University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.

“O Madian! Madian!—What dark fate has befallen my
loved and beautiful Madian?”

It was the voice of the half distracted Vane Willis, as he
turned in despair from his fruitless search to discover the retreat,
or fate of the persecuted maiden, whose mysterious disappearance
was mentioned at the close of a former chapter.

We parted with Willis, it will be recollected, in conversation
with the rough-and-ready Captain Mosely, on the banks of
Charles' river, in the vicinity of Boston, where they both appeared
to be present to witness the embarkation of the praying
Indians. As he was retiring from that scene, he was, for the
first time, apprised by a friend, who had come from Plymouth,
of the disappearance, or rather reported elopement of Miss
Southworth. As might be expected, he was surprised, but
in no way alarmed at the unexpected news. For, though he
but imperfectly knew the circumstances by which she was
surrounded, he yet was well aware that Deacon Mudgridge
and his hopeful nephew were using their united exertions to
force or inveigle her into a matrimonial alliance with the latter.
And he thought it quite probable that to avoid their
persecuting importunities, she had privately left her home for
a short residence in the family of her relative in Boston, where,
he secretly congratulated himself, he should now have the

pleasure of seeing her, before his return to the other colony,
for which he was then already on the point of starting. Getting
clear of his bantering friend, therefore, as soon as he
could decently do so, he hurried into the city, and after a little
excusable attention to his toilet, at once repaired to the residence
of Madian's kinsfolk, where he confidently expected he
should find, and, he hoped, agreeably surprise her.

But when he had arrived there, and questioned the family,
he found, to his great disappointment, that she was not there,—
had not been there, and that nothing had been heard from her,
nor of her, for several months, by any of the family. He felt
deeply perplexed at the strange circumstance. He could not
comprehend nor account for it. And the more he reflected,
the more did his doubts and perplexities become mingled with
apprehensions, that something very unusual, to say the least,
must have befallen her. He prudently, however, kept his
uneasiness and misgivings to himself, and contenting himself
with the mere expressions of regret and surprise at not finding
Miss Southworth here with her relatives, he soon withdrew
from the house and hurried back to his lodgings; when, making
the few preparations which were only necessary, he announced
his departure, mounted his horse, and within one
hour, though it was then bed time, was far on his nightly
journey to Plymouth.

Arriving the next morning at the house of an intimate
friend, of the name of Noel, who was a member of his prospective
company, and who resided in the town next northwardly
of the one to which he was destined, he there stopped
to refresh and rest himself and his over-ridden horse, till evening;
when he rode into Plymouth, and repaired at once to
the Southworth mansion, where, he felt confident, he should
be kindly received by the old domestics, and where he believed
he could not fail to learn something which would enable him
at least to form some probable conjecture on the subject

which was so deeply engrossing his solicitude. And so far as
regarded his reception there, he had reckoned rightly. Taffy
and his wife were overjoyed to see him; for, from the want
of any better solution of the mystery, having fallen in with
the prevalent opinion that their young mistress had privately
left, after they had retired at night, and gone off with Willis,
whom they believed to be her accepted lover, they were looking
to him for the very information he was hoping to obtain
from them, respecting her otherwise wholly unaccountable
absence. And when he informed them that he had neither
seen her, nor heard from her, since he parted with her at
that house, nearly a fortnight before, they heard him at first
with incredulity, and, at last, with astonishment and dismay;
becoming in their turn, also, deeply concerned for her safety.
But they could tell him nothing satisfactory in regard to her
unexpected flight, except to express their decided opinion,
that it was caused by the despicable course which Deacon
Mudgridge had pursued to force her into an abhorred union;
and which they then proceeded to relate to the excited and
indignant lover, in all its disgusting and contemptible particulars,
including his last high handed act of causing a legal
notice of her marriage with the thrice rejected lover, to be
proclaimed in the church, the appointing of a time for the
ceremony, and lastly their plot to dispose of the accepted
lover by banishing him for a Quaker, the first time he should
make his appearance.

The last intimation concerning the designs of the conspirators
on himself, Willis treated with open derision and defiance;
but on all the rest, he felt too deeply exasperated and
alarmed to make it prudent for him to attempt to give any
expression to the emotions of his laboring bosom. And having
gained all the information he could expect from the
warmly sympathizing Taffy and his wife, he cautioned them
against disclosing to any one the fact of his visit here, and

assured them that he would know no rest until he had found
their mistress, or ascertained her fate, he took his leave of the
anxious old couple, and, mounting his horse, rode slowly and
thoughtfully back to the residence of his friend, which he
now concluded to make his headquarters for the further
investigation, which he was now sternly determined to pursue.

After anxiously pondering the whole subject, and carefully
weighing all the circumstances which he thought could have
any connection with Madian's disappearance, he at length
reached the conclusion, that one of three things only, could
have befallen her:—Either Deacon Mudgridge or some of his
minions had abducted her, and conveyed her to some place
where they could control her, or she, driven to desperation
by her persecutions, had committed suicide; or finally, that, in
attempting to make her way to the house of some friend out
of town, she had been seized by the Indians and carried away
to some of their distant villages to be kept for ransom, or an
hostage, in anticipation of approaching hostilities.

From what Willis already knew of the despicable schemings
of Deacon Mudgridge, he felt strongly inclined to look upon
the first of these suppositions as the true one; and he resolved
to contrive some means for forming a definite opinion on this
part of the subject. But he readily saw, that he, himself,
under the circumstances, would not be the right man to succeed
in drawing anything reliable from the Deacon, or any of
his servile clique, and he therefore determined to depute another
to perform this service. Accordingly, the next morning,
he laid the whole case before his friend Noel, who was a
shrewd, trusty man, and who, deeply sympathizing in his anxieties,
readily undertook the task, and went off immediately
to Plymouth with that object, leaving Willis to take a tour of
inspection round all the ponds in that town or vicinity which

would be likely to be resorted to for the purpose of suicide by
drowning.

At night they both returned, and sat down to make their
mutual reports, and compare notes made in the different fields
of observation.

“Well, Noel,” said the impatient Willis, as soon as they
were alone, “my day's work has resulted in no discoveries;
must your report be as empty?”

“Not quite. Though I have discovered no clue to the girl's
whereabouts, I have yet been able to satisfy myself, at least,
on the point you wished me to investigate.”

“What—in relation to the agency of the Mudgridge combination
in her disappearance?”

“Yes—any immediate agency; for I am fully satisfied
that none of them know any more what has become of her
than yourself.”

`How have you ascertained this, Noel?”

“In a dozen ways. Not from the saintly Deacon himself, it
is true—for he keeps himself pretty close these days, they
say—but from his understrappers, and the news-mongers of
the town, with some of whom I was well acquainted, and with
all of whom I contrived, on one pretence or another, to have
during the day a conversation on the matter in question.”

“And the result of all was—?”

“The result of all was, that the Deacon and his nephew,
and all they can influence, are death on you, Vane Willis;
and you had better look out, for you are a marked man
there.”

“A marked man! For what reason?”

“For snatching the game from their hands; for there is no
kind of doubt but they really believe you have eloped with
her and gone to parts unknown.”

“Ah! that is my crime, then? I had suspected as much.

And if the Deacon really believes this, as you say, I suppose
he lays the defeat of his darling scheme much to heart.”

“He lays something to heart, evidently. They tell strange
stories about the Deacon, Willis.”

“Indeed! Why, what are they?”

“Nothing very definite, to be sure, but something, after all,
which affords room for speculation. They all seem to understand
that something unusual has come over the man; and
among some, there are mysterious whispers afloat, to the effect
that he has recently been haunted by a ghost or an evil spirit,
and that he keeps the Shadow to watch and pray with him
every night.”

“That, friend Noel, if true, is a strange story—strange, at
all events—perhaps a significant one.”

“I thought so, Willis; and, coupling the affair with some
things you told me last night, I studied upon it all the way
home, but came to no conclusion. What inference do you
draw from the circumstance?”

“I don't know,” responded the other, thoughtfully; “I am
not prepared to say much on that point at present. But,
taking all your accounts together, they have removed the most
maddening, though not the most melancholy, of my apprehensions—that
was, that the Deacon and Sniffkin had somehow
spirited Miss Southworth away to some place where they supposed
they could control and eventually subdue her to their
purposes. And yet it will throw me on to another conclusion,
which any but a lover would probably pronounce more alarming.”

“What is that—the supposition of her suicide?”

“No, I was not thinking of that. My researches have
to-day been conducted with particular reference to that question.
I have skirted every body of water within five miles
of Plymouth, and all other places where such a deed would be
likely to be consummated. But I have made no discoveries;

and besides, on recalling the firmness, resolution, and other
noble traits of Madian's character, I cannot really bring my
mind to the revolting conclusion that she could be driven to
that desperate alternative. I am therefore forced to adopt
the only other conclusion that I have been able to form
respecting this mystery of mysteries.”

“And that is what I should think the scarcely more probable
one of her abduction by the Indians—is it not?”

“Yes, Philip's tribe, since the mad and unwarranted execution
of their brethren at Plymouth, probably consider
themselves in a state of war with the colonists. And this act
may have been purposely intended to provoke the whites, as
I suspect is their plan, to take the first step in open hostilities.”

“It may have been so, possibly. But where could they
have taken her? Not from her own house, certainly?”

“No! She must have thought to have gone to the house
of some friend, several miles off, perhaps—and on foot, so
that she could not be traced.”

“But is it likely she would have gone on foot? She could
have ordered her man to attend her on horseback, and have
trusted him with her secret, could she not?”

“Why, yes, I should suppose so; and I am free to admit
that this, my last conclusion, is not without its improbabilities;
but I can reach no other.”

“How do you know but what she did reach some friend's
house, and is still privately remaining there?”

“Because, by this time, she would have found means to
communicate with me, or her trusty domestics at home;
though at first, till the Deacon and his emissaries had given
over the search, she might think it best to leave them in
ignorance, so that neither their words nor manner, when questioned,
could betray any knowledge on the subject. She was
acquainted with but three or four families out of town—all

living within a circuit of ten miles; and Taffy has already
been to every one of them.”

“Well, Willis, though I still cannot help doubting whether
you have even now hit upon the true version of the affair, yet,
as I can't at present offer any better one, I will say no more,
except to ask what movement you next propose to make by
way of following up the investigation?”

“It is this—to repair to-morrow morning to Indian Pond,
where there are still encamped the small band of friendly
Saconets, whom, as I before told you, I design to attach to
my proposed company, to be employed as runners and scouts,
in case we are called into service. These I will put in pairs
or singly, including myself in the arrangement, on all the
roads and by-paths running out of Plymouth, to search every
piece of woods by the way-side, several miles in each direction
outward, for trails or other indications, where ever an Indian
would think of making a capture, or leading a victim out into
the forest; when, if any such capture has been made, we can
hardly fail, I think, to discover the trail of the captors.”

“And supposing you do discover what you judge to be
such a trail, Willis, what will you do then?”

“Make instant preparations to follow it up. And follow
it I will too, Noel, to the furthest depths of the wilderness,
before I stop short of the rescue.”

To those who can appreciate the intense anxieties which a
gallant and resolute young lover would naturally feel under
the circumstances, it will not be necessary to tell how faithfully
and untiringly Willis, with the efficient aid of his
keenly observing red associates, carried out the next day, the
plan of operations which he had so sanguinely marked out for
himself. But it was all in vain. A little before sunset,
having himself made no discoveries, he reluctantly relinquished
the search, which, on his part, had been wholly fruitless, and
repaired to the place he had appointed to meet his Indian

scouts at sunset, and hear the reports of the observations
which they severally might have made through the day. The
spot thus designated was the summit of a high hill, situated
two or three miles westerly of Plymouth, and so elevated as
to command an extensive view of the surrounding country,
including that village and all the roads running into and out
of it, especially the great throughfare from the southwest
which ran but a short distance from the southern base of the
elevation.

Punctual to their appointment, the Indian scouts, from
some of whom, at least, Willis still hoped to hear favorable
tidings, all arrived at their elevated rendezvous before sunset;
when one after another they related to their anxious employer
their doings, minutely describing the routes they had
taken, and the manner and amount of their observations made
on each through the day.

By way of enhancing the value of their services, some of
them, indeed, asserted that they had discovered trails in certain
localities, such as might have been made by Indians carrying
off a captive. But all their representations of this character,
when sifted by cross examinations, turned out to be
merely some very inconclusive circumstances, amounting in
fact, to little or nothing towards indicating an abduction of
the missing maiden or affording any clue to her fate.

Disappointed, sad, and now this last hope of being put on
the track of Madian having thus vanished, more than ever
perplexed to account for her disappearance, Willis turned
away from the spot, despondingly murmuring the words with
which the present chapter was commenced—O, Madian, Madian,
Madian! What dark fate has befallen my loved and
beautiful Madian?” And he began slowly and musingly to
descend the hill on his way back to the place from which he
had so hopefully started out that morning.

Before he had proceeded many steps, however, his eye accidentally

fell on the distant harbor and its indented shores,
stretching far away on either side of the village; and he soon
paused and stood hesitating. A new thought had suddenly
occurred to him. Madian, he now felt satisfied, could not
have been taken away on the land side of the village; but
might she not have been seized on some part of her own
lands, and taken to a boat concealed by her Indian captors for
the purpose, in some of the coves along the shore, and rowed
off by them, under cover of the darkness, to some point of land
several miles to the south, from which she could be led across
the country, then mostly a wilderness, to some of King
Philip's villages? Yes. Why not? It was in effect the
same hypothesis for the solution of the mystery in question,
which he had the night before settled down upon, as the only
one then left having even the sanction of probability, varied only
by the manner in which the abduction had been effected. It
must be so; and the thought instantly revived the dying
hopes of his bosom, and aroused his mind to its wonted
activity.

Half-formed schemes for a rescue were in a moment floating
over his busy brain; and he was retracing his steps to
consult his Indian friends on their willingness to join in an
excursion into Philip's territory, when his eye caught sight
of an object which instantly riveted attention. It was a
long cloud of smoke or dust arising in the distance along the
great road from the west. An exclamation of surprise at
once brought the Indians to his side, when they all hastened
to the western brow of the hill, and fell to scanning the unusual
spectacle, which they soon ascertained to be a thick cloud
of dust raised by horsemen making their way with all possible
speed along the road to Plymouth.

Instantly comprehending that the men must be the heralds
of important tidings, which they appeared to be proclaiming
at every house they passed, Willis, followed by his attendants,

hurried down the hill towards the road to get near
enough to hail them as they came by. This they had scarcely
effected, before the heralds, covered with dust, and lashing
their foaming horses swept along the road, loudly exclaiming:—

“To arms! to arms! The Indians have risen! Twenty
men have been shot down in Swansey, and Rehoboth is in
flames!”

The impending storm had indeed burst on the unprepared
colony in all the peculiar horrors of savage warfare. That
day had been the one on which the general fast, named in a
former chapter, had been appointed at the village of Swansey,
near the head of Narraganset bay.

As the people were coming out of the meeting house, they
were met by a volley from concealed foes that brought many
to the ground, while others scattered and ran to their homes
only to share the same fate. And those who fled out of the
place for safety were soon met by fugitives from other towns,
which had also been doomed to the same terrible visitation.
And the news, flying like the wind, had, almost with the
hour, thrown all the southern part of the colony into a state
of the wildest commotion and alarm. Runners were instantly
dispatched in every direction to spread the note of
warning and alarm, and the fleetest horses put in requisition
to speed to the court of Plymouth for military assistance.

“It has come then at last,” said Willis, after standing a
moment mute and half paralized, under the first effect of the
startling announcement which had just been made—“sooner
indeed than I really expected, but not sooner than I feared;
and the blow as I predicted, has fallen suddenly and without
warning. Heaven only knows what tidings will next reach
us from the scenes of these horrors. Well, every man, who is
a man, will have but one path to pursue in a crisis like this.
We shall soon see who will take it. For myself I shall quickly

be ready to do my part towards breasting the storm. And
love as well as duty shall now be my incentive to action.”

So saying, he turned to his Indian followers, who had, as
readily as himself, comprehended all that had occurred, and
in a brief and pointed address told them all his arrangements
for forming a company of rangers for the war; and then he
made known his wish to enlist them all, and as many more as
were inclined to join him, to serve for scouts, runners, or
fighting men, as circumstances might require, and to be rewarded
according to their faithfulness and the value of their
services. As he expected, they all promptly responded to
his appeal, and declared themselves ready to enter upon any
duty he might see fit to assign them. Taking them at their
word he dispatched them immediately to all the different individuals,
far and near, about the colony, who had given him
encouragement of joining his company, to request them to
meet him with the least possible delay, at Noel's farm house,
which he had appointed as their rendezvous. And so little
preparation did these simple and hardy men of the forest require,
that within half an hour, every one of them had disappeared
on their respective missions, leaving their new leader
to make his rapid way back to his quarters, at the hospitable
abode of his friend and coadjutor in the enterprise on hand.