Part 6

“The good man and his wife were not long in removing the poor Indian woman and the child to the house, and, for some time, the poor creature did not appear to know what was passing around her; but after having taken some hot drink she seemed to revive, and cried out, ‘Me baby! me flower!’ and she looked wildly round for the child. Mrs. Gray laid it on the mat beside her, and the little one sat up and twisted its little fingers in her wet black hair, and then nestled close to the Indian woman’s bosom till she slept. Mrs. Gray then carefully removed the child, and fed it with some warm milk. The poor little thing, as if conscious of her kindness, looked up in her face and softly repeated, ‘Mamma—mamma.’ The imperfect words went to the heart of Rebecca; and she again resolved that, as the Lord had cast the little stranger upon her protection, she would be unto it a mother.

“Mr. and Mrs. Gray hoped to learn something of the child when the Indian woman should be restored, but they were disappointed; for she arose at the dawn of day, and stealing softly to the bedside of Mrs. Gray, and taking the child from beside its new mother, she appeared about to carry it away; but Mrs. Gray, as she awoke, observing her, cried out, ‘Give me back the babe! give her to me!’

“The Indian woman fixed her piercing black eyes upon the face of Rebecca for several minutes, then closing them, she appeared to be reasoning with herself; for, upon lifting them again, she said, solemnly, ‘The God of the white man calleth for his child. The rose cannot bloom in the desert. The lily springeth not in the wilderness.’

“Thus saying, she chanted a kind of prayer in the Indian tongue, and folding the babe an instant to her bosom, she replaced it beside Mrs. Gray; and before any one could speak or prevent her, she had thrown open the door and passed swiftly from the cottage.

“‘Rise, Simon Gray!’ said the kind-hearted Rebecca, ‘rise and follow the poor creature, and persuade her to stay till the storm is past, and offer her food.’ But though the good man made all possible haste in dressing, the woman had reached the summit of a high hill which lay toward the Bay colony ere he got into the street; and soon she was lost in the distance and the thick falling snow, which was still beating down with great violence.”

“Did she freeze to death, grandmother?” asked Helen.

“Did she never return?” inquired Henry.

“You’ll both get answered when grandmother has finished her story,” said George Gray, with a shrewd look to his cousins.

“Yes, all in good time, children,” said Mrs. Gray, as she resumed. “They could not possibly find out how the Indian woman came by the child, or, for certainty, who she was; yet by her calling herself Namoina, they supposed she must be a woman who was called by her tribe cunning, and revered as a prophetess, though the white people knew that the poor creature was at times crazy; for she had seen her husband and child bleed, both in one day; the first fell and died while defending his home; the other was inhumanly murdered by wretches who deserved not the name of men! And so poor Namoina, or, as the white people called her, Rachel, went crazy.

“Mrs. Gray found, by a medal that hung round the infant’s neck, that her name was Mary Wallace; and Mary Wallace she was called. She appeared to be about a year old. She was a fine, healthy child, and soon grew nicely, and Mr. and Mrs. Gray were very fond of her; and William called her his little sister, and taught her to walk, and gave her more than half of all the nice things he had—(they did not have sugarplums and candy then, but children were better off without them, and a great deal more healthy)—and he would tell her pretty stories, and drag her in his little wagon; and he loved her dearly. She was a sweet-tempered and lovely child, and very seldom did any thing to displease her parents; and when she did she would grieve very much, and she never could be happy till she was forgiven. When she was twelve years old, there was not a fairer or lovelier child in the whole Providence Plantations, than Mary Wallace. Her eyes were bright and blue; her long, light brown hair fell in beautiful curls upon her shoulders, and her voice had such a sweet and happy tone, and her countenance such an amiable expression, that the young loved her without envy, and the old never passed her without a blessing. The lark did not rise earlier than Mary Wallace. The first thing in the morning she would be seen with a basket on her arm, tripping lightly over the grass, with her little white feet scattering the dew, and singing sweetly and merrily as the birds themselves. No one in the Plantations had not felt her kindness; she always had an arm for the aged—some little delicacy for the sick—tears for the suffering—songs and smiles for the happy—and bread, and beer, and pity, even for the poor Indian. In short, the good people of the Plantations believed, that, by a special mercy of Divine Providence, she had been sent among them. She was of great assistance to her parents. They believed that they could not do without her. In the spring she helped plant the corn and beans—weeded the vegetable beds in the garden—and, through all the warm season, she drove home the cows at night—fed the sheep and pigs—and took care of the hens, ducks, geese, and their little ones. In the summer she gathered berries and laid in herbs for winter. In autumn she helped harvest the corn—gathered the dry beans and peas, and did a great many other useful things; and in the winter she sat, for the most part, by the fireside, knitting stockings for the family, and mending her own and William’s clothes—or she read the Bible, of a long Sabbath evening, to her father and mother: she was never idle.

“Mary never knew, till she was ten years old, but that she was the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Gray. At this time her mother thought best to inform her how she had been brought to them. She was grieved, at first, and cried very hard; but she could not comprehend how it was possible that they who had watched her—nursed her—loved and supported her from earliest infancy, should not be her own father, and mother, and brother; and, instead of indulging childish curiosity respecting her real parents, she treated the whole as an unpleasant story, and strove to forget it; and, with her sweet, happy disposition, she was not long in doing this; and very soon she smiled as sweetly—and sang as merrily—and danced as gaily over the meadows, as she had done before. About this time a distressing war broke out, called ‘King Philip’s War;’ and the times were more distressing than you, my dear children, can well imagine. There is no correct history of those times; but the most considerable account you will find in Captain ‘Church’s History of Philip’s War.’ The Indians, when they took any of the white people prisoners, treated them very cruelly; and, sometimes, put them to death with great torture.”

“I’ve read all about that, and I don’t blame the Indians at all!” said George Gray, starting to his feet with much earnestness, while his eyes almost flashed fire; “what right had the white people to come here and cheat them—and rob them of their lands—and drive them from their houses? Philip was a noble fellow! If I had lived then I would have been on his side—at any rate—_I would_!!”

“And, brother,” said Ann, catching some of his warmth, “don’t you remember what our last fourth of July orator said of Philip?”

“Yes,” returned George, quickly, “these were his very words: ‘Philip, the hero of Mount Hope, though a savage, was a man—and a _noble man_—and had he lived in other times and other circumstances, he might have been a Cæsar—an Alexander—a Napoleon:—and what is saying more, and the most that can be said of any man—a Washington!’” and the boy walked the room quickly, while his burning cheek and flashing eye told that his spirit was getting too strong for his young bosom.

“We will not dispute now whether the English or the Indians were right or wrong,” said the prudent grandmother. “Doubtless they were both to blame. Well, when Mary Wallace was about ten years old, and her brother fifteen, Mr. Gray and William went to join the forces of Captain Church. Mary it was who buckled on their knapsacks and pinned their collars on the morning of their first departure. She would not have cried a single tear if she could have avoided it, because her mother was so much distressed; but it was such a dreadful thing to see them going away, and to think they might never return, that poor Mary sobbed and wept as if her heart was breaking; and when they said ‘farewell, Mary!’ her heart was so full she could not speak; and when they stepped from the threshold, poor Mary hid her face in her mother’s lap, because she could not bear to see them go. But after she had wept a while, Mrs. Gray wiped away her tears and got the Bible and bade her read; and they were comforted.

“Every morning and evening Mary Wallace knelt by her little bedside and prayed to God for the safe return of her father and brother. They came home occasionally, but for the space of two years they were gone most of the time. They met, however, with no serious accident; and Mary and her mother had much reason to be thankful.

“One pleasant day during the second summer of the war, Mary had taken her little basket, and calling Hunter, a large dog, she went to gather berries; but, not finding the fruit plenty, she wandered farther into the woods than she should have done at that dangerous time. She was very busy picking some nice large berries, which she had found in great abundance, when, presently, she thought she heard a groan; and, without waiting to think there might be danger, she swung her basket on her arm and skipped through the bushes, followed by Hunter. Very soon she saw a large Indian seated upon a flat rock and leaning against a tree behind him, with a tomahawk and a bundle of arrows laid at his side. Almost any little girl would have been frightened, and have run away crying; and, indeed, Mary Wallace herself felt that it might be wrong to approach him when she thought of her poor, lone mother; and she was just going to turn back and run home with all her might, when she saw that the poor man was pale and faint, and could not sit upright but for the tree against which he leaned. But what, in reality, could Mary have to fear? She was known to most of the tribes around, very few of whom had not, at some time or other, felt her kindness. Her little room was decorated with numerous tokens of Indian gratitude, in the shape of wampum belts and baskets, curious shells and stones, and many other things; and the Indians called her ‘the child of Sunshine’—‘the Flower’—‘the Lily,’ and many other endearing names; but mostly, ‘the Bird of Peace.’ Instead of running away, as she had at first thought to do, Mary drew near the Indian and saw that he was asleep, or had fainted from loss of blood, which was flowing fast from a large wound in his leg. The sight of blood naturally made Mary feel sick and dizzy; but, without hesitation, she took a little shawl from her neck and bound it round the limb. The dog, as soon as he smelt the blood, began to bark furiously; and this, together with the pain caused by binding the wound, aroused the Indian, who, thinking, probably, that the enemy had fallen upon him, clenched his tomahawk and uttered a fearful cry. Mary trembled an instant, as if she already felt the blow; but she saw that he was still very faint; and, taking courage, she caught his arm and said, in the Indian tongue, ‘Fear not, father, it is Mary!’ and as he looked upon her, she pointed to the limb which she had nearly bandaged. He appeared very grateful when he saw what she had done, but he was too weak and faint to say much; and he only whispered, as he placed his hand on the child’s head, ‘Welcome, daughter of Heaven!’

“Little Mary then ran home as fast as she could, and told her mother about the poor wounded man, and asked her for some food; and her mother gave her some new milk, and some beer, and bread. Mrs. Gray went out with her and carried a blanket to cover him; and she bound up the wound better than Mary could, putting on some healing balsam. They persuaded him to partake of the food; and, afterward, assisted him to a shelter under a rock, where they left him quite comfortable.

“The next day Mary asked permission to go and carry food to the sick Indian; and, calling Hunter, she took the basket her mother gave her, and went to the woods. When she arrived at the rock she found that the sick man had risen and was seated on the top of the rock; and by his side an Indian woman, who was caressing him with much affection. Little Mary had come quite near before they saw her; for she stepped very lightly; but as soon as the old man did perceive her, he said in English, ‘Behold the Bird of Peace!’ As he spoke the woman looked earnestly at Mary for several minutes, and then she cried out, ‘My lily! my blossom! my babee!’ and, springing from the rock, she caught the child in her arms and almost suffocated her with tears and caresses.

“Little Mary alarmed and strangely agitated, whispered, ‘Let me go home to my mother—do let me go home!’

“‘Thy mother!’ repeated the woman, ‘thy own mother is gone across the wide waters, far to the rising sun—and thy father,’ she pointed up to heaven, ‘it is twice five summers since thy father went to the hunting grounds of the paleface—he died—he was murdered; and so was my own little blossom—my own babe!’ Her voice was choked—she could not speak any more—her eyes grew burning and wild—her features quivered, and she shook so fearfully that Mary was frightened, and tried to get from her arms.

“‘Namoina,’ said the old man, ‘the daughter of Anawon must not be a coward.’

“This appeal had the desired effect—she dashed the few burning tears from her eyelids, and bending a moment before her father, she rose up again with a calm brow, that told not of the struggle in her heart; and, taking Mary again in her arms, she kissed her, and said a great many tender and affectionate things to her.

“‘Shall I never see my mother?’ asked the child, mournfully; ‘has she forgotten me?’

“‘Forget thee, my flower! Does the mother ever forget the child that has fed from her bosom!’ Again she was terribly distressed. After a few minutes she held the child up toward heaven and said, ‘The Great Spirit of thy fathers keep thee—and bless thee!’ then setting her down again, she resumed her former seat on the rock and began picking up the pebbles around her and counting them; but no entreaty or endearment could draw a single word or look from her.

“Mary saw Anawon partake of some of the food she had brought him, and, leaving the remainder, she took her basket and returned home for the first time in her life really unhappy; and for the first time in her life she did not open her whole heart to her mother. Mrs. Gray, however, observed that her cheek was flushed, and thought she must have taken cold; and when it was about sunset she persuaded her to go to bed. Mary was glad to be where no one could notice or disturb her feelings; so, kissing her good mother, she went to her room, and knelt down by her little bed and said her evening prayers. Very soon she heard voices; and then she knew that her father and brother had come; and just as she was going to rise from her bed and dress, for the purpose of seeing them, she heard William say that they had got on the track of old Anawon,[8] and that he believed he was not far hence, probably out toward Seekonk; and that they had better take whatever nourishment could be had and be after him directly. Mrs. Gray said nothing of the wounded Indian in the woods; and when William said he must go in and give his sister one kiss, she said, ‘Do not go to-night, my son, for the child has a bad cold and I am really afraid she will take the fever; and if she knows you are come she will not sleep another wink to-night for joy.’

“At any other time, indeed, Mary would have been overjoyed to see them—but now she was thinking only of the poor Indian, and that he might be killed; and, in her distress, she could not help thinking that men were very cruel and very wicked to wish to murder each other. After bearing her anxiety of mind as long as she could, she resolved to go herself, if she could steal from the house unperceived, and warn the Indian of his danger.

“‘That was right!’ exclaimed both the boys at once.

“That was right!” echoed Ann.

“I wish I could have seen that girl!” said George Gray.

“I think we have some good girls among us,” said Henry Jackson, with a kind look at his cousin Ann.

“True,” said the grandmother, who noticed and applauded that look, “very true; though few persons may be so situated as to perform _brilliant_ actions, yet _all_ may have opportunity to do many _good_ ones. We cannot tell what _might be done_ by what _is done_; but we must believe that a truly generous and virtuous heart will act nobly in _all_ situations.

“But to return to Mary. She rose and dressed herself very quickly; and wrapping a little blanket about her, she fell on her knees a moment, and prayed God to keep her from all harm, and to forgive her for leaving the house without her parents’ knowledge; for Mary was a very obedient and faithful child; and this was the first time she had ever done any important thing without the consent and approbation of her parents. She opened a door which led from her little room into a narrow entry, and passed, without observation, into the open air. The moon was nearly at the full. Heavy and rich masses of clouds were continually floating over its surface, and, sometimes, almost obscuring its light; but then they would pass away, and the moon would shine out brighter than before; and the waters of the river flashed like diamonds; and all the leaves of the wilderness, as they waved in the stirring wind, shone as if they had been dipped in molten silver. Mary clapped her little hands and forgot to be afraid, for her spirit was worshipping that God who maketh night so very glorious.

“And now let me tell you, my children, a good child never need be afraid in the darkness more than in the open day; for, as the Scriptures say, ‘He knoweth all the lambs of his fold;’ and again, ‘A sparrow falleth not to the ground without his knowledge.’

“The way was familiar to Mary, and soon she came to the rock where she had left Anawon. When her steps were heard, the old chief started to his feet and uttered a low cry, and, directly, several Indians stood by his side. Mary was not afraid, even then; for though the Indians were the enemies of her nation and her kindred, they were not her enemies—they were her friends: for there was hardly one among them who had not, at some time or other, felt the kindness of the sweet child. So she walked directly into the midst, fearless of the tomahawks that were lifted at her approach, and holding up her little hand to Anawon, said, in her low, sweet voice, ‘Father—fly—thy enemy is at hand!’

“The old Indian seemed, at first, almost choked with emotion; for he well knew that his enemies were the friends of Mary; and laying his hand on the child’s head as she bent before him, he only said, ‘The God of the white man and the Great Spirit of the Indian be with thee!’ and his followers, who, from the moment she was known, had fallen back from the centre of the rock, as they leaned upon their bows and looked upon the child, repeated, at once, a word in the Indian tongue, which was as much as to say, ‘Amen.’

“Then Anawon unbound a wampum bracelet from his arm, and giving it to Mary, said, ‘Daughter! in the hour of sorrow bring this to Anawon; and ask what thou wilt, and it shall not be denied thee!’

“Then Namoina (whom we will henceforth call Rachel) took the child in her arms and kissed her, and wrapped her little blanket about her; and Mary ran swiftly toward home. She reached her room in safety, and soon she fell asleep, for she was very tired. Soon after this Mrs. Gray came into the room, and saw that Mary was asleep, and that her pillow was wet with tears; she could not think what had caused them, for she had never known Mary to be very unhappy. Just at this moment William came in on tiptoe; and, as he bent down to kiss his sister’s cheek, he saw the bracelet, which had fallen to the floor, and examining it by the light of the moon, he thought he had seen it before; and taking it to his father, Mr. Gray said that he remembered it very well, for he had seen it on the arm of Anawon.

“‘I will wake Mary instantly,’ said William, ‘and perhaps she can tell us where he is; and we will have the cunning old savage before morning!’

“‘Thou art much too hasty,’ said Mr. Gray, laying a hand on his son’s arm; ‘this token was given to thy sister in peace and love. Thou knowest boy,’ he continued, with difficulty restraining his son, ‘thou knowest the child’s heart would be broken, if she were obliged, in any way, to be made an instrument of evil. Alas!’ he added, giving way to the natural tenderness of his heart, ‘alas! that we are compelled, by cruel necessity, to slay, ay, murder each other!’ and Simon Gray folded his dark, bony hands upon his breast and was silent.

“Observing the boy still unsatisfied, he said, ‘Go to thy rest, my son; the Lord in his own good time will do the work. At all events, if I can prevent it, blood shall never fall upon the head of Mary.’

“The next morning by dawn of day, father and son departed. Mary was not awake, for she had been so tired that she slept very soundly; and William was just allowed to kiss her cheek _very_ softly, and deposite by her side some little baskets of willow; and he then embraced his weeping mother and hastened to join his father, who already stood by the gate waiting for him.

“When Mary awoke, she was so much disappointed because they were gone, that she could hardly keep from crying; but she saw that her mother was striving to be cheerful, so she wiped the few tears that fell upon her cheek, and folding her arms round her neck, she whispered softly, ‘Let us pray to God, mother, and he will comfort us.’ And they both knelt down and prayed, and when they rose up they were quite calm; for God never withholds a blessing from those who seek in humility of soul, and never withdraws his countenance from those who trust in him. And now, my children, I beg you to remember, whatever may be your trials and distresses, always to put your trust in God, and nothing will have power to harm you; but do not think, my children, that you must wait till distresses _come_—seek the love of God in the day of joy—and in the hour of sorrow he will not be far off.

“But to return to my story. Two months had passed away and Mr. Gray and William had not returned, though Mrs. Gray had heard from them occasionally.