*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 10387 ***

THE REAL AMERICA IN ROMANCE, VOLUME VI, A CENTURY TOO SOON

The Age of Tyranny

By

JOHN R. MUSICK

ILLUSTRATIONS BY

FREELAND A. CARTER

1909








To

MY WIFE,

WHO SHARES MY JOYS AND SORROWS, TOILS AND CARES,

THIS BOOK

IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED

BY

THE AUTHOR




PREFACE.

Historians have bestowed little attention to that important period in
our great commonwealth, just after the restoration in England. Though
one hundred years before liberty was actually obtained, the sleeping
goddess seemed to have opened her eyes on that occasion and yawned,
though she closed them the next moment for a sleep of a century longer.
Events produce such strange and lasting impressions on individuals as
well as on nations, that the historian may not be much out of the way,
who fancies that he sees in the reign of Cromwell the outgrowth of
republicanism, which culminated in the establishment of a free and
independent English-speaking people on the American continent. The two
principal classes of English colonists were the cavaliers and the
Puritans, though there were also Quakers, Catholics, and settlers of
other creeds. Generally the cavaliers were the "king's men," or
royalists, and the Puritans republicans. The different characteristics
of these two sects were quite marked. The Puritans were sober and
industrious, quiet, fanatically religious and strict, while the
cavaliers were polite, gallant, brave, good livers and quite fond of
display. They were nearly all of the Church of England, with rather
loose morals, fond of fox-hunting and gay society. During the time of
the Commonwealth of England, the Puritans were in power, and the king's
people, cavaliers, or royalists were reinstated on the restoration of
monarchy in 1660.

Sir William Berkeley, a bigoted churchman, a lover of royalty, and one
who despised, republicanism and personal liberty so heartily that he
could "thank God that there were neither printing-presses nor public
schools in Virginia," was appointed by Charles II. governor of Virginia.
Berkeley, whose early career was bright with promise, seems in his old
age to have become filled with hatred and avarice. He was too stubborn
to listen to the counsel even of friends. Being engaged in a profitable
traffic with the Indians, he preferred to let them slaughter the people
on the frontier, rather than to allow his business to be interfered
with. Berkeley's tyranny was carried to such an extreme, that rebellion
was the natural consequence. Rebellion always follows some injury or
misplaced confidence in the powers of the government. This rebellion
came a "century too soon," being just one hundred years before the great
revolution, which set at liberty all the colonies of North America.

In this story we take up John Stevens and his son Robert, the son and
grandson of Philip Stevens, whose story was told in "Pocahontas." The
object has been to give a complete history of the period and to depict
home life, manners and customs of the time in the form of a pleasing
story. It remains for the reader to say if the effort has been
a success.

JOHN R. MUSICK.

KIRKSVILLE, MO., August 1st, 1892.




TABLE OF CONTENTS.

CHAPTER I.      THE DUCKING STOOL
CHAPTER II.     SEEKING BETTER FORTUNE
CHAPTER III.    THE COLONIES OF THE NEW WORLD
CHAPTER IV.     THE STORM AND SHIPWRECK
CHAPTER V.      JOHN STEVENS' CHARGE
CHAPTER VI.     THE ISLAND OF DESOLATION
CHAPTER VII.    IN WIDOW'S WEEDS
CHAPTER VIII.   THE STEPFATHER
CHAPTER IX.     THE MOVING WORLD
CHAPTER X.      THE FUGITIVE AND HIS CHILD
CHAPTER XI.     TYRANNY AND FLIGHT
CHAPTER XII.    THE DAUGHTER OF A REGICIDE
CHAPTER XIII.   LEFT ALONE
CHAPTER XIV.    THE TREASURE SHIP
CHAPTER XV.     THE ANGEL OF DELIVERANCE
CHAPTER XVI.    KING PHILIP'S WAR
CHAPTER XVII.   NEARING THE VERGE
CHAPTER XVIII.  THE SWORD OF DEFENCE
CHAPTER XIX.    THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER
CHAPTER XX.     BACON A REBEL
CHAPTER XXI.    BURNING OF JAMESTOWN
CHAPTER XXII.   VENGEANCE WITH A VENGEANCE
CHAPTER XXIII.  CONCLUSION

HISTORICAL INDEX

CHRONOLOGY




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS:


His tired child was at his side uncomplainingly

Ducking stool

"I'll scratch your eyes out!"

Once more he bent over the sleeping children

Kieft from the ramparts watched the burning wigwams

Stuyvesant

The squaw, with a yell of fear, wheeled to fly for her life

Blanche could not utter a word of consolation

Oliver Cromwell

"Peter the Headstrong," unable to control his passion, tore the letter
   into pieces

Tomb of Stuyvesant

The door was thrown open, and the boy Robert entered to take a part in
   the scene

His temper flamed out in word

"Are you ready?"

Sir Henry Vane

"Our journey is not one half over!"

"You are not lost, if you follow me!"

He fell upon his face in the mud and water with his gun under him

He flung him down the front steps where he lay in a heap on the ground

"Here! Shoot me! 'Fore God, a fair mark!"

Ruins of Jamestown

The ball struck four or five feet to Robert's left, and in front of him,
   splashing up a jet of water

Map of the period




A CENTURY TOO SOON.


CHAPTER I.

THE DUCKING-STOOL.

     Blow, wind, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow!
     You cataracts and hurricanes, spout
     Till you have drenched our steeples, drowned the cocks!
     You sulphurous and thought-executing fires,
     Vaunt couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts,
     Singe my white head! And thou, all-shaking thunder,
     Strike flat the thick rotundity o' the world.
                                        --SHAKESPEARE.

[Illustration: ducking stool]

A crowd of bearded men, some in the sad-colored clothes and
steeple-crowned hats of Puritans, others in loose top-boots, scarlet
coats, lace and periwigs of the cavaliers of the Cromwellian period,
intermixed with women, some wearing hoods and others bareheaded, was
assembled on the banks of a deep pond within sight of Jamestown, Va. A
curious machine, one which at the present day would puzzle the beholder
to guess its use, had been constructed near the edge of the water. It
was a simple contrivance and rude in structure; but the freshly hewn
timbers were proof of its virgin newness. This machine was a long pole
fastened upon an upright post, almost at the water's edge, so that it
could revolve or dip at the will of the manipulators. On the heavy end
of the pole was a seat or chair fastened, with a rest for the feet, and
straps and buckles so arranged that when one was buckled down escape was
impossible. On the opposite end of the pole a rope was tied, the end
hanging down to the ground. This contrivance, to-day unknown, was once
quite familiar to English civilization, and was called the
"ducking-stool." The founders of the American, colonies, whatever may
have been their original designs for the promotion of universal
happiness, found it necessary very soon to allot a portion of the virgin
soil to the humiliation, punishment and degradation of their fellow
creatures.

Thus we find, in addition to the prison, the whipping-post and the
pillory, the ducking-stool. From the vast throng assembled about the
pond on that mild June day in 1653, one might suppose that the entire
colony had turned out to witness some great event. Nearly four years
before the opening of our story, Cromwell had established the
"Commonwealth" in England; but it was not until 1653 that the
Parliament party, or "Roundheads," as they were contemptuously termed,
conquered the colony of Virginia. Many of the royalists were still
elected to the House of Burgesses, and the cavaliers in boots and lace,
with riding-whips in hand, predominated in the throng we have just
described. The continual neighing of horses in the woods told of the
arrival of fresh troops of planters and fox-hunting cavaliers.

The merry cavalier was easily distinguished from the sedate Puritan. The
latter gazed solemnly on the instrument of torture as a thing essential
to the performance of a duty, while the cavaliers seemed to have come
more for the enjoyment of some rare sport, than to witness an execution
of the law. Occasionally a snake-eyed aborigine mingled with the throng,
gazing in wonder on the scene, or a negro, granted a half-holiday, stood
grinning with barbarous delight on what was more sport than punishment
in his eyes.

There is something hideous about the ducking-stool in the present age of
reason and enlightenment, more especially as it was designed to punish
the weaker sex and usually those advanced in years. Before the ugly
machine and between it and the road which ran past the pond to the
village was a grass-plot, much overgrown with burdock, pigweed,
plantain and such unsightly vegetation, which seemed to find something
congenial in the soil that bore an instrument for the torture of the
gentler sex; but on one side of the post and leaning against it was a
wild rosebush covered with fragrant flowers.

It was still an early hour, for the morning dew sparkled in the deeper
recesses of the grand old forest, and the moisture of dawn yet lingered
on the air. Strange as it may seem, that instrument was regarded with
careless indifference, even by the gentler sex of this period.

Meagre and cold was the sympathy which a transgressor might expect from
the assembly at the pond. The women mingled freely with the crowd and
appeared to take a peculiar interest in the punishment about to be
inflicted. The age had not so much refinement, that any sense of
impropriety kept the wearers of petticoats and farthingales from
elbowing their way through the densest throngs to witness the
executions. Those wives and maidens of English birth and breeding were
morally and materially of coarser fibre than their fair descendants, who
would swoon at the thought of torture and punishment. They were not all
hard-featured amazons in that throng, for, mingled with the stout,
broad-shouldered dames, were maids naturally shy, timid and beautiful.
The ruddy cheeks and ruby lips indicated health, and the brawny arms of
many women bore evidence of physical toil.

The cavaliers were jesting and laughing, while the Puritans were silent,
or conversing in low, measured tones on the purpose of the assembly.

There was enough of gloom and solemnity in the one party to prove that
the execution was not to be a farce, and enough merriment in the other
to convince a beholder that the punishment was not capital. A young
cavalier, all silk and lace, with heavy riding-boots, galloped up to the
scene and, dismounting, handed the rein to a negro slave, who had run
himself out of breath to keep up with his master, and hastened down to
the water.

"Good morrow, Roger!" said the new-comer to a young man of about
twenty-five years of age, like himself a gentleman of ease.

"Good morrow, Hugh," Roger answered.

"What gala scene have they prepared for our amusement?" asked Hugh, his
dark gray eyes twinkling with merriment. "I trow it is one that you and
I need never fear."

"The magistrates have adjudged Ann Linkon to be ducked."

"Marry! what hath she done?"

"Divers offences, all petty, but aggravating in themselves. She is not
only a common scold, but a babbling woman, who often hath slandered and
scandalized her neighbors, for which her poor husband is often brought
into chargeable and vexatious suits and cast in great damages."

Hugh gave utterance to a genuine cavalier-like laugh, and, striking his
boot-top with his riding-whip, returned:

"Marry! but she will make a merry sight soaring through the air like a
fisher-bird to be plunged beneath the water."

"It will be a goodly sight, Hugh, and one I knew you would wish to see;
therefore I sent for you."

"You have my thanks; but where is the culprit?"

"They have not arrived with her yet. Did you come from Greenspring Manor
this morn?"

"Yes."

"How is Sir William Berkeley?"

"He is well, and still lives in the hope of seeing the king restored to
his throne."

"Hath he invited our wandering prince to Virginia?"

"Sh--! speak not so loud," said Hugh in an undertone. "There are some of
those Puritans, the cursed Roundheads, near, and it would mean death to
Sir William if it were known that he but breathed such thoughts."

The two young men walked a little apart from the others and sat down
upon the green, mossy banks, where they might converse uninterrupted and
still be near enough to witness the ducking when the officers arrived
with the victim.

"Keep a still tongue in your head, Roger," said Hugh when they were
seated. "Greenspring Manor is beset with spies, and the Roundheads long
for some pretext to hang Sir William for his devotion to our king; but
Sir William says that the commonwealth will end with Cromwell and the
son of our murdered king will be restored."

"The rule of the Roundheads is mild."

"Mild, bah!" interrupted Hugh, in contempt. "They are men without force,
groundlings, the common trash from the earth with whom the best do
not mingle."

"But they permit the people to send royalists to the House of
Burgesses."

"That they do; yet there they must mingle with leet-men and indented
slaves whose terms have expired," and Hugh heaved a sigh and dug his
boot heel into the ground, adding, "It was not a merry day for old
England when they struck off the king's head."

While the young royalists were discussing politics and awaiting the
arrival of the guard with Ann Linkon, the women were not all silent.

"Good wives," said a hard-featured dame of fifty, "I will tell you a
piece of my mind. It would be greatly for the public behoof, if we women
being of mature age and church members in good repute like Ann Linkon
might speak our minds of such baggage as Dorothe Stevens without being
adjudged and sent to the ducking-stool as she is to be done. Wherefore
is Dorothe Stevens so great that one must not say ill of her that they
be plunged in the pond? Did she but have her deserts, would she be at
home and Ann Linkon on the stool? Marry! I trow not!"

"Prythee, good dame Woodley, be more chary of your tongue, lest you be
brought to judgment," interposed a more cautious sister.

Dame Woodley scowled and ground her teeth in silence for a short
interval, and then resumed:

"I speak only to you five who know the wife of John Stevens truly.
Despite all her airs and efforts to assume to herself a superiority, we
know full well she hath her faults."

"Verily, she hath," interposed a female who had her hood drawn low over
her face to protect it from the morning sun.

"And I have heard that she does lead poor John Stevens a miserable life.
What with her extravagance, her temper, and the way she does hate his
old mother whom he loves, his life must be a burden?" continued
dame Woodley,

"Little the pity for him, though," interposed the woman whose weak eyes
were half-hidden by her hood.

"Why say ye so, Sarah Drummond?"

"The more fool he to maintain such a creature."

"Marry! think you, Sarah, that a wife is like a shoe to be cast off at
will? John Stevens hath two children, whom he loves as ardently as ever
parent loved."

"I have known Dorothe Stevens to be kind and gentle," interposed a woman
who had not spoken before.

"Yet she is haughty, and she would have all the world believe her of
superior flesh and blood to ourselves. Doth not the Scriptures say that
'Pride goeth before destruction and a haughty spirit before a fall'?
Yea, verily, I wish she would break her neck when she doth fall."

At this moment, one of the petty officers came to the group of gossipers
and cried:

"Go to! hold your peace, you prating dames! The prisoner comes."

A confused murmur swelled to a general hubbub as two men appeared over
the hill leading between them a woman about fifty-five years of age. She
was a strong, thin-visaged woman, whose cheek had been bronzed by sun
and weather. She was bareheaded, and her hair was gathered in a knot at
the back. Her gown, of a thick woollen stuff, fit closely to her
person, as if it had been made on purpose for the punishment she had
been adjudged to receive. She was talking in a loud voice and
gesticulating angrily with her head, for her arms were confined.

"I will give ye a piece of my mind," she declared to her guards.

"Hold your peace, Ann!" cried the eldest of the guards.

"Hold my peace! Verily, I will, not hold my peace about such a hussy as
Dorothe Stevens. That I, a Christian and Puritan, should be ducked for
slandering one so foul as she! I choke at the thought."

"Marry! I wish you were silent."

"Silent, Joshua Chard, silent, indeed! Think ye that the fear of all the
water in James River will awe me to silence?"

"No, by the mass, it will not," answered his companion.

"Lawrence Evans, unholy papist, do not touch me!"

"I am not a papist."

"Come, Ann Linkon, let us have this execution done with," put in Joshua,
dragging the woman along.

The scene was now ridiculous enough to excite the laughter of even the
gravest Puritans. The pond and ducking-stool were in sight, and Ann
Linkon, with a persistence and strength that was marvellous, began to
pull back, and when she had set her heels firmly in the ground it
required the united strength of both guards to move her.

"I won't go! I won't be ducked! I won't! I won't!" she screamed at the
top of her voice.

"Nay, Ann, bright flower of loveliness, you shall have a soft seat."

"Shame on you, Joshua, to drag an old woman like me by the arm."

"Marry! I am not dragging you, dame Linkon. Your heels do stick like a
ploughshare in the ground."

The woman continued in her sharp, shrill voice to upbraid him:

"Ungrateful wretch, is it thus you serve one who fed you in your
infancy, when your mother had deserted you? Unhand me, indented slave,
and go back to your master, wretch--wretch--wretch!" she hissed, as she
went sliding on her heels, her toes horizontal and her knees rigid. Her
feet ploughed up the earth and stones, and the crowd hooted and jeered.

"Come on, Dame Linkon, and take your bath," cried some idle urchins,
waiting at the water in anticipation of rare sport.

The victim continued to scream in her shrill voice:

"It's for that hussy! She bore false witness against me at the court and
had me condemned. I will be avenged for this!"

"Marry! we will be more damp than you," said Joshua, wiping the
perspiration from his forehead with the cuff of his coat.

"Joshua, is this payment for what I have done for you? When you were
sick with fever I sat by your bedside and cared for you; when no one
else would cook your food, it was I who did it, and is it thus you
requite me?"

"Peace, good dame, I have my duty to perform."

"Duty; but such a duty!"

She still braced her heels against the ground, and it required all the
strength of her guards to push and pull her along.

"Verily, I say such a duty," answered Joshua, on whose grave features
there came a smile. "Dame Linkon, if you would limber your joints we
could make more speed."

"I am in no hurry," she answered.

"I believe you; yet if you had not detained us, this affair would have
been over."

The urchins and older persons began to cry:

"Hold back, Dame Linkon; make them earn their fees."

"I will scratch your eyes out!" she hissed, as she was forced down to
the bank and made to sit in the chair. Joshua wound a strap about her
waist and stooped to buckle it, when, with her freed hand, she seized
his hair, causing him to yell with pain.

"Prythee, hold her hands, lest she make good her threat!" he cried to
his companion.

The appearance of the victim and her guards brought everybody to
their--feet, and a silence fell over the group. The matrons ceased to
gossip; the royalists left off talking politics, and all gathered about
to witness the scene. Joshua's companion held the woman's arms, and he
stooped to bind her feet to the chair, when one flew out like a bolt
from a catapult, planting the toe in the pit of poor Joshua's stomach,
causing him to roll over on the ground and howl with pain. The sheriff
by this time came on the scene and summoned sufficient help to bind her
to the chair.

"See to it that every strap and cord is secure, for if she should fall
she would drown," said the sheriff, and the men drew the leather straps
tight, while Ann Linkon continued to rail and abuse all about her.

"'Tis for the hussy that I am to suffer this," she cried. "Dorothe
Stevens bore me false witness. I never slandered her. There--there is
Hugh Price. Verily I spoke truly, as he knows."

Hugh Price, the young royalist, who had been talking politics with his
friend Roger, blushed.

At this moment, there appeared on the scene a young man twenty-eight
years of age, whose light blue eyes and frank, open face spoke honesty
and humanity. His knit brows and distressed features showed that he was
not in accord with the proceedings. He led the sheriff aside and spoke
hurriedly with him in an undertone, which no one could hear. It was
quite evident that he was making some request which the sheriff would
not grant, for he shook his head in a very emphatic manner, and those
nearest heard the official answer:

"No, no, the judgment of the court, the judgment of the court."

Dame Woodley, turning to a matron near, whispered: "Sarah Drummond,
there is John Stevens, the husband of the woman who had Ann Linkon
adjudged. How dare he come here?"

"For shame!" whispered Sarah Drummond.

"Yea, verily."

"I wonder he could witness the wrong she hath done."

At this a young wife with a babe in her arms interposed:

"They do say that John Stevens had naught to do with the matter and did
protest against having one so old as Ann Linkon ducked."

"John Stevens is a godly man," remarked still another. "He would not
wrong any one."

"If he were my dearest foe," whispered goodwife Woodley, "he would have
my sympathy for living with Dorothe Stevens."

"Whist, Dame Woodley; speak not your mind so freely," whispered Sarah
Drummond, "for there be those in hearing on whose ears your words had
best not fall."

All the while, Ann Linkon had been struggling with her executioners; but
now, helpless and exhausted, she was bound in the chair. The sheriff,
who was a humane man as well as a stern official, remonstrated with her.

"Ann Linkon, do not so exert and heat yourself, or else when you be
plunged into the water you will take your death."

"Death! Take my death! That is what you want, wretch!" she screamed in
her shrill voice.

"Peace, dame; be still!"

"I will not be silent. She is a hussy. John Stevens, I defy your wife,"
she added as her eyes lighted on Stevens who was near. "I told no
falsehood on her. Go to your friend Hugh Price, and if he will speak the
truth, he will say I spoke no falsehood."

Again Stevens was seen talking with the sheriff; but he shook his head
with the inexorable:

"The judgment of the court--the judgment of the court."

Stevens turned away with a look of disappointment on his face. The sight
of him seemed to increase the anger of Ann Linkon, and she railed and
struggled until, exhausted, she panted for breath. The sheriff fanned
her with his hat until she had partially cooled; but as soon as she
regained her breath, she began again:

"It's a merry sight to you all to watch an old woman. Verily, I wish
Satan would rend you limb from limb, all of ye."

"Go to! hold your peace, Ann!" said the sheriff.

"I will not," she screamed, the froth appearing upon her lips.

"Then you shall be plunged hot."

"I care not."

"It may be your death."

"That's what ye want."

"We don't."

"Ye lie, ye wretch!"

"Ann, I will duck you the full sentence if you don't hold your peace."

"You are a wretch!" she screamed.

The sheriff at this moment motioned the crowd to stand back and gave the
signal to his two assistants, who went to the other end of the pole and
seized the rope dangling there.

"You are a white-livered wretch!" the scold again yelled. At this
moment she went soaring off into the air. A piercing shriek came from
her lips as she found herself swinging out over the pond. "I'll scratch
your eyes out!"

"Let her down," commanded the sheriff, and the men holding the rope
allowed it to slip through their hands, and the woman in the chair
darted down toward the water.

"I said it, as I say it yet; she's a hussy! she's a hussy!" shrieked the
woman, whose vocabulary was insufficient for her rage. The chair rapidly
descended until it struck the water with a splash, pushing the waves on
either side and letting the scold down, down into the cold liquid. She
gave utterance to a yell when she found the water coming up over her
breast, almost taking her breath.

She was drawn all dripping from the pond and elevated high in the air so
everybody could see her. A wild yell went up from the crowd, and an
impudent urchin cried:

"Ann Linkon, how like you your bath?"

"I'll scratch your eyes out!" she shrieked, then again began to denounce
her prosecutor as she once more descended, repeating, "She's a hussy!"

Down, down she went into the water, until it came to her chin, causing
her to utter another shriek. Again she was lifted high in the air. The
sheriff, who was superintending the enforcement of the sentence, turned
to his assistants and said:

"You do not dip her under; let the stool go lower."

As Ann Linkon descended for the last time, she seemed to gather up all
her energies and, in a voice overflowing with hate, shrieked:

"It's true! She is a hussy!"

Plunging down, down, down, until ducking-stool and occupant were
completely buried beneath the water, sank the victim, and on the air
came a gurgling sound: "She's a hussy!" The sheriff's assistants gave
the rope a sudden pull, and in an instant the choking, strangling
creature soared up in the air, gasping for breath with the water running
in streams from her garments. She made several efforts to speak, but in
vain. Her mouth, nostrils, eyes and ears were full of water, and she
could only gasp. Poor Ann Linkon was humiliated and crushed. A ducking
was a light punishment, yet the disgrace which attached to it was
sufficient to break the spirit of one possessing any pride. The sheriff
turned to his assistants and said:

"Put her on shore."

The people gave way, and the stool swung round on the pivot and was
lowered to the sands. The sport was over, and the cavaliers began to
jest and laugh over the scene, which, to them, had been one of
amusement. Hugh and Roger once more retired to talk of politics, and the
Dame Woodley, turning to Sarah Drummond, asked if she thought public
morals had been improved by such a disgraceful scene. But few
expressions of sympathy were offered to the coughing, shivering,
dripping woman, who sat silently in the chair upon the sands. She was
meek enough now when the guards came to unbuckle the straps and free
her. Even after she was released, she sat in the chair, strangling,
coughing and shivering.

John Stevens made his way through the crowd and, going up to the woman,
who seemed almost lifeless, began:

"Dame Linkon, I am most truly sorry that this has been done--"

At sound of his voice, the half-inanimate form seemed suddenly inspired
with life and vigor, and, bounding to her feet with a shriek of rage,
she dealt him a blow with her open hand on the side of his head, which
made him see more stars than can usually be discerned on the clearest
night. He staggered and, but for the sheriff, would have fallen.




CHAPTER II.

SEEKING BETTER FORTUNE.

     On peace and rest my mind was bent,
       And fool I was I married;
     But never honest man's intent
       As cursedly miscarried.
                                --BURNS.

In Virginia's colonial days, no man was better known than John Smith
Stevens. His father was one of the original founders of Jamestown and,
it was said, had felled the first tree to build the city. John Smith was
his first born, and was named in honor of Captain John Smith, a
personal friend.

John Smith Stevens was born about the year 1625, the same year that
Governor Wyat defeated the Indians. He was four years of age when John
Harvey became colonial governor in 1629, and a year later, 1630, Sir
George Calvert came to Jamestown on his way to colonize Maryland under
the charter of Lord Baltimore. He was old enough to remember the stormy
days in the assembly, when, on the "28th of April, 1635, Sir John Harvey
thrust out of his government, and Captain John West acts as Governer
till the king's pleasure is known." He never knew exactly why Sir John
Harvey was thrust out; but he heard some one say he was interfering with
the liberties of the people.

He knew that the king replaced him, however. Then the people said that
all Virginia was divided into eight _Shires_: James City, Henrico,
Charles City, Elizabeth City, Warwick River, Warrosquoyake, Charles
River, and Accawmacke, and that a lieutenant was appointed over each to
protect them against the Indians. John Stevens remembered when William
Claybourne, the famous rebel of colonial Virginia, tried to urge the
people, against the will of the king, to drive the colonists out of
Maryland, which they claimed as a part of their domain.

Claybourne established a colony at Kent Island, from whence a burgess
was sent. Leonard Calvert was governor of Maryland, and a
misunderstanding arose between him and Claybourne on Kent Island.
Claybourne must go, for the island was part of Maryland, although the
right of his lordship's patent was yet undetermined in England.
Claybourne resisted. He declared that he was on Virginia territory by
the king's patent, and was the owner of Kent Island, and that he meant
to stay there. He would also sail to and fro in his trading ship, the
_Longtail_, to traffic with the Indians. If he were attacked he would
defend himself. He soon had an opportunity to make good his boasts.
Leonard Calvert seized the _Longtail_, and Claybourne sent a swift
pinnace with fourteen fighting men to recapture her. This was in the
year 1634, when John Stevens was nine years of age; but the affair was
the talk of the time, and consequently was indelibly stamped on his
young mind. Two Maryland pinnaces went to meet Claybourne, and a
desperate fight occurred on the Potomac River. A volley of musket-balls
was poured into Claybourne's pinnace, and three of his men fell dead.
Calvert captured the pinnace; but Claybourne escaped. He was driven from
Kent Island and escaped to Virginia; but Sir John Harvey refused to
surrender him, and John Stevens saw the rebel when he embarked for
England, where he made a strong fight before the throne for Kent Island.
Although he seemed for a while about to triumph, the lords commissioners
of plantations finally decided against his claims, thus dispelling the
rosy dreams of Claybourne.

In 1642, there came to Virginia as governor of the colony Sir William
Berkeley, then almost forty years of age, when John Stevens was only
seventeen. Berkeley was a man of charming manners, proverbially polite,
and he delighted the Virginians, who had a weakness for courtliness. He
belonged to an ancient English family, and believed in monarchy as a
devotee believes in his saint, "and he brought to the little capital at
Jamestown all the graces, amenities, and well-bred ways which at that
time were characteristic of the cavaliers. He was a cavalier of the
cavaliers, taking the word to signify an adherent of monarchy and the
established church," and thoroughly hated anything resembling
republicanism. For his king and church, this smiling gentleman, with his
easy and friendly air, was going to fight like a tiger or a ruffian.
Under his glove of velvet was a hand of iron, which would fall
inexorably alike on the New England Puritans and the followers of Bacon.
With the courage of his convictions, he was ready to deal out banishment
for the dissenters; shot and the halter for rebels. He lived on his
estate of about a thousand acres at Greenspring, not far from Jamestown.
"Here he had plate, servants, carriages, seventy horses, fifteen hundred
apple trees, besides apricots, peaches, pears, quinces and mellicottons.
When, in the stormy times, the poor cavaliers flocked to Virginia to
find a place of refuge, he entertained them after a royal fashion in
this Greenspring Manor house. As to the Virginians, they were always
welcome, so that they did not belong to the independents, haters of the
church and king."

From the very first, John Stevens did not like Governor Berkeley and in
a short time learned that he was a tyrant. Berkeley issued his
proclamation against the Puritan pastors, prohibiting their teaching or
preaching publicly or privately.

John Smith Stevens participated in the Indian war in 1644, and saw
Opechancanough, at this time almost a hundred years of age, captured and
brought to Jamestown, where he requested his captors to hold open his
eyes, that he might see and upbraid Sir William Berkeley for making a
public exhibition of him. A short hour afterward the aged chieftain was
treacherously wounded by his guard.

In the year 1648, John Stevens married Dorothe Collier, the daughter of
a clergyman of the church of England. This naturally united him to the
cavalier or church party, while his mother, brother and sister were
Puritans. Sometimes John thought he had the best wife living, at others
he was almost persuaded that she was intolerable. She was a beautiful
brunette, with great dark eyes which smiled when the sky was fair, but
in which appeared the lustre of a tigress when enraged. Love in its full
strength and beauty seldom dwells in the heart of both husband and wife
through all the vicissitudes of life. It was so in John's case. When the
honeymoon waned and practical existence began, the wife became
ambitious for a more showy manner of life and more pleasures than the
husband could afford. He was prosperous; but his wife's extravagance, in
which he indulged her at first, kept him poor. Poverty became a burden
and marriage a mockery. He who had been insanely in love, and who was
unable to live out of her presence, proved an indifferent husband before
the honeymoon was over. Why? John had thought his wife an angel, and
marriage had shattered his idol. His ideal woman had fallen so far below
his expectations that disappointment drove him to indifference. His wife
thought herself his superior, and John, to her, was more a convenience
than a husband.

Gradually Dorothe grew indifferent toward her husband's mother and young
sister, who idolized him, and though they bore her no thought of ill,
she came to despise them. John's mother saw that her son's wife was
ruining him by her extravagance, yet she dared not interpose as it would
make the rupture complete. Dorothe was a haughty cavalier and despised
all Puritans and, most of all, her husband's mother; but the cavaliers
were in trouble. King Charles was tried, condemned and beheaded in 1649,
and a protectorate (Oliver Cromwell) ruled over England a few months
after the execution of the king. John Stevens' wife gave birth to a son
who was named Robert for his wife's father.

Though England was a commonwealth, Virginia remained loyal to the
wandering prince, who slept in oaks and had more adventures than any
other man of his day. Berkeley, it is said, even invited him to come and
rule over Virginia, assuring him of his support; but Parliament took
notice of the saucy colony and, in 1650, ordered a fleet to conquer it.
The fleet did not reach Jamestown until 1652, when, after a little
fluster, Sir William Berkeley retired to Greenspring, and the government
was turned over to the roundheads, who chose Richard Bennet, Esquire, to
be governor of the colony for one year. On the day of Bennet's
inauguration, John Steven's second child, a daughter, whom he named
Rebecca, was born. These two links of love made his wife more dear to
him. At times she was pleasant; but usually she studied to thwart his
will. She was humbled with the cavaliers and hated the Puritans. Ann
Linkon, an old woman given to gossiping, incurred the displeasure of
Dorothe Stevens, because she gossiped about her extravagance. She had
her arrested, condemned and ducked as we have seen. There was no open
rupture between Dorothe and her husband's relatives. She still greeted
them with half-smiles; but those half-smiles were cold and uncongenial,
and there seemed to be a settled purpose on her part as well as theirs
to dislike each other. To no one did Dorothe express this dislike save
to her husband, and to him she never lost an opportunity for doing so.

In 1654, Claybourne, who was in possession of Kent Island, was
threatened by the Catholics from Maryland, and John Stevens, with his
friend Hugh Price and half a dozen more, went to aid in the defence of
the island. They camped at the mouth of the Severn, in the vicinity of
the present city of Annapolis, where they were joined by Claybourne and
a body of three hundred men.

On the 25th of March, 1654, Stone sailed with a force down the river,
landed and attacked Claybourne. At early dawn the sleeping Puritans were
awakened by the boom of cannon and volleys of muskets. They arose,
formed their lines of battle and poured a tremendous fire upon the
enemy. The Marylanders landed and tried to storm their fort; but after
an hour retreated, leaving twenty killed and twice as many wounded on
the field. Claybourne had conquered and, for a brief space of time, was
to hold sway over the Severn and Kent Island.

John Stevens returned to his home to find that his wife's extravagance
had impoverished his estates and almost brought him to beggary. He had
remonstrated with her without avail. She wrecked her husband's fortune
for a few weeks of vain show.

"Were you more prudent, Dorothe," said John, "we could soon live at
ease. I have fine estates and earn money sufficient to make us
comfortable for life and leave a competency for our children."

"Peace, man! Do you disdain to labor for your wife and children? Do not
other men support their families, and why not you, pray?"

"But other men have helpmates in their wives."

This was the spark which ignited the hidden fires. Her black eyes
blazed, and her breast heaved. She upbraided him until he withdrew and,
mounting his horse, rode away. At night he returned to find his wife
silent and morose, and for nine days they scarcely spoke. This life was
trying to John.

After a few days she grew more amiable and expressed sympathy with her
husband in his financial straits.

"I am going to economize," she declared. "I will take no heed what I
shall eat, nor what I shall drink, nor wherewithal I shall be clothed."

Again for the thousandth time he took heart. After all, Dorothe might
become a helpmate. She was so beautiful and so cheerful in her
pleasanter moods that he thought her a treasure. When he took his baby
on his knee and felt her soft, warm cheek against his own, he realized
that life might be endurable even in adversity.

One evening, as they talked over his financial troubles, he said:

"Our family has a fortune in Florida."

At the name of fortune, Mrs. Stevens' head became erect, and she was all
attention like a war-horse at the blast of a trumpet.

"If you have a fortune there, why don't you go and get it?" she asked.

"We would, I trow, did we know we could have it for the going," he made
answer.

"And wherefore can you not?"

"St. Augustine is under the Spanish rule, and we know not that they will
permit an Englishman even to inherit property there. My grandfather was
a Spaniard and died possessed of valuable property."

"Can you not get it? Can you not get it?" she asked.

"I do not know."

"Try."

"We have thought to try it."

His brother was sent to Florida, but failed, though assured by the
lawyers that they might in time recover it.

There is no business so unprofitable as waiting for dead men's money.
Fortune flies at pursuit and smiles on the indifferent.

The prospects of John Stevens were certainly at a low ebb, and he found
his affairs daily growing worse. Large consignments of tobacco sent to
England remained unpaid for, and he stood in danger of losing all. He
thought of making a voyage to London for the purpose of looking after
his accounts. John Stevens had never been away from his family, save in
the short campaign on the Severn, and he dreaded to leave home. He loved
his children and, despite her faults, he loved his wife. As he held his
baby in his arms and listened to her gentle crowing and heard the merry
prattle of his boy at play, he asked himself if he should ever see those
children again, were he to go away.

John had three friends in whom he reposed great confidence. They were
Drummond, Lawerence, and Cheeseman. One evening he met them at the home
of Drummond and, relating his condition, asked:

"Knowing all as you do, what do you advise?"

"By all means, go to London," answered Drummond.

"Ought I to leave my wife and children?"

"Wherefore not?"

"If I perish on the voyage, they will be wholly unprovided for."

"Your father was a sailor."

"But his son is not."

"Yet methinks the son should inherit some of the father's courage."

John Stevens' cheek reddened at the delicate insinuation against his
courage, and he responded:

"Have I not, on more than one hard-fought field, established my claim to
courage?"

"True, yet why shrink from this voyage?"

"A soothsayer once predicted that dire calamities would overcome me,
were I ever to venture upon the sea."

At this Cheeseman and Drummond laughed and even the thoughtful Mr.
Lawerence smiled. Though soothsayers in those days were not generally
gainsaid, those four men at Drummond's house lived in advance of
their age.

"Go on your voyage and save the sum in jeopardy," was Drummond's advice.

"If your going will make sure the sum, hesitate not a single moment,"
interposed Cheeseman.

"How much is involved?" asked the thoughtful Mr. Lawrerence.

"Eight hundred pounds."

"Quite a sum."

"Verily, it is. The amount would at this day relieve all my
embarrassments; yet, if I go, I leave nothing behind, for my property is
gone, and my family is unprovided for."

"Secure the eight hundred pounds and provide for them."

With this advices in mind, he went home, and that same evening Hugh
Price, the young royalist, who lived with Sir William Berkeley at
Greenspring, called to see him, and once more the voyage to London was
discussed.

"By all means, go," Hugh advised. "It is your duty to go."

Mrs. Stevens was consulted and thought she should go also; she saw no
reason in his taking a pleasure voyage and leaving his wife at home; but
this was out of the question, for the baby was too young to endure the
voyage; besides, the cost of taking her would more than double the
expense. Then Mrs. Stevens, who thought only of a pleasant time, wanted
to know why she could not be sent in his stead. He explained that it was
a matter of business which a woman could not perform; but Mrs. Stevens
became unreasonable, declaring:

"You wish to go to London and pass your time in gay society."

"I do not," he answered.

"Verily, you do. You tire already of your wife; you would seek another."

"Dorothe, I would wed no other woman living," answered John, with a
sigh.

"They all say that; yet no sooner is the wife laid in the grave than
they are anxious to find one younger and more fair."

"Women do the same," John ventured to urge in defence of his sex.

"Not so often as the men."

Then Mrs. Stevens began a harangue on the evils of second marriages and
wound up by declaring they were compacts of the devil. John Stevens
returned to the original question of his going to London.

"My friends all declare that it is my duty to go," he said.

"Your friends! who are your friends?"

"Drummond."

"An ignorant Scotchman."

Drummond was far from being ignorant, yet he stood not in favor with
Mrs. Stevens.

"Mr. Lawerence advises it."

"He is a canting hypocrite."

"Mr. Edward Cheeseman also thinks it advisable."

"Verily, he is a scheming man, who will swindle you out of the eight
hundred pounds when you have secured it."

"Hugh Price agrees with them."

"Does he?" asked Mrs. Stevens.

"He does."

"I don't believe it."

Hugh Price was, in her estimation, the perfection of manhood. He was of
the same church, a thorough royalist and a close friend of Sir William
Berkeley the deposed governor.

"Dorothe, I said he recommended it. Pray do not doubt it."

The matter was settled next day when Hugh Price himself said to Mrs.
Stevens that it was best for her husband to go. She secretly resolved
that during her husband's absence she would enjoy herself.

"John," she said, "if you are going away to London to enjoy yourself,
you must leave with me two or three hundred pounds."

John Stevens interrupted her with a sarcastic laugh.

"Dorothe, had I two or three hundred pounds, I would not go."

"Verily, how do you expect me to pass the dreary interval of your
absence, if I have no luxuries."

"Luxuries in our poor country are uncommon, and what few we have are
expensive. Think not of luxuries, but rather of necessities. Husband the
little money I shall be able to leave you and be prepared against
adversity. I may never return."

"Wherefore not?" cried Mrs. Stevens. "Do you contemplate an elopement?
You were seen holding converse with Susan Colgate."

Mrs. Stevens had, among other weaknesses, enough of the "green-eyed
monster" to make herself miserable. Susan Colgate was a pretty maiden at
Jamestown, whose charms John Stevens had praised in his wife's presence.
He smiled at her interruption and, after assuring her that he had no
intention of eloping, said:

"The ship may sink; then you and these two little children will be
unprovided for. I beseech you, husband the little I leave."

"Have no fears, I shall care for them in some way; but I am not going to
forego anything in anticipation of disaster. Surely you will come back.
My great grief at the absence of my husband will rend my heart so sorely
that I must needs have some pleasure to drive away the sorrow and
perpetuate the bloom on these cheeks and the brightness in these
eyes for you."

Silly John Stevens yielded to his wife and consented to set apart for
luxuries some of the small amount he was to leave. Mrs. Stevens was born
to squander. Ann Linkon had said of her:

"She could cast from the window more than the good husband could throw
in at the door." But Ann was adjudged of slander, and ducked for
the charge.

John paid his mother a visit before departing. That sweet, gentle mother
greeted her unhappy son with, tears. It was seldom Dorothe permitted him
to visit her. His mother knew it and always assumed a cheerfulness she
was far from feeling. Ofttimes poor John had a hard struggle between
duty to his mother and fidelity to wife. It was a struggle in which no
earthly friend could aid him.

The day to sail came. At an early hour the vessel was to weigh anchor,
and just as the approaching day began to paint the eastern horizon an
orange hue, John rose and prepared to depart. All the town was quiet.
His children were sleeping, and he bent over them and pressed a kiss
upon the cheek of each, murmuring a faint:

"God bless you!"

"Shall I awake them?" his wife asked.

"No, no; the parting will be much easier if they sleep.

"Dear, I do so regret your going!" sobbed Mrs. Stevens, genuine tears
gathering in her eyes.

"Heaven grant, Dorothe, it may not be for long."

"I will go with you to the boat," she said, hurriedly dressing herself.

John's small effects had been carried aboard the evening before, so he
had only to go on board himself. As Mrs. Stevens buckled her shoes,
she repeated:

"I do so regret your going. I shall be so anxious about you and so
lonesome."

[Illustration: Once more he bent over the sleeping children.]

John heard her, but made no answer. He was standing with folded arms
gazing on his sleeping children. Moisture gathered in his eyes, and he
murmured a silent but fervent prayer to God to bless and spare them.
There came a knock at the door. It was a sailor come to tell him the
boat was waiting to carry him on board the ship, that the tide and wind
were fair and they only awaited his arrival to sail.

Once more he tenderly bent over the sleeping children and pressed a kiss
on the face of each. A tear fell on the chubby cheek of little Rebecca,
causing her to smile.

"Farewell, little darling!" and the father quitted his home and,
accompanied by his wife, hurried to the beach. Here was a short pause, a
last embrace, a fond adieu, and the husband left the weeping wife on the
strand, while he was rowed to the great ship which had already begun to
hoist anchor.




CHAPTER III.

THE COLONIES OF THE NEW WORLD.

                                       We love
     The king who loves the law, respects his bounds,
     And reigns content within them; him we serve
     Freely and with delight, who leaves us free:
     But recollecting still that he is a man,
     We trust him not too far.
                                              --COWPER.

The Dutch, who still held possession of Manhattan Island and the
territory now known as New York, were not enjoying the peace and
tranquillity promised the just. Because some swine had been stolen from
the plantation of De Vries on Staten Island, the Dutch governor sent an
armed force to chastise the innocent Raritans in New Jersey, believing
that a show of power would disarm the vengeance of the savages. The
event was so grossly unjust that it not only aroused the Raritans, but
all neighboring tribes, and they prepared for war. The hitherto peaceful
Raritans killed the whites whenever they found them alone in the forest.
Fifteen years before some of Minuet's men murdered an Indian belonging
to a tribe seated beyond the Harlem River. His nephew, then a boy, who
saw the outrage and made a vow of vengeance, had now grown to be a lusty
man. He executed his vow by murdering a wheelwright while he was
examining his tool-chest for a tool, cleaving his skull with an axe.
Governor Kieft demanded the murderer; but his chief would not give him
up, saying he had sought vengeance according to the customs of his race.

The governor, who cared little for the "customs of the race," determined
to chastise that tribe as he had the Raritans, and called upon the
people to shoulder their muskets for the fray; but they, seeing the
danger to which the rashness of the governor was leading them, refused.
They had been witnesses of his rapacity and greed, and they now charged
him with seeking war that he might "make a wrong reckoning with the
colony," and reproached him with selfish cowardice.

"It is all well for you," they said, "who have not slept out of a fort a
single night since you came, to endanger our lives and homes in
undefended places."

The autocrat was transformed by the bold attitude of the people. Reason
dawned upon his dull brain, and he invited all the heads of families in
New Amsterdam to meet him in convention to consult upon public affairs.
The result of this invitation was the selection of twelve men to act as
representatives for the people, which formed the first popular assembly
and first representative congress for political purposes in the New
Netherlands. Thus were planted the seeds of a representative democracy,
in the year 1641, almost on the very spot where, a century and a half
later, our great republic, founded upon similar principles, was
inaugurated, when Washington took the oath of office as the first
president of the United States.

These twelve representatives of the people chose De Vries as president
of their number. To that body the governor submitted the question
whether the murderer of the wheelwright ought to be demanded of his
chief, and whether, in case of the chief's refusal, the Dutch ought to
make war upon his tribe and burn the village wherein he dwelt. The
twelve counselled peace and proceeded to consider the propriety of
establishing a government similar to that of the fatherland. To this the
governor cunningly agreed to make popular concessions if the twelve
would authorize him to make war on the offending tribe at the proper
time, to which they foolishly assented. Then the surly governor
dissolved them, saying he had no further use for them, and forbade any
popular assemblage thereafter.

Next spring (1642) Kieft sent an expedition against the offending
tribe, but a treaty disappointed his thirst for military glory. The
river Indians were tributary to the Mohawks, and in midwinter, 1643, a
large party of the Iroquois came down to collect by force of arms
tribute which had not been paid. The natives along the lower Hudson, to
the number of about five hundred, fled before the invaders, taking
refuge with the Hackensacks at Hoboken and craving the protection of the
Dutch. At the same time many of the offending Westchester tribe, and
others fled to Manhattan and took refuge with the Hollanders. De Vries
thought this a good opportunity to establish a permanent peace with the
savages; but Kieft, who still seemed to thirst for blood, made it an
occasion for treachery and death.

One dark, cold night, late in February, 1643, when the snow fell fast,
and the wind blew loud and shrill, and there was not a star to be seen
in the sky, eighty men were sent by Kieft to attack the fugitives at
Hoboken and those at "Colaer's Hook," who were slumbering in fancied
security. Forty of those at the Hook were massacred, while the
Hollanders, who had stealthily crossed the river through floating ice,
were making the snows at Hoboken crimson with blood of confiding Indians
and lighting up the heavens with the blaze of their wigwams. They
spared neither age nor sex. "Warrior and squaw, sachem and child, mother
and babe," says Brodhead, "were alike massacred. Daybreak scarcely ended
the furious slaughter. Mangled victims, seeking safety in the thickets,
were driven into the river, and parents, rushing to save their
children, whom the soldiery had thrown into the stream, were driven into
the waters and drowned before the eyes of their unrelenting murderers."

[Illustration: KIEFT, FROM THE RAMPARTS, WATCHED THE BURNING WIGWAMS.]

It has been estimated that fully one hundred perished in this ruthless
butchery. Historians state that Kieft, from the ramparts at Fort
Amsterdam, watched the burning wigwams. This treachery and wholesale
murder roused the fiery hatred of the savages and kindled a war so
fierce that Kieft was frightened by the fury of the tempest which his
wickedness and folly had raised, and he humbly asked the people to
choose a few men again to act as his counsellors. The colonists, who had
lost all confidence in the governor, chose eight citizens to relieve
them from the fearful net of difficulties in which they were involved.
Almost the first these eight advisers did was to ask the states-general
at home to recall Governor Kieft, which was promptly done, and while on
his way to Europe with his ill-gotten gains, his vessel went down, and
the governor perished.

Peter Stuyvesant, the brave soldier who had lost a leg in the West
Indies, was sent as governor to New Amsterdam, and he arrived in May,
1647. The stern, stubborn old soldier was received with great
demonstrations of joy by the Hollanders. Despite all his stubbornness,
Stuyvesant was a man of keen sagacity. He was despotic, yet honest and
wise. He set about some much needed reforms, refusing to sell liquors
and arms to the Indians. He soon taught the Indians to respect and fear
him; but at the same time they learned to admire his honesty
and courage.

By prudent and adroit management, Stuyvesant swept away many annoyances
in the shape of territorial claims. When the Plymouth Company assigned
their American domain to twelve persons, they conveyed to Lord Stirling,
the proprietor of Nova Scotia, a part of New England and an island
adjacent to Long Island. Stirling tried to take possession of Long
Island, but failed. At his death, in 1647, his widow sent a Scotchman to
assert the claim and act as governor. He proclaimed himself as such, but
was promptly arrested by Stuyvesant and put on board a ship bound for
Holland. The vessel touched at an English port, where the "governor"
escaped, and no further trouble with the family of Lord Stirling ensued.

Stuyvesant went to Hartford and settled by treaty all disputes with the
New Englanders which had annoyed his predecessors. Then he turned his
attention to the suppression of the expanding power and influence of the
Swedes on the Delaware. The accession of a new queen to the throne of
Sweden made it necessary to make a satisfactory adjustment of the
long-pending dispute about the territory. Stuyvesant was instructed to
act firmly but discreetly. Accompanied by his suite of officers, he went
to Fort Nassau on the New Jersey side of the Delaware, whence he sent
Printz, the governor of New Sweden, an abstract of the title of the
Dutch to the domain and called a council of the Indian chiefs in the
neighborhood. These chiefs declared the Swedes to be usurpers and by
solemn treaty gave all the land to the Dutch. Then Stuyvesant crossed
over and, near the site of New Castle in Delaware, built a fort, which
he called Fort Cassimer. Governor Printz protested in vain. The two
magistrates held friendly personal intercourse, and they mutually
promised to "keep neighborly friendship and correspondence together."
This strange friendly conquest was in the year 1651. The following year
an important concession was made to the inhabitants of New Amsterdam. A
constant war was waged between Stuyvesant and the representatives of the
people called the "Nine." The governor tried to repress the spirit of
popular freedom; the Nine fostered it. They wanted a municipal
government for their growing capital and, fearing the governor, made a
direct application to the states-general for the privilege. It was
granted, and the people of New Amsterdam were allowed a government like
the free cities of Holland, the officers to be appointed by the
governor. Under this arrangement, New Amsterdam (afterward New York)
was, early in 1653, organized as a city. Stuyvesant was very much
annoyed by this "imprudent entrusting of power with the people."

Stuyvesant was a royalist, and for years he struggled with the
increasing spirit of republicanism, which was constantly growing among
his people; but he was not troubled by his domestic affairs alone; his
foreign relations were once more disturbed. Governor Printz returned to
Sweden, and in his place the warlike magistrate John Risingh came to the
Delaware with some soldiers under the bold Swen Schute, and appeared
before Fort Cassimer demanding its surrender.

The Dutch residents fled to the fort demanding protection; but Bikker
the commander said:

"I have no powder. What can I do?"

After an hour's parley, Bikker went out, leaving the gate of the fort
wide open, and shook hands with Schute and his men, welcoming them as
friends. The Swedes fired two shots over the fort in token of its
capture and then, blotting out the Dutch garrison, named it Fort
Trinity, as the surrender was on Trinity Sunday, 1654.

Stuyvesant was enraged and perplexed by this surrender. At that time he
was expecting an attack from the English, and the doughty governor
prepared to wipe out the stain on Belgic prowess caused "by that
infamous surrender." On the first Sunday in September, 1655, with seven
vessels carrying more than six hundred soldiers, he sailed from New
Amsterdam for the Delaware. He landed his force on the beach between
Fort Cassimer and Fort Christina near Wilmington, and an ensign with a
drum was sent to the fort to demand the surrender. The warlike Schute
complied next day, and in the presence of Stuyvesant and his suite he
drank the health of the governor in a glass of Rhenish wine. So ended
the bloodless conquest.

[Illustration: Stuyvesant.]

On his return to Manhattan, Stuyvesant found the wildest confusion
reigning because of a sudden uprising of the Indians. A former civil
officer named Van Dyck had a very fine peach orchard which caused him no
little annoyance on account of the constant pilfering of the Indians.
Van Dyck, had grown exasperated and had vowed to kill the next Indian
whom he should discover stealing his fruit. One day while the stout
Dutchman was at his midday meal, his son ran in to tell him that he had
seen an Indian squaw enter the orchard. Van Dyck sprang from the table
vowing vengeance, and from the rack made of deer's horns he took down
his fusee and rushed into the orchard, taking care to conceal himself
until he was within easy range. The squaw saw him and, with a yell of
fear, wheeled to fly for her life; but Van Dyck was a true shot and,
bringing his gun to his shoulder, killed her as she ran.

[Illustration: THE SQUAW, WITH A YELL OF FEAR, WHEELED TO FLY FOR HER
LIFE.]

The fury of the tribe was kindled, and the long peace of ten years was
suddenly broken. One morning before daybreak almost two thousand river
Indians in sixty large war-canoes landed, distributed themselves through
the town and, under pretence of looking for northern Indians, broke into
several dwellings in search of Van Dyck. A council of the inhabitants
was immediately held at the fort, and the sachems of the invaders were
summoned before them. The Indian leaders agreed to leave the city and
pass over to Nutten (now Governor's Island), before sunset; but they
broke their promise. That afternoon Van Dyck was discovered, and they
opened fire on him. He fled down the street, but was finally shot and
killed, and the lives of others were threatened. The people flew to arms
and drove the savages to their canoes. The Indians crossed the Hudson
and ravaged New Jersey and Staten Island. Within three days a hundred
inhabitants were killed, one hundred and fifty made captives, and the
estates of three hundred utterly desolated by the dusky foe. In the
height of the excitement, Stuyvesant returned and soon brought order out
of chaos, yet distant settlements were still broken up, the inhabitants
in fear flying to Manhattan for safety. To prevent a like calamity in
the future, the governor issued a proclamation ordering all who lived in
secluded places in the country to gather themselves into villages "after
the fashion of our New Engand neighbors." After some desultory fighting
on the frontier, Dutch and Indian hostilities in a great measure ceased,
and for about ten years, beyond the threatenings of the English on the
one hand and the Indians on the other, New Netherland enjoyed a season
of peace and prosperity.

The New England colonies, with the exception of Rhode Island and a part
of the Mason and Gorges claim, had, in 1644, formed a confederacy. The
New England Confederacy--the harbinger of the United States of
America--was simply a league of independent provinces, as were the
thirteen states under the "Articles of Confederation," each jealously
guarding its own privileges and rights against any encroachments of the
general government. That central body was in reality no government at
all. It was composed of a board of commissioners consisting of two
church members from each colony, who were to meet annually, or oftener
if required. Their duty was to consider circumstances and recommend
measures for the general good. They had no executive or independent
legislative powers, their recommendations becoming laws only after they
had been acted upon and approved by the colonies. The doctrine of state
supremacy was controlling. Though it was not a government, or at least
only a government in embryo, yet the student can see from these
separate colonies, jealous of their rights, the outcoming of the
United States.

Of that famous league, Massachusetts assumed control because of her
greater population and her superiority as a "perfect republic." It
remained in force more than forty years, during which period the
government of England was changed three times. When trouble arose
between King Charles I. and Parliament, the New Englanders, being
Puritans, were in sympathy with the roundheads. In 1649 King Charles
lost his throne and life, and England for a brief time became a
commonwealth. Unlike the Virginians, the New Englanders sympathized with
the English republicans, and found in Oliver Cromwell, the ruler of
England next to the beheaded Charles I., a sincere friend and protector.
The growth of the colony of Massachusetts was particularly healthy. A
profitable commerce between the colony and the West Indies, now that the
obnoxious navigation laws were a dead letter, was created. That trade
brought bullion, or uncoined gold and silver, into the colony, which
led, in 1652, to the exercise of an act of sovereignty on the part of
the authorities of Massachusetts by the establishment of a mint. It was
authorized by the general assembly, in 1651, and the following year
"silver coins of the denomination of threepence, sixpence and
twelvepence, or shilling, were struck. This was the first coinage
within the territory of the United States."

There lived in Boston at this time a family named Stevens. The head of
the family was a white-haired old man named Mathew, whose dark eyes and
complexion indicated southern blood. He was a foster-son of the Pilgrim
Father, Mr. Robinson, and had come to New England in the _Mayflower_
when she made her first memorable voyage to Plymouth, thirty-two
years before.

Mathew Stevens had removed with his family from New Plymouth to Boston
the year before the king of England lost his head. This man was a
brother to the father of John Stevens of Virginia, and though he had
Spanish blood in his veins, he was a Puritan. The Puritan of
Massachusetts was, at this time, the straitest of his sect, an
unflinching egotist, who regarded himself as eminently his "brother's
keeper," whose constant business it was to save his fellow-men from sin
and error, sitting in judgment upon their belief and actions with the
authority of a divinely appointed high priest. His laws, found on the
statute books of the colony, or divulged in the records of court
proceedings, exhibit the salient points in his stern and inflexible
character, as a self-constituted censor and a conservator of the moral
and spiritual destiny of his fellow-mortals. A fine was imposed on
every woman wearing her hair cut short like a man's; all gaming for
amusement or gain was forbidden, and cards and dice were not permitted
in the colony. A father was fined if his daughter did not spin as much
flax or wool as the selectmen required of her. No Jesuit or Roman
Catholic priest was permitted to make his residence within the colony.
All persons were forbidden to run or even walk, "except to and from
church" on Sunday, and a burglar, because he committed his crime on that
sacred day, was to have one of his ears cut off. John Wedgewood was
placed in the stocks for being in the company of drunkards. Thomas
Petit, for "suspicion of slander, idleness and stubbornness," was
severely whipped. Captain Lowell, a dashing ladies' man, more of a
cavalier and modern society fop than a sober Puritan, was admonished to
"take heed of his light carriage." The records show that Josias
Plaistowe, for stealing four baskets of corn from the Indians, was
ordered to return to them eight baskets, to be fined five pounds, and
thereafter to "be called by the name of Josias, and not Mr. Plaistowe,
as formerly." The grand jurors were directed to admonish those who wore
apparel too costly for their income, and, if they did not heed the
warning, to fine them, and in the year 1646 there was enacted a law in
Massachusetts which imposed a penalty of flogging for kissing a woman
on the street, even in the way of honest salute. This law remained in
force for a hundred years, though it was practically ignored.

In this school of rigid Puritanism lived the northern family of Stevens,
of the same Spanish branch as the Virginia family. The head of the
family, having been trained by such devout men as John Robinson and
William Brewster, of course grew up in the law and customs of the
Puritans. Puritanism to-day has a semblance of fanaticism; but in the
age of pioneers, when civilization was in its infancy, the frontierman
naturally went to some extreme. Extreme Puritanism is better than the
reign of lawlessness which characterized many frontier settlements in
later years. It is sometimes difficult to distinguish between fanaticism
and the keenest sagacity, and the folly of one age may become the wisdom
of a succeeding century. Fanatic as the Puritan may be called, he was
the sage of New England and gave to that land an impetus in the arts,
literature, and science, which has enabled that country to eclipse any
other part of the New World.

While New England was steadily progressing, despite changes in the home
government, Maryland was without any historical event worth mentioning,
save the trouble with Claybourne.

That portion of the United States known as New Jersey and Delaware
consisted at this time of only a few trading settlements hardly worthy
of being called colonies. Except for the Swedish and Dutch troubles and
the Indian wars mentioned, these countries were in the last decade
wholly without historical interest. After all, territory is but the body
of a nation. The people who inhabit its hills and valleys are its soul,
its spirit and its life.

All south of Virginia was a wilderness occupied by tribes of Indians
until the Spanish settlements were reached. That portion now known as
Carolinia and Georgia was claimed by Spain. In 1630, a patent for all
this territory was issued to Sir Robert Heath, and there is room to
believe that, in 1639, permanent plantations were planned and
contemplated by his assign William Howley, who appeared in Virginia as
"Governor of Carolinia." The Virginia legislature granted that it might
be colonized by one hundred persons from Virginia, "freemen, being
single and disengaged of debt." The attempts were unsuccessful, for the
patent was declared void, because the purpose for which it was granted
had never been fulfilled. Besides, more stubborn rivals were found to
have already planted themselves on the Cape Fear River. Hardly had New
England received within her bosom a few scanty colonies, before her
citizens began roaming the continent and traversing the seas in quest of
untried fortune. A little bark, navigated by New England men, had
hovered off the coast of Carolinia. They had carefully watched the
dangers of its navigation, had found their way into the Cape Fear River,
had purchased of the Indian chiefs a title to the soil, and had boldly
planted a little colony of herdsmen far to the south of any English
settlement on the continent. Already they had partners in London, and
hardly was the grant of Carolinia made known before their agents pleaded
their discovery, occupancy and purchase, as affording a valid title to
the soil, while they claimed the privilege of self-government as a
natural right. A compromise was offered, and the proprietaries, in their
"proposal to all that would plant in Carolinia," promised emigrants from
New England a governor and council to be elected from among a number
whom the emigrants themselves should nominate; a representative
assembly, independent legislation, subject only to the negative of the
proprietaries, land at a rent of half a penny per acre and such freedom
from customs as the charter would warrant.

Notwithstanding all these offers, but few availed themselves of them,
and the lands were for most part abandoned to wild beasts and natives.
From Nansemond, Virginia, a party of explorers was formed to traverse
the forests and rivers that flow into the Albemarle Sound. The company
which started in July, 1653, was led by Roger Green, whose services
were rewarded by a grant of a thousand acres, while ten thousand acres
were offered to any colony of one hundred persons who would plant on the
banks of the Roanoke, or the south side of the Chowan and its tributary
streams. These conditional grants seem not to have taken effect, yet the
enterprise of Virginia did not flag, and Thomas Dew, once the speaker of
the assembly, formed a plan for exploring the navigable rivers still
further to the south, between Cape Hatteras and Cape Fear. How far this
spirit of discovery led to immediate emigration, it is not possible to
determine. The country of Nansemond had long abounded in nonconformists,
and the settlements on Albemarle Sound were the result of spontaneous
overflowings from Virginia. A few vagrant families were planted within
the limits of Carolinia; but it is quite certain that no colony existed
until after the restoration.




CHAPTER IV.

THE STORM AND SHIPWRECK.

                                     The wind
     Increased at night, until it blew a gale;
       And though 'twas not much to naval mind,
     Some landsmen would have looked a little pale,
       For sailors are, in fact, a different kind:
     At sunset they began to take in sail.
                                           --BYRON.

Nearly two centuries and a half have made wonderful changes in ocean
travel. The floating palaces of to-day which plough the deep on schedule
time, regardless of storms, contrary winds and adverse tides, were
unknown when John Stevens embarked for England in 1654.

The vessel in which he sailed was one of the best of the time. It was
large, well manned and officered, and few had any fears of risking a
voyage in the stanch craft _Silverwing_; but John Stevens could no more
allay his fears than control the storm.

His wife, who stood weeping on the strand, became a speck in the
distance and then disappeared from his view. The heart of the husband
overflowed with bitterness, and he turned from the taffrail where he had
been standing and walked forward to conceal his emotion.

All about him were gay groups of people, laughing and jesting. They were
mostly men and women who had come from England and were happy now that
they were going home. John's wife seemed to have lost her many faults,
and the image that faded from his gaze was a creature of perfection.
Only the beautiful face, the great dark eyes and the sunny smiles were
remembered.

John went to his stateroom and, falling into his berth, wept. He may be
called weak, but he was not. John had braved too many dangers and
undergone too many hardships to be termed weak. His mind was filled with
his wife and children. The face of his sleeping baby, whose warm, tender
arms had been so often entwined about his neck, lingered in his mind.
When the dinner hour came he was not hungry, so he remained in
his cabin.

The vessel had gained the open sea by nightfall and was bowling along at
a three-knot rate under full spread of canvas and fair wind. He went to
supper, though little inclined to eat, and during the night was awakened
with a load heavier than grindstones on his stomach.

"Surely I will die," he groaned, as each heaving billow seemed to
torture his poor stomach. He rose at dawn and found himself unable to
stand. The sea was rough, and the ship was tossing and reeling like a
drunken man. John found himself unable to lie down or sit up. He spent
the day in rolling alternately in his berth or on the floor, groaning,
"Surely I will die."

The purser came and laughed at his distress, assuring him that he would
survive. Next day he felt better and crawled out upon the deck. The sea
still ran high, though the sky was clear, and the sun shone on the
wildly agitated sea.

He saw a wretch as miserable as himself crouching under a hencoop and
holding both hands upon his tortured stomach. John Stevens paused for a
moment at the rail, gasping with seasickness.

"Say, neighbor, are you having a hard time?" asked the seasick but
cheerful individual under the hencoop.

"My head hurts," John gasped.

"Verily, I ache all over," returned the new acquaintance under the
hencoop.

At this moment the cabin door was thrown suddenly and unceremoniously
open, and a man past middle age darted forward as if he had been shot
out of a cannon and went sprawling upon the deck, howling as he did so:

"Good morrow, stranger!"

John was not astonished at the sudden appearance of the man, but was
rather alarmed at the violence of his fall. He ran to him and assisted
him to rise.

"Are you injured?" he asked.

"Nay, nay; the fall was not violent."

The man under the hencoop, who had been a disinterested spectator, took
occasion to remark:

"Marry! my friend, I wish it were I who had taken such a tumble; surely
it would have crushed the stones in my stomach."

"I am not sick," the new-comer answered, rising to his feet. "I was
thrown by the sudden lurch of the ship; but it will soon be over."

"I trust so," groaned the seasick man by the hencoop.

"But the sea runs high," the old man said, "let us go in."

John Stevens, who had partially recovered from his seasickness, went
into the cabin with the stranger. He had formed no acquaintances since
coming on board the vessel and was strangely impressed with this old
gentleman. Men cannot always brood on the past and retain their senses.
John Stevens was not a coward, yet the helpless condition of his wife
and children made him dread danger. When they were seated he said:

"You do not belong at Jamestown."

"No. I am from London and know no one at Jamestown."

"You came in the last ship?"

"We did."

"You did not come alone?"

"No; my daughter Blanche came with me. She is all the child I have."

John Stevens remembered to have seen a very pretty girl on the streets
of Jamestown, and for having praised her beauty, his wife had grown
insanely jealous and given way to one of her outbursts of anger. The
gentleman from London was Mr. Samuel Holmes, who had been a too warm
friend of Charles I. to suit the Protectorate, and after Cromwellism had
become a certainty, he considered it better to fly the country. As
Virginia had been friendly to cavaliers, he had brought his daughter to
Jamestown and spent six months there; but, being assured by friends that
he could return with safety, he had decided to go home.

From that time John Stevens and Mr. Holmes became friends. In a day or
two more the passengers had nearly all recovered from their
seasickness, and the voyage promised to be a favorable one. John
Stevens met Blanche Holmes, a pretty blue-eyed English girl, with light
brown hair and ruddy cheeks. She was not over eighteen years of age, and
was one of those trusting, confiding creatures, who win friends at
first sight. By the strange, fortuitous circumstances which fate seems
to indiscriminately weave about people, the maid and John Stevens were
thrown much into each other's society.

She had many questions to ask about the New World. He, having passed all
his life there and having explored the coast to Massachusetts and fought
many battles with the Indians, was able to entertain her, and she never
seemed to tire of listening to his adventures. It never occurred to John
that there could be any impropriety in talking to this child, nor was
there any, though modern society might condemn him. He never mentioned
his family to either Blanche or her father.

That wife and children left at Jamestown were subjects too sacred for
general conversation. When alone in his stateroom he knelt and breathed
a prayer for them, and often in his dreams he heard his laughing boy at
play, or felt the warm, soft hand of his baby on his cheek, or heard her
sweet voice calling him. Often he awoke and sobbed like a child on
discovering that the ship was hourly bearing him further and further
from home.

Mr. Holmes was a cheerful companion at first, but gradually he grew
melancholy, and at times inapproachable. One day John met him at the
gangway, and he took the young man's arm and, leading him aft, said:

"I want to talk with you."

They sat upon some coils of rope, and Mr. Holmes resumed: "We are going
to have bad weather. I am something of a sailor, and, in addition to my
own experience, the captain says we will have a storm ere many hours."

There was something in the voice and manner of the man which chilled
Stevens; but he retained his self-possession and answered:

"Of course you feel no serious apprehension? The ship is strong and able
to weather any storm."

"I believe it is; yet in a storm at sea we have no assurance of safety.
Our captain is incompetent and the vessel has, through a miscalculation,
gone a long distance out of her true course. Now what I wish to say is
this: should anything happen to me on this voyage, I want you to care
for my daughter. You have seen and talked with her every day since first
we met, and you know how good she is. I am her only relative on earth,
and Cromwell has set a price on my head. Should I perish, she will be
without a protector."

John Stevens was astonished at the strange request, but consented to
accept the charge, provided he should be spared and Mr. Holmes
should perish.

Mr. Holmes was not mistaken in his surmises about the weather. The day
of this interview was the nineteenth of September, and before night the
sky was obscured by great fleecy clouds, and in the evening the rain
fell in torrents. The firmament darkened apace; sudden night came on,
and the horrors of extreme darkness were rendered still more horrible by
the peals of thunder which made the sphere tremble, and the frequent
flashes of lightning, which served only to show the horror of the
situation, and then leave them in darkness still more intense. The wind
grew more violent, and a heavy sea, raised by its force, united to add
to the dangers of the situation.

"It is coming," Mr. Holmes whispered to John, whom he met in the
gangway.

"We are going to have a terrible storm," John answered.

"Yes; remember your promise."

"I will not forget it, Mr. Holmes; but why do you refer to it? Surely
you are as likely as I to outlive the tempest."

"No, no," Mr. Holmes answered, shaking his white head despairingly, "I
have an impression that my time has surely come."

John Stevens was startled by the remark, for he too was living in the
shadow of some expected calamity. He next met the passenger whom he had
seen under the lee of the hencoop, and his despair and grimaces were
enough to make even the discouraged John smile.

"Oh, I shall be drowned. I shall be drowned!" the poor fellow was
groaning. "Pray for me, some of you who can. I cannot, for it would do
no good; but some of you can surely pray. By the mass! I see the very
whale that swallowed Jonah ready to gulp me down."

He was clinging to some ropes as if he expected momentarily to be swept
away.

John Stevens went to bed, which was the most sensible thing he could do.
By daylight on the morning of the twentieth, the gale had increased to a
furious tempest, and the sea, keeping pace with it, ran mountains high.
All that day the passengers were kept close below hatches, for the sea
beat over the ship.

About seven o'clock on the morning of the twenty-first, John Stevens was
alarmed by an unusual noise upon deck, and running up, perceived that
every sail in the vessel, except the foresail, had been totally carried
away. The sight was horrible, and the whole vessel presented a spectacle
of despair, which the stoutest heart could not withstand. Fear had
produced not only all the helplessness of despondency, but all the
mischievous freaks of insanity. In one place stood the captain, raving,
stamping and tearing his hair in handfuls from his head. Here some of
the crew were upon their knees, clasping their hands and praying, with
all the extravagance of horror depicted in their faces. Others were
flogging their images with might and main, calling upon them to allay
the storm. One of the passengers from England had got hold of a bottle
of rum and, with an air of distraction and deep despair imprinted on his
face, was stalking about in his shirt, crying:

"Come, drink to oblivion, death we must meet; let us make the
dissolution easy." Perceiving that it was his intent to serve it out to
the few undismayed members of the ship's crew, John rushed on him,
seized the liquor and hurled it over into the raging sea.

Having accomplished this, Stevens next applied himself to the captain,
endeavoring to bring him back to his senses, and a realization of the
duty which he owed as commander to the passengers and crew. He appealed
to his dignity as a man, exhorted him to encourage the sailors by his
example, and strove to raise his spirits by saying that the storm did
not appear so terrible as some he had before experienced. While he was
thus employed, they shipped a sea on the starboard side, which all
thought would send them to the bottom. For a moment the vessel seemed to
sink beneath its weight, shivered and remained motionless. It was a
moment of critical suspense, and, fancying that they were gradually
descending into the great bosom of the ocean, John Stevens gave himself
up for lost and summoned all his fortitude to bear the approaching death
as became a brave man.

At this crisis, the water, which rushed with incredible force through
all parts of the vessel, floated out. Mr. Holmes was almost drowned,
and, had not John seized one arm which he swung wildly above his head,
he probably would have been washed overboard. The vessel did not go down
immediately as they thought it would, and Mr. Holmes, partially
recovered, joined Stevens.

"The storm is terrible," said the old man. "The ship is going down, and
I will go with it."

"Nay, nay; keep up a stout heart," urged John.

"Verily, how can I, when danger overwhelms even the captain?"

"If we must die, let us die like men, struggling for our lives," said
John.

"Remember your pledge to me. Care for her, for I will go. The ship may
be saved, but my end I feel is near."

John promised to obey his request, and then, being one whom hope never
entirely deserted, he turned upon the captain of the ship and once more
urged him to make some manly exertion to save himself and the crew.

"Throw the guns overboard as well as much of the weighty cargo," he
cried, "and set the pumps a-going."

Mr. Holmes, having sufficiently recovered to realize the wisdom of the
course pursued by Stevens, joined him in his entreaties, and they got
the captain and some of his crew to make one more effort. The water,
however, gained on the pumps, and it seemed as if they would not long be
able to keep the vessel afloat.

At ten o'clock, the wind had increased to a hurricane; the sky was so
entirely obscured with black clouds, and the rain poured in such
torrents, that objects could not be discerned from the wheel to the
ship's head. Soon the pumps were choked and could be no longer worked.
Then dismay seized on all, and nothing but unutterable despair, anguish
and horror, wrought up to frenzy, were to be seen. Not a single person
was capable of an effort to be useful; all seemed more desirous to
terminate their calamities in an embrace of death, than willing, by a
painful exertion, to avoid it.

John Stevens, though despairing, yet determined to make a manly struggle
for life, and he was staggering through the main cabin, when some one
clutched his arm. He turned about and through the gloom saw Blanche's
pale face.

"Are we going down?" she asked.

"God grant that it be not so!" he answered.

"But such fearful noises, such hideous sights."

"Be brave, young maid," he urged. "Where is your father?"

"His shoulder is injured, and his left arm is almost useless."

At this moment Mr. Holmes came along, holding his injured arm with his
right hand.

"Aye, my friend, the worst is coming," he said, fixing his despairing
eyes on the white face of his daughter. "I am pleased to find you
together, for now I can say what I would to both of you. Blanche, he
hath promised to care for you; he is a man of honor, rely on him."

A sudden lurch of the vessel sent all three in a heap at one side of the
cabin, and, as soon as John could regain his feet and ascertain that the
old gentleman and his daughter had sustained no injury, he went on deck.
At about eleven o'clock, they could plainly distinguish a dreadful
roaring noise resembling that of waves rolling against the rocks; but
the darkness of the day and the accompanying rain made it impossible to
see for any distance, and John realized that, if they were near rocks,
they might be dashed to pieces on them before they were perceived. At
twelve o'clock, however, the weather cleared a little, when they
discovered breakers and reefs outside, so that it was evident they had
passed in quite close to them, and were now fairly hemmed in between the
rocks and the land.

At this very critical moment, the captain adopted the dangerous
expedient of dropping anchor, to bring the ship up with her head to the
sea. Any seaman of common sense and not frightened out of his wits must
have known that no ship could ride at anchor in that storm. John
Stevens, though no sailor, saw the folly of such a course and
expostulated with the captain, but to no purpose. Scarcely had the
anchor taken firm hold when an enormous sea, rolling over the ship,
overwhelmed her and filled her with water, and every one on board
concluded that she was sinking. On the instant a sailor, with presence
of mind worthy of an English mariner, took an axe, ran forward and cut
the cable.

The freed vessel again floated and made an effort to right herself, but
she was almost completely waterlogged and heeled to larboard so much
that the gunwale lay under water. They then endeavored to steer as fast
as they could for land, which they knew could not be at any great
distance, though through the hazy weather they were unable to see it.
The foresail was loosened, and, by great efforts in bailing, she righted
a little, her gunwale was raised above water, and they scudded as well
as they could before the wind, which blew hard on shore, and at about
two o'clock one of the sailors said he espied land ahead.

"We will never reach it," said Mr. Holmes, who was at the side of John
Stevens.

"Do not despair," said John.

"But we can't reach the shore, look at those waves."

A tremendous sea rolling after them broke over the stern of the ship,
tore everything before it, stove in the steerage, carried away the
rudder, shivered the wheel to pieces and tore up the very ringbolts of
the deck, carrying the men who stood on the deck forward and sweeping
them overboard. Among them was the unfortunate captain of the
_Silverwing_. John was standing at the time near the wheel, and
fortunately had hold of the taffrail, which enabled him to resist in
part the weight of the wave. He was, however, swept off his feet, and
dashed against the main-mast. So violent was the jerk from the taffrail,
that it seemed as if it would have dislocated his arms. However, it
broke the force of the stroke, and, in all probability, saved him from
being dashed to death against the mast.

John floundered about in the water at the foot of the mast, until at
length he got upon his feet and seized a rope, which he held while
considering what he should do to extricate himself. At this instant he
perceived Mr. Holmes and his daughter on the capstan. How they had got
there was a marvel to him which he had no time to investigate. Mr.
Holmes beckoned with his lame hand to John, while he clung to his
daughter with his right. A vivid flash of lightning lighted up the
scene, and John saw that Blanche was very pale, but calm. Never had he
seen a more beautiful picture than this pretty maiden with her face
turned in resignation to the storm. He forgot his own danger, forgot
wife and children at home in his unselfish eagerness to snatch the
unfortunate girl from the impending danger.

It was no easy matter for John Stevens to break away from his hold on
the main-mast and make his way to the capstan. At every roll of the ship
and every surge of the waves, unfortunate passengers or sailors were
washed overboard and plunged into the boiling, seething waves which
thundered about them. Stevens made a bold push, however, and reached the
capstan. Here he could survey the wreck, and he saw that the water was
nearly breast-high on the quarter-deck of the vessel.

"It will soon be over," said Mr. Holmes in a voice so despairing that it
rang in the ears of John Stevens to his dying day. "Crew and passengers
are nearly all gone, and my turn will come soon."

Even as he spoke, the purser, two men and four women were washed
overboard, their drowning screams mingling with the hollow roars of
the ocean.

"Take her! take her!" cried Mr. Holmes frantically. "I resign her to
you. I am going; I can hold out no longer."

A wave more terrible than any that had preceded it at this moment seemed
to bury the ship, which was driving straight toward the unknown shore.
Instinctively John wound one arm about the girl and held to the capstan
with the other. It seemed an age, and he was almost on the point of
relaxing his hold on the capstan, when they once more rose above the
water, and he got a breath of air. He still clung to Blanche in despair,
though she lay so limp in his arms that he thought her dead.

It was now dark, for night had fallen upon the awful scene. A flash of
lightning illuminated the wreck, Mr. Holmes was gone, and Stevens could
not see another soul on the vessel. The wild roar of surf fell on his
ears, and a moment later he felt the bottom of the ship grating on the
sands. It seemed to glide further and further on the beach, as if the
ship were being lifted and driven inland. The tide was at the full, and
the wind was blowing a hurricane on shore, so that the wreck was driven
far up on the beach, and at low tide it was high and dry.

John Stevens remained by the capstan, as it was highest point, holding
Blanche in his arms long after the ship had settled in the sands. The
waves leaped and raved angrily below; but not a human voice was heard.
He asked himself if Blanche were dead or living. At last he felt her
move and, placing his hand on her heart, was rejoiced to know that it
still beat.

"Father--father!" she faintly murmured.

"He is gone," John answered.

"Is this you?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Cling to me."

"I will. We will survive or perish together."

Then she became silent, and the night grew blacker, while the storm
howled; but the waves receded with the ebbing tide, and the broken hulk
remained fast fixed in the sands. The poor girl shivered all through
that night and clung to her preserver. She did not weep at the loss of
her father, for the horror of their situation dried the fountains of
grief. All night long the warring elements raged about the remaining
castaways, who clung with the tenacity of despair to the wreck.




CHAPTER V.

JOHN STEVENS' CHARGE.

     The fair wind blew, the white foam flew,
       The furrow followed free;
     We were the first that ever burst
       Into that silent sea.

     Down dropped the breeze, the sails dropped down,
       'Twas sad as sad could be;
     And we did speak only to break
       The silence of the sea.
                                         --COLERIDGE.

Since the art of navigation became known, there have been castaways in
romance and reality without number. De Foe's celebrated Robinson Crusoe
stands first, but not alone among the shipwrecked mariners of truth and
fiction. How many countless thousands have suffered shipwreck and
disaster at sea, whose wild narratives have never been recorded, will
never be known.

John Stevens was not a reader of romance and poetry, which at his age
were in their infancy in Virginia. The hardy pioneers of the New World
were kept too busy fighting Indians and building plantations and cities
to read romance or history. Consequently he had no similar adventures to
compare with his own. John had enough of the sturdy Puritan in his
nature to deeply feel the duty incumbent on him, and enough of the
cavalier to be a gentleman, unselfish and kind.

Throughout the long night he held the half inanimate form of Blanche in
his arms. The storm abated and the tide running out left the vessel
imbedded in the sands. John watched for the coming morn as a condemned
criminal looks for a pardon. He knew no cast nor west in the darkness;
but anon the sea and sky in a certain place became brighter and
brighter. The clouds rolled away, and he saw the bright morning star
fade, as the sable cloak of night was rent to admit the new born day.

Blanche sat up and, gazed over the scene as the flashing rays of
sunlight gleamed over the sea and shore.

"Are we all?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Was no one saved?"

"None but ourselves."

"And the ship?"

"Is a hopeless wreck on the sands," he answered.

As they rose to gaze upon their surroundings, John Stevens thought with
regret that if the crew and passengers had remained below hatches, they
would have been saved; but he and Blanche were all who remained, and he
turned his gaze to the wild shores hoping to discover some sign of
civilization. There was not a hamlet, house or wigwam to indicate that
Christian or savage inhabited the land.

Blanche marked the troubled look on his face and asked:

"Do you know where we are?"

"No."

The shore was wild and rocky, and on their right it was covered with a
dense growth of tropical trees. Farther inland rose two towering
mountains. The beach directly before them was low and receding. A long,
level plain, covered with a dense growth of coarse sea-grass, was
between them and the hills, which were covered with palms, maguey and
other tropical trees.

John feared that they had been wrecked on the coast of some of the
Spanish possessions and would be made captives and perhaps slaves by the
half-civilized colonists.

They could not live long on the wreck, and he began to look about the
deck for some means of going ashore. The pinnace which had been stowed
away between decks was an almost complete wreck. It would have been
useless had it remained whole, for John and his companion could not
have launched it. There was a small boat hanging by the davits, which
had sustained no other injury than two holes in its side. He was a fair
carpenter, and getting some tools from the carpenter's chest, he mended
the boat. After no little trouble, he lowered the boat and, assisting
Blanche into it, pulled to the shore half a mile away.

It was a shore on which no human foot had ever trod. The great black
stones which lay piled in heaps along the coast to the northeast until
they were almost mountain-high forbade the safe approach of a vessel.
The entire coast was armed with bristling reefs to guard it against the
approach of wandering ships. It was almost miraculous that they had been
driven in between the reefs at the only visible opening. A hundred paces
in either direction their vessel would have been forced upon the rocks.

"Is this country inhabited?" asked Blanche, when they had landed, and
made fast their boat to a great stone.

"I fear not," he answered; "or, if inhabited, it is probably by
savages."

"Should that be true, ours will be a sad fate."

"I will not desert you," he answered.

They sat down on the dry white sand to rest and gazed at the wreck, with
its head high in the air and its stern low in the water.

"We made a mistake in not bringing some arms to defend ourselves
against savages or wild beasts," said John.

"Can we not go back for them?"

"Would you be afraid to remain on the beach while I went?" he asked.

She said she would not, though he noticed her cast nervous glances
toward the thickets and forests inland. As he pushed out once more into
the shallow waters lying between the beach and wreck, she came down so
close to the water's edge that the waves almost touched her toes.

"You won't be long gone?" she called in a low, sweet voice, trembling
with dread.

"No."

He reached the wreck and went on board by means of broken shrouds lashed
to the gunwale. The sun shone as brightly and the sky was as peaceful as
if no storm had ever swept over it. The deck was almost dry, and, the
hatches having been fastened, John was agreeably surprised to find but
little damage done by the water. He went down to the companion-way and
found less water in the hold than he expected. He brought out two
muskets, a pair of pistols, a keg of powder, and bullets enough for his
arms. The guns and the pistols were all flint-locks, for at this time
matchlock and wheel-lock had about gone out of use.

A dagger and a sword were also added to the armament, which John
lowered into his boat. Then he remembered that Blanche had had no food,
and he bethought himself of some provisions. He went again into the hold
and, thanks to the care of the cook in stowing away the provisions,
found most of them dry and snug in the fore-part of the vessel. He got
out a small chest of sea biscuits, a Holland cheese, and some dried
fish, which he carried to his boat. He paused a moment to gaze at
Blanche, who sat on a stone watching him. The almost tropical sun
beating down upon her defenceless head suggested the need of some sort
of shelter, and he procured some canvas and threw in an axe and pair of
hatchets to cut poles and arrange a tent or shelter for her.

Having at last loaded his boat he set out for shore. The tide was fast
setting in and bore him rapidly onward. Landing he unloaded his boat,
and asked:

"Have you seen any one?"

"No."

"I have brought some food."

"It will be useless without water. I am very thirsty," she said.

"We will go farther inland, where we must find fresh water," he said
hopefully.

John saw that Blanche had no covering for her head, and the sun's rays
made her faint. He gave her his hat and for himself fashioned a cap of
palm leaves. They went inland until they came to some tall trees, which
afforded a grateful shade. Here he induced Blanche to rest, while he
went further in search of fresh water. She was tired, and had a dread of
being left alone in this strange land; but Blanche was reasonable and
waited beneath the tall palms gazing on the coast, the sea and the wreck
lying on the sands.

"It might have been worse," she thought. "While all our friends and
companions have perished, we are saved. God surely will not desert us.
Having preserved us thus far for some purpose, he will not suffer us to
perish until that purpose is accomplished. I alone might have been
spared to perish miserably in a strange land."

Meanwhile, John Stevens was roaming among the rocks and hills for fresh
water. Great blackened stones parched and dry as the sands of Sahara met
his view on every side, and no sight of water was found until he came to
a dark shallow pool so warm that he could not drink it.

"Heaven help us ere we perish," he groaned, wandering among the rocks
and trees. "If we don't find water soon she will die."

He threw himself on the ground in despair, and as he lay there, he
thought he heard a trickling sound. He started up, fearing that his
ears deceived him; but no, they did not. Beyond a moss-covered stone of
great size was a clear, sparkling rivulet of bright, crystal water,
falling into a stone basin of considerable depth. He stooped and found
it sweet and cool. Oh, so refreshing! Slaking his thirst, he next
thought of his suffering companion under the trees beyond the hill, and
for the first time he reflected that he had failed to provide himself
with any vessel to carry water. There was no bucket or cup nearer than
the ship, and she might perish before he could bring anything from
there. He set his gun against a rock and, plucking some broad palm
leaves, made a cup which would hold about a pint.

All this required time, and he was constantly tortured with the
recollection that his charge was suffering with thirst. With the
improvised cup full of water, he hastened to the almost fainting girl
and said gladly:

"I have found pure, sweet water in abundance. Drink of this, and we will
go at once to the spring."

She eagerly seized the leaf cup and drank, then found herself strong
enough to cross the hill to the precious fountain.

John left one of the guns with her, the other was at the spring; but the
sword and pistols he kept at his belt.

Taking the provisions and musket they set out for the spring. Here they
bathed their hot faces and refreshed themselves.

"Now let us have food," said John.

The sea-biscuit and dried fish were wholesome, and they ate with a
relish. John Stevens wanted to climb a lofty hill about two miles away,
from which he hoped to have a good view of the surrounding country.

"Can we from there determine what land we are on?" she asked.

"I hope so."

"If there be cities, will we see them?"

"We shall," he answered.

"Have you no hopes nor fears?"

"I have both."

"What are your hopes?"

"My hopes are that this is one of the Bermuda Islands."

"And your fears?"

"That this is one of the West India Islands, or a part of the Florida
coast, under control of the Spaniards."

"Did you hear the captain say where we were before the ship struck?"

"No; he was a most incompetent master, and knew not where we were."

"Whether we are in the land of enemies or friends, it will be better to
know the truth," reasoned Blanche.

"Are you strong enough for the walk?"

She thought she was, and they started on their journey of exploration.
One of the guns was left with the provisions at the spring; but John
carried the other.

The distance to the hill proved greater than they had supposed, and
before they reached the base, the sun, sinking low in the heavens,
admonished them that night would overtake them before the summit could
possibly be gained.

John called a halt and asked:

"Shall we go on, or return to the beach?"

Blanche gazed on the frowning hills and bluffs before them and thought
it best to return. Those gloomy mountain wilds were terrible after dark,
and she thought they would find it more congenial nearer the wreck.

They returned to the beach. The inflowing tide had lifted their boat and
borne it further up on the sands.

"Will it not be carried off?" Blanche asked.

"No, I have it anchored with a heavy stone, so it cannot be carried
out."

John cut four poles and drove them into the ground and spread the canvas
over it, forming a shelter for Blanche. He had brought a blanket from
the wreck, which, with some of the coarse grass he cut with his sword,
formed a bed for his charge. A box which he had brought from the ship
afforded her a seat.

They had not found a human being, nor had they seen a single animal. A
few sea-birds flying high in the air were the only living creatures
which had greeted their vision since landing.

"Will you be afraid to remain here while I go for the provisions and
musket left at the spring?" asked John.

"No, we have nothing to fear."

"I believe this part of the coast to be entirely uninhabited."

She made no answer, and he went for the gun and provisions. The walk was
longer than he thought, for he was tired with the day's toil and was
compelled to walk slowly. When about half-way to the spot he heard a
rustling in the tall grass and paused to discover the cause. Cocking his
gun, he tried to pierce the jungle, not fully decided whether the noise
were made by man or beast.

A moment later he heard something running away. It was beyond question a
wild animal, frightened at his approach. He did not get a glimpse of it
and was unable to tell what it was like.

"If a beast," he thought, "it is the only one I have met with since
landing on the coast."

From the rustling it made, it was no doubt small and little to be
feared. He listened for a moment, and then hurried on to the spring.

"Blanche will be lonesome," he thought. "Her father placed her in my
charge, and I will protect her if I can."

Climbing the moss-grown stone, he descended into a dark ravine to the
spring. The sun was set by this time, and the sombre shades of twilight
began to spread over the scene. His eager eyes pierced the gathering
gloom and discovered that the food left had been attacked by animals and
the biscuit devoured.

He searched the ground, and saw footprints.

"Some animals have been here," he thought. "They evidently did not like
dried fish, for, though they have trampled over them, they have devoured
none; but the sea-biscuits are all gone."

It was impossible to determine what sort of animals they were, but he
was quite sure they were not dangerous.

He took up the gun and returned to the tent, where he related to Blanche
the loss of their biscuits.

"Then there are animals on the land," she said.

"Yes; but they are not dangerous," he returned. "These animals may
prove useful to us for food."

"I hope so."

After several moments, she asked:

"How long must we stay?"

"I know not. Had I not better take the boat and go to the wreck for more
food?"

"No, not to-night," she answered with a shudder. "I prefer to go without
food than to be left an hour alone in the approaching night."

He had a sea-biscuit in his pocket, which he gave her and made his own
supper of dried fish. With flint, steel and some powder, he kindled a
fire near the tent and sat down before it with a gun across his knees
and another at his side, his back against a tree. Thus he prepared to
pass the night, urging his companion to go to sleep in the tent.

Patient, confiding Blanche went and laid down to sleep. She had borne up
well, not uttering a single complaint throughout all their
trying ordeals.

As John sat there keeping guard over his charge, his mind went back
across the wild waste of waters to the home he had left. He seemed to
feel the soft baby hands of little Rebecca on his face, or hear the
prattling of his boy at play. His wife's great, dark eyes looked at him
from out the gloom, and he sighed as he thought how improbable it was
that he would ever see them again. Wrecked on an unknown shore, with
dangers and difficulties to surmount, what hope had he of the future?

"Heaven watch over and guard my helpless ones at home, as I guard the
charge entrusted to me," he prayed.

His fire was not so much to keep off the cold as wild animals. The
distant roar of the ocean beating on the shore broke the silence. The
low and melancholy sound fell on the ear of the unfortunate man, and,
raising his eyes to the stars, he thought:

"The same stars shine for them, and the same God keeps watch over all.
May his guardian angels watch over the loved ones at home until the
father and husband returns."

John's heart was heavy. His fire had burned low, and he had forgotten to
replenish it. Suddenly upon the air there came a half growl and half
howl, and, looking up, he saw a pair of fiery eyes flashing upon him. An
animal was approaching the tent. John cocked his gun, aimed at the two
blazing eyes and fired.

In a moment the eyes disappeared, and Blanche, alarmed at the report of
the gun, sprang from the tent and wildly asked:

"What was it? Are we attacked?"

"Peace! It was only an animal, which I should judge to be a fox,"
assured John.

The report of the gun awakened a thousand slumbering sea-fowls, which
arose screaming on the air in every direction. John listened to hear
some animal, but not a growl and not a cry came on the air. After a few
moments all was quiet once more, and he begged his charge to retire to
sleep, while he took up his post as guard.




CHAPTER VI.

THE ISLAND OF DESOLATION.

     I am monarch of all I survey,
       My right there is none to dispute:
     From the centre all round to the sea
       I am lord of the fowl and the brute.
     O Solitude! where are the charms
       That sages have seen in thy face?
     Better dwell in the midst of alarms
       Than reign in this horrible place.
                                        --COWPER.

Next morning Stevens went to find the animal, at whose eyes he had fired
during the night; but it was gone without leaving even a trace of blood
behind it. The boat had sustained some damages during the night from the
surf dashing it against the rocks; but he managed to reach the wreck
with it, where he quickly mended the seam started in its side.

He brought away a cask of fresh water, a chest of sea-biscuit, some
Holland cheese, wine, salt pork and more dried fish. After they had
dined, they set out to the nearest mountain, from the peak of which they
hoped to get a survey of the surrounding country. He tried to induce
Blanche to remain, but she insisted on accompanying him.

Nothing is more deceitful than distance, and they were compelled to
pause and rest before they had reached the bluffs and foot-hills at the
base of the mountain. While resting there, they heard a scampering of
feet, accompanied by the loud snort of frightened animals flying from
the plateau above them. They were gone before John and his companion
were able to get a sight of them.

"What are they?" she asked.

"I know not, yet they seem to have a greater dread of us than we have of
them."

Resuming their journey they had not proceeded half a mile, when John
espied one of them looking down upon him and his companion from an airy
cliff. Its bristling horns, long beard, and keen eyes were visible,
though the ferns and grass concealed its body.

"It is a goat," he said. "The animals which we discovered were goats,
and we have nothing to fear from them."

A little further on, he discovered a fox in the bushes. The animal was
unacquainted with man and was very tame. It stood until they were within
a few paces of it, and then it trotted off a short distance and halted
to look at them. John's first impulse was to shoot it; but, on a second
thought, he decided to reserve his fire for some larger and more useful
game. At last the summit of the nearest hill was gained, and from it
they had a survey of the country and discovered that they were on an
island. Stevens' heart sank within him at the discovery, for now no
human help was within their reach. The fear of Spaniards and savages
gave place to the greater dread of passing their lives on a
desolate island.

The island was about sixteen miles long by ten wide. It had four lofty
mountains in the centre, one of which was so high as to be above the
clouds and covered at the peak with snow. These lofty elevations
supplied the island with an abundance of pure, fresh water. In the
fertile valleys below grew bread-fruit and oranges in profusion and many
wild berries and vegetables excellent for food. They spent four days in
exploring the island, hoping to find some sort of inhabitants, but were
disappointed. Goats, foxes and a species of gray squirrel were the
principal animals on the island. None were very dangerous; but the foxes
proved to be mischievous thieves, and stole all of their provisions they
could come at. Stevens began an early war against them, and shot them
wherever they could be found.

Far to the north were two more islands evidently not so large as the one
on which they were cast. Dangerous reefs lay between them and all about
the three islands, making navigation difficult if not impossible.

Blanche bore the journey well and did not give way to despair even when
they discovered that they were on an uninhabited island. For her sake
Stevens kept up a show of courage, though he found despair rising within
his breast.

"We must get the provisions and tools from off the wreck," he said, "and
make our stay here as comfortable as possible.

"How long will that stay be?" she asked.

"God in heaven alone can tell."

"Surely some passing ship will see us."

He hoped so; but that reef-girt shore seemed to forbid the approach of a
vessel. Nevertheless he set up long poles with flags on them at
different points of the island, so that a passing ship might see them
for miles out to sea.

Then he began the work of unloading the wreck. There was an inlet or
mouth of a creek not far from the place where they first landed, and,
constructing a raft on the wreck and loading it with arms, provisions,
ammunition and tools, they took advantage of the tide to float it in to
shore. This was repeated daily for weeks. Clothing, sails, provisions of
all kinds, half a hundred guns and as many pistols and cutlasses, with
other weapons, tools, books, writing material, and, in fact, everything
that could possibly be of service was brought off from the wreck. They
were favored with mild weather, and John, soon learning to take
advantage of the tides, had no difficulty in landing the goods.

The shore was strewn with boxes, barrels, arms, bales and piles of
goods, with tools, provisions, rafts and broken bits of lumber, for he
decided to bring away as much of the wreck as he could, for the boards
would be very useful in the construction of houses. Weeks were spent in
this arduous toil, and their efforts were fully rewarded.

The foxes proved their only annoyance, and Stevens shot them until they
became more shy. He killed nineteen in a single night. It became
necessary to make a strong wooden cage, or box to keep their food in;
but the salt junk was scented by the foxes, and they gathered about it
in great numbers and made the night hideous with their howls.

At last he hit upon a plan which nearly exterminated the foxes and rid
them of the nuisance. Among other articles brought from the ship was
poison. He shot a goat and, while it was warm and bleeding, cut it open,
poisoned the meat and left it where the foxes could get at it.

Early in the night the fighting, snapping and snarling began, and the
next morning the woods were filled with dead foxes, so it was years
before the howl of another was heard.

Fully realizing the importance of making haste in removing the wreck to
the shore, he worked with more than human efforts until he had gotten
off almost everything of value. Blanche aided him all she could, and
when their tents were up, her womanly instincts as housekeeper gave a
homelike appearance to them.

Having brought off all that was valuable, he built a house close under a
bluff, where a projecting shelf of rock covered a small grotto, which he
enlarged with pick and shovel. Before the rainy season set in, he had a
comfortable house. They had a store of provisions enough to last for two
years, and, in addition, John brought away Indian corn, barley, and
wheat which he planted and, to his delight, discovered that it grew
well. Being a farmer, it was only natural that he should give his
thoughts to agriculture.

John was industrious, thoughtful and, having been brought up in the
colony, was calculated to make the wilderness bloom as Virginia had
done. His axe awoke the echoes of the forest, and he busied himself
building houses, planting fields, and providing for their comforts. All
the while the flags were kept flying from the hills, in hopes of
attracting some passing ship.

Two years glided by, and not a sail had been seen on the ocean. The
wreck had disappeared; but John and Blanche were provided with
comfortable homes. They had tamed the goats, exterminated the foxes, and
their fields waved with corn, wheat and barley. To grind their corn,
John, who was something of a genius, invented a mill from two stones.
The wild fruits and berries of the island improved under cultivation and
yielded a greater abundance. Their floors were covered with rush mats,
and the furniture brought from the wreck gave to the rooms a comfortable
and homelike air.

It was evening, and the sitting-room was lighted by candles made of
goat's tallow. John Stevens was reading aloud from a Bible and Blanche
sat listening with rapt attention.

"Read more," she said when he had finished the page. "What a blessing to
know that even in the uttermost parts of the earth God is with us."

"Verily, it is a comfort."

"Should we die here, He will be with us."

"God is everywhere. He will not desert us," John said.

"But I hope we will yet be rescued."

"I trust so."

He closed his book and placed it on the table at his side and buried his
face in his hands. She watched his strong emotion with eyes which were
moist with sympathy, and, rising, came to his side and placed her hand
on his shoulder.

"You are stronger than I," she said, "why should you grieve more at our
calamity? Surely God is with us."

The tears were trickling through his fingers and his frame was convulsed
with emotion. She noted his grief and, to encourage him, added:

"God is everywhere; he is here; he will guard and watch over us, and, if
it be his pleasure that we escape from this island, he will send some
ship to our deliverance."

"My burden is greater than I can bear."

"Remember He said, 'Take my yoke upon you, for my yoke is easy and my
burden is light.' Trust all to Jesus, and He will give you strength."

"You are all alone in the world, Blanche."

"Yes."

"You have not a relative living."

"No, my father was lost."

"I wish I had none. It is not for myself that I grieve, but the helpless
ones at home."

"Helpless--"

"My wife and children."

Blanche, shocked and amazed, gazed at him in silence. The blood forsook
her face, her breast heaved, and her breath came in painful gasps. He
had never before in all the two years they had been alone upon the
island mentioned his wife and children.

"I left them to better my fortune," he continued. "They were so helpless
and I so poor; but I did what I thought best. Last night I saw them in
my dreams, her great bright eyes all red with weeping, and my baby's
warm little hands were again about my neck imploring me to come home in
accents so pathetic and sweet, they melted my heart. My blue-eyed Robert
was no longer gay, but melancholy. O God, give me the wings of a dove
that I may go and see them again!"

His head fell on the table and his whole frame shook with emotion, while
Blanche, with her own sad beautiful eyes swimming in tears, could not
utter a word of consolation. When he had partially recovered she asked:

"Why did you not tell me this before, you might have had my sympathy all
along."

"I did not care to burden you with my griefs."

"Trust in God."

"I do; but this dark uncertainty; my helpless children."

"They have their mother."

"She is unpractical, knows nothing of life and is as helpless as the
children. The little money left her has been spent long before this, and
they are--Heaven only knows what ills they may endure. So long as I was
with them, I shielded them from the rude blasts of the world; but now
they are without a protector."

[Illustration: BLANCHE COULD NOT UTTER A WORD OF CONSOLATION.]

Overcome with the sad picture he had created in his mind, he buried his
face again in his hands. Once more Blanche sought to soothe his cares by
assuring him that He who watched the sparrow's fall would in some way
care for his loved ones at home.

The years rolled on, and day by day he climbed the top of the nearest
hill and gazed off to the sea, hoping to discern a sail, but in vain.

He had brought the captain's glasses from the ship, and with this often
gazed at the two islands toward the north with longing eyes. Did they
connect with the main land where people dwelt, and from which they might
find means of transportation to the home which he sometimes feared he
might never again behold?

"Would it be too dangerous to undertake a voyage to those islands?"
Blanche asked one day when they were gazing for the thousandth time
at them.

"If we had a suitable boat we might attempt it."

"How is our own boat?"

"Too frail. The boards are almost rotten."

"Then why not make one?"

The idea was a good one, for it promised him employment. He felled a
large tree and proceeded to make a dug-out such as the Indians of
Virginia used.

Blanche helped him and was so cheerful, kind and considerate, that
often, as he gazed on her beautiful face, he sighed:

"Had Dorothy possessed her spirit, this misery would have been averted."
He felt a twinge of conscience at rebuking his wife, even in thought. No
doubt she had paid dearly for her folly.

The boat at last was completed, and he rigged a sail for it, and
together they set out for the distant islands. They glided over the
water, catching a glimpse of a man-eating shark, which made them shudder
with dread.

With fair wind and tide they reached the nearest island that day. It was
nearly as large as their own, and the shore was fully as dangerous. The
next was smaller, and both were wooded, with low hills, but poorly
watered. They found goats and foxes abounding on each, but no indication
that a human being had ever been there. All about on every side was the
vast ocean, stretching as far as the eye could reach, with the eternal
wash of waves on the rocks.

Spreading their tent on the shore, they passed the night on the island
nearest their own, and were greatly annoyed by foxes and mosquitoes, so
that with early dawn they were glad to return home.

One never knows how to appreciate home until they have been away, and
John seemed to take a new interest in his house, fields and the tame
goats of his island.

Yet in the night, when slumber had sealed his eyelids, he saw in that
far-away home his wife's pale face, and felt his baby's soft arms once
more about his neck, and in his agony he cried out:

"God send some ship to deliver me!"

Day by day as the years rolled on, John Stevens saw more and more to
admire in the companion with whom his lot was cast. When he was sick or
tired she watched over him with all the tender care of a sister or
mother. When he was saddest she whispered words of hope and cheer in his
ear. In fact Blanche was an ideal woman, a comforter and a helper.

"How could I live here without you, Blanche?" he said one day.

"Heaven tempers the wind to the shorn lamb," she answered. "Nothing is
so bad that it could not be worse." Blanche was a pure Christian girl.
No influence on earth could swerve her from a course marked out for her
by her intellect and approved by her conscience. She was a devout
Christian, and when her companion, in the bitterness of his soul, was
rebellious, her sweet Christian influence led him back to God.

In the stillness of life, talent is formed; but in the storm and stress
of adverse circumstances character is fashioned. Had Blanche returned to
London she might have become a society lady; but here she was a
consoler, binding up the broken heart. She would sit for hours by John's
side talking with him about his wife and children in far-off Virginia,
and she never went to sleep without praying Heaven by some means to take
the father and husband back to his loved ones.

"I went to the cliff this morning," she said, "thinking I might see a
sail, but I was disappointed."

"Why did you think to see a sail, Blanche?" he asked.

"I dreamed last night that a ship came for you and took you home. Oh,
how glad I was, when I saw you happy again with your dear wife and the
baby on your knee, its little warm hands on your face!"

After a long silence, he asked:

"Blanche, how long have we been here?"

"Ten years," she answered.

Blanche not only had kept a complete journal since the day of their
shipwreck, but had written a faithful description of the island, giving
its resources and describing the coast. To John it seemed but yesterday
since he kissed the tender cheek of his babe, bade his wife a farewell
and sailed away.

Ten years had made their impress on him. His hair was growing gray, and
his beard was quite frosty. It was not age that whitened his hair so
much as it was his ten years of suffering. Ten years had developed
Blanche from a beautiful girl to a glorious woman of twenty-eight, more
beautiful at twenty-eight than eighteen.

"Blanche, would ten years change a baby?" John asked.

"Yes."

"Then my baby is a baby no longer," sighed the father.

"No; she is a pretty little girl now."

"And has no recollection of her father?"

"How could she?"

"But my little boy?"

"He was five when you left home?"

"No, not quite; four and some months."

"Then he would remember you."

"He is a good-sized boy."

"Almost fifteen," she answered.

"Heaven grant I may yet see them!"

"Amen!" replied Blanche. "God has not forgotten you; our prayers will be
heard."

John made no answer. He arose, took his gun and went out among the
hills.

"When he talks of them," Blanche thought, "he always goes to the hills.
God grant he does not die of despair, for then I would be all alone on
this island of desolation."

Tears gathered in her eyes and, falling on her knees, she breathed a
fervent prayer.




CHAPTER VII.

IN WIDOW'S WEEDS.

     Go; you may call it madness, folly;
     You may not chase my gloom away.
     There's such a charm in melancholy,
     I would not, if I could, be gay.
                                    --ROGERS.

Dorothe Stevens was not a woman to take misfortune much to heart. She
watched the ship in which her husband sailed until it vanished from
sight, shed a few tears, heaved a few sighs and went home to see if the
negro slave had prepared breakfast. She smiled next day, and before the
week was past she was quite gay. She said she was not going to repine
and languish in sorrow.

Her conduct shocked the staid Puritans, and her fine apparel was ungodly
in their eyes.

Weeks rolled on, and no news came from the good ship _Silverwing_; but
they might not hear from her for months, and Mrs. Stevens did not borrow
trouble. She did not dream that the ship could possibly be lost, or that
her husband's voyage could be other than prosperous, so she plunged into
a course of extravagance and pleasure that would have ruined a
wealthier man than poor John Stevens.

"I must do something," she declared, "to relieve my mind from thoughts
of my poor, dear, absent husband, for whom I grieve continually."

Once John's mother and sister came to see her; but she was entertaining
some ladies from Greensprings and wholly neglected her visitors. The
grandmother held the baby on her knee, kissed the face, while her tears
fell on it; then silently the two unwelcome visitors departed for their
home, while Mrs. Stevens was so busily engaged with the ladies from
Greensprings that she did not even bid them adieu.

Dark days were in store for Dorothe Stevens. She heeded not the constant
reduction of her money until it was gone. Then she reasoned that her
husband would soon return with a goodly supply, and she began to use her
credit, which had always been good; but she found that the merchants who
once had smiled on her frowned when she came to ask for credit.

"Have you heard from your husband, Dorothe Stevens?" one asked, when she
applied to him for credit.

"No."

"He has been a long time gone."

"Yes; but he will return."

"The _Silverwing_ has not yet reached London."

"How know you that?" she asked, a momentary shadow coming over her face.

"The _Ocean Star_ hath just arrived, but brought no report from the
_Silverwing_."

"It left before the _Silverwing_ arrived. The ship was delayed a little.
It has reached there safely by this time, I am quite sure," and Mrs.
Stevens face grew bright as she made some purchases for which she had
not the money to pay. The merchant sold to her reluctantly, and she,
without dreaming that calamity could possibly befall her, went on
enjoying herself. Ex-Governor Berkeley had invited her to spend a few
days at Greenspring, where she met her husband's friend Hugh Price, with
other gay cavaliers and ladies.

Dorothe was a thorough royalist, and she heard, while at the governor's,
that Cromwell was in poor health, and there was a strong feeling that
the exiled Prince Charles would be recalled to the throne. Berkeley had
invited him to Virginia. Many of England's nobles, flying from
Cromwell's persecutions, had taken refuge with ex-Governor Berkeley, and
no other greater pleasure could Dorothe wish than to be associated
with them.

When she returned to her home, it looked poor and mean in comparison
with the governor's excellent manor house; but troubles thickened.
Bills came pouring in upon her, which she was unable to meet, for she
had not a farthing, and her creditors became clamorous.

"Why don't John come back with the money?" she asked, angry tears
starting from her eyes. "I cannot meet these bills, and he knows I
must live."

"You have been grossly extravagant, Mrs. Stevens," one heartless
creditor returned. He was a merchant who had smiled on her most sweetly
in her prosperous days, and had always welcomed her to his shop. "Had
you economized with the money your husband left, you would not be in
such sore straits."

Mrs. Stevens was shocked and indignant. She wept and asked for time. Ann
Linkon, who had never forgiven Dorothe Stevens for the ducking she had
caused her, now boldly declared that she had all along told the truth
and, shaking her gray head, repeated:

"She is a hussy. She hath driven John to sea and perchance to death. She
is a hussy."

No one attempted to prevent Ann's tongue from wagging, and to the
unfortunate Dorothe it was quite evident that she was no longer the
favorite of Jamestown.

"When John comes back, all will change," she thought; but, alas, the
months crept slowly by, and John came not. There came a rumor which
time confirmed that the _Silverwing_ was lost. Dorothe, who was of a
hopeful nature, would not believe it at first, though the news had a
very disastrous effect to her credit. She was refused at every shop and
store in Jamestown. In her distress she sold such articles as she could
dispense with; but Jamestown was only a frontier hamlet, it had no such
conveniences as pawnbrokers and secondhand clothiers, and what few
articles she could dispose of were sold mainly to freed or indented
servants at ruinous prices.

Dorothe's fashionable friends deserted her. The ladies and cavaliers at
Greenspring became suddenly cold and she remained at home. Her slaves
were taken away, so, finally, was the home, and, with her little
children, she took up her abode in a miserable log cabin, where she
became an object of charity. A year and a half had rolled away; but she
had not wholly given up her husband for dead. The vessel might have
blown out of its course, it might have been captured by pirates, or
Spaniards, and her husband might yet escape.

She had been so cool toward his relatives, that they had not seen her
for a year. She was proud and would have suffered death rather than
appeal to them for aid; but her children--his children, were suffering,
and, as she had to give up even the log cabin to rapacious creditors, at
last she appealed to his mother and sister, whom she had despised.

"You are welcome. Come and share our home," was the response.

Almost heartbroken, yet proud, Dorothe with her children set out for the
distant plantation in the county in which lived the relatives of
her husband.

Political changes were coming, which were to have a marked effect on
Dorothe, who gave up her husband for dead and donned the widow's weeds.
Those changes were the restoration.

In 1658, Cromwell died and named his son Richard as his successor. From
the death of Cromwell until the accession of Charles II., the government
of England was in a state of chaos and was highly revolutionary without
being in a state of actual anarchy. There was in reality no head to the
government. Even the Puritans saw that the inevitable must come, and, in
1660, Charles II. was restored to the throne of England without any
serious jar to the country or colonies. It was late in May, 1660, when
the wandering prince, mounted on a gayly caparisoned steed, entered
London between his brothers, the Dukes of York and Gloucester, and took
up his abode in the palace of Whitehall, while flags waved, bells rang,
cannons roared, trumpets brayed, shouts rent the air and fountains
poured out costly libations of wine as tokens of public joy. After a
twenty years' struggle between royalists and republicans, the monarchy
was restored, and the English people again became subjects of the head
of the Scottish house of Stuarts.

[Illustration: Oliver Cromwell]

The accession of Charles II. soon caused a change in the affairs of
America. The new king assigned to his brother James, Duke of York, the
whole territory of New Netherland, with Long Island and a part of
Connecticut. Charles had no more right to that domain than to the
central province of Spain; but the brutal argument that "might makes
right" justified the royal brothers, in their own estimation, in sending
ships, men and cannon, the "last argument of kings," to take possession
of and hold the territory. Four men-of-war, bearing four hundred, and
fifty soldiers, commanded by Colonel Richard Nicolls, a court favorite,
arrived before New Amsterdam in the latter part of August, 1664.
Governor Stuyvesant had been warned of their approach and tried to
strengthen the fort; but money, men and will were wanting. The
governor's violent temper, with English influence, had alienated the
people, and they were indifferent. Some of them regarded the invaders as
welcome friends. Stuyvesant began to make concessions to the popular
wishes. It was too late; and New Amsterdam became an easy prey to the
English freebooters.

Early in this year, revolutionary movements had taken place among the
English on Long Island, which the governor could not suppress, and the
province was rent by internal discord for several months. A war with the
Indians above the Hudson Highlands had also given the governor much
trouble; but his energy and wisdom had brought it to a close. The
anthems of a Thanksgiving day had died away, and the governor, assured
of peace, had gone to Fort Orange (Albany), when news reached him of the
coming English armament. He hastened back to his capital, and, on
Saturday, the 30th day of August, Nicolls sent to the governor a formal
summons to surrender the fort and city. He also sent a proclamation to
the citizens, promising perfect security of person and property to all
who should quietly submit to English rule.

The Dutch governor hastily assembled his magistrates at the fort to
consider public affairs; but, to his disgust, they favored submission
without resistance. Stuyvesant, true to his superiors and his own
convictions of duty, would not listen to such a proposition, nor allow
the inhabitants to see the proclamation. The Sabbath passed without any
answer to the summons. It was a day of great excitement and anxiety in
Amsterdam, and the people became impatient. On Monday the magistrates
explained to them the situation of affairs, and they demanded a sight of
the proclamation. It was refused, and they were on the verge of open
insurrection, when a new turn in events took place.

Governor Winthrop of Connecticut, who was quite friendly with
Stuyvesant, had joined the English squadron. Nicolls sent him as an
embassador to Stuyvesant, with a letter in which was repeated the demand
for a surrender. The two governors met at the gate of the fort.
Stuyvesant read the letter and promptly refused to comply.

"Inform the Englishman if he wants my fort, he must come amid cannon and
balls to take it," he said. Closing the gate, he retired to the council
chamber and laid the letter before his cabinet and magistrates. After
examining it they said:

"Read the letter to the people, and so get their minds."

The governor stoutly refused. The council and magistrates as stoutly
insisted that he should do so, when the enraged governor, who had fairly
earned the title of "Peter the Headstrong," unable to control his
passion, tore the letter into pieces. The people at work on the
palisades, hearing of this, hastened to the Statehouse, where a large
number of citizens were soon gathered. They sent a deputation to the
fort to demand the letter. Stuyvesant, storming with rage, cried:

"Back to the ramparts! mend the palisades, and we will answer the letter
with cannon."

[Illustration: TOMB OF STUYVESANT.]

The deputies were inflexible, and a fair copy of the letter was made
from the pieces, taken to the Statehouse and read to the inhabitants. At
that time the population of New Amsterdam did not exceed fifteen hundred
souls. Outside of the little garrison, there were not over two hundred
men capable of bearing arms, and it was the utmost folly to resist.
Nicolls, growing impatient, sent a message to the silent
governor saying:

"I shall come for your answer to-morrow with ships and soldiers," and
anchored two war-vessels between the fort and Governor's Island.
Stuyvesant's proud will would not bend to circumstances, and, from the
ramparts of the fort, he saw their preparations for attack, without in
the least relenting, and when men, women and children, and even his
beloved son Balthazzar, entreated him to surrender, that the lives and
property of the citizens might be spared, he replied:

"I had much rather be carried out dead."

At last, however, when the magistrates, the clergy and many of the
principal citizens entreated him, the proud old governor, who had "a
heart as big as an ox, and a head that would have set adamant to scorn,"
consented to capitulate. He had held out for a week. On Monday morning,
the 8th of September, 1664, he led his troops from the fort to a ship on
which they were to embark for Holland, and an hour after, the red cross
of St. George was floating over Fort Amsterdam, the name of which was
changed to Fort James as a compliment to the Duke.

The remainder of New Netherlands soon passed into the possession of the
English, and the city and province were named New York, another
compliment to Prince James, afterward James II. Colonel Nicolls, whom
the duke had appointed as his deputy governor, was so proclaimed by the
magistrates of the city, and all officers within the domain of New
Netherland were required to take an oath of allegiance to the
British crown.

The new governor took up his abode in the Dutch fort, if the strange
structure within the palisades could be called a fort. It contained,
besides the governor's house and barracks, a steep gambrel-roofed church
with a high tower, a windmill, gallows, pillory, whipping-post, prison
and a tall flagstaff. There was generally a cheerful submission to the
conquerors on the part of the inhabitants, and after the turmoil of
surrender a profound quiet reigned in New York.

So passed into the domain of perfected history the Dutch dominion in
America after an existence of fifty years, by that unrighteous seizure
of the territory which had been discovered and settled by the Dutch.
England became the mistress of all the domain stretching along the coast
of the Atlantic Ocean from Florida to Acadie, and westward across the
entire continent; but in New Netherland, in that brief space of half a
century, the Dutch had stamped the impress of their institutions, their
social and religious habits, their modes of thought and peculiarities of
character, so that they remained unconquered in the loftier aspect of
the case. The characteristics of the Dutch of New Netherland were so
indelibly stamped, that, after a lapse of more than two centuries, they
are still marked features of New York society.

Saucy New England underwent fewer changes by reason of the restoration
than all the other colonies. The New Englanders were men and women of
iron who dared everything. They were always cool, cautions, yet bold,
and when they made an effort to gain a right, they always won. They
clung to all their rights and demanded more. The bigotry of the Puritans
of Massachusetts was vehemently condemned at the time of their iron rule
and has been ever since; but their theology and their ideas of church
government were founded upon the deepest heart-convictions of a people
not broadly educated. Having encountered and subdued a savage wilderness
for the purpose of planting therein a church and a commonwealth,
fashioned in all their parts after a narrow but cherished pattern, they
felt that the domain thus conquered was all their own, and that they had
the right to regulate the internal affairs according to their own notion
of things. They boldly proclaimed the right to the exercise of private
judgment in matters of conscience, and so tacitly invited the persecuted
of all lands to immigrate and settle among them. This invitation brought
"unsettled persons," libertines in unrestrained opinions, from abroad to
disseminate their peculiar views. The Puritans, fearing the
disorganization of their church, early took alarm and, with a mistaken
policy, resisted such encroachments upon the domain and into their
society with fiery penal laws implacably executed.

Among the sects of the time dangerous to Puritanism, were the Quakers or
Friends. The first of the sect who appeared conspicuously in New England
were Mary Fisher and Anna Austin, who arrived at Boston in the summer of
1656, when John Endicott was governor. There was no special law against
them; but under a general act against heretics, they were arrested;
their persons were searched to find marks of witchcraft, with which they
were suspected; their trunks were searched, and their books were burned
publicly by the hangman. After several weeks of confinement in prison,
they were sent back to England. Mary Fisher, a violent religious
enthusiast, afterward visited the Sultan of Turkey and, being mistaken
for a crazy woman, was permitted to go everywhere unmolested.

The harsh treatments of the first comers fired the zeal of the more
enthusiastic of the sect in England, who sought martyrdom as an honor
and a passport to the home of the righteous. They flocked to New England
and fearfully vexed the souls of the Puritan magistrates and ministers.
One woman came from London to warn the authorities against persecutions.
Others came to revile, denounce and defy the powers of the church. From
the windows of their houses they would rail at the magistrates, and
mock the institutions of the country, while some fanatical young women
appeared nude on the streets and in the churches, as emblems of
"unclothed souls of the people." Others with loud voices proclaimed that
the wrath of the Almighty was about to fall like destructive lightning
on Boston and Salem. The Quakers of 1659 were quite different from that
honorable body of people of the present age.

Horrified by their blasphemies and indecencies, the authorities of
Massachusetts passed some cruel laws. At first they forbade all persons
"harboring Quakers," imposing severe penalties for each offence, then
followed mild punishment on the Friends themselves. These proving
ineffectual, the Puritans passed laws which authorized the cropping of
the ears, boring the tongues with hot irons, and hanging on the gibbet
offending Quakers.

Even these terrible laws could not keep them away. On a bright October
day in 1659, two young men named William Robinson and Marmaduke
Stevenson, with Mary Dyer, wife of the Secretary of State of Rhode
Island, were led from the Boston jail, with ropes around their necks and
guarded by soldiers, to be hanged on Boston Common. Mary walked between
her companions hand in hand to the gallows, where, in the presence of
Governor Endicott, the two young men were hung. Mary was unmoved by the
spectacle. She was given into the care of her son, who came from Rhode
Island to plead for her life, and went away with him; but the next
spring this foolish woman returned and began preaching and was herself
hung on Boston Common.

The severity of these laws caused a revulsion of public sentiment. The
Quakers stoutly maintained their course, and were regarded by the more
thoughtful as real martyrs for conscience sake, and, in 1661, the severe
laws against them were repealed. Puritanism, which had flourished under
republicanism in England, with the restoration of the Stuarts was
threatened, and doubtless fear of the vengeance of the church party
caused the New Englanders to temper their laws.

A restless spirit on the part of the New Englanders with an uneasy
feeling in regard to the result of the restoration caused many to
emigrate to Carolinia, which was a mysterious, far-away land where
everybody lived at peace. Removed from the grasp of kings and tyrants,
many went to the infant town planted on Old-town Creek, near the south
side of Cape Fear River. However, the Carolinias were growing from
fugitive settlements into commonwealths, and, in 1666, William Drummond,
the friend of John Stevens, was appointed governor of North Carolinia.

Claybourne, who, after a struggle of twenty years, had succeeded in
conquering Maryland, saw, with the decline of the commonwealth of
England, his own hopes go down. In 1658, the Catholics of St. Mary's and
the Puritans of St. Leonard's consulted, and the province was
surrendered to Lord Baltimore. Claybourne had no sooner gained that for
which he had battled, than his power began to crumble beneath his feet,
and he was even ejected from the Virginia council.

The restoration of 1660 produced a most wonderful effect on Virginia.
All was changed in the twinkling of an eye, so to speak. The cavaliers,
who had been sulking for years under the mild rule of the commonwealth,
threw up their hats and cheered from Flower de Hundred to the capes on
the ocean, as only a victorious political party can cheer.

The sentiment of the Virginians in favor of royalty was strong and
abiding; with the restoration of monarchy they had achieved the main
point. The representatives in the colony of the psalm-singing fanatics
of England would have to go now. Silk and lace and curling wigs would be
once more in fashion, the hated close-cropped wretches in black coats
and round hats would fade into the background, and the good old
cavaliers, like the king, would have their own once more.

The king's men became prominent, and their plantations resounded with
revelry. It was thought that Charles II. would grant special favors to
Virginia, as Berkeley had invited him to be their king even before he
was restored to the throne of England. The country is said to have
derived the name of the "Old Dominion" from the fact that the Charles
might have been king of Virginia before he was king of England.

In March, 1660, the planters assembled at Jamestown and enacted:
"Whereas, by reason of the late distractions (which God, in his mercy,
put a suddaine period to), there being in England noe resident absolute
and ge'll confessed power, be it enacted and confirmed: that the supreme
power of the government of this country shall be resident in the
assembly, and that all writts issue in the name of the grand assembly of
Virginia until such command, or commission come out of England as shall
by the assembly be adjudged lawful." The same session declared Sir
William Berkeley governor and captain-general of Virginia. In October of
the same year of the restoration, Sir William Berkeley was commissioned
governor of Virginia by Charles II.

No one in all the colony rejoiced more at the restoration of monarchy
than did Dorothe Stevens. Her fortunes had mended. Her husband's brother
was appointed governor of Carolinia, and, while he was acting in the
capacity of governor, he managed to secure the fortune his grandfather
had left in St. Augustine. It was large, and fully twenty thousand
pounds fell to the heirs of John Stevens, which was a godsend to the
widow, who purchased a fine house in Jamestown and once more entered the
society of the cavaliers and church people.

For twelve years she had been a widow, and now that she was wealthy and
the charm of cavalier society, she began to entertain some serious
thoughts of doffing her widow's weeds.

"It's all because of that cavalier Hugh Price", said Ann Linkon
spitefully. "The hateful thing will wed him, because he is rich and the
king is restored."

The widow left off her weeds and, in silk and lace, with ruffles and
frills, became the gayest of the gay. The flush came to her pale cheek,
and people said she smiled on Hugh Price. It is quite certain that Hugh
Price, after the restoration, was known to be frequently in the society
of his lost friend's wife.




CHAPTER VIII.

THE STEPFATHER.

               Mother, for the love of grace
     Lay not that flattering unction to your soul,
     That not your trespass but my madness speaks.
     It will skin and film the ulcerous place;
     While rank corruption, winning all within,
     Infects unseen--
                                      --SHAKESPEARE.

With the return of prosperity Mrs. Stevens deserted and forgot her
husband's relatives notwithstanding their kindness to her in adversity.
Mrs. Stevens possessed a ruinous pride and vanity combined with a
haughty spirit and small gratitude. She was wealthy, again the cavaliers
were in power, and she was the gayest of the gay. She was still youthful
and beautiful and out of widow's weeds.

"Hugh Price will surely wed her," said Sarah Drummond.

No sooner was Governor Berkeley inaugurated, after receiving his
commission from Charles II., than he gave a grand reception at which
there was music and dancing. The young widow was there in silk, lace
and ruffles, her black eyes sparkling with pleasure. Hugh Price, a great
favorite of the governor, was one of the most dashing gentlemen in
Virginia at the time. He was a handsome fellow with hair bordering on
redness and eyes a dark brown. His mustache was between golden and red,
and he possessed an excellent form.

He was seen much in the society of the widow Stevens, and some of his
friends began to chaff him on his attentions, which made the
cavalier blush.

"Verily, Hugh is a good cavalier, Dorothe is a royalist and was never
happy with John Stevens; it is better that she wed him."

Robert Stevens was twelve or fourteen, when his mother, laying aside her
widow's weeds, became young again. Robert remembered his father and
their days of privation, and he did not forget that all they had, they
owed to that father. He witnessed his mother's smiles and blushes with
some anxiety. One day, as he was going an errand to Neck of Land, he was
accosted by a meddlesome fellow named William Stump, with:

"Master Robert, do you know you are soon to have a father-in-law?"
(Stepfather was in those days known as father-in-law.)

"No!" cried the boy, indignantly.

"By the mass! you are. Don't you observe how Hugh Price is continually
with your mother?"

Robert's eyes filled with tears, and he cried:

"I will kill him!"

William Stump, laughing at the misery he had occasioned, answered:

"Marry! lad, you can do naught. Better win the favor of Hugh, for he can
be a cruel master."

Robert went on his errand, hating both Hugh Price and William Stump, and
he determined to appeal to his mother to have no more to do with
Hugh Price.

Robert had been sent on the errand by the mother, that he might be away
when Hugh Price came. She had an intuition, as women sometimes do, that
the supreme moment had arrived in which Hugh would "speak his mind." The
widow looked very pretty in her lace and silk and frilled cap, from
which the raven tresses peeped. She had also managed to dispose of
little Rebecca, so the coast was clear when Mr. Price, on his gayly
caparisoned steed, arrived. To one not acquainted with the state of Hugh
Price's mind, his appearance and behavior on the occasion of his ride
from Greensprings to Jamestown would have been mysterious and
unaccountable.

Dismounting at the stiles he gave the rein to a gayly dressed negro, who
led the animal into the barn while the negro girl showed him to the
parlor, which was furnished gorgeously. The harp which the widow played
was in the corner with her Spanish guitar. The room was unoccupied when
Hugh entered. He paced to and fro with nervous tread, popped his head
out of the window at intervals of three or four minutes and glanced at
the hourglass on the mantel, manifesting an impatience unusual in him.

It was quite evident that some subject of great importance occupied his
mind. At last Mrs. Stevens entered, quite flustered, almost out of
breath and her cheeks crimson with youth and beauty. Wheeling about from
the window through which he had been nervously gazing, he accosted
her with:

"Mrs. Stevens, I have chosen this opportune moment--"

Here he choked. Something seemed to rise in his throat and cut off his
speech. Dorothe glanced at him, her great dark eyes wide open in real or
affected wonder and asked:

"Well, Mr. Price, for what have you chosen this moment?"

"It is, madame, to tell you--ahem, this day is very hot."

"So it is," Dorothe answered, her dark eyes beaming tenderly on him.
"Won't you sit? Your long ride has fatigued you."

"Indeed it has," answered Hugh, accepting the proffered seat. The fine
speech which Hugh had been studying all the way to Jamestown had quite
vanished from his mind; but the widow was inclined to help him on with
his wooing. After three or four more efforts to clear his throat,
he began:

"Mrs. Stevens, I came--ahem--all the way here to ask you--to get your
opinion--that is to say--"

Here he stopped again. The words in his throat had become clogged, and
Hugh's face was purple, while great drops of sweat stood out in beads on
his forehead.

Dorothe, free from the embarrassment which tortured him, waited a
respectable length of time for him to clear away that annoying
obstruction in his throat, and then to help him along, began:

"Why, Mr. Price, you have always been one of my best friends, and I
assure you that any suggestion or information I can give you, will be
freely given," and here the widow blushed to the border of her cap, and
touched her mouth with the corner of her apron.

Price, fixing his eyes on the ceiling, gathered courage enough to begin
again:

"I have come to remark, Mrs. Stevens, that--ahem--that--do you think
the restoration of monarchy is permanent?"

"Oh, I hope so," replied the widow very earnestly and softly, with a
glance at the cavalier.

"Under the restoration, do you--ahem--think it is a much greater
expense to keep two people than to keep one?" He was getting at it
at last.

"Oh, dear me, Mr. Price!" said Mrs. Stevens, coloring again, for she
fancied she saw in the near future a proposal coming. "Oh, what a
question!"

The cavalier, having gotten fairly started, now came boldly to the
charge. He had asked a question and demanded an answer. She thought it
did not make the expense very much greater if the people were economical
and careful, and then the pleasure of being in the society of some one
was certainly very great.

That was just what Mr. Price had all along been thinking, and then, with
his great manly heart all bursting with human kindness, he said:

"You must be very lonely, Mrs. Stevens."

"Lonely, oh, so lonely!" and the white apron was changed from the corner
of the mouth to the corner of the eyes.

"I have thought so often of you living here alone with those children,
who need a father's care."

By this time the widow was whimpering. He grew bolder and, falling on
his knees, began an impassioned avowal of love. The widow, startled by
the earnestness of her lover, rose to her feet in dismay.

At this juncture the door was thrown open, and the boy Robert entered
to take a part in the scene. He carried a stout staff and, raising it
with both hands, brought it down with a resounding whack on the
shoulders of his mother's suitor.

Then a scene followed. Robert was ejected from the room and the mother
made it all right with the injured party. A few days later it was
currently reported that the widow Stevens was to wed Hugh Price the
handsome cavalier. Mr. Stevens, the brother of her former husband, was
shocked at the announcement and, in conversation with his wife, said:

"She who has always been an enemy to second marriages is now to bring a
father-in-law over her children to the house."

"Poor children when Hugh Price becomes their master, as he will."

"I believe it is my duty to expostulate with her."

"Nay, nay, husband, it will be of no avail. You will have your trouble
for your pains."

On a second thought, he was convinced that it would be folly to
interpose.

"It will be better to let her have her way," he concluded. "Marry! she
hath never sought advice or shelter save when her trouble overwhelmed
her. In prosperity we are strangers, in adversity friends. Alas, poor
children!"

The cavalier Price was seen frequently on the streets of Jamestown, and
his friends noticed that he spent much of his time with the widow. He
was smiling. His fat face and dark brown eyes seemed to glow with
happiness. He never looked ugly, save when he encountered Robert's
scowling face, and then he felt unpleasant sensations about the
shoulders.

[Illustration: The door was thrown open and the boy Robert entered to
take a part in the scene.]

Grinding his teeth in rage, he said:

"I will have my revenge on him when he is under my control."

Hugh Price was not in a great hurry. He bided his time, and not even a
frown ruffled his brow. He greeted the children with sunny smiles
calculated to win their hearts, and under ordinary circumstances they
might have done so. But from the first he was regarded with aversion, as
an intruder upon their sanctuary and love. The dislike was mutual, for,
though Price concealed his feelings, there rankled in his breast an
enmity which he could not smother.

Robert was open in his resentment. It was the first time he had ever
opposed his mother. Even when younger, in their trouble and sore
distress, he was her counsellor. He had not complained when the heaviest
burdens were laid on his young shoulders. He had done the work of a man
long before he was even a stout lad. Privation and hardship were borne
without complaint. He rejoiced on his mother's account when their
fortunes so suddenly and unexpectedly changed. Toil was over. Rest came
and with it the improvement he desired.

It was hoped by her best friends that the bitter lesson which Dorothe
had learned would prove effective, but it did not. Women of her
disposition never learn by experience, and she plunged once more into
extravagance and folly. The boy was old enough to realize his mother's
weakness, yet his great love for her placed her above censure. He was
silent and would have borne a second misfortune like the first
uncomplaining; but when he learned that she was to bring one to take the
place of that father who slept beneath the sea, he rebelled.

Dorothe knew the disposition of her children, and she decided to get
them out of the way until after the wedding. At last she hit upon a
plan. Once more in her need she had recourse to the relatives of her
husband. Her husband's sister had married Richard Griffin, a planter,
and lived at Flower de Hundred. The children had always loved their
paternal relatives, and, though they had not been permitted to visit
them since the restoration, they had by no means forgotten them. They
hailed with joy the announcement that they were to go to Flower
de Hundred.

One morning in early June three horses were saddled, and Robert and
Rebecca, accompanied by a trusty negro named Sam, started on their
journey. Most of the travel, especially to a country as far away as
Flower de Hundred, was on horseback.

"I am so glad we are going," said Rebecca, as they galloped along the
road through the woods. "Mother was good to let us go."

"I am s'prised at the missus," the negro said, shaking his head.
"Sumfin am gwine to happen now fur sure, sumfin am gwine to happen."

"Why?" asked Robert.

"Misse neber gwine to dem people less dar be sumfin for a-gwine ter
happen."

Little Rebecca cast furtive glances about in the dark old wood through
which they were riding and with a shudder asked:

"Is there any danger of Indians?"

So often had the savages drenched the earth with blood, that the child
had a dread of them.

"Dun know, Misse Rebecca. Sam gwine ter fight if Indians come."

"But they must not come."

"No Injun hurt Misse. Sam not let um."

Robert, young as he was, had little faith in the negro's boasts as a
protector, for he knew that Sam was a coward and would fly at the first
intimation of danger. The journey was made without incident. It was a
journey through a country romantic and picturesque to the youthful
Robert. The grand old forest, with its untrodden paths, the tall trees,
the dead monarchs of the forest, with branches white and bare spread
like ghost's fingers in the air, filled his imagination with picturesque
visions. Next they journeyed through a strip of low lands covered with
tall, coarse grass, which came almost to the backs of the horses. Then
they swam streams in which the negro held the girl on her horse. At
night Flower de Hundred was reached, and the children were with
their aunt.

Sam left them to return to Jamestown with the horses. As he went away,
he took Robert aside and, with a strange look on his ebony face, said:

"Spect sumfin bad am gwine ter happen, Masse Robert. She neber sent ye
heah but for bad luck ter come. Look out for it now, lem me told ye;
look out foh it now."

Robert knew that all negroes were superstitious, and Sam's strange
warning made very little impression on him. He and his sister were happy
with their relatives who were kind to them.

Occasionally the uncle and the aunt were found talking in subdued tones
with eyes fixed on Robert and Rebecca; but he did not think it could
have any relation to them.

The days were spent in frolicsome glee among the old Virginia woods, and
the nights in healthful repose. Robert felt at times a vague, strange
uneasiness. It seemed so odd that his mother should send them away, and
that so many days should elapse without hearing from her. It was not at
all like her; but he was so free and so happy in his new existence, that
he did not allow it to trouble him.

One day a wandering hunter from Jamestown came by the house where Robert
was playing with his cousins and called to him:

"Ho! master Robert, I have news for you," he called to the lad.

"William Stump, when did you come?" he asked.

"But this day," was the answer.

"Where are you from?"

"Jamestown, and, by the mass! my young gay cavalier, I have news for
you. Marry! have you not heard it already?"

"I have heard nothing."

"Your mother hath married," cried Stump with fiendish chuckle.

"It is false!" cried Robert.

"By the mass! it is true, my young cavalier," and Stump laughed at the
expression of misery which came over the young face. "It was a gay
notion to send you brats away until the ceremony was over. You might
make trouble, you know. Ha, ha, ha! You laid your stick about the
shoulders of Mr. Hugh Price, now he will return blow for blow," and,
with another chuckle, Stump sauntered away, his gun on his shoulder.

On going to the house Robert had the report confirmed. Some one from
Jamestown had brought news of the wedding, and his little sister, with
her great dark eyes filled with tears, took him aside and said:

"Brother, mother is married; what does it mean?"

She clung to him, placed her curly head on his bosom and wept. Robert
restrained his own tears and sought to soothe his sister.

"Will that man Hugh Price come to live at our house?" she asked.

"Yes."

"But I can never love him. I don't know what it is to love any but you
and mother. I don't remember my own father; but you do, Robert?"

"Yes."

"Was he like Mr. Price?"

"No. He was a grand, noble man, with a kind heart."

"Will he let us live at home, now that he has come?" she asked.

Robert, though his own heart was heavy, and he felt gloomy and sad,
strove to look on the bright side.

"Yes, he cannot drive us from home," he said.

"But mother will love us no longer."

"She will, sister. No man can rob us of mother's love."

Then they went apart to discuss their sorrow alone, and, as the shades
of evening gathered over the scene, their relatives began a search for
them. The children were found in the chimney corner clasped in each
other's arms sobbing.

Although kind friends and loving relatives did all in their power to
console them, they refused to be comforted. Robert remembered that noble
father who had so often held him on his knee, that poor father whose
mysterious fate was unknown, and he thought how wicked it was for his
mother to marry the fox-hunting, gin-tippling cavalier, Hugh Price. He
sobbed himself to sleep and dreamed that his father was watching him
from out the great, green ocean where he had lain all these years. Price
was seeking to repay him the blows he had laid on his shoulders, when
the face of the dead man was seen struggling in the green waters, but so
choked and entangled among seaweeds that he was forced to give up the
effort. A great monster of the deep swallowed his father, and, uttering
a shriek, he awoke. The child was trembling from head to foot, while a
cold sweat broke out all over his body.

Next morning the negro slave who had brought the children to Flower de
Hundred came for them. Taking Robert aside, he said:

"I dun tole yer, Mass Robert, dat a calamity war comin'. It am come--De
Missus am married to dat fellah wat ye walloped wid de stick. Hi! but I
wish ye kill um."

The long journey to Jamestown was made. They left at sunrise one morning
and rode until noon, when they halted in the wilderness to allow the
horses an hour to rest and graze, while they lay on a blanket spread on
the grass under a tree. Robert and his sister fell asleep, and the negro
was nodding, when a snake came gliding through the grass toward the
sleeping children. Sam awoke in a moment and, seizing a stout stick,
struck the snake and killed it before it could reach the children. They
were awakened by the blow and, trembling at their narrow escape, once
more set out for Jamestown.

Though they put their horses to their best all the afternoon, the sun
was sinking behind the western hills and forests as they came in sight
of the settlement. Twilight's sombre mantle was falling over the earth
when they arrived at the door of their home and were assisted by the
servants to alight.

Robert and his sister were so sore and tired they scarcely could stand.
A candelabra had been lighted in the house, and the soft rays came
through the open casement; but the house was strangely silent. No mother
came to welcome them home with a kiss, and a chill of death fell upon
those young hearts. Robert dared not ask where she was and why she was
not at the stiles; but Rebecca was younger, more inexperienced and
impulsive.

"Where is mother, Dinah?" she asked her mother's housekeeper.

"In de house, chile, waitin' for you," she answered.

Poor, tired, heart-broken little Rebecca forgot all save that she was
her mother, and she ran upon the piazza and burst into the room where
Mr. Hugh Price and her mother were.

"Come here, my darling," said Mrs. Price, kissing her daughter. "This
man is your father now, and he will be very good to you."

It was like a dash of cold water on the warm little heart, and, starting
back, she glanced at him from the corners of her pretty black eyes
and answered:

"I cannot call him father."

"You will learn to, my dear," Price answered with a smile.

"Come, Robert, come and greet your new father," said the mother.

Robert remained stubbornly at the door and, with a dangerous fire
flashing in his eyes, answered:

"Call him not my father; he is no father of mine!"

"You will learn to like me, children," answered Mr. Price, with an
effort to be pleasant; but it needed no prophet to see that there was
trouble in the near future.




CHAPTER IX.

THE MOVING WORLD.

     If we could look down the long vista of ages,
       And witness the changes of time,
     Or draw from Isaiah's mysterious pages
       A key to this vision sublime;
     We'd gaze on the picture with pride and delight,
       And all its magnificence trace,
     Give honor to man for his genius and might,
       And glory to God for his grace.
                                           --PAXTON.

After the surrender of New York to the English, in the year 1665 Peter
Stuyvesant went to Holland to report to his superiors. In order to shift
the responsibility from their own shoulders, they declared that the
governor had not done his duty, and they asked the States-General to
disapprove of the scandalous surrender of New Netherland. Stuyvesant
made a similar counter-charge and begged the States-General to speedily
decide his case, that he might return to America for his family. The
authorities required him to answer the charges of the West India
Company. He sent to New York for sworn testimony, and at the end of six
months he made an able report, its allegations sustained by
unimpeachable witnesses. The company made a petulant rejoinder, when
circumstances put an end to the dispute. War between Holland and England
then raging was ended by the peace concluded at Breda in 1667, when the
former relinquished to the latter its claims to New Netherland. This
brought to an end the controversy between Stuyvesant and the West
India Company.

Stuyvesant went to England and obtained from King Charles permission for
three Dutch vessels to have free commerce with New York for the space of
seven years. Then he sailed for America, with the determination of
spending the remainder of his life in New York. He was cordially
welcomed by his old friends and kindly received by his political
enemies, who had learned by experience that he was not a worse governor
than the Duke had sent them. Stuyvesant retired to his _bowerie_ or farm
on East River, from which the famous Bowery of New York City derived its
name, and in tranquillity passed the remainder of his life.

The people of New York soon discovered that a change of masters did not
increase their prosperity or happiness. Brodhead says: "Fresh names and
laws they found did not secure fresh liberties. Amsterdam was changed to
New York and Orange to Albany; but these changes only commemorated the
titles of a conqueror. It was nearly twenty years before the conqueror
allowed for a brief period to the people of New York even that partial
degree of representative government which they had enjoyed when the
tri-colored ensign of Holland was hauled down from the flagstaff of Fort
Amsterdam. New Netherland exchanged Stuyvesant and the West India
Company and a republican sovereignty for Nicolls, a royal proprietor and
a hereditary king. The province was not represented in Parliament, nor
could the voice of its people reach the chapel of St. Stephen at
Westminster as readily as it had reached the chambers of the Binnenhof
at the Hague."

Nicolls was succeeded by Francis Lovelace in 1667. Lovelace was a quiet
man, unfitted to encounter great storms, yet he showed considerable
energy in dealing with hostile Indians and French on the northern
frontier of New York. He held friendly intercourse with the people of
New England, and in the summer of 1672, when a hostile squadron of Dutch
vessels of war appeared before his capital, he was on a friendly visit
to Governor Winthrop of Connecticut. War had again broken out between
England and Holland, and the Dutch inhabitants of New York had shown
signs of discontent at the abridgment of their political privileges and
a heavy increase in their taxes without their consent. Personally, they
liked Lovelace; but they were bound to consider him as the
representative of a petty tyrant. When, in menacing attitude, they
demanded more liberty and less taxation, the governor in a passion
unwisely declared that they should "have liberty for no thought but how
to pay their taxes." This was resented, and when the Dutch squadron
came, nearly all the Hollanders regarded their countrymen in the ships
as liberators. When Colonel Manning, who commanded the fort, called for
volunteers, few came, and these not as friends but as enemies, for they
spiked the cannon in front of the statehouse.

The fleet came up broadside to the fort, and Manning, sending a
messenger for Lovelace, opened fire on the enemy. One cannon ball passed
through the Dutch flagship from side to side; but the balls from the
fleet began pounding against the walls of the fort. Six hundred Holland
soldiers landed on the banks of the Hudson above the town and were
quickly joined by four hundred Dutch citizens in arms urging them to
storm the fort.

With shouts and yells of triumph the body of one thousand men were
marching down Broadway for that purpose. They were met by a messenger
from Manning proposing to surrender the fort, if the troops might be
allowed to march out with the honors of war. The proposition was
accepted. Manning's troops marched out with colors flying and drums
beating and laid down their arms. The Dutch soldiers marched in followed
by the English troops, who were made prisoners of war and confined in
the church. It was the 9th of August, 1672, and the air was quivering
with heat, when the flag of the Dutch Republic once more waved over Fort
Amsterdam, and the name of the city of New York was changed to New
Orange, in compliment to William Prince of Orange.

The Dutch had taken New York.

The New Netherland and all the settlements on the Delaware speedily
followed the capture of New York. The other English colonies near the
province were amazed and prepared to defend their own domains against
the encroachments of the Dutch, and Connecticut foolishly talked of an
offensive war. Anthony Clove, the governor of reconquered New
Amsterdam, was wide-awake. He kept his eye on the movements of the
savages and Frenchmen on the north, watched every hostile indication in
the east, and sent proclamations and commissions to towns on Long Island
and in Westchester to compel hesitating boroughs to take the oath of
allegiance to Prince William of Orange. His forts about New Orange were
strengthened and mounted with one hundred and ninety cannon. A treaty
of peace between the Dutch and English, however, made at London in
1674, restored New Netherland to the British crown. Some doubts arising
as to the title of the Duke of York after the change, the king gave him
a new grant of territory in June, 1674, within the boundary of which was
included all the domain west of the Connecticut River, to the eastern
shores of the Delaware, also Long Island and a territory in Maine. King
Charles had commissioned Major Edmond Andros to receive the surrender of
this province of New Netherland (New York) to which he was appointed
governor. The final surrender was made in October, 1674, by the Dutch
governor, who delivered up the keys of the fort to Major Andros, and the
English never lost possession of the colony and city, until the united
colonies gained their independence.

The political changes in New York had its effect on the settlements to
the west and south. Eastward of the Delaware Bay and River (so called in
honor of Lord De la Warr) lies New Jersey. Its domain was included in
the New Netherland charter. So early as 1622, transient trading
settlements were made on its soil, at Bergen and on the banks of the
Delaware. The following year, Director May, moved by the attempt of a
French sea-captain to set up the arms of France in Delaware, built the
fort called Fort Nassau at the mouth of Timmer Kill or Timber Creek, a
few miles below Camden, and settled some young Walloons near it. The
Walloons (young couples), who had been married on shipboard, settled on
the site of Gloucester. This was the first settlement of white people in
New Jersey that lived long; but it, too, withered away in time. It was
seven years later when Michael Pauw made his purchase from the Indians
of the territory extending from Hoboken to the Raritan River and,
latinizing his name, called it Pavonia.

In this purchase was included the settlement of some Dutch at Bergen.
Though other settlements were attempted, it was forty years before any
of them became permanent. Cape May, a territory sixteen miles square,
which Captain Heyes bought of the Indians, all the time remained an
uncultivated wilderness, yielding the products of its salt meadows to
the browsing deer.

After the trouble with Dutch and Swedes the English came under the agent
of the Duke of York and captured the New Netherland. While Nicolls was
on his way to capture the Dutch possessions in America, the Duke of York
conveyed to two favorites all the territory between the Hudson and
Delaware rivers from Cape May north to the latitude of forty degrees and
forty minutes. Those favorites were Lord Berkeley, brother of the
governor of Virginia and the duke's own governor in his youth, and Sir
George Carteret, then the treasurer of the admiralty, who had been
governor of the island of Jersey, which he had gallantly defended
against the forces of Cromwell. In the charter this province was named
"Nova Caesarea or New Jersey," in commemoration of Carteret's loyalty
and gallant deeds while governor of the island of Jersey. Colonel
Richard Nicolls, the conqueror of New Netherland, in changing the name
of the province to New York, ignorant of the charter given to Berkeley
and Carteret, called the territory west of the Hudson Albania, in honor
of his employer, who had the title of Duke of York and Albany.

Berkeley and Carteret hastened to make use of their patent. The title of
their constitution was: "The concessions and agreement of the Lords
Proprietors of the Province of Nova Caesarea or New Jersey, to and with
all and every new adventurers and all such as shall settle and plant
there." It was a fair and liberal constitution, providing for governor
and council appointed by the proprietors, and deputies or
representatives chosen by the people, who should meet annually and, with
the governor and his council, form a general assembly for the government
of the colony. It provided for a choice of a president by the
representatives when in session, in case of the absence of the governor
and deputy governor. All legislative power was vested in the assembly of
deputies, who were to make all laws for the province. These were to be
consistent with the laws and customs of Great Britain and not repugnant
to the interests of the proprietors. Emigration to New Jersey was
encouraged. To every free man who would go to the province with the
first governor, furnished with a good musket and plenty of ammunition
and with provisions for six months, was offered a free gift of one
hundred and fifty acres of land, and for every able man-servant that
such emigrant should take with him so armed and provisioned, a like
quantity of land. Even the sending of such servants provided with arms,
ammunitions and food was likewise rewarded. And for every weaker servant
or female servant over fourteen years, seventy-five acres of land was
given. "Christian servants" were entitled, at the expiration of the term
of service, to the land so granted for their own use and benefit. To all
who should settle in the province before the beginning of 1665, other
than those who should go with the governor, was offered one hundred and
twenty acres of land on like conditions.

It was expected that these tempting offers would rapidly people the
country with industrious settlers. Philip Carteret, a cousin of Sir
George, was appointed governor, and with about thirty emigrants,
several of whom were Frenchmen skilled in the art of salt-making, he
sailed for New York, where he arrived about the middle of July, 1665.
The vessel having been driven into the Chesapeake Bay the month before,
anchored at the mouth of the James River, from whence the governor sent
dispatches to New York. Among them was a copy of the duke's grant of New
Jersey. Governor Nicolls was astounded at the folly of the duke's grant,
and mortified by this dismemberment of a state over which he had been
ruling for many months with pride and satisfaction. But he bottled his
wrath until the arrival of Carteret, whom he received at Fort James with
all the honors due to his rank and station. That meeting in the
governor's apartments was a notable one. Mr. Lossing graphically
described it as follows:

"Nicolls was tall, athletic and about forty-five years of age, a
soldier, haughty and sometimes very irritable and brusque in speech when
excited. Carteret was shorter and fat, good-natured and affable, with
polished manners which he had learned by being much at court. He entered
the governor's room with Bollen, the commissary of the fort, when the
former arose, beckoned his secretary to withdraw, and received his
distinguished visitor cordially. But when Carteret presented the
outspread parchment, bearing the original of the duke's grant with his
grace's seal and signature, Nicolls could not restrain his feelings. His
temper flamed out in words of fierce anger. He stormed, and uttered
denunciations in language as respectful as possible. He paced the floor
backward and forward rapidly, his hands clasped behind his back, and
finally calmed down and begged his visitor's pardon for his
uncontrollable outburst of passion.

"Nicolls yielded gracefully yet sorrowfully to circumstances, and
contented himself with addressing a manly remonstrance to the duke, in
which he urged an arrangement for the grantees to give up their domain
in exchange for 'a few hundred thousand acres all along the seacoast.'"

The remonstrance came too late. New Jersey was already down on the maps
as a separate province. Governor Carteret at the head of a few followers
crossed over to his domain with a hoe on his shoulder in significance of
his desire to become a planter. For his seat of government he chose a
beautifully shaded spot, not far from the strait between Staten Island
and the main, called the Kills, where he found four English families
living in as many neatly built log cabins with gardens around them. The
heads of these four families were John Bailey, Daniel Denton, and Luke
Watson and one other not known, from Jamaica, Long Island, who had
bought the land of some Indians on Long Island.

In compliment to the wife of Sir George Carteret, the governor named
the place Elizabethtown, which name it yet retains. There he built a
house for himself near the bank of the little creek, and there he
organized a civil government. So was laid the foundation of the colony
and commonwealth of New Jersey.

The restoration did not so materially change the New England colonies as
might have been supposed, considering that they were hotbeds of
Puritanism. In the younger Winthrop the qualities of human excellence
were mingled in such happy proportions that, while he always wore an air
of contentment, no enterprise in which he engaged seemed too lofty for
his powers. He was a man whose power was felt alike in the commonwealth
and the restoration. The new king had not been two years on the throne
when, through his influence, an ample patent was obtained for
Connecticut, by which the colony was independent except in name.

After his successful negotiations and efficient concert in founding the
Royal Society, Winthrop returned to America. The amalgamation of New
Haven and Connecticut could not be effected without collision. New Haven
had been unwilling to merge itself in the larger colonies; but
Winthrop's wise moderation was able to reconcile the jarrings and blend
the interests of the united colonies. The universal approbation of
Connecticut was reasonable, for the charter which Winthrop obtained
secured to her an existence of unsurpassed tranquillity.

Civil freedom was safe under the shelter of masculine morality, and
beggary and crime could not thrive in the midst of severest manners.
From the first, the minds of the yeomanry were kept active by the
constant exercise of the elective franchise, and, except under James
II., there was no such thing in the land as a home officer appointed by
the English king. Under the happy conditions of affairs, education was
cherished, religious knowledge was carried to the highest degree of
refinement, alike in its application to moral duties and to the
mysterious questions on the nature of God, of liberty and of the soul. A
hardy race multiplied along the _alluvion_ of the streams and subdued
the more rocky and less inviting fields. Its population for a century
doubled once in twenty years, though there was considerable emigration
from the valley. Religion united with the pursuits of agriculture gave
to the people the aspects of steady habits. The domestic wars were
discussions of knotty points in theology. The concerns of the parish and
the merits of the minister were the weightiest affairs, and a church
reproof the heaviest calamity. The strifes of the parent country, though
they sometimes occasioned a levy among the sons of the husbandmen,
never brought an enemy over their border. No fears of midnight ruffians
disturbed the sweetest slumber, and the best house required no fastening
but a latch, lifted by a string.

Happiness was enjoyed unconsciously. Beneath a rugged exterior, humanity
wore its sweetest smile. For a long time there was hardly a lawyer in
the land. The husbandman who held his own plough and fed his own cattle
was the greatest man of the age. No one was superior to the matron, who,
with her busy daughters, kept the hum of the wheel incessantly alive,
spinning and weaving every article of their dress. Fashion was confined
within narrow limits, and pride, which aimed at no grander equipage than
a pillion, could exult only in the common splendor of the blue and white
linen gown, with short sleeves, coming down to the waist, and in the
snow-white flaxen apron, which, primly starched and ironed, was worn on
public days. There was no revolution except from the time of sowing to
the time of reaping, from the plain dress of the week to the more trim
attire of Sunday. Every family was taught to look to the fountain of
all good.

Life was not all sombre. Frolic mingled with innocence. Sometimes
religion itself wore the garb of gayety, and the annual thanksgiving to
God was, from primitive times, as joyous as it was sincere. Nature
always asserts her rights, and Christianity means gladness.

The English colonies of the south after the restoration began to show
evidence of improvement. Mr. William Drummond, the sturdy Scotch
emigrant to Virginia, having been appointed governor of North Carolinia
brought that country into the favorable notice of the world. Clarendon
gained for Carolinia a charter which opened the way for religious
freedom. One clause held out to the proprietaries a hope of revenue from
colonial customs, to be imposed in colonial ports by Carolinia
legislatures. Another gave them authority to erect cities and manors,
counties and baronies, and to establish orders of nobility with other
than English titles. The power to levy troops, to erect fortifications,
to make war by sea and land on their enemies, and, in cases of
necessity, to exercise martial law was granted them. Every favor was
extended to the proprietaries, nothing being neglected but the interests
of the English sovereign and rights of the colonists. Imagination
encouraged every extravagant hope, and Ashley Cooper, Earl of
Shaftesbury, the most active and the most able of the corporators, was
deputed by them to frame for the dawning states a perfect constitution,
worthy to endure throughout all ages.

The constitutions for Carolinia merit attention as the only continued
attempt within the United States to connect political power with
hereditary wealth. America was singularly rich in every form of
representative government. Its political life was so varied that, in
modern constitutions, hardly a method of constituting an upper or
popular house has thus far been suggested, of which the character and
operation had not already been tested in the experience of our fathers.
In Carolinia the disputes of a thousand years were crowded into a
generation.

"Europe suffered from absolute but inoperative laws. No statute of
Carolinia was to bind beyond a century. Europe suffered from the
multiplication of law-books and the perplexities of the law. In
Carolinia not a commentary might be written on the constitutions, the
statutes, or the common law. Europe suffered from the furies of bigotry.
Carolinia promised not equal rights, but toleration to 'Jews, heathens
and other dissenters,' to 'men of any religion.' In other respects, 'the
interests of the proprietors,' the desires of 'a government most
agreeable to monarchy,' and the dread of 'a numerous democracy,' are
avowed as the motives for forming the fundamental constitutions of
Carolinia.

"The proprietaries, as sovereigns, constituted a close corporation of
eight, a number which was never to be diminished or increased. The
dignity was hereditary, but in default of heirs, the survivors elected a
successor. Thus was formed an upper house, self-elected and immortal."
[Footnote: Bancroft, vol. i., page 495.]

Carolinia was an aristocracy, the instincts of which dreads the moral
power of proprietary cultivators of the soil, so enacted their perpetual
degradation. The leet-men, or tenants holding ten acres of land at a
fixed rent, were not only destitute of political franchises, but were
adscripts to the soil: "Under the jurisdiction of their lord, without
appeal," and it was added: "all children of leet-men shall be leet-men,
and so to all generations."

In 1665, Albemarle had been increased by fresh emigrants from New
England and by a colony of ship-builders from the Bermudas, who lived
contentedly with Stevens as chief magistrate, under a very wise and
simple form of government. A council of twelve, six named by the
proprietaries, and six chosen by the assembly. An assembly, composed of
the governor, the council, and twelve delegates from the freeholders of
the incipient settlements, these formed a government which enjoyed
popular confidence. No interference from abroad was anticipated, for
freedom of religion, and security against taxation, except by the
colonial legislature, were conceded. As their lands were confirmed to
them on their own terms, the colonists were satisfied.

The authentic record of the legislative history of North Carolinia
begins with the autumn of 1666, when the legislators of Albemarle,
ignorant of the scheme which Locke and Shaftesbury were maturing, formed
a few laws, which, however open to objection, were united to the
character and manner of the inhabitants. While freedom struggled in the
hearts of the common people to assert its rights and declare that all
men were equal and ought to be free, scheming nobles sought to enchain
them in one form or another of slavery.




CHAPTER X.

THE FUGITIVE AND HIS CHILD.

     "Adieu! adieu! My native shore
       Fades o'er the waters blue.
     The night winds sigh, the breakers roar,
       And shrieks the wild sea-mew."

At the close of a July day in the year of the restoration, a man,
travelling on foot and leading a little girl six years of age, entered
the town of Boston. The few inhabitants on the streets and at their
doors and windows regarded the travellers with amazement and even
suspicion, for both were strangers in this part of the world. It would
be difficult to meet wayfarers of more wretched appearance. He was tall,
muscular and robust, and in the full vigor of life. His age might be
anywhere from thirty-five to forty-five, for while his eye possessed the
fire of youth, there were streaks of gray in his long hair and beard.
His ruffled shirt of well-worn linen was met at the neck by a modest
ruff faded and torn like the shirt, and both sadly in need of washing.
On his head he wore a round black cap which, if it ever had a peak, had
lost it. The trousers of dark stuff came just below the knee, Puritan
fashion, and were met by coarse gray stockings. The feet were encased in
coarse shoes with steel buckles, and a sable blouse well worn was held
close to the body by a belt. His only visible weapon was a knotted
stick. Perspiration, heat, exhaustion from travelling on foot, with
dust, added something sordid to his general wretched appearance.

No less interesting than the man was the child he led at his side. Her
great, dark brown eyes and golden hair were indications of beauty,
despite the careworn look and dust-covered features. She wore a hood and
frock, stockings and thick English shoes of the period. Like the man,
the child had a haggard look, and her clothing was faded and worn. There
were leaves and dust in that golden hair, as if her pillow had been the
earth, and her beautiful brown eyes had a terrified look, as if some
dread possessed her mind.

The appearance of these two travel-stained strangers occasioned much
comment in Boston. No one knew them. Where did they come from? The
south, perhaps the seaboard, for they made their entrance from the
Plymouth and Rhode Island roads. But why had they come by land when
travel by water was so much easier? They must have been walking all
day, for the child seemed very tired. Some women, who had seen them
enter the old suburb at the lower part of the town, asserted that the
stranger was carrying the child in his arms when he came to the town.
They saw him halt under some trees by the big spring and both man and
child drink of the pure sweet waters. On reaching the corner of what is
now Washington Street he paused a moment and glanced toward the house of
the governor as if he would go there; but, after a few whispered words
with the child, he shook his head and turned his attention toward the
principal inn of the town.

The child evidently caused this change in his mind, for Mrs. Alice
Stevens, who from her window was watching the pair with no little
interest, thought the little girl looked hungry and tired. She was on
the point of going out to offer her some refreshments and ask the
wanderers to come in and rest, when they went on. The travellers must
have been very thirsty, for the children who followed them saw them
pause at the town-pump and drink again.

There was at this time in Boston a very respectable inn, at which
Bradford the governor of New Plymouth had been entertained by the elder
governor Winthrop. The man and child proceeded to this inn, the best in
the town, and entered the broad piazza which was on a level with the
street. All the ovens were heated, and the host, who was also chief
cook, was preparing supper. The savory smell of cooked meats and
vegetables filled the air with an odor which seemed to increase the
child's hunger. The man and child without a word sank down upon the
wooden benches and listened to the conversation of some men who were
drinking in the tap-room. The peals of laughter and loud talk certainly
were very unlike the staid Puritans of New England. Anon, one of them
struck up a cavalier song very popular among that sect at the period,
and ended with:

"God save the King!"

No war-horse ever heard the blast of a trumpet with more fire in his
soul than did the stranger sitting on the porch holding his child by one
hand, and his knotted stick in the other, hear that cry. His hand
involuntarily clutched the stick as if it were a sword, and his breath
came hard and quick, as if he were eager to rush into battle. The child
seemed instinctively to catch the idea of her father and clutched his
arm with both her hands, while her soft brown eyes were fixed on his in
mute appeal, and he sat enduring the insult without a murmur.

The kitchen was not so far away but that the partridges, grouse and
trout on spits and in the oven gave forth their fumes as they browned
to tempting perfection. The little girl had not yet spoken since they
had entered the town; but now she fixed her eyes on her parent and
whispered:

"I am very hungry."

He turned his great brown eyes on her tenderly, and made no answer. At
this moment a tow-headed son of the host espied the strangers on the
porch and went to his father to report. The landlord, with flushed face
and greasy apron, appeared on the porch and asked:

"What do you want?"

"Supper and bed," was the answer, and the little girl raised her eyes to
the host, giving him a tired hungry stare.

The proprietor of the inn looked at them suspiciously for a moment, and
then, as if doubting their ability to remunerate him for his
accommodations, asked:

"Have you money to pay for that which you ask?"

"I have," and the mysterious stranger drew from an inside pocket of his
blouse a heavy leathern purse. Unfastening its strings he emptied its
contents, golden guineas, into his own hands, as if to prove that he had
the wherewithal to pay for himself and child. The sight of so much gold
caused the landlord's eyes to sparkle with delight, and he said:

"You can have what you ask!"

The stranger returned his money to his purse and put it in the pocket of
his blouse. There was an air of mystery about the stranger which puzzled
the landlord, and he stood gazing at him, his brow gathered into a knot
of wrinkles as if trying to solve some intricate problem. The man was
sparing of his words; but when he did speak there was something terrible
in his voice; it was deep and heavy like the roar of a cannon. While the
landlord was gazing at him, lost in a sort of revery, he was suddenly
startled by the awful voice asking:

"Will supper be ready soon?"

"Directly."

The host, being thus recalled to his duty, wheeled about to return to
the kitchen. On his way he was met by his wife, whose face was the very
picture of terror and superstitious dread.

"Have nought to do with them! Have nought to do with them!"

"Wherefore, good wife, do you say as much?"

She whispered a few words in his ears which made him turn pale, and with
eyes starting from their sockets, he asked:

"How know you this?"

"Mrs. Johnson hath told me."

The whole demeanor of the landlord underwent an immediate change, his
eyes no longer sparkled with delight at thought of the golden guineas,
and he would sooner have handled a red-hot toasting-fork than have
touched one of them. For a moment he stood hesitating and actually
quaking, and then he appealed to his wife with:

"What must be done?"

"Be done with them at once. Marry! send them hence without delay."

The good dame ruled the household, and he hastily returned to the porch
where the stranger and his child were sitting, and said:

"I cannot make room for you!"

Half starting from his seat, the traveller fixed his terrible eyes on
the host and asked:

"What mean you? Be you afraid of your payment? Verily, I will give you
the money before I eat your bread," and once more he put his hand into
the pocket of the blouse to pull forth the purse; but the landlord
raised his own hand and, with a restraining gesture and averted his
head, as if he dreaded a sight of the other's gold, answered:

"Nay, it is not that."

"Pray, what is it?"

"I doubt not that you have the money."

"Then why refuse me what I ask?"

"I have no spare beds. When I said you could remain, I knew not that all
my rooms were taken."

The child raised her beautiful but dirt-stained face to the host in
mute appeal, while her father quietly continued:

"Put us in the stables; we are used to it."

"I cannot."

"Pray why not? Surely the enemies of the son of God would not refuse him
that."

The host started at the awful reply, which to him was sacrilege, and
answered in a faltering voice:

"The horses take up all the room."

The stranger seemed not entirely put out by the persistent refusal of
the landlord and said:

"We will find some corner in which to lie after supper."

"I will give you no supper."

This declaration, made in a firm tone, brought the mysterious traveller
to his feet.

"Can you, a Christian, speak thus?" he cried. "We are dying of hunger. I
have been on my legs since sunrise, and have walked ten leagues to-day,
for most part carrying my child on my back. I have the money, I am
hungry, and I will have food."

"I have none for you," said the landlord.

"What are you cooking in your kitchen, the savory odors of which are
maddening to a hungry man?"

"It is all ordered."

"By whom?"

"Merchants and travellers from Plymouth and New Amsterdam."

"You can surely spare a crust for my child, she is starving."

The stern landlord hesitated, when a loud authoritative "Ahem!" from his
invisible wife strengthened him, and he said:

"I have not a morsel to spare."

"I am at an inn. I am hungry, I have money, and I shall remain,"
answered the stranger, sitting by the side of the little girl, who
nervously clutched his arm. The landlord seemed quite put out, if not a
little awed by the determined manner of the stranger, and turning about
re-entered the house, where he held a whispered consultation with some
one. Terror overcame the hunger of the tired child, and, clinging to her
father, she whispered:

"Let us go from this house. I am not hungry now, let us go to some other
place where we will not be injured."

He laid his hard, rough hand assuringly on the shoulder of the
frightened child and sought to soothe her fears. At this moment the
landlord, who had had his courage renewed by his wife, came quite up to
the stranger and, in a voice that was terribly in earnest, said:

"I know more of you by far than you realize. I am usually polite to
everybody, so pray be off."

For a single instant a flash blazed from the eyes of the stranger, then
his face grew deathly white, and he rose, taking the hand of his child
in his own and went off. They walked along the streets at hap-hazard,
keeping close to the houses like a sad and humiliated pair. His tired
child was at his side, uncomplaining, though scarcely able to drag one
weary little foot after the other. They did not look back once. Had they
done so they would have seen that the landlord stood with all his guests
and the passers-by, talking eagerly and pointing to them. Judging from
the looks of suspicion and terror, they might have guessed that ere long
their arrival would be the event of the whole town. They saw nothing of
this, for people who are oppressed do not look back, they know too well
that evil destiny is following them.

Though sad and humiliated, the man was proud, and had the consciousness
of right on his side. Only for his child, he might have defied the
landlord and all the people, but the dread of leaving her alone and
uncared for almost made a coward of a lion. They walked on for a long
time, turning down streets new and strange to them, and in their sorrow
forgetting their fatigue. The sun had set and darkness was falling over
the landscape, when the father, roused once more to a sense of duty for
his child, began to look around for some sort of shelter. The best inn
was closed against them, so he sought a very humble ale-house, a
wretched den which he would have shuddered to have his child enter under
other circumstances. The candles had been lighted and the travellers
paused for a moment to look through the windows. Even that miserable
place had something cheerful and inviting about it. Some cavaliers who
had come from England since the restoration were drinking beer, while
over the fire in the broad chimney bubbled a caldron hanging from an
iron hook. The traveller went to the front entrance and timidly raised
the latch and entered the room, bringing his child after him.

"Who is there?" the landlord asked.

"A traveller and his child who want supper and bed."

"Very good. They are to be had here."

A long wooden bench was in the room, and the traveller sat down on it
and stretched out his tired feet, swollen with fatigue. The child fell
into the seat at his side and, laying her soft curly head on his lap,
despite the fact she had travelled all day without food, fell asleep. As
the stranger sat there in the gloom of twilight, for no candle had been
brought into the room, all that could be distinguished of his face was
his prominent nose, and firm mouth covered with beard. It was a firm,
energetic and sad profile. The face was strangely composed, for it began
by being proud and ended with humility, it commenced in stern austerity
and ended in kindness. One moment the eyes beneath the shaggy eyebrows
gleamed with fires of hate, next they were softened in love as the
glance fell on the sleeping, supperless child. The hand was hardened by
grasping the sword-hilt, and the heart, which had so often defied the
bullets of the enemy, was humble and child-like in the presence of the
little girl.

The landlord was about to prepare supper for the hungry wanderers, when
a man suddenly entered by the kitchen door, quite out of breath with
running. His eyes were opened wide with terror, and he was trembling
from head to foot. He proceeded to whisper some words in the ears of the
landlord, which caused him to start and quake with dread.

"What would I better do?" asked the landlord in amazement.

"Drive them hence. No good ever comes to one harboring such."

This being made the plain Christian duty of the landlord, he was not
slow to act. He went into the adjoining room, walked up almost to the
stranger, holding his sleeping child on his knee, and said:

"You must be off."

At first the eyes glared at the host fiercely, then became more gentle,
as he remarked:

"You know me?"

"Yes."

"We were turned away from the other inn."

"So you will be from this."

"Where would you have us go?"

"Anywhere so you leave my house."

The stranger had made no effort as yet to rise, and the child who sat at
his side with her head on his knee still slept. Someone brought in a
lighted wax taper, and the strange man, gazing on the face of the
sleeping child, asked:

"Can she remain? See, she has had no food all day and has journeyed, oh,
so far! Won't you let her remain?"

"No, I will have none of you with me."

"But she hath done no wrong," persisted the father.

The stubborn landlord shook his head and answered:

"It brings ill luck to one having such about. You must away and take her
with you."

The large, sad-eyed man bent over the sleeping child and whispered:

"Ester!"

She awoke in a moment and cast a bewildered glance about the room, as a
child will on being suddenly aroused.

"We must go," the father said, sadly.

She made no complaint, but, rising, with a feminine instinct common even
in a girl of her tender years, adjusted her ruffled hood and dress.

They went out into the night, for the sun had long since set, and the
far-off stars one by one opened their little eyes, until the heavens
were glittering with diamonds. They entered a small street in which
there were numerous gardens, some being merely enclosures with stone
fences. Among these gardens and fences he saw a house the window of
which was illuminated, and he looked through the open casement as he had
done at the inn. It was a cozy, whitewashed room, with a bed, a rude
cradle, a few chairs and an old-fashioned matchlock hanging on a rack
made of deer's antlers on the wall. A plain table was laid for supper in
the middle of the room, a wax taper burned on the mantel lighting up the
interior of the Puritan's home. A man forty years of age sat at the
table with a baby on his knee. Two children, one four and the other two
years old, sat at his side, while the mother was placing supper on the
table. What a tempting sight for a hungry man! Could one conceive a
more happy family picture? The travellers looked on, and the father was
almost maddened when he glanced at his own child.

"Papa, I am so hungry and so tired," she whispered. "Won't you ask them
if we can stay here?"

Fugitives from the law must have a care where they go, and to whom they
appeal, yet Ester's father was growing more desperate every moment. He
went boldly to the door and gave a timid rap with his knuckle. That hand
once bold enough to strike a king from his throne was weak and trembling
on this night. At sound of the knock, the husband and father seemed to
have suddenly changed. The lion may sport and play with his whelps in
his lair, but when the intruder enters his domestic abode, all is
changed. He rose, took up the light and went to the door. He was a tall
man and, judging from his charcoal-begrimed features, a blacksmith, and
he wore a large leathern apron which came quite to his shoulder. As he
threw back his head the shirt-front opened, displaying his bare neck and
hairy chest. His face was sullen, with a bull-dog expression on it.
Without a moment's hesitation, the stranger began:

"I am weary, and my child hath had no food to-day. Would you, for money,
give us a morsel to eat and a blanket and corner in which to sleep?"

"Who are you?" asked the smith.

"We came from New Plymouth, and have walked all day. I will pay you well
for what you give us."

The blacksmith loved money; but those were troublesome times, and people
had to be careful whom they admitted into their houses. The king had
been restored and was pursuing his enemies with a vengeance, and to
harbor a _regicide_ might mean death on the scaffold. The smith thought
of all this, and asked:

"Why do you not go to one of the inns?"

"There is no room there."

"Nonsense! that is impossible. Have you been to Robinson's?"

"I have been to all."

"Well?"

The traveller continued with some hesitation, "I do not know why; but
they all refuse to take us in."

The man knew there was something wrong with the travellers, and turning
about, he held a whispered consultation with his wife. She was heard to
say in a faint whisper: "It is the same, a man with a child." Then the
smith turned on the stranger, and said:

"Be off."

The proud eye of a daring trooper in despair is the saddest sight one
ever gazed upon. Such was the look of the humiliated man, as, with his
starving child, he turned from the last door. At times the spirit of
revenge rose in his breast, and he was inclined to turn on the men who
refused his child food, drink and shelter, and with his stout knotted
stick beat out their brains; but, on second thought, he restrained
himself and said:

"No--no; I will not make an outlaw of myself. I am not a robber."

He who had been the commander of thousands, the king of the
battle-field, at whose name princes grew pale and thrones tottered, was
now a wanderer from house to house, rejected at every door.

"I am so hungry," murmured Ester. "If I had but a morsel of food, I
could sleep under a tree."

He heard the plaintive appeal, and it wrung his fatherly heart. Through
his teeth he hissed:

"If I am made a savage let all the world beware."

They were climbing a hill to enter another part of the town, when they
came upon a kind old Puritan woman, who paused to gaze in compassion on
the wayfarers. If others kept off from them as though they were
creatures to contaminate by a touch, she seemed to entertain no such
fears. Coming quite close, she said:

"Prythee, friend, why do you not get this child to bed?"

"I would, good woman, had I a bed for her; but, alas, all doors are shut
against us."

"Surely not all!"

"I have tried the inns and the home of the smith; but they seem to fear
us, as if we were polution."

"Have you called at that house?" she asked, pointing to a steep-roofed
building, the top of which was just visible over the hill in the light
of the rising moon.

"No, who lives there?"

"Mathew Stevens, a very good old man."

"Has he a heart? Is he brave?"

"He has a heart tender enough, and he is brave enough to shelter the
oppressed, in spite of other people's opinions."

The woman went her way, and the traveller and his weary child went
slowly over the hill to the house. It seemed a great distance. Many a
time after that Ester traversed the distance alone and thought it short;
but on that night rods were lengthened out into miles. As they were
passing the window, Ester saw a man about the age of her father reading
a Bible. He sat at a table on which burned a taper, and his wife and
children were gathered about listening. Surely a man who would read the
Bible would not refuse them food and shelter. She staggered up to the
door by her father's side, in a dazed, half-conscious manner, and was
cognizant of his knocking, and the door being opened. Their story was
told briefly, and then warm arms encircled the little fugitive, a
colored slave prepared a supper, and Ester was awakened to eat it, after
which she sank into slumber on her father's breast.




CHAPTER XI.

TYRANNY AND FLIGHT.

     "Oh, for a lodge in some vast wilderness,
     Some boundless contiguity of shade,
     Where rumor of oppression and deceit,
     Of successful or unsuccessful war,
     Might never reach me more."
                                     --Cowper.

When Virginia came back to the royal fold, her people little suspected
that she was to be fleeced by the very men for whom they had clamored.
No event worthy of note had occurred in the colony until September,
1663, when what was known as the "Oliverian Plot" was concocted. A
number of indented servants conspired to "anticipate the period of their
freedom," and made an appointment to assemble at Poplar Spring in
Gloucester, with what precise designs is not known. They were betrayed
by one of their number, and Berkeley, who already seemed to thirst for
blood, had the four ringleaders hung.

Jamestown was the gay city of the South; but the halcyon days promised
on the restoration of Virginia to royalty were never realized. The
common people were made worse for the change, and only the favorite few
were bettered.

At the home of Mrs. Dorothe Price matters went on fairly well. Her
children from the first seemed to whisper rebellion; but the stern
cavalier husband met them with firmness. Robert Stevens, who had
incurred the man's dislike before he had wed his mother, realized that
his stepfather had not forgotten and was not likely to forget the
assault. His face, which at times could be pleasant, was firm and
immovable with Robert. He never smiled on the boy nor gave him one
encouraging word.

When the cavaliers and ladies assembled at the house, the children were
sent away. Robert was strong and athletic. His early hardships had bred
in him a spirit of fearless independence and freedom, which few of his
age realized. Mr. Price saw that unless he early mastered him, he would
not be able to do so, for Robert was rapidly growing larger. The gloomy
taint in Hugh Price's blood was his religion, which was austere and
wrathful. He could assume a character of firmness when he chose to do
so, and then, despite his silk, lace, and ruffles, he became terrible.
One day when Robert had exhibited a strong spirit of insubordination, he
took his arm and, sitting on a chair, held him standing before him for
a long time, gazing into his face. The little fellow met his glance
without quailing, though he could feel his heart within his bosom giving
great thumps.

"Robert," he said, pressing his lips firmly together, "do you know what
I do if my horse or dog will not obey me?"

"No," was the answer.

"I beat him and make him smart until I have conquered him. I would drain
every drop of blood from his veins, but I would conquer him."

Glaring at him with a fury that made the strong man wince, the lad
answered:

"If you beat me I will kill you."

For several minutes the stepfather sat glaring at Robert who met his
gaze with defiance. Hugh Price read in the face of the child hate, and
inwardly realized that there was a struggle in the near future which
might end in the death of one or the other; but if those forebodings
were in his mind, he did not let the boy see them, and in a voice quite
calm and intended to be gentle, he said:

"Go away, Robert, until you are more reasonable."

Robert Stevens might have been improved for his whole life by a single
kind word at that moment; but the haughty cavalier would not bow to the
will of any one, much less to the boy he already hated. A word of
encouragement, explanation, pity for his childish ignorance, of
reassurance that his mother's roof was to be his home, might have made
him really dutiful.

On his way out he heard a sob, and, going into his mother's room, found
her on her knees weeping bitterly. Tenderly he wound his arms around
that weak mother, whom he loved with all the fervency of his young soul,
and his own tears mingled with hers. They were in this position when
Hugh Price, on his way to mount his horse, paused a single instant to
gaze on the scene, and then, muttering something about weakness of
women, added an oath and hurried from the house.

When he was gone, Dorothe rose from her knees and, clasping Robert in
her arms, cried:

"Oh, Robert, I heard it all!"

"Mother, I mean it!" he answered.

"No, no; for my sake, promise me you will not, Robert."

"Mother," said the boy, "my own father never struck me a blow. He who
had the right to punish me never found it necessary, and he shall not."

Dearly as Robert loved his mother, he would not yield to Hugh Price. He
would have suffered torture rather than caused his mother a single tear;
but to yield to the haughty cavalier was impossible.

Public schools were unknown in that day, and what little learning was
to be acquired was by private tutors. Sometimes Price talked of sending
the boy to England to school, more to get rid of him than from any real
desire to improve his mind. The mother objected to this. Then the
stepfather tried to effect a compromise by sending him to Harvard
College in Massachusetts, for he had relatives in Boston who might keep
an eye on the incorrigible youth; but the fond mother clung to her son,
and having a fair education herself, Robert and his sister, a pale
little creature, whose great dark eyes were like her mother's, became
pupils with the mother for teacher. She was an indulgent preceptress
and, for a short season, renounced the pleasures and follies grown so
dear to her heart, and devoted herself to the improvement of her
children's mind. Mrs. Price was so blind as to believe that it was her
husband's real interest in Robert's welfare that made him wish to send
the boy away. She soon found her labor as teacher irksome. She employed
a private tutor and again mingled with the lords and ladies, and became
one of the sparkling lights of Greensprings Manor.

Hugh Price was kind and indulgent to her. Her temperament suited his own
ideas of living, and but for the children they might have been happy.

It is possible that Mr. Price entertained some fear that Robert would
execute his threat and kill him, for though he often laid his hand on
the slender cane as if he would like to use it on the boy, he had thus
far refrained; but a crisis was coming. Price not only entertained an
aversion to Robert, but disliked Rebecca. She shrank from him in a way
that increased the dislike, although he made some efforts to reconcile
her to him.

One day, a year and a half after his marriage, he accosted the child,
and she, shrinking with dread, failed to do his bidding. He boxed her
ears, and she cried out with pain.

That scream roused Robert, and he flew tooth and nail at the stepfather.
Hugh Price, unprepared for this violent attack, shook the lad off, held
him at arm's length for a moment and said:

"I may as well do it now as ever."

Robert was in a maze, and to him it seemed a dream. His mother was
weeping and imploring, his sister screaming, and the faithful slave
Dinah howling. As Price took him toward the door, his mother ran toward
them; but the husband angrily raised his disengaged hand and growled:

"Dorothe, you are a perfect fool!"

Robert saw her stop her ears, then heard her crying, as he was led
slowly and gravely to his room. The supreme moment had arrived when Mr.
Hugh Price was to glut his vengeance. Price was delighted with this
formal parade to the execution of justice, for he had made up his mind
to conquer the lad's spirit or break it, and when Robert's room was
reached, he suddenly twisted his head under his arm, saying:

"The moment has arrived, Robert, when I must convince you that I am
master of the house."

"Mr. Price, beware! Pray don't beat me, it will only make matters worse.
I could not see you strike my sister; but if you will not beat us, we
will try to obey you in the future."

"No, no, indeed, Robert!" he answered. "The time has come to convince
you that I am master."

He held the boy's arm until it ached with pain, but Robert continued to
gaze in his face and implore him for the sake of the future not to
strike him. The stepfather was in a rage, and at that moment little
cared what he roused in the breast of the boy. Heedless of his pleading,
he raised his slender cane and struck at him, but the active lad dodged
the blow and caught his arm with his sharp teeth.

It now became a fight to the finish. Hugh Price was enraged and struck
fast and furious. Above the din of the combatants in the room, the
angry, smarting boy could hear the darkies flying in terror from room to
room, and his little sister at the door imploring mercy for her brother.
Mingled with this noise were the screams and supplications of his mother
until she fainted in the arms of the negress, after which came only the
shrill cries of little Rebecca. Then the stepfather was gone, and the
door bolted on the outside. The badly bruised lad lay raging and sobbing
on the floor, breathing threats of vengeance. By degrees he became quiet
and listened. A strange, unnatural silence reigned throughout the whole
house. When his smarting began to subside his passion cooled a little,
yet he felt wicked; and, rolling on the floor, vowed he would kill his
stepfather.

After a while he sat up and listened for a long time; but there was not
a sound. He crawled from the floor, and the wounds made by the cane of
the cavalier were so fresh and sore that they made him weep anew.

He sat by the window. It had began to grow dark, and he was turning away
to lie on the couch, when he heard the clatter of hoofs and saw Hugh
Price mounted on his favorite black charger, riding toward Greensprings.
Shortly after, Dinah's step was heard on the stairway, and his door
was opened.

"Where is Rebecca?" he asked.

"Waiten," was the answer.

"Waiting for what?"

"For you, Massa Robert. You is gwine away."

"Where?"

The negress did not know; but Robert soon learned that their uncle from
Flower De Hundred had come to Jamestown and agreed to take the children
and rear them.

"When are we to go, Dinah?"

"To-morrow, Massa."

"Is that why Mr. Price left?"

"Yes um. Him say neber want to see you again."

"Shall I see mother?"

"Yes, in de mornin'. Heah am yer suppah chile; now eat it an den go to
sleep, honey, for it am all ober."

Consequently next morning at early daylight the children were mounted on
horses, the chief mode of travel in Virginia at that time, and,
accompanied by their aunt's husband and two negro slaves, they set off
on the long journey. Mrs. Price kissed them a tearful adieu and wept as
if her heart would break. This unfortunate woman was more weak than bad.
By one who has not made a study of the human heart and is incapable of
an analysis of woman, Mrs. Price will not be understood. There are many
women like her, and, disagreeable as the type may seem, it exists, and
the artist who is true to nature must paint nature as he finds it.

Three years were passed by Robert and his sister at the home of their
relative, and in those three years Robert imbibed a spirit of
republicanism which at that time was rapidly growing in Virginia. As
Robert's uncles were republicans, he learned the doctrine from them. If
for no other reason than that his stepfather was a royalist, he would
have been a republican.

Nothing is more uncertain than political friendship, a friendship
selfish and treacherous. It assumes all things, absorbs all things,
expects all things, and disappoints in everything. A merely political
friend can never be trusted. Robert was seventeen or eighteen years of
age, when he became acquainted with Giles Peram, a young man two or
three years his senior. Peram was a caricature on nature. He was short
of stature, had a round, fat face, eyes that bulged from his head like
those of a toad, a corpulent body, and a walk about as graceful as the
waddling of a duck. His short legs and arms gave him a decidedly comical
appearance.

He was egotistical, with flexible opinions and liable to be swayed in
any course. When he was at Flower De Hundred, living in the atmosphere
of liberalists and republicans, he was one of the most outspoken of all.
He would strut for hours before any one who would listen to his
senseless twaddle and would harangue and discourse on the rights of
the people.

"Are you favorable to royalty?" he asked Robert one day. "Don't you
believe in the rights of the common people?"

"I certainly do," Robert answered, for he was thoroughly democratic.

"So do I--ahem--so do I;" and then the angry little fellow shook his
fist at an imaginary foe. "Would you fight for such principles?"

"I would."

"So would I--ahem, so would I," cried Mr. Peram. Giles had a very
disagreeable habit of repeating his words. A wag once said that his
ideas were so few and his words so many that he was forced to repeat. "I
will fight for the rights of the people. I will lead an army myself and
hurl King Charles from his throne."

Robert laughed. The idea of this insipid pigmy leading an army to
overthrow the king was as ridiculous as Don Quixote charging the
windmills.

"Give o'er such thoughts, Giles, or perchance the king will hang you."

"Hang me! I defy him!" cried Mr. Peram.

His manner was earnest, and Robert, who hated Governor Berkeley,
suggested they had better begin their republic by overthrowing
the governor.

"Do you mean it?" asked Giles. "Aye, do you mean it? Then why not hurl
Berkeley from power."

"Verily, you could not more nearly conform to my wishes," answered
Robert.

Then Giles, in his impetuous enthusiasm, embraced Robert. Giles Peram
was not a spy, and at that time he believed himself a stanch republican.
A few days later he went to Jamestown. Robert little dreamed that his
remark would bring trouble upon himself.

At this time Governor Berkeley was growing uneasy. He felt that he stood
above a burning volcano, from which an eruption was liable to take place
at any moment. He trembled at the slightest whispers of freedom, for
royalty dreads independence, and the idle boasts of Giles Peram startled
him. He summoned Hugh Price and consulted with him on the boldness
of Peram.

"Fear him not, my lord," said Hugh. "He is but an idle, boasting,
half-witted fellow, as harmless as he is silly. There is a plot, I am
sure; but of it I will learn the particulars and advise you."

Hugh Price was shrewd, and, by a little flattery, he won over the
vacillating Giles Peram to the royalists' side.

"Yes, sir, I will draw my sword for the king, ahem--draw my sword for
the king at any moment. I am a loyal cavalier of his majesty, Charles
II., and woe to the man who says aught against him or his majesty's
governor, Berkeley."

Then Hugh told him that there was certainly a deep-laid plot against
Governor Berkeley, and he asked the aid of Peram in ferreting out the
leaders. There were no leaders and no plot; but Peram, after cudgeling
his brain, remembered that Robert Stevens had spoken treasonable words
against the governor. Having changed his politics, he was no longer the
friend of Robert and was willing to aid in his downfall.

Price received the intelligence with joy. He hated Robert, and this was
a good way to get rid of him. Often the cavalier had declared:

"Marry! he is a merry rogue. He will yet ornament the gibbet."

His predictions seemed on the verge of realization. Berkeley, grown
petulant and merciless in his old age, would not hesitate to hang Robert
on suspicion.

One evening as Robert was going from his mother's house he noticed three
or four persons coming down the street. Their manner might have excited
the suspicion of a guilty man; but as Robert had committed no crime, he
relied wholly on his innocence. No sooner had he stepped on the street,
however, than he was arrested.

"Of what offence am I accused?" he asked.

"Treason."

"Treason! it is false; I am guilty of no treason."

The mother and sister, hearing the angry words without, hurried to the
street to find him in custody. Wringing their hands in an agony of
distress, they demanded to know the cause of the arrest, and were
informed that Robert had been accused of treason to the governor and
must be committed to jail.

Robert slept behind iron bars that night. He had many friends in the
town, who no sooner learned of his arrest, than they began to appeal to
the governor for his release. Among them was Drummond, Cheeseman and
Lawerence; but all supplications and entreaties were of no avail. Hugh
Price made a pretence of defending his wife's son; but the hollow show
of his pretended interest was apparent.

One night, as he was lying on his hard prison bunk, Robert heard the
sound of footsteps without. Some persons were working at the front door
with a key. They seemed to be exercising due caution, and soon the
door was open.

They came to the door of his cell. For a long time it seemed to baffle
them, but at last it yielded, and the door opened.

"Who are you?" asked the prisoner, as three dark forms appeared before
him.

"Friends," a voice which he recognized as Mr. Edward Cheeseman's
whispered. "We have come to liberate you."

He was led from the jail, and then, by the dim light of the stars, he
recognized William Drummond, Edward Cheeseman and Mr. Lawerence.

"There is a ship in the harbor ready to sail for Boston," said Mr.
Lawerence. "You will go aboard of her and escape."

"Can I see my mother and sister before I go?"

"They are waiting on the beach," Drummond answered.

Thanking his liberators, he followed them from the jail to the beach. It
was midnight, and the stars looked coldly down on the youth as he
hurried from the prison. His proud spirit rebelled at flying from home.
He had done no wrong and consequently had nothing to fly from; but when
his mother threw her arms about his neck and implored him to go,
he assented.

"I shall appeal to the king, show him my wrong and obtain my right."

"Have you money?" asked Mr. Drummond.

"None."

"Here is some," and Drummond placed in the hand of Robert a well-filled
purse.

"My friend, how can one so poor as I repay you?"

"Talk not of repayment," Drummond answered, "but go on, and when you
are away, remember us in kindness."

The boat was waiting on the beach, and the sailors sat at their oars
ready to take him away to the vessel which lay at anchor. Drummond,
Cheeseman and Lawerence withdrew, leaving Robert alone with his mother
and sister. A few silent tears, a few silent embraces, and then he bade
them adieu, entered the boat, and was rowed away into the darkness.




CHAPTER XII.

THE DAUGHTER OF A REGICIDE.

     When thy beauty appears
     In its graces and airs,
       All bright as an angel new dropped from the sky
     At a distance I gaze and am awed at my fears,
       So strangely you dazzle my eyes.
                                             --PARNELL.

One bright morning in autumn a ship from Virginia entered Boston Harbor.
The appearance of a vessel was not an uncommon sight, and this one
attracted little more than passing comment. Passengers were coming
ashore and among them a stalwart youth of eighteen. His eyes wandered
about over the town while the breeze played with his long hair hanging
about his shoulders. He wore the costume of a cavalier, with a
low-crowned, broad-brimmed hat and plume; but his face had all the grave
aspect of a Puritan.

He asked no questions on landing, but went up to the Common, where a
fencing-master had erected a stage and was walking back and forth upon
it with a rapier in his hand, saying:

"Come, any who will, and fight me with swords."

Near him were a dozen or two swords of all kinds. The new-comer paused
near the platform on which the boaster stood and gazed at him in wonder.

"I have been on this platform for several days, defying any man to fence
with me. Have you no one in Boston brave enough?"

"I will," a voice cried at this moment. All turned at the sound, for the
voice was deep and commanding, sounding like the boom of a cannon.

This stranger to all assembled on the Common was most singularly armed
and equipped for a fight. On his left arm, wrapped in a linen cloth, was
a large cheese for a shield, while he carried, instead of a sword, a mop
dipped in muddy water.

"Who is he?"

"Some madman."

"Beware of him, and allow him not to go on the stage," cried another.

But the stranger, with an agility not to be expected in one of his
years, sprang upon the platform. The fencing-master evidently thought he
had an easy victory, for a smile curled his lip, as he asked:

"Are you ready?"

"Yes," was the answer.

"Guard!"

He sprang at the fencing-master, who made a thrust at him, burying the
point of his sword in the cheese, where the white-haired man held it,
while he smeared the face of his opponent with the mud on his mop.

[Illustration: "ARE YOU READY?"]

"Zounds! master what are you about?" cried the fencing-master.

"Marry! I am teaching you new tactics." Releasing his sword, the
fencing-master ran to the other end of the platform and, seizing a
broadsword, cried:

"I will have it out with you with these."

At this, the old man cried in a terrible voice:

"Stop, sir! hitherto you see I have only played with you and done you
no hurt; but if you come at me with the broadsword, I will take
your life."

The alarmed fencing-master cried out:

"Who can you be? You must be either Goffe, Whalley, or the devil, for
there are no others in England who could beat me."

In order to fully explain the meaning of the fencing-master's words, we
beg leave to step aside from our story for a moment and recall some
historical events which have a bearing upon it. Of the judges who tried
and condemned Charles I. three escaped to America. One was Edward
Whalley, who had first won laurels in the field at Naseby, had even
enjoyed the confidence of Cromwell, and remained a friend of the
Independents; one was William Goffe, a firm friend of the family of
Cromwell, a good soldier and an ardent partisan, but ignorant of the
true principles of freedom. Endicott was governor when these two arrived
in Boston. Goffe, with his child, came first, but was known as soon as
he entered the town, and lodging was refused him at every house until he
came to the home of the kind Puritan, Mathew Stevens, who sheltered the
man and his child, though it might endanger his own head.

Charles II. pursued the murderers of his father with unrelenting fury.
Whalley and Goffe both had been generals in the army of Cromwell and
were men of undoubted courage. When warrants came for them from England,
they hurried across the country to New Haven, where it was esteemed a
crime against God to betray a wanderer or give up an outcast; yet such
diligent search was made for them, that they never knew security. For a
time they went in secrecy from house to house, for awhile concealing
themselves in a mill, sometimes in clefts of rocks by the seaside, and
for weeks together, and even for months, they dwelt in a cave in the
forest. Great rewards were offered for their apprehension. Indians as
well as English were urged to scour the woods in quest of their
hiding-place.

John Dixwell, the third regicide, was more fortunate. He was able to
live undiscovered and, changing his name, was absorbed among the
inhabitants of New Haven. He married and lived peacefully and happily.
Raleigh's history of the world, written during his imprisonment, while
he was under sentence of death, was his favorite study. It is said that
to the day of his death he retained a firm belief that the spirit of
English liberty would demand a new revolution, which was achieved in
England while he was on his death-bed.

Another victim of the restoration, selected for his genius and
integrity, was Sir Henry Vane, the benefactor of Rhode Island. This ever
faithful friend of New England and liberty adhered with undaunted
firmness to "the glorious cause" of popular liberty, and, shunned by
every one who courted the returning monarch, he became noted for his
unpopularity. When the Unitarians were persecuted, not as a sect but as
blasphemers, Vane interceded for them. He also pleaded for the liberty
of the Quakers, and as a legislator he demanded justice in behalf of the
Roman Catholics. When monarchy was overthrown and a Commonwealth
attempted, Vane reluctantly filled a seat in the council, and, resuming
his place as a legislator, amidst the floating wrecks of the English
constitution, he clung to the existing parliament as to the only
fragment on which it was possible to rescue English liberty. His ability
enabled Blake to cope with Holland on the sea.

[Illustration: SIR HENRY VANE.]

After the restoration, parliament had excepted Sir Henry Vane from the
indemnity, on the king's promise that he should not suffer death. It was
resolved to bring him to trial, and he turned his trial into a triumph.
Though he had always been supposed to be a timid man, he appeared
before his judges with animated fearlessness. Instead of offering
apologies for his career, he denied the imputation of treason with
scorn, defended the right of Englishmen to be governed by successive
representatives, and took glory to himself for actions which promoted
the good of England and were sanctioned by parliament as the virtual
sovereign of the realm. "He spoke not for his life and estate, but for
the honor of the martyrs to liberty that were in their graves, for the
liberties of England, for the interest of all posterity to come." When
he asked for counsel, the solicitor said:

"Who will dare speak for you, unless you can call down from the gibbet
the heads of your fellow-traitors?"

"I stand single," Vane defiantly answered. "Yet, being thus left alone,
I am not afraid, in this great presence, to bear my witness to the
glorious cause, nor to seal it with my blood."

Stimulated by the magnanimity of this noble spirit, his enemies clamored
for his life. The king wrote:

"Certainly Sir Henry Vane is too dangerous a man to let live, if we can
honestly put him out of the way."

Though he could not be honestly put out of the way, it was resolved that
he should die. The day before his execution his friends were admitted
to his prison, and sought to cheer his drooping spirits. He calmly
reviewed his political career, and in conclusion said:

"I have not the least recoil in my heart as to matter or manner of what
I have done. Why should we fear death? I find it rather shrinks from me
than I from it." His children gathered around him, and he stopped to
embrace them, mingling consolation with his kisses. "The Lord will be a
better father to you than I could have been. Be not you troubled, for I
am going to my father."

His farewell counsel was:

"Suffer anything from men rather than sin against God." When his family
had withdrawn, he declared: "I leave my life as a seal to the justness
of that quarrel. Ten thousand deaths, rather than defile the chastity of
my conscience; nor would I, for ten thousand worlds, resign the peace
and satisfaction I have in my heart."

He was beheaded at the block, and Charles II. smiled when news was
brought to him of the execution. We must not regard Charles II. as a
bloodthirsty man. In fact, he was rather good-natured, thinking more of
pleasures and beautiful mistresses than of vengeance; but it was only
natural that he should feel anxious to bring the murderers of his father
to the scaffold.

He had no love for Puritan Massachusetts and threatened to deprive them
of their liberties, demanding the retiring of the charter, which they
refused to surrender. Various rumors went to England to the detriment of
the people of Massachusetts. The New Englanders were not ignorant of the
great dangers they incurred by refusing to comply with the demand of the
sovereign. In January, 1663, the council for the colonies complained
that the government there had withdrawn all manner of correspondence, as
if intending to suspend their obedience to the authority of the king. It
was currently reported in England that Whalley and Goffe were at the
head of an army. The union of the four New England colonies was believed
to have had its origin in the express "purpose of throwing off
dependence on England."

Friends of the colonies denied the reports and assured the king that New
England was loyal; but despite the fact of their assertions, Whalley and
Goffe were still at large.

Even when their pursuers were close on their trail, Goffe, with a daring
that was reckless, frequently appeared in Boston, usually in disguise.
Long sojourn in rocks and caves had given him a natural disguise, in the
long, snowy hair and beard.

It was on one of his daring visits to Boston, that he met and conquered
the fencing-master as narrated in the opening of this chapter. Having
humbled the boaster, the man with the cheese and mop descended from the
platform, threw away his weapons and advanced toward the youth who had
been an amazed spectator of the scene.

"Good morrow, friend. Do you belong here?" he asked, taking his hand.

"No, sir, I just came in on the vessel."

"Whom do you wish to see?"

"Some relatives named Stevens."

"Is your name Stevens?"

"It is, sir."

"And you are from Virginia?" the old man asked.

"Verily, you have guessed it, sir. Who may you be?"

Without answering him, the strange swordsman seized his arm, saying:

"Come with me; I am going to the house of Mathew Stevens. What is your
father's name?"

"John Stevens was his name; but he is dead. He went on a voyage and was
lost at sea when I was quite young."

"And your grandfather was--"

"Philip Stevens, the friend of Captain John Smith."

"I know of him. We will go to the home of your relatives." He led Robert
over the hill toward a neat looking house, one of the best in Boston.
The old man was nervous and frequently halted to look about, as if
expecting pursuit.

"Surely you have no one to fear?" said Robert.

"Whom should I fear--the man whose face I plastered with mud? I carry a
sword at my side, and he could not fight me in a single combat."

"But he said something. He called you a name."

"What name?"

"Goffe."

"What know you of Goffe, pray?"

"I have heard of him. My mother's husband frequently spoke of him as a
regicide."

The swordsman gazed on him for a moment, and asked:

"Do you know what a regicide is?"

"A king-killer."

"Well, my young cavalier, when a king has been convicted of treason,
should he not suffer death as the humblest peasant in the land?"

"He should," cried Robert, on whose republican soul the argument fell
with a delightful sensation. "A king is but a man and no better than the
poorest in the realm."

"Ha! young cavalier from Virginia, dare you utter those words in your
own colony?"

"No; I left my colony because I could not abide there."

"What! a fugitive?"

"I escaped prison by the aid of friends and fled to Boston."

"And wherefore, pray, were you imprisoned?"

"On the charges of my mother's husband and a false friend in whom I
trusted."

General Goffe shook his white locks and said:

"So young, and made to feel the grinding heel of the despot! Verily the
suffering race of Adam will claim their rights some time."

They reached the home of Mathew Stevens, a large old-fashioned New
England house, and were admitted at once.

Robert was conscious of being in the presence of several strange but
kindly faces. There was an old man and woman with some young people of
his own age. Then he noticed among them a beautiful, fairy-like little
creature, some four years younger than himself, who, at sight of the
white-haired man, rushed toward him and, placing her arms about his
neck, cried:

"Father, father, father!"

"Ester, my child," the swordsman returned, "have you been happy?"

"Happy as one could be with father away."

"Now that I have returned, you need sorrow no more."

All the while Robert Stevens was standing on the threshold waiting an
invitation to enter. The aged patriarch at last seized the arm of
General Goffe and asked:

"Whom have we here?"

The general, in the joy of meeting his daughter from whom he had been
separated, had forgotten Robert.

"This is Robert Stevens, your relative from Virginia."

"Robert, I knew your father; I heard he was lost at sea."

"He was," Robert answered sadly.

"And your mother?"

"Has married Hugh Price, a cavalier."

Robert told a part of his story, ending with the announcement that he
was forced to fly from home to escape prosecution for treason. This he
told with much reluctance, for it was a poor recommendation that he was
an escaped prisoner.

When all was known, Robert found an abundance of sympathy, and was told
that he might make his home with his relatives, until he could be
provided for.

Then followed long weeks, months and years of the most delightful period
of his life. His relatives were kind. Their home was attractive; but
kind relatives and an attractive home were not the chief magnets which
attracted him to the spot. It was the joy of a pair of soft brown eyes
which held him. Ester Goffe was the most interesting person at Boston.
She was a creature born to inspire one with love. She was young, hardly
yet budded into womanhood, when first he saw her. Day by day and week by
week she seemed to him to grow in beauty and goodness.

The third day after his arrival, General Goffe mysteriously disappeared.
He had been gone almost a week, when Robert asked Ester where her
father was.

"He is gone," she answered. "The king's men learned that he was here,
and were coming after him, when he escaped."

"Whither has he gone?"

"Alas, I know not."

"What would be his fate if he should be taken?"

"He would suffer as did Sir Henry Vane. No mercy will be shown to a
regicide."

"You must suffer uneasiness."

"I am in constant dread, though my father is brave and shrewd, while the
king's officers are but lazy fellows with dull wits, who do not care to
exert themselves, yet some unseen accident might place him in
their power."

Then he induced her to tell the sad story of their flight from the wrath
of an angry king, and how they had walked all the way from Plymouth
to Boston.

The year 1675 came, just one century before the shots at Lexington were
heard around the world.

There was a restless feeling in all the colonies. The governor of
Virginia was a tyrant. The Indians were becoming restless, and a general
outbreak was expected.

Robert had been informed by his mother that his friends had procured his
pardon from Governor Berkeley, and he was urged to come home. Robert was
now twenty-six years of age. Ester was twenty-two, and they were
betrothed. Their love was of that kind which grows quickly, but is as
eternal as the heavens. The regicide had been home very little for the
last five years. He came one night to spend a short time with his
daughter. They had scarce time to whisper a few words of affection, when
Robert ran to them, saying:

"The king's men are coming."

In a few moments a dozen cavaliers with swords and pistols rushed on
General Goffe.

"Do not surrender; I will defend you," cried Robert.

He drew his sword and assailed the foremost of the cavaliers with such
implacable fury that they fell back. General Goffe took advantage of the
moment to mount a swift horse and fly. A few pistol shots were fired at
him; but he escaped, and Robert conducted the half-fainting Ester home.

It was nearly midnight when a friend came to inform Robert that the
king's men had procured a warrant against him for resisting his
majesty's officers, and he must fly for his life. There was a flutter of
hushed excitement. Everybody was awakened. Robert hurriedly gathered up
his effects, which were taken to a brigantine ready to sail for
Virginia. There was a silent, tearful farewell with Ester; vows were
renewed, and he swore when the clouds had rolled away to come and make
her his wife.

Then a last embrace, a hasty kiss, and he hurried away to the bay. Ten
minutes later the house was surrounded by soldiers.




CHAPTER XIII.

LEFT ALONE.

     Yes, 'twill be over soon,--This sickly dream
       Of life will vanish from my brain;
     And death my wearied spirit will redeem
       From this wild region of unvaried pain.
                                           --WHITE.

For fifteen years John Stevens and Blanche Holmes had lived on the
Island of Desolation, and in all that time not a sign of a sail had
appeared on the vast ocean. Not a sight of a human being had greeted
their eyes, and they had become somewhat reconciled to the idea of
passing their lives on this island. The soil in the valley was fertile
and yielded abundance to moderate tillage. John studied the seasons and
knew when to plant to receive the benefits of the rains. There was no
winter in this tropical clime, the rainy season taking the place of
winter. The sails and clothing which they had brought from the wreck had
been husbanded and made to last as long as possible; and then Blanche,
who was industrious, spun and wove cloth for both from the fibre of a
coarse weed like hemp. Her wheel and loom were rude affairs constructed
by John Stevens, who, thanks to his early experience as a pioneer, knew
how to make all useful household implements. When their shoes were worn
out he tanned the skins of goats and made them moccasins, and he even
wore a jacket of goat's skin.

For a covering for his head, he shot a fox and dressing the skin
fashioned himself a cap. In fact, the castaways lived as comfortably as
the pioneers of Virginia. John had his days of despondency, however. For
fifteen years he had climbed the hill and gazed beyond the reef-girt
shore at the broad sea in the vain hope of descrying a sail. He always
heaved a sigh of disappointment when he swept the sailless ocean with
his glass.

One morning when he had made his fruitless pilgrimage to his point of
observation, he sat down upon a stone and, passing his hand over his
eyes, brushed away a tear which came unbidden there.

"Alas, I am doomed to pass my life here. Never more can I see my home,
friends or kindred; but on this desolate shore I must end my existence.
Fifteen years have come and gone--fifteen long years since I left my
home. My wife, no doubt, believing me dead, has ceased to mourn for me.
Perhaps--but no, Dorothe never believed in it. God knows what they may
have suffered. I am powerless to aid them, and to His hands I
entrust them."

Heaving a deep sigh, he resumed his painful ruminations:

"It might be worse; yes, it might be worse. I might have perished with
the others, or I might not have been spared a single companion. God has
given me one, and with her I could almost be happy."

Returning to his humble cabin he was met by Blanche, who greeted him
with a sweet smile. Blanche seemed to grow in goodness and beauty. She
was his consoler in his hour of grief. When he was ill with a fever, she
held his burning head in her tender arms and soothed his pain. She
administered the simple remedies with which they were provided and
nursed him back to health. Once, when he was only half conscious, he
thought he felt her tears fall on his face and her soft warm lips press
his; but it might have been a dream.

"You saw no sail this morning, I know; but, there, don't despair, you
may yet go home," she said.

"No, Blanche, no; I have given up all hope of ever going home. We must
end our days here."

She looked at him with her great blue eyes so soft and tender, and
sighed:

"I am sorry for you."

"Are you not sorry for yourself?"

"No, no; I am not thinking of myself. I am all alone in the world, and
it makes little difference where I am." Her voice faltered, and he saw
that she was almost choking with grief, and John Stevens, feeling that
he had been too selfish all along, said:

"Blanche, forgive me. I have had no thought for any one save myself. I
have been cruel to neglect you as I have."

"Do not blame yourself," she sighed. "Your anxiety for your wife and
children outweighs every other consideration."

"But when I think how kind and how gentle you have been throughout all
these years, how, when the fever burned my brow, it was your soft hand
which cooled it and nursed me back to life and reason, and how I have
neglected and forgotten you, I feel I have been selfish. Surely you are
an angel whom God hath sent me in these hours of loneliness."

His natural impulse was to embrace the heroic woman; but he restrained
such unholy emotions, and she, with her heart overflowing, sat
weeping for joy.

In order to change the subject, he said:

"Blanche; I have thought that the time has come to explore the peak of
Snow-Top." (Snow-Top was the name they had given the tallest mountain in
the valley.) "It is the loftiest peak on the island, and from it we
might see other islands and continents, and with this glass, perchance,
we might get a view of a distant sail."

The exploration of this mountain had been the pet scheme for years. The
sides were steep and the ascension difficult. He had spoken of it
before, and she had approved of it.

"When do you think of going?" she asked.

"The day after to-morrow, if I can get ready."

"I will go with you."

"No, no, Blanche; the journey will be too great for you. You cannot go
that distance."

With a smile, she answered:

"Surely, as I have gone with you on so many perilous journeys, you will
not deny me this."

"Deny you, Blanche? I can deny you nothing; but I fear the journey will
overtax your strength."

"I can go wherever you do," she answered.

He made no further objection, and next day they prepared to scale those
heights which human feet had never trod. John had made for each a pair
of stout shoes, the soles of which were of a kind of wood almost as
elastic as leather and the tops of tanned goat-skins. Their shoes were
well suited for travel through the wilderness and in stony countries.

Knowing what a fatiguing journey lay before them, John travelled slowly
and at the end of the first day halted at the foot of the mountain,
where he built a fire, and they slept in perfect security.

The island was free from poisonous reptiles and insects, and since the
foxes had been nearly exterminated, there was not a dangerous animal on
the island. When morning came, they breakfasted and prepared to ascend
the mountain. At the base was a dense tangled growth of tropical trees
through which they pushed their way, sometimes being compelled to cut
their way through. The tall grass, the palms, the matted mangroves and
vines made travel difficult.

On and on, up the thorny steep they pressed. The palms and mangroves
gave place to scrub oaks, and they in turn to pine and cedar. As they
ascended, there was a change in soil, vegetation and climate.

At the base of the mountain grew only the trees and plants of the
tropics. Three hours' upward travel brought them into the regions of the
temperate zone, and they plucked wild strawberries such as grew in New
England. Pressing on up the steep side, scaling cliffs and rocks, which
at times almost defied their skill and strength, the air grew cooler.
The vegetation was less rank. The grass grew short and in places there
was none at all.

"Are you tired?" John asked.

"Not much."

"Let us sit and rest."

"The sun has almost reached the meridian, and we are not half-way up the
mountain."

"Yet you must have a few moments' rest, Blanche."

They rested but a moment and again pressed on. They had now reached a
great altitude, and the valley below looked like a fairy-land. They
found up here a species of mountain goats which they had not seen
before. They were very shy of the intruders and went bounding away from
cliff to cliff and rock to rock at a speed which defied pursuit.

John shot one. The report of his musket in this lofty region was so
slight as to be heard but a short distance, but the birds, soaring
aloft, screamed with fear and went still higher up the mountain sides.

Here they found squirrels more abundant than in the valley. The oaks and
hickory trees bore an abundance of nuts for them. Further on the
nut-bearing trees gave place to grass, and they found themselves on a
sloping plain.

Every hour seemed bringing them to new and unexplored regions. Old
Snow-Top, as they called the mountain, contained wonders. The trees had
dwindled to dwarfs, and the animals degenerated in proportion. Some
fur-bearing animals were found in these lofty regions, and the eyrie of
the eagle was in the cold, dark cliffs.

There was a perceptible change in the climate. The clothing suitable for
the valley was uncomfortably light in this region.

"Blanche, are you cold?" he asked.

She, smiling, answered:

"Never mind me, I can stand it."

"The air is chill."

"It always is so in ascending a lofty mountain."

"The ascent is more difficult than I supposed; behold the cliff before
us!"

"I see it."

"It seems almost perpendicular."

"So it does."

"I see no way to scale it from here."

"Yet, like all other ills in this world, the difficulties may disappear
at our approach."

When they advanced toward the cliff, fully two hundred feet in height, a
narrow rocky slope was seen ascending on the left, like a flight of
winding stairs, to the plateau above. Even with this aid the ascent was
difficult.

The rocks were rough, hard and sharp at the edges and corners, yet they
climbed on and on. Each succeeding ledge to which they mounted grew
narrower until scarce room for the foot could be found.

When the plateau was gained, it was but a bleak, desolate plain of four
or five acres of uneven ground, swept by the winds of eternal winter and
presenting a drear and melancholy aspect.

[Illustration: "OUR JOURNEY IS NOT ONE-HALF OVER."]

Close under a stone they sat down to partake of the noonday meal,
listening to the shrill winds sweeping over the dreary waste and gazed
at the cloud-capped peak above. The only cheerful object was a noisy
cataract thundering down the mountain, fed by the melting snows.

"Do you feel equal to the task?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Our journey is not one-half over."

"I know it."

"And the last half will be more trying than the first."

"I will go with you," she answered cheerfully.

To one living in a mountainless country the difficulties and fatigues of
mountain scaling is unknown. An ascent, which, to the unpractised cliff
climber, might seem the work of an hour, will consume an entire day.

Having finished their meal, they resumed the upward march. Reaching a
small cluster of stunted and gnarled pines, they pressed through it and
emerged on a great, bleak hillside, almost bare of vegetation. Only here
and there grew a tuft of stunted grass or a dwarfed shrub. The temperate
zone had given way to the regions of eternal winter. Again and again
they were compelled to pause for breath.

"Here it is," John cried, almost gleefully, as a snow-flake fell on his
arm.

A little further up, they found snow drifted under a ledge of the rock,
while little rivulets, running from the melting snow, joined mountain
torrents and cataracts that thundered down below. At last the great
summit was gained, and they paused to gaze afar on the land and sea
below. John drew his glass and swept the horizon. The slight clouds,
from which an occasional flake had fallen, cleared away at sunset, and
they had an excellent view as far as the eye could reach.

"Do you see any sail?" she asked.

"None."

"Then we must be in an ocean as unexplored and unknown as the great
south sea which Balboa discovered."

"I know not where we are."

The sun set, dipping into the sea and leaving a great, broad
phosphorescent light where it disappeared, which broadened and radiated
toward the east until it was lost in gloom.

"We cannot return home to-night," said Blanche.

"No; we will seek some suitable spot for passing the night further down
the mountain."

The mountain top was covered with snow, and they went down a mile or
more before they found the ground free from snow, slush, ice or water.
Here, on a mantle made of goat-skins, John induced the shivering Blanche
to lie down, while he gathered some stunted brush, small pines and dead
grass and built a fire to keep her warm. During the night the sky became
obscured, and a cold rain fell. Their condition was miserable enough,
for they were soaked to the skin and shivering. There was no shelter
near enough for them to reach it, and it was too dark to travel.

"I am freezing," said Blanche, through her chattering teeth. John tried
to muffle her in the robe of goat-skin; but it was wet and worse than no
covering. His soaked garments were placed about her; but she still shook
with cold, until he became alarmed and held her in his arms, endeavoring
to instill some warmth in her from his own body.

All things must have an end, and so did that dreary night. Day dawned at
last, and the rising sun chased away the clouds, and they saw, far, far
below them, the low, green valley which they called home. The morning
air was chill and piercing, and John began to fear for Blanche; but she
assured him that soon they would reach lower land and warmer
temperature. They did not wait for breakfast, but hurried down the
mountain just as soon as it was light enough to see. She was weak, and
he offered to carry her in his strong arms.

"No, no; I can walk," she said.

"But you are so chilled and so weak."

"Exercise will warm me and give me strength," she answered. It did, and
when they reached the valley she was quite herself again. It was the
middle of the afternoon when they entered the valley, and gazing back at
old Snow-Top, with his towering summit piercing the skies, they thanked
God for their deliverance. About the snowy peak there clung a rift of
vapor, as if some passing cloud had caught upon it and torn off
a fragment.

"I don't care to venture up there again," said John.

"Nor do I," sighed his companion. "So peaceful, so sweet and so dear is
our little home, that I am almost content with it."

"I am, likewise."

For two or three days no evil effects were perceivable from their
journey save a weariness on the part of Blanche, which John flattered
himself would pass away. He sat with her and talked more than had been
his custom. She seemed to grow better in his eyes, for he had seen how
uncomplaining she was, and how she nobly struggled to make his burden
lighter. She spoke encouraging words of Virginia, told him of his wife
and children, who had been described so often to her that she had a
faithful picture of them in her mind. She would say:

"Your little Rebecca is now sixteen years of age, quite a young lady.
She is beautiful, too. I know she is beautiful, for she has the dark
eyes and hair of her mother."

"Blanche, beauty is not confined to black eyes and hair alone," said
John.

She went on:

"And your little boy is a man now, twenty years of age, and he is no
doubt strong, brave, gallant and noble. Surely you must be proud of such
a son. Your wife has grown more wise with her distress, and she still
looks to the ocean for the return of one for whom she will wait until
the angel of death summons her to meet him in Heaven."

"Blanche, Blanche, how strangely you talk!"

"I fancy I can see them, and they are happy in their little home. The
son supports his mother. Oh, they are happy!"

"Blanche, Blanche, your cheeks are flushed, your eyes are unnaturally
bright; you have a fever."

She laughingly answered:

"It is only a slight cold, the result of our visit to the peak of old
Snow-Top."

He administered such simple remedies as they had at hand, tucked her up
warmly in bed and sat by her side until she was asleep. Then he made a
bed on the floor in the adjoining room, where he might be within call,
and lay down to sleep. Being wearied with the toils of the day, he was
soon asleep, and it was after midnight when he was awakened by a cough
from Blanche's bed. It was followed by an exclamation of pain.

In a moment he was at her side.

"What is the matter, Blanche?" he asked, uneasily.

"I have a pain in my side."

He stooped over her, put his hand on her face and was startled to find
it so dry and hot. Groping about he found a rude lamp, which he had
fashioned from an old pewter pot brought from the wreck. Within the lamp
was a wick made from the lint of wild hemp, fed with goat's fat. Seizing
his flint and steel he kindled a light and found Blanche in a
raging fever.

"Blanche, Blanche, you are ill!" said John.

"I am so hot, I burn with thirst," she answered.

"You shall have water." There was a spring of clear, cold water flowing
down from the mountain, and John took an earthen jar, and ran to
fill it.

"It is so good of you," the sick woman sighed, as he moistened her
fevered lips.

John Stevens was now very anxious about her, for she was growing rapidly
worse. He knew a little about medicine and had brought some remedies
from the ship; but the disease which had fastened itself on Blanche
defied his skill. She was at times seized with a fit of coughing which
almost took away her breath. When he had exhausted all his efforts, she
said sweetly:

"You can do no more."

"Blanche, Blanche," he almost sobbed, "Heaven knows I would give my life
to spare you one pang."

"I know it," she answered.

"What will you have me do?"

"Sit by my side."

He brought a stool and sat by her bedside.

"Hold my hand, I have such frightful dreams, and I want you near."

He took the little fevered hand in his own and for hours sat by her
side.

Morning came and went, came and went again, and she grew worse.

John never left her save to bring cold water to slake her burning
thirst, or prepare some remedy to check the ravages of the fever.

"Oh, God! to be left alone--to be left all alone! Can I endure it?" he
sighed. When he was at her side, he said:

"It was the journey to Snow-Top. It was too much for you, Blanche, I am
to blame for this."

"No, no, blame not yourself. I it was who insisted on going."

She rapidly grew worse, and John Stevens saw that she must die.
Occasionally she fell asleep, and then he thought how beautiful she was.
Once she murmured his name and sweetly smiled. She awoke and was very
weak. Raising her eyes, she saw him at her side, and with that same
happy smile on her face, she said:

"Oh, I had such a delightful dream. It may be wicked; but it was
delightful. I dreamed that I was she."

"Who?"

"Your wife--"

"Blanche!"

"Kiss me, brother--I am going--rapidly going."

He entwined his arms about the being who, for fifteen years, had been
his only companion, and pressed his lips to hers.

"Blanche, Blanche, you must not die; for my sake live."

"No, no; I will soon be gone; then you will be all alone. Don't leave me
until all is over."

"I shall not, Blanche; I shall not," cried Stevens, holding her tightly
clasped in his strong arms.

"It may be wrong--but we have been here so long--meet me in heaven,
brother."

"God grant that I may, poor girl."

"Pray with me."

He knelt at her side, and the lips of both moved in prayer. When he
rose, she laid her little hand, all purple with fever, in his and said:

"Brother--when I am gone, bury me in that beautiful valley near the
spring, where the wild flowers grow close by the white stone. On the
stone write: 'Here lies my beloved sister, Blanche Holmes.'"

An hour later John Stevens knelt beside a corpse. The gentle spirit had
flown.

Midnight--and the castaway, despairing, half-crazed with grief, still
knelt by the dead body, tearing his hair, and groaning:

"Alone--left alone!"




CHAPTER XIV.

THE TREASURE SHIP.

     "O gentle wind ('tis thus she sings)
       That blowest to the west,
     Oh, couldst thou waft me on thy wings
       To the land that I love best,
     How swiftly o'er the-ocean's foam,
       Like a sea-bird I would sail."
                                  --PRINGLE.

When the heart is full, there seems some relief in pouring out the story
of woe into a sympathetic ear; but when one is alone, with no human
being to listen or sympathize, grief is a hundredfold greater.

Day dawned and found John Stevens still kneeling by the side of the cold
form of the only being who had shared his unhappy lot. How seldom we
realize the worth of companions or friends until they are forever gone,
and then, as if to mock our grief, each kind act, each little delicate
attention seems to start out as if emblazoned on stone before us. At
last the broken-hearted castaway rose and with folded arms gazed on the
dead face, still beautiful and holy even in death.

"Blanche, Blanche, must I give you up, you who have so long cheered my
lonely life? Must I never listen to the sweet music of your
voice again?"

John roused himself at last from the feeling of despair and, taking the
best boards left from the wreck, constructed a neat coffin. He dug the
grave at the white stone as she had directed and laid her to rest. No
one but God listened to him as he read the solemn and impressive burial
service, according to the established church. No one but God saw those
tears flow in silence as he gazed for the last time on her face. Then,
fastening down the lid, he covered the coffin over with boards and began
slowly and mournfully shovelling the earth upon it. He heaped up the
earth and placed the soft green, sod over the mound. Then he cut the
inscription on the stone as she had requested at the head of the
grave, adding:

"Sweet sister, rest in peace, until Christ comes to claim his own, when
there will be a crown given you which outshines the sun." To go about
his daily routine of life, to feel that heavy aching load on his heart
crushing and consuming him, made his existence almost unbearable.

He lost all interest in the little field, the tame goats and birds, and
for two or three days even neglected to take food himself. An appalling
silence had fallen upon the island. He seemed to still hear her voice
in the house and about it, and when he closed his eyes in sleep, after
being utterly exhausted, he saw her sweet face bending over him and felt
the sunshine of her smile on him. It was so hard to realize that she was
gone, and he could scarcely believe that he would not find her down on
the beach gathering shells, as he had so often seen her.

Frequently when alone in the cabin he would start, half expecting to see
her enter with her cheering smile; but she was gone forever; her sweet
smiles and cheering voice would no more be heard on earth.

It required long months before he could settle down to that life of
loneliness. Hitherto he had not lived the life of a Crusoe or Selkirk;
but now he was destined to know what real solitude was. John Stevens at
last began to take some interest in his domestic affairs. He sadly
missed the thousand little attentions which feminine instincts suggested
for his comfort; but anon he became accustomed to being alone. He grew
morose and melancholy, even wicked, for at times he blamed Providence,
first for casting him away on this lonely island, and lastly for taking
from him the companion he had failed to appreciate, until he felt her
loss; but soon he turned to God and prayed for light.

He read the Bible and from this living fountain of consolation drank
deep draughts of that which, to his starving soul, was the elixir of
life. Strange as it may seem, in the first ebullition of his grief, John
Stevens seemed to forget his wife and children. So long had he been from
them, that they had lost their place in his thoughts. Time, the great
healer of all wounds, the great reconciler to all fates, the great
arbitrator of all disputes, had almost lost to him those tenderest ties
which had lacerated his poor heart.

To the fatalist, John Stevens would seem to be one of those unfortunate
beings doomed to be made the sport of a capricious fortune. His domestic
relations in Virginia were a strange intermixture of good and bad. His
business had been decidedly prosperous, he had married into a
respectable family, and his wife was popular. His children were
beautiful and healthy; but his wife was extravagant and foolish and had
swept away his fortune faster than he could accumulate it. Then his
voyage and shipwreck seemed the hand of fate. His father had been a
sailor by profession and had never been shipwrecked, while he, on his
first voyage, was cast away upon an unknown island. Fate gave him at
first a companion and, just as he began to appreciate her, snatched
her away.

At last he became reconciled even to live and die alone on that
island--to die without a friend to close his eyes, or to soothe his
pillow. Horrible as the fate might seem, he was reconciled. No human
hand would give him Christian burial, and the vultures which soared
about the island might pluck out his eyes even before life was extinct.
With this dread on his mind, he shot the vultures whenever he saw them,
and almost drove them from the island.

Three years had lapsed since poor Blanche had been laid in her grave,
and John was morose, silent and moody, but reconciled. It was eighteen
years since he had been cast away, and he had about abandoned all
thought of again seeing any other land save this.

Among other things saved from the wreck was a quantity of tobacco seed,
and, as tobacco was then thought to be an indispensable article, he
planted some and grew his own. He fashioned pipes from the roots of
trees, as the Indians did, and his pipe became his greatest solace
in solitude.

One night, a little more than three years after he had been left alone,
he was lying on his well-worn mattress, smoking his evening pipe, when
there came on the air far out to sea a heavy "Boom!"

The trumpet of doom would not have astonished him more. At first he
could scarcely believe his ears. Starting up, he sat on the side of his
bed listening.

"Boom!"

A second report, more heavy than the first, shook the air.

"God in heaven! can it be cannon?" cried Stevens. He leaped to his feet,
pulled on his rude shoes and seized his musket.

"Boom! Boom! Boom!"

Three more shots from the sea rang on the air, and there could now be no
doubt that a ship was near the island. The hope which suddenly started
up in his heart almost overcame him, and he clung to the door
for support.

Only for an instant did he linger thus, then he rushed to the headland
from whence his tattered flag had floated all these years. The moon was
shining brightly from a cloudless sky, and his vision swept the ocean
far beyond the dangerous reefs which formed a natural guard about the
island. There he saw a sight calculated to startle him. A large Spanish
galleon was coming directly toward the island, pursued by a vessel which
from the first he surmised to be a pirate. Even as he looked, he saw the
flash of a gun and imagined he could hear the crash of the iron ball
striking into the side of the fugitive ship. He heard the cry of dread
from the poor wretches on board, as the pirate drew nearer. On the
still evening air came wild shouts of the buccaneers as they fired shot
after shot at the prize.

John Stevens was greatly excited. Here was an opportunity to escape or
be slain, either preferable to living on this terrible island alone.

The Spanish galleon was being driven directly through the only gap in
the reefs to the island. Like a bird chased by a vulture she sought any
shelter. She returned the fire as well as she could; but was no match
for the well-equipped and daring pirate.

John's whole sympathies were with the unfortunate Spaniards. Their
vessel evidently drew considerable water, for entering the gap in the
reef, the tide being low, it stranded. The pirate, being much lighter
draft, came nearer and poured in her volleys thick and fast. They were
so near to the headland that John Stevens, a spellbound spectator, heard
the iron balls and shot tearing into her timbers. With his glass he
could even see her deck strewn with dead and dying.

The foremast of the galleon was cut through and fell, and the ship's
rudder was shot away. The Spaniards, evidently bewildered, lowered
boats, abandoned the galleon and pulled toward a rocky promontory two
miles to the south.

Their enemies saw them and, manning boats, headed them off, killing or
capturing every one. The captured men were taken aboard the
victorious ship.

While these startling scenes were being enacted, a great change had come
over the sky. The tide began to rise and floated the galleon clear of
the sand, and it drifted into the little bay not a mile from John's
house. The sky was obscured with clouds and one of those tropical
hurricanes called squalls swept over the island and sea. It struck the
pirate broadside, and John Stevens last saw the vessel amid a mountain
of waves and spray struggling to right itself. It probably went down, as
he never saw or heard of it more.

For hours the amazed castaway stood in the pelting rain and howling
wind, with the roaring sea below him. Was it all a dream, or was this
only another freak of capricious fate, which doomed him to eternal
misery. The storm roared and the hungry sea swallowed up the pirate.

Why could not one have been spared? Even a pirate would have made a
companion; but fate had roused his hopes only to dash them to the
earth again.

It was pitch dark save when a flash of lightning illuminated the
heavens. John Stevens turned slowly about to retrace his steps homeward,
half believing it was some terrible dream which had brought him from his
bed into the pelting storm, when by the aid of a flash of lightning he
saw the Spanish galleon, which had been again stranded within a hundred
yards of the beach. The single flash of lightning revealed only her deck
and rigging; not a soul was to be seen on board the ship; but the sight
of the vessel roused the castaway. In eighteen years this had been the
only sign of civilization which had greeted his vision, and he was
nearly frantic with delight.

Some one might be on board. Some skulkers from the cannon-balls of the
pirates might have sought safety in the hold of the galleon, and he
would find them. His heart was full to overflowing. He even began to
hope that the ship could be gotten off the bar, and could make a voyage
to some land of civilization. Though the ship was between the dangerous
reefs and the sea, partially protected by a small land-locked bay, yet
the surf was so high that it was madness to think of reaching the vessel
that night. He built a fire on shore and all night long heaped on wood
in the hope of attracting attention of those on board.

Morning dawned, and he saw the galleon with her head high in the air and
her stern low in the sand and water. The tide had gone out, and not more
than one hundred yards of water lay between him and the ship. John
stripped off his clothes and swam to the wreck.

After no little difficulty he climbed up the mizzen chains.

A silence of death reigned over the ship, and when he had gained the
deck a terrible sight met his view. Five men and one boy, the victims of
the pirate's guns, lay dead on the deck, which was badly splintered with
balls and shot.

The ship was wonderfully well preserved, the chief damage it received
being from the cannon of the enemy.

John called again and again but no voice responded. The grim silence of
death was about the ship. He found a boat in fair condition, lowered it
and, putting the dead Spaniards into it, pulled ashore, where he gave
the dead a decent burial on the sands, too high up for the tide to
reach them.

Having accomplished this sad rite, he cried from the fulness of his
soul:

"Oh, that there had been but one, only one saved, with whom I might
converse!"

John Stevens, however, was a practical sort of a fellow, and, instead of
repining over his sad fate, he determined to bring away everything
valuable on board. Consequently he launched the boat, pulled to the
wreck and went aboard. Had he been able to get the ship afloat, a
carpenter might have repaired it so that a voyage could have been made;
but the strength and skill of a hundred men could not have moved it from
the sands in which it was so deeply imbedded. The vessel had been
steered through the reefs and almost into the bay when deserted. John
loaded his boat with muskets, several chests and casks, which contained
food and wine. There was also a powder-horn, some kegs of powder, a fire
shovel, tongs, two brass kettles, a copper pot for chocolate, and a
gridiron. These and some loose clothes belonging to the sailors formed
the first cargo taken ashore.

Next he brought off several barrels of flour, a cask of liquor and some
tools, axes, spades, shovels and saws. Every implement that might be
useful to him was taken ashore and stowed away. Then he began to search
the lower part.

He had been for a week working on the wreck carrying off every
conceivable object which might be of any possible use. He found the
ship's books; but, owing to his ignorance of Spanish, he was unable to
read them.

The name on the stern of the vessel was St. Jago, therefore he reasoned
that it must be a West Indian vessel. How the idea entered his mind,
Stevens never knew. It came suddenly, as an inspiration, that the
galleon must be a Spanish treasure ship. One day, while in the captain's
cabin, he found a narrow door opening from it. It was securely locked,
and though he searched everywhere for keys and found many, none would
fit the lock. At last he seized an iron crowbar, with which he forced
the door off its hinges. Before him was a curious sort of compartment
like a vault, the inside of which was lined with sheet iron. There lay
before him several large, long boxes made of strong wood. He wondered
what they contained. He cleared away every obstacle to the nearest box,
and saw a lock and padlock and a handle at each end, all carved as
things were carved in that age, when art rendered the commonest metals
precious. John seized the handles and strove to lift the box; but it was
impossible.

"What can it contain, that is so heavy?" he thought. He sought to open
it; but lock and padlock were closed, and these faithful guardians
seemed unwilling to surrender their trust. Stevens inserted the sharp
end of the crowbar between the box and the lid and, bearing down with
all his strength, burst open the fastenings. Hinges and lock yielded in
their turn, holding in their grasp fragments of the boards, and with a
crash he threw off the lid, and all was open.

John Stevens found a tanned fawn-skin spread as a covering over the
contents and he tore it off. He started up with a yell and closed his
eyes involuntarily. Then he opened them and stood motionless with
amazement.

Three compartments divided the coffer. In the first blazed piles of
golden coin. In the second bars of unpolished gold were ranged. In the
third lay countless fortunes of diamonds, pearls and rubies, into which
he dived his hands as eagerly as a starving man would plunge into food.

After having touched, felt and examined these treasures, John Stevens
rushed through the ship like a madman. He leaped upon the deck, from
whence he could behold the sea. He was alone. Alone with this
countless--this unheard-of wealth. Was he awake, or was it but a dream?
Before him lay the treasures torn from Mexico, Darien and Peru. They
were his--he was alone.

Alas, he was alone! What use would those millions be to him on this
island? The reaction came, and, falling on his knees, he cried:

"O God, why is such a fate mine?"

Hours afterward he recovered enough to remove the gold and jewels from
the treasure ship to his home on the island. With more jewels than a
king, he lived the lonely life of a hermit and a pauper, dreading to
die, lest the vultures pluck out his eyes.




CHAPTER XV.

THE ANGEL OF DELIVERANCE.

     Strange that when nature loved to trace
     As if for God a dwelling place,
     And every charm of grace hath mixed
     Within the paradise she fixed,
     There man, enamoured of distress,
     Should mar it into wilderness.
                                     --BYRON.

On the restoration of monarchy in England, in 1660, the Connecticut
colonists entertained serious fears regarding the future. Their sturdy
republicanism and independent action in the past might be mortally
offensive to the new monarch. The general assembly of Connecticut,
therefore, resolved to make a formal acknowledgment of their alliance to
the crown and ask the king for a charter. A petition was accordingly
framed and signed in May, 1661, and Governor John Winthrop bore it to
England. He was a son of Winthrop of Massachusetts, and was a man of
rare attainments and courtly manners. He was then about forty-five
years of age.

Winthrop was but coolly received at first, for he and his people were
regarded as enemies of the crown. But he persevered, and the
good-natured monarch at last chatted freely with him about America, its
soil, productions, the Indians and the settlers, yet he hesitated to
promise a charter. Winthrop, it is said, finally drew from his pocket a
gold ring of great value, which the king's father had given to the
governor's grandfather, and presented it to his majesty with a request
that he would accept it as a memorial of the unfortunate monarch and a
token of Winthrop's esteem for and loyalty to King Charles, before whom
he stood as a faithful and loving subject. The king's heart was touched.
Turning to Lord Clarendon, who was present, the monarch asked:

"Do you advise me to grant a charter to this good gentleman and his
people?"

"I do, sire," Clarendon answered.

"It shall be done," said Charles, and he dismissed Winthrop with a royal
blessing.

The charter was issued on the first of May, 1662. It confirmed the
popular constitution of the colony, and contained more liberal
provisions than any yet issued by royal hands. It defined the boundaries
so as to include New Haven colony and a part of Rhode Island on the
east, and westward to the Pacific Ocean. In 1665, the New Haven colony
reluctantly gave its consent to the union; but the boundary between
Connecticut and Rhode Island remained a subject of dispute for more than
sixty years. That old charter, written on parchment, is still among the
archives in the Connecticut State Department.

While King Philip's war raged all about them, the colonists of
Connecticut did not suffer much from hostile Indians, save in some
remote settlements high up the river. They furnished their full measure
of men and supplies, and the soldiers bore a conspicuous part in that
contest between the races for supremacy; but while they were freed from
dangers and annoyances of war with the Indians, they were disturbed by
the petty tyranny of Governor Andros, who, as governor of New York,
claimed jurisdiction as far east as the Connecticut River. In 1675, he
went to the mouth of that stream with a small naval force to assert his
authority.

Captain Bull, the commander of a small fort at Saybrook, permitted him
to land; but when he began to read his commission, he ordered him to be
silent. The cowardly Andros was forced to yield to the commander's bold
spirit and, in a towering passion, returned to New York, hurling the
most bitter anathemas against Connecticut and Captain Bull.

It was more than a dozen years after this event before anything
happened to disturb the public repose of Connecticut; but as that event
belongs to another period, we will omit it for the present.

Rhode Island was favored with a charter from Parliament, granted in 1644
to Roger Williams. The charter was very liberal, and in religion and
politics the people were absolutely free. The general assembly, in a
code of laws adopted in 1647, declared that "all men might walk as their
conscience permitted them--every one in the name of his God." Almost
every religious belief might have been encountered there; "so if a man
lost his religious opinions, he might have been sure to find them in
some village in Rhode Island." Society was kept in a continual healthful
agitation, and though the disputes were sometimes stormy, they never
were brutal. There was a remarkable propriety of conduct on all
occasions, and the political agitations brought to the surface the best
men in the colony to administer public affairs.

Two years after the overthrow and execution of Charles I., 1651, the
executive council of state in England granted to William Coddington a
commission for governing the islands within the limits of the Rhode
Island charter. This threatened a dismemberment of the little empire and
its absorption by neighboring colonies. The people were greatly alarmed.
Roger Williams and John Clarke hastened to England, and with the
assistance of Sir Henry Vane, the "sheet anchor of Rhode Island, the
noble and true friend to an outcast and despised people," the commission
was recalled, and the charter given by parliament was confirmed in
October, 1652.

On the restoration of monarchy, 1660, the inhabitants sent to Charles
II. an address, in which they declared their loyalty and begged his
protection. This was followed by a petition for a new charter. The
prayer was granted, and in July, 1663, the king issued a patent highly
democratic in its general features and similar in every respect to the
one granted to Connecticut. Benedict Arnold was chosen the first
governor under the royal charter, and it continued to be the supreme law
of the land for one hundred and eighty years.

Slowly advancing with the other colonies, if she did not even keep
abreast of them, was the colony of New Jersey, from the time it first
became a permanent political organization as a British colony, with a
governor and council. Elizabethtown, which consisted only of a cluster
of half a dozen houses, was made the capital. Agents went to New England
to invite settlers, and a company from New Haven were soon settled on
the banks of the Passaic. Others followed, and when, in 1668, the first
legislative assembly met at Elizabethtown, it was largely made up of
emigrants from New England. Thus we see how early in the history of our
country, the restless tide moved westward. The fertility of the soil of
New Jersey, the salubrity of the climate, the exemption from fear of
hostile Indians, and other manifest advantages caused a rapid increase
in the population and prosperity of the province, and nothing disturbed
the general serenity of society there until in 1670, when specified
quitrents of a half-penny per acre were demanded. The people murmured.
Some of them had bought their lands of the Indians before the
proprietary government was established, and they refused to pay the
rent, not on account of its amount, but because it was an unjust tax,
levied without their consent.

For almost two years they disputed over the rents, and kept the entire
province in a state of confusion. The whole people combined in
resistance to the payment of the tax, and in May, 1672, the disaffected
colonists sent deputies to the popular assembly which met at Elizabeth
town. That body compelled Philip Carteret, the lawful governor, to
vacate his chair and leave the province, and chose a weak and
inefficient man in his place. Carteret went to England for more
authority, and while the proprietors were making preparations to recover
the province by force of arms, in August, 1673, New Jersey and all the
rest of the territory in America claimed by the Duke of York suddenly
fell into the hands of the Dutch, who were then at war with England.

When, fifteen months later, New York was restored to the English,
Carteret had a part of his authority restored to him; but sufficient was
reserved to give Andros a pretext for asserting his authority and making
himself a nuisance with the people.

Massachusetts never enjoyed the full favor of the Stuart dynasty. The
almost complete independence which had been enjoyed for nearly twenty
years was too dear to be hastily relinquished. When it became certain
that the hereditary family of kings had been settled on the throne, and
that swarms of enemies to the colony had gathered round the new
government, a general court was convened, and an address was prepared
for the parliament and the monarch. This address prayed for "the
continuance of civil and religious liberties," and requested an
opportunity of defence against complaints.

"Let not the king's men hear your words. Your servants are true men,
fearing God and the king. We could not live without the public worship
of God. That we might therefore enjoy divine worship without human
mixtures, we, not without tears, departed from our country, kindred,
and fathers' houses. Our garments are become old by reason of the very
long journey. Ourselves, who came away in our strength, are, many of us,
become gray-headed, and some of us are stooping for age."

So great was their dread of the new king after the restoration, that, as
we have seen, Whalley and Goffe were denied shelter at all the public
houses in Boston. Their charter was threatened and commissioners sent to
demand it; but, by one device and another, the shrewd rulers of
Massachusetts managed to avert the calamity. The government at home was
kept busy at this time. There was a threatened war with the Dutch, and
then the whole government of England had to be thoroughly renovated.
Charles II. was not much of a business monarch. His thoughts were mainly
of pleasure, and, despite his merciless pursuit of the men who put his
father to death, he was good-natured.

Though the colonists of Massachusetts had levied two hundred men for the
expected war with the Dutch, they wished to maintain their spirit of
independence, and the two hundred were only a free offering. They
regarded the commission sent by the king as a flagrant violation of
chartered rights. In the matter of obedience due to a government, the
people of Massachusetts made the nice distinction between natural
obedience and voluntary subjection. They argued that the child born on
the soil of England is necessarily an English subject; but they held to
the original right of expatriation, that every man may withdraw from the
land of his birth, and renounce all duty of allegiance with all claim to
protection. This they themselves had done. Remaining in England, they
acknowledged the obligatory force of established laws. Because those
laws were intolerable, they had emigrated to a new world, where they
could organize their government, as many of them originally did, on the
basis of natural rights and of perfect independence.

As the establishment of a commission with discretionary powers was not
specially sanctioned by their charter, they resolved to resist the
orders of the king and nullify his commission. While the fleet sent from
England was engaged in reducing New York, Massachusetts, on September
10th, 1664, published an order prohibiting complaints to the
commissioners, and at the same time issued a remonstrance, not against
deeds of tyranny, but the menace of tyranny, not against actual wrong,
but against the principle of wrong. On the twenty-fifth of October it
thus addressed a letter to King Charles II.:

"DREAD SOVEREIGN:--The first undertakers of this plantation did obtain a
patent, wherein is granted full and absolute power of governing all the
people of this place, by men chosen from among themselves, and
according to such laws as they should see meet to establish. A royal
donation, under the great seal, is the greatest security that may be had
in human affairs. Under the encouragement and security of the royal
charter, this people did, at their own charges, transport themselves,
their wives and families, over the ocean, purchase the land of the
natives, and plant this colony, with great labor, hazards, cost, and
difficulties; for a long time wrestling with the wants of a wilderness
and the burdens of a new plantation; having also now above thirty years
enjoyed the privilege of GOVERNMENT WITH THEMSELVES, as their undoubted
right in the sight of God and man. To be governed by rulers of our own
choosing and laws of our own, is the fundamental privilege of
our patent.

"A commission under the great seal, within four persons (one of them our
professed enemy) are impowered to receive and determine all complaints
and appeals according to their discretion, subjects us to the arbitrary
power of strangers, and will end in the subversion of our all.

"If these things go on, your subjects here will either be forced to seek
new dwellings or sink under intolerable burdens. The vigor of all new
endeavors will be enfeebled; the king himself will be a loser of the
wonted benefit by customs, exported and imported from hence into
England, and this hopeful plantation will in the issue be ruined.

"If the aim should be to gratify some particular gentlemen by livings
and revenues here, that will also fail, for the poverty of the people.
If all the charges of the whole government by the year were put
together, and then doubled or trebled, it would not be counted for one
of those gentlemen a considerable accommodation. To a coalition in this
course the people will never come; and it will be hard to find another
people that will stand under any considerable burden in this country,
seeing it is not a country where men can subsist without hard labor and
great frugality.

"God knows, our great ambition is to live a quiet life, in a corner of
the world. We came not into this wilderness to seek great things to
ourselves; and, if any come after us to seek them here, they will be
disappointed. We keep ourselves within our line; a just dependence upon,
and subjection to, your majesty, according to our charter, it is far
from our hearts to disacknowledge. We would gladly do anything within
our power to purchase the continuance of your favorable aspect; but it
is a great unhappiness to have no testimony of our loyalty offered but
this, to yield up our liberties, which are far dearer to us than our
lives, and which we have willing ventured our lives, and passed through
many deaths to obtain.

"It was Job's excellency, when he sat as king among his people, that he
was a father to the poor. A poor people, destitute of outward favor,
wealth, and power, now cry unto their lord the king. May your magesty
regard their cause, and maintain their right; it will stand among the
marks of lasting honor to after generations."

The royalists in the days prior to the American Revolution, occupied a
similar position that the monopolists, and wealthy do in politics
to-day. They were the aristocrats, and for the common people to clamor
for political freedom was absurd. The idea of republicanism was as
loathsome to them and watched with as much jealousy as an important
labor movement is to-day. The royalists called the men who clamored for
civil and religious liberty fanatics, just as the monopolists of to-day,
who control the dominant parties, call men who cry out against their
oppression fanatics. It is sometimes difficult to distinguish the
instinct of fanaticism from the soundest judgment, for fanaticism is
sometimes the keenest sagacity. Those men wanted liberty and struggled
and fought for it until it was obtained, just as the toiling millions of
the world will some day sting the heel of grinding monopolies.

From 1660 to 1671, all New England was kept in a perpetual state of
alarm and excitement. Plymouth made a firm stand for independence,
although the weakest of the colonies. The commissioners threatened to
assume control. It was the dawning strife of the new system against the
old, of American politics against European politics, and yet those men
struggling for liberty were called fanatics.

Secure in the support of a resolute minority, the Puritan commonwealth,
in 1668, entered the province of Maine, and again established its
authority by force of arms. Great tumults ensued; many persons, opposed
to what seemed a usurpation, were punished for "irreverent speeches."
Some even reproached the authorities of Massachusetts "as traitors and
rebels against the king"; but the usurpers made good their ascendancy
till Gorges recovered his claims by adjudication in England. From the
southern limit of Massachusetts to the Quebec, the colonial government
maintained its independent jurisdiction.

The defiance of Massachusetts was not punished as might have been
expected. Clarendon's power was gone, and he was an exile. A board of
trade, projected in 1668, never assumed the administration of colonial
affairs, and had not vitality enough to last more than three or four
years. Profligate libertines gained the confidence of the king's
mistresses, and secured places in the royal cabinet. While Charles II.
was dallying with women and robbing the theatres of actresses; while the
licentious Buckingham, who had succeeded in displacing Clarendon, wasted
the vigor of his mind and body by indulging in every sensual pleasure
"which nature could desire or wit invent"; while Louis XIV. was
increasing his influence by bribing the mistress of the chief of the
king's cabal, England remained without a good government, and the
colonies, despite bluster and threats, flourished in purity and peace.
The English ministry dared not interfere with Massachusetts; it was
right that the stern virtues of the ascetic republicans should
intimidate the members of the profligate cabinet. The affairs of New
England were often discussed; but the privy council was overawed by the
moral dignity, which they could not comprehend.

Amid all the discord and threats, the New England colonies continued to
advance in population, and their villages assumed the dignity of towns.
It is difficult to form exact opinions as to the population of the
several colonies in this early period of their history. The colonial
accounts are incomplete, and those furnished by emissaries from England
are grossly false. The best estimate that can be obtained gives to New
England, in 1675, fifty-five thousand souls. Of these it is supposed
that Plymouth contained not less than seven thousand, Connecticut,
nearly fourteen thousand, Massachusetts proper, more than twenty-two
thousand, and Maine, New Hampshire and Rhode Island, each perhaps four
thousand. The settlements were chiefly by agricultural communities,
planted near the seaside, from New Haven to Pemaquid. The beaver trade,
more than traffic in lumber and fish, had produced the village beyond
the Piscataqua; yet in Maine, as in New Hampshire, there was "a great
trade in deal boards."

A sincere attempt had been made to convert the natives and win them to
the regular industry of civilized life. The ministers of the early
emigration, fired with a zeal as pure as it was fervent, longed to
redeem those "wrecks of humanity," by planting in their hearts the seeds
of conscious virtue, and gathering them into permanent villages. No
pains were spared to teach them to read and write, and in a short time
a larger proportion of the Massachusetts Indians could do so, than the
inhabitants of Russia fifty years ago. Some of them wrote and spoke
English tolerably well. Foremost among these early missionaries, the
morning star of missionary enterprise, was John Elliot, whose
benevolence amounted to the inspiration of genius. He wrote an Indian
grammar, and translated the whole of the Bible into the Massachusetts
dialect. His actions, his thoughts, his desires, all wore the hue of
disinterested love.

The frown was on the Indian's brow, however. Clouds were rising in the
horizon. Since the Pequod war, there had been no great Indian uprising;
but there was a general feeling of uneasiness which seemed to portend a
general outbreak. The New Englanders were to feel the effects of it in
all its fury. Neither Whalley nor Goffe had been seen since the day that
Robert Stevens assisted the latter to make his escape.

The Indians, whose cupidity had been aroused by English gold, had
searched the forest far and near for the regicides. Their knowledge of
the forest and cunning in following a trail had two or three times
brought them face to face with Cromwell's stern old battle-trained
warriors. Then they had learned to their cost that they had roused a
pair of lions in their lairs; but the regicides finally disappeared.
They had last been seen near Hadley, and it was currently reported they
were dead.

Rumors of an Indian outbreak were rife; still the good people of Hadley
were living in comparative security. It was a quiet sabbath morn, and
the drowsy hum of the bees made music on the air. The great
meeting-house stood with its doors thrown wide open inviting
worshippers. The sun, beaming from the cloudless sky upon the scene,
seemed a benediction of peace. The whispering breeze on this delightful
twelfth of June swept about the eaves of the church without a hint
of danger.

The worshippers at the proper hour were seen thronging to the
meeting-house, carrying their guns, swords or pistols with them. It
seemed useless to go armed, when there was not a whisper of danger; but
scarcely had the worship begun, when a terrible warwhoop broke the
stillness. Immediately all was confusion. Children shrieked, some women
trembled, and men, pale and stern, began to fire upon the savages, who,
seven hundred strong, rushed on the place.

They fought stubbornly, driving away the enemy; but their great lack of
discipline promised in the end to defeat them.

"We are lost! We are lost!" some of the weak-hearted were beginning to
cry, when suddenly there appeared among them, from they knew not where,
a tall, venerable personage, with white flowing beard, clad in a white
robe, and carrying a glittering sword in his hand.

"You are not lost, if you follow me!" he cried.

"Who is he?" was the general query, which no one could answer save: "He
is an angel sent by God to deliver us."

It soon became quite apparent that this celestial being was well posted
in military tactics. He formed the young men in line of battle and
taught them in a few moments to deploy and rally.

When the Indians again rushed to the conflict, they were met with a
volley that stunned them and strewed the ground with dead. The angel
leader of the whites then gave the command to charge, and, with their
pistols and keen swords, they flew at the enemy before they had time to
recover, and they were thrown into confusion and fled in dismay. After
the departure of the Indians, nothing was heard or seen of the white
angel deliverer. It has since been ascertained that Goffe and Whalley
were at that time concealed at the house of Mr. Russel in Hadley, and it
is inferred that Goffe left his concealment when the danger threatened,
and, forming the men, led them to victory.




CHAPTER XVI.

KING PHILIP'S WAR.

                    Oh, there be some
     Whose writhed features, fixed in all their strength
     Of grappling agony, do stare at you,
     With their dead eyes half opened.
     And there be some struck through with bristling darts
     Whose clenched hands have torn the pebbles up;
     Whose gnashing teeth have ground the very sand.
                                                 --BAILLIE.

Massasoit kept his treaty with the English inviolate so long as he
lived. He died in 1661, at the advanced age of eighty or ninety years,
leaving two sons whom the English named respectively Alexander and
Philip. Alexander, the eldest son and hereditary sachem, died soon after
his father, when Philip became chief sachem and warrior of the
Wampanoags, with his royal residence on Mount Hope, not far from
Bristol, Rhode Island. He was called King Philip. He resumed the
covenants with the English made by his father, and observed them
faithfully for a period of twelve years.

But it had become painfully apparent to Massasoit before his death,
that the spreading colonies would soon deprive his people of their land
and nationality, and that the Indians must become vassals of the pale
race. Long did the warlike King Philip ponder on these possibilities
with deep bitterness of feeling, until he had lashed himself into a fury
by the continued nursing of his wrath, and resolved to strike the
exterminating blow against the English.

There were many private wrongs of his people unavenged. The whites
already had assumed a domineering manner, and his final resolution was
both natural and patriotic. King Philip was a man of reason, and it is
said he had no hope of success when he began the war. It was a war
against such odds that it must have but one termination, and he had
little if any faith in a successful issue.

The Pokanokets had always rejected the Christian manners, and Massasoit
had desired to insert in a treaty, what the Puritans never permitted,
that the English should never attempt to convert the warriors of his
tribe from their religion.

Repeated sales of land narrowed their domains, and the English had
artfully crowded them into the tongues of land, as "most suitable and
convenient for them," where they would be more easily watched. The two
chief seats of the Pokanokets were the peninsulas now called Bristol and
Tiverton. As the English villages now grew nearer and nearer to them,
their hunting-grounds were put under culture, their natural parks turned
into pastures, their best fields for planting corn were gradually
alienated, their fisheries impaired by more skilful methods, till they
found themselves deprived of their broad acres, and by their own legal
contracts driven, as it were, into the sea.

Mutual distrusts and collisions were the inevitable consequence. There
is no authentic evidence of a deliberate conspiracy on the part of all
the tribes. Bancroft, who is, perhaps, the best authority on all
colonial matters, says the commencement of the war was accidental, and
that "many of the Indians were in a maze, not knowing what to do, and
ready to stand for the English."

There were many grievances among the Indians. The haughty chieftain, who
had once before been compelled to surrender his "English arms," and pay
an onerous tribute, was summoned to submit to an examination, and could
not escape suspicion.

The wrath of his tribe was roused, and the informer was murdered. In
turn the murderers were identified, seized, tried by a jury of which
one-half were Indians, and on conviction were hanged. The younger men of
the tribe were eager for vengeance, and without delay eight or nine of
the English were slain about Swansey, and the alarm of war spread
through the colonies.

King Philip was thus unwillingly hurried into war, and he wept when he
heard that a white man's blood had been shed. It is a rare thing for an
Indian to weep, least of all a mighty chief like Philip; but in the
cloud of war hovering over his people, he read the doom of his tribe. He
had kept his men about him in arms, and had welcomed every stranger, and
yet, against his judgment and his will, he was involved in war almost
before he knew it. The English had guns enough, while but few of the
Indians were well armed and were without resources when their present
supply was exhausted. The rifle, though not in general use, had been
invented many years before, and for hunters and backwoodsmen was an
effective weapon, though it was regarded as "a slow firing gun" compared
with the smooth-bore. Many of the Indians had firearms and were
excellent marksmen, and had overcome their superstitious dread of the
white man's weapons.

The minds of the English are said to have been appalled by the horrors
of the impending conflict, and superstition indulged in wild inventions.
There was an eclipse of the moon at which they declared they saw the
figure of an Indian scalp imprinted on the centre of the disk. The
perfect form of an Indian bow appeared in the sky. The sighing of the
wind was like the whistling of bullets. Some heard invisible troops of
horses gallop through the air, while others found the prophecy of
calamities in the howling of the wolves.

Despite all his aversion to war, Philip found it forced upon him, and
when he took up the hatchet he threw his soul into the issue, and fought
until death ended the struggle. There were many Christian converts among
the Indians, who were firmly attached to the English. One of these, John
Sassaman, who had been educated at Cambridge, where John Harvard had
established a college, was a royal secretary to Philip. Becoming
acquainted with the plans of the sachem, he revealed them to the
authorities at Plymouth. For this he was murdered, and his
murderers hanged.

Soon after the attack on Swansey, Philip left his place of residence and
his territory to the English. The following is the reason of his
precipitate retreat. Additional assistance being needed, the authorities
of Boston sent out Major-General Savage from that place, with sixty
horse and as many foot-soldiers, who scoured the country all the way to
Mount Hope, where King Philip, his wife and child were supposed to be at
that time.

Philip was at dinner when the news reached him of the near proximity of
his enemies, and he rose with his family, officers and warriors and fled
further up the country. The English pursued them as far as they could go
for the swamps, and overtook the rear of the detachment, killing
sixteen of them.

At the solicitation of Benjamin Church, a company of thirty-six men were
placed under him and Captain Fuller, who on the 8th of July marched down
into Pocasset Neck. This force, small as it was, afterward divided,
Church taking nineteen of the men and Fuller the remaining seventeen.
The party under Church proceeded into a point of land called
Punkateeset, now the southerly extremity of Tiverton, where they were
attacked by a body of three hundred Indians. After a fight of a few
moments, the English fell back to the seashore, and thus saved
themselves from destruction, for Church perceived that it was the
intention of the Indians to surround them. Every one expected death, but
resolved to sell their lives as dearly as possible. Thus hemmed in,
Church had a double duty to perform--that of preserving the spirit of
his followers, several of whom viewed their situation as desperate, and
erecting piles of stone to defend them.

Boats had been appointed to attend the English on this expedition, and
the heroic party looked for relief from this quarter; but, though the
boats appeared, the bullets of the Indians made them preserve a
respectable distance, until Church, in a moment of vexation, cried:

"Be off with you, cowards, and leave us to our fate!" The boats took him
at his word.

The Indians, now encouraged, fought more desperately than before. The
situation of the Englishmen was most forlorn, although as yet not one
had been wounded. Night was coming on, their ammunition was nearly
spent, and the Indians, having taken possession of a stone house on the
hill, fired into the temporary barricade of the English; but at this
moment a sloop hove in sight, and bore down toward the shore. It had two
or three small cannon on board with which it proceeded to knock down the
stone house. The sloop was commanded by a resolute man, Captain Golding,
who effected the embarkation of the company, taking off only two at a
time in a canoe. During the embarkation the Indians who were armed with
muskets and rifles kept up a steady fire from behind trees and stones,
and Church, who was the last to embark, narrowly escaped the balls of
the enemy, one grazing his head, and another lodging in a stake, which
happened to stand just above the centre of his breast.

Captain Church soon after joined a body of English and returned to
Pocasset, and Philip, after a skirmish, retired to the swamps, where for
a time his situation became desperate; but at length he contrived to
elude his besiegers, and fled to the Nipmucks, who received him with a
warmth of welcome quite gratifying to the ambitious chieftain.

The governor of Massachusetts sought to dissuade the Nipmucks from
espousing the cause of Philip; but they could not agree among
themselves, and consented to meet the English commissioners at a place
three miles from Brookfield on a specified day. Captains Hutchinson and
Wheeler were deputized to proceed to the appointed place. With twenty
mounted men and three Christian Indians as guides and interpreters they
reached the appointed place, but no Indians were to be seen. After a
short consultation, they advanced a little further, when they found
themselves in an ambuscade. A volley of rifles and muskets was the first
intimation of the presence of Indians. Eight men and five horses fell
dead, and Captain Hutchinson and two more were mortally wounded. The
Christian Indians led the remnant to Brookfield.

They scarcely had time to alarm the inhabitants, who, to the number of
seventy-eight, flocked into the garrison house, when the Indians
assailed the town. The house was but slightly fortified about the
exterior by a few logs hastily thrown up, while inside the house was
padded with feather-beds to deaden the force of the bullets. The house
was soon surrounded by the enemy, and shots poured in from all
directions. The beleaguered English were no mean marksmen, and they soon
taught the Indians to keep at a respectful distance. The Indians filled
a cart with hemp, flax, and other combustible materials, which they set
on fire, and pushed it backward to the building. The beleaguered people
began to pray for deliverance, when, as if in answer to their prayer, a
heavy shower of rain fell, extinguishing the fire, and before it could
be replenished, Major Willard with a party of dragoons arrived and the
Indians raised the siege.

A considerable number of Christian Indians near Hatfield were suspected
of being friendly to Philip and ordered to give up their arms. They
escaped at night and fled up the river toward Deerfield to join Philip.
The English pursued them and early next morning came up with them at a
swamp, opposite to the present town of Sunderland, where a warm contest
ensued. The Indians fought gallantly, but were finally routed, with a
loss of twenty six of their number, while the whites lost only ten. The
escaped Indians joined Philip's forces, and Lathrop and Beers returned
to their station at Hadley.

About the 10th of September, while Captain Lathrop was bringing away
some provisions and corn from Deerfield, he was attacked at a place
called "Muddy Brook." Knowing the English would pass here with their
teams and horses, the Indians lay in ambush and, pouring in a
destructive fire, rushed furiously to a close engagement. The English
ranks were broken, and the scattered troops were everywhere attacked.
Seeking the cover of trees, the English fought with desperation. The
combat now became a trial of skill in sharp-shooting, on the issue of
which life or death was suspended. The overwhelming superiority of the
Indians, as to numbers, left little room for hope on the part of the
English. Every instant they were shot down behind their retreats, until
nearly their whole number perished. The dead, the dying, the wounded
strewed the ground in every direction. Out of nearly one hundred,
including the teamsters, not more than seven or eight escaped from the
bloody spot. The wounded were indiscriminately massacred. This company
consisted of choice young men, "the very flower of Essex County, none of
whom were ashamed to speak with the enemy in the gate." Eighteen were
citizens of Deerfield.

Captain Moseley arrived at the conclusion of the fight, just as the
Indians began stripping and mutilating the dead. He charged the
Indians, cutting his way through with his company again and again, until
he drove them from the field.

The Indians near Springfield, supposed to be friendly, on the 4th of
October became allies of King Philip, whose cause seemed likely to
prevail. They planned to get possession of the fort, but were betrayed
by an Indian at Windsor, and when the savages came they found the
garrison ready to resist them. The savages burned thirty-two houses and
barns, and the beleaguered people were in great distress.

King Philip next aimed a blow at the three towns Hadley, Hatfield and
Northampton at once. At this time, Captain Appleton with one company lay
at Hadley, Captain Moseley and Poole with two companies were at
Hatfield, while Major Treat had just returned to Northampton for the
security of the settlement. Philip with seven or eight hundred warriors
made a bold assault on Hatfield, on the 19th of October, attacking from
every side at the same moment; but after a severe struggle the Indians
were repulsed at every point.

After leaving the western frontier of Massachusetts, Philip was next
known to be in the countries of his allies, the Narragansetts. The
latter had not heartily engaged in the war; but their inclination to do
so was not doubted, and it was the design of Philip to arouse them to
activity. Conanchet, their sachem, in violation of his treaty with the
English, not only received Philip's warriors, but aided their operations
against the English, and Massachusetts, Connecticut and Plymouth raised
an army of fifteen hundred men and, in the winter of 1675, set out to
attack the Indians.

Philip had strongly fortified himself at South Kingston, Rhode Island,
on an elevated portion of an immense swamp. Here his men erected about
five hundred wigwams, of a superior construction, in which was deposited
an abundant store of provisions. Baskets and tubs of corn (hollow trees
cut off about the length of a barrel) were piled one upon another around
the inside of the dwellings, which rendered them bullet-proof. Here
about three thousand Indians had taken up their winter quarters, and
among them were Philip's best warriors.

Governor Winslow of Plymouth commanded the English. A heavy snow had
fallen and the weather was intensely cold; but on December 19, the
English reached the fort and, by reason of their scarcity of provisions,
resolved to attack at once. The New Englanders were unacquainted with
the situation of the Indians, and, but for an Indian who betrayed his
countrymen, there is little probability that the English would have
effected anything against the fort. The stronghold was reached about
one o'clock in the afternoon, and the English assailed the most
vulnerable part of it, where it was fortified by a kind of a
block-house, directly in front of the entrance, and had also flankers to
cover a cross-fire. The place was protected by high palisades and an
immense hedge of fallen trees surrounding it on all sides. Between the
fort and the main land was a body of water, which could be crossed only
on a large tree lying over it. Such was the formidable aspect of the
place, such the difficulty of gaining access to it.

At first the English tried to cross over on the log; but, being
compelled to go in single file, they were shot down by the Indians,
until six captains and a number of men had been slain. Captain Moseley
and a mere handful of men finally rushed over the log and burst into the
fort, where they were assailed by fearful odds. This bold act so
attracted the attention of the Indians that others rushed in. Captain
Church, that indomitable Indian fighter, burst into the fort, dashed
through it, and reached the swamp in the rear, where he poured a
destructive fire into the enemy in retreat. The Indian cabins were set
on fire, and a scene of horror followed. A Narragansett chief afterward
stated their loss at seven hundred killed in the fort and three hundred
more who died of their wounds in the woods.

After the destruction of the place, Governor Winslow set out with his
killed and wounded through a driving snow-storm for Pettyquamscott. The
march was one of misery and distress, and a number of the wounded died
on their march.

On the 19th of February, the Indians surprised Lancaster with complete
success, falling upon it with a force of several hundred warriors. The
town contained fifty-two families, of whom forty-two persons were killed
or captured. Forty-two persons took shelter in the house of Mary
Rowlandson, the wife of the minister of the place. It was set on fire by
the Indians. "Quickly," says Mrs. Rowlandson in her narrative, "it was
the dolefullest day that ever mine eyes saw. Now the dreadful hour had
come. Some in our house were fighting for their lives; others wallowing
in blood; the house on fire over our heads, and the bloody heathen ready
to knock us on the head if we stirred out. I took my children to go
forth; but the Indians shot so thick that the bullets rattled against
the house as if one had thrown a handful of stones. We had six stout
dogs; but none of them would stir. A bullet went through my side, and
another through a child in my arms, and I was made captive, having of my
family only one poor wounded babe left. I was led from the town where my
captors halted to gaze on the burning houses. Down I must sit in the
snow, with my sick child, the picture of death in my lap. Not the least
crumb of refreshment came within our mouths from Wednesday night until
Sunday night except a little cold water."

Mrs. Rowlandson and her child were afterward recovered from the savages.

Shortly after the Lancaster disaster, Captain Pierce, with fifty men and
twenty Cape Cod Indians, having crossed the Pawtuxet River in Rhode
Island, unexpectedly met a large body of Indians.

The English fell back and took up a sheltered position under the river
bank; but here they were hemmed in and fought until all fell save one
white man and four Indians, after killing more than one hundred of
the enemy.

The Christian Indians of Cape Cod showed their faithfulness and courage
in this melancholy affair. Four of them effected their escape and one of
these aided in the escape of the only white man who survived. His name
was Amos, and after Captain Pierce was wounded he remained by him
loading and firing, until it was evident he could do no more. Then he
painted his face black as his enemies had done, and thus escaped.
Another of the Christian Indians pretended to be chasing the white man
who thus escaped with upraised tomahawk. The ruse saved both.

On the 20th of April, an army of Indians made an assault on Sudbury.
The people were reinforced by soldiers from Watertown and Concord. The
Indians drew the Concord people into an ambuscade and only one escaped.

The best Indian warrior makes a poor general. He has no ability to
preserve an organization, and soon calamities began to befall Philip.
They were small at first; but they tended to discourage his followers.
First the Deerfield Indians abandoned his cause, and many of the
Nipmucks and Narragansetts followed. Still, Philip, though he had not
been much seen during the winter, and it is doubtful where he had spent
the most of it, had no intention of abating his efforts against
the English.

In the month of May, 1676, he appeared at the head of a powerful force
in northern Massachusetts. Large bodies of Indians about this time took
up positions at the Connecticut River falls, where they were attacked
and routed by Captain Turner. One hundred were left dead on the field
and a hundred and forty more went over the falls. When Turner retreated
from the field, the Indians rallied, fell on his rear, shot down the
gallant captain and thirty-seven of his men.

On May 30th, Philip, at the head of six hundred men, attacked Hatfield,
but was repulsed after a desperate struggle.

Philip's power was on the wane. He was secure in no place; but his
haughty spirit was untamed by adversity. Although meeting with constant
losses, and among them some of his most experienced warriors, he,
nevertheless, seemed as hostile and determined as ever. In August, the
intrepid Church made a descent upon his headquarters at Matapoiset,
where he killed and made prisoners one hundred and thirty. Philip barely
made his escape, and was obliged to leave his wampum and his wife and
child, who were made prisoners.

Church's guide had brought him to a place where a large tree, which the
enemy had felled, lay across a stream. Church had gained the top end of
the tree, when he espied an Indian on the stump of it, on the other side
of the stream. Church, brought his gun to his shoulder and would have
shot the Indian, had not one of his own Indians told him not to fire, as
he believed it was one of his own men. On hearing voices, the Indian
looked about, and the friendly Indian got a glance at his face and
discovered that it was Philip. The friendly Indian fired, but too late,
for Philip, leaping from the stump, ran down the bank among the bushes
and in a moment was out of sight. Church gave chase to him; but he could
not be found, though they picked up a few of his followers. King
Philip's war had now degenerated into a single man hunt. From this time
on, Philip was too closely watched and hotly pursued to escape
destruction. His followers deserted him, and he was driven like a wild
beast from place to place, until at last he came to his ancient seat
near Pokanoket, when one of his men advised making peace. Philip killed
him on the spot. The Indian thus slain had a brother named Alderman,
who, fearing the same fate, and probably in revenge, deserted Philip,
and gave Captain Church an account of his situation and offered to lead
him to his camp. Early on Saturday morning, August 12, 1676, Church,
with his Indian guide, came to the swamp where Philip was encamped, and,
before he was discovered, had placed a guard about it so as to encompass
it, except at one place. He then ordered Captain Golding to rush into
the swamp and fall upon Philip in his camp, which he immediately did,
but was discovered as he approached, and Philip fled. Having been just
awakened and being only partially dressed, he ran at full speed,
carrying his gun in his hand, and came directly upon the Indian
Alderman, who, with a white man, was in ambush at the edge of the swamp.

"There comes the devil Philip now!" cried the Englishman, raising his
rifle and aiming at the king; but the powder in the pan had become damp,
and he missed fire. Immediately Alderman, whose gun was loaded with two
balls, fired, sending one bullet through Philip's heart and another not
more than two inches from it. He fell upon his face in the mud and
water, with his gun under him.

The death of Philip ended the bloodiest Indian war at that time known in
the New World. A few of his confederates were captured; but there was no
more fighting. Philip's son was sold into slavery in Bermuda. So
perished the dynasty of Massasoit.




CHAPTER XVII.

NEARING THE VERGE.

     At times there come, as come there ought,
     Grave moments of sedater thought.
     When fortune frowns, nor lends our night
     One gleam of her inconstant light:
     And hope, that decks the peasant's bower,
     Shines like the rainbow through the shower.
                                      --CUNNINGHAM.

Robert Stevens was warmly greeted by his mother and sister on his return
from Massachusetts. He had grown to a handsome young man, whose daring
blue eye and bold, honest face seemed born to defy tyrants. Rebecca, his
sister, was a beautiful maiden, just budding into womanhood. She
possessed her father's quiet, gentle, modest demeanor with her mother's
beauty. Her great dark eyes were softer than her mother's, and her face
and contour were perfections of beauty.

"How glad I am to see you! Oh, how you have grown!" were among the
exclamations of his mother.

Robert noticed a great change in her. She was no longer the
proud-spirited being of old. Even when assailed by poverty, she was not
crushed and humiliated. Nothing was said of Mr. Price, though he was
uppermost in the minds of all. The stepfather was not present; but
Robert thought:

"I shall meet him, and the meeting will come soon enough."

When the house was reached he had almost forgotten him. His mother's
pale face and wasted form were indications of poor health; but she
smiled once more, and he hoped to see the bloom return to the still
youthful cheek.

It was early when he disembarked, and Mr. Hugh Price, the royalist, had
gone with Governor Berkeley on a fox chase. He returned late that night,
and Robert did not see him until next morning. The greeting between
Robert and the man whom he heartily despised was formal and cool.

The cavalier was, as usual, dressed with scrupulous care, and, in lace
ruffles and silk, sought to conceal his coarse, beastly nature. His fat
face and pursed lips, with his bottle nose, all bore evidence of high
living and indulgence in the wine cup. The family assembled at the
breakfast table and sat in silence through the meal. When it was over,
Mr. Price said:

"Robert, I want to see you in my study."

His "study" was a room in which were a few books and a great many
implements of the chase. There were horns, whips, spurs, boar spears and
guns on the wall. Mr. Price lighted his pipe and, throwing himself into
his great easy chair, said:

"Sit down, Robert, I have something to say to you."

Robert closed his lips firmly, for he intuitively felt that what was
coming would have something unpleasant about it. Mr. Hugh Price
partially raised himself from his chair to close the door. Robert caught
a momentary glance of two anxious faces at the foot of the stairs,
watching them and evidently wondering how it was all going to end.
Having closed the door and shut those friendly countenances out from
view, Hugh Price raised his slippered feet and placed them on the stool
before him, and smoked in silence. Robert had lost the little fear he
had entertained in childhood for his stepfather; but he did not
calculate on the cunning and treachery which in Hugh Price had taken the
place of strength. He realized not the powerful weapons which Price
could wield in the governor and officers of State.

"Robert, you have come back," began Mr. Price, slowly and deliberately,
as if he wished to impress what he was about to say more fully on his
hearer. "I have some words of advice to offer, and I trust you will
profit by them. If you fail to, don't blame me."

Robert, by a respectful nod, indicated that he was listening, and Mr.
Price went on:

"We have reached a period when a great civil revolution seems to be at
hand. Virginia is about to be shaken by an earthquake, to writhe under
intestine wars, and it may be necessary for you to take sides. I warn
you to have a care which side you choose, for a mistake means death. You
had better know something of the condition of the country before you
make your choice."

"I assure you that I am willing to learn all I can of Virginia," Robert
answered.

"Very well spoken. I hope that you have eradicated from your mind all
those fallacious and treasonable ideas of republicanism. The failure of
the commonwealth in England ought to convince any one that republicanism
can never succeed."

Robert was silent. So deeply had republicanism been engrafted in his
soul that he might as well attempt to tear out his heart, as to think of
uprooting it. His meeting with General Goffe and his love for Ester had
more strongly cemented his love for liberty; but Robert held his peace,
and the stepfather went on.

"Virginia is ruled by a governor and sixteen councillors, commissioned
by his majesty, and a grand assembly, consisting of two burgesses from
each county, meets annually, which levies taxes, hears appeals and
passes laws of all descriptions, which are sent to the lord chancellor
for his approval, as in accordance with the laws of the realm. We now
have forty thousand people in Virginia, of whom six thousand are white
servants and two thousand negro slaves. Since 1619, only three
ship-loads of negroes have been brought here, yet by natural increase
the negroes have grown a hundredfold."

The cavalier, who delighted in long morning talks over his pipe, paused
a moment to rest, and Robert sat wondering what all this could have to
do with him. After a moment, Hugh Price resumed:

"The freemen of Virginia number more than eight thousand horse, and are
bound to muster monthly in every county, to be ready for the Indians;
but the Indians are absolutely subjugated, so there need be no fear of
them. There are five forts in Virginia, mounted with thirty cannon, two
on James River, and one each on the other three rivers of York,
Rappahannock, and Potomac; but we have neither skill nor ability to
maintain them. We have a large foreign commerce. Nearly eighty ships
every year come out from England and Ireland, and a few ketches from New
England, in defiance of the navigation laws, which the people of New
England seem more willing to break than are the people of Virginia. We
build neither small nor great vessels here, for we are most obedient to
all laws, whilst the New England men break them with impunity and trade
at any place to which their interests lead them."

"The New England people are prosperous and God-fearing," Robert ventured
to put in.

"Yea; but do they not harbor outlaws and regicides. Do not Whalley and
Goffe find in that country aiders and abettors in their criminal
proceeding?"

"The New Englanders are friendly to the education of the masses."

At this, Hugh Price for an instant lost control of his passion. His
master, Sir William Berkeley, in a memorial to parliament, had
just said:

"I thank God that there are no free schools, nor printing, and I hope we
shall not have them these hundred years; for learning has brought
disobedience into the world, and printing has divulged them, and libels
against the best governments. God keep us from both!"

Virginia was the last province to submit to the commonwealth and first
to declare for the returned monarch, and the royalists residing in
Virginia despised what the common people insisted in calling freedom.
The commonwealth had driven many excellent royalists from England to
Virginia, and while Hugh Price seeks to smother his anger in clouds of
tobacco smoke, we will make a quotation from John Esten Cooke's
"Virginia" in regard to some of them:

"The character of the king's men who came over during the commonwealth
period has been a subject of much discussion. They have been called even
by Virginia writers as we have seen, 'butterflies of aristocracy,' who
had no influence in affairs or in giving its coloring to Virginia
society. The facts entirely contradict the view. They and their
descendants were the leaders in public affairs, and exercised a
controlling influence upon the community. Washington was the
greatgrandson of a royalist, who took refuge in Virginia during the
commonwealth. George Mason was the descendant of a colonel, who fought
for Charles II. Edmond Pendleton was of royalist origin, and lived and
died a most uncompromising churchman. Richard Henry Lee, who moved the
Declaration, was of the family of Richard Lee, who had gone to invite
Charles II. to Virginia. Peyton and Edmund Randolph, president of the
First Congress, and attorney-general were of the old royalist family.
Archibald Cary, who threatened to stab Patrick Henry if he were made
dictator, was a relative of Lord Falkland and heir apparent at his
death to the barony of Hunsdon. Madison and Monroe were descended from
the royalist families--the first from a refugee of 1653, the last from a
captain in the army of Charles I., and Patrick Henry and Thomas
Jefferson, afterward the leaders of democratic opinion, were of church
and king blood, since the father of Henry was a loyal officer who 'drank
the king's health at the head of his regiment'; and the mothers of both
were Church of England women, descended from royalist families."

With this brief digression, we will return to Hugh Price, who, having
smoked himself into a calmer state, turned his eyes upon his wife's son
with a look designed to be compassionate and said:

"Robert, it is the great love I bear you, which causes my anxiety about
your welfare. I trust that your recent sojourn in New England hath not
established the seeds of republicanism and Puritanism in your heart. I
trust that any fallacious ideas you may have formed during your absence
will become, in the light of reason, eradicated."

"He who is not susceptible of reason is unworthy of being called a
reasonable being," Robert answered.

"I am glad to hear you say as much. Now permit me to return to the
original subject. Virginia is on the verge of a political irruption,
and your arrival may be most opportune or unfortunate."

"I hardly comprehend you."

"There is some dissatisfaction with Governor Berkeley's course with the
Indians. Some unreasonable people think that he should prosecute the war
against them more vigorously."

"Why does he not?"

"He has good reasons."

"What are they?"

"He has dealings with the Indians in which there are many great fortunes
involved. To go to war with them would be sure to lose him and his
friends these profits. I am one concerned in these speculations, and it
would be a grievous wrong to me were the war prosecuted."

Robert knew something of the savage outrages in Virginia. He had learned
of them while on shipboard, and he had some difficulty in restraining
his rising indignation, so it was with considerable warmth that
he answered:

"Do you think your gains of more value than the human lives sacrificed
on the frontier?"

"Such talk is treason," cried Price. "It sounds not unlike Bacon,
Cheeseman, Lawrence and Drummond. Have you seen them since your return?"

"I have not, nor did I ever hear of the man Bacon before."

"Have a care! You would do well to avoid Drummond, Cheeseman and
Lawrence."

"Why?"

"They are suspected of republicanism. Have naught to do with them."

Some people are so constituted that to refuse them a thing increases
their desire for it. Robert would no doubt have gone to hunt up his
former friends and rescuers even had not his stepfather forbidden his
doing so, but now that Price prohibited his having anything to do with
them, he was doubly determined to meet them and learn what they had to
say about the threatened trouble.

His mother and sister were waiting in the room below with anxiously
beating hearts to know the result of the conference. Sighs of relief
escaped both, when they were assured that the meeting had been peaceful.

"Hold your peace, my son," plead the mother, "and do naught to bring
more distress upon your poor mother."

Robert realized that a great crisis was coming which would try his soul.
He had never broken his word with his mother, and for fear that his
conscience might conflict with any promise, he resolved to make none, so
he evaded her, by saying:

"Mother, there is no need for apprehension. We are in no danger."

"But your stepfather and you?"

"We have had no new quarrel."

He was about to excuse himself and take a stroll about Jamestown, when
he saw a short, stout little fellow, resembling an apple dumpling
mounted on two legs, entering the door. Though years had passed since he
had seen that form, he knew him at sight. Giles Peram, the traitor and
informer, had grown plumper, and his round face seemed more silly. His
little eyes had sunk deeper into his fat cheeks, and his lips were
puckered as if to whistle. He was attired as a cavalier, with a scarlet
laced coat, a waistcoat of yellow velvet and knee breeches of the
cavalier, with silk stockings.

"Good day, good people," he said, squeezing his fat little hands
together. "I hope you will excuse this visit, for I--I--heard that the
brother of my--of the pretty maid had come home, and hastened to
congratulate him."

Robert gazed for a moment on the contemptible little fellow, the chief
cause of his arrest and banishment and, turning to his mother, asked:

"Do you allow him to come here?"

"We must," she whispered.

"Why?"

"Hush, son; you don't understand it all. I will explain it to you
soon."

"You may; but I think I shall change matters, if he is to be a visitor."

"He is the governor's secretary."

"I care not if he be governor himself; he has no business here."

The little fellow, whose face had grown alternately white and purple,
stood squeezing his palms and ejaculating:

"Oh, dear me!--oh, dear!--this is very extraordinary--what can this
mean?"

"Why do you dare enter this house?" demanded Robert, fiercely.

"Oh, dear, I don't know--I am only a small fellow, you know."

At this moment Mrs. Price and her daughter interposed and begged Robert,
for the peace of the family, to make no further remonstrance. He was
informed that Giles Peram was the favorite of the governor and Hugh
Price, and to insult him would be insulting those high functionaries.

"Why is he here? Whom does he come to see?"

"Perhaps it is Mr. Price!" the mother stammered, casting a glance at
Peram, who quickly answered:

"Yes--yes, it is Mr. Price. Will you show me up to him? I have a very
important message from the governor."

He was trembling in every limb, for he expected to be hurled from the
house.

Robert went into the street in a sort of maze.

He felt a strange foreboding that all was not right, and that Giles
Peram had some deep scheme on foot.

"I will kill the knave, if the governor should hang me for it the next
moment," he said in a fit of anger.

It was not long before Robert was at the house of Mr. Lawrence, where he
met his friends Drummond and Cheeseman. The three were engaged in a
close consultation as if discussing a matter of vital importance. They
did not at first recognize Robert, who had grown to manhood; but as soon
as he made himself known, they welcomed him back among them, and
warm-hearted Cheeseman said:

"I know full well you can be relied upon in this great crisis."

"What is the crisis?" Robert asked.

"We seem on the verge of some sort of a revolution. Virginia welcomed
Charles II. and Governor Berkeley as the frogs welcomed the stork, and
they, stork like, have begun devouring us."

"I have heard something of the grievances of the people of Virginia;
but I do not know all of them. What leads up to this revolution?"

Mr. Drummond answered:

"The two main grievances are the English navigation acts and the grant
of authority to the English noblemen to sell land titles and manage
other matters in Virginia. Why, the king hath actually given to Lord
Culpepper, a cunning and covetous member of the commission, for trade
and plantations, and the earl of Arlington, a heartless spendthrift,
'all the dominion of land and water called Virginia, for the term of
thirty-one years.' We are permitted by the trade laws to trade only with
England in English ships, manned by Englishmen."

"Is it such a great grievance to the people?"

"It is foolish and injurious to the government as well as to ourselves.
The system cripples the colony, and, by discouraging production,
decreases the English revenue. To profit from Virginia they grind down
Virginia. Instead of friends, as we expected, on the restoration, we are
beset by enemies, who seize us by the throat and cry: 'Pay that
thou owest!'"

"To these grievances are added the confinement of suffrage to
freeholders, which hath disfranchised a large number of persons," put in
Mr. Drummond.

"Also the failure of the governor to protect the frontier from the
Indians," added Mr. Cheeseman. "These heathen have begun to threaten
the colony."

"What cause have they for taking up the hatchet?" asked Robert. Mr.
Cheeseman answered:

"Their jealousy was aroused by an expedition made by Captain Henry Batte
beyond the mountains. Last summer there was a fight with some of the
Indians. A party of Doegs attacked the frontier in Staffard and
committed outrages, and were pursued into Maryland by a company of
Virginians under Major John Washington. They stood at bay in an old
palisaded fort. Six Indians were killed while bringing a flag of truce.
The governor said that even though they had slain his nearest relatives,
had they come to treat with him he would have treated with them. The
Indian depredations have been on the increase until the frontier is
unsafe, and this spring, when five hundred men were ready to march
against the heathen, Governor Berkeley disbanded them, saying the
frontier forts were sufficient protection for the people."

"Are they?" asked Robert.

"No."

"Then why does he not send an army against them?"

"He is engaged in trafficking with the heathen and fears that he may
lose, financially, by a war."

"Is gain in traffic of more consequence than human life?"

"With him, it is."

Robert was a lover of humanity, and in a moment he had taken sides. He
was a republican and his fate was cast with Bacon, even before he had
seen this remarkable man.




CHAPTER XVIII.

THE SWORD OF DEFENCE.

     He stood--some dread was on his face,
     Soon hatred settled in its place:
     It rose not with the reddening flush
     Of transient anger's hasty blush,
     But pale as marble o'er the tomb,
     Whose ghastly whiteness aids its gloom.
                                          --BYRON.

Robert Stevens returned home, his mind filled with strange, wild
thoughts. It was a lovely evening in early spring. The moon, round and
full, rose from out its watery bed and shed a soft, refulgent glow on
this most delightful of all climes. Below was the bay, on which floated
many barks, and among them the vessel which had so recently brought him
from Boston. The little town lay quiet and peaceful on the hill where
his grandfather and Captain John Smith sixty years ago had planted it.
Beyond were the dark forests, gloomy and forbidding, as if they
concealed many foes of the white men; but those woods were not all dark
and forbidding. From them issued the sweet perfumes of wild flowers and
the songs of night birds, such as are known in Virginia.

Young Stevens was in no mood to be impressed by the surrounding scenery.
He was repeating under his breath:

"_Tyranny! tyranny! tyranny!_"

Robert loved freedom as dearly as he loved Ester Goffe, and one was as
necessary to his existence as the other. Now, on his return to the land
of his nativity, he found the ruler, once so mild and popular, grown
to a tyrant.

"His office is for life," sighed Robert. "And too much power hath made
him mad."

Reaching the house, he heard voices in the front room and among them
that of his sister. She was greatly agitated, and he heard her saying:

"No, no, Mr. Peram. I--don't understand you."

"Not understand me? I love you, sweet maid. Do I not make myself plain?"

"No, no; do not talk that way; pray do not."

"But you must promise, sweet maid, to wed me. I adore you."

At this the scoundrel caught her hand, and Rebecca uttered a scream of
terror. Her brother waited to hear no more, but leaped boldly into the
room and, seizing Mr. Giles Peram by the collar of his coat and the
waistband of his costly knee-breeches, held him at arm's length, and
began applying first one and then another pedal extremity to
his anatomy.

Mr. Peram squirmed and howled:

"Oh, dear! Oh, let me go! This is very extraordinary!" his small eyes
growing dim and his fat cheeks pale.

"You knave! How dare you thus annoy my sister?" cried Robert, still
kicking the rascal. At last he led him to the door and flung him down
the front steps, where he fell in a heap on the ground with such force,
that one might have thought his neck was broken. Robert turned to his
sister and asked:

"Where is mother?"

"She hath gone with her husband to Greensprings."

"And left you alone?"

"It was thought you would come."

Robert Stevens felt guilty of neglect in lingering too long in the
company of men whom Berkeley would regard as conspirators; but he
immediately excused himself on the ground that he had had no knowledge
of the intended departure of his mother, or that his sister would be
left alone.

"Have you suffered annoyances from him before?"

"Yes."

"Does mother know of it?"

"She does."

"And makes no effort to protect you?"

[Illustration: HE FLUNG HIM DOWN THE FRONT STEPS, WHERE HE FELL IN A
HEAP ON THE GROUND.]

"She does all she can; but--but Mr. Price sanctions the marriage."

"I think I understand why you were left," said Robert, bitterly; "but I
will protect you, never fear. That disgusting pigmy of humanity, that
silly idiot and false swearer shall not harm you. I will take you
to uncle's."

"Alas, he is dead. He was appointed governor to Carolinia and died."

"But our father's sister will give you a home, if the persecution
becomes too hard for you to endure."

With such assurances, he consoled her as only a stout, brave brother
can, and to win her mind from the subject that tormented her most, he
told her of Ester Goffe and their betrothal, with a few of his wild
adventures in New England, where, at this time, King Philip's war was
raging with relentless fury.

Then his sister retired, and he sought repose. Next morning his mother
was at breakfast; but Hugh Price was absent. He asked no questions about
him. Nothing was said of the summary manner in which he had disposed of
Mr. Peram, and it was a week before he saw his sister's
unwelcome suitor.

The little fellow was standing on a platform making a speech to some
sailors and idlers. The harangue was silly, as all his speeches were.

"If the king wants brave soldiers to cope with these rebels, let him
send me to command them. Fain would I lead an army against the
vagabonds."

At this, some wag in the crowd made a remark about the diminutive size
of the speaker, and the ludicrous figure he would cut as a general, at
which he became enraged and cried:

"Begone, knave! Do you think I talk to fools? Nay, I speak sense."

"Which is very extraordinary," put in the wag. This so exasperated the
orator, that he fumed and raged about the platform and, not taking heed
which way he went, tumbled backward off the stage, which brought his
harangue to an inglorious close.

Shouts of laughter went up from the assembled group at his mishap, and
the orator retired in disgust.

Robert Stevens was more amused than any other person at the manner in
which Giles Peram had terminated his speech. He went home and told his
sister, who laughed as much as he did.

That night, near midnight, Robert was awakened from a sound sleep by
some one tapping on his window lattice. He rose, at first hardly able to
believe his senses; but the moon was shining quite brightly, and he
distinctly saw the outline of a man standing outside his window, and
there came a tapping unquestionably intended to wake him.

"Who are you?" he asked, going to the window.

"I am Drummond," was the answer, and he now recognized his father's
friend standing on the rounds of a ladder which he had placed against
the house at the side of his window. On the ground below were two more
men, whom he recognized as Mr. Cheeseman and the thoughtful
Mr. Lawrence.

"What will you, Mr. Drummond?"

"Come forth; we have something to say to you. Dress for a journey and
bring what weapons you have, as you may need them."

Robert hurriedly dressed and buckled on a breastplate and sword with a
brace of pistols. He had a very fine rifle, which he brought away with
him, as well as a supply of flints, a horn full of powder to the very
throat, and plenty of bullets. With these, he crept from the house and
joined the three men under the tree. Mr. Drummond said:

"The Indians have again risen in their fury, and attacked the frontier,
killing many, and have carried some of your kinspeople away captives."

Robert was roused. He was in a frenzy and vowed that if no one else
would go, he would himself pursue the savages and rescue his relatives.

"You will have aid," assured Mr. Drummond. "The people are enraged at
the carelessness of the governor, and if they can secure a leader, they
will go and punish the Indians."

"Leader or no leader, I shall go to the rescue of my relatives. My
father's sister and children are captives; think you I would remain at
home for lack of a leader?"

"We will find one in Nathaniel Bacon."

"Who is he?" asked Robert, as if he still feared the willingness or
ability of the proposed leader to conduct the crusade against the
savages. Mr. Drummond answered:

"Bacon is a young man who has not yet arrived at thirty years. His
family belongs to the English gentry, for he is a cousin of Lord
Culpepper and married a daughter of Sir John Duke. He run out his
patrimony in England and hath, by his liberality, exhausted the most of
what he brought to Virginia. He came here four years ago and settled at
Curies on the upper James River. His uncle, who lives in Virginia, was a
member of the king's council. He is Nathaniel Bacon, senior, a very rich
politic man and childless, who designs his nephew, Nathaniel Bacon,
junior, for his heir."

"Has he ability for a leader?" asked Robert.

"He hath; his abilities have been so highly recognized, that he was
appointed soon after his arrival to a place in the council."

This was a position of great dignity, rarely conferred upon any but men
of matured age and large estate, and Bacon was only twenty-eight, and
his estate small. His personal character is seen on the face of his
public career. He was impulsive and subject to fits of passion, or, as
the old writers say, "of a precipitate disposition."

Bacon came near being the Virginia Cromwell. Though he never wholly
redeemed his adopted country from tyranny, he put the miscreant Berkeley
to flight. On that May night in 1676, Bacon was at his Curles
plantation, just below the old city of Henricus, living quietly on his
estate with his beautiful young wife Elizabeth. He had another estate in
what is now the suburbs of the present city of Richmond, which is to-day
known as "Bacon's Quarter Branch." His servants and overseers lived
here, and he could easily go thither in a morning's journey on his
favorite dapple gray, or by rowing seven miles around the Dutch Gap
peninsula, could make the journey in his barge. When not at his upper
plantation or in attendance at the council, he was living the quiet and
unassuming life of a planter at Curles, where he entertained his
neighbors, and being by nature a lover of the divine rights of man, he
boldly denounced the trade laws, the Arlington and Culpepper grants, and
the governor for his lukewarmness in defending the frontier against the
Indians. Though one of the gentry, who had it in his power to become a
favorite, the manifest tyranny of Governor Berkeley so shocked his sense
of right and justice, that he was ready to condemn the whole system of
government.

When the report came to him that the Indians were about to renew their
outrages on the upper waters of the James River, Bacon flew into a rage
and, tossing his arms about in a wild gesticulation, as was his
manner, declared:

"If they kill any of my people, d--n my blood, I will make war on them,
with or without authority, commission or no commission."

The hour was not long in coming when his resolution was put to the test.

In May, 1676, two days before Robert was awakened from his midnight
slumbers by Drummond, the Indians had attacked his estate at the Falls,
killed his overseer and one of his servants, and were going to carry
fire and hatchet through the frontier. The wild news flew from house to
house. The planters and frontiersmen sprang to arms and began to form a
combination against these dangerous enemies.

Governor Berkeley had refused to commission any one as commander of the
forces, and the colonists were without a head. The silly old egotist who
ruled Virginia declared that there was no danger from the Indians, and
even while the frontiersmen were battling with them for their lives,
he wrote to the home government that all trouble with the natives was
happily over. When the Virginians assembled, they were without a leader.

It was on this occasion that Robert was awakened at night, as we have
seen, and asked to arm himself and prepare for a journey. That midnight
journey was to Curies where the planters were assembled preparatory to
making a descent on the enemy, which they were long to remember. When
Robert was informed of the plan, he asked for a moment's time to confer
with his sister, that he might notify her of his departure.

He knew the room in which Rebecca slept, and going to her door, tapped
lightly until he heard her stirring, and the voice within asked:

"Who are you?"

"It is your brother," he whispered. A moment later the pretty face of
the sleepy girl, surrounded by the neat border of a night-cap, appeared,
and he hastily informed her that the Indians, in ravaging the frontier,
had carried away their relatives, and he was going to set out to recover
them. She knew the political situation of the country and the danger of
the governor's wrath; but she could not detain her brother from such
a mission.

Having explained to her that he was going to recover the captives and
knew not when he would return, he went hurriedly away to join his
companions. A horse was ready saddled for him, and they rode nearly all
the remainder of the night, and at dawn were at Curies where was found a
considerable number of riflemen. As they came upon the group, Robert saw
a young man with dark eyes and hair, a face that was ruddy, yet denoting
nervous temperament. He was tall and graceful, and his bold, vehement
spirit seemed at once to take fire, and his enthusiasm kindled a
conflagration in the breasts of his hearers. He spoke of their wrongs,
of their governor's avarice, who would for the sake of his traffic with
the Indians sacrifice their lives. They were not assembled for
vengeance, but for defence against a ruthless foe. There was no outward
expression of rebellion in his speech, yet he enlarged on the grievances
of the time. That speech was an ominous indication of coming events.

"Who is that man?" Robert asked.

"Nathaniel Bacon," was the answer.

This was the first time he had ever seen the man so noted in history as
the great Virginia rebel, yet from the very first Robert was strangely
impressed with the earnestness of the stranger.

Bacon had been chosen as commander of the Virginians, and had sent to
Berkeley for his commission. The governor did not refuse the
commission; but he did what practically amounted to the same, failed to
send it. It was to this that Bacon was referring when Robert Stevens and
his friends joined the group.

"Instead of sending the commission which I desired, he hath politely
notified me that the times are troubled," Bacon said, "that the issue of
my business might be dangerous, that, unhappily, my character and
fortunes might become imperiled if I proceed. The commission is refused;
his complimentary expressions amount to nothing; the veil is too thin to
impose on us; the Indians are still ravaging the frontier. They have
been furnished with firelocks and powder--by whom? By the governor in
his traffic with them. If you, good housekeepers, will sustain me, I
will assault the savages in their stronghold."

All, with one accord, assented and declared themselves willing to be led
to the assault. Bacon was at once chosen as the commander of the army.
When he learned that Robert and his friends had come from Jamestown to
aid the people on the frontier, he came to welcome them to his ranks and
to assure them that he appreciated their courage and humanity.

"I have relatives and friends who are captives of the Indians," Robert
explained, "and I shall rescue them or perish in the effort."

"Bravo! spoken like an Englishman. We are kindling a fire which may yet
consume royalty in Virginia."

Nathaniel Bacon was politic, however, and before setting out against the
Indians dispatched another messenger to Jamestown for a commission as
commander. The game between the man of twenty-eight and the man of
seventy had begun. Both possessed violent tempers; both were proud and
resolute, and the man of seventy was wholly unscrupulous. The prospects
were good for a bitter warfare. The old cavalier attempted to end it by
striking a sudden blow at his adversary. Bacon and his army were on
their march through the forest to the seat of Indian troubles, when an
emissary of the governor came in hot haste with a proclamation,
denouncing Nathaniel Bacon and his deluded followers as rebels, and
ordered them to disperse. If they persisted in their illegal
proceedings, it would be at their peril.

Governor Berkeley could not have chosen a more effective way of
crippling the expedition. The resolution of the most wealthy of the
armed housekeepers were shaken. They feared a confiscation more than
hanging or decapitation. One hundred and seventy of the followers of
Bacon obeyed the order and abandoned the expedition.

Fifty-seven horsemen remained steadfast. Among them was Robert Stevens,
who was young and reckless as his daring leader.

The Indians had entrenched themselves on a hill east of the present city
of Richmond, and when the whites approached them, they as usual sent
forth a flag of truce to parley with them. The men who remained with
Bacon were nearly all frontiersmen who had suffered more or less from
the savages.

John Whitney, a frontiersman, had had his home destroyed, and his wife
and child slain by the Indians. While the parley was going on, John
discovered the Indian who had slain his wife and child, and, recognizing
their scalps hanging at the savage's girdle, he levelled his rifle at
the savage and shot him dead.

The Indians gave utterance to yells of rage, and from the hill-top
poured down a volley at the white men; but the bullets and arrows passed
quite over their heads. Bacon saw that the moment for a charge had
arrived, and, raising himself in his stirrups, he shouted:

"There are the devils who slew your friends and kindred. It is their
lives or ours. Strike for vengeance! Charge!"

Not a man faltered. Never did husbands, fathers and brothers dash
forward into battle more fearlessly. Each man thought only of his own
little home exposed to the ravages of the enemy, and the whistling of
balls and arrows did not deter him. The enemy were entrenched in a fort
of logs. They outnumbered the Virginians ten to one; but the latter
charged nobly forward, plunging into the stream which lay between them
and the fort, and wading through the water shoulder deep.

"There are the enemy; storm the fort!" cried Bacon. Ever in the van,
mounted on his dapple gray, where bullets flew thickest, he was here and
there and everywhere, urging and encouraging the men by word and
example. They needed little encouragement, for the atrocities of the
Indian had fired the blood of the Virginians, until the most timid among
them became brave as a lion.

Robert Stevens kept at the side of Bacon, imitating his example. Robert
was mounted on an English bay, a famous fox-hunter, and accustomed to
leaping barriers. Bacon knew nothing of the science of Indian warfare,
even if he knew anything of war at all. Indian tactics are entirely
different from civilized warfare and require a different mode to meet
them; but though the hero of Virginia four years before was thoroughly
ignorant of Indians, he seemed to acquire the necessary knowledge in a
moment. He was the man for the occasion.

Side by side Bacon and Robert dashed at the palisade and leaped their
horses over it. They emptied their rifles and fired their pistols at
such close range, that the effect was murderous. Others followed,
leaping down among the savages, and opened fire. When guns and pistols
had belched forth their deadly contents, the more deadly sabre was
drawn, and the Indians were slain without mercy.

The buildings were fired, and the four thousand pounds of powder, which
the Indians had procured of the governor, were blown up. One hundred and
fifty Indians were slain, while Bacon lost only three of his own party.
This victory is famous in history as the "Battle of Bloody Run," so
called from the fact that the blood of the Indians ran down into the
stream beneath the hill. Among some of the captives taken by the
Indians, Robert Stevens found his relatives and restored them to their
homes and friends.

The Indians were routed and sent flying toward the mountains, and Bacon
went back toward Curles.

Meanwhile Berkeley was not idle. He raised a troop of horse to pursue
and conquer the rebels; but to his alarm he found the people quite
outspoken and, in fact, in open rebellion in the lower tiers
of counties.

When the burgesses met in June, Bacon embarked in his sloop and went to
Jamestown, taking Robert Stevens and about thirty friends with him. No
sooner had the sloop landed than the cannon of a ship were trained on
it, and Bacon was arrested and taken to Governor Berkeley in the
statehouse.

The haughty governor was somewhat awed by the turmoil and confusion
which prevailed throughout Jamestown, and feared to appear stern with so
popular a man as Bacon.

"Mr. Bacon, have you forgot to be a gentleman?" the governor asked.

"No, may it please your honor," Bacon answered, quite coolly.

"Then I will take your parole," said Berkeley.

Bacon was consequently paroled, though not given privilege to leave
Jamestown. There was much murmuring and discontent among the people, who
vowed that they had only "appealed to the sword as a defence against the
bloody heathen."




CHAPTER XIX.

THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER.

     'Do you know the old man of the sea, of the sea?
       Have you met with that dreadful old man?
     If you haven't been caught, you will be, you will be;
       For catch you he must and he can.'
                                                 --HOLMES.

Robert Stevens and twenty others captured with Bacon were kept in
prison. His mother and sisters visited him, but he saw nothing of his
stepfather. One evening he was informed that a gentleman wished to see
him, and immediately Mr. Giles Peram was admitted to his cell.

"How are you, Robert--ahem?" began Giles. "This is most extraordinary, I
assure you, and you have my sympathy, and you may not believe it, no,
you may not believe it, but I am sorry for you."

"You can spare yourself any tears on my account," the prisoner answered,
casting a look of scorn and indignation on the proud little fellow who
strutted before him with ill-concealed exultation. Without noticing the
irony in the words of the prisoner, Giles puffed up with the importance
of his mission, went on:

"Robert, I have come to you with a singular proposition. Now you are
very anxious to know what it is, are you not?"

"I have some curiosity; yet I have no doubt that I shall treat your
proposition with contempt."

"Oh, no, you won't. Your life depends on your acceptance."

"I can best answer you when I know what your proposition is."

"It is this. I am enamoured of your sister. She rejects my suit. Now, if
she will consent to become my wife, you shall have your liberty."

It was well for Peram that Robert Stevens was chained to the wall, or it
would have fared hard for the little fellow. Giles kept beyond the
length of the chain and the prisoner was powerless. His only weapon was
his tongue; but with that he poured out the vials of his wrath so
copiously on the wretch, that he retired in disgust.

Events soon shaped themselves so as to give Robert his liberty. Through
the intercession of Bacon's cousin, Nathaniel Bacon, senior, the
governor consented to pardon Bacon the rebel, if he would, on his knees,
read a written confession of his error and ask forgiveness. This
confession was made June 5, 1676. Between the last days of May and the
5th of June, Bacon had been denounced as a rebel; had marched and
defeated the savages; had stood for the burgesses and appeared at
Jamestown; had been arrested and quickly paroled, and was now, on the
5th of June, to confess on his knees that he was a great offender. The
old cavalier Berkeley was going to make an imposing scene of it. The
governor sent the burgesses a message to attend him in the council
chamber below, on public business, and when they came, he addressed them
on the Indian troubles, specially denouncing the murder of the six
chiefs in Maryland, though Colonel Washington, who commanded the forces
on that expedition, was present. With pathetic emphasis the
governor declared:

"Had they killed my grandfather and grandmother, my father and mother
and all my friends, yet if they came to treat of peace, they ought to
have gone in peace." Having finished this harangue, designed for the
humiliation of John Washington and his followers, he rose and with grim
humor said:

"If there be joy in the presence of the angels over one sinner that
repenteth, there is joy now, for we have a penitent sinner come before
us. Call Mr. Bacon."

Bacon came in, holding the paper in his trembling hand, and, kneeling,
read his confession. It evidently grieved his lion heart to do so, for
at times he faltered, and his voice, usually clear and distinct, was
half smothered. When he had finished, Sir William Berkeley said:

"God forgive you; I forgive you," and three times he repeated the words.

"And all that were with him?" asked Colonel Cole, one of the council.

Hugh Price, who was present, was about to interpose some objection; but
before he could say anything, Sir William Berkeley answered:

"Yes, and all that were with him." As Bacon rose from his knees, the
governor took his hand and added: "Mr. Bacon, if you will live civilly
but till next quarter day, but till next quarter day, I'll promise to
restore you to your place there," pointing to the seat which Bacon
generally occupied daring the sessions of the council.

The order to release the prisoners was at once given, and Robert Stevens
was again a free man. He hastened to the home of his mother and sister,
where he met his stepfather, whose conduct was so odious to the young
man that he took up his abode at "the house of public entertainment kept
by the wife of a certain thoughtful Mr. Lawrence." Bacon was also living
here under his parole, for it was generally understood that he had not
been given permission to leave the city.

One morning, just as the excitement incident to the arrest and
confession of Bacon had begun to subside, a large ship entered the river
and cast anchor before the town. The ship flew English colors and was a
veritable floating palace. There are few crafts afloat even at this day
that equal it in elegance. It had been built by the most skilful
carpenters in the world at that time, and the long, tapering masts, the
deck and bows were more of the modern style than ships of that day.

Her cabins were large, roomy and fitted up with more than Oriental
splendor. There were Turkish carpets, and golden candelabra. Wealth,
strength, ease and grace were evident in every part of the strange
craft. No such vessel had ever before entered James River. The ship was
well armed, and the crew thoroughly disciplined. There was a long brass
cannon in the forecastle, with carronades above and below, for she was a
double-decker with a row of guns above and below, and at that time such
a formidable craft was able to destroy half of the English navy. The
name of the vessel was not in keeping with her general appearance. In
spite of the elegance and magnificence of the vessel, on her stern, in
great black letters, was the awful word:

"DESPAIR."

What strange freak had induced the owner of this wonderful craft to
give it such a melancholy name? Jamestown was thrown into a flutter of
excitement at first, and whispered rumors went about that the vessel was
a pirate. If it should prove a pirate, they knew it would be able to
destroy the town and all their fleet. This story was perhaps started by
some idlers, who sought to go aboard when the vessel first arrived, but
were refused admittance to her deck.

Though not permitted to go aboard, those loafers had seen enough to
start the report that the vessel was a gilded palace, ornamented with
gold. Two days had elapsed, and no one had come ashore, nor had any
visitor been admitted to the ship, and the governor, growing uneasy
about the strange craft, resolved to know something of it, so he sent
the sheriff to ascertain her mission.

The captain of the ship, who gave his name as George Small, answered:

"This vessel is the property of Sir Albert St. Croix, a wealthy merchant
from the East Indies, who will this day visit the governor and make
known the object of his visit to Jamestown."

That day, a boat fit for a king was lowered, and eight or ten sailors,
richly dressed, took their places at the oars. A man, whose long white
hair hung about his shoulders in snowy profusion, and whose beard, white
as the swan's down, came to his breast, descended to the boat and was
rowed ashore.

When he was landed, the sailors returned with the boat to the ship,
leaving him on the beach. The old man was richly dressed. He blazed with
jewels such as a king might envy, and the hilt of his sword was of pure
gold. He wore a brace of slender pistols, whose silver-mounted butts
protruded from his belt.

The dark cloak about his shoulders was Puritanic; but the elegance of
his attire and the profusion of jewelry which he wore proved that he was
not of that order. His low-crowned hat was three-cornered, trimmed with
lace and the brim held in place by three blazing diamonds. It was
something like the cocked hat, which, half a century later, was worn by
most of the gentry.

After watching the boat until it returned to the vessel, the old man
went toward the statehouse. He spoke to no one on the way, though he
paused under a large oak about half way between the statehouse and the
beach, and gazed long on the town and surrounding country.

The tree beneath which he paused was the same under whose wide spreading
branches Captain John Smith had halted to take a last farewell look of
Virginia, before embarking for England. The spot had already
grown historic.

The people were gathered in groups on the streets gazing at the
stranger, and various were the comments about him. He noticed the
excitement his advent had created, and walked quickly up the street to
the statehouse. Though his hair and beard were white as snow, his frame
was vigorous and strong, and his step had about it the elasticity of
youth. His brow was furrowed with care rather than time, and his eye
seemed still to flash with the fires of young manhood. Nevertheless he
was an old man. Every one who saw him on that memorable morning
pronounced him a prodigy.

Arriving at the statehouse, he asked for the governor, and was at once
shown to Sir William, who, gazing at him in wonder, asked:

"Whence came you, stranger?"

"From Liverpool."

"Who are you?"

"I am Sir Albert St. Croix, the owner of the good ship _Despair_, which
lies at anchor in your bay."

"But surely you are not of England?"

"I am an Englishman; but I have spent most of my life abroad, and for
many years have been in the East Indies. I amassed a fortune in diamonds
and jewels and, being in the decline of life, decided to travel over the
world. For that purpose, I builded me a ship to suit and engaged a crew
faithful even unto death."

The governor's countenance brightened, and he answered:

"Sir Albert, I am pleased to have you in Jamestown. Your arrival is
quite opportune, for I am most grievously annoyed with a threatened
rebellion."

Sir Albert fixed his great blue eyes on the governor and answered:

"Sir William Berkeley, it is not my purpose to interfere with any
political convulsions. I am simply a transient visitor. My home is
my ship."

"But your ship is an English craft, and your crew are Englishmen?"

"That is true."

"And as governor of the province, I will command them should their
services be needed."

There was a smile on the sad face of Sir Albert, as he answered:

"It would not avail you, governor, for my captain and crew know no other
master save myself, no will save mine."

"But the king?"

"They serve me, and I serve the king. I helped Charles II. out of a
financial strait, and, for that, an order from our dread sovereign and
lord has been issued, exempting my crew, myself and my vessel from any
kind of military duty for the term of fifty years."

The old man drew from his coat pocket a legal document proving his
assertion.

"Have you ever been in Virginia before?" the governor asked.

"Yes, many years ago. All things have changed since then."

"How long will you stay?"

"I know not. At any moment I may decide to leave, and should I do so, I
will sail at once. I linger no longer at any one place than my fancy
detains me."

"What is your wish, Sir Albert?"

"I only ask the privilege of going whithersoever I please in your
domain, without let or hindrance," and he produced an order from King
Charles II., which commanded Governor Berkeley to grant him such
privilege.

"This is strange," said the governor. "An armament such as yours might
overthrow the colony at this unsettled time."

"I shall take no part in the disturbance, unless it affects me
personally." The governor issued a passport for Sir Albert St. Croix,
vessel and crew, and the stranger left the statehouse. He walked up the
hill, passing the jail, and gazing about on the houses, as if he wished
to make himself acquainted with the town. No end of comment was excited
by his appearance, and a thousand conjectures were afloat as to the
object of his visit.

For a moment, the white-haired stranger paused before the public house
in which Bacon was at that moment reposing. Some thought he was going
in; but he passed on and addressed no one, until he came to Robert
Stevens, who stood at the side of a well, under a wide spreading
chestnut tree.

"Will you draw me some water? for I am athirst," said the stranger.

Robert did so, and handed the stranger a drink from an earthen mug,
which was kept by the town pump for the accommodation of the public.
After drinking, the old man returned the mug and, fixing his eyes on the
young man, asked:

"Have you lived long in Virginia?"

"I was born here, good sir."

"Then you must know all of Jamestown?"

"Not so much, good sir, as I might, if I had not passed a few years in
New England."

"Your home is still here?"

With a sigh, Robert answered:

"It is, though I do not live in it now."

Robert evidently was alluding to some domestic difficulties, and the
stranger very considerately avoided asking him any further questions
about himself. He asked about the proprietors of several houses and
gained something of the history of the town and people.

All expected that Sir Albert would return to his vessel; but he did not.
Instead, he wandered over the hill into the wood and sat down upon a
log. Robert saw him sitting there, with his white head bowed between his
hands, looking so sad and broken-hearted, despite all his wealth, that
his heart went out to him. He was for hours thus communing with nature,
then came back to the town and went on board the _Despair_.

After that, he frequently came ashore and strolled about the town,
seldom speaking, even when addressed. But for the letters from the
governor and the king, he might have been arrested on suspicion. He came
and went at will, occasionally pausing to ask a question which was so
guarded, that no one could suspect that he was interested in any
particular subject. One day, as he was passing the statehouse, Giles
Peram, who, with the powdered wig, lace, and ruffles of a cavalier, was
strutting before some of the court officials, turning his eyes with an
ill-bred stare on the stranger as he passed, remarked:

"Oh, how extraordinary!"

Sir Albert paused and, fixing his great blue eyes on the diminutive
egotist, said:

"Marry! the time of king's fools hath past; yet the king of fools still
reigns."

Giles Peram felt the retort most keenly, and, as usual, raged and fumed
and swore vengeance after the stranger was out of sight and hearing. Sir
Albert strolled down to a pond or lake that was near to the town, on the
banks of which was an ancient ducking-stool. Three or four idlers were
sitting on the bank, and of one of them he asked:

"For what is that ugly machine used?"

"It is a ducking-stool for scolds," was the answer. The fellow, feeling
complimented at being addressed by the celebrated stranger, went on,
"Well do I remember, good sir, when and for whom the stool was
constructed."

"For whom was it built?" asked Sir Albert.

"It was made for Ann Linkon, who had slandered goodwife Stevens as was,
but who has, since her husband was drowned at sea, married Hugh Price,
the royalist and friend of the governor. Oh, how Ann did scold and rave,
and it was a merry sight to see her plunged beneath the water."

The stranger asked some questions about Ann Linkon and was informed that
she had died several years before. "But to the last," the narrator
resumed, "she hated Dorothe Stevens. She rejoiced when poverty assailed
her, brought on by her own extravagance, after her husband had gone
away. Then when goodwife Stevens received the fortune from the
grandfather of her dead husband, the old Spaniard at St. Augustine, she
again went among the cavaliers and was enabled to marry Hugh Price. It
is not a happy life she leads now, though, for there is continual
trouble between the husband and the children, so she is grievously
harassed in mind continually."

Sir Albert listened as an uninterested person might, then asked some
questions about Hugh Price and his good wife Dorothe, and the refractory
children, who were causing so much trouble. He found the Virginian
voluble and willing to impart all the information he had; but he grew
heartily tired of the loafer and at last left him.

No one was more interested in the stranger from across the sea than
Rebecca Stevens. She had not seen him; but she had heard so much of him
from her brother and others, that her girlish curiosity was aroused. One
evening, as she was taking her favorite walk about the village, having
wandered farther than she intended, she found herself in the wood above
the town, near the old building, which Captain John Smith had called the
glass-house. She turned and began at once retracing her steps, for
already the sun had set, and the shades of night were gathering over the
landscape. She was in sight of the church, when a short, fat little man
suddenly met her. He was out of breath, as if he had been running. In
the gathering twilight she recognized him as her persecutor.

"Ah! Miss Stevens, this is truly extraordinary. Believe me, this meeting
is quite providential, for it enables me to pour into your ear my
tale of love."

"Mr. Peram, begone, leave me!"

"Oh, no, my dear, I will never let you go until you have consented to
take my name."

In his zeal, the ungentlemanly wooer seized her hand, and his vicious
little eyes glared at her with such ferocity, that she gave utterance to
a shriek of fear. The tread of hurried feet fell on her ears, and
through the deepening shades of twilight, she caught a glimpse of a
scarlet coat, long white hair and beard and flashing jewels. Hands of
iron seized Giles Peram. He was lifted into the air as if he had been an
infant, and flung head first into a cluster of white thorn, where he lay
for a few moments, confused and bleeding. Then Sir Albert St. Croix
raised the half-fainting Rebecca from the ground and said:

"Come, my child, be not affrighted; he will not harm you."

She gazed up at the kind face and asked:

"Are you the owner of the ship _Despair_?"

"I am."

"Thank you, Sir Albert," she began; but he quickly interrupted her with:

"Thank not me, sweet child; but come, tell me what hath gone amiss, and
have no fear, for I am powerful enough to save you from any harm."

While the villanous little coward Giles Peram crawled from the hedge and
hurried back to town, the old man led the victim of his insults to the
church, where they sat upon the step at the front of the vestibule. She
had no fear of this good old man, whom she instinctively loved, and who
seemed to wield over her a strange and mysterious influence. He asked
her all about her tormentor, and she confided everything to him. She
told him of the loss of her father at sea, and how they had lived
through adversity until better days dawned, then of her mother's second
marriage, and the trouble between her brother and Hugh Price. She did
not even omit the recent uprising in which her brother had joined Bacon
and the rebels in a mad blow for freedom.

"The worst has not yet come, I greatly fear," sighed the little maid.
"The rebellion is not over, and my brother will yet, I fear, be hung by
the governor, for Mr. Price, his bitter enemy, is a firm friend of the
governor."

"He shall not be harmed, sweet maid. I have a great ship, with larger
and more destructive guns than were ever in Virginia. I have a crew
loyal even unto death, and I could bombard and destroy their town, ere
they harm either your brother, yourself or your mother."

He looked so earnest, so like a good angel of deliverance, that the
impulsive Rebecca threw her arms about his neck, and he, pressing a kiss
upon her fair young cheek, exclaimed:

"God bless you! There, I must go."

He conducted her home, went aboard his ship, and next morning the
mysterious craft had disappeared from the harbor.

There were too many exciting incidents transpiring at Jamestown for the
public to dwell long on the stranger. The same day on which the ship
disappeared, the rumor ran about town:

"Bacon has fled! Bacon has fled!"

The rumor was a truth. Robert Stevens had gone with him, and although
Mr. Lawrence explained that Bacon's wife was ill, and he had gone to
visit her, yet Berkeley, ever suspicious, construed his sudden breaking
of his parole into open hostility, and prepared to treat it accordingly.




CHAPTER XX.

BACON A REBEL.

     "Hark! 'tis the sound that charms
     The war-steed's wakening ears.
     Oh! many a mother folds her arms
     Round her boy-soldier, when that call she hears,
     And though her fond heart sink with fears,
     Is proud to feel his young pulse bound
     With valor's fervor at the sound."
                                             --MOORE.

The day after the mysterious disappearance of the ship _Despair_ and the
flight of Bacon, a ship from New England arrived in port. Bacon's flight
and the disappearance of Sir Albert and his vessel were so nearly at the
same time, that a rumor went around the town that the former had escaped
in the vessel of the latter. This rumor however was soon dispelled on
learning that Bacon was at Curles rallying the planters about him.

The vessel which had just come into port aroused new speculations, until
it was learned that it was only a trading ship from Boston doing a
little business in defiance of the navigation laws. The vessel brought
only one passenger. That passenger was a beautiful young maid.

She was landed soon after the vessel cast anchor, and her first inquiry
was for Rebecca Stevens:

"Is she a relative of yours, young maid?" asked the man of whom she
inquired.

"No; I know of her, and would see her."

"Do you see the large brick house upon the hill--not the one on the left
of the church, but to the right with the broad piazza and wires
in front?"

"I see it."

"She lives there. It is the home of Hugh Price, who married her mother."

The sailors brought some baggage ashore which was carried to a warehouse
to remain until the fair traveller should send for it, and pay the costs
of transfer.

"Do you travel alone, young maid?" asked the man whom she had addressed.

"I do."

"Where is your mother?"

"Dead," she answered sadly,

"Then you are an orphan?"

"I am. War is raging with the Indians in New England, and I was not safe
there, so I came to Virginia."

She thanked the man who had so kindly directed her, and went to the
house of Hugh Price. This house, next to the home of Governor Berkeley,
was the most elegant mansion in Virginia. On the front door was a large
brass knocker, common at the time, and, seizing it, the young girl
struck the door. It was opened by a negro woman whose red turban and
rich dress indicated that she was the household servant of an
aristocratic family. The stranger asked for Rebecca Stevens, and was
shown to her room. Rebecca was astonished to see the pretty stranger;
but before she could ask who she was, the maid said:

"I am Ester Goffe from Massachusetts. The war with the Indians rages
sorely in that land, and my friends and relatives sent me here."

"Ester--Ester Goffe," stammered Rebecca. "Then you are my brother's
affianced."

"I am."

In a moment the girls were clasped in each other's arms, mingling their
tears of joy and grief. Then Rebecca held her at arm's length and,
gazing on the beautiful face and soft brown eyes, said:

"I don't blame Robert. How could he help loving you?" and once more she
clasped her in her arms.

"Where is he--where is Robert?"

Rebecca started at the question, and an expression of pain swept over
her face, which alarmed Ester.

"Alas, he is gone. He hath fled with Bacon, and I fear that you have
escaped from one calamity only to fall into another." Then she explained
the distracted condition of the country, concluding with:

"You must not be known here as Ester Goffe. Were it known by Sir William
Berkeley, or even my mother's husband, that the child of a regicide was
here, I know not what the result would be; but, alas, I fear it would be
your ruin."

"But can I see him?" asked Ester.

"Who, Sir William Berkeley or Mr. Hugh Price?"

"Robert."

A pallor overspread the sister's face at this request, and she answered
that she knew not how they could communicate with him.

"Have you no faithful servant?"

There was old black Sam who had always been faithful. Usually the
negroes were cunning as well as treacherous, for, having been but
recently brought from Africa, they had much of the heathen still in
their natures; but old black Sam had been faithful to the brother
through all trying scenes and adversities, and, though he dared not
"cross Master Price," he secretly aided Rebecca in many small schemes
objectionable to the stepfather. Sam was summoned, and Rebecca asked:

"Sam, could you find my brother?"

"I doan know, misse; but I believe old black Sam could."

"Would you take a small bit of writing to him?"

"If misse want um to go, ole black Sam, him try. De bay boss, him go
fast, an' black Sam, him go on um back."

Rebecca hastily wrote on a slip of paper:

DEAR BROTHER;--

Ester is at our house and would like to see you. Do not come unless you
can do so safely, for Sir William Berkeley is furious.

Your sister,

REBECCA.

Meanwhile, the fiery General Bacon was not at Curles nursing his sick
wife, as was reported (and who was not sick at all); but he, in company
with Robert Stevens, was riding to and fro, at the heads of the rivers,
sounding the slogan. At the word from Bacon, his friends rose in arms,
and among them were a part of the eight thousand horse which Berkeley
had reported in the colony. The people had borne enough of Berkeley's
tyranny, and the masses sided with Bacon. Even those who did not take up
arms in his defence were friendly to his interests. The clans were
gathering. They hastened from plantation and hundred, from lowland
manor-house and log cabin in the woods of the upland, well-armed
housekeepers, booted and spurred, armed with good broadswords and fusils
for the wars that were plainly coming. Bacon in a little while had
collected a force of nearly six hundred men. In fact, it was not more
than three or four days after his escape, before, at the head of this
force, he was marching on Jamestown.

Berkeley was alarmed and dispatched messengers to York and Gloucester
for the train-bands; but only about one hundred soldiers could be
mustered, and before these could reach Jamestown, Bacon entered it at
the head of his army, and about two o'clock in the afternoon drew up his
troops, horse and foot, upon the green, not an arrow's flight from the
end of the statehouse. All the streets and roads leading into the town
were guarded, the inhabitants disarmed and the boats in the
harbor seized.

Jamestown was thrown into confusion. Sir William Berkeley and his
council were holding a council of war, when the roll of drums and blast
of trumpets announced that Bacon was in possession of the city.

The house of burgesses was called to order, though little order was
preserved on that day, when a collision between law and rebellion seemed
inevitable. Between two files of infantry Bacon advanced to the corner
of the statehouse, and the governor came out. Bacon, who had perfect
control over himself, advanced toward him. Berkeley was in a rage.
Walking straight toward Bacon, he tore open the lace at his bosom
and cried:

"Here! Shoot me! 'Fore God, a fair mark!"

Bacon curbed his rising anger and replied:

"No, may it please your honor, we will not hurt a hair of your head, nor
of any other man's. We are come for a commission to save our lives from
the Indians, which you have so often promised, and now we will have it
before we go."

Without a word in response, the governor and council wheeled about and
returned to their chamber, and Bacon followed them, his left arm akimbo,
his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. As they made him no answer,
Bacon became furious and tossed his arms about excitedly, while the
fusileers covered the window of the assembly chamber with their guns,
and continually yelled:

"We will have it! We will have it!" (Meaning the commission.)

One of Bacon's friends among the burgesses shook his handkerchief from
the window and answered:

"You shall have it! You shall have it!"

The soldiers at this uncocked their guns and waited further orders from
Bacon. Their leader had dashed into the council chamber swearing:

"D--n my blood! I'll kill governor, council, assembly and all, and then
I'll sheathe my sword in my own heart's blood!"

The wildest excitement prevailed in the town. Everybody was on the
street, and the massacre of the governor and his council was momentarily
expected. Two young girls ran toward an officer in the army of the
rebel. One of Bacon's young captains met them and clasped an arm about
each. It was Ester and Rebecca meeting the brother and lover. The
excitement was too great for many to bestow more than a passing glance
on the trio. There was a murmured prayer by all three, and they
were silent.

A scene so ridiculous as to excite the laughter of many followed the
assault on the statehouse. A sleek, plump little fellow, frightened out
of his wits, was seen trying to climb out of a window on the opposite
side from which danger was threatened. He got out and clung to the
window with his hands, his short, fat legs dangling in the air and
kicking against the wall.

"Marry! help me! Mother of God, I will be killed if I fall, and shot if
I don't!"

It was Giles Peram, whose legs were six feet from the ground. He howled
and yelled; but all were too busy to pay any attention to him, and at
last his strength gave out, and he fell with a stunning thud upon the
ground, where he lay gasping for breath, partially unconscious, but with
no bones broken.

After half an hour's interview, Bacon returned. The burgesses hesitated;
but the governor held out some promises for next day. Giles Peram,
having regained his strength and breath, sprang to his feet and ran as
fast as his short legs could carry him to the far end of the street to
escape from the town; but half a dozen mounted Virginians with
broadswords blocked up his passage. He next ran to the left and was met
by men with pikes, one of whom prodded him so that he yelled and ran
under some ornamental shrubs, beneath which a pair of frightened dogs
had taken shelter. A fight for possession followed, and for a while it
was doubtful; but Giles, inspired by fear, fought with the desperation
of a madman and drove the dogs forth. With his scarlet coat and his silk
stockings soiled, his wig lost and lace and ruffles all torn and ruined,
he crouched under the shrubs, groaning:

"Oh, Lordy, Lordy! I will be killed! I know I will be killed!" The
governor's valiant secretary presented a deplorable sight, indeed.

Next day Bacon was commissioned by the governor as general and
commander-in-chief of the forces against the Indians. It was a great
triumph for the young republican. Berkeley even wrote a letter to the
king applauding what Bacon had done on the frontier.

Robert Stevens paid his mother, sister and sweetheart a visit. Not
having received Rebecca's letter, he was ignorant of Ester's presence in
Virginia, until he discovered her, as they were drawn up for battle.
Many hoped that trouble was over; but Robert said:

"It is not. I know Berkeley too well. He is a cunning old knave, and as
soon as he has recovered from the fright into which the appearance of an
armed force precipitated him, he will relent and do something terrible."

"Brother, do not place yourself in his power," said his sister.

"Fear not, sweet sister, I shall have a care for myself. Where is Mr.
Price?"

"At the governor's."

"Does he know that Ester is General Goffe's daughter?"

"No."

"He must not. He would report it to the governor, who, in his idiotic
love for monarchy, would adjudge her responsible for a deed committed
before she was born."

"We will keep the secret, brother."

"When do you go?" asked Ester.

"The army marches against the Indians on the morrow." He was about to
say something more, when they espied Mr. Giles Peram coming toward them.
His face was smiling, though there were a few scratches upon it.

"Marry! friend Robert, good morrow! Did you learn of my great speech in
the house of burgesses yesterday, when they were about to refuse your
general his commission?"

"I knew not that you were a member of the house."

Peram, blushing, answered:

"Nor am I; but I forced myself, at the peril of my life, into their
presence, and I swore--yes, God forgive me, but I swore if they did not
give the commission, I would annihilate them, and, by the mass, they
were afraid of me, and they granted it." With this the diminutive
egotist strutted proudly before his auditors.

Black Sam, who had overheard his remark, with his native impetuosity put
in:

"'Fore God, massa, what a lie! Why, he war all de time under de thorn
bushes fighten wid de dogs fur a hiden-place."

Giles gave utterance to an exclamation of rage and flew at the negro
with upraised cane; but black Sam evaded his blow and, with a laugh, ran
into the kitchen, yelling back: "It am so. Jist see dem scratches on
him face."

Quite crestfallen, Mr. Peram retired, and for several days did not
annoy Rebecca with his presence.

Next morning Bacon started on his campaign against the Indians. The
burgesses were then dissolved and went back to their homes. The fact
that that body sat in June, 1676, and in the same month instructed the
Virginia delegates to propose independence of England, has been a theme
of much discussion among historians.

Bacon, at the head of his army, duly commissioned, was marching against
the Indians. All things in Virginia were virtually under his control as
commander of the military. Mr. Lawrence and Mr. Drummond, ex-governor of
Carolinia, though they were his friends, remained in Jamestown to look
after his interests there. Drummond declared he was "in over-shoes, and
he would be over-boots." Had Bacon been uninterrupted, there can be no
doubt that his power on the Indians would have been felt; but Berkeley
began to relent that he had ever commissioned him, and issued a
proclamation declaring him a rebel and revoking his commission. The news
was brought to Bacon while on the upper waters, by Lawrence and
Drummond. When he heard it, the general declared:

"It vexes my heart for to think that while I am hunting wolves, tigers
and foxes, which daily destroy our harmless sheep and lambs, I and those
with me should be pursued with a full cry, as a more savage or no less
ravenous beast."

Bacon began his march back to the lower waters. On the way, they
captured a spy sent by Berkeley to their camp and hung him. Bacon went
to the Middle Plantation, afterward Williamsburg, and camped.

Berkeley, hearing of the return of Bacon's army, which was not
disbanded, hastened to Accomac for recruits, and Drummond urged Bacon to
depose Berkeley, and appoint Sir Henry Chicheley in his place. When the
leader of the rebellion murmured against this, the Scotchman answered:

"Do not make so strange of it, for I can show you ancient records that
such things have been done in Virginia."

This, however, was carrying matters too far, even for Bacon. He
remembered that Governor Harvey, who had been deposed in a similar
manner, was reinstated by the king. He issued a remonstrance against
Berkeley's proclamation denouncing him as a rebel, declaring that he and
his followers were good and loyal subjects of the king of England, who
were only in arms against the savages. Then followed a list of public
grievances. He declared that some in authority had come to the country
poor, and were now rolling in wealth, likening them to sponges, that
have sucked up and devoured the common treasury. He asked, "What arts,
sciences, schools of learning, or manufactures have been promoted by any
now in authority?"

The governor's beaver trade with Indians, in which he thought more of
his profits than the lives of his subjects on the frontier, was not
forgotten.

Bacon was declared a rebel, his life was forfeited to Berkeley if
captured, and while at the Middle Plantation, he required an oath of his
followers to even resist the king's troops if they should come to
Virginia. The people of Virginia had not yet learned the true principles
of liberty. They still supposed that liberty could be gained while they
retained their allegiance to the king of England. It required a hundred
years more to convince them that freedom was incompatible with royalty.
The paper signed at Middle Plantation on this third day of August, 1676,
was a notable document. It began by stating that certain persons had
raised forces against General Bacon, which had brought on civil war, and
if forces came from England they would oppose them.

The next step of the rebels was to organize a government. Bacon issued
writs for the representatives of the people to assemble early in
September. The writs were in the king's name, and were signed by four
of the council.

This done, Bacon set off on his Indian campaign, leaving behind him a
mighty tumult. The new world had defied the old. At midnight by
torchlight, the grim-faced pioneers of Virginia had sworn to be free.
Everywhere men and women hailed the oath with enthusiasm.

"Now we can build ships and, like New England, trade with any other part
of the world," they declared. Sarah Drummond, the wife of the Scottish
conspirator, exclaimed:

"The child that is unborn shall have cause to rejoice for the good that
will come by the rising of the country." And when a person by her side
said, "We must expect a greater power from England, that will certainly
be our ruin," Drummond's wife took up a stick, broke it in two and cried
disdainfully:

"I fear the power of England no more than a broken straw! We will do
well enough."

The women took great interest in public affairs at this time. The wife
of Cheeseman urged him to join Bacon and fight for their liberties,
which he did, as she afterward declared, at her own request. The whole
country was with Bacon, and, after instructing them to resist any force
that might come from England, he crossed James River at Curles with a
force of three hundred men, and fell upon the Appomattox Indians at what
is now Petersburg, with such fury that he killed or routed the entire
tribe. Bacon fought so viciously, that his name was a dread to the
savages fifty years after his death. For one without training, he
displayed wonderful military ability. Having completely routed all the
Indians, early in September Bacon with his army returned to the
settlements, and had reached West Point when he received news that Sir
William Berkeley, with a thousand men and seventeen ships, was in
possession of Jamestown.

Berkeley had not all gloom and disaster on his side. Captain Bland, who
had been sent by Bacon with a considerable force to capture Berkeley,
was led into a trap and captured by Captain Larramore. Shortly after,
the governor returned to Jamestown with a large number of longshoremen
and loafers, great enough in quantity, but inferior as soldiers
in quality.

While Jamestown was deserted by both belligerent parties, and its
frightened inhabitants were waiting in feverish anxiety the next event
in the great drama, there suddenly appeared in the harbor the wonderful
vessel _Despair_. The ship entered in the night as mysteriously as it
had disappeared, and again the white-haired Sir Albert was seen on the
streets of Jamestown. He met Rebecca the day of his arrival, and
she said:

"I feared you had gone, never to come back."

"Did you want to see me again, child?" he asked, in such a fatherly
voice, that she could scarce resist the impulse to embrace him.

"I did, Sir Albert, for I remembered your promise, and I depend on you."

"The war rages again?"

"It does, and I fear for my brother. Sir William is coming with a
thousand men."

"If the worst comes, sweet maid, I will take you aboard my ship."

"But my brother--oh, my brother!"

"He, also, will be safe."

"Would you take us all, and Ester, too?"

"Who is Ester?"

She told him all, for she felt that in this mysterious man she had a
friend on whom she could rely. When she had finished, Sir Albert shook
his snowy locks and remarked:

"You would do well to keep this from the ears of Sir William, sweet
maid."

Then he went away into the forest. That evening, as he sat at the
roadside, not far from Jamestown, the wife of Hugh Price, who had been
to Greenspring, was returning home on her favorite saddle-horse. The
animal became frightened at some object by the roadside, and leaped
madly forward. The saddle turned and the woman would have fallen had not
Sir Albert rushed to her rescue.

He lifted her from the saddle, and, while the horse dashed madly away,
seated the rider safely at the roadside.

"Are you injured?" he asked the half-fainting woman.

"No."

"You are fortunate to escape so narrowly, madam. Do you live at
Jamestown?"

"I do, sir. You are Sir Albert of the _Despair_, are you not?" asked
Dorothe Price.

"I am."

"I have often heard of you. I thank you for your kind service, sir."

"Shall I see you home?"

"If not too much trouble."

As they walked along the road, he asked:

"Are you Mrs. Price?"

"I am."

"Mr. Hugh Price is your second husband?"

"He is."

"When did your first husband die?"

"Many years ago. He was lost at sea."

"Did he leave two children?"

"Yes, sir, two," she sighed, and the white-haired stranger; glancing at
her face, asked:

"Was he a good man?"

"Good man! Oh, sir, he was an angel of goodness; but, alas, I never
appreciated him, until he was gone. I oft recall that fatal morning when
he bade me farewell, when he kissed the baby and left a tear on her
cheek. I was happy then!" Tears were now trickling down her cheeks.

"Are you happy now?"

"Alas, no. I am miserable."

"Why?"

"My husband is an enemy to my son. Price is a royalist while Robert is a
Puritan and a republican."

"Is your son with Bacon?"

"He is, and Sir William would hang Robert if he could."

"He shall not hang him."

"If he captures him, who will prevent it?"

"I will." They parted at the door, and as the old man went down to his
boat, she gazed after him, murmuring:

"Heaven surely hath sent us a protector at last."




CHAPTER XXI.

BURNING OF JAMESTOWN.

     "At every turn, Morena's dusky height
     Sustains aloft the battery's iron load,
     And, far as mortal eye can compass sight,
     The mountain-howitzer, the broken road,
     The bristling palisade, the foss o'erflowed,
     The stationed band, the never-vacant watch,
     The magazine in rocky durance stand,
     The holster'd steed beneath the shed of thatch,
     The ball-piled pyramid, the ever-blazing match."
                                              --BYRON.

Sir William Berkeley, with the motley crowd of sailors, longshoremen,
freed slaves, and such as he could collect, sailed for Jamestown and
reached it safely September 7th, 1676. The news of his approach reached
Jamestown long before he did, and Colonel Hansford, one of Bacon's
youngest and bravest officers, with eight hundred men prepared to
resist. A terrible conflict was anticipated, and Sir Albert, on the
morning of the expected fight, landed and took Mrs. Price, her daughter
and Ester Goffe on board his ship, and dropped down the river a mile or
two, to be out of harm's way. These were the first people who had been
aboard the wonderful ship _Despair_.

Rebecca was charmed and entranced at the display of wealth and splendor
on board the vessel. The elegance was marvellous.

"You must be very rich," she said to Sir Albert.

"This represents but a small part of my possessions."

"I would I were your heiress."

"You may be, sweet maid. I have no nearer relative to inherit the
millions which are burdensome to me."

"Have you no wife--no children?"

He shook his head, looked so sad, and turned away with such a deep drawn
sigh, that she could not bear to ask him more.

Berkeley appeared that evening before Jamestown and summoned the rebels
to surrender, promising amnesty to all but Lawrence and Drummond, who
were then in the town. Hansford refused; but, on the advice of his
friends, they all left the town that night. At noon next day Berkeley
landed on the island and, kneeling, thanked God for his safe arrival.
Only a very few people were found in the town, and Lawrence and Drummond
were gone. Mr. Lawrence fled so precipitately that he left his house
with all its effects to fall into the hands of the enemy.

Drummond and the thoughtful Mr. Lawrence hastened to find Bacon, who
was at West Point at the head of the York River.

Bacon acted with an energy and rapidity that would have done Napoleon or
Cromwell credit. With his faithful body guard, among whom were Robert
Stevens, Drummond, Cheeseman and Lawrence, he set out for Jamestown.
Carriers, sent in every direction, summoned the Baconites to join him,
so that his small band increased so rapidly, that when he reached
Jamestown he had a force of several hundred.

The governor prepared to receive the rebels. He threw up a strong
earth-work, and a palisade had been erected across the neck of the
island. Bacon, on reaching Jamestown, rode forward to reconnoitre it. He
then ordered his trumpeters to sound the battle cry, and a volley was
fired into the town; but no response came back.

Bacon made his headquarters at Greenspring, in Governor Berkeley's own
house, and while Sir William dined at the board of the thoughtful Mr.
Lawrence, the rebel fed at the table of the governor. Resolving on a
siege, Bacon threw up earth-works about the town in front of the
palisades. Berkeley's riflemen so annoyed the men at work, that Bacon
had recourse to a strange device to protect them. He sent a detachment
of horse into the surrounding country, captured and brought to camp the
wives of all the prominent gentlemen who fought with Berkeley. Perhaps
Mrs. Price only escaped by being on board the ship _Despair_. Madame
Bray, Madame Page, Madame Ballard and Madame Bacon, the wife of Bacon's
cousin, were among the number. These women were placed before the
workmen in the trenches to protect them from the bullets of Berkeley.

"Have no apprehensions from us, good-wives," said Bacon. "We shall not
harm a hair of your head. If your husbands shoot you we are not
to blame."

Bacon has been censured for this ungallant strategy; but it worked well
and saved his workmen from further annoyance. He sent one of the
good-wives into the town under a flag of truce to inform her own and the
others' husbands, that he meant to place them "in the forefront of his
workmen," during the construction of the earth-works, and if they fired
on them, the good-wives would suffer.

No attack was made on Bacon until the earth-works were completed, and
then the women were sent to their homes during the night. Next morning
at early dawn, Berkeley sounded his battle-cry, and his men mustered at
the roll of the drum. Bacon was on the alert. His eagle eye glanced
along his earth-works and the gallant men enrolled under him.

"They are coming! They are coming with their whole force!" he shouted,
as he stood on the ramparts, his sword in his hand and his eye flashing
with the glorious light of battle. Matches were burning, the cocks of
the fusees raised, and the Virginians stood cool and undaunted.

There came a puff of smoke from the palisades at Jamestown, a heavy
report of a cannon, and an iron ball struck the earth-work.

"Come down, general!" cried the thoughtful Mr. Lawrence. "You endanger
your life up there."

Bacon paid no heed to the warning. He was watching the manoeuvres of the
enemy, about eight hundred strong, who were about to assault him. Robert
Stevens sprang to his side, and both smiled at the lack of courage and
discipline which Berkeley's longshoremen displayed. Giles Peram, at the
head of the company, marched forth. He wore a tall hat with a feather in
it, and strutted about, until his eye caught sight of the enemy, when he
wheeled about as quickly as if he were on springs and bounded away
toward Jamestown, yelling loud enough to be heard in Bacon's camp:

"Oh, I will be killed! I will be killed!"

A shot was fired from Jamestown, and Giles, believing himself struck,
fell on the ground and rolled over and kicked, producing such a
ridiculous scene, that Robert and Bacon laughed outright. Berkeley,
himself, headed the army, with which he intended to storm the
earth-works, and, after some little difficulty, he got his forces
formed, and the advance began.

"Don't fire, until I give you the command," said Bacon, coolly. "We will
soon disperse this motley crowd, have no fear."

He and Robert were prevailed upon to descend from the ramparts, and all
awaited the arrival of the enemy. They came slowly, doing plenty of
yelling, and firing their fusees at random. The bullets either buried
themselves in the earth-works, or whistled harmlessly through the air.
Not one of Bacon's men was touched.

Nearer and nearer they came, until within easy pistol range, when Bacon
cried:

"Fire!"

Pistol, musket and cannon belched forth fire and death, while a cloud of
smoke rolled up above the fort. One volley had done the work. Alas! the
motley crowd from Accomac were no fit adversaries for those stern
backwoodsmen. Berkeley's recruits had come over to plunder, and, finding
lead and bullets instead of gold and treasure, they fled with light
heels to Jamestown, leaving a dozen of their number stretched on the
ground as the only proof that they had fought at all.

Bacon now opened a cannonade in earnest on the town. The first ball that
came screaming over the town to crash into the house which was the
governor's headquarters was answered by a wild yell of fear, and the
boastful Mr. Peram might have been seen flying as fast as his short legs
would carry him to another part of the fortification. Another boom, and
a shot struck the ground ten paces from him, and he wheeled about and
ran, until a third shot struck a house before him. Then he ran to the
church and crawled under it, where he lay until night.

Berkeley realized that he was in no condition to resist Bacon with such
a set of knaves as he had for soldiers.

"We cannot long hold out, Mr. Price," he said as the sun was setting.

"No, Sir William, we must evacuate the city this very night."

"I believe it. Where is that coward Giles Peram?"

"He hath taken refuge under the church."

"Drag him hence. Robert Stevens is among the rebels, and the fool will
fare hard if he falls into his hands."

A few moments later the wretched, trembling Giles was brought before
the governor. His scarlet coat, lace and ruffles were torn and
disordered. He was reprimanded for his cowardice, and the army at once
began to evacuate. When day dawned Berkeley was gone and Bacon entered
the town. Mr. Drummond, Mr. Lawrence and Mr. Cheeseman went to
their homes.

The ship _Despair_, which had been near enough to witness the scene, now
bore down nearer to the town. Boats were lowered and the three women set
on shore. Robert greeted his mother, his affianced and his sister with
the most ardent affection. He had suffered much uneasiness about them,
not knowing where they were, and he was overjoyed to see them.

That evening, while Mr. Lawrence, Mr. Drummond and Mr. Cheeseman were
holding a council at the house of the former, the door suddenly opened
and a tall white-haired stranger entered. Each started to his feet at
the appearance of this apparition and seized pistols and swords.

"Never fear, friends; I came not to harm you," said Sir Albert, in his
mild, gentle, but stern voice.

"You intrude--you disturb us!" cried Cheeseman. "We want no spy on our
deliberations."

"Verily, my good man, you speak truly. These are deliberations at which
there must be no spy. Let no whispering tongue breathe aught of
this meeting."

His words were so strange, that they stood amazed, gazing at him in
wonder. Drummond at last gasped:

"'Fore God, who are you?"

"A man like you," was the answer; "a man no older, yet whom sorrow hath
crushed and bowed with premature age; a man with a heart to feel and a
brain to think; a man who would willingly exchange places with you,
though you stand within the shadow of a scaffold; a man, whose heart--O
God!--must speak, or it will break; a friend who loves you, who never
wronged any one, but has been made the puppet of outrageous fortune; a
man who has more wealth than all Virginia, and yet is poorer than the
lowest beggar; a man born to misfortune; a child of sorrow and of tears;
one who never loved, but to see the object of his affections blighted or
stolen; a man to whom dungeons, chains, slavery, death, hell itself
would be heaven compared to what he hath endured; such a poor wretch, my
friends, is now before you."

He could say no more, but, sinking upon a chair, buried his face in his
hands and burst into tears. The three friends gazed at him for several
seconds in astonishment; then they looked at each other for some
solution to this mystery.

"What meaneth this?" Drummond asked when he regained his voice. "Surely
I have heard that voice before. It takes me back, back into the past,
many years ago, when we were all young."

Before any one could say a word, Sir Albert started up, laid aside his
cocked hat and, brushing back his long snow-white hair from his massive
brow, said:

"Drummond, Lawrence, Cheeseman, friends of my youth, look on this face
and, in God's name, tell me you recognize one familiar feature left by
the hand of misfortune."

The three looked,--started to their feet, and Drummond cried:

"God in heaven! hath the sea given up its dead? _It is John Stevens_!"

"It is John Stevens, alive and in the flesh," he quickly answered. At
first they could hardly believe him, until he briefly told them the
story of his shipwreck and wonderful adventures on the island, of the
treasures untold thrown into his hands, and finally of a ship, in search
of water, putting into his poor harbor. After no little trouble he got
his treasure aboard this vessel without the crew suspecting what it was
and sailed to Europe. His vast wealth had procured all else--ship,
faithful men, the king's favor and all needful to his plans.

"Then I sailed for Virginia to meet sorrow, good friends, and live a
living death," he concluded.

"Did you know of her marriage before your arrival?"

"Yes, I was told in London by a Virginian of whom I made some inquiry. I
could not believe it at first, for Dorothe always condemned second
marriages, and oft, when ailing, predicted that I would wed when she
died, and bring a second mother over her children."

Drummond struck his fist upon the table vehemently, answering:

"'Fore God, it is always thus with the howling wenches! That which they
most disclaim will they do. She hath not waited until her husband was
dead, but hath married--"

"Drummond, hold your peace; she is the mother of my children and was
true to me while my wife. Unless you would lose my friendship, speak not
against the woman whom I still love," and John Stevens buried his white
head in his hands and trembled as if in an ague fit.

"Forgive me, my friend; forgive me; I was hasty," said Drummond. "I have
naught to say against the woman who was and still is your wife. Verily,
she hath had her punishment,--and the poor children, how they have
suffered."

"I know all," John sobbed.

"What will you do?"

"Alas, I know not."

"Why not declare yourself to the world and claim your wife?"

"What! Illegalize the marriage and make an adulteress of my wife? No,
never! I pray you, my friends, pledge me on your oaths as gentlemen
never to reveal my identity, while she or I shall live."

Drummond, who was impetuous and hated Hugh Price, cried:

"And will you leave her to him?"

"Yes," was the low, meek answer.

"Will you not seek revenge?"

"'Vengeance is mine, I will repay, saith the Lord.'"

Drummond was choking with fury and amazement. After a moment he regained
control over himself, and gasped:

"Heavens! can God permit such injustice? And you will surrender her to
him?"

"They believe themselves lawfully married. She hath committed no crime
in the sight of heaven."

"But wherefore not tear her from his arms and fly to some foreign land?"

"Nay, my friend, we have two children, a son and daughter, for whose
peace we must have a care. Dare I for their sakes declare who I am?"

Drummond was eager to put a bullet into the brain of Price; but John
Stevens was a man of peace and not of blood. His days were few on earth;
his race was almost run, and the prime and vigor of his manhood had been
wasted on a desert island. His only desire was to hover unknown about
those he loved, that they might not want or suffer while he lived, and
he had already arranged his fortune so it would descend to Robert and
Rebecca when he died.

"Yet I must live unknown, my friends. Swear to keep my secret."

They swore on their honor, and the miserable old man, whose fine apparel
was only a disguise, rose and left them. The three friends were sitting
looking at each other in speechless amazement, when the door again burst
open, and the impetuous Bacon, accompanied by Robert Stevens, entered.

"Why sit you here?" cried the general. "Have you not heard the news?"

"No; what is it?"

"Berkeley hath been reinforced, they say, by troops from England, and is
coming upon the town."

Drummond, Cheeseman and Lawrence were on their feet in a moment, their
faces evincing alarm. No one doubted the truth of the story, and they
began to hurriedly discuss the situation.

"Are we able to defend Jamestown against them?" asked the thoughtful Mr.
Lawrence.

"No," answered Bacon.

"Then we must abandon it."

[Illustration: RUINS OF JAMESTOWN]

"They shall not find the town when they come," cried Bacon. "D--n my
blood! I will burn Jamestown, and not a stone shall be left standing
upon another. Burn it, yes burn it, so that three centuries hence naught
but its ashes and ruins will mark where it stands to-day!"

What Bacon ordered in the heat of passion was indorsed by sober reason,
and it was resolved to burn the town.

"But your own house, Mr. Drummond, will have to be burned," cried
Robert.

"I will fire it with my own hand. It will be the first that burns,"
answered Drummond. Immediately the news spread that the town had been
doomed. The troops were assembled in the streets, and the people
summoned to vacate their houses. There were wailings and shrieks that
night. Robert ran to his home and told his mother, what was to be done.
She came weeping into the street and asked:

"What will become of us, my son? Whither shall we fly? We are three
helpless women without a roof to protect us."

"Until this storm hath blown away, let my ship be your home," said a
deep, sad voice at her side, and, turning about, she beheld Sir Albert
St. Croix, the man who had so strangely impressed her.

"Mother, go, take Ester and sister and go aboard the _Despair_," cried
Robert. Then, turning to the strange old man, he seized his hand and
continued, "Kind sir, you look the soul of honor. Will you care for them
until this hour has passed?"

Sir Albert's breast heaved a moment like the tumultuous storm; then he
answered:

"I will, I swear by the God we all worship!"

Robert hastily gathered up some personal effects and precious family
relics, and carried them aboard the ship with his mother, Ester and
Rebecca. On his return, he saw a bright flame dart up from the corner of
Drummond's house and heard that gentleman say:

"Farewell, dear home! Better perish thus than be a harbor for tyrants."

Drummond had fired his own house. Mr. Lawrence did the same. The street
was now filled with weeping and shrieking women and children and piles
of household goods. A moment later, and Robert saw the burning flames
leaping up about the home of his childhood--the house his father had
erected. They leaped and crackled angrily and licked the roof with their
hot, thirsty tongues, and he turned away his head. An hour later
Jamestown was no more. It has never been rebuilt, and only the ruins of
the old church mark the spot where once it stood.

Bacon and his army retreated up the country.




CHAPTER XXII.

VENGEANCE WITH A VENGEANCE.

     The longer life, the more offence;
       The more offence, the greater pain;
     The greater pain, the less defence;
       The less defence, the greater gain:
     The loss of gain long ill doth try,
       Wherefore, come death and let me die.
                                           --WYAT.

Bacon still tarried at the Greenspring manor-house after the destruction
of Jamestown, till a messenger came with the alarming intelligence that
a strong force of royalists was advancing from the Potomac.

With his little army of dauntless patriots, he marched to face this new
danger, for there was little more to fear from Sir William Berkeley, who
remained at the kingdom of Accomac, and who would only find smoking
ruins at Jamestown.

"You do not look well," said Robert to the patriot at whose side he
rode. "Your cheek is flushed, and I believe you have a fever."

Bacon, who had contracted a disease in the trenches about Jamestown,
was very irritable. His excitable nature took fire at the slightest
provocation; but with Robert he was ever reasonable.

"I shall be better soon," he answered. "When once we have met these
devils and had this fight over with, I will be well; but I shall free
Virginia, or die in the effort."

"Have a care for your health."

"I shall live to see the tyrant more humbled than when he fled
Jamestown."

Bacon was angry and more eager to fight as his illness increased than
when well. They crossed the lower York in boats at Ferry Point and
marched into Gloucester, where he made his headquarters at Colonel
Warner's and issued his "Mandates" to the Gloucester men to meet him at
the court house and subscribe to the Middle Plantation oath. They
hesitated; but as Colonel Brent was reported to be advancing at the head
of a thousand men, Bacon ordered the drums beat, mustered his men, and
they set out toward the Rappahanock in high spirits.

On that afternoon Bacon was occasionally irritable; at other times he
became hilarious, and at others stupid. Robert, who rode at his side,
saw that he was burning with fever, and he was glad that night when
they camped.

"Spread a tent for the general, for he is sick," said Robert. The men
could not realize how sick he was. Camp fires blazed. Brent was but a
few miles away, and his forces were deserting him by scores and coming
over to Bacon, who was not thought to be dangerously ill. When Robert
entered his tent at ten that night, he found him sitting up giving some
directions for the quartering of new troops.

"Are you better, general?" he asked.

"I am very tired. I shall lie down and sleep. I will be over this in the
morning."

As long as Robert lived, he remembered those words. He knew the general
was in a raging fever, yet he little thought it would prove fatal. He
went to his own quarters on that October night and sought repose. It was
an hour before daylight, when Mr. Drummond and Mr. Lawrence awoke him.

"General Bacon is dead," they said.

"What! dead?" cried Robert.

"Yes, dead and buried. We thought it best to bury him in the forest
where his enemies could not find him. Brent is crushed; his men have
deserted him, and all are with us. The general died very suddenly in the
arms of Major Pate."

It was the purpose of the friends of liberty to keep the death of Bacon
a secret, and there is some dispute in history as to where and when he
died. News of this character cannot be suppressed. It came out, and the
republicans of Virginia began to lose heart from that hour, while the
royalists' hopes increased.

Another general was elected to fill the place made vacant by Bacon.
Drummond, Stevens, Cheeseman, or Lawrence might have organized the army
and led them to victory; but the foolish frontiersmen chose, instead of
either of these wise men, a grotesque personage named Ingram, who had
been a rope dancer, and had no more qualifications for so important a
position than an organ grinder, as the result soon proved. He was unable
to hold them together. Colonel Hansford, the most daring young officer
in Bacon's whole army, was captured at the home of his sweetheart, and
Berkeley, to whom he was taken, decreed that he should be hung.

"Thomas Hansford," cried Berkeley, "I will quickly repay you for your
part in this rebellion!"

Colonel Hansford answered, "I ask no favor but that I may be shot like a
soldier and not hanged like a dog."

The governor replied, "You are to die, not as a soldier, but as a
rebel."

Hansford was a native American and the first white native (say some
historians) that perished on the gibbet. On coming to the gallows
he said:

"Take notice, I die a loyal subject and a lover of my country."

Terror-stricken, the followers of Bacon began to desert the new general.
In a few skirmishes that followed, they were worsted and broke up into
small bands.

Hugh Price was foremost among the royalists searching for the rebels. He
hoped to find his wife's son and bring him to the gibbet, for Price
hated Robert with a hatred that was demoniacal. Giles Peram took
courage, and mounting a horse, joined the troopers in galloping about
the country and capturing or shooting the rebels, who, now that their
spirits were broken, seldom made any resistance.

One day at sunset Hugh Price and Giles Peram suddenly came upon a
wild-eyed, haggard young man, mounted upon a jaded steed. He had slept
on the ground, for his uncombed hair had leaves still sticking to it,
and his clothes were faded, soiled and torn. The evenings were cold, it
being late in October, and the fugitive was looking about for a place to
sleep. At a glance, both recognized him as Robert Stevens. They were
armed with loaded pistols, while Robert, though he had weapons in his
holsters, was out of powder.

"There he is, Giles; now slay him!" cried the stepfather.

Robert realized his danger, and, with his whip, lashed his horse to a
run. There came the report of a pistol from behind and a bullet whistled
above his head.

"Come on, Giles; he is unarmed," cried Mr. Price.

"Oh, are you quite sure?" cried Giles.

"I am sure. He is out of ammunition."

"That is extraordinary, very extraordinary." Mr. Peram, who had been
lingering behind, with this assurance urged his horse alongside the
stepfather.

"He is heading for the river!" cried Price.

"Can he cross?"

"No; his horse could scarcely swim it. Try a shot at him."

Giles Peram, who was as cruel as he was cowardly, drew one of his
pistols, as he galloped along over the grassy plain, and cocked it.

It is no easy matter even for an experienced marksman to hit a running
object from the back of a flying horse. Giles, after leaning first to
one side, then to the other, and squinting along the barrel of his
pistol, shut both eyes and pulled the trigger. When the smoke cleared
away Robert was seen sitting bolt upright in his saddle.

"He heads for the river. By the mass, I believe he is going to plunge
into it!" cried Price.

The river was in view, and the young fugitive was riding toward it at
full speed. His pursuers pressed their tired steeds in his rear, and
Robert knew his only chance for life was to swim the stream. He uttered
an encouraging shout to his horse as that noble animal sprang far out
into the water. Robert's hat fell off and floated near the shore; but
his horse swam straight across. Hugh Price, with an oath, drew his
remaining pistol, galloped to the water's edge and fired. The ball
struck four or five feet to Robert's left and in front of him, splashing
up a jet of water where it plunged in. At the instant Hugh fired, Giles
Peram's horse, unable to check his speed, would have rushed into the
river, had not Price seized the bit and stopped him. Giles, unprepared
for so sudden a halt, went over his horse, head first into the water.

Being a poor swimmer and greatly frightened, he would no doubt have
drowned, had not Hugh Price gone to his rescue and pulled him out. By
the time Giles Peram was rescued and placed safely on shore, Robert
Stevens had crossed the river and was ascending the bank.

It was so dark that they could just see the outline of the fugitive,
before he disappeared into the wood. Giles Peram was shivering from his
sudden plunge and begged to go to camp, so Hugh Price, sympathizing with
him, gave up the man hunt, and returned to the nearest camp of
royalists. "We will have him yet. He shall hang!" said Mr. Price, by way
of consoling his friend for his ducking.

They went to York, where Berkeley had established himself, and the
latter commenced a reign of terror and vengeance, which has made him
infamous in history as the most bloodthirsty tyrant of America. Major
Cheeseman was captured with Captains Wilford and Farlow. The two
captains were hung without trial, and Cheeseman was thrown into prison.
When Edmund Cheeseman was arraigned before the governor and was asked
why he engaged in Bacon's wicked scheme, before he could answer, his
young wife stepped forward and said:

"My provocation made my husband join in the cause for which Bacon
contended. But for me, he had never done what he has done. Since what is
done," she sobbed, falling on her knees in an attitude of supplication,
with her head bowed and face covered with her hands, "was done by my
means, I am most guilty; let me bear the punishment, let me be hanged,
but let my husband be pardoned."

The angry governor gazed on her for a moment with eyes which danced in
fury; then he cried:

"Away with you!" adding a brutal remark at which manhood might well
blush. Mrs. Cheeseman fainted, and her husband was carried away to the
gallows. [Footnote: Authorities differ as to the death of Cheeseman.
Some say he was hanged, others that he died in prison.]

So fearful, at first, was the cruel old baron that some of his intended
victims might escape through a verdict of acquittal by a jury, that men
were taken from the tribunal of a court-martial directly to the gallows,
without the forms of civil law.

For a time after Berkeley was established at York, Ingram still made a
show of resistance, but accepted the first terms offered and
surrendered. Only two prominent leaders remained uncaptured. These were
Lawrence and Drummond. Berkeley swore he could not sleep well until they
were hanged. The surrender of Ingram destroyed even the faintest hope of
reorganizing the patriot army, and Mr. Drummond, deserted by his
followers, was captured in the Chickahominy swamp and hurried to York to
the governor, who greeted him with bitter irony.

"Mr. Drummond," he said, "you are very welcome! I am more glad to see
you than any man in Virginia. Mr. Drummond, you shall be hanged in
half an hour."

"What your honor pleases," Mr. Drummond boldly answered. "I expect no
mercy from you. I have followed the lead of my conscience and did what
I might to free my countrymen from oppression."

He was condemned at one o'clock and hanged at four. By a cruel decree of
the governor, his brave wife Sarah was denounced as a traitress and
banished with her children to the wilderness, where, for a while, they
were forced to subsist on the charity of friends almost as poor as they.

Berkeley's rage was not yet fully satisfied. The thoughtful Mr. Lawrence
had taken care of himself, for he knew but too well what to expect,
should he be captured. Weeks passed and winter was advanced before
Berkeley heard of him. Then from one of the upper plantations came the
report that he and four other desperadoes with horses and pistols had
marched away in snow ankle-deep. Some hoped they had perished in trying
to swim the head-waters of some of the rivers; but they really traveled
southward into North Carolinia, where they were safely concealed in the
wilderness.

Berkeley proved himself a tiger, as he had proved himself a ruffian in
insulting Mrs. Cheeseman. The taste of blood maddened him. He tried and
executed nearly every one on whom he could lay his hands. Virginia
became a vast jail or Tyburn Hill. Four men were hung on the York,
several executed on the other side of the James River, and one was
hanged in chains at West Point. In February, 1677, a fleet with a
regiment of English troops arrived, and a formal commission to try
rebels was organized, of which Berkeley was a member. This commission
determined to kill Bland, who had been captured in Accomac. The friends
of the prisoner in England had procured and sent over his pardon; but
the commissioners were privately informed that the Duke of York
(afterward James II.) had sworn that "Bacon and Bland must die," and
with this intimation of what would be agreeable to his royal highness,
Bland was hung. It was a revel of blood. In almost every county, gibbets
rose and made the wayfarer shudder and turn away at sight of their
ghastly burdens. In all, twenty-three persons were executed, and Charles
II., disgusted with the tyranny of Berkeley, declared:

"That old fool has hanged more men in that naked country than I have
done for the murder of my father."

Shortly after the execution of Mr. Edmund Cheeseman, and before the
arrival of the English regiment, the first British troops ever brought
to Virginia, Mr. Hugh Price, who was very active in capturing rebels,
one evening brought in a miserable, half-starved, half-frozen young man,
whom he had found lying in the snow, too feeble to fly or resist. Mr.
Price was especially delighted with the capture, as the captive was
Robert Stevens.

Old black Sam recognized the prisoner, and when he had been thrust in
jail to await his trial, the old negro mounted a swift horse and rode
all night across the country to the James River. Then, stealing a boat
at one of the plantations, he rowed down the stream until he came to the
_Despair_, on board of which was Mrs. Price, her daughter and Ester.

Sam's story caused instantaneous action, and next morning at daylight
Governor Berkeley was amazed to see the strange ship anchored before his
quarters, as near to shore as she could be brought. There was something
particularly menacing in the vessel, with her double rows of guns
pointed at the shore and the marines all on deck under arms. Berkeley
was alarmed. A boat was lowered, and Sir Albert St. Croix came ashore.
He hurried at once into the governor's presence.

"Sir Albert, I am pleased to see you; yet I do not understand that
demonstration," said the governor, who, like all tyrants, was a coward.
"Surely, you do not mean any hostilities toward me."

"That depends on circumstances. Have you a young man named Stevens
prisoner?"

"Yes."

"Has he been tried?"

"He has and has been condemned."

"To hang?"

"Yes."

"Has the sentence been executed?" asked Sir Albert, trembling with
dread.

"Not yet."

"Then your life is saved."

"But he will be hanged at ten o'clock."

"He shall not!"

"Why, who are you, that dare defy me?"

"Governor Berkeley," said Sir Albert, in a voice trembling with
earnestness, as he led him to the window. "Look you on yon ship and see
the guns pointed at your town. But harm a hair of Robert Stevens' head,
and, by the God we both worship, I will blow you into eternity!"

Governor Berkeley sank in his seat, trembling with rage and fear. Must
he let one go, and above all Robert Stevens, whom he hated? The old man
continued:

"You have already hanged my friends Drummond and Cheeseman, and were I a
man who sought revenge, I would destroy you, as I have it in my power
to do."

At this moment the door opened, and Hugh Price, accompanied by Giles
Peram, entered.

"The scaffold is all ready to hang Robert Stevens," said Mr. Price.

"Ah! marry, it is, governor, and I trow he will make a merry sight
dangling from it," put in Giles, a smile on his face.

Sir William Berkeley's face was deathly white; but he made no response.
Mr. Price, who feared his wife's son might yet escape, urged:

"Governor, the scaffold is ready. Come, give the order for the
execution."

Sir Albert coolly drew from his coat pocket a legal looking document
and, laying it before the governor, said in a commanding tone:

"Sign, sir."

"What is it?"

"A pardon for Robert Stevens."

"No, no, no!" cried Hugh Price, rushing forward to interfere.

"Back, devil, lest I forget humanity!" cried Sir Albert, and, seizing
Hugh Price by the throat, he hurled him against the wall. For a moment,
the cavalier was stunned, then, rising, he snatched his sword from
its sheath.

Sir Albert was not one whit behind in drawing his own blade, and, as
steel clashed against steel, Giles Peram shouted:

"Oh, Lordy! I will be killed!" and ran from the room. There was but one
clash of swords, then Price's weapon flew from his hand, and he expected
to be run through; but Sir Albert coolly said:

"Begone, Hugh Price! Your life is in my hands; but I do not want it.
You are not prepared to die. Get thee hence, lest I forget myself."

Price left the room, and Sir Albert, turning to Berkeley, asked:

"Have you signed the pardon, governor?"

"Here it is."

"Now order his release."

Half an hour later, Robert, who expected to suffer death on the
scaffold, was liberated.

"I owe this to you, kind sir," he cried, seizing Sir Albert's hand.

"I promised to save you, and I always keep my promise."

"Do you know aught of my mother, sister, and Ester?"

"All are safe aboard my vessel."

"Why do you take such interest in us, Sir Albert? You are like a father
to me."

"Do you remember your father?"

"I can just remember him. He was a noble man with a kind heart. Did you
know him?"

"Yes; he was my friend. I knew him well."

"Would to heaven he had remained; our misery would not have been so
great."

"We are all in the hands of inexorable fate; but let us talk no more.
You will have a full pardon from Charles II. soon, and then that old
fool will not dare to harm you. Not only will you be pardoned but Ester
Goffe as well."

"How know you this?" asked Robert.

"I have sent to the king for the pardons, and he will deny me nothing."

"Then I shall wed Ester and return to my father's plantation to pass my
days in peace."

"Do so, Robert, and ever remember that whatever you have, you owe it to
your unfortunate father. God grant that your life may be less stormy
than his."

When they went on board the _Despair_, there was a general rejoicing.

"Heaven bless you, our deliverer!" cried Rebecca, placing her arms about
the neck of Sir Albert and kissing him again and again.

Years seemed to have rolled away, and once more the father felt the
soft, warm arms of his baby about his neck. The ancient eyes grew dim,
and tears, welling up, overflowed and trickled down the furrowed cheeks.




CHAPTER XXIII.

CONCLUSION.

     So live, that when thy summons comes to join
     The innumerable caravan, that moves
     To that mysterious realm, where each shall take
     His chamber in the silent halls of death,
     Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,
     Scourged to his dungeon; but, sustained and soothed
     By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,
     Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
     About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.
                                               --BRYANT.

That strange ship _Despair_ still lingered before the headquarters of
the governor, much to his annoyance. In February, 1677, when the ships
and soldiers came from England, they brought a full and free pardon for
Robert Stevens and Ester Goffe.

"What power hath that strange old wizard that he leads kings as it were
by the nose?" asked the governor.

"'Fore God, I know not, governor," put in Hugh Price. "I would rather
all the rebels in Bacon's army should have escaped than this one."

As Robert was about to depart from the vessel to repair his father's
estates, near Jamestown, Sir Albert took him aside and said:

"Money you will find in abundance for your estate. Henceforth, take no
part in the quarrels of your country. Hot-blooded politicians bring on
these quarrels, and they leave the common people to fight their battles.
The care of your sister, she who is to be your wife, and your
unfortunate mother will engage all your time."

"But Mr. Price, what shall I do with him?"

"Harm him not."

"He will harm me, I trow."

"No, not with the king's favor on you; he dare not."

Robert promised to heed all the excellent advice of Sir Albert, and he
set forth with his slaves and a full purse to repair the ruined estates
on the James River. He met many old friends to whom he was kind. They
asked him many questions regarding his mysterious benefactor; but Robert
assured them that he was as much a mystery to him as to them.

Hugh Price and his associate, Giles Peram, were nonplussed, puzzled and
intimidated by the strong, vigorous, and at the same time mysterious arm
which had suddenly been raised to protect him whom they hated.

"It is extraordinary! It is very extraordinary!" declared Peram,
clearing his throat and strutting over the floor.

"Where is your wife?"

"On board the ship _Despair_."

"Bring her home. Why do you not send and bring her home? The trouble is
over, and we have put down the rebellion."

"I will."

After the arrival of the commission and soldiers from England, the
hanging went on at a brisk pace, and Mrs. Price had lived like one
stupefied on board the _Despair_, not daring to go ashore. She seldom
spoke, and never save when addressed. She acted so strangely, that her
daughter feared she was losing her mind. All day long she would sit with
her sad eyes on the floor, and she had not smiled since she came aboard.

When the messenger came from the shore, with the command from Hugh Price
for her to come to the home he had provided, she started like a guilty
person detected in crime. Turning her great, sad eyes on the man who had
been their protector in their hour of peril, she asked:

"Shall I go?"

"The place of a good wife is with her husband," he answered.

Then Rebecca, appealing to him, asked:

"Must I obey Hugh Price?"

"Is he your father?"

"No."

"You are of age?"

"I am."

"Then choose with whom you will live, Hugh Price, or with your brother
on the James River."

"I will live with my brother."

Mrs. Price cast her eyes on the river filled with floating ice and,
shuddering, said:

"The water is so dark and cold, and the boat is so frail."

"Shall I take you in mine?" asked Sir Albert.

"Will you?"

"If you desire it."

The boat was lowered, and Mrs. Price was tenderly assisted into it. Then
he climbed down into the stern, seized the rudder, and gave the command
to his four sturdy oarsmen:

"Pull ashore."

It was a bleak, cold, wintry day. The wind swept down the ice-filled
river. From the deck, closely muffled in wraps and robes, Rebecca saw
her mother and Sir Albert depart for the snow-clad shore. Her eyes were
blinded with tears, for she knew how unhappy her mother was. As she
watched the boat gliding forward amid the floating blocks of ice, she
was occasionally alarmed at the Deeming narrow escapes it made.

The current was very swift, for the tide was running out, and tons of
ice were all about the boat; but a skilful hand was at the helm, and the
little boat darted hither and thither, from point to point, safely
through the waters. Once she was quite sure it would be crushed between
two small icebergs; but it glided swiftly out of danger.

The nearer they approached the shore, the denser became the ice pack,
and the danger accordingly increased. At almost every moment, Rebecca
uttered an exclamation of fear lest the boat should be crushed.

Just as she thought all danger was over, and when they were within a
short distance of shore, a heavy cake of ice, which had been sucked
under by the current, suddenly burst upward with such fury as to crush
the boat. The shrieks of the unfortunate occupants filled the air for a
single second, then all sank below the cold waves.

Two heads rose to the surface a second later, and those on the ship as
well as those on shore recognized them as Sir Albert St. Croix and Mrs.
Price. Holding the screaming woman in one arm, Sir Albert nobly struck
out for shore, and no doubt would have reached it, for he was a bold
swimmer, had not a large cake of ice borne them down to a watery grave.

When they were found, three days later, they were closely locked in
each other's arms. Robert Stevens came from Jamestown, and he and his
sister had the body of their mother buried at the old churchyard in the
ruins of Jamestown. Sir Albert was also, by order of his captain, buried
at the same place.

All winter long, Captain Small of the _Despair_ remained in the York
River; but at early spring he came to the James River and, summoning
both Robert and Rebecca aboard his vessel, informed them that his dead
master had, by a will, left them a vast fortune in money, jewels and
lands, in both America and England.

"He also gave you the ship _Despair_," concluded the captain.

"This is very strange." said Robert. "I can scarcely believe it."

Captain Small, however, had the will to prove it.

"Now what will you do with the ship?" the captain asked.

"What do you advise? We know nothing of such matters."

"She would make an excellent merchantman, and I would be willing to rent
her of you and give you one half the profits."

"No, no, captain; take her, and give us one fourth."

Captain Small was delighted with his new employer's liberality, and the
name _Despair_ was changed to _Hope_. The vessel soon became famous as a
merchantman all over the world. Her honest master, Captain Small, became
wealthy, at the same time increasing the wealth of the owners.

Robert and Ester Goffe were married one year after the death of Mrs.
Price. Hugh Price never molested Robert, but gave himself up to
dissipation and was killed in a drunken brawl two years after his wife's
death. Giles Peram continued to make himself a nuisance about the home
of Robert Stevens and to annoy his sister, until the indignant brother
horsewhipped him and drove him from the premises. Shortly after Giles
was seized with fever of which he died.

Rebecca went with her brother and his wife to Massachusetts on a visit
and, while there, met a young Englishman of good family, whom she
married within a year and took up her abode in New England, while Robert
returned to Virginia to pass his days in the land of his nativity, the
wealthiest and one of the most respected in the colony.

One evening, five years after the removal of Berkeley, a stranger rode
to Robert's plantation. His face was bronzed and his frame hardened by
exposure and hardships; but his eye had the flash of an eagle's. It was
dusk when he reached Robert's plantation, and he took the planter aside
and asked:

"Do you not know me?"

"No."

"Lawrence," the stranger whispered.

"What! Mr. Lawrence?"

"Whist! do not breathe it too loud. I am proscribed, and though Berkeley
is gone, Culpepper, his successor, is no friend of mine. All believe me
dead, so I am to the world; but I have something to tell you of yourself
and your parents that will interest you."

Then Mr. Lawrence told Robert a sad story which brought tears to his
eyes before it was finished.

"I have come at the risk of my life from Carolinia to tell you this, my
friend. I promised never to reveal it while he lived; but, now that both
are gone, it were best that you know."

Robert tried to prevail on him to remain; but he would not, and,
mounting his horse, he galloped away into the darkness. Stevens never
saw or heard of the "thoughtful Mr. Lawrence" again.

A few days later a man, passing the old graveyard at Jamestown, observed
that the body of Sir Albert St. Croix had been removed and placed by the
side of the woman whom he died to save. A month later, on a head-stone,
appeared the following strange inscription:

"_Father and mother sleep here_."

Before closing this volume, it will be necessary to revert once more to
the tyrant whose misrule of Virginia had brought about Bacon's
Rebellion. At last, the assembly had to beg Berkeley to desist, which he
did with reluctance. A writer of the period said, "I believe the
governor would have hanged half the country if they had let him alone."
He was finally induced to consent that all the rebels should be pardoned
except about fifty leaders--Bacon at the head of them; but these chief
leaders were attainted of treason, and their estates were confiscated.
First to suffer was the small property of the unfortunate Drummond; but
here Berkeley found the hidden rock on which his bark wrecked, for this
roused the voice of the banished Sarah Drummond, and her cry from the
wilderness of Virginia went across the broad Atlantic and reached the
throne of England. She had friends in high places in the Old World, and
she was restored, and Berkeley was censured for what he had done.

All laws made by Bacon were repealed by proclamation, and the royalists
triumphed; but Governor Berkeley was ill at ease. The Virginians hated
him for his merciless vengeance on their people, and a rumor reached his
ears that he was no better liked in England. The very king whom he had
served turned against him, and, worn down by sickness and a troubled
spirit, he sailed for England. All Virginia rejoiced at his departure,
and salutes were fired and bonfires blazed, and all nature seemed to
rejoice in the blessed hope that the reign of tyranny was ended forever.

[Illustration.]

Ye End.




HISTORICAL INDEX.

       *       *       *       *       *

Address of the Massachusetts Legislature to King
  Charles II
Albemarle has Stevens appointed governor
Alderman, slayer of King Philip
Andros, Major Edward, commissioned to receive the
  surrender of New York
Andros and Captain Ball at Saybrook
Angel of deliverance
Arlington and Culpepper grants denounced by Bacon
Arrival of the first English troops in Virginia
Assembly begs Berkeley to desist in hanging rebels
Attack on the swamp fort
Austin, Anna, the fanatical Quaker
Bacon, Nathaniel
Bacon's "Quarter Branch"
Bacon's threat
Bacon sends a messenger to Jamestown for his commission
Bacon defeats the Indians
Bacon arrested
Bacon's confession
Bacon's flight
Bacon rousing his friends
Bacon marching on Jamestown
Bacon captures Jamestown
Bacon and Berkeley meet
Bacon commissioned by Berkeley
Bacon hangs Berkeley's spy
Bacon urged to depose Berkeley
Bacon's Indian campaign
Bacon again rallying his hosts
Bacon uses the wives of royalists as shields
Bacon repulses the attack of Berkeley's longshoremen
Bacon besieges Jamestown
Bacon enters Jamestown
Bacon burns Jamestown
Bacon marches to meet the foe on the Potomac
Bacon ill
Bacon's death a mystery
Bacon rebels attainted of treason
Bacon's laws repealed
Baconites deserting Ingram
Battle between Claybourne and Calvert on the Potomac
Battle of the Severn, March 25, 1654
Battle of Brookfield
Battle of Bloody Run
Bennett, Richard, succeeds Berkeley
Berkeley, Sir William, Governor of Virginia
Berkeley, Sir William, character of
Berkeley's proclamation against Puritan pastors
Berkeley invites Charles II. to come to Virginia
Berkeley, deposed by roundheads in 1650, retires to
  Greenspring Manor
Berkeley restored in 1660 by Charles II.
Berkeley's opinion of free schools and printing
Berkeley informs home government that all trouble
  with the Indians is happily over
Berkeley's excuse for refusing Bacon's commission
Berkeley denounces Bacon as a rebel
Berkeley pardons Bacon
Berkeley preparing to resist Bacon
Berkeley and Bacon meet
Berkeley revokes Bacon's commission and denounces
  him a rebel
Berkeley in possession of Jamestown
Berkeley demands surrender of Jamestown
Berkeley's attack on Bacon's works
Berkeley's tyranny at York
Berkeley's departure from Virginia
Berkeley's territory conveyed to the Duke of York
Bland, execution of
Brent reported advancing
Buckingham succeeds Clarendon
Burning of Jamestown
Calvert, Sir George, at Jamestown, 1630
Calvert, Governor of Maryland
Carolinia, William Hawley, governor of
Carolinia settled by New Englanders
Carolinia constitution
Carteret, New Jersey conveyed to
Carteret enters New Jersey with a hoe on his shoulder
Carteret, Governor of New Jersey, deposed
Census of New England in 1675
Charles I. beheaded in 1649
Charles II. declared king of England in 1660
Charles II. pursuing the judges of his father
Charles II., character of
Charles II. profligate and careless
Charles II.'s opinion of Sir William Berkeley
Cheeseman, trial of
Cheeseman's death
Cheeseman, Mrs., before Berkeley
Church and his men surrounded at Punkateeset
Clarendon in exile
Claybourne, William, the great rebel, at Kent Island
Clove, Anthony, governor of reconquered New Amsterdam
Coddington's, William, commission for governing islands
  within limits of Rhode Island charter
Commissioners sent to demand Massachusetts charter
Connecticut obtains a new charter under Winthrop
Connecticut after the restoration
Connecticut under Winthrop procures another constitution
Cromwell, Oliver, rules England as Protector
Cromwell, Oliver, dies in 1658 and names his son
  Richard as his successor
Culpepper, Lord, and Arlington receive from Charles II.
  grant of all Virginia for thirty-one years
Curles, Bacon's home
Death of Nathaniel Bacon
De Vries robbed by the Indians
De Vries chosen president of popular assembly
Dixwell, John, one of the executioners of Charles I
Drummond, William, appointed Governor of Carolinia
  in 1666
Drummond brings North Carolinia into notice of the
  world
Drummond before Berkeley
Drummond, execution of
Drummond, Sarah, banished with her children
Drummond's, Sarah, appeal reaches the throne
Dutch capture New York
Dyer, Mary, execution of
Effect of the restoration on Virginia
Elizabethtown, New Jersey, founded by Carteret
Elliott, John, missionary among Indians
Emigrants to Carolinia
Emigrants to New Jersey from New England
English government in a state of chaos after the death
  of Cromwell
Endicott, John, Governor of Massachusetts
Execution of Robinson and Stevenson
Farlow, Captain, hung by Berkeley
Fisher, Mary, in Massachusetts
Forebodings of war
Gathering of Virginians at Curles
Goffe and the fencing-master
Goffe, William, one of the judges who tried and condemned
  Charles I
Goffe and Whalley hiding from the king's men
Gorges recovers his claim
Greene, Roger, guide into Carolinia wilderness
Greenspring Manor, Berkeley's country residence
Grievances of Virginians
Hadley attacked by the Indians
Hansford, Colonel, prepares to resist Berkeley
Hansford abandons Jamestown
Hansford hung
Harvey, Sir John, Governor of Virginia in 1629
Harvey, Sir John, deposed by Wert
Hawley, Governor of Carolinia
Heath, Sir Robert, receives patent to lands south of
  Virginia
Hollanders attack Indians at Hoboken
Indian war of 1644
Indians in New Amsterdam driven to New Jersey
Indian advancement in education
Indians' lands taken from them
Ingram chosen in place of Bacon
Ingram's surrender
James, Duke of York, has all New Netherland granted
  to him by his brother Charles II
Jamestown besieged by Bacon
Jamestown captured by Bacon
Jamestown destroyed by Bacon and has never been rebuilt
Judges who tried and condemned Charles I
Kieft, Governor of New Netherland, demands the murderer
  of the wheelwright
Kieft sends an expedition against the Indians
Kieft recalled, perishes on his way to Holland
King Philip aims a blow at Hadley, Hatfield and
  Northampton
King's men, character of
Lancaster attacked by Indians
Lawrence escapes into the wilds of North Carolinia
Law against Quakers repealed in 1661
Laws made by Bacon repealed
_Longtail_, Claybourne's trading ship
Lovelace appointed Governor of New York
Massachusetts controls the New England confederacy
Massachusetts' charter threatened
Massachusetts after the restoration
Massachusetts not punished for her defiance
Massasoit, death of, 1661
Matapoiset, attack on
Meeting between Carteret and Nicolls
Middle Plantation oath
Money first coined hi North America (in Massachusetts), 1652
Muddy Brook, fight at
Narragansetts, Philip among
Navigation act, one of Virginia's grievances
New Amsterdam granted a government like the free
  cities of Holland
New Amsterdam conquered by the English and changed
  to New York
New England confederation
New England, growth of
New England colonies slandered
New Haven colony
New Jersey, how effected by change
New Jersey charter
New Jersey's encouragement to emigrants
New Jersey falls into the hands of the Dutch
New York not represented in Parliament
New York attacked by the Dutch
New York re-captured by the Dutch and re-christened New Amsterdam
Nicolls, Col. Richard, arrives at Now Amsterdam
Nicolls succeeded by Lovelace in 1667 as the governor
  of New York
Nipmucks, Philip among
North Carolinia's first legislature in 1666
Nutten (now Governor's Island), Indians agree to go
  to
Old Dominion, how Virginia derived the name of
Oliverian plot
Opechancanough captured when almost one hundred
  years old and assassinated
Orange changed to Albany
Parliament orders a fleet to Virginia in 1650
Pavonia, the territory of Pauw
Philip's, King, opposition to war
Philip, King, weeps on hearing that white man's
  blood has been shed
Philip, King, among the Nipmucks
Philip, King, pursued
Philip, King, death of
Pokanokets rejected Christianity
Popular assembly, the first at New Amsterdam
Population of Virginia
Printz, governor of Swedes in Delaware
Puritans of New England
Quakers persecuted in Massachusetts
Quitrents demanded of people in New Jersey
Raritans of New Jersey persecuted by the Dutch
Rhode Island granted a new charter in 1644
Rhode Island granted another charter in 1663
Rising, John, on the Delaware
Roundheads conquer Virginia in 1653
Rowlandson, Mrs., narrative of attack on her house
Royalists, triumph of
Sassaman, John, Christian Indian who betrayed the
  plans of Philip
Savage sent to Mount Hope
South Kingston, Indians at
Stuyvesant, Peter, sent as governor to New Amsterdam
Stuyvesant forms treaty with New England
Stuyvesant and the Swedes on the Delaware
Stuyvesant recaptures Fort Cassimer
Stuyvesant's answer to the English demand to surrender
Stuyvesant consents to surrender New Amsterdam
Stuyvesant goes to Holland
Stuyvesant returns to New York
Sudbury, attack on
Suffrage confined to freeholders, under Charles II
Swansey, beginning of King Philip's war on
Swedes on the Delaware, trouble with
Swen, Schute, captures Fort Cassimer and names it
Fort Trinity
Van Dyck kills an Indian squaw in his peach orchard
Van Dyck killed by Indians in retaliation
Vane, Sir Henry, a victim of the restoration
Vane, Sir Henry, executed
Virginia divided into eight shires
Virginia restored to monarchy
Virginia threatened with civil war
Virginia, home ruled
Virginia's defence, 1675
Washington, Major John, kills Indians while bringing
  a flag of truce
Whalley, one of Cromwell's generals
Wheelwright murdered by Indians
Wilford, Captain, hung by Berkeley
Windsor, Indian attack on
Winthrop and Governor Stuyvesant
Winthrop, John, and Charles II.




CHRONOLOGY.

       *       *       *       *       *

PERIOD VI.--AGE OF TYRANNY.

A.D. 1643 TO A.D. 1680.

1644. SECOND INDIAN MASSACRE in Virginia; 800 whites
  killed,--April 18.

1645. CLAIBORNE'S REBELLION in Maryland; Gov. Calvert
  fled to Virginia.

1649. CHARLES I., King of Great Britain, beheaded,--Jan. 30.

1650. FIRST SETTLEMENT in North Carolina, on the
  Chowan River, near Edenton.

1653. OLIVER CROMWELL appointed Lord Protector of
  Great Britain,--Dec. 16.

1655. RELIGIOUS WAR in Maryland between Protestants
  and Catholics; New Sweden conquered by the Dutch.

1656. QUAKERS came to Massachusetts; cruel treatment
  by Puritans.

1660. MONARCHY restored in Great Britain; Charles II.
  king,--May 29.
NAVIGATION ACTS passed restricting colonial trade.

1663. CLARENDON GRANT to Lord Clarendon and others,--March
  24. (This grant extended from 30° to
  36° lat., and from ocean to ocean.)
CHARTER OF RHODE ISLAND, giving religious liberties,
  granted,--July 8.

1664. NEW NETHERLANDS granted to the Duke of York
  and Albany,--March 12.

NEW JERSEY granted to Berkeley and Carteret,--June 24.

STUYVESANT surrenders New Amsterdam (New York City).

FORT ORANGE, N. Y., named Albany,--Sept. 24.

ELIZABETH, N. J., settled by emigrants from Long Island.

1665. CONNECTICUT AND NEW HAVEN united under the
  name of Connecticut,--May.

SECOND CHARTER of Carolina; boundary extended
  to 29° lat.,--June 30.

CLARENDON COLONY, near Wilmington, N. C., permanently
  settled.

1670. DETROIT, MICH., settled by the French.
CARTERET COLONY settled on Ashley River, near Charleston, S. C.

1671. MARQUETTE established the Mission of St. Ignatius,
  at Michilimackinac.

1673. VIRGINIA granted to Culpepper and Islington.
MARQUETTE AND JOLIETTE explored the Mississippi River to the Arkansas.

1674. MARQUETTE founded a Missionary Station at Chicago, 111.

1675. MARQUETTE founded a mission at Kaskaskia, Ill.
KING PHILIP'S WAR in New England began.

1676. BACON'S REBELLION against Berkeley in Virginia,
  one hundred years before independence.
QUINQUEPARTITE DEED formed in East and West Jersey--west to the Quakers
  and east to Carteret. Dividing line from Little Egg Harbor to lat.
  41° 41' on the northernmost branch of the Delaware River.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 10387 ***