

"Nor to our corn either," he added, with a thought of the winter's food.

Soon they established themselves in the largest home of the neighborhood, which stood open in such a moment of need. Mrs. Haines, ready and capable, did her part for the neighboring families assembled there, while Mr. Haines and Joseph lent their aid to strengthen the fortifications of timber outside and to erect a sentry box on the roof, where guard was to be kept night and day.

As Joseph Haines took his turn to guard, the first night of alarm, Betty crept up to the roof after him and immediately cried, pointing across the river, "Look there, Joe!"

A small glow of fire, seen in the distance, soon brightened the whole sky with flames.

"Work of the Indians!" muttered Joe. When word was brought the next day that two houses and three barns with a large quantity of grain had been burned that night by the Indians, Betty implored her brother, "Oh, don't let them burn our house, Joe!"

"No, little Betty, I'll see that they do not," he declared with determination.

Later the report reached Dover of six houses burned at Oyster River (a neighboring village) and two men killed. The young men of Dover rose with indignation at the insults of the Indians and begged Major Waldron, commander of the militia, to grant them permission to protect the town in their own way. This request granted, some twenty of them, Joseph Haines in the number, armed themselves and scattered through the woods, hoping in that way to find the lurking savages who were doing their mischief in small groups.

Just at dusk Joseph, with one companion, took his position in the woods near his own home.

"Hist!" came from his friend after long, patient watching. The two were alert, for five stealthy figures were seen to cross the meadow and linger in the cornfield. Three of them began to pick the corn, while two, approaching the house, gathered sticks for a fire which they lighted. Their purpose seemed to be to roast the corn, but the fire was built dangerously near the house.

Joseph and his friend had become separated from their companions. No signal could be given without arousing the suspicion of their enemies. After a whispered consultation, they cautiously crept out of the woods and into the shadow of the house. From there they suddenly rushed upon the two Indians by the fire, striking them down with the butts of their guns. Those in the cornfield, hearing the commotion, ran for the woods and escaped.

Mr. Haines, seeing the firelight in the direction of his house, started at once from the garrison, not knowing that Betty quietly followed him through the darkness, even slipping through the big gateway without being seen.

The fire had already caught the house, while the young men were occupied in binding the prisoners. Mr. Haines dashed to the well for water and returned to find his Betty beating the flames with a broom.

Mrs. Haines, missing Betty and suspecting that she had followed her father, was on the spot by the time Joseph had turned his attention from the prisoners to find that the house had been saved from the flames.

Word of the efficient guard at Dover was reported by the escaping Indians, and no further attack was made at that time.

MY NEW HAMPSHIRE

The Indian raids had told heavily upon the colonists in the region of the Piscataqua. Scattered gardens had been devastated; homes built by great effort had been destroyed in a night; family circles had been broken by death, or by capture, and the colony had suffered the loss of strong young men who were its mainstay.

John Stevens had been crippled by the tomahawk of an Indian; his whole family and that of his brother had been swept out of existence by the same cruel hands, and all that was left was his home and one little nephew, David.

"This country is ours now, David, and we must hold it," he would say to the manly little fellow, who was already facing the responsibilities of life, though with arms too young to swing the axe or to steady the plough.

Glancing at the sturdy little boy, John Stevens, unable to leave his chair, looked through the open doorway to his cleared land and his forests, and wondered how, to say nothing of protecting the country, he could keep the boy and himself alive. "David," he cried on sudden thought, "the garden shall be yours and the forest mine. We will each do what we can. I still have a strong arm left to me and a sharp knife. The red oaks can be felled and sawed at the mill. Here in my chair with my knife I can shape the short boards into hogshead staves. The town accepts them for taxes at twenty-five shillings a thousand."

"Perhaps," added David, "Mr. Cutt, the merchant, will have use for some."

Together the man and the boy, before the open door, planned for the coming days until the twilight had settled into night.

The simple home was remote, and neighbors rarely dropped in. David took the necessary trips to the Bank, as the upper end of the town by the river was still called, or to the South End, where the Great House stood with many smaller homes of the town to the south of it. Always the little boy started with this injunction:

"Learn all you can, David, of town affairs. Inquire about the doings of the General Court. This is our country, David, and we must know what happens."

The cutting of staves proved to be a means of meeting their simple daily needs. The abundant forests everywhere prevented a demand for the shipment of staves to other ports; so it was an exultant David who came home one fall day with the word that Mr. John Cutt, the wealthy merchant of Portsmouth, wanted all the staves John Stevens could make. They had proved the best of the kind that Mr. Cutt had yet found. With the little that David could do on the garden the two managed to make a living. Yet all this effort to live was held before David as a small matter compared with the life of the country.

"You must remember, David," his uncle impressed upon him, "that the country must live whether we are here or not, and its life, lad, depends upon what we can do for it while we are here."

With this quickened interest in the big country, of which he could see so small a part, David returned from town early in January of 1680, with stirring news for his uncle.

"Listen to this, Uncle John," he cried, excitedly, "Our King in England has seen fit to separate New Hampshire from the government of Massachusetts, and he has appointed our Mr. John Cutt as President. The Royal Charter is already here!"

John Stevens leaned forward, as if to grasp the thought.

"Say it again, David, every word." Then, after the boy had repeated the news, his uncle slowly shook his head.

"It is a heavy responsibility for us, lad. We have but four small towns in New Hampshire. Yet I have confidence in the honored gentleman appointed to lead us."

Actually to withdraw from the rule of Massachusetts required time, during which period David never returned home without bringing some interesting news. One day it was, "Uncle John, Portsmouth has seventy-one men who can vote; Dover has sixty-one; Hampton, fifty-seven; and Exeter, twenty." At another time he announced, "There is to be an important meeting in March, to which every town of New Hampshire is to send three representatives except Exeter, which sends two."

On the 16th of March, the day of the General Assembly, John Stevens sent the boy off to town for the whole day.

"Learn everything for me, David," was his parting command. "Do not miss a thing. And David," he added, impressively, placing his hand on the boy's shoulder, "Remember always that this is your New Hampshire." Then he counted the hours for the boy's return.

When David reached the town he found three other boys of his own age eagerly watching for a sight of the gentlemen attending the Assembly. Choosing an advantageous spot on the roadside, David and his companions swung themselves to the low, spreading branches of an oak, where they patiently waited.

"Here they come," called Sam Cutt, who had already seen these gentlemen arrive at his father's house.

As the solemn procession of representatives from New Hampshire's four small towns passed on their way to the meeting-house, David slid from his branch to the ground and in an erect position bared his head and held his hat to his heart until they had passed.

"Oh, see the sissy!" cried one boy from the tree, pointing to David, when the riders had moved along. David's face flushed, but with unusual self-command he replied.

"Did you not know that those men are taking care of our province, which is yet very small, and that this is for us all a very serious and important meeting that they are attending?"

The surprised boys who had expected to see David slink away, slid down from the branches, caught with interest in what he continued to tell them of town and even state affairs. They asked questions which he could answer. "Now I tell you," he added with authority, "you must remember always that this is your New Hampshire." David's knowledge of his country had so deeply impressed and interested the boys that, when the General Assembly adjourned, four hatless lads stood in respect as the members passed, who honored them with a salute.

When, at the close of the day, David reached home he threw off his coat and warmed his hands by the fire exclaiming.

"You should have seen the dignified gentlemen, uncle. There were a dozen or more of them who rode from Mr. Cutt's estate to the meeting-house. They wore fine clothes, and swords at their sides, and shining buckles on their shoes and knee bands. The Rev. Mr. Moody preached a sermon to them after he had offered a long prayer. Then the gentlemen voted to write a letter to the General Court of Massachusetts. Sam Cutt told me all about it. He had asked his father what had happened there. And, uncle, in this letter they thanked the Court for the care and kindness given us while we were under its rule. They explained that we did not seek this change. It was only because it was the King's wish that we were willing to accept the plan. Then they begged the Court for the benefit of its prayers and blessing in this separation. Sam said that it was all very solemn. Uncle," David continued, after a pause, "I kept feeling all day long, 'This is my New Hampshire!'"

THE BOWL OF BROTH

One September day Mrs. Elizabeth Heard opened the door of her house on the Cocheco River, in Dover, and first looking cautiously about, a habit bred by fear of lurking Indians, stepped out with a bowl of hot broth, which she was about to carry to a neighbor who was ill.