University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.

After reflecting a good deal upon the subject, my
dear children, I have come to the conclusion, that, if
I interweave with the history, which I have promised
to you, some account of myself and Archibald, of
whom you have heard me relate so many things that
made your nerves shiver, as with electricity, when you
were mere boys, it will do much toward perpetuating
the history of our family, and keeping your attention
alive to the order of events.

And that, at the end of another generation, my posterity
may not have to inquire, who and what were
their ancestors, I will begin my narrative, with a
rapid sketch of our family, so far as there are now any
traces of them left. I find a tradition among us that
we are of Scotch extraction; and, by looking into the
records of our oldest colony, as Plymouth, you will
find a constant reference to the name of Oadley, as to
one of influence and authority. My grandfather, I
know, was born in a part of New England, since
called the New Hampshire Grants, and, yet more
recently, composing a part of the newly made State of
Vermont:—and I have heard my father relate several
anecdotes of his warlike and adventurous character.
It was he that headed the party against King Philip,
as he was called, the Indian of Mount Hope, the season
before his death, and he was the very man that grappled
with him, in the midst of his young men, who had

decoyed the party into an ambush,—thereby, as you
will remember, holding Philip as a hostage, even in
the centre of his wigwam, till he was compelled to
forgo the whole profit of his adventure.... and he
it was, who threw up his commission, before the Plymouth
fathers, and broke his sword, and swore by the
Everlasting God that he would never draw another,
after the shameful treachery that had been practiced
upon that wary, but high hearted Indian, at the time
of his assassination. Nor did he, till his dying day.
I can but just recollect him. He was a very erect,
stately, stern old man, of few words, and remarkable
stature. This is all that I can recollect of him, except
that he used to talk to the militia of the day, as if they
were children, and relate, with a distinctness that made
my young heart swell violently, many an inroad of the
Indians.

My father, as most of you well remember, was a
pacifick, mild, kind hearted man; and if I add to this,
that, after he removed from Providence Plantations to
the Jerseys, he never saw blood drawn, till the flame
of the revolution had broken out, you will then know
about all that any man knows of his early life. Till
within the last ten years of his life, there was the
same plain, unpretending, substantial good sense in
all that he did; and during many years that we
lived together, I do not remember that I ever saw him
in a passion but twice or three times; and the first
left such an impression on my mind, that I will relate
it—it was on seeing my good mother, in the pride of
her beauty, equipped in a new calico gown, flowered
all over with yellow and blue roses, about the size of
cabbages,—after the new importation confederacy had
been adopted.—The affair had been managed secretly,
and my mother might have passed it all off, without
the loss of her finery, or the rebuke that she received,
had she been able to suppress, a little more, her natural
spirit for display; but unfortunately, she could
not, and she had passed, and repassed, before my
father, during the first day, so frequently, in her

flaming ruffles and furbelows, that human patience
could endure it no longer—“Peggy,” said my father
—“what is the meaning of this?” She smiled, coloured,
bridled a little, and turned about, so as to exhibit
all the proportions of her finely turned waist—before
she answered.

I was but a little fellow, scarcely old enough to
speak my own name, so as to be understood; but my
father's anger so frightened me, it being the first explosion,
that I could not think of it, for sometime afterward,
without looking behind me, and holding my
breath.

My mother was the “lady” of the neighbourhood,
and but for one other lady, would have been the happiest
of human creatures.

“O, my dear;” said she, coaxingly—“only a little
“spec of mine; I was going to drink tea, with our
“neighbour Arnauld, and I thought—

“Drink tea!”—said my father, shutting his bible,
with a clap that made me start—and standing erect—
You remember his height—few men carried such a
front with them, and of all our blood, he was the
tallest, I believe.—“Drink tea, Peggy—Do you not
“know, child, that tea is one of the prohibited
“things?”

My father alluded to the confederacy that had just
been entered into, by all the substantial men of the
country, some in shame, some in terrour, and some from
downright honesty and virtue, not to purchase or consume
any article whatever, supplied by the mother
country to the colonies; and tea was one of the enumerated
articles.

My mother turned pale, I remember, but continued
for a moment or two, to defend the visit and tea drinking
stoutly—but my father was immoveable.

“Woman!” said he, putting his large hand kindly,
but authoritively, upon her shoulder—“while you are
“my wife, not one cup of tea shall pass your lips—
“unless the confederacy be abandoned—And if your
“neighbour—”

This neighbour, by the way, lived eight miles off, at
the end of an almost inaccessible wood, and was the
lady rival of my mother.—

—“be weak and wicked enough to treat her visiters,
“in the present state of her country, with tea, you
“shall never, with my leave, set your foot within her
“doors again.”—

“High times indeed!” said my mother, bouncing
away from his hand, (she was the younger, by at least
twelve years; and that gave her an advantage, not to
be overlooked by a handsome and adroit woman)
“High times indeed! Jonathan Oadley” (his name too,
was Jonathan, as you will recollect)—“when a body
“cannot be allowed to take a drop of tea for
“medicine”—

“A drop of hell fire!” cried my father, stamping
with wrath—“A woman of America! the wife of Jo
“nathan Oadley—whose husband has signed a paper
“with his own blood” (a literal fact, my children, for,
in the feeling of the time, no solemnity, and I might
say, no superstition was spared) “calling down the
“anger of God upon his house, and his wife, and child
“ren, if he kept it not—shall she be the first to
“laugh his obligation to scorn—give his household to
“destruction, and her husband's name to dishonour.
“—O, for shame!”—

I am sure, even now, that, had my father been less
violent, by a little, than he was, there would have
been no trouble in the affair; but my mother was a
high spirited woman, remarkably well bred for the
time, and had married him, in the face and eyes of
all her family—

“Ye—ye—yes,” said she sobbing—“just what I
“expected. I was always t—t—told so—I—”

“That I was a tyrant?” said my father gently—
“no Peggy, no—I am no tyrant—but much, as I love
“you, and that boy yonder, I would rather lose
“you both, rather see you taking a mortal poison,
“both of you, than a cup of this accursed tea:—but
“what is this—what is the meaning of this?” (taking

hold, of the long ruffle, or flounce, at the elbow of her
glittering calico)—“new—is it—Peggy!—

My mother held down her head, whether in shame
and mortification, or in sullenness, I know not—but
there was an awful stillness for a minute or two,—and
then my father went up to her, and took her in his
arms and kissed her—I declare to you my children,
like some high priest, about to offer up a living creatures
that he loved, in sacrifice.—

He was very pale, and, after uttering a few words,
my mother began, very reluctantly, to unfasten her girdle.—My
notion was from my own experience in such
matters and the sternness of his countenance, and the
terrour and shame in her's, that he was going to beat
her, and I began to cry lustily; but they gave no heed
to my bawling, and I never stopped, even to get my
breath, till I had seen the beautiful calico gown, torn
into five hundred pieces, and burnt in the fire—my
mother clad anew, in a dark brown cotton of her own
weaving, and my father sitting by her, with his arm
round her waist, and her head leaning upon his shoulder,
full of affection and duty.—

Thus much for my father's temper: it will give you
some notion of his general deportment, when I tell
you that I never saw him transported so far on any
other occasion, for more than twenty years.

Nothing else, I am persuaded, could have disturbed
him, like this wavering of allegiance in his wife. He
loved her ardently—truly—but he loved her like a man.
And as he never warmed but on one theme—till the
cry for independence, rang like a trumpet throughout
the mountains—and that was, whenever the character
of her father, the man of war, was named, I have had
no better opportunity of seeing his nature than you,
yourselves, have had, till within a few years of his
death.

My infancy, boyhood, and manhood too, I might
say, were spent, much as they are with most of the
world, who are born apart from all but a few sober,
plain dealing country neighbours;—for I was nearly

twenty-two, and probably the stoutest fellow of my
age in the whole country; and Archibald, a poor
weakly creature, about twenty, when the war of the
revolution broke out, and gave to our characters, and
that of my father, a strange, unexpected power, revealing
many deeply hidden properties, that might have
been, and no doubt, would have been buried for ever,
but for the events that I am now about to relate.

We were very happy; and though we heard of the
war, and the numerous temptations of bounty and
equipment, and advance, even at our own doors, from
the continental recruiting officers that came among
us, yet nobody, from our neighbourhood, seemed to regard
it as a possible thing, for one of us, to go really
and truly into battle. We read of such things, and
talked of them; but, some how or other, it never entered
our head, that they who did such feats as we were told
of, were flesh and blood, like ourselves, raw countrymen
who would turn pale, in the beginning of a
campaign, at the sight of blood; and stand up, before
it had finished, like a veteran, before the roar of artillery,
and rattling of bullets, and the sure approach
of the bayonet.—

None of our neighbours had actually gone into service,
though several had threatened violently, just
before the affair of Long Island, and the abandonment
of Fort Lee and Washington; but when they happened,
one after the other, with some other disasters, in such
rapid succession, it is too true my children, that the
stout hearted among us began to look about for darkness
to cover them. Sir Henry Clinton was now in
New York; our army had dwindled down to a few
miserable battalions, with no cavalry; and Cornwallis
was mustering in the rear of poor Washington, who
really began to totter, even in the estimation of my
father.

We were about fourteen miles from the high road,
over which our countrymen were afterwards hunted by
Sir William Howe; and already we had heard “the
drum beat at dead of night,” and seen, away on the

verge of the horizon, the red light of farm houses, set
fire to, by the royal banditti: and once I remember,
when my cousin Arthur, a fine, free spirited fellow, and
Archibald and I, were out upon a high hill, late in the
afternoon, we heard a heavy cannonading in the east,
and were soon after told that there had been a bloody
affair, with some of the outposts, that Sir Henry
Clinton had established to protect his foraging parties.

In the evening as we sat together, in a mournful
silence, Arthur, at last, with a deep sigh, turning to
my father, asked him what he thought of the matter?—

The old man shook his head: and his large bony
hands, as they lay on the table before him, were raised,
for a moment, with a convulsive pressure,—and then
he shook his head again.

“A dreary winter, father;” said I,—“and the farmers
complain bitterly of the depredations committed
by their own countrymen.”—

There was another deep silence, of some minutes,
when the old man groaned aloud, as if his heart were
in travail—

Archibald arose, and went to him, and put his
hand upon his shoulder, in that silent, strange way,
which was so natural to him, even when a boy, and
lifting his deep blue eyes, with a melancholy look of
determination, said—

“Surely, sir, you do not complain of these things?”
“no Archy,” replied my father, putting his arm round
his waist, “no my boy, I do not complain that my
“cattle are driven away from me, to feed the poor fel
“lows in camp; for I know that Washington has no
“other way of feeding them, particularly since the
“removal of Commissary Trumbull,—but I do com
“plain when I see my cattle slaughtered and hewed to
“pieces, in my barn yard, and left there, weltering
“in their blood, by the savages that are detached from
“our Army!”

`Father!'—said Archibald, retreating two or three
paces, folding his arms, and looking him in the face,
as if he thought that he had not heard him aright—

“I know what you are thinking, Archibald,” said
my father: “and I cannot blame you. You have not
forgotten my words, when the Declaration of Independence
was read to us—have you?”

“No Sir!” said my brother, his pale face growing
still paler, and his slender form shivering with the
depth and excess of some inward and unknown feeling
—and then added, in a manner that awed me, as much
as if a dumb creature had suddenly found his tongue—
for such had been the melancholy, deep and solemn
abstraction of his nature, from the age of about eighteen,
that we had learnt never to attempt any conversation
with him, leaving him alone and unmolested to
his thought, as a poor distempered creature, whom it
was a pity to worry in his humours:—and now, when
he broke out upon us, much after the following fashion,
our amazement held us speechless; and that of my
father was dashed with a feeling of shame, that even I
could see, for the red blood shot over his temples, and
up through his bald forehead, showing that he felt the
rebuke of Archibald—even to his old heart.

“No Sir! I have not forgotten it;” said my brother,
standing motionless before him—“And I did believe
that not one of this house would ever forget it. But
now!—now in the time of his tribulation, when all
that is dearest to us, our home and Country, is about
to be laid waste with fire and sword,—they that have
sworn to stand by George Washington, though Heaven
itself rained fire upon their heads—(your own words
Sir)—are the first to abandon him—withhold their succour—drive
off their cattle to the woods—bury their
provisions—and refuse the currency of the country—
nay more!—the first, to quail at the sound of cannon—
the first to lay their hands upon their own children,
and say, you shall not fight the battles of your country.”
—He faltered, as he concluded, and when he had
done, and the echo of his own words came back loudly
to him from the ceiling, he started—and looked about
him, with a troubled air, for a moment, and then put
his thin hands to his forehead and buried them slowly

in his rich brown hair, as if astonished at the sound
of his own voice.

Nor were we less so—my cousin Arthur and I exchanged
two or three glances, and the fire streamed
from his black eyes, as he ran up to Archibald, and
seized him by both his hands, and shook them, for a
whole minute, as if he would shake them off, trying two
or three times, but in vain, to speak—and at last
turning away, and wiping his eyes—without uttering
a word.—

“Archibald,” said my father, rising majestically,
and coming forward to meet him, “it is hard to abide
the upbraiding of a child, our own child, our youngest
born”—

Archibald's head drooped, and the red heat went all
over it—like the light of a furnace.

—“Yet it is harder,” continued my father, “to
bear that of our own heart”—(laying both of his hands,
emphatically, upon his left breast, as he spoke)—“what
would you have me do?”

It was a whole minute before Archibald replied, and
his chin worked up and down, all the while of his
preparation, and a mortal lividness overspread his
face, while his long, dark eyelashes gave an animated
sadness and shadow to his beautiful eyes—and when he
did reply, it was, by lifting his head, slowly, to our
father's, planting his foot, and compressing his folded
arms upon his chest, as if to keep down a rebellion
there—

“Shall I speak the truth?” said he; “assuredly”
answered my father, while Arthur pressed up to me,
and whispered,—“what possesses the creature?—is
that Archibald—the weak, peevish boy?”—I shook my
head; I knew not what to think of it.

“Well then,” continued Archibald, in a voice that
was just audible? `You ask me what I would have you
do? I answer thus. Sell all that you have. Give all
that you have to your country. Shoulder your knapsack,
put another upon John, (he always called me
John), and another upon me; let each of us take his

course through the country, and collect as many as he
can, of the stout yeomanry—and then go before George
Washington, and tell him to be of good cheer, for,
come what will, we, at least, will abide with him to
the death.”

My father shook his head, but embraced Archibald,
and kissed his white forehead a dozen times at least,
before he answered.

“I am proud of your spirit, Archy,” said he—“but
I cannot say much for your wisdom. What!—in
the darkest time of our trial, when the bravest of all
the land are hiding themselves in dismay, shall I be
the first to let out my whole blood, at once, in desperation!”

“Yes—Yes!—now is the time!—father—now!
even now!” cried Archibald, pressing upon him.
“One such example would electrify the country! What!
would you stand by, and see our little army beaten,
man by man, and wait for a miraculous interposition
of Heaven, for their relief? No! my father! give but
the signal—here are four of us already, and before tomorrow
night, I will put my head upon the issue, that
I carry forty more with me, on the way to Washington's
camp. Do this—and before the winter is gone,
he will have turned upon his enemy, and beaten him
back into his hiding places—what say you, shall we
buckle on our blankets?”

As he said this, he took down an old rifle that lay
athwart the smoked pannel work, over the fire place,
and leant upon it, with a face all on fire—but my
father put out his spirit immediately, with a smile, as
he said—

“No, my boy, Washington would hardly thank me
for an army of such striplings.”

Archibald bit his lip.

“Three of us” said he, “are stout men—you, and
John, and Arthur—and—”

“Arthur may do as he pleases;” said my father,
“and as for John—from this moment, he hath my consent
to shoulder his musquet—”

“And join the army!” shouted Archibald, leaping
from the floor—“O, do let me go with him—I—I—I
am not very strong, but I can—”

“No, Archibald, I cannot part with you. Your
constitution is too delicate.”

“The best way to harden it, father,” said he—
“Your temper too unsocial and passionate—”

“The best way to cure that—”

“Silence!—I will not hear another word upon the
subject. John may depart whenever he pleases, and,
if Arthur will go, he may have his choice of the horses,
and I will furnish both, as well as money can do
it, with equipments—but as for you, I will not part
with you. They are strong handsome fellows, and
will work their way through the battle, I'll warrant
them, but as for you, the first thing that I should hear
of you, would be, that you had been run away with
by your own horse, or trodden to death in the onset—
no—You shall be a minister, Archibald—a minister of
the Gospel.”

Archibald looked at him, a moment, as if—I hardly
dare to say what, for he was the most affectionate creature
in the world, and till that hour, I had never heard
him speak a loud word in the presence of my father—
he had always set apart by himself, musing all the
day long, over some history, or drawing:—but it did
appear to me that, all at once, his soul felt new
strength, and that, before the sound of my father's voice
had died away, declaring that he should be a minister of
the gospel—he had determined to be torn in pieces,
first, by wild horses—but he bowed his head reverentially,
to my father, (who left us for awhile,) and went
into the darkest corner of the room;—where he stood
for a whole hour, without opening his lips.

“Well Jonathan,” said my father, returning—“what
say you—when will you go?”

I felt my heart stop—partly with shame, and partly
with fear—till he repeated the question, and I saw
Archibald's eyes flashing, impatiently, for my answer—

“whenever you please, Sir,” said I—though I would
have given the world to be out of the affair.

“Tomorrow then,” said Arthur “rubbing his hands.
The sorrel mare for me—Hobson's choice for you—
and the next morning at day light, hourra for the
camp!”—

I have determined not to disguise one feeling of my
heart, nor one thought of fear, my children; for I
would have you know me thoroughly; and, therefore, I
must own to you that I wondered at the enthusiasm of
Arthur, and would have given my right hand, that
the proposition had not been made: but I was ashamed
to appear less of a man than Arthur, who was a whole
year younger, and therefore, I answered stoutly,
“Tomorrow be it then”—

My father embraced me, and there was a look of
encouragement in the face of my brother, that made
me run up to him; when he caught my hand, and
wrung it with all his might, while the tears rushed
into his eyes—and he said, “O brother, would God
that I were as strong and handsome as you.”

Arthur arose to go.

“No, my lad,” said my father, “you will take a
bed with me to-night, and tomorrow, go round to
your acquaintances, with Arthur and Archy---they
shall both go with you---and bid them good bye---I
will take care, to represent the matter rightly to your
uncle. It is really time, that we did something. I am
ashamed of myself. Our cause must perish, if all
abandon it, as I have done. No, I will mount and
ride, tomorrow, through all the neighbourhood, and
never rest, till I have stirred up some of our substantial
men---for they are the most backward, after all---
they have nothing to gain, and much to lose---and they,
like me, have been lying by, to see the sun break out,
before they go abroad. No!---it shall not be so another
day. I will go to them myself, and if that doesn't
work upon them, I will let the minister loose---ha!
Archy, what say you---silent?---well, well, I like your
contemplative spirit---so fond of study.”

I heard something fall, and turning to where he
stood, saw that the book, which he had been holding, had
fallen from his hand, but he did not appear to observe
it.

“No!” continued my father, “we must be ready
to begin the next campaign, with spirit, or the devil
will be to pay—one bold, manly effort, and we shall
down with our invader to the dust—tomorrow, I
will throw open my barn, and stable, and corn houses,
and let the first foraging party, that will, empty them
all—and set fire to the ruins. I will never complain
more!—what say you Archy?—will that do!—come,
come, cheer up—you shall stay by your old father and
mother, and comfort them, while Jonathan is cutting
and slashing at the enemy—so, hourra for independence!”

“Hourra! hourra!” shouted Arthur, swinging the
old rifle round his head—“hourra for independence!”

My voice followed his, but so faintly, that it sounded
like an echo, only—while Archibald merely locked
his hands, and uplifted them, to heaven—much to the
delight of the old gentleman, who winked at us, and
smiled, as if it were some timely revelation from above
---“yes! yes!---said he---he was made for a minister.”