 | Sam Lawson's Oldtown fireside stories |  |
COLONEL EPH'S SHOE-BUCKLES.
YES, this 'ere's Tekawampait's grave,”
said Sam Lawson, sitting leisurely
down on an ancient grass-grown
mound, ornamented by a mossy black
slate-stone slab, with a rudely-carved
cherub head and wings on top.
“And who was Tekawampait?”
“I wanter know, now, if your granny hain't told
you who Tekawampait was?” said Sam, pushing
back his torn straw hat, and leaning against the old
slanting gravestone.
“No, she never told us.”
“Wal, ye see, Tekawampait he was the fust Christian
Indian minister o' the gospel there was in Oldtown.
He was a full-blooded Indian, but he was as
settled here over the church in Oldtown afore Parson
Peabody; and Parson Peabody he come afore
Parson Lothrop; and a very good minister Tekawampait
was too. Folks hes said that there couldn't
nothin' be made o' Indians; that they was nothin'
but sort o' bears and tigers a walkin' round on their
hind legs, a seekin' whom they might devour; but
Parson Eliot he didn't think so. `Christ died for
them as wal as for me,' says he; `and jest give 'em
the gospel,' says he, `and the rest'll come along o'
itself.' And so he come here to Oldtown, and sot
up a sort o' log-hut right on the spot where the old
Cap'n Brown house is now. Them two great elm-trees
that's a grown now each side o' the front gate
was two little switches then, that two Indians brought
up over their shoulders, and planted there for friendship
trees, as they called 'em; and now look what
trees they be! He used to stand under that 'are big
oak there, and preach to the Indians, long before
there was any meetin'-house to speak in here in
Oldtown.
“Wal, now, I tell you, it took putty good courage
days it took putty consid'able faith to see any thing
in an Indian but jest a wild beast. Folks can't tell
by seein' on 'em now days what they was in the old
times when all the settlements was new, and the Indians
was stark, starin' wild, a ravin' and tarin' round
in the woods, and a fightin' each other and a fightin'
the white folks. Lordy massy! the stories I've heard
women tell in their chimbley-corners about the
things that used to happen when they was little was
enough to scare the very life out o' ye.”
“Oh, do, do tell us some of them!” said Henry
and I.
“Lordy massy, boys: why, ye wouldn't sleep for a
week. Why, ye don't know. Why, the Indians in
them days wa'n't like no critter ye ever did see.
They was jest the horridest, paintedest, screechin'est,
cussedest critters you ever heard on. They was jest
as artful as sarpents, and crueller than any tigers.
Good Dr. Cotton Mather calls 'em divils, and he was
a meek, good man, Dr. Cotton was; but they cut up
so in his days, it's no wonder he thought they was
divils, and not folks. Why, they kep' the whole
knowed when they was safe; for they were so sly and
cunnin', and always watchin' behind fences and
bushes, and ready when a body was a least thinkin'
on't to be down on 'em. I've heard Abiel Jones tell
how his father's house was burnt down at the
time the Indians burnt Deerfield. About every house
in the settlement was burnt to the ground; and
then another time they burnt thirty-two houses in
Springfield, — the minister's house and all, with all
his library (and books was sca'ce in them days);
but the Indians made a clean sweep on't. They
burnt all the houses in Wendham down to the
ground; and they came down in Lancaster, and
burnt ever so many houses, and carried off forty or
fifty people with 'em into the woods.
“There was Mr. Rolandson, the minister, they
burnt his house, and carried off Mis' Rolandson and
all the children. There was Jerushy Pierce used
to work in his family and do washin' and chores,
she's told me about it. Jerushy she was away to
her uncle's that night, so she wa'n't took. Ye see,
the Lancaster folks had been afeard the Indians'd
gone on to Boston to get help for 'em; and when
he come back the mischief was all done. Jerushy
said in all her life she never see nothin' so pitiful
as that 'are poor man's face when she met him, jest
as he come to the place where the house stood. At
fust he didn't say a word, she said, but he looked
kind o' dazed. Then he sort o' put his hand to
his forehead, and says he, `My God, my God, help
me!' Then he tried to ask her about it, but he
couldn't but jest speak. `Jerushy,' says he, `can't
you tell me, — where be they?' `Wal,' says Jerushy,
`they've been carried off.' And with that
he fell right down and moaned and groaned. `Oh!'
says he, `I'd rather heard that they were at peace
with the Lord.' And then he'd wring his hands:
`What shall I do? What shall I do?'
“Wal, 'twa'n't long after this that the Indians was
down on Medford, and burnt half the houses in town,
and killed fifty or sixty people there. Then they
came down on Northampton, but got driv' back; but
then they burnt up five houses, and killed four or
five of the folks afore they got the better of 'em
meetin'-house and all; and the pisen critters they
hollared and triumphed over the people, and called out
to 'em, `What will you do for a house to pray in
now? we've burnt your meetin'-house.' The fightin'
was goin' on all over the country at the same time.
The Indians set Marlborough afire, and it was all
blazin' at once, the same day that some others of 'em
was down on Springfield, and the same day Cap'n
Pierce, with forty-nine white men and twenty-six
Christian Indians, got drawn into an ambush, and
every one of 'em killed. Then a few days after this
they burnt forty houses at Rehoboth, and a little
while after they burnt thirty more at Providence.
And then when good Cap'n Wadsworth went with
seventy men to help the people in Sudbury, the
Indians came pourin' round 'em in the woods like so
many wolves, and killed all but four or five on 'em;
and those poor fellows had better hev been killed,
for the cruel critters jest tormented 'em to death, and
mocked and jeered at their screeches and screams like
so many divils. Then they went and broke loose on
Andover; and they was so cruel they couldn't even
tongues of oxen and cows, and left 'em bleedin', and
some they fastened up in barns and burnt alive.
There wa'n't no sort o' diviltry they wa'n't up to.
Why, it got to be so in them days that folks couldn't
go to bed in peace without startin' every time they
turned over for fear o' the Indians. Ef they heard
a noise in the night, or ef the wind squealed and
howled, as the wind will, they'd think sure enough
there was that horried yell a comin' down chimbley.
“There was Delily Severence; she says to me,
speakin' about them times, says she, `Why, Mr. Lawson,
you've no idee! Why, that 'are screech,' says
she, `wa'n't like no other noise in heaven above, or
earth beneath, or water under the earth,' says she.
`When it started ye out o' bed between two or three
o'clock in the mornin', and all your children a cryin',
and the Indians a screechin' and yellin' and a tossin'
up firebrands, fust at one window and then at another,
why,' says she, `Mr. Lawson, it was more like hell
upon earth than any thing I ever heard on.'
“Ye see, they come down on Delily's house when
she was but jest up arter her third baby. That 'are
black as a crow's wing; and it turned jest as white
as a table-cloth, with nothin' but the fright o' that
night.”
“What did they do with her?”
“Oh! they took her and her poor little gal and boy,
that wa'n't no older than you be, and went off with
'em to Canada. The troubles them poor critters
went through! Her husband he was away that night;
and well he was, else they'd a tied him to a tree and
stuck pine slivers into him and sot 'em afire, and cut
gret pieces out 'o his flesh, and filled the places with
hot coals and ashes, and all sich kind o' things they
did to them men prisoners, when they catched 'em.
Delily was thankful enough he was away; but they
took her and the children off through the ice and
snow, jest half clothed and shiverin'; and when her
baby cried and worried, as it nat'rally would, the old
Indian jest took it by its heels, and dashed its brains
out agin a tree, and threw it into the crotch of a tree,
and left it dangling there; and then they would mock
and laugh at her, and mimic her baby's crying, and
try every way they could to aggravate her. They
her eyes, and pull their hair out, and make believe
that they was goin' to burn 'em alive, jest for nothin'
but to frighten and worry her.”
“I wonder,” said I, “she ever got back alive.”
“Wal, the wimmen in them times hed a sight o'
wear in 'em. They was resolute, strong, hardworkin'
wimmen. They could all tackle a hoss, or load
and fire a gun. They was brought up hard, and they
was used to troubles and dangers. It's jest as folks
gets used to things how they takes 'em. In them
days folks was brought up to spect trouble; they
didn't look for no less. Why, in them days the men
allers took their guns into the field when they went
to hoe corn, and took their guns with 'em to meetin'
Sundays; and the wimmen they kep' a gun loaded
where they knew where to find it; and when trouble
come it was jest what they spected, and they was put
even with it. That's the sort o' wimmen they was.
Wal, Delily and her children was brought safe
through at last, but they hed a hard time on't.”
“Tell us some more stories about Indians, Sam,”
we said, with the usual hungry impatience of boys for
a story.
“Wal, let me see,” said Sam, with his hat pushed
back and his eyes fixed dreamily on the top of Eliot's
oak, which was now yellow with the sunset glory, —
“let me see. I hain't never told ye about Col. Eph
Miller, hev I?”
“No, indeed. What about him?”
“Wal, he was took prisoner by the Indians; and
they was goin' to roast him alive arter their fashion,
and he gin 'em the slip.”
“Do tell us all about it.”
“Wal, you see, Deliverance Scranton over to Sherburne,
she's Col. Eph's daughter; and she used to
hear her father tell about that, and she's told me
time and agin about it. It was this way, —
“You see, there hedn't ben no alarm about Indians
for some time, and folks hed got to feelin' kind o' easy,
as folks will. When there don't nothin' happen for
a good while, and it keeps a goin' on so, why, you
think finally there won't nothin' happen; and so it
was with Col. Eph and his wife. She told Deliverance
that the day before she reely hed forgot
all about that there was any Indians in the country;
and she'd been out after spruce and wintergreen and
beer; and the child'n they brought in lots o' wild
grapes that they gathered out in the woods; and
they said when they came home that they thought
they see an Indian a lyin' all along squirmin' through
the bushes, and peekin' out at 'em like a snake, but
they wa'n't quite sure. Faith, the oldest gal, she
was sure she see him quite plain; but 'Bijah (he was
Col. Eph's oldest boy) he wa'n't so sure.
“Anyway, they didn't think no more about it;
and that night they hed prayers and went off to
bed.
“Arterwards, Col. Eph he said he remembered
the passage o' Scriptur' he read that night; it was,
`The race is not to the swift nor the battle to the
strong.' He didn't notice it much when he read it;
but he allers spoke of it arterwards as a remarkable
providence that that 'are passage should have come
jest so that night.
“Wal, atween twelve and one o'clock they was
waked up by the most awful screechin' that ever you
heard, as if twenty thousand devils was upon 'em.
Mis' Miller she was out o' bed in a minit, all standin'.
says she; and sure enough they was. The children,
'Bijah and Faith come a runnin' in. `O father,
father! what shall we do?'
“Col. Eph was a man that allers knew in a minit
what to do, and he kep' quite cool. `My dear,' says
he to his wife, `you take the children, and jest run
with 'em right out the buttery-door through the high
corn, and run as fast as you can over to your father
Stebbins', and tell him to rouse the town; and Bije,'
says he to the boy, `you jest get into the belfry window,
and ring the bell with all your might,' says he.
`And I'll stay and fight 'em off till the folks come.'
“All this while the Indians was a yellin' and
screechin' and a wavin' fire-brands front of the
house. Col. Eph he stood a lookin' through a hole in
the shutter and a sightin' his gun while he was a
talkin'. He see that they'd been a pilin' up a great
pile o' dry wood agin the door. But the fust Indian
that came up to put fire to't was shot right down
while he was a speakin'.
“Wal, Mis' Miller and Faith and Bije wa'n't long
a dressin', you may believe; and they jest put on
the buttery-door! There was thick pole-beans quite
up to the buttery-door, and then a field o' high corn,
so that they was hid, and the way they run wasn't
slow, I tell you.
“But Col. Eph he hed to stop so to load that they
got the pile o' brush afire, though he shot down
three or four on 'em, and that was some comfort.
But the long and the short o' the matter was, that
they driv the door in at last, and came a whoopin'
and yellin' into the house.
“Wal, they took Col. Eph, and then went searchin'
round to find somebody else; but jest then the
meetin'-house bell begun to ring, and that scart 'em,
and they took Col. Eph and made off with him. He
hedn't but jest time to get into his clothes and get
his shoes on, when they hurried him off. They
didn't do nothin' to him jest then, you see, these
Indians was so cur'ous. If a man made a good
fight, and killed three or four on 'em afore they could
take him, they sot great store by him, and called
him a brave man. And so they was 'mazin' careful
of Col. Eph, and treated him quite polite for Indians;
what it was all for. They wanted a real brave man
to burn alive and stick slivers into and torment, and
Col. Eph was jest the pattern for 'em, and his fightin'
so brave made him all the better for what they
wanted.
“Wal, he was in hopes the town would be roused
in time for some of 'em to come arter him; but the
Indians got the start of 'em, and got 'way off in the
woods afore people hed fairly come together and
found out what the matter was. There was Col.
Eph's house a blazin' and a lightin' up all the country
for miles round; and the colonel he said it come
ruther hard on him to be lighted on his way through
the woods by such a bonfire.
“Wal, by mornin' they come to one o' their
camps, and there they hed a great rejoicin' over him.
They was going to hev a great feast, and a good time
a burnin' on him; and they tied him to a tree, and
sot an Indian to watch him while they went out to
cut pine knots and slivers to do him with.
`Wal, as I said, Col. Eph was a brave man, and a
man that always kep' his thoughts about him; and so
was round his hands, and a prayin' in his heart to
the Lord, till he got his right hand free. Wal, he
didn't make no move, but kep' a loosenin' and a
loosenin' little by little, keepin' his eye on the Indian
who sot there on the ground by him.
“Now, Col. Eph hed slipped his feet into his Sunday
shoes that stood there by the bed and hed great
silver shoe-buckles; and there was a providence in
his doin' so, for, ye see, Indians are 'mazin' fond o'
shiny things. And the old Indian he was took with
the shine o' these shoe-buckles, and he thought he
might as well hev 'em as anybody; so he jest laid
down his tommyhawk, and got down on his knees,
and was workin' away as earnest as could be to get
off the buckles, and Col. Eph he jest made a dart
forward and picked up the tommyhawk, and split
open the Indian's skull with one blow: then he cut
the withs that was round his legs, and in a minute
he was off on the run with the tommyhawk in his
hand. There was three Indians give chase to him,
but Col. Eph he kep' ahead of 'em. He said while
he was a runnin' he was cryin,' and callin' on the Lord
“He was taken with the shine o' these shoe-buckles.”—Page 174.
[Description: 703EAF. Illustration page. Image of a man tied to a tree with a Native American kneeling and inspecting his shoes. A hatchet lies on the ground near them.]
he read at prayers the night afore, `The race is not
to the swift, nor the battle to the strong.'
“At last he see the Indians gained on him; and he
faced round suddenly, and struck the nighest one
smack on the head with his tommyhawk. Then
when the next one come up he cut him down too;
and the third one, when he see both the others cut
down, and Col. Eph comin' full blaze towards him
with his tommyhawk a swingin', he jest turned and
run for dear life. Then Col. Eph he turned and cut
for the settlement. He run, and he run, and he run,
he didn't well know how long, till, finally, he was
clear tuckered out, and he jest dropped down under a
tree and slept; and he lay there all the rest of that
day, and all night, and never woke till the next day
about sundown.
“Then he woke up, and found he was close by
home, and John Stebbins, his wife's father, and a
whole party, was out lookin' for him.
“Old Col. Eph used to tell the story as long as he
lived, and the tears used to run down his cheeks
when he told it.
“`There's a providence in every thing,' he used to
say, `even down to shoe-buckles. Ef my Sunday
shoes hadn't happened to 'a' set there so I could 'a'
slipped into 'em, I couldn't 'a' killed that Indian,
and I shouldn't 'a' been here to-day.' Wal, boys, he
was in the right on't. Some seem to think the Lord
don't look out only for gret things, but, ye see, little
things is kind o' hinges that gret ones turns on.
They say, take care o' pennies, and dollars'll take care
o' themselves. It's jest so in every thing; and, ef the
Lord don't look arter little things, he ain't so gret as
they say, anyway.
“Wal, wal,” said Sam in conclusion, “now, who'd
'a' thought that anybody could 'a' made any thing
out o' Indians? Yet there 'twas. All them Martha
Vineyard Indians turned Christians, and there was
Indian preachers and Indian teachers; and they reely
did settle down, and get to be quite like folks. But
I tell you, boys, it took faith to start with.”
| Sam Lawson's Oldtown fireside stories | |