 | CHAPTER V. The doomed chief, or, Two hundred years ago |  |
5. CHAPTER V.
“O luve will venture in whaur it daur na weel be seen.”
The alarm mentioned at the close of the last chapter, had
proceeded from the loud cry of “Help! help! Indians! Indians!”
heard rising from some point in the bushy pine plain
swelling up from the rear of the village. On almost any
previous evening, no general alarm probably would have been
thus created; for the person or persons hearing the outcry,
would have fearlessly gone alone to the spot indicated by the
noise, to see what was wanted. But on this evening, so
deeply excited and apprehensive had all classes become, from
witnessing the spectacles of the day, and hearing of the attendant
omens, that those whose ears the cry had reached, instead
of proceeding to the place, had turned and ran the other way
into the village, spreading the alarm through the streets, and
then facing round to lead those whom they had thus rallied
out, to the locality of the supposed trouble. And on rushed
the confused throng,—the Deacon, the Shadow, and all, each
armed with a musket, old sword, pitchfork, hoe, cudgel, or
such other defensive implement as most readily came to
hand.
“There! it was somewhere about here that I was passing
when I heard the outcry, and the sound came out from those
low scattering pines,” exclaimed the man that had led the
way, stopping in an open field a little beyond the last house
on that border of the village, and pointing to a line of scattering
bushes about forty rods ahead.
“Let us form a line and advance then,” cried one of the
more resolute of the company.
“Wouldn't it be meet on this alarming occasion first to
have a prayer?” asked the Shadow, in a quavering voice, beginning
to raise his shaking hands to suit the action to the
word.
“Stay a little, brother Dummer,” interposed Deacon Mudgridge;
“let us first collect our minds and reason together on
the matter. And firstly, is there any certainty as to the man
thus boldly snatched from our midst by the audacious salvages?”
“Why, I thought to be sure, that the voice sounded greatly
like unto the voice of Dick Swain,” responded the man who
had first spoken.
“He is right,” sung out Sniffkin, who had prudently
stopped some half dozen rods in the background, but was now
venturing considerably nearer. “He is undoubtedly in the
right about it, for I have reason to know myself, that Dick
Swain is the man. But it will be of no avail to go into the
woods after him. There is, likely enough, at this very moment,
a whole line of hostile Indians lying in ambush in yonder
pines to cover the retreat of the miscreant abductors, who, no
doubt, are now far on the way to King Philip's camp, and I
pretty well know who is at the head of them.”
“Things being so,” after a long pause, began the Deacon,
who seemed to comprehend the allusions of Sniffkin, and who
had been casting about for a decent excuse for backing out
himself—“things being so, and it sometimes being but a
wrongful tempting of Providence to rush into the dangers
where our righteous indignation would carry us, I would
rather counsel, lest we act without due consideration, that we
all now return to the meeting-house yard, for a more fitting
consultation, wherein the conclusion, peradventure, may be
of armed troopers.”
This motion being eagerly seconded by the Shadow and
Sniffkin, was soon unanimously carried, when the crowd, now
promptly led forward by the last named brave personage, all
took their way to the meeting-house, many of them evidently
breathing much easier than when on their outward march towards
the suspicious thickets where the luckless Dick had
so strangely disappeared.
But leaving this excited assemblage to their discussions respecting
the fate of Dick Swain, and the most advisable steps
to be taken for his rescue, we will now take the reader to a
scene enacting in another part of the village, which will, perhaps,
sufficiently elucidate the pretty little fright of the Puritan
populace which we have been describing, and, at the same
time, develope another step in the progress of our eventful
story.
In a somewhat secluded location, on a different border of
the town, stood, at this period, a substantial dwelling-house,
so constructed as very happily to combine, in the general appearance,
the architectural characteristics of the best class of
English cottages with those of the American farm house. Although
not a very ancient building, it was yet old enough to
have allowed time, since its construction, for the full growth
of the well arranged shrubbery that embowered it. Standing
back some distance from the road, it was enclosed by the long,
shaded yard in front, a garden on one side, a fruit orchard on
the other; and extensive cultivated fields extending all along
the rear. Along the front of the house ran a wide verandah,
which was enveloped in a cloud of clustering vines in full foliage,
through which, at the particular hour we have chosen for the
introduction of the reader to the scene at hand, a small light,
from one of the front rooms, was fitfully gleaming. In that
room, and by that light, placed on a small table standing near
a dark-eyed girl of about twenty. She was attired in
the habiliments usually worn by the wealthier of her sex, but
which, on her finely turned figure, were made to appear, as dress
ever will on some persons, to unusual advantage. She held in
her hand a richly bound old volume, from which she occasionally
raised her eyes and turned her head to listen—sometimes,
it was evident from the wondering and puzzled expression
that for the moment rested on her beauteous features,
to the distant noises of the tumult in the streets, and
sometimes, it was equally evident from very different expressions
of countenance, for the nearer sounds of the footsteps of
some expected visitor. Presently those sounds appeared to
strike upon her quickened senses. She started, and while
her whole heart seemed jumping into her kindling cheeks,
rose, advanced a step towards the door, and stood expectant.
The next moment, the young marksman who had left the
crowd in the street so abruptly, an hour or two before, stood
in the entrance, with looks that spoke a gratification which
his tongue would have in vain tried to utter.
“The brightest of good evenings to you, Madian,” he said,
respectfully extending his hand.
“And as pleasant an one to you, Sir Vane, if I am to let
you off without a scolding for calling on a lady at nearly ten
o'clock in the evening,” she replied, accepting the proffered
hand with a sort of half bantering, half serious air. “But
now you are here, you may be seated and tarry long enough to
answer me a question or two. Our serving-man, Taffy, has
been out to witness the public proceedings, and has informed
me what occurred during the day. But I would inquire
what has happened this evening, to cause so much commotion
in the streets?”
“Oh, nothing, or nothing very alarming, I think, Madian.”
“Nothing! Then they made much ado about nothing, it
appears to me.”
“They did—much more than I expected.”
“Expected! Why, was it about something of your own
moving that you could go into a calculation of its effects on
the populace?”
“How sharp you are upon me to-night, Madian!”
“Ah! you look roguish, sir—you stand suspected—yes,
convicted, nearly, of something, I know not what—now confess,
sir, that your punishment may be the lighter.”
“Well, Madian, as you certainly should have some excuse
from me for delaying to this unseasonable hour the call that
Taffy doubtless told you I proposed to make this evening, I
may as well give you the true one, and especially so as it may
concern you to know it.”
“Proceed; prithee, proceed, sir.”
“Taffy perhaps told you of my bout with Sniffkin this
morning, at target shooting, and afterwards at word shooting?”
“He did; and I could not but fear that you gave him as
much advantage over you in the latter, as you gained over him
in the former, for I think he will be likely to try to turn your
bold language to your detriment.”
“Be it so, then; for it is not in me, Madian, to hold my
peace under false accusations, much less if they come in the
shape of insulting insinuations. Nor will any fear of the
Plymouth regency deter me from expressing my disapprobation
of a course of policy which I feel to be so certainly hazardous
to the peace and safety of this colony. But that is not what I
was about to tell you. Soon after this bloody day's work was
over, I started out to come here, when I fell in with a crowd
in the street discussing the matter of the execution, which,
now it is over, seems to have filled the fickle people, who were
at first so urgent in getting up this mad proceeding, with great
his tools, who all assailed me again. I was, however, determined
I would, this time, have no altercation with them, and
so walked off and was proceeding on my way, when I soon
found myself dogged by Dick Swain; and having, as I glanced
back on my retreat from the crowd, detected Sniffkin whispering
some directions to Dick, I readily comprehended the
object, and so contrived up a little scheme to defeat it.”
“Yes, but what was the object of dogging you?”
“To see whether I came here, Madian,” replied the young
man, bending an earnest, significant look upon the other.
“So that is the way,” responded the spirited girl, with her
thin nostrils distending, and her black eyes flashing with suppressed
indignation—“so that is the way, then, they would
treat the guests I choose to admit here! Well, perhaps I have
no right at all in the house my father left me! But go on
with your account of this nice affair.”
“Yes. Well, I then altered my course, proceeded to the
border of the pine barrens, where two of my red friends who
had come on with me to the trial were encamped, pointed out
to them the dogging tool still lurking in the distance, and
directed them, when I should have decoyed him along against
them, to rush out, gently take him in tow, lead him a mile
into the woods, detain him an hour or two, and let him go.
Standing in a neighboring copse, all this I saw done—heard
his uproarious outcry of `Murder! Indians!' &c., as they
drew him into the bushes; then, soon after, to my surprise
and vexation, I perceived half the town rushing in wild alarm
to the spot, when, after listening from my covert to the consultation
of the valorous pursuers of the supposed abducting
Indians, as they drew up in a line at a safe distance from the
wood, and hearing them, at the suggestion of Sniffkin and
Deacon Mudgridge, decide to return to the meeting-house to
hold a council of war, I took my way by a round-about path
late, which it would have grieved me much to have been
choused out of, but even more to have kept it in a way that
would have added to the embarrassments of my fair entertainer.”
A low, silvery peal of merry laughter burst from the lips
of Madian, as the narrator closed his account of the night
alarm, which had so awakened her curiosity; but she made no
other comment than by asking,
“But will not this Dick Swain suspect who was the instigator
of his odd abduction?
“No, I think not. It was so managed that he could see
no signs of any communications between me and the Indians,
who were made to go round in the bushes so as to appear
to rush upon him from a different direction from the line he
and I were taking.”
“What then will the affair end in?”
“Smoke. They have contrived to let him escape, by this
time, and probably he is now back to the meeting-house, announcing
to the crazy crowd his marvelous escape, which he
will doubtless swear he effected by disabling a good half-dozen
of Philip's warriors. And to-morrow you will hear his
exploits, I presume, bruited from mouth to mouth through
the town.”
“I hope, all the events of this day will result in no worse
consequences.”
“I hope it, certainly, but hope against conviction. For
I feel that the fatal die has this day been cast.”
“Then you count on the approach of troubles for us all?”
“I do, Madian, I am deeply impressed with the apprehension,
that times are at hand such as the people of this colony
have never seen. Indeed, I feel so certain of it, that I am
about to enter on immediate preparations, so that when the
it shall not find all unprepared and helpless.”
“Surely, Mr. Willis, you cannot be anxious to plunge, uncalled
by the rulers, into the perils of a savage warfare?”
“If such as I am do not come forward, to stand between
the helpless of our unguarded homes and the exasperated savages,
who will be likely to do so, or do it in a manner which
can only be effectual? The court of Plymouth, and those
they will be likely to appoint to lead their troops to battle,
know little or nothing of the modes of Indian warfare,
and before they will have learned by experience, hundreds of
families may perish. I shall ask no appointment of them,
while they remain under their present influences; but, Madian,
I must go.”
“What, alone, and single handed?”
“No—in anticipation of this crisis, I have already talked
over the matter with a few of the young men, who entertain
my views, and who would not hesitate, they say, to follow
where I would lead. And I am thinking, therefore, to organize
a select band of volunteers to be ready for the emergency.
But if I do this at all, I should do so immediately; for as I
look upon affairs, every moment's delay may be fraught with
peril. And within this very hour, therefore, I shall be on my
way to Boston, to enlist from that colony some I know there,
whom I would like to have with me, in the proposed service.”
“To-night? O Vane Willis, Vane Willis, how your words
pain me!”
“It must be so, Madian. It is a patriotic duty. You are
the daughter of one who was reputed a brave soldier, and
can better appreciate than many others, perhaps my feelings
and motives. Yes, dear Madian, I must go; but before I
leave you, to see you I know not when again, I would carry
with me some comforting pledge that you—”
“Why, you know already, Vane—how can you but know,
You are agoing to fight battles abroad, I remain to fight battles
at home. If we both come out conquerors, and ever live to
behold the light of peace again—”
“Then I have your promise?”
“I know not what I ought to say, Vane, and yet I know
not what to say, but yes.”
“It is settled and sealed then. But, Madian, cannot you
give me some token of this our plighted faith, to look upon
when alone in the wilderness, to give me strength and hope in
the hour of battle?”
Madian dropped her head a moment in thought, when
starting up with an animated look, she begged to be excused
for a brief absence, and hastily left the room. In another
minute she appeared, bearing in her hand a richly mounted
rapier, whose blue bright Damascus blade gleamed in the light
like a polished diamond.
“Here,” said she, pausing before her wondering lover,—
“here is the trusty blade that was worn on many a hard fought
field by Col. Richard Southworth, in the voluntary service of
his idolized master, the lion-hearted Oliver Cromwell of England.
On whom can his daughter more fittingly bestow it,
than on one who also voluntarily proposes to encounter no
less perils for the public safety? Vane Willis,” she added,
holding up the blade with both hands, and imprinting an
ardent kiss on its burnished side, “Vane Willis, this is yours;
and I pass it to your hands, consecrated by the love of the
giver. Keep it, and with her ever-attending prayers, and in
her name, as the last representative of a brave warrior, and in
the name of that true man, Sir Henry Vane, whose name you
in part bear, use it worthily. And may heaven bless and
watch over you. But now go—in mercy, go; I can bear this
no longer. Adieu, adieu!”
And the proud, but deeply moved maiden hurried him to
turned to hide her gushing tears, and fled to her chamber.
It is now time that we should pause in the action of the
story to give the reader a more particular account of the family
last introduced, than he or she can have learned from what
has been said of them in the preceding pages.
Col. Richard Southworth, a man of wealth and family, was
at the opening of the revolution, which resulted in the overthrow
of the British monarchy, in 1642, a resident of the
banks of the Severn, in the west of England. In religion a
puritan, and in politics a follower of the noble Hampden, or
something still more republican, he was among the first to
take arms against the infatuated Charles and his corrupt advisers,
in their reckless attempt to subvert the constitutional
liberties of the people. And having entered Cromwell's noted
regiment as a captain, he displayed so much devotion to the
cause, and such gallantry in deeds enacted under the searching
eye of his daring leader, that he was soon promoted to the
next succeeding military grades. And, when that great leader,
through the force of his overtowering genius and energy, rose
to the post of commander-in-chief of the Parliamentary army,
the well-tried Southworth was placed at the head of his regiment—a
regiment which had already laid the foundation of
its old master's fortunes, and which, for high discipline and
unwavering courage, has rarely been equalled by any other
body of troops in the world.
In the great struggle that now ensued, Richard Southworth,
with his invincible regiment, became the scourge and terror
of the quailing monarchists, by the irresistible fury of his
charges in battle, and in the untiring perseverance of his
efforts everywhere to crush and destroy them. But no sooner
had he seen his revered leader and pattern firmly seated in
authority, with the prostrate royalists at his feet, than he
sought, and at length obtained the reluctantly granted permission
life on his estate, only replying to the earnest solicitations of
Cromwell to take posts of honor and profit under his government,
by saying that he had seen all the desires of his heart
satisfied in the downfall of the hated Stuarts, and in the elevation
of a God-appointed ruler, who could be safely trusted
with the rights of the people.
With the exception of an occasional visit to the court of
Cromwell, the colonel, having married and settled down on
his estate, now maintained a life of seclusion during the whole
rule of his beloved sovereign, evidently contented with his
quiet pursuits, and well satisfied with the situation of public
affairs. But on the death of Cromwell, he immediately became
distrustful and uneasy, for he had the sagacity to perceive
that with the departure of the controlling spirit of its
great champion, the life and soul of the anti-monarchical party
in England had gone also, and that in the amiable and yielding
Richard, now succeeding to his father's authority, the
ever secretly plotting, and now hopeful royalists would find
an unconscious instrument to help them again into power.
The advent of the latter contingency would, with his settled
convictions and unbending disposition, render his further residence
in England insupportable, and probably be as dangerous
to him personally as it would be repugnant to his feelings.
Having taken this view of the subject, he soon formed a new
plan for his future; and with his accustomed promptitude,
proceeded immediately to execute it.
In pursuance of his scheme, he lost no time in converting
his whole property into available funds, and preparing to leave
the country. And with so much energy did he prosecute the
object in view, that within three months he had made everything
ready for the departure of himself and family. When
taking his wife and only child, the spirited little Madian, together
with a trusty Welch couple, who, man and wife, without
capacity of servants, and were still willing to follow its fortunes,
he proceeded in a private manner to the coast, and
took passage to Holland. And within another month, having
safely deposited the larger part of his funds in the bank at
Amsterdam, and everything else there favoring his projects,
he and his family were on their way to America.
Having arrived in Boston, and tarried a few days with a
relation of Mrs. Southworth, they proceeded to Plymouth, to
which the Puritans in Holland had very naturally, from their
greater knowledge of the colony settled there, directed the
attention of the colonel as the most desirable for a permanent
settlement. Here, when it became known that he was a Puritan
and a man of means, he was kindly received, and assisted
in the purchase of the best tract of land to be had adjoining
the village. Of this, the independent new emigrant took
immediate possession, put the land under a thorough system
of cultivation, and at once commenced building the dwelling-house
which we have described, and in which, so rapidly was
the work prosecuted, he had the pleasure of seeing himself
and family, in a few months more, quietly ensconced, and
settled down, as he supposed, for a peaceful and unmolested
future; for having seen in the old world enough of bloody
strife and political bitterness and wrangling, in the former of
which he had only engaged from a stern sense of duty, while
in the latter he never would take part, he now had no favors
to ask of the public, except to be left to his own private pursuits,
and the free enjoyment of his own opinions. But
before he had been many months in the country, he discovered
entirely contrary to what he expected to find here, that,
in the matter of religious doctrines, at least, he could not
speak and act as he pleased, without being taken to task by
the straight going churchmen, who here had control, and who
required that the opinions of all others should be squared by
a good part to secure the immunities of religious freedom; he
knew that his old sovereign, Oliver Cromwell, had ever tolerated
a diversity of religious belief. And for a while, he
could not conceive how men, who had suffered so much from
persecution themselves, and periled so much for the right
to worship in their own way, could ever become the persecutors
of others for claiming the same privilege. But at length
he found too much reason to believe that.
'Twas only to be the oppressors they sought;
All,—all but themselves were be-devil'd and blind,
And their narrow-souled creed was to serve all mankind.”
Colonel Southworth had, while in England, several times
listened to the burning eloquence of the celebrated George Fox,
the founder of Quakerism, and had become deeply impressed
with the truth and moral beauty of many parts of his creed,
and finding, on his arrival in this country, that the Quakers
here were undergoing the most bitter persecutions for no
other crime than their belief, he hesitated not openly to condemn
the course of the colony towards them. This soon
brought upon him the denunciations of the church, which, instead
of awing him into silence, only made him the more bold
and determined in the defence of the persecuted. And still
persisting in his course, he, in a short time, was accounted a
Quaker himself, prescribed and put upon the list of those
against whom a decree of banishment had been procured.
And the decree would have doubtless been immediately enforced
upon him with the same promptitude, with which it
was upon others, but for the intercession of a few friends, or
those who had chosen to call themselves such, among the
church of Plymouth, who gained for him a short respite.
The chief of these intercessors was Mudgridge, who, from the
first, had taken great pains to ingratiate himself into the
and by pretending to sympathize with him, instead of
trying to reform him, as he had promised the church, succeeded
in completely gaining his confidence. Mudgridge
then, though then youngerly and comparatively poor, was yet
a very active and ambitious member of the church; and he
had the address by frequently making encouraging reports of
his progress in rescuing the Colonel from his heresies, to keep
him along on sufferance nearly a year, and until an event occurred
which made all efforts of that kind unnecessary.
The restoration of the Stuarts in the person of the despicable
Charles II. had now nearly two years been effected in England.
Those who had had anything to do with the trial and
execution of Charles I. had been summarily condemned to
death, and all executed, except the three so-called regicides,
who escaped to America—Goff, Whaley, and Dixon. But
with the death of this class of men, the royal vengeance was
not satisfied. Others, like Hugh Peters and Sir Henry Vane,
who were accounted influential promoters of the revolution,
were, from time to time, added to the list of the doomed, till
the early career of Colonel Southworth was in some way called
to mind, when he, too, was condemned to death, his abode
ferreted out, and a warrant, with a large reward for his apprehension,
was, as before in the case of the three regicides, forwarded
to Boston. Luckily, however, a friend in that city
got an intimation of the arrival of the warrant before it reached
the hands of the officers, and despatched a messenger to the
prescribed Colonel, who, on receiving the timely warning, instantly
commenced preparations for immediate flight. But
with whom should he entrust the charge of property and family?
Between himself and his wife, a cold, incapable, rigid
religionist, there had long been but few intermingling sympathies,
and in business affairs, no community of knowledge.
As he grew more liberal, she grew more bigoted; and since
opinions with her were both law and gospel, she had actually
sided with them against him. She knew little of the situation
and extent of his property, except that he owned his present
establishment, and had sufficient money in the house to last
the family, with the profits of the farm, several years to come.
For these reasons combined, he resolved to place the charge
of his whole affairs in the hands of another. And the person
selected for this purpose, was, as might be expected, his confidential
friend, Mudgridge, who was immediately summoned;
when the two spent most of the night closeted together in consultation,
the result of which was that all the colonel's property
here, and paper evidences of funded property abroad, with
authority to draw the latter as needed, was placed in the
hands of Mudgridge, in trust for the sole use and benefit of
his family, over whom he was also to have the oversight and
virtual guardianship, unrestrained, as it very naturally happened,
in the hurry and anxieties of the moment, by either
witnesses or written guaranties for the faithful discharge of the
important trust.
As soon as these hasty arrangements were made, the proscribed
patriot filled a pack with clothing, took a good supply
of coin, bid his family a hurried farewell, and under cover of
the night departed for some undecided destination to the
westward. The next day the officers of justice made their
appearance, and scoured the country, far and wide, in pursuit
of the fugitive; but wholly in vain. For several months,
nothing was heard of him by any one. But at length Mudgridge
received a letter from him, brought by an uncommunicative
Indian, from some unrevealed locality, and saying that,
“resting, as he now was, under a double ban, for the rightful
assertion of his principles in England, and the honest
expression of his religious views here in the colonies, he had
become thoroughly disgusted with the conduct of his race,
make his appearance in any so called civilized community;”
and that “he neither cared for, nor wanted any more property
than he had with him. Let all that go to his family, who
need take no further thought of him.” In this way matters
rested some time longer; when some hunters, who had come
across the wilderness from Connecticut river brought word
that they had learned on their way, from the Indians, that the
white man who had run away from Plymouth, the year before,
and who, from the description given of him, could be no other
than Colonel Southworth, had died of sickness, a few weeks
before, and had been buried by the Indian family with whom
he had been living.
From this time, Mudgridge became the sole supervisor and
undisputed director of all the affairs of the Southworth family.
And from this time, also his own circumstances in life commenced
a great and rapid amendment. House after house,
for renting, to say nothing of his own costly mansion, were,
during the next ten years, seen going up under his directions;
and farm after farm were added to his fast spreading domains,
till he was accounted by all, the richest man in the place.
All this was attributed to his commendable business sagacity,
and the blessings that followed his Christian virtues, the last
of which had long since made him a Deacon in the church,
and now one of the most influential men in the colony.
And in this manner, affairs continued to go on till the
death of Mrs. Southworth, which occurred the winter before
the time we have chosen for the opening of our story. The
Deacon had succeeded to his entire satisfaction in getting along
with the widow. But the daughter, who was now grown to
womanhood, he had long since perceived, was altogether a
different person, both in intellect and disposition; and with
him it appeared to become a great object that she should have
the right kind of husband. His nephew, Timothy Sniffkin,
colony, but with what success will better be shown in
the progress of the tale.
Having thus in a digression, far more extended than we at
first proposed to ourself, given a history of the remarkable
fortunes of the family we had introduced, we will now resume
the thread of our narrative.
| CHAPTER V. The doomed chief, or, Two hundred years ago | |