 | CHAPTER XXI. The doomed chief, or, Two hundred years ago |  |
21. CHAPTER XXI.
Pain dies as quickly: stern, hard-featured pain
Expires, and lets her weary prisoner go.
The fiercest agonies have shortest reign;
And after dreams of horror, comes again
The welcome morning with its rays of peace.”
Bryant.
It was spring—auspicious spring—that season which alike
gladdens aud delights the doubting heart of the Christian
philosopher and the raptured eye of nature's poet. For, as
the thronging idealities which she brings in her rejuvenating
train, burst on his mental vision, the one sees in every bursting
bud and germ, springing into new life from the perishing
seed, the cheering type of the new life in store for him, when
he too, like the seed, shall be mingled in the dust. The other
as he beholds nature gradually spreading her flowery carpet
beneath his feet, and unfolding her leafy banners to the whispering
breeze above his head, is regaled with the purest emblems
of moral loveliness, and the most delicate forms of
beauty, which poetic thought can appropriate, either to hoard
for its own silent pleasures, or elaborate for the gratification
of others.
Near the top of the southern declivity of the fine elevation,
around and over which, now cluster the conspicuous
edifices of Providence, the city of the beautiful early record,
and, with the progress of a just and comprehensive liberty,
of constantly brightening early memories, there stood, at the
period of our story, a cosey little cottage, so far removed from
it the air of solitude and intentional seclusion. But any
drawback which might be found in its loneliness, was amply
compensated by the unrivaled prospect which its peculiar
situation afforded. A variegated landscape of field, forest, and
waters, lay stretched to an almost limitless extent before and
around it. And these views, as striking as they were at all
times, were now, on the pleasant spring afternoon, when we
would bring up the spot to the notice of the reader, especially
beautiful and magnificent. Reanimating nature was making
her great yearly toilet, and everywhere rejoicing in the beauty
and fragrance of her vernal attire. Far away on the right,
dotting the country in lessening perspective, lay the green
hills kissing the skies. On the left, the eye wandered, with
fewer prominent land-marks indeed, but with other objects
of scarcely less attraction, over river, plain, and woodland, till
the vision melted away and was lost in the blue distance;
while in front, the long, wavy line of the bright waters of
harbor and bay, now glittering in the rays of the descending
sun, lay sleeping in their resplendence, like young Beauty
reposing in an illuminated cradle.
In the front room of the secluded cottage we have just described,
and close by the side of an open window, sat a beautiful,
dark-browed girl, wistfully gazing out on the bright
scene before her. But her eye was not now feasting itself on
the natural beauties of the landscape. It was fixed on a small
vessel that was seen heaving round a distant headland, and
slowly creeping over the undulating waters towards the quiet
little haven which lay embosomed among the surrounding
hills and forests, almost at her feet. She now rose, thrust her
head through the window, as for a nearer and clearer view,
and scanned the approaching craft long and intently, when
she hastily withdrew from the window, and taking a long,
relieving breath, stood awhile musing and murmuring, “It is
of this agitation—this half-dreading, yet intense longing to
meet him, how he must despise me! But thanks to woman's
instinctive arts of reserve for concealing what cheapens her
in the eyes of those she would enchain, and revealing enough
to ensure the permanence of the thrall—thanks for these, he
will never know. So, now for the schooling.”
Accordingly, while slowly pacing the room, she commenced
the proposed process of trying to reduce her rebellious feelings
into subjection and calmness, or rather to school the tell-tale
countenance into such expressions of quiet indifference, or
mere polite interest, as should, at least, decently conceal the
tender tumult within. All her resolutions to this end, however,
did not prevent her, at every turn in her walk which
brought her near the window, from sending a quick, eager
glance out upon the water, to note the inward progress of the
vessel which was thus riveting her attention. This she
continued to do until she had seen the lagging craft, that
seemed to her, in her impatience and suspense, to be forever
in reaching its destination, at length driving up to its wharf,
the grating hawser thrown around the confining-post, and the
crew leaping ashore. With cheek made eloquent with the
coming and going shades of hope and disappointment that
successively flitted over it, she stood noting, for some time,
with unsatisfied eye, each individual form of the ship's company,
as, one after another, they now made their appearance
on the wharf. At last, however, one form came in view,
which the keen eye of love instinctively told her could be no
other than the original of the picture she carried in her own
bosom; when, suddenly letting down the curtain of the window,
and removing the chair from before it, she took a book
from a shelf, and seated herself in a different part of the
room. After sitting in this position for the next, and, to her,
the almost interminable half hour—now abstractedly turning
shutting the volume, to open it again and go through again
the same empty performance—the sound of an approaching
footstep without at length reached her quickened senses,
causing her to start; and the next moment, a gentle rapping
on the door brought her instantly to her feet. With flushing
cheek and fast-heaving bosom, she flew towards the door, and,
forgetful of all her self-training in the emotions of the moment,
quickly threw it open, gave one earnest look, and, with both
arms extended, rushed forward to her greatly surprised, but
still more greatly overjoyed lover.
There was an attempt to speak, on both sides; but on both
sides it was equally a failure. The starting tear and quivering
lip were the only interpreters of their overcharged feelings,
and, hand in hand, they mutely passed into the house, and
seated themselves facing each other in the recess of the
window.
“Excuse me,” said the girl, as soon as the silent language
of the emotions could be made to yield to the less eloquent
utterance of the tongue. “Excuse me, Mr. Willis,” she
repeated, in low, broken, and tremulous accents, as she wiped
away the tear-spray that had bedewed her fair cheek; “I did
not think to be so childish. But to see you alive, after I had,
in thought, buried you; and now, after such a sickness, to see
you looking so unexpectedly well! Oh, Vane, Vane! how
much I have suffered in mind on your account!”
“And I, too, dearest Madian, have suffered both in mind
and in body, it may be said, on your account. But I am
richly compensated for it all in the happiness of this moment.
And so much the more joyful the meeting, because, at this
time, so unexpected.”
“Unexpected, Vane? Ah! I bethink me, now; the finding
me here might be unexpected.”
“Yes, finding you here now, though I confess I expected
But where is he? This is the house, surely; but where is
Mr. Crocker, and who is he, Madian?”
After hesitating an instant, the maiden, who had by this
time regained her usual composure, looked up a little archly,
and said—
“Yes, this is the house; but you are throwing upon me a
whole heap of questions all at once about other folks, when
we have had scarcely five minutes together to talk about our
own affairs.”
“Oh, no, not much of a heap—only a simple question or
two; and it was for the very reason I fancied they might
have some bearing on our affairs, that I was prompted to ask
them.”
“But you will be asking me for my adventures, since we
parted, next, won't you?”
“Certainly shall I, next, or now, if you choose it, Madian;
for never have I been so utterly at fault about any thing in
my life, as about your movements, since your mysterious disappearance
from Plymouth up to the present time.”
“Very well, sir, you shall be immediately gratified with
my whole story, provided you will allow me first to furnish
a sort of practical preface, which I trust will not be the least
agreeable part of the performance. So, here my brave friend,
who is said to be proof against ambuscade and surprise—here
take this volume, and amuse yourself during the brief absence
I must also be allowed in furtherance of the matter.”
Thus playfully remarking, the now joyous and animated
girl, with a sort of roguish, knowing smile, lightly tripped out
of the apartment, leaving her lover utterly at a loss to comprehend
the meaning of her enigmatical words, or to form a guess
of the object of her singular movement. He was not long
left, however, to the indulgence of useless conjectures. In a
few minutes, she reappeared in the entry, with a countenance
dressed, dark complexioned, elderly, but vigorous looking
gentleman. Captain Willis instinctively rose at their appearance,
glanced keenly at the face of the man, hesitated in evident
uncertainty an instant, and then doubtfully uttered—
“Mr. Crocker—I believe.”
“Ay, sir, till I get a new christening,” said the other
smiling and throwing a significant glance at Madian.
“Captain Willis,” said the maiden, with an impressive air,
and in tones made tremulous with emotion—“Captain Willis,
this is my father, Colonel Richard Southworth.”
After the young officer, who, it will be needless to say, was
as much delighted as astonished at this unexpected denouement,
had received the congratulations on his recovery now
warmly proffered by Colonel Southworth, as we should now
call the mysterious stranger heretofore passing under the name
of Crocker, and, in his own turn, expressed his deep gratitude
for that care and attention of the other to which he had doubtless
been indebted for his life, and of which the bestowal had
been to him such a matter of mystery—after these gratified
words and thoughts had been exchanged among this happy
and interestingly situated trio, Madian turned to her father
and said—
“Father, I had promised to give Captain Willis the particulars
of my secret flight from Plymouth last summer, and of
my subsequent adventures, whereof, unwisely I have since
feared, I kept him in the dark; but as my adventures would
be mainly embraced in a relation of yours, which he will also
wish to hear, I will, if you please, appoint you spokesman for
us both.”
After a pleasant preliminary remark or two about his good
fortune in being no longer under any necessity for further
concealment, either of his identity or his thoughts, he signified
we will place under the heading of
THE ADVENTURES OF THE OUTLAW AND HIS DAUGHTER.
“The crimes, as my daughter here knows, and as you, sir,
have doubtless heard—the unpardonable crimes which were
laid to my charge, and which occasioned my flight from civilized
society, to escape an ignominious death on the block or
the gallows, consisted in my hearty service, under the lion-hearted
Cromwell, in aiding the overthrow of the corrupt
monarchy of England; and also, in fearlessly asserting, after
my settlement here in the colonies, the claims of religious
liberty for all, and especially in behalf of the persecuted
Quakers.
“The decree of my banishment as a Quaker, as I was assumed
to be on account of my open defence of their rights,
which had been rather timidly agreed upon, and then kept in
abeyance, I cared little about; for I had determined to appeal
to the people and fight it out. But when the news came
that my name had been at last added to the list of those who,
from time to time, had been doomed to the scaffold to appease
the royal vengeance of the new Stuart; and with the news,
came also, as I was secretly apprised, a warrant for my arrest
and transportation, with a large reward set on my head for so
doing, I lost no time in escaping into the wilderness, being
resolved that my head should never be made to sanction or to
grace the triumphs of one who, not by the grace of God, but
by the weakness of the degenerate people, had reached the
throne of England.
“Having been inured to fatigue, and the privations and discomforts
of the worst kinds of out door life, by years of experience
in the hardships of the camp, I hesitated not to elect
the forest as my refuge. And I accordingly at once made my
way into the wooded highlands of the west, and took up my
as every white man going among the natives with honest purposes
ever will be, with uniform kindness and courtesy. In
accordance with their just notions of politeness, they forbore
to pry into my affairs, or even to ask my name. And I, on
my part, while falling quietly into their modes of life, minded
my own business, made no explanations, and left them to
judge for themselves of my character, and to designate me
by their own terms, as they soon did by an appellation which
meant stranger, but which sounded so much like Crocker, that
I concluded to assume that name.
“I built me a substantial cabin in a secluded location, and
lived very comfortably, my money bringing all the game I
wanted, which I could not take myself, as well as my bread-stuffs.
And in this manner, I continued to live here many
months, without much fear of molestation from any quarter,
apprehending nothing from the Indians, and believing that
the officers of the law must have, by this time, given over
their search for me. But I was mistaken. I at length
learned from some members of the tribe, who had returned to
their old haunts from sojourns round Boston and Plymouth,
where, in becoming praying Indians, and constantly mingling
with the whites, they had picked up all the news, that the
authorities were not only hanging Quakers, but were still scouring
the country for the man who had run away from Plymouth,
and was now said to be somewhere in the Nipmuck country.
“I knew well enough what all that portended, and at once
laid my plans to remove to some less exposed situation. In
pursuance of these, I wrote a short letter to my agent in Plymouth,
(you both have reason to know who that agent was,)
renouncing civilized society, and intimating that I should
probably never return. This missive I entrusted to a praying
Indian, whom I paid for carrying it to Plymouth. In a
day or two after this, I feigned to be taken by a fatal and infectious
safe distance, and telling them that I was about to crawl off
to die in some cave in the mountains. I then made up my
pack, and, having thus provided against all chances of discovery
or pursuit, stole away that night from my cabin, and
stealthily made my way out of the territory of this tribe, in a
southerly direction.
“After wandering and temporarily sojourning in the woods
a few weeks, I at length reached the western shore of Narraganset
Bay, purchased of an Indian a good bark canoe, rowed
over to the long, crescent-shaped island, lying westerly of Montaup,
skirted its northerly point round nearly midway the island,
landed on the eastern shore, and penetrated about half a mile into
the woods to a beautiful little pond, cosily situated at the base of
a sheltering pine hill. Soon deciding on this sequestered and
beautiful spot as an abode promising security against molestation,
and, if I was threatened with it, the best of facilities for escaping
by water, I went leisurely to work with my hatchet, and,
in a week or two, succeeded in erecting a good, weather proof
cabin.
“For the first three months I lived a complete hermit,
subsisting on the bag of corn, and a package of dried venison
I had bought of the Indians before I left the main land, together
with the fresh fish and water fowl taken around the
island by the fishing gear and fowling piece with which I had
provided myself before leaving home. I was, as I wished to
be, wholly cut off from the world. Not a single person, white
or red, had to my knowledge approached the island; and the
only human forms that greeted my senses, indeed, during that
whole period, were those whom, from my lofty lookout from
a pine tree on the hill behind my cabin, I could discern on
the decks of the distant coasters, lazily pursuing their way to
or from some of the ports above.
“About this time, however, needing some necessaries, I
at Montaup, feeling the less hesitation in so doing,
because I knew there was but very little intercourse between
this tribe and the colonists, on account of the mutual growing
jealousies which even then had made considerable progress
towards the disastrous and unnecessary war now pending. I
made the excursion, and the result was a reception which soon
led to established relations of mutual confidence, and the most
friendly intercourse with them all. And Metacom, who had
then just succeeded to the throne, especially became my friend,
my protector, and finally my confidant, having given me not
only the red man's faith, but the faith of one of the most
high-minded men I ever knew; and it was a faith which was
never withdrawn or broken.
“Thus securely located in my pleasant island retreat, and
thus befriended by this powerful chief and his willing subjects,
I continued to live on, year after year, with a good degree of
contentment and safety, but with little to vary the monotony
of my half-savage life. After my fears of betrayal and pursuit,
however, had measurably subsided, I ventured to make
excursions, in disguise, to several of the nearer white settlements,
where I had several former acquaintances, whose
trustworthiness I had tested, and whose sympathy I felt sure
would be, for different reasons, readily accorded me. These
were our friend Roger Williams, of this town; James Leonard,
of Taunton; Nathan Minturn, the husband of your
late hostess; and Captain Alden, the owner and master of a
ship usually plying between the head of Buzzard's Bay and
the southern colonies. All these received me as I expected,
and all in turn became masters of my secret. Mr. Williams,
who had then lived down his former miserable persecutions,
and become favorably known even to the Government of
England, was more than kind to me. He warmly but discreetly
enlisted himself in my behalf, and volunteered to try
court, where he had made some influential friends while there,
when he was procuring his great charter. My trusty friend,
Leonard, also rendered me good service in procuring for me
money from my banker in Amsterdam, and faithfully keeping
it to supply me as my necessities required; while both of the
others I have named were ever equally faithful in guarding
my interest and contributing to my peace and comfort.
“In this manner I continued to reside there during a period
of nearly seven years, during which I pretty much lost all
interest in the affairs of civilized life, and all desire of ever
again returning to it, associated as it was in my mind with the
bitter experiences of the past. But events were now at hand
which were destined to modify these feelings in some degree,
or at least to lead to a change of residence and mode of life.
On one of my secret visits to my friend Captain Alden, I
found him fitting out his ship for South Carolina, when he
invited me to accompany him on the voyage, which he said
could be made without risk on my part, as he had the right
kind of crew, and we should fall among the right kind of
people when we reached our destination. Soon concluding to
fall in with the proposal, I went back to my residence, made
my arrangements, paid flying visits to all my confidential
friends, and returned just in time to embark on the proposed
voyage. In due time we arrived at Charlestown, where I
found myself among so many defiant refugees for conscience'
sake—Quakers, Huguenots, and king-haters—that I soon
felt myself quite at ease; and before my vessel was ready to
return, I made up my mind to remain in that country, and
accordingly I proceeded, with some congenial acquaintances I
had formed at the port, to their residence at an interior
settlement, where I settled down, and continued contentedly
to reside for a period of over two years.
“But, by this time, the short supply of funds I had brought
entertain projects of purchasing landed estate. In view of
these circumstances, I at length decided on taking a voyage to
the north; and having ascertained when my old friend Captain
Alden was again expected with his vessel, I repaired to the
port, luckily found him there on the eve of departure, embarked,
and, after another pleasant voyage, once more found
myself on the shores of New England.
“This was less than a year ago; and I, of course, found the
country in a state of feverish excitement and alarm from the
fast thickening portents of a war between the Colonists and
the Indians, and especially that spirited and intelligent tribe,
with whom I had mainly consorted. I fearlessly went among
them, however, and was kindly received, though I could
plainly perceive that they were laboring under feelings of
suppressed indignation from an increasing sense of their
wrongs, and that the presence of a white man among them,
was now attended with irritating associations. Metacom had
lost none of his friendship for me. He was very kind, but,
at the same time, very thoughtful, and evidently much oppressed
in prospect of the fearful responsibilities which he
clearly saw were about to devolve on him, as the already
selected leader of the red men of the North in the impending
contest. He spoke with much feeling of the new wrongs
and indignities that had been heaped upon him and his people,
and said it required but one drop more to make the red man's
cup of bitterness overflow, when he could not, if he would,
restrain his warriors from hostilities any longer. That drop
I saw madly added, a short time afterwards, at Plymouth; but
I will not anticipate. From Montaup I proceeded by night
to this town, and remained secreted, a few days, in the house
of my never to be forgotten friend, Governor Williams, who,
by this time, had become, quite unexpectedly to me, fully
warranted in opening to me the cheering prospect of a favorable
court for a reversal of my outlawry. He also apprised me,
for the first time, of the death of my wife; and gave me some
vague intimations, which he said had been made to him as
vaguely, that my daughter, then grown to womanhood, was
less pleasantly situated, and less certain of obtaining her just
rights there at Plymouth, than she should be. The opening
of this new prospect for me personally, filled me with sensations
which I before thought were dead within me. I began
to wish to see my family, and know how my affairs at Plymouth
had been managed in my absence; and the desire for
this was not a little enhanced by the intimations I had received
respecting them. It was perfectly useless for me to try to sit
down contented under the new train, that had so unexpectedly
been lighted in my bosom. On a succeeding night, therefore, I
made an excursion to the residence of my friend Leonard, who,
instead of relieving my anxieties about my home affairs, gave me
information that still more startled and amazed me. Although
a portion of the few hundred pounds that Leonard had drawn
for me from my banker in Amsterdam, still remained in his
hands, yet, on my departure for the South, I gave him authority
to make another draft, which he was to hold in readiness for
me in case I lived, and needed it at the South—if not, to keep
it for my family. He had made the application, but the bank
had refused to honor the draft, intimating that the fund was
nearly, or quite exhausted! What could this mean? Mudgridge
had no authority to make but one draft, and that of but
a tithe of the fund; who then could have drawn all the rest,
and how? My wife, or Deacon Mudgridge? But could
either have drawn it without my authority? and if they had,
what had become of it? Here was a mystery which was as dark
as it was startling. At all, and every hazard, I must immediately
fathom it, and, at once, I formed the bold design to visit Plymouth
in disguise, and investigate the matter for myself.
character, humble appearance, and broken English
of a praying Indian, with a piece of an old Bible in my hand,
I made the journey by night to that place, which I reached
on the morning of the trial of the Indians. Having made
for my retreat a temporary camp, deep in among the pine
thickets adjoining the town, I sauntered out at an early hour,
and mingled, unnoticed and unquestioned, in all the different
crowds and gathering of that memorable day—saw everything—
heard everything, ascertained much about the situation of my
own family—much about the extent of the possessions of
Deacon Mudgridge, and, on my way back to my retreat, at
ten o'clock at night, looked into my own house; but will leave
it to my auditors,” added the speaker with a roguish smile,
“to guess whom I probably saw there.
“After my return to my camp, I sat down and sadly reflected
on the events of the day. The discoveries I had already
made, in connection with the revolting public scenes I had
witnessed, had given me a great deal of new light on what I
now plainly perceived to be the dangerous character and influence
of the man, who had, as I now had become satisfied,
built himself up on my ruin. And coupling this with the intimations
I had previously received, I began to feel for the
first time really uneasy for the situation of my daughter.
But as I had thus far learned nothing to warrant much alarm
on that score, the feeling soon gave way to gloomy forebodings
of the consequences which I saw must follow that bloody
day's work of the infatuated court of Plymouth. Full of
these fancies, and prompted by the displays of superstitious
fears I had that evening witnessed in the streets, I was moved
to help on the excitement. And remembering, that when
I was at the head of Cromwell's thunderbolt regiment, as he
was pleased to call it, I had the unusual power of voice to
make my words of command, when ordering an onset, clearly
pine tree, and from its top held forth to the distant multitude
in such utterance of denunciation and warning as came uppermost.
This I repeated for many subsequent nights; for I
had a design, from the execution of which I wished to keep
public attention diverted. That design was secretly to make
myself known to my daughter, and thus obtain, before leaving
the place, much or all of the information I wanted. In accordance
with this project, I loitered round in sight of my
door, the next day, till I saw her in the yard, when I respectfully
approached her, asked for a cup of water, received it,
contrived to have her look me full in the face, and departed;
trusting something to the operation of that mysterious sympathy
often felt by stranger kindred, when unknown they
meet, to create in her feelings an interest for me, which
should save her from any alarm, and me from a repulse at
another interview. I had not miscalculated. The next time
I called, which was at twilight, several days afterwards, when
I found her again in the yard among her flowers, I at once
read in her countenance the very interest and spirit of curious
enquiry that I had desired to create in her mind. But
perceiving that she was looking for some reason for my calling,
I asked her to read to me a little from my fragment of a
Bible. She did so, scanning my countenance at every pause
closer than ever. I then told her if she would be found sitting
in her open window at dark the next evening I would
call again and tell her news. Upon this I turned, and in my
natural voice and manner, said, as she was moving towards
the house, `Good night, Madian;' when glancing back, I saw
her suddenly stop short in her tracks, and stand like a post,
gazing after me in blank bewilderment. The next night I
called—found her at the proposed window, and, as will be anticipated,
at length made myself known, explained all, and
received from her in turn, a frank expose of all that concerned
affairs. The result was another and more secret interview.
And the result of that was an arrangement to decamp together,
the next night, at midnight, on our way to Providence, where
she was to remain in private, while I retired to some safe retreat,
at no great distance, to await the issue of the negotiations
going on in my behalf in England.
“In execution of the safest plan I could devise for effecting
our object, I set off that very night for the residence of my
friend, Captain Alden, near the head of Buzzards Bay,
reached there the next morning, let him into my plans, engaged
a couple of his trusty sailors as oarsmen and assistants,
and with them traveled over the neck to a fishing station on
the outer coast, chartered a good boat, and rowed up to Plymouth
in the evening. Landing about eleven o'clock at a
small, familiar cove making into my own farm, and agreeing
on a signal call in case I wanted help, I left the sailors to
keep the boat till my return, and proceeded to my house to
notify my daughter. But the servants, from whom we had
agreed to keep the secret of our flight, lest through them we
should in some way be traced, had but just gone to bed; and
she would not be ready before the appointed hour of midnight.
There was yet a long hour to wait; and feeling restless, I
took in my hand a light package of choice linen, which Madian
had already made up to take with us, and left the house
with the first intention of going with it to the boat. But
when I got out I was moved by a sudden inclination to patrol
the streets. All was silent; and there were no lights to be
seen, save a solitary one that was feebly glimmering through
a distant window. I followed it up, and found it proceeded
from a ground-floor bed-room in the costly dwelling-house of
Deacon Mudgridge. Perceiving the window which opened
into the garden to be raised a few inches, I took it into my
head to go round and peer into it. A dimly burning night-lamp
broad, seamy, upturned face which lay exposed to view on the
bed, I readily recognized the well-remembered features of
the veritable Deacon. The muscles of his face were twitching
nervously, and his lips were moving with incoherent mutterings.
But so far from blaming him for having a conscience-laden
dream, it suddenly occurred to me, that if I
could get into the room, I might add a counterpart or finale
to the probable burden of the dream with wholesome effect.
“Accordingly, after noting the best way of ingress from
without, I proceeded to the outer door, and finding it unfastened,
hastily wrapt about me a white sheet taken from my
package, stalked into the bed room, carefully setting all the
doors open as I went, and gave a loud rap on the table. The
troubled sleeper started, and with a rapid glance over the
room, bolted upright in bed, riveted his gaze on me, and sat
glaring me in the face, his eyes opening wider and wider, his
looks growing wilder and wilder, and his hair gradually rising
up like bristles on his head, as, without the power of moving
he continued to gaze on in his speechless fright. After
gravely encountering his looks a moment, I silently and solemnly
pointed upward, then at him, then downward, and then,
with my eyes still frowningly fixed on him, slowly backed out
of the apartment.
“Having no more time to lose, I left the Deacon to his own
thoughts and conclusions, and hastened back to my house;
when finding my daughter in readiness, we at once proceeded
to the boat, embarked, and were soon rapidly cutting our way
through the waveless waters, and in the light of the rising
moon, which now fortunately combined to favor our nightly
voyage. On reaching our landing, after two or three hours'
snug rowing, we found, as had been arranged, a carriage in
waiting for us; and immediately starting overland, we made
safely ensconced in the house of Captain Alden.
“As the captain was to sail south again in a few days, and
was to touch at Newport, from which he thought he could
promise us a safe passage up Narraganset Bay, we remained
there in private till the vessel was loaded; when we embarked
wholly undiscovered, as I then supposed, and, after a variety
of adventures, which it will probably now be unnecessary to
particularize, at length arrived at our respective destinations,
Madian having been escorted to Providence, and I passing
round by land to the great village of the Narragansets.”
“You have thrown,” said the young officer, who had been
listening to the developments of the other with the most intense
interest—“Ay, sir, you have thrown a flood of light on
a mind which, now for almost a year, has been groping in bewildering
and painful darkness. Most of the mysteries that
have been thus defying my powers of fathoming, stand explained;
but not quite all. Let me ask you, therefore, what
day or night was it you passed from the waters of Buzzards
Bay into those of the Narraganset?”
“That is a part of our story which I thought you probably
had pretty nearly ascertained at the time. At all events, I
was fearful you or your crew had, or would, I recollect,” replied
the colonel, smiling. “But as it seems that you did
not suspect the truth, I will inform you that our voyage was
made on the day of your battle and lucky escape at Pocasset,
and on the night of the terrible thunderstorm that followed.”
“And it was then indeed Madian and you, who were put
ashore, when your dismasted vessel grounded, and was supposed
to be in danger of going to pieces? I did suspect
something like the truth, at least, so far as she was concerned;
for when your vessel crossed our path, a flash of lightning
her deck, which, from some inadvertent words dropped by the
skipper, who must have been partly let into your secret I
think, I hoped, or rather feared, at that terrible moment,
might be hers, whose fate I was so anxious to ascertain.
Yet, when both our vessels got into Newport, the next morning,
your trusty friend Alden, whom I questioned, so adroitly
concealed your secret, by leaving me to infer, that it was a
praying Indian and his squaw that I had seen put ashore, that
I gave up my impressions, and forebore the pursuit I was intending.
But how and when did you get away from that wild
and desolate looking shore?”
“In the canoes of those, who were more friendly to us, than
they might have been to you, had they caught you. I asked
no questions, but gathered that they followed you down the
bay, keeping themselves invisible in the shadow of the western
shore till after dark, and then part of them getting ahead of
you till the storm struck; when they made their way by land,
till they saw you out of reach in the open sea. And having
seen us landed, they came forward, identified me, and sending
back for their canoes, offered to take us up the bay with them.
Accepting the offer, we embarked with them as soon as the
water became smooth enough, and long before morning,
reached the vicinity of Montaup, where I relinquished Madian
to be rowed by one of them up to Providence; while I kept
on with the rest, to be landed at the mouth of Taunton
river.”
“A bold step for you, Madian—was it not?” asked Willis,
with a look of doubt and surprise. “Did you not hesitate to
go thus?”
“Why should I?” replied the maiden, with quiet assurance
—“Why should I hesitate to trust myself with one who had
proved himself my father's friend, and who, at the same time,
was the safest of boatmen?”
“Who was he, Madian?” rejoined the other, still wondering
and doubting.
“It was King Philip, in the disguise of a sailor!” answered
the girl in a low, impressive, and slightly rebuking
tone.
“Ay, and that was not the last good office he did me,”
warmly interposed the colonel. “A night or two afterwards,
I met him at Leonard's, where he rescued me from the very
grasp of the kidnappers or assassins, who there unexpectedly
assailed me.”
“Kidnappers!” exclaimed Willis starting—“kidnappers,
Colonel Southworth? Who were they, and by whom instigated?”
“I do not know—that is with any certainty—but have
strong suspicions,” returned the other thoughtfully.
“And so have I, now,” rejoined the young officer leaping
to his feet, with the air of one recalling something that goes
to confirm some damning conclusion—“so have I my suspicions
too; and I will give you my reasons for them.”
And he then related the singular and questionable circumstances,
under which he overtook Deacon Mudgridge and his
band, while on his way to Plymouth with the Dartmouth
prisoners, which event, by comparing notes with the colonel,
he found must have occurred the next morning after the assault
at Leonard's, and concluded by asking—
“And yet, how could that old fox have discovered you were
alive, and in the land?”
“I was, at first, at a loss to know, myself,” answered the
other. “But subsequent reflection led me to believe that,
after his fright was over, his devil's cunning converted the
supposed ghost into a living reality, threatening his ruin
unless traced out and destroyed. And that, thereupon, he
had sent out a band of spies, some of whom must have identified
me by his description, when I embarked with Captain
this region, which led the whole of them, with their master,
to come where they accidentally discovered and dogged me to
Leonard's house. And it is now clear that I was right. The
black hearted hypocrite intended not only to seize me, but
designed, I am satisfied, to crown his iniquities by causing me
to be assassinated. But the day of reckoning is now close at
hand.”
“What do you propose to do?” asked the former.
“Go to Plymouth,” resumed the latter—“go there to-morrow
or next day, and openly arraign the miscreant before the
whole court.”
“But have you any tangible evidence, to warrant so bold
a step?” enquired Willis, anxiously.
“Am I not rather too old a soldier to go to battle, except
in full armor?” responded the other, significantly.
“But can you make the journey, and then your appearance
in public, with safety to your own person?” persisted the
former.
“At all events, I shall try it,” replied the determined colonel,
with eyes flashing with their old fires. “But you may
not find me so unprepared for the contest as you fear. There
has been an arrival lately from the old world. No; I go, as
you will see, not wholly unprepared; but I wish you to accompany
us.”
“I will do so,” responded the other, musing. “Ay, I will
go, and I think I can aid you, at least, in exposing that last,
and most flagitious of all that man's wicked attempts. I
know who was the chief tool, as he has long been in other
matters, in that dark transaction; and as he is one of those
rats most ready to desert a sinking ship, I think I can use him
for a better purpose than punishing him with his master; but
I may require time. I think I had better go on one day in advance
of you, to prepare matters; and I have a trusty friend
why, there!” he added, glancing through the window—“there
is the very man, now, approaching the house in company of
our friend, Roger Williams.”
The personages thus announced now entered, and the required
introductions took place; when in the conversation that
at once sprung up between the mutually attracted Colonel
Southworth and Captain Mosely, the unexpected but delightful
discovery was made that they were not wholly strangers,
but had known each other in an interesting connection in the
old world:—Mosely had been a young subaltern in the colonel's
own regiment; was, in fact, distantly related to his
family, and, like his leader, having, in his hatred to kings,
left the country at the Restoration, had, after a wild life with
the buccaneers a few years, settled down in the colonies. The
old battles had of course to be fought over again, and it was
an animating and joyful scene all round; but it was not yet
quite ended.
The good and venerable Williams now rose and waved his
hand for attention.
“All reunions,” he said, in his usual pleasant and self-possessed
manner—“All reunions of friends and kindred are
things of joy; and these, which have been witnessed here to-day,
are so especially such, that I think they may be well signalized
by special tokens. I, on my part,” he added, drawing
forth a document, and with it approaching, and lightly rapping
on the shoulder of the wondering Madian, “have here
a small one, of which I beg this fair and noble maiden's acceptance,
merited as it is every way, and particularly so by
her many weeks' devoted attentions in nursing and aiding to
restore our gallant friend Willis here to life and usefulness.”
“Mr. Williams,” here exclaimed the surprised and blushing
girl, with a look of charming confusion, and with a playfully
menacing shake of her beautiful head; “you, sir, it appears
know, and I did propose he never should know that.”
“Ah! Why?” rejoined the good old man, with a kind
but slightly quizzical air. “Why, my fair friend, you are
delicate over much. But that is ever the way with the riddle,
woman—go through fire and water at the call of duty and
affection, but shrink from the veriest trifle squinting adversely
to her sense of female pride and propriety. Well, it is too
late to retrieve my error. But Captain Willis won't think
much worse of either of us, I fancy, for the disclosure?” he
added, glancing inquiringly to the surprised and gratified
young officer.
“Oh, no,” eagerly responded the latter: “no, indeed, no;
and I thank you, sir, for the revelation of a fact which I should
know, that, if possible, I may repay the precious favor. And
I am gratified also in the disclosure, in that it clears up a mystery
in which that sly Quakeress but the more befogged me.
But it seems the eye of love will be true, though the brain
wanders. Rogue, Madian, I half mistrusted you!”
“This,” resumed Williams, presenting his paper anew,
after this by-play had passed—“the paper I have here in hand
is a deed of the handsome tract of land adjoining that of our
most worthy and Christian friend, the widow Minturn, whom
most of those present have so much reason to remember. It
runs to Madian Southworth. Will she accept it?”
“Why, sir,” replied the hesitating maiden—“why, I hardly
know what I should say or do. What should I, father?”
“Oh, don't appeal to him,” said Williams, “but ask Captain
Willis. What does he say?”
“I have no answer to make,” responded Willis, with emotion.
“The father and daughter have both conquered—
doubly conquered me. Their decision in this, as well as in
matters still more nearly concerning me, I should try to make
my own, even if disagreeable.”
“It will not be disagreeable, I trust,” interposed Colonel
Southworth, now stepping forward, with moistening eye.
“Daughter, arise; and you also, Captain Willis, if you will.
Here, sir,” he continued, placing Madian's hand in that of
her lover. “I was aware of the relation in which you two
have stood towards each other; but here is her lawfully
bestowed hand. As you have been privately, without parental
sanction, so be you now, with a parent's full sanction, publicly
betrothed. Choose your own time and place for the consummating
forms of the law, only let every thing be open and
above board. God bless you, my children!”
“I was not,” remarked Williams, after the emotions attending
the tender ceremony had subsided—“I was not, I confess,
wholly without selfish motive in my gift. I had hoped to
induce—and may I be allowed still to hope that my friend,
Captain Willis, whose views, I have reason to believe, in some
respects coincide with my own, will in reality be induced to
settle down on my beautiful Rhode Island, and help make it
what I intend and confidently prophesy it shall become—a
moral beacon-fire, which, with the passing years, shall grow
brighter and broader, till, in its expanding light, the whole
American people shall see that no true civil freedom and no
true piety can long flourish but in the unrestrained exercise
of the principles of religious liberty.”
After their venerated friend, Williams, had departed, Colonel
Southworth and his congenial guests went into an earnest
secret consultation in relation to the important expose yet
remaining to be made at Plymouth, the results of all which
are reserved for the next and concluding chapter of our
eventful story.
| CHAPTER XXI. The doomed chief, or, Two hundred years ago | |