LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 111' 0DDD5455T31 0^ •••'^ 'C'' . ^s,. .-«?■■ • * • * ^* .-^ V '^^- .^^ THE TRAIL OF THE MAINE PIONEER This Edition of The Trail of the Maine Pioneer, published by the Maine Federation of Women's Clubs, is limited to 2,000 copies, of which this is No. « of the iiie Pioneer BY MEMBERS OF THE MAINE FEDERATION OF WOMEN'S CLUBS KINEO How beautiful the morning breaks Upon the Kin^ of mountain lakes! The forests, far as eye can reach, Stretch iSreen and still from either beach, And leagues aivay the waters gleam Resplendent in the sunrise beam; Yet feathery vapors, circling slow Wreathe the dark brow of Kineo. — Frances L. Mace. LEWISTON JOURNAL COMPANY Publishers LEWISTON, MAINE 1916 Copyright 1916 By Lewiston Journal Company GKft ®0 (6race A. Hing Prestiient of tljc HHaiuc iFrbrration of Hamen'a (Elulie 1915-19ir MAINE [To the Tune of ''America."] My father's state, to thee, First state of all to me, My love 1 hring. In thy sweet woods I'll roam, Thy name to me is home, Pine trees and ocean foam. Till/ praise I sing. — June Wlteeler Bainbridge. A FOREWORD To the Women of Maine: The one thing needful in history teaching, the thing so often missed, but without which there is no result worth while, is imagination. The process of tidal historical study, all up and down the scale from Kindergarten to University, must be through and through imaginative. Not to catalogue the features of the past, but to re-create the life that once informed those features, is the true aim of history in all its phases. To acquire the difiicult art of calling up that life, of bodying it forth out of the strange and ambiguous things known as human documents, is a feat of the disciplined imagination as difficult as it is precious. — Professor Nathaniel W. Stephen- son of the College of Charleston in an address before the American Histori- cal Society, igi6. I am asked to zvrite you a letter of thanks and congratulation on the achievement embodied in this, your book, illuminating the trail of the Maine pioneer. A'o mission could be less a task. You volunteers of this literary commomvealth have added epic prose to that far-flung verse which has put a halo over the trail of the pioneer since in the dawn of history Asiatic emigrants chased the westering sun across the Golden Horn. History zvas sung before it zvas written as Mother Goose and Santa Claus still are sung to those who have yet to acquire an alphabet. The tidal sweep of races westward and yet "Westivard Ho," reached the Gulf of Maine thirteen years before the anchor of the Mayflower dropped in Plymouth Harbor. Our oivn Pemaquid was discovered and settled before they hung Quakers on Boston Conunon and put zvitches on the high places of Salem. The first woman's club was established by Anne Hutchinson in Boston close to the time when Maine women were carried into captivity by the Indians at Berwick and Saco. It was near the day when Sir Ferdi- nando Gorges got his sailors on horseback that the first city government was organized in the Dominion of Maine. But the Spanish Conquest preceded the discovery of Agamenticus, while 'twas before Agamenticus was sighted that Capt. John Smith landed at Monhegan. When Cortez and the drifting pilgrimages of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries reached the Pacific, it was discovered that the successors of the Aryans crossing The Hellespont had surprised the sunrise close to the sun- set. Only a zvide waste of waters separated California from the East Indies. But the primitive occupiers of the Eastern Nezu World were led by King Philip as well as by Pocahontas, by the flintlock and the axe at Old York and Berzvick as zvell as by the constructive spade and the beckoning pipe of friendly Samoset. Just here, the tragic history of Maine begins. Just here heroes and heroines stain the forest glades with their blood while others sail up and down the uncharted coasts of the Gulf of Maine. Just here, ye women of Maine, do you illuminate our annals. Right here you kindle our imaginations by re-animating definite persons, marshaling them before us, not hand-inade A FOREWORD CONTINUED inanimates hut animating leaders of universal democracy, consecrated by heroism unto martyrdom. In meetinghouses, schoolhouses and cabins of York, Berwick, Saco, Rich- mond's Island and other isles and shores, this Colonial commonzvealth was possessed in faith before it ivas made by works. History ever spills its ashes where father, mother and child kindle altar fires. 'Tis love that makes and belts the globe. 'Tis the imagination that conquers countless worlds and satellites. The Popham Colony died in getting itself born. The chief justice had his eyes on the throne in the north of Europe, not on the hearth in the east of North America. There was neither wife nor mother in the patrician commune of Sir John Popham. Women of Maine, we salute you! Proud are we and beyond measure are we enriched by your diligent research and your poetic sensibility. You have enabled us to defect a fast fading trail which, but for you, might have been forever obliterated. The tang of the wood enriches the zvine. Happily, your fine attention guarantees that the inspiring nectar shall not be lavished on the falling leaves. You have resuscitated Martha Smith of Berwick, as ivell as Capt. Waymouth of Pemaquid. In flesh and blood do you clothe Maine history. Necessary to the structure is the skeleton, but — man is a vertebrate phis. And does not the poetry which creates history, create histo- rians? Drab annals are essential, but the animating figures of real history itivite literary art. Having handed doivn to the last syllable of history and biography four- score, a noble group of men and women representing those who for sixty centuries have been chanting the canticles of Futurity, you women of the Federated Clubs of Maine deserve and receive our greetings and congratu- lations! We thank you very much for what you have done, but may we not beg you to achieve one more important work. Please come again into the wings and bring to the center of the stage a new book, completing the cycle of Maine history and biography. If you please, this book may be bound in pine tassels and adorned with zvild flowers. And on the title page of Book III may the die cast something like this: "The Wit, Humor and Mirth of Maine." 7-.^.....^/^ ^ .a3-^7^ Lewiston, Maine, Pilgrims' Day, MDCCCCXVI. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS In "Tlie Trail of the Maine Pioneer," the club women of Maine offer a second book of Maine historical stories, a companion volume to "Maine in History and Romance." Like the first book, "The Trail of the Maine Pioneer" is a collection of prize stories resulting from a contest conducted by the Lewiston Journal in 1916 and open only to the club women aOiliated with the Maine Federation. The decision to publish this second series of stories in book form was made at Kineo at the annual meeting of the Maine Federation of Women's Clubs held in September, 1916, and in happy memory of which, a picture of Mount Kineo is made the frontispiece of this book. Thirteen writers whose work is included in this volume are new con- testants; the remaining ten are old friends, whose stories in "Maine in History and Romance" are happily recalled. To Mrs. Grace A. Wing, President of the Maine Federation, and her execu- tive board. Miss Fanny E. Lord, Mrs. Amos Clement, Mrs. Myrtle L. T. White, Mrs. Ezra H. ^Vhite, Mrs. Elizabeth Porter and Mrs. Frederick P. Abbott, the committee is indebted for helpful suggestions and hearty co- operation. The committee expresses its appreciation of the Lewiston Journal Com- pany, for conducting the prize story contest, for the gift of the copyrighted stories, the cuts, cover design, and for continued personal interest. Special thanks are due the Federation prize award committee, Mrs. Robert J. Aley of Orono, Mrs. Fabius M. Ray of Westbrook and Mrs. Seth S. Thornton of Houlton, who carefully read the forty stories submitted in the prize contest and assisted in awarding the prizes. To the public for the cordial greeting it has extended to our second book, to the authors of these stories, to the New England newspapers which have given liberal publicity notices, to the book sellers, who have assisted gratui- tously in the sale of the book, and all others who have helped the Maine Federation of Women's Clubs to make its second book, "The Trail of the Maine Pioneer" a success, the committee makes gracious acknowledgment. LIZZIE NORTON FRENCH ELISABETH BURBANK PLUMMER STELLA KING WHITE LOUISE WHEELER BARTLETT MARY HILL BINFORD Book Publication Committee. CONTENTS Chapter Page 1 A Mystery of the Bagaduce 1 By Mary Dunbar Devereux, Castine; Woman's Club 2 Wooing of Mistress Polly: A Romance of the Boxer and Enterprise 13 By Ella Matthews Bangs, Portland; Woman's Literary Union 3 The Garden of the East: Wiscasset on Sheepscot Bay 27 By Maude Clark Gay, Waldoboro; Woman's Club 4 The Luck of the Juliet, or a Tragedy of the Sea 51 By Louise Wheeler Bartlett, Castine; Woman's Club 5 Martha Smith of Berwick 65 By Cora Belle Bickford, Biddeford; The Wayfarers, Biddeford, and Woman's Literary Union, Portland 6 Back to the Army 87 By Gertrude Lewis, Castine; Woman's Club 7 A Romance of Mount Desert Island 101 By Beulah Sylvester Oxton, Rockland: Methebesec 8 Governor King 115 By lone B. Fales, Lewiston; Maine Writers Research 9 Under Jackson's Cloak; or the Sawyer's Inheritance 125 By Mrs. Harry Delbert Smart, Bangor; Nineteenth Century 10 Father Rasle and His Strong Box 141 By Henrietta Tozier Totnian, Oakland; Tuesday Club, Oakland; Waterville Woman's Club 11 An Isle of the Sea 161 By Orrie L. Quimby, Biddeford; Thursday Club 12 Queen of the Kennebec 177 By Mrs. E. C. Carll, Augusta; Current Events 13 General Henry Knox 189 By Mrs. John O. Widber, Auburn; Woman's Literary Union of Androscoggin County 14 A Glimpse of Belfast Under Maine's First Governor 209 By Hester P. Brown, Belfast; Travelers 15 Some Haunted Houses and Their Ghosts 221 By Annie M. L. Hawes, Portland; Travelers CONTENTS CONTINUED 16 Robert Andrews, a Hero of Bunker Hill 235 By Eva L. Shorey, Bridgton; Bridgton Literary, and Portland Woman's Literary Union 17 The Story of Ancient Gorgeana 249 By Nina Victoria Adams Talbot {Mrs. Archie Lee Talbot) , Lewiston; Reading Circle 18 Two Justices of the Supreme Court of Maine 263 By Florence Waii^h Danforth, Skowhegan; Woman's Club 19 Mrs. North's Story 277 By Sara E. Svensen, Round Pond; Fortnightly 20 When Colonel Arnold was Major Colburn's Guest 291 By Theda Cary Dingley, Auburn; Woman's Literary Union of Androscoggin County 21 A Minister of Ye Olden Tyme 299 By Fanny E. Lord, Bangor; Norumbega 22 A Man and a Maid 309 By Jessica J. Haskell, Hallowell; Current Events, Augusta 23 The Romantic History of Muscongus; or Loud's Island 319 By Marietta Munro Simmons, Round Pond; Fortnightly A MYSTERY OF THE BAGADUCE A Mystery of the Bagaduce By MARY DUNBAR DEVEREUX PON the hill just above the little settlement of Majabag- uaduce, in the District of j\Iaine, Commonwealth of Massachusetts, stood Master Pelatiah Beach, overlooking the town and tlie Bagaduce River whose mouth formed the harbor of that quaint old port — old over a century ago. He looked out over the slope at his feet, the river and the hills beyond, now covered with the first snows of the season, then he turned toward the yoke of oxen, driven by the serving man plodding at their heads and bound for the home above the "Narrows," where his tidy, cleared farm and pasture land, with its rude but roomy log house and barns, betokened the energy and thrift of the young man. Off to his left rose the walls of Fort George, on this last evening of November, 1783, yet occupied by the Redcoats who, four years previously, had defeated the Patriot army and fleet collected to oppose Gen. McLean's occupation. The approach of an officer with three men did not at all discon- cert Beach as the garrison had been friendly toward the inhabitants, excepting in a few instances, and from them, sturdy, plodding, but shrewd Pelatiah Beach had gotten no little revenue by the sale of produce. His servant had just discharged the last of many loads of provisions given in exchange for English coin. He responded in neighborly fashion to the greeting of the officer and, after some minutes of conversation concerning the prospect for to-morrow, the coming cold season, and the harbor and Bay of Penobscot so well known to him. Beach was turning to follow his ox team, when sud- denly he felt the officer's hand laid in authority and command upon his arm — "We are leaving for Halifax on the morrow. Master Beach, and have need of a pilot down your Bay of Penobscot," said the officer. "In the king's name follow me into the presence of our general!" In vain Beach protested. Not even allowed to recall his man, now out of sight over the hill leading from the Peninsula of Penta- goet, or to communicate in any way with his family, he was hurried over to the barracks whence, at dawn, the British embarked in His Majesty's ships for Halifax, and not for more than two years was Pelatiah Beach seen again in his native District of Maine. Meanwhile, his mother and young wife, with her little ones, were rudely startled from their busy life of quiet security, first, by the failure of the son and husband to return with the shadows of evening 4 The Trail of the Maine Pioneer and by the servant's report that his master was last seen in con- verse with British officers. Later, their alarm and distress were in- creased by news from the port that watching townsfolk had seen Pelatiah Beach marched under guard to the landing, at daybreak, and embarked upon H. M. Ship "Greyhound" with the last company of Redcoats. Was he to be punished, perhaps shot, for some fancied wrong? Was he a hostage, or held for ransom in spite of the recent treaty of peace? Or had he merely been taken as a pilot down the Bay on account of his well-known knowledge of its waters ? In this last case he might be landed and return home within a few days, and for this his family hoped until, learning that the "Greyhound" had been grounded for some hours in the Reach below, but had later pro- ceeded, the chance that he might be accused of wilfully endangering the fleet seemed to destroy their last hopes. Days, weeks, months passed, and he returned not; neither was any word of his fate received, and friends and neighbors became con- vinced that Mistress Beach was a widow and her babes fatherless. But if they anticipated helpless need on the part of the family, they were happily disappointed. The young wife, of slight, girlish figure, with softly rounded cheek in which the rose of youth strove with creamy pallor, her dark hair wavy and lustrous above the broad, low brow and brilliant dark eyes, a girl in appearance, proved herself a strong and brave woman in adversity. She had been reared more softly and with more culture than her neighbors for at New Falmouth (Portland), even in those early days girls met less of the rough life of pioneer folk, more of the refine- ments of the town. Mistress Mary — or "Polly" as the Marys of those days were usually called, having already learned from Mother Beach all the skill of the country housewife, now proved that she could direct the farm work as well. The preparation for the long, cold winter was completed, the stock housed, cellars and barns banked with fir boughs against mid-winter frosts ; and when spring came at last tardily out of the South, the little heroine planned, directed and assisted in all the planting, cultivating and harvesting of her crops, not one of her neighbors having sleeker cattle or better produce for table or market than she. Thus a year passed and another, and still no word of Master Pel- atiah Beach! Yet another winter was passing from the Penobscot. Majabaguaduce was busy and stirring. Fishing had proved lucra- tive, and the lumbering pursuits offered in the region were drawing new settlers and calling home those who had fled during the British occupation. The renewal of land grants gave added impetus to im- migration. A Mystery of the Bagaduce 5 On a late March day of 1786, when spring promised in the warmth of the sun's rays and in the melting snows and bare brown hillsides and the faint breeze jnst rippled the waters and haltingly filled the sails of the ships in the harbor of ^lajabaguaduce, a newly arrived trader dropped her anchor in front of the Town Landing at the foot of the main street. Presently a boat put out from the ship's side; the occupants landed, drew their boat upon the beach and walked up into the little settlement. One man, taller and broader than any one of the others and the last to land, followed his companions briskly for a few rods, then paused to look about, to turn again to the harbor, to gaze off across the water toward the opposite shore, either as if recalling scenes once familiar or, it might be, fixing in mind a picture never beheld before. Meeting a group of citizens, talking animatedly of the re- cent expulsion of some who had been inimical to the Patriots' cause during the Revolution and of the new grants of land to incoming set- tlers, the newcomer again paused, then moved forward as if he would have passed the group in silence. But Capt. Jeremiah Bardwell stepped forward with amazement and welcome in his bluff countenance. "Why, Pel Beach! Are ye risen from the dead?" he shouted. "As sure as I am Jeremiah Bardwell and these men, Dave Will- son and Gabril Jahonnot, here is Pel Beach come back to life ! Wel- come home, old neighbor! — Won't this give Mistress Polly a start! And Bill Hutchins saying no longer ago than last Sabbath that a pity it was .such a fine young woman had not yet taken a second husband to help her manage the farm and the children, w4th Pel dead and gone these two years and more ! Welcome home ! " Handshakings followed, and Capt. Perkins with Mr. Aaron Banks also came forward to meet the long absent citizen. Soon it was noised up and dow^n the street that Pelatiah Beach of the farm up the Bagaduce had come back from prison in Halifax or England — or was it Ireland? — and from voyaging to the West Indies and had just arrived on the Brig Polly from Boston. Several others hastened at the news to greet the traveler; and so in homely converse passed an hour or two, the wanderer joining only occasion- ally with remark or question, but listening to and watching intently all that went on about him. Capt. Bardwell took him hospitably into his company and presently led their steps from the town up over the hill whence, two years be- fore, Pelatiah Beach had been taken by the British officer. At the cove back of the peninsula they embarked in the Captain's skiff and rowed stoutly up the river, Capt. Jeremiah, whose home lay far up the Bagaduce, talking volubly of the changes in family or fortune in each homestead which they passed. He landed the traveler at "The Eddy" just below the famous Bagaduce Narrows, promising 6 The Trail of the Maine Pioneer to call soon to see his old neighbor, and then rowed swiftly up stream with the current. Left to himself, the wanderer stood, almost hesitating to take the road dimly marked before him and bounded here and there by hum- ble homesteads. He had passed on for a thoughtful ten minutes when he paused again in the light of the setting sun, doubtful, unde- cided. Did he even turn back to gaze down the river as if he would retrace his route to the Port and leave the Bagaduce region forever? Had the absence and the cold of winter and loneliness entered his soul and frozen even the love of home and kindred? The smell of the bare brown sods at his feet came up with the promise of spring and of hope and courage. The sunset threw a warm radiance on the whole countryside. The bleating of new-bom lambs and their dams at a nearby barn was heard. Ah ! such homely sights and sounds of coming life and joy! And, in the slender little birches by the roadside, suddenly a little black-capped chickadee started his spring song — the bird's brave little note of courage and promise! It seemed like a welcome home. The man passed on, by the low farmhouses of several old neigh- bors, pausing at each to look, to murmur a word or two under his breath as if conning an oft-repeated lesson, and so on to the home- stead of the Beaches. Again he paused ere he walked up the path from the high-road and, as he reached his own door, it opened to allow the passage of the same serving man who had accompanied Master Beach on that momentous trip to the port, two years before. The fellow stared a moment at the strange figure, peered doubtfully again, then, dropping the milking pails which he held in either hand, he turned back shouting, ' ' The Lord be praised, Pel Beach has come home ! ' ' The ruddy glow from the fire of logs on the hearth within shone upon Pelatiah Beach, standing upon his own threshhold, and lit up the scene within— the children in a curious and interested group, Mother Beach in her wide arm-chair, her whitened hair smooth over the wrinkled brow, her hands now raised in amazed welcome of the long lost son, — and Mistress Polly, as if stunned with the suddenness of the shock, as if petrified by the apparition of the husband so long mourned and in whose loss she had steadily refused quite to believe. She stood white-faced, wide-eyed, with her beautiful dark hair fram- ing that center of life in the fire-lighted room for a full minute, and then sank unconscious upon the hearth-rug. Joy and anxiety were mingled in the hours, days and weeks fol- lowing, when the wife tossed in delirium and neighbors and family vied with each other in efforts to restore her and to coax back the dauntless spirit whom all loved so well. Through all these weeks, at first timidly and remorsefully, had Pelatiah Beach added his services in caring for the stricken woman, gradually assuming the direction A Mystery of the Bagaduce 7 of all the affairs dropped from those capable little hands, now rest- lessly moving in fever, or lying helpless in weakness. But youth and strength conquered, and when spring was giving place to summer, Mistress Polly at last stood again in her doorway, looking out upon the dear home scene and the river, always her chiefest delight. Never in her freshest girlhood had I\Iistress Polly been so beautiful as now, never had she looked as at that moment to the two men who hastened up the pathway toward her. "We are most pleased to see you. Master Powers. Tie your horse at the post and sup with us. And, Husband," smiled Mistress Polly, ' ' I must see how my garden has fared. Please to lead me forth in spite of my weakness, — and do j^ou promise before our neighbor, Mrs. Veazie, and before the Reverend Mr. Powers also, that never again shall I be left without a husband and protector." "Dear Avife," replied the Master, "I swear it before these friends ! ' ' "Ah!" exclaimed the Rev. Jonathan Powers, "again are you pro- nounced man and wife, and I will add my blessing to that given yovi ten years ago. May you spend a long and happy season here by the banks of this pleasant stream." They visited the quaint garden which seemed to have suffered no neglect during the owner's illness; for the currants and gooseberries showed green and fresh and held up abundance of forming fruit; the hollyhocks were pushing up rank and bold in their bed at the corner of the rugged log house, while in the beds by the path, love-in-a-mist, youth-and-old-age, and pretty-by-nights vied with each other and with the little heartsease and ladies' delights. At evening when their friend, the parson, had departed for his ride down to the Neck, husband and wife stood watching his depart- ure and the beautiful scene before them, happy, united at last and looking into the long future. Over the Narrows hung the low wax- ing summer moon, just turning from silver to gold, and trailing its long reliection even to the hither shore below their farm. The bloom and sweetness of the tardy summer were at last in their fullness over everything, and the call of the nesting loons in a reedy marsh far away by the opposite river bank sounded lone and weird yet so famil- iar, wild and full of the suggestion of home and nest! It was the fullness of summer in these two human lives, also — Pelatiah Beach recently a homeless wanderer but now home-encircled, and by his side the sweetest and most beautiful little heroine of the country- side! "I shall build a new house by yonder orchard, more fitting than this for you, dear wife," said Beach. "For weeks I have been plan- ning it. It shall face the river and the highway like this, bvit higher upon the hillside, and it shall be the best in the region. There we shall remove and set up all your household treasures and many more, 8 The Trail of the Maine Pioneer and the children shall be as proud of their home as of their beautiful mother. All the roots and shrubs of your garden shall be trans- planted by the new house and, please God, we shall live there long together. ' ' The master's words were fulfilled and "New House" with its barns and stables soon rose, facing the river, a house large and pre- tentious for the place and times, with wide fireplaces in kitchen and living room, white-sanded floors, small-paned, low windows and rude furnishing, varied here and there by pieces of finer make, brought from Boston by oft-coming ships. On the narrow mantel above the fireplace of the living room stood two small pictures on glass, set off with gilt and flanked with the pink-lipped conches brought by West Indian traders, and on the nearby wall hung a mirror with cable pat- tern frame in the upper section of which was set the picture of a ship in full sail. A corner cupboard stood in an angle of the room, dis- playing a fine array of pewter with a few rarer pieces of India china brought from over-seas. A piece of framed shell work hung over the master's mahogany "secretary" and against another wall stood a tall chest of drawers, also of solid mahogany, v/hile at one side of the fireplace a high backed settle added the last touch to this quaint in- terior. Over this establishment ruled Mistress Mar}^ Beach and her husband — "The Major" as he came to be universally^ called, from his connection with the neighborhood militia. * * * Master Beach of former years had been a sturdy and reliable young farmer; but "The Major" became the leading business man and authority of the town of Penobscot, incorporated in 1787 from ancient Pentagoet, — a man looked up to, honored, but feared by some and a puzzle to many. How changed from himself of former years ! His manner had become that of a man of the world, and it much per- plexed his simple country neighbors. Even his speech had changed, and tones never heard before entered into it. "Why," said Capt. Bardwell, "if I didn't know 'twas Pel Beach, I'd think another man had come back in his skin." "His very skin is changed," declared Mistress Bardwell in re- sponse. "Who ever heard before of black hair turning red?" Indeed, since his return, the Major's hair had always shown streaks of dark auburn and reddish glints which even his wife did not recall in his youth, that wavy and beautiful hair which remained always abundant and glossy and lent a physical charm to the Major's otherwise rugged and stern face. The months passed and the years, but never could the Major be persuaded to reveal the particulars of his wanderings nor even in what lands he had spent the period of his absence. Any inquiry on the subject seemed to provoke his wrath and suspicion. A passion- ately loving and hating soul, a keen business man and honored with Bagaduce Narrows from "The Eddys" Warm Cove— part of the Major's Farm Mills Point Along the Bagaduce A Mystery of the Bagaduce 9 the highest local posts of trust and responsibility, he ever remained a mystery to those about him. Even "New House" wore an air of secrecy and his shrewd countrymen sometimes hinted that the Major came not home empty-handed, even though an English prison had bound him during his stay abroad. « # « Of a Sabbath morning when the Major and Mistress Beach walked out to hear the Rev. Jonathan Powers preach at the church on the hill, an air of poise and distinction separated them from others of the congregation. The Major's commanding mien, his skirted coat, knee breeches, buckled shoes and powdered hair tied with black ribbon, savored more of the town than of the farm, while beside him Mistress Mary, in dove-colored crape gown, lace tucker, silk mantle and white bonnet with ostrich plumes, was acknowledged the hand- somest woman along The Bagaduce. But, as years passed, the Major's peculiarities were accentuated and the distrust which a few had expressed, even as to his identity, grew acute. "Strange," said Capt. Whitney at the Neck, "that Major Beach knows the harbor of Martinique better than I recalled it during our recent conversation, and, too, he chanced to mention the Goodwin Sands as if he knew the navigation of the Thames equally well. He must have travelled much between his release from an English prison and his return home! Yes, passing strange!" "The new Pelatiah Beach is ten times the man he was before he saw something of the world ; but why will he never speak of his im- prisonment, his escape or his many experiences?" quoth the Rev. Mr. Powers. "He's not Pel Beach, but another man in his shoes," said Uncle Bill Hutchins. "The Major bargained with the Devil for his freedom and some- times the Devil gets him," declared Nat Rhoads, the innocent of the hamlet whose sayings, however, sometimes had the strange and un- canny force of truth. Even his wife sighed often and said that the Major's hardships in prison had rendered him flighty and irascible, almost like another man at times; but she always ended by pointing to a tiny miniature of herself in her bridal dress, painted at New Falmouth by a wander- ing artist and declaring that the picture proved his truth and devo- tion, for it was carried in his pockets during his long absence and it was the only treasure that he brought home. "He stole it from the otJier Pel Beach!" declared blunt Mrs. Veazie who hated the ]\Iajor cordially for cursing her trespassing cattle. This half-told, half -hinted story, never wholly died away in the years when his family grew up, married and settled about the 10 The Trail of the Maine Pioneer town and the happenings of Revolutionary days became but fireside reminiscences of the older citizens. # « # No longer was it June but it was harvest time along The Baga- duce and the first frosts had glorified the maples and oaks and lined the roadsides with purple asters. The harvest moon shone full on the front of "New Plouse" and, solemn and unrebuked, looked into the windows of the low living room upon the last of the Major's nights above the sods of his hillside farm. He lay stark and quiet in his coffin and by his side stood Mistress Beach, candle in hand, taking a quiet farewell of the husband loved and honored so well. She stood, still straight and lithe and alert, beauty hardly dimmed in her grief-blanched face, her eyes still gloriously dark and overarched by brows a painter might love to copy, her dark hair, despite her fifty-five years, wavy and beautiful. The touch of frost on the tem- ples after all, was only a touch, glorifying the face which the harvest moon caressed. Great-grandmother Beach placed her palm softly upon the cold hands which never before had failed to respond to hers, and silently thanked God for her life with this strong, stern lover. In a moment she reviewed very much of all those years, but she thought especially of that long absence and of the return that at times seemed, even to her, to be the coming of a dilferent man and the beginning of her own love-life and his. Was there still a doubt in her mind that he really ivas the husband of her youth, or his double come to take his place and a far greater place in her life and the world's? She stretched out her hand to push back the heavy hair, lately showing gray upon his temples and concealed in which he had in his youth laughingly shown her a dark birthmark which he said would identify him, living or dead. But great-grandmother Beach cast aside in scorn her own lingering doubt even in the act of removing it by proof. She laid her hand gently, for an instant, on those thick gray locks, then slowly turned to gaze across the moonlit fields to the open grave awaiting the master by the side of the little lad — the child of their later union — who had gleefully laughed through three years of adorable babyhood and then been laid in the family burying ground on the river bank. * * * The summer of her life and love was over even to the harvest and frosts of death. Though great-grandmother Beach lived on for twenty years, calmly and nobly, in the larger sense her life ended when the stern, sin-scarred and irascible soul of Pelatiah Beach went to its last accounting. For a century Major Beach has slept h's quiet sleep on the hill- side overlooking the Narrows and the Upper Bagaduce. For nearly as long his wife, Mary, has slept by his side — an hundred years with A Mystery of the Bagaduce 11 their early December darkness and snows; an hundred years with their lingering winters, broken by the brave little song of the chick- adee and the tardy south wind creeping over the ocean and upon the icy shores of New England; an hundred Junes with their sudden sur- prise of bloom and glow and gladness, the low summer moon reflect- ing in the quiet waters, and the cry of the nesting loons echoing afar from the reedy marsh by the river bank ; an hundred Septembers with their fruitage and the sweet odors of orchard and meadow and cornfield, the early flame on the maples and the spike of ladies' tresses over the mown fields where the tang of autumn is felt even while summer lingers; an hundred years and the mystery in the lives of the tenants of those low green houses has never been solved ! Still stands, -higher upon the hillside, "New House" which was their home — staunch and sturdy — still a home with the open doors of hospitality and neighborliness, still welcoming back each summer the fifth generation of the descendants of Pelatiah Beach. On a bright, cool September morning of 1915, the Major's great- granddaughter sat before his desk of mellow old mahogany, sat in the Major's solid arm-chair, fingering the knobs and handles of that old desk, familiar to her from earliest childhood but never quite losing its awe-inspiring aspect. She glanced from the windows out over the hillside and across the river, musing of those old days when great-grandfather was young and had been carried off by the Red- coats; of when he had looked out upon this same scene or had sat on the same spot, quill in hand and intent on public or private business. Suddenly her attention was drawn to the fact that one little drawer, just pulled out, seemed a bit more shallow than its face would indicate, and pressing the bottom of that drawer, she found that it slipped back easily, disclosing a second bottom and between them a shallow space only an eighth of an inch deep, but containing a neatly folded sheet, yellowed with age, yet otherwise as if just sealed and laid there. She took it up wonderingly and found on its outer fold, in the neat but bold hand familiar from her perusal of many of the Penobscot town records as the writing of Major Beach, these words: "When I am dead, for the eyes of my wife, Mary Beach," and in addition, — "What I never could tell you — but I know that your love is great and that you will forgive both my sins and my silence — Pelatiah Beach." That was all and a date just an hundred years before. Turning the folded paper, she found it still sealed with the bit of red wax as the Major had left it. The Major's secret, the mystery of his life, lay in her hand, super- scribed, "For the eyes of my wife." It was not possible that the 12 The Trail of the Maine Pioneer crevice had been unknown to great-grandmother Beach. It was not probable that she had never discovered the paper and read its in- scription, but she must have postponed or repudiated the act of un- covering what her husband had all his life hidden from her. Per- haps she had postponed it from time to time until death had come to tell her all — or nothing! * * * The wax crackled under the pressure of the fingers holding it, but it was still guarding the Major's message to his wife ! "For the eyes of my wife," whispered that wife's great-granddaughter; and she dropped the paper, still unopened, into the brisk blaze on the hearth beside which the Major and Mistress Polly had spent so many even- ings in the far-away past. The tale of that man's wanderings, of his sins or perchance his crime, would never be knowm. It would remain forever a mystery of The Bagaduce. THE WOOING OF MISTRESS POLLY: A ROMANCE OF THE BOXER AND ENTERPRISE The Wooing of Mistress Polly: A Romance of the Boxer and Enterprise By ELLA MATTHEWS BANGS VERLOOKING the flashing blue of a bay, emerald-gem- med by clustering islands, stands a fair New England city. The harbor pulsates with the life of ocean steamer and coast-wise craft, of coal barges, fishing and pleasure boats of endless variety, and occasionally with the more imposing ships of war, part of the country's navy. Summer cottages dot the island and Cape shores, while among the throng of busy workers, or more leisurely tourists, there mingle, not infrequently, uniformed men from the forts protecting the harbor and city. The town itself adds to its natural beauty of situation, with ocean outlook and mountain background, the prosperous air of a modern city, but, as in fancy. Time, the Necromancer, turns backward for us his pages, marvelous changes take place before our eyes. The har- bor grows quiet, only now and then a white sail catches the breeze or the paddles of a dory flash in the sunshine. Gone are the attractive residences of nearby islands which now rise green-clad in their prime- val freshness, broken only here and there by an unpretentious farm house and visited but occasionally by pickniekers or land survej^ors. Gone are the warehouses along the water front, wharfs and piers are gone with them, giving place to sloping banks of green; gone, too, the towering business blocks. The bold promontory of White tiead stands out its own defender, while Forts Williams, McKinley and Levett are undrempt of and the sea-farers' guiding Light at Portland Head, the first to be erected upon the New England coast, has only within the last decade flashed over the dark waters of the ]3ay. Forts Preble and Scammel, indeed, are here, the former but newly completed, while in place of the Fort Scammel of our own days stands an unfamiliar but picturesque blockhouse, octagonal, built entirely of timber, its eight sides meeting in a pointed roof. On the low, up- right, center timber of the roof .stands a carved eagle, also of wood, with extended wings. Each of the eight sides of the blockhouse dis- plays an embrasure, or port hole, and a gun. The upper story, which projects two or three feet beyond the lower, contains the battery. The buildings, including blockhouse and barracks, are clapboarded and their white-painted sides glisten in the sunshine, and all, en- closed in an earthem rampart, present a quaint picture in green and white. 16 The Trail of the Maine Pioneer In the town swift electrics give place to cars drawn by horses, then, as still backward the pages turn, these disappear and a lumbering stagecoach provides the only means of travel upon the public high- way, while through the sparsely settled streets and lanes of the city, now shrunken to a little town, pedestrians make their way over un- paved walks, for few are so fortunate as to own a private carriage. As still the pages turn, let us pause at one written over with events of the early years of the nineteenth century, for it is here that our story begins. * * ;;< The year was 1813 ; the month was June. It was June as well in the hearts of two young people whom we see, one a stalwart young man with clear, blue eyes and cb,eeks tanned to deeper tints than Nature selected, as he stood waiting at the end of a box-bordered walk leading to the street from the residence of a well-to-do citizen of little Portland. Down this walk came tripping the second figure, slim and girlish, in a white gown, scant of skirt and short of waist. The crimson border of the mantle over her shoulders repeated its color in her cheeks, while a fetching little curl of dark hair fell out on either side the round face from within the confines of the twilled, silk bonnet. One could not wonder that the blue eyes down by the gate watched the winsome figure with undisguised pleasure, and his own face was far from displeasing as he greeted her with, "Good day to you, Mistress Polly. How uncommonly in luck I am to be passed here at just this minute. And where might you be going, may I ask?" The white gowned figure courtesied in mock obeisance. ' ' I might ask the same question of you, Master Brian," she returned, "though in truth, you seem in no great haste to be going anywhere." "As to that," the other began, "the answer to your question might answer mine, as well, for I am minded to walk along with you, an' you do not object." "Well, then, I am going a-shopping, and that will suit you well, I'm thinking," with a laughing glance from her dark eyes. "Shopping, is it?" with feigned dismay. " 'Tis so," with a nod, "an' you must know, I am about to go on a journey." ' ' A journey ? " in surprise. ' * And where, pray ? ' ' "Only up to Portsmouth." As a matter of fact, Polly Freeman in all her eighteen years, had never been so far from home as Portsmouth, but she referred to it now as to an every day occurrence. "You have relations there?" the young man inquired. "An aunt and cousins. They think it high time for us to be acquainted." ^^»*"^\<^^"^(iS^Spi.^ Fort Scammell, Portland Harbor, as it is Today Fort Preble, Portland Harbor The Wooing of Mistress Polly 17 "Will you go by land, or water?" "Mercy sakes ! You don't think I'd go by water I hope, with the British likely to capture us at any minute ! Oh, no, I go by stage- coach, and the day after tomorrow, if all goes well." For a little they walked on in silence, then, after several hesitat- ing glances at the girl, the young man spoke. "You know, Polly, — you recollect — that years ago we — we said we'd be married when we grew up. I've not spoken before, but now — " Here, however, the girl interrupted. "It surprises me greatly, Brian Oxnard, to know that you remember anything so foolish, I — I had nigh forgot it; for of course, it means nothing now." "Means nothing — now? Polly, do you think — that?" The color in the girl's cheeks deepened, but she returned airily, "Of a truth, why not?" "But — but Polly," in boyish confusion, "let's forget that then, if it suits you, and begin all over again. Will you?" Polly lifted her head with a proud little toss but her face was averted as she returned, "They say there be a many fine gallants in Portsmouth town, I cannot promise — anybody — till I've seen a few of them." Then with another mocking courtesy she turned, and entered the shop where her errand was to be done. Brian looked after her a moment, a hurt look in his eyes, then with uplifted head, and a new, firm look about his mouth, he went his way. In due time Polly's little hair trunk, with her initials, P. F., in brass-headed nails, was lifted to the stage coach, and without seeing Brian again, she started on her journey to Portsmouth. * * * Meantime, on land and sea the War of 1812 was in progress. Privateers from Portland and other ports were taking prizes in the shape of British brigs, sloops-of-war, and other craft. So while there were many failures among the land troops, and the American seamen were not always victorious, their many important captures caused their gallantry to become a theme of admiration wherever a group of men was found, in the bar-room at Marston's tavern, in the grocery stores, or around the family hearthstone. Had not Capt. Lawrence on the preceding February, while in command of the sloop-of-war Hornet, encountered the British brig Peacock, off the coast of Guiana, and in fifteen minutes compelled her to strike her colors? And then all deplored the untimely death of the brave, young officer, Lawrence, who, after returning to the United States and being promoted to commander of the frigate Chespeake then in Boston harbor, had felt it his duty, despite the fact of an ill assorted crew and imperfect equipments, to go out to meet the British frigate Shannon which was in the best of condition, and had thereby 18 The Trail of the Maine Pioneer received his death wound, but had immortalized himself by his dying injunction to his men, — "Don't give up the ship." Oh, yes, of bravery there was plenty, while Portland was again and again agitated by the danger threatened in seeming reality, or more often in excited fancy, that a British fleet was heading for this port. The Portland Committee of Safety had received word from the Secretary of the Navy, that the Enterprise with the brig Syren had been ordered here in May "for the protection of the coast in the neighborhood." The Syren, however, did not show herself, and it was not until the 13th of June that the Enterprise came into the har- bor, and soon after this she was ordered to Portsmouth, and her commander, Captain Blaliely, sent to the lakes. Polly Freeman returned from visiting her Portsmouth relations during the last of July, and it was perhaps a week later that she observed casually to her friend, Ruth Ilsley, ^'By the way, what has become of Brian Oxnard ? I haven 't seen him since I came home. ' ' "No, nor are you likes to," her friend replied. "He shipped a-board the brig Enterprise when she was here in June." "Shipped — in June? Why, it was June when I went away." "So 'twas, and 'twas June, too, when the Enterprise come a-sail- ing into the bay, and pretty soon sailed out again, but, meantime, more than one young man o' the town had time to join her crew. Besides Brian there's John Vaughan and Sam Merrill^ and — " But Polly heard no more. She was thinking only of Brian, and the look in his eyes when she saw him last. Supposing it were the last time she was ever to see him ! The daj's went on and it was the last of August when looking one morning from her window, Polly saw her father in earnest conversa- tion with a neighbor, and as the man went on, she ran down stairs, meeting her fatlier in the long hall running through the house. ''Any news, daddy?" she inquired. "Well, Sawyer was just telling me that 'tis said the British privateer is making more trouble along the coast." "What is she? What has happened?" the girl asked eagerly, as she clasped her hands over her father's coat sleeve. "She's the brig Boxer." was the answer, "and news comes tliat on the fourth o' this month, — a week ago, she captured the schooner Industry o' Marblehead, and has sailed with her for St. John." "Where was the capture made?" "Down by the mouth o' the Sheepscot, 'tis said. That Boxer has been pestering of us long enough, to my thinking. 'Tis time we give her some o' her own medicine." "And is there no privateer of our own to go out to meet her?" It was Mrs. Freeman who thus asked, coming up to wliere her husband and daughter were standing. The Wooing of Mistress Polly 19 The man turned to her with a .shake of his head. "Nauglit at present, but 'tis hoped a vessel will be ordered here soon." As he was speaking, little Olive and Robert, Polly's young sister and brother came near, to find what the older ones were saying, but hearing nothing of interest to them, went running off again. The hope expressed by Freeman was realized ; for on the last day of August a brig came into the harbor in search of the troublesome privateer of the British. The first news Polly had of this was on the following day when her friend Ruth came in to see her. "Have you heard that the Enterprise is in our harbor again?" she asked almost in the same breath as that in which she greeted her. "The Enterprise—" Polly repeated, "why that—" "Yes, that's the vessel our bovs are aboard, John, and Brian and Sam." "Will they come ashore, do you think?" Ruth shook her blond head. "Nobody knows," she declared. Everybody felt easier to know that a brig for defense was in the harbor, and that this was the Enterprise was satisfactory, too, as Portland boys were among her crew. Since the last visit of this vessel to this port, she had changed commanders, and it was now Captain William Burrows who was in command. On Saturday morning, the 4th day of September, a fisherman arrived in the harbor, bringing a report which ran through the town like wild fire. With their own eyes they had seen, dov,n by the mouth of the Kennebec, the British privateer Boxer fire upon the American brig Margaretta. All was excitement, indeed little was needed to bring the populace of this, as well as other towns, to the point where they could no longer refrain from some act of retalia- tion, for, since the capture of the Chesapeake, public opinion could not forgive Captain Broke of the Shannon for drawing out the Chesa- peake before she was prepared, and for the consequent death of her commander. As soon, therefore, as the news brought by the fishing vessel became known, the Enterprise prepared for immediate depart- ure in search of the offending Boxer. The southerly wind was light on this September morning, and being flood tide the brig could not sail out between the forts. Throughout the town there was more or loss anxiety and excitement. "Come, Polly," called Ruth putting her sun-bonneted head in at the Freeman doorway. "Everybody's going to see the Enterprise sail out to meet the foe. Hurry — don't wait for anything." Polly glanced at her mother, but so far out of the common course of events were affairs moving just now, that Mrs. Freeman merely nodded assent to what at another time she might have considered hardly a proper or becoming thing for her daughter to be allowed to do. "Where are we going?" Polly asked as the two girls started out. 20 The Trail of the Maine Pioneer "Up to the old fort on the hill," Ruth answered. So up to the green pastures lying around and beyond the Ob- servatory, the girls hastened, by no means the only ones going in the same direction. The Enterprise was sailing again, and this time to battle — and — she had not seen Brian. Once arrived at the lookout they had chosen, the girls saw the brig already underway, her sails spread, and running down toward Spring Point. Eagerly all watched her till suddenly a man ex- claimed : ' ' Golly ! What 'd I tell ye ? She can 't stem the tide ! ' ' It was true as the man had stated ; for the Enterprise in chang- ing her course, found herself unable to stem the tide now running full against her. The little crowd waited in wondering suspense when another voice called out: "Look! Look!" And look they did, hardly believing what they saw, for as if by magic, every one of the brig's boats dropped into the water full of men, and arranged themselves in a line ahead of the brig, and towed her out until clear of the land. The interested spectators heard the rousing songs of the men, and answered by hearty cheers, while the boats again disappeared, and the Enterprise bore out and away toward Seguin; and to — what? Polly was not the only one whose sleep that night was disturbed by dreams of cannon shot, and bursting shells, and Sabbath morning found the little town early astir, and thrilling with excitement. That a battle was to take place between the Enterprise and her enemy, the Boxer, none doubted, and at an early hour people began to gather at the Observatory, the highest point in Portland ; for from here, the morning being clear, Captain Moody could with his glass sweep the bay as far down as the point of Seguin, and the open water beyond. Only a few friends were admitted to the tower; the remainder waited below eager for any word which might come to them from Captain Moody, and when the first communication was received, a cheer went up from the anxious crowd, notwithstanding the fact that it was the Sabbath day. The message which had come was that Captain Moody could see the smoke of the Boxer's challenge-gun, and that of the Enterprise accepting it. As for Polly Freeman, how she longed to join the crowd up by the Observatory, but she dared not hint such a thing as going, knowing only too well how emphatically it would be denied her by her father and mother. So she sat through the parson 's long sermon, though it is to be feared she was little benefitted by the discourse, and even her father started occasionally, and half turned at the sound of some- thing going on in the street outside. The Wooing of Mistress Polly 21 The service ended at last, and it was a relief to be out of doors at least. Going toward home her father said: "I reckon I'll rim up to the hill and see if anything 's been heard." "Oh, father, can I go too?" Polly's eager voice broke in. Her mother turned to her. "Fie, child," she exclaimed, "why should you go! 'Tis doubtful if they've heard anything, and if they have, your father '11 come and tell us." So again there was nothing but to wait, while out on the Bay a battle was going on, and Brian was there. He might even now be wounded, he might be — but she would not, could not, let her thoughts go beyond that. Surely she would see him again, just once, at least, to tell him that she was but teazing that last day the}^ spoke together ; for it did mean something to her, that old promise, and she had been waiting, hoping he might speak of it. Meantime from the Observatory on the hill there was little to be learned. According to Captain Moody's report, it was several hours before the Enterprise obtained sea-room, and ceased maneuvering for an advantageous position. Believing the battle over, the crowd began to disperse when the keeper of the tower announced that he saw the smoke of guns. The tight had begun, but the engaging brigs were beyond his range of vision. Through the long night hours, wives, mothers, sisters and sweet- hearts waited, dreading the news that morning might bring, but eager for the first word to tell of what had taken place out forty miles from the harbor, and too great a distance for the sound of booming guns to reach. Daylight crept over the town and the sparkling bay, and still no news; then, at last from his observation Captain Moody dis- cerned a speck on the horizon, — it grew larger, and then the glorious news spread in a wave of excitement over the waiting town, — he sig- nalled the victorious Enterprise sailing into the harbor and leading her prize under the same flag ! Up they came to Union wharf, where all who wished were at liberty to go aboard. There was great rejoicing throughout the town, people could talk of nothing else, and some who had not spoken together for years, now met and shook hands in mutual congratulations. In the midst of this exultation came the knowledge that the victory had been at the same time a tragedy, for both young commanders had lost their lives, and each wrapped in his own flag knew nothing of the excitement attending their arrival in the harbor. When Mr. Freeman returned from his visit to the wharf, Polly, a little of the usual bright color gone from her cheeks, met him at the door. "What — what have you heard?" she asked breathlessly. "I've heard and seen considerable," he returned with trying de- liberation. "The Boxer is pretty well cut up, for a fact, hull and 22 The Trail of the Maine Pioneer rigging, and on one side of her I could reach as many as two shot holes wherever I stretched out my arms." "And is it true that both Captains are killed?" asked Mrs. Free- man. "Ay, poor fellows, both dead. Captain Blyth o' the Boxer killed instantly, by an eighteen pound shot. Captain Burrows lived eight hours after his hurt, and as nigh as we can make out, the men o' both crews had reason to be proud o' their commanders." Tears were in the eyes of both mother and daughter, and after a moment's pause, Polly faltered another inquiry. "The crew — was — was any hurt of them?" The man nodded. "Ay, though but a few on our side, mar- velously few. One, Waters, his name is, from Georgetown near Washington, has a mortal hurt, so they say, and ten or a dozen more or less wounded. ' ' "Any of them from — here?" Polly's lips could hardly form the words. "Yes, so I hear, but there's so many rumors fllying 'round I don't feel certain whether 'tis John, or Brian, or both." "Brian wounded — more or less seriously." The words seemed to repeat themselves in the girl's ears till she could hear nothing else. Meantime the whole town was buzzing with excitement and pride in the gallant Enterprise, with lamentations for the dead Captains — • one as brave as the other as could but be admitted — and with eager attention to the wounded. Many and varied were the accounts of the battle, and few, perhaps, had a clear idea of just what had taken place out beyond the range of Captain Moody's glass, until the fol- lowing official account appeared in the Portland Gazette of Septem- ber 13th, 1813. Gallant Naval Action and Victory. "On Monday last, 6th inst., anchored in this harbor, the U. S. brig Enterprise (late William Burrows, commander), accompanied by H. B. M. Brig Boxer (late Captain Samuel Blyth, commanded), her prize, captured on the 5th inst. after a well fought action of 45 minutes. The following particulars of the engagement are given by the Officers of the Enterprise : "Sept. 5th, at 5 a.m. light winds from N. N. W. Pemaquid bear- ing North 8 miles distant, saw a brig at anchor in shore, and made sail on a wind, with the larboard tacks on board. At half past 7, the brig weighed and fired 3 shots at a fishing boat, for the purpose of ascertaining what we were (as we have since learnt). At half past 8 the brig fired a shot as a challenge, and hoisted three English Ensigns, and immediately bore up for us. At 9 we tacked, kept away South and prepared for action. At half past 9 it fell calm, the enemy bearing N. N. W. distant four miles. At half past 11 a The Wooing of Mistress Polly 23 breeze sprung up from S. W. which gave us the weather gauge, we manoeuvred to the windward, until 2 p.m. we shortened sail, hoisted 3 ensigns and fired a shot at the enemy. At 3 p.m. tacked and bore up for the enemy, taking him to be one of H. M.'s brigs of the largest size. At quarter past 3, the enemy being within half pistol shot, gave three cheers and commenced the action by firing her starboard broad- side, when the action became general. At 20 minutes past 3 p.m. our brave commander fell, and while lying on deck, refused to be car- ried below, raised his head and requested iliat tJie flag might never he struck. At half past 3 we ranged ahead of the enem.y, fired our stern chaser, rounded to on the starboard tack and raked him with our starboard broadside. At 35 minutes past 3 the enemy's main topmast and topsail came down. We then set the foresail and took a position on his starboard bow and continued to rake him until 45 minutes past 3, when he ceased firing and cried for quarter; saying that as their colors were nailed they could not haul them down. "We then took possession of the brig which proved to be H. B. M.'s brig, Boxer. "Sixty-four prisoners were taken, including 17 wounded. The number of the enemy killed cannot be exactly ascertained as many were hove overboard before we took possession, Capt. Blyth being one of the slain who fell in the early part of the action. "When the sword of the vanquished enemy was presented to the dying conqueror he clasped his hands and said, '1 am satisfied, 1 die contented.' And then consented, nor till then would he consent, to be carried below. "The Enterprise had two men killed and 12 wounded in the action; among the latter were her Commander, who expired on the night following, and midshipman Waters, supposed mortally. "The brave BURHOWS was wounded in the early part of the engagement and command devolved on Lt. M'Call; the result of the action furnishes an eulogium upon the skill and bravery of the officers and crew of the Enterprise, highly honorable to themselves and country. "The two vessels suffered much in the action, but the injury done to the Boxer was incomparably the greatest, & shows that the fire of the Americans was much superior to that of the English. The Boxer had her main and fore-top mast shot away; her rigging and sails cut to pieces, and received a great deal of damage in her hull." As to Brian Oxnard, he was indeed, one of the twelve men wounded in action, and inquiry brought out the fact that while not dangerously^ he was painfully injured, and would not be able to see his friends for several days at least. Great preparations were in progress for appropriate services for the two brave young Captains, neither of whom had seen thirty 24 The Trail of the Maine Pioneer years. Little else was thought or spoken of throughout the town, while from the neighboring towns and villages, people flocked in to see this unusual spectacle, for never before had Portland witnessed so imposing a scene. From early morning the spectators came, on horseback, on foot and often by ox team, while the Portland Gazette gave to all who were not so fortunate as to be present, a graphic account of the last honors paid to these naval heroes, in the follow- ing notice : Funeral Honors. The remains of the intrepid and gallant William Burrows, late commander of the U. S. brig Enterprise, and his brave competitor, Samuel Blyth, late commander of His B. M. brig Boxer, were buried in this town on Wednesday last, with mili- tary and civic honors. The procession was formed in front of the Court-House, at 9 o'clock a.m. under the direction of Robert Ilsley and Levi Cutter, Esq., assisted by twelve Marshals, and proceeded under escort of the Portland Rifle Company, Capt. Shaw's Infantry & Capt. Smith's Mechanic Blues — the whole commanded by Captain Abel Atherton — to the lower end of Union Wharf, where the corpses were landed from each vessel, from barges, rowed at minute strokes, by ship master and mates, accompanied by many other barges and boats. During the ap- proach of the barges from the vessels to the shore, solemn music was performed by a full band, and minute guns were fired alter- nately from each vessel. The long procession was formed of State, county and town offi- cers, Military escort, the clergy. Navy agent, and various other organizations, with the remains of the two Captains each followed by its officers as mourners, and its crews, as well as many citizens, and as it slowly wound its way from the wharf to Middle Street, and the Meetinghouse of the Second Parish, great crowds of people lined the streets, gathered on the tops of buildings, or looked from windows and doorways, as the imposing parade passed along. Ware house and shops were closed, bells were tolled and the shipping in the harbor wore their colors at half mast, while, as the Gazette stated, "The highest degree of order prevailed, and solemn silence was kept. The account of the services from the same source of in- formation, was as follows : "The solemnities of the sanctuary commenced by singing an ap- propriate Hymn — the Throne of Grace was then addressed by the Rev. Mr. Payson, in a prayer adapted to the melancholy occasion — couched in language to command the attention and affect the feel- ings of his numerous auditory, and expressive of the feelings and o The Wooing of Mistress Polly 25 sentiments of a Christian and Minister of Peace. An Anthem was sung by a full choir, and this part of the solemnities was closed with a Bendiction. " Among the throng which gathered near the newly made graves were the five members of the Freeman family, each impressed in his, or her own way by the solemn occasion. The burying ground, old even at this day, was up on the hill not far from the towering Observatory from which the beginning of the battle had been so anxiously watched. The sunshine of the September day flashed over the lapping waters. A soft haze wrapped the more distant islands of the har- bor and mountains on the opposite horizon and the solemn sound of tolling bells and minute guns alone broke the silence, the guns of Forts Preble and Scammel repeating the minute firing of the com- panies of Artillery. Following the burial six vollies were discharged, three each for the two heroes, the colors were unfurled, music struck up, and gradually the spectators surged away leaving the brave, j'oung commanders, though enemies in life, yet friends in death, and lying side by side in their last resting place, while below, and just away, the sea which had been their battle field, sounds a never ceas- ing requiem. # 4: * Coming down from the burying ground, Polly, her tear-stained face telling of her emotion, found herself beside . Mrs. Oxnard, Brian's mother. *'How beautiful and sad it all was," she began. The woman nodded, not trusting herself to speak till a moment later she said, "When we think there might have been more than two — up there," with a backward glance, "how thankful we should be — as it is." "There is like to be a third," Polly returned in a low voice. "Ay, poor Lef tenant Waters, he cannot live, they say." "But— Brian?" "Brian is waiting all eagerness, I know, for me to tell him all I have seen. I would he might have been here, too." "He is better— I hear." "Oh, yes, much better." "Does — is he able to see — his friends?" The older woman turned, looking into the other's face. "He will be able to see one of his friends about this time tomorrow, I'm think- ing," she answered with a smile which deepened the color in Polly's cheeks. Acting upon this hint, the girl on the following morning found herself at the Oxnards' door. She thought she knew just what she would say first to Brian, but when she saw him sitting so white and 26 The Trail of the Maine Pioneer wan, his blue e^'es unusually large and wistful, she forgot all the little speech she had prepared, and going toward him with both hands outstretched, she cried : "Oh, Brian, I didn't mean it — I do remember — " A new, eager look came into the white face; he, too, reaches out both hands, and — But we do not hear his response for Time, the Necromancer who has allowed us this glimpse among his backward pages, abruptly closes the volume, and we may read no more. THE GARDEN OF THE EAST: WISCASSET ON SHEEPSCOT BAY The Garden of the East: Wiscasset on Sheepscot Bay By MAUDE CLARK GAY Author's Note: In telling this tale of the old town on Sheepscot Bay, I am indebted for the historical data to Miss Josie Blagden of Wiscasset, whose private scrap book of this "Garden of the East," as the early settlers called it, is a veritable wonder box of information; to Bradford C. Redonnett, Register of Deeds for Lincoln County, in whose offices are to be found some of the oldest deeds on record in the United States; and to the late Rufus King Sewall, Historian, who in days long gone related so many interesting stories to the little stranger within his gates. For the romance I am indebted only to the wonderful charm of the ancient town, whose mystery and magic appeal to the very heart, to the sweep of the mist on the meadows, the glittering sheen of the river, the rocks on the island shore, and the flutter of gulls across a sapphire sky. * * * TATELY and dignified, with an old-time grace, in the midst of quaint gardens, green terraces and bending trees, Wiscasset looks always down the broad river to the distant sea. Serene in its old age, sweet with a scent of rosemary and rue, the town impresses itself on the visitor, who is interested in ancient people and by- gone days, with a haunting tenderness and charm. Many and varied are the stories of those who have lived and loved on the shores of the Sheepscot River. The mansions on the winding hill could tell strange tales of a century that is past. Through their deep-set windows and ivy-hung porticoes, aged women and fair maids have peered anxiously down the bay for return of husband, son and lover, when the name of Wiscasset was a familiar one on the high seas and in the ports of foreign lands. And the crumbling timbers of the old wharves, once the center of the business life of the town, could recall those same women with wide eyes and blanched cheeks, who waited and wept in an agony of suspense, as up the bay sailed many a stately vessel, returning from a year's voyage, with her flag flying at half mast. To-day the rising and falling tides sweep and swirl above those sunken piers of the past and sing a low requiem over the shallow graves in which they rest forever. The Embargo Act of 1807, which made President Jefferson so un- popular with American merchants by forbidding any American ship to leave an American port, practically put an end to the town's com- merce. Even before this act the Wiscasset shipmasters had tried equally hard to keep their distance from either French or English 30 The Trail of the Maine Pioneer flags, as they were liable to capture by both warring nations. But this act, passed in reality to punish England for firing upon and captur- ing the American frigate, "Chesapeake," sealed the doom of the Wis- easset ships. Tlie war of 1812 finished the sad work, and to this day old residents of the town tell of the ruin wrought, and of how Major Carlton of the well-known house on the hill, which had always been the refuge of the homeless and suffering, walked back and forth in his periwig and queue, wringing his hands at sight of forty of his own vessels rotting at the once busy wharves. But not alone through the perils of the sea did the little hamlet feel the thunderings of war. Wiscasset had been settled by George Davis, the first pioneer, who came there as early as 1670 and made a home in the wilderness. The little settlement numbered a score of families before King Philip, Chief of the Wampanoags, ravaged and laid to waste the fair country-side. Many of the first settlers were driven from their homes and scalped by the Indians; others taken into captivity to drag out a horrible existence, while the remainder abandoned the hamlet and fled in terror. Once more the settlement became a wil- derness. This desolation continued for more than half a century, and it was not until 1730 when Robert Hooper, brave and true, with a party of his friends sailed up the Sheepscot River, that the eye of white man again beheld the beauty of the shore. He built the first log hut by the side of a huge boulder on the east side of where Water Street now runs. Even in those da,ys the settlers were not safe from their savage foe. They were more than once obliged to flee to that fort on Garri- son Hill, where the Methodist Church now stands — a fitting memorial to those brave, sturdy, God-fearing pioneers who were the fathers of a noble race. The settlers of the little hamlet knew they were never really safe from the cruel vengeance of their foe. An English- man named Williamson, a Mr. Adams, James Anderson, and his two sons, were victims at this time of a savage ambuscade. On one occa- sion the home of Obadiah Albee was attacked by the Indians and his young wife killed. She, with true mother-love, had thrown her young child into the canoe of a passing fisherman who escaped, sav- ing the child's life and his own. The boy grew to manhood, nurtur- ing a bitter hate in his heart for him who had killed his mother. Years after peace was restored the chief of the Abenakis, perpetrator of the foul deed, came to Wiscasset village. Young Albee, who was then seventeen, rushed into the street, raised his rifle and shot the Indian through the heart. So the young mother was avenged. His descendants live in Wiscasset to-day, the former proprietor of the Albee House, E. Fred Albee, being in the direct line of his posterity. Later, two forts were built, one on Clark's and the other on Seavey's Hill, and just outside the village on a rocky eminence, com- manding a view of the beautiful stretch of fertile country, stands an The Garden of the East 31 ancient powder house, which is indeed a reminder of days of warfare and nights of anxious vigil. It is built of brick, circular in shape, with a conical roof, while its sturdy door, studded in every nich by bolt and nail, was built to withstand any attack of hatchets or can- non. Back of this powder house, like a sentinel always on guard, stands the lone pine, "last pine of Sweet Auburn," famous in song and story — first glad signal to many a weary sailor returning from a long voyage to foreign lands, that home was near. * * * Although British men-of-war visited the river in 1775 and 1777, without doing any harm, a large fort was afterward built on Davis Island, about a mile from the town. This consisted of a block house, water battery and breast works, built on the south side of the island facing the sea. It would seem at first sight that this fort was con- structed for defense against the Indians, but this is a fallacy, as it was not even built until 1808, and although it was manned for seven years, no active service was ever required of its defenders. The block house is a most interesting old building, octagonal, overlooking all the surrounding country, stretching away in a wonderful pano- rama of green and blue and gold, — the white houses of the village, half hidden in clustering foliage, the peaceful slope of the hill, the glittering waters of the harbor, the farther expanse of road and field and meadow, and miles and miles of craggy coast and headland, against which the ocean thunders forever and aye. In March, 1809, Captain Binney of Hingham, Mass., was assigned to command this fort with a company of regulars. Seventeen guns were fired to welcome the inauguration of President Madison, and as the reverberations echoed along the shores and over the hills to the lonely farms on the outskirts of the village, a delicious sense of peace and security, that they had not known for many a day, came to the people of Wiscasset. Many extracts of public interest may be gath- ered from Captain Binney 's private letters, in one of which he writes : ^"Since our arrival here all is well. No want of meat of any kind. Vegetables scarce. No fruit here. My men kill me partridges and squirrels and catch me fish. Fire wood is plenty and potatoes scarce. I reside in Wis- casset, although the fort is on the Edgecomb side of the river, about a mile from the house ; the block house not having sufficient quarters I have ob- tained permission to sleep out of garrison. I have command at mouth of Kennebec River, 26 miles west of Wiscasset and on the Damariscotta, 12 miles east. I occasionally visit these posts. My company lias 44 men (more than 20 deserted) and two lieutenants. Among the men is found every character from the whining hypocrite to the professed gambler, many good men and many of the laziest of human beings. T have had to confine men in irons be- cause they would not cook their victuals, though they had nothing to do but cook, sleep, and keep clean." ^Archives Maine His. Soc. 32 The Trail of the Maine Pioneer An account is also given of a time when the men of Wiscasset were hastily summoned to assist those at the fort, when it was feared the British would attack the town. One of the men, named Jonas Perkins, who was a great glutton, brought in his knapsack a wonder- ful supply of cakes, doughnuts, pies, and other good things of life which he devoured without offering a taste to his companions in arms. After a few days in camp his devoted wife sent him another consign- ment, which proved a great temptation to those comrades whose pro- visions had not been replenished; but not a morsel would the cruel Jonas give them from out his goodly store. He went apart by himself, and, as the chronicler put it, ''ate and ate and ate." Next day there came a report, that seemed well verified, that the British were com- ing up the river in full force and armed to the teeth. All was com- motion. Only Jonas was observed, sitting apart, apparently obliv- ious to all the excitement, devouring everything from mince pie to caraway cookies with great gusto. When at last it was a physical im- possibility to stuff another atom of food inside his stomach, it is said he arose with great difficulty and waddling to where his companions were gathered, he emptied the bag containing the remainder of his carefully hoarded provisions on the ground before them, crying in loud tones, ' ' Eat, feller citizens, eat, eat ! Stuff every derned bit of pies and cakes inter yer, fer termorrer we shall all be in eternity!" In another letter Capt. Binney says, "This town has a meeting- house, and Rev. Dr. Packard, Congregationalist, a very good, still, quiet, peaceable man, preaches rather too much fire and brimstone, is severe in meeting but liberal in company. I am pleased with him. There are many 'Stinchfield' Baptists, some Methodists, some Quakers, and Catholics, with a large number of Nothingarians." In another letter he speaks of Mrs. Binney, his beautiful, young wife and the social life of the town. "Mrs. Binney is almost daily invited out. The people are polite and genteel. We believe Mrs. Binney has been to more tea parties since she has been here than for some years in Boston, for in that re- spect Wiscasset has the prevailing fashion of Hingham." This lovely, young woman, who so well adorned her position in society, fell a victim to the terrible fever plague, which claimed as its prey so many prominent citizens of Wiscasset in 1812. During its prevalence nearly every store in the town was closed, and it is related that for over a month a vapor or deep fog obscured the sun here, although it shone brightly in the adjoining towns. Night after night blazing tar barrels disinfected the air, and the spectre of death and despair spread its ghostly arms over the fair village. Although Capt. Binney, his beautiful, young wife, and the men of his command sailed forth on the sea of eternity a century ago, the old fort and its primitive block house still stand, a pathetic reminder of ancient days, set in the midst of civilization that has swept on and Old Wiscasset Jail Samuel Sewall From an Old Paintina^i The Old Powder House iBuilt in 1813' The Garden of the East 33 left it anchored in a quiet harbor of old age. Moss creeps over its once frowning walls, green grass covers its brick fortifications, and its sightless e3^es watch down the river and over the country-side for an enemy long since dead. Rufus King Sewall loved to tell of the days when as a lad he played in the underground passageways lead- ing from the water battery to the block house, constnicted for use in case of dire need. The massive timbers of the gun deck, the heavy, nail-spiked door, the shields that close the port holes, the water bat- tery still in a state of excellent preservation, and the strength of the inner breast works, all show it was built for defense of hearth, home and native land. * * * Next in order of interest, perhaps, to one who treads the aisles of the past, is the old court house on the hill. This building with its classic portico, shaded by drooping elms, was erected in 1824. It replaced the court house and jail of logs, which had formerly been situated in Dresden and was patterned like the places of justice built long ago in England. It cannot but appeal to the heart of one who is interested in the great men of the past, for in that upper court room the voice of Daniel Webster was once heard pleading for jus- tice and mercy. Here spoke Benjamin F. Butler, whose gift of ora- tory was known and praised from coast to coast. The light through those narrow-paned windows shone on Chief Justice Sewall's noble head, as through many a weary day he gave the best of heart and brain to the questions that lay before him. To his admirers the chair and table where he sat will ever be a reminder of the days when he lived and moved among them. Here he died while holding court, in harness to the last, and here, too, he was buried, although afterward his body was removed and deposited in his family tomb at Marble- head, Massachusetts. On one side of the pillar, marking the spot of his former resting place is the following inscription : ''Erected by the members of the bar practicing in the Supreme Judicial Court of this Commonwealth to express their veneration for the character of the Hon. Samuel Sewall, late Chief Justice of said Court, who died suddenly in this place on the 8th day of June, 1814, aged 56." In the old burying ground lie other men of more than local repu- tation. Among these is the Hon. Silas Lee, a prominent lawyer, who had also a military record of note. He died of that terrible plague that ravaged the town in 1814. A large block of lettered granite marks his last resting place. A small engraving of him hangs upon the walls of the Maine Historical Society rooms in Portland, show- ing plainly his ruffled shirt bosom, profuse head of hair and promi- nent nose. The court records are replete with his name, he being 34 The Trail of the Maine Pioneer an authority in those days on both legal and military matters, "quiclv in argument, terrible in sarcasm, powerful in eloquence." Here, too, lies another lawyer, Manasseh Smith, Sr., who had been chaplain in the Revolutionary army and clerk in the Supreme Judi- cial Court of Massachusetts. He settled here in 1788 for the practise of law and, as his tombstone reads "declined public offices and de- voted himself to the duties of his profession, the happiness of his family and the offices of piety." Near the graves of these jurists is the humble headstone of Ezelciel Averill, who was one of Washing- ton's body guard. He died in 1850 at the age of ninety-five years. In the old court house men prominent in the affairs of State and nation have been familiar figures. Besides Judge Lee there were the Judges Bailey, Orchard Cooke, the Hon. J. D. MacCrate, Hon. Sam- uel E. Smith who was once governor of Maine, and Hon. Abiel Wood who had represented his district so brilliantly in Congress. The walls have echoed to the eloquent pleas and the clash of opposing counsel ; they have looked on the freed prisoner v/eeping tears of joy and seen the condemned criminal go out to meet the answer to life's eternal question. In that bare, little room at the left of the judge's bench many jurors have decided on many fates in the last century; but not a word do the gray walls tell of the heated arguments, the sympathetic pleas, the casting of the die that ofttimes meant "an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth," and a life for a life. In the vaults of the offices below are to be found old deeds, rich in historical information, showing how land was purchased of the Indians for a bushel or two of barley, a few pounds of meal, skins of animals, or what seemed more important in many cases, skins of wine. These documents, curious in name and wording, are signed by famous Indian Sagamores; names all too familiar when history was in the making. One of them, said to be the oldest deed on record in the whole country, is signed by that same Samoset who greeted the Pilgrims on their arrival at Plymouth. It is dated July 2, 1620, and sells land which would now extend over New Harbor, Bremen, Bristol, east as far as Nobleboro and north as far as Jeffer- son, for fifty skins. Selling indeed a birthright for a mess of pot- tage ! It is after reading such documents as these that the thought- ful mind must pause and wonder if the red men were not, indeed, more sinned against than sinning. * * * By the side of the courthouse, so close that one reaching from the windows could almost touch the old Paul Revere bell in the steeple, stands the Congregational Church, a large, white building with a Grecian front, which has the characteristic New England look of dignity combined with grace. The town voted in 1765 to build a meeting-house for public worship ; after several years the tower was added, and within it was hung the bell cast by Paul Revere & Sons, The Garden of the East 35 Boston. Here, too, swinging to every breeze, as it swings to-day, the famous weathercock is also a product of the foundry of that man who watched for the lights in the old North Church in that history- making night in 1775. Rev. Thomas Moore, an Armenian, was the first preacher, and by no means a powerful nor a popular one. lie preached, however, until 1791, and it is owing to his negligence that through those years no record of marriages, births or deaths was left to posterity. The dwelling house of this first minister was situated on what is now known as the Langdon Road. The cellar of the house is still to be seen, and in a small field on the opposite side of the road is his well. This minister married a daughter of Col. Kingsbury, who built what is now the oldest two-story house in town, standing at the corner of Washington and Federal Streets. Many a touching scene has been enacted within the precincts of the stately, old meeting-house. Here was read that famous docu- ment signed by the representatives of the people in 1776, and or- dered by Congress to be read from every pulpit in the land ; thither came that slow and solemn procession on the first day of January, 1800, mourning the loss of George Washington, "the nation's best loved son"; here were held the various public meetings in the vital interests of the community; here the people of Wiscasset have been married and from here they have been buried; here preached the courtly and polished Bradford of Pilgrim ancestry, the grave and reverend Dr. Packard, the learned Hooker, the energetic White and Mather, and their successors, a long line of distinguished and beloved men, from whose lives linger fragrant traditions. In its original state the meeting-house Avas said to resemble the ancient meeting-houses of Alna, Walpole and Waldoboro, with their high, old pulpits, quaint sounding boards and double row of box seats. This old meeting-house was torn down in 1840 and a new church edifice erected on the same site. This was consumed by fire in 1907 and the Revere Bell, which had done duty for more than half a century, crashed to earth. The fragments were recovered to be recast and hung in the belfry of the present building, a fac-simile of the former church, erected in 1909. In excavating among the ruins of the foundations of the second church building a bottle was found which contained a message written by one who for nearly half a century had been dust in the old church yard. It was dated Wiscas- set, July 2, A.D. 1839, written in quaint hand, and read as follows: Greeting : This bottle with its contents was deposited this day in the N. E. corner of the foundation of the new church belonging to the first parish & contains two newspapers, this note & the pen with which it was written. In a south-west direction 5 (five) feet dis- tant from this bottle is another containing fruit which was gathered and deposited yesterday (July 1st) by me." 36 The Trail of the Maine Pioneer The writer goes on to tell of the inhabitants of the to^vn which then "numbered 3000 people with 3 Meeting Houses, 1 Court House, Town House, 1 Bank, Poor House & Jail, 5 Ships, 1 Barque, and about 15 Brigs & Schooners, 2 Steam Mills & 1 Foundry." After speaking of the political and international happenings in the world, he closes with the following remarks : ' ' The astonishing changes that have taken place within a century, yea, within even my own recollection, have induced me to make these few remarks, to call your attention to the difference between your time and this present one. It is a solemn thought that I write to a generation yet unborn: that when your eyes see this, mine will be closed forever; the heart that now beats will then be still; the hand that now writes will be turned to dust ; the mind that now animates this perishable frame will have gone to God who gave it, & naught will remain but this scroll, perchance, to tell that I have lived and died. There is truly much food for reflection here. God bless you all. Farewell. Alexander Johnston, Jr. Born Dec. 20, 1815 Aet. 23 yrs. 6 Mo. Thus reads the message from one who, for more than three score years, lived within sound of the old bell, and it comes to us from out the past with a weird reminder that "There was the door to which I found no key; There was the veil through which I could not see: Some little talk awhile of Me and Thee There was — and then no more of Thee and Me." * * * Beyond the church, along the elm-embowered way, stand the old aristocrats of the town, the ancient mansions, each set in the midst of spacious lawns steeped in the romance, life and breath of a past century. Here is the "Governor Smith House," built by the Judge Silas Lee, of whom we have previously written. It is a capacious, old mansion, colonial in style, built of bricks and painted white. Hon. Samuel E. Smith, who was governor of Maine in 1831-2-3, occupied this house for many years. It was Governor Smith's younger son who married a sister of Blanche Willis Howard, the well-known writer, and it was in this old mansion that Miss Howard received the in- spiration that gave her charming novel "One Summer" to the world. It is known to-day as the "One Summer House," and is indeed a fit home for genius and a perfect type of the old-time New England mansion. Miss Howard depicted this house as the board- ing place of her beautiful heroine. From its windows she saw the sweeping elms, the green slope of the common, the old sun dial that figured in her story, and beyond the long bridge a glimpse of "Folly Island," and the hills with the sunset on their heights. The Garden of the East 37 Judge Lee was not satisfied with the size of this house and after- ward built the one now known as the "Tucker Mansion," a beautiful residence, standing on a hill commanding a wonderful panorama of the river and broad bay. Even in this day, erected over a century ago, both the exterior with its fine architecture and the interior with its huge, old rooms, broad halls, and galleries above, is worthy the notice of a modern architect. The house has been the home of the family of the late Capt. R. H. Tucker for many years. This family is gifted, numbering among its members Patience Stapleton, better known as "Pat Tucker," who has written many interesting stories of Colorado and Maine. On this street, also, is the stately, old Carlton House, built and owned by Major Carlton, who was ruined by the Embargo Act of 1812. This house, once occupied by this grand gentleman of the old school, has many picturesque features, among them shade trees brought from Norway, Japan and other parts of the world. The Patterson family, who now own this house, make every effort to pre- serve it as it was in the old Major's life time. This spirit of loyalty to the traditions of the past seems to be characteristic of the people of Wiscasset, and to it is due much of the atmosphere of charm that pervades the historical, old place. Further along the street is the Wood House, built by Hon. Abiel Wood, a son of Gen. Abiel Wood who, by the record on his tomb- stone, "resigned all sublunary honors Aug. 11, 1811." This man- sion, owned by the wealthy ship-owner and West Indian merchant, has the honor of having been for a time the home of Sally Sayward Barsel, the first writer of fiction in Maine. * * * At the corner of Federal and Main Streets, opposite the residence of ex-Mayor Sortwell, is the cellar, now transformed into a beautiful sunken garden, of the old inn of stage-coach days. Here in about the year 1768 Ebenezer Whittier erected what was known as the Whit- tier Tavern, a rambling, old house of many rooms. The well-known Hilton House afterward stood on this very spot, although the old tav- ern was twenty feet longer and extended more to the eastward. Much of the history of this famous old tavern is buried forever in the past. Ebenezer Whittier was a man of good repute, a respected citizen, "a moving spirit in both town and parish affairs." He represented this town in the General Court of Massachusetts in 1787. He was also the first postmaster of Wiscasset, where the second post office duly authorized by the Federal Government was established in Maine in 1790. At this old tavern the early post-riders, John Smith Foye and Samuel Sevey, both Wiscasset men, stopped their tired horses in their weekly trips between Portland and Warren ; here the judges met their clients; here trials x\-ere heard; here town meetings were 38 The Trail of the Maine Pioneer held ; here the tide of village life ebbed and flowed, and here in later days before the railroad was built, the stage-coaches swept down the old turnpike and drew up at the hospitable door. It is interesting to trace the route of that olden time. After the passengers had eaten and fresh horses had been secured, the driver swung himself up on the high seat, gathered up his reins, snapped his whip and drove down the hill over the long bridge, up a short, sharp rise and turned into a road that has long been in disuse with underbrush and grass growing thick where the hurrying horses once trod. Only the bor- der of lofty pines, in the tallest of which an eagle once made its home, remains to tell of the days when the coach with merry whistle and cheery halloo dashed down a path now carpeted thick with mossy turf. Some of the men who once handled whip and line are not forgot- ten by this generation. Tom lugraham, hero of a poem written in 1868, entitled, "Tom Ingraham's Ride," is remembered as one of the best and kindest-hearted of men. John Marshall, who drove over the route from 1850 to 1871, but recently died in Portland, and Supt. "White of the old Knox and Lincoln, whose genial face was known from end to end of the Pine Tree State, also drove many times on top of the old stage coach over the picturesque turnpike road. The old inn echoed to the cheerful sound of voices, the merry laughter and the happy greeting of many guests who have since gone down the long trail. To this tavern came the soldiers after the try- ing daj^s of the Civil War, most of them returning home mere shad- ows of the men who had gone forth full of courage and faith. A touching incident is related of a party of these brave men seated around the old tavern fire-place, telling tales of the harrowing years now past. One of them, who belonged in a neighboring town, a youth of twenty-four or twenty-five, who, even with his extreme pal- lor and emaciation showed traces of remarkable comeliness and grace, suddenly lifted his head from the thoughtful position in which he had sat during the recital of his comrades. "Boys," he said, "your stories are interesting and many of them strange, but none more strange than mine. When I reach home to- morrow it will be as one returned from the dead. They reported me missing on the battlefield. For months I lay in a hospital — ill with brain fever. I have just recovered my memory and my life. They think me dead back home, boys. I have just been sitting here think- ing — thinking— till I can see but one thing, boys, and that the old farm — back there — the apple trees — the kitchen door — and my mother's face when she sees me, boys, hers — and — and — " He paused, and those listening knew that back at home there was some one else very near and dear whom the young soldier would be glad to meet under the apples trees on the morrow. At this moment a heavy coach rumbled up to the door. From its liveried driver and The Garden of the East 39 richly decorated horses one saw at once it was a carriage belonging to a person of wealth and position. The liveried footman alighted and threw open the door, and down stepped a pompous gentleman, clad in heavy broadcloth, whose white hair and noble bearing easily distinguished him as a personage of high position. He assisted a lovely young girl to alight, and those watching saw by his tender solicitude the position of the two. "My word for it, it's a bridal couple!" exclaimed one of the soldiers by the window. * ' Oh, yes, that 's Squire I — and his new wife from down Rockland way. They ain't been married but a day or two. They're probably on their way to Portland or Boston." As the young bride, coming up the walk, threw back her veil, the sweetness of her face appealed to all ; but the drawn curves of the young lips, the sad droop of her brown eyes, showed that the path of wealth was not always a path of roses. As she drew nearer a terri- ble cry smote the air. The young soldier, who had not risen at first, had been attracted by the exclamations of his companions at the window and had come up behind them. "Lucille! My God!" he cried, and again, "Lucille!" At the sound of that voice, from the grave as it seemed to her startled ear, the young bride fairly flew down the passageway and in- to the room. Such a meeting! The old frequenters of the tavern told the tale for years. Such a return from the dead ! So young, so loving, and between them forever a barrier of law and gold. One by one the men withdrew and left the three together — that pitiful, eternal triangle, which has existed for centuries and will exist until time has ceased to be. No one ever knew what happened in that room, for the ancient andirons and the fire on the hearth told no tales, nor has an echo of it come to us down the years, but in the morning the bridal couple went their way, and the young soldier his — apart forever. Perhaps the gold and the mansion were fairer to the girlish eyes than love in a cottage, perhaps she was like the poor Scotch lassie in the song and "Auld Robin Gray" was a "gude mon" to her. Nothing was heard of the young soldier after his departure to his home. His mother may have consoled him for his loss; perhaps he found another and a truer sweetheart under the old apple trees. Years afterward one of the frequenters of the tavern told of seeing Jlrs. I — at some great public banquet in the city where she then resided, and he said her eyes had in them the look of one to whom sorrow is ever her closest companion, and that the jewels, with which she was adorned, were not harder than her still, cold face. It will leave a happier memory in our minds if we think the young soldier married and was happy during the j'cars in which his former sweetheart fretted in her golden cage, for one ahvays recalls the 40 The Trail of the Maine Pioneer words of the philosopher, "Men have died and worms have eaten them, but not for love." In direct denial of this accepted statement we remember an an- cient, broken headstone half buried from sight on the land of Hon. Silas Lee, and read of another lover who once lived in the old tavern and met his death through love. This was the youngest son of the l^roprietor, handsome James Whittier, who had proved more fascinat- ing to young Elizabeth Lee, a niece of the judge, than her many suitors in Massachusetts. She had met him on one of her visits in summer to the lovely, old town, and the elm-embowered streets, the long bridge, the sparkling waters of the harbor, had witnessed a beautiful romance until in time Wiscasset became indeed to her the end of her world. Here she contracted diphtheria which was rag- ing at that time, and died on the fourteenth of February, 1795, call- ing her lover's name to the last. The broken headstone tells the remainder of the piteous story and shows once more to a cynical, old world that ' ' the mind has a thousand eyes and the heart but one, but the light of a whole life dies when love is done." This follows the inscription over James Whittier 's burial place, an inscription that will linger long in the memory of those who pause to read its touching story : Mr. James Whittier son Capt. EbenR Whittier & BlizH his wife who died Apr. 17, 1798 of a Consumption on a passage to the West Indies Aet 25 The disease which terminated his life originated in the death of his fair and betrothed friend who lies interred near this monument. In life they loved; in death they are not divided. * w * It is difficult to say why the story of Rosalind Clough and the old house on Squam Island has been reserved for the end of this tale. Perhaps for the same reason that the wise hostess saves the rarest bits for the dessert that follows the dinner. ' ' I cannot tell how the truth may be ; I say the tale as 'twas said to me." Few of the visitors to the old town of Wiscasset realize that just across the bridge, in full view of the train, stands a two-storied, Colonial mansion with tall elms shading its narrow-paned windows, which is made famous and sacred for all time by a breath of the presence of ill-fated Marie Antoinette. Marie Antoinette! Is it The Marie Antoinette House The Garden of the East 41 not a name to conjure with? What marvellous visions it evokes! Before the mind's eye drifts a series of pictures at the very name. Marie Antoinette, haughty, wondrously fair, every inch a queen; Marie Antoinette in her sweet matrouhood, loving wife and fond mother in the stately old palace at Versailles; Marie Antoinette fac- ing that blood-thirsty mob in the Tuileries, calm with the calmness of utter despair; Marie Antoinette in those last, sad chapters, bereft of all that life held dear, standing in the dread shadow of the guillotine, always a beautiful, pathetic figure, a royal, noble woman to the end. Nearly one hundred and fifty years ago the old house, now stand- ing in North Edgecomb, was built on what is now known as West- port, then called by the Indians Squam Island, directly opposite Wis- casset. It stood on the northern extremity of the island near the alleged "salt works" which the French government had established there for the real purpose of watching the progress of the American Revolution. Below the house and beyond the quarries still remain ruins of the old batteries of Fort McDonough, where the battle of Bulwark was fought in 1812. From this island also could be heard the thunder of the guns of that famous naval battle between the "Enterprise" and "Boxer" near Pemaquid. The old stone house was built in the year 1744 for Capt. Joseph Decker, a wealthy shipmaster and owner, who occupied Squam Point, the site of an old Indian trade station. In the days of Decker this was one of the cells of which Wiscasset Point was a "commercial bee hive" and Capt. Decker was one of the chief factors. This site had ware-houses, timber booms, and wharves adapted to an extensive trade with the West Indies. After the death of Decker, Capt. Sam- uel Clough, who had won his handsome daughter for a bride, took possession of the old house on Squam Island and continued the Eu- ropean business in the export of lumber from Wiscasset. Happy were the times and gay the feasting and mirth in the old mansion when the young captain sailed home from foreign ports with his great cargoes of merchandise. Even yet old sea captains tell the story and the writer first heard it with all its mystic glamour, related by the late Hon. Rufus King Sewall, better known as "The Lincoln County Historian," that kindly, gracious gentleman, who was as courteous to the awkward school-girl stranger as he would have been to any of the judges, lawyers, and men of letters who lingered by his hospitable hearth. There in the twilight of his quaint, old house in Wiscasset, with his dark walls hung wnth the trophies of olden days, with the brass can- dlesticks on the mantel, and the slow fire burning between the ancient andirons, it seemed a tale of truth and one well worth the hearing. Little did the people of the quiet little hamlet of Wiscasset or those on the picturesque island across the river realize the despotism, 42 The Trail of the Maine Pioneer recklessness and profligacy that were tearing the fair heart of France to its inmost stronghold. The people came and went about their tasks; the curfew bell pealed out as calmly across the water as if there were no storm.y revolution, no blood-curdling Reign of Terror in the world. Perhaps Capt. Samuel Clough knew better than any of these peaceful country folk what agony and desolation were abroad in the land. For many years he had voyaged to France and his name was well known along the quays of Havre and in the big mer- chant-houses of Paris as that of a man of honor, whose word was as good as gold, one who could be trusted in all places and at all times — a true American. Often in the quiet evenings of early fall or when the snow fell softly about the mansion, he would tell singular tales as his family gathered about the cheery blaze. There were tales of the weakling king, who had ruled with haughty, extravagant hand over beautiful France and who had been torn from his throne and thrust into prison as a reward for his wickedness ; tales of the infamous Duke of Orleans, who was proving himself a traitor to his king and to his country; of the wicked, reckless leaders of the National Convention, Robes- pierre, Danton, and Marat, whose names have since become synony- mous with all that is vile, traitorous and dishonorable in the history of man. But there was one story that wife and children would draw closer to hear, for Capt. Clough 's voice would grow gentler in tone and linger with a sort of pathetic cadence whenever he spoke the name of the beautiful, ill-fated Queen of the French, — Marie An- toinette. Capt. Clough had been in France that fatal July day in 1789, when the smouldering fury of the Paris mob had burst into flame, and, urged to insurrection, had stormed on the old Bastile and cap- tured the prison. Then the excited populace, swearing, howling, cursing, fighting,had swept down the green road and compelled the king and royal family to return to Paris. Amid all the horror of the events which caught the breath of his listeners and held their eager attention, one beautiful, tragic figure stood forth in an aureole of light. Although Capt. Clough would breathe scornful words of the weakling king and his treacherous counsellors, neither wife nor children ever heard a word of censure from his lips for the Queen of France. So, whereas her name was spoken by others with bit- terness, deriding her costly tastes, her wilful moods and her reck- less extravagances, many historians even averring that she was the direct cause of the French Revolution, Capt. dough's household grew to look upon her with a reverence that amounted almost to awe, spoke of her in tones of tenderness and pity, and carried always in their hearts the vision of that gracious, queenly woman, wife, mother and saint. The Garden of the East 43 During the terrible summer of 1792 Capt. Clough was again in France. He saw the Parisian mob burst all bonds, storm upon the palace of the Tuileries, massacre the brave Swiss guards who de- fended it and thrust the whole royal family into prison. Before he reached his quiet Maine home, for passage was slow in those days, France was declared a republic. When he again set foot in the streets of Paris they had literally flowed red with blood, and Louis XVI. had met the fate of the guillotine. His letters home tore the hearts of his readers, for through his friendship with some loyalists he had be- come familiar with their private affairs and the pitiful suffering through which the royal family had passed was depicted in harrowing detail. The incident that touched the hearts of Madam Clough and her daughter most keenly, was that the luxuriant tresses of Marie Antoinette had turned snow-white in a single night. In the fall of 1793 Capt. Clough was expected home from France. When he did not return at the time appointed, his family became alarmed, knowing as they did of the turbulent times in the French nation and of how little worth was the life of any one who sympa- thized with the royal cause. Robespierre and Danton were then eon- ducting the Reign of Terror and Capt. Clough had written of how hundreds were hurried to the guillotine at the dawn of each new day. Many and many a time in those anxious weeks Madam Clough left her household duties to gaze from the topmost window of the mansion, watching the peaceful river for the ship that did not come. Many and many a time Richard, the stalwart son, paced the long beach toward the furthermost part of the island, scanning the ocean for the vessel which bore his loved father. Perhaps to Rosalind, the fair young daughter, came the greatest burden of anxious sorrow, for she was the idol of her brave father's heart and she had always been his closest companion when he was at home from sea. The mother was a dignified, matronly woman loving her children in her own quiet way, but the father, clever sailor and business man that he was, had the mystic nature of a student and dreamer and his daughter had inherited much of his disposition. There was thus a strong chain of sympathy between them, a sort of mental telepathy, as it would be called in these days, which bound them to each other with a bond that distance could not break. Sometimes Rosalind would say at the breakfast table, "I shall hear from my father to- day," and in almost every instance the letter would arrive before night-fall. Occasionally she would cry out anxiously, ''I am afraid my father is ill," and the next word received from him would tell of some indisposition. Neither tried to explain this strange sympa- thy, for it had existed so long it had become a part of their every-day lives. Naturally this time of suspense bore on Rosalind with an iron hand and crushed all joy out of her young heart. 44 The Trail of the Maine Pioneer Ships came and ships went, and still Capt. Clough did not return, and the feet of the women grew heavier at their household tasks and Richard Clough went about his duties with a saddened face. At last a letter came to the uneasy watchers, a letter that brought consola- tion when it assured them of the safet}'' of their dear one, but telling a strange tale of the happenings across the water, one that made the hearts of the readers beat more quickly and brought tears of sym- pathy to their eyes. Capt. Clough wrote of the thousands who had been executed, of the relentless hounding of s^anpathizers by Robes- pierre, of how a word or a whisper in the morning had sent many an innocent man to his death before night, how all day the death carts rattled through the streets, as Robespierre from an upper window watched "the cursed aristocrats" and mocked at their pain; and of how it was rumored that she, the noble, the royal woman, must meet the fate of her murdered husband. "There is a plot afoot," wrote Capt. Clough, "to rescue the queen from the death met by her husband and hundreds of their friends and sympathizers. I scarce dare think, much less write it to you, my dear ones, for each day I see men hurried to the guillotine without even a prayer for less than this. But that you may be pre- pared in some measure for what may follow, I will write briefly con- cerning our hazardous undertaking. Friends of the unhappy queen have spoken in private to friends of mine and they in turn to me. My ship lies in the port at any moment ready for sailing. I await the word. Methinks I need say no more, my loved ones, as I write in haste and with a troubled heart. Well, you know my sympathy has always been with her, even though I am an American-born citizen, and in America we know no king but God. My wife, prepare you the house, not as for a royal guest, but I say to you and Rosalind, child of my love, prepare you your hearts to receive a broken-hearted woman. Wait and watch and pray, my dear ones, for me and for her gracious and deeply- wronged majesty, Marie Antoinette." What wonder that tliere was stir and excitement in the great house on Squam Island ! What wonder that every nook and corner was cleaned and polished and cleaned and polished again! The nights might have seen bitter tears and agonized prayers for husband and father, but the days knew only quick hands and active feet, cheerful faces and busy tongues. At last all was in readiness. The house shone in beauty of freshly scoured paint and glittering win- dows. The chamber prepared for that strange guest was immaculate with its fresh linen and newly-laundered curtains. "Scarce a fit place for a queen to lay her head," observed Madam Clough, as she scanned the room for a bit of dust or disorder. The daughter came softly behind her. "Prepare you not your house as for a royal guest," she quoted gently, "prepare you your hearts to receive a broken-hearted woman. ' ' Rosalind Clouoh at the Age of 19 Years (From an Old Dauueneotypei The Garden of the East 45 Mother and daughter looked for a moment into each other's eyes and burst into tears. * * * Days came and days went and through the red and gold of the autumnal foliage was felt the breath of approaching winter; but still no further message came to the watchers on Squam Island. Over and over again the house was prepared for its expected guest. The brightest fires roared their cheeriest welcome; the larder groaned with its goodly store. Never for one moment did the little family relax their vigil nor lose their hope, although the gray threads came swiftly in Madam Clough's dark hair and Rosalind's heavy eyes told of nights of sleepless watching. On the son and brother the waiting seemed to press its heaviest burden. Perhaps because he was alone so much at his out-of-door tasks, and could not share the compan- ionship of the women, perhaps because man was not made to bear what woman can nor to wait as woman can wait. One night in late October, one of those wonderful nights that only October can bring, the three sat around the huge fireplace, list- ening to the wind sighing down the big, old chimney, talk- ing in low tones and dropping into long silences. Madam Clough, who never allowed herself a moment's idleness, was busily knitting. Rosalind sat with her head against her mother's knee, her eyes fixed dreamily on the dancing flames. Richard had thrown himself on the old-fashioned settle. He had just come in from the stables and was cold and shivering as he drew closer to the welcome warmth. Each of them had felt all day a subdued excitement, a sort of super- stitious thrill, a creeping dread of what they knew not and would not have voiced had they kno\\Ti. A vague unrest was in each mind, an uneasy, listening, quivering waiting that stirred alike mother, daughter, and son. Still they did not speak of this to each other, nor realize what the others felt, for the father's name seldom came to their lips these days. Their hearts were too full for speech. Suddenly Rosalind rose and went out into the hall. They heard her swift, light footsteps on the bare floor, then the clang of the outer door. Neither asked where she had gone. By some tender intuition both knew. It was not the first time Rosalind had gone out into deepening twilight to scan with beating heart the river for the vessel that did not come. And the hearts of the two followed her and prayed that her vigil might not be in vain. Rosalind Clough paused a moment on the broad steps of the mansion. She was a demure, little figure with wide brown eyes, the white cap on her dark curls giving her countenance an almost Puri- tanical severity. There was something very sweet and winsome about the face, although the mouth was drawn with grave lines of anxiety that aged her far beyond her years. Before her in the fast-deepening twilight lay the broad expanse of water, quivering a little at its west- 46 The Trail of the Maine Pioneer ern verge with flashes of crimson and gold. One by one candle lights twinkled forth in the houses of the hamlet across the river, and high above her on the white edge of the last cloud that was resisting the advance of Night, glimmered the first great star. It was the hour when Capt. Clough loved to draw his daughter's arm through his own and lead her down the long path to the shore. As she followed that path now she was lifted out of herself. The cares, the anxiety, the sorrow of the past few weeks fell from her like a cloak and she lived again the hours when they had paced the beach together, when he had taught her the lore of the waters and of the heavens and led her with him along a pathway of stars. She loved to think at such times that ]\Iars shone as redly for him so far away on the high seas as it did for her; that he, too, could see Vega's blue snow, Venus 's golden beauty, and the twinkling, shimmering swarm of the Pleiades; that all the marvelous panorama of the heavens, of which he had taught, hovered over them, linking them with a mystic chain as she thought of him and he of her under a foreign sky. What follows maj^ be only a legend. Those, who in these matter- of-fact days laugh at the supernatural, will call it a fairy story or a dream, but those who are interested in psychology, who admit the mighty contrcrl of mind over matter, will find food for reflection on wliat is chronicled here. Told, as the writer heard it, in a quaint, old, darkened room with dim shadows lighted only by a smouldering wood-fire it would indeed grip the listener with a surge of shudder- ing awe. Rosalind Clough paced back and forth on the beach as she had so many times on so many nights. The dampness of the wind smote her face with the memory of an hour that was gone ; the fascination of the night was upon her ; her very soul was stirred. The last glow from the dying sun faded leaving the sky as gray as the cloud in her heart. Even as she turned to gaze seaward, the darkness had de- scended, blotting even the horizon from view. The girl stood staring into the blackness, her heart suddenly full of rebellion that another day had ended without her father's return. And then the vision came to her. Earth and sea and sky in the pulse of a heart-beat seemed to flash before her with a great light. Every tree, every bush on the opposite shore, every bend in the river burst plainly on her view. The great glare pierced and tore the dusk like a flash of lightning. She closed her eyes, opened them again, stared like one in a dream. On the broad current of the stream she beheld the masts, the deck, and hull of a vessel, and although it was like a barque of silver on a water of crystal, she knew it was her father's own ship illumined with a strange and wonderful brightness as it gleamed before her startled gaze. She saw the busy sailors, the captain on the deck, even beheld him throw back his head in the old fa- miliar way, saw and recognized every detail of sail and mast and spar. The Garden of the East 47 And then she saw Her — the Woman. She was floating rather than walking upon that silvered deck, a magnificent creature, beautiful in countenance and i'orm, tall, richly gowned, with powdered hair and regal carriage and with a i'ace that held one spellbound, so filled was it with youth and grace. Rosalind saw her stretch out her hands with a sudden, beseeching gesture as if pleading for release, then raise her eyes to Heaven with a wonderful look of peace. The girl strove to move, to speak, but could make neither motion nor sound. Even as she struggled with the awful torpor that benumbed her, the bright- ness suddenly faded, there was darkness again over island and sea, and the vision was gone. Half an hour later Madam Clough and her son were roused from their sad musings by the swift sound of light steps in the outer hall. The door was flung open to admit Rosalind looking like a wraith of the night with her dishevelled hair blown about her wide eyes and pallid face. "Mother! Mother!" she cried in a voice of piercing sweetness. "My father is well. He will return. But she — she — Marie An- toinette — is dead ! ' ' * * * Winter had cast its dark pall over the earth before Captain Clough sailed up the river to his home on Squam Island, and he brought beautifully carved furniture, draperies of velvet and silk, magnificent paper hangings and even costly gowns of rich brocade, which the friends of Marie Antoinette had placed on board his ves- sel in the far-away French waters that their loved qaeen might have fitting surroundings in the exile to which they had planned to send her across the seas. And he told of the discovery of the plot on the eve of its consummation, how the message, concealed and sent in a bouquet to the queen, w^as confiscated by her jailors, of how she had been hastened to her execution, of the imprisonment of her true and faithful friends, of his own hairbreadth escape, and of how, even as he fled, he heard the blood-curdling shouts of the mob, as it stormed through the narrow streets bearing ]\Iarie Antoinette to her untimely doom. And most remarkable coincidence of all, the night that Rosa- lind Clough had seen the strange vision was the night of Oct. 16, 1793, the date of the queen's execution. Strange questions arise in the mind at this mere fabric of an ancient, dreamj^ legend. By some strong power of will did the mind of Capt. Clough, so filled with the dread happenings, convey to the responsive mind of his loved daughter the vision of the doomed queen. In striving to unravel the mystery we are met by that same impenetrable wall of blackness that forever blocks the way of even the most brilliant of scientists and students who spend their lives in trying to pierce the curtain of the Great Unseen. It is indeed true that 48 The Trail of the Maine Pioneer "We are no other than a Moving Row Of magic Shadow-shapes that come and go Round with this Sun-illumined Lantern held In Midnight by the Master of the Show; "Impotent pieces of the Game He plays Upon this Checker Board of Nights and Days ; Hither and thither moves and checks and slays And one by one back in the Closet lays. "The Ball no question makes of Ayes and Noes, But right or left as strikes the Player goes ; And He that tossed you down into the Field He knows about it all — He knows — He knows." Thus runs the tale. The old house has been moved to the oppo- site shore of Edgecomb, and still greets with colonial stateliness the visitors who come and go in its quiet rooms, furnished in the grandeur of other days. One by one the relics, which proved the truth of the story, have been carried away by souvenir hunters. Only a shred of taspestry and a piece of brocaded stuff, on which is pinned a scrap of paper in Capt. Clough's handwriting, remain to give credence to the inexplicable tale. This certificate asserts that the cloth was sent to Capt. Samuel Clough "by an eye witness," and was a bit of the gown worn by the queen at her execution. When the late Mr. Sewall was a mere lad he saw the rich hang- ings brought from the palace at Versailles and the beautiful, old- fashioned gowns, that seemed even then to breathe of the fair, dead woman who had worn them. Many of the tapestries were given away years ago; the hangings have fallen into tattered rags; the quaint, old sideboard stood for years in the Knox House, Thomaston. So the fragments that told of the ancient tragedy have been scattered far and wide. Fair, little Rosalind married and we trust "lived happily ever after" like the princess in the fairy tale. Her first daughter was named Antoinette, and to this day the name remains in the family, handed down from daughter to daughter in each suc- ceeding generation. It is an established fact that Talleyrand, the noted French states- man, landed at Wiscasset in 1794 with a handsome youth who was a fugitive from the French Revolution. This youth proved to be the young Duke of Orleans, afterward Philip, King of France. It is said they escaped from Paris in Capt. Clough's vessel, came with him to Wiscasset, from there to Hallowell with letters to Cols. North and Vaughn, and thence to Philadelphia. So only the memory lives in the minds and hearts of a few of the residents of the dignified, old town, a memory that is but a link in The Garden of the East 49 that long chain of the past, each link a heart throb, each tear a bead, each smile a jewel of great price. And this chain of memories of *'The Garden of the East" in which is woven fact and fiction, would not be complete without the story of Rosalind, the little maid of Squam Island, and that other with her crown of gold and crown of snow, wife and mother, queen and martyr — Marie Antoinette. "Clasp, Angel of the backward look And folded wings of ashen gray And voice of echoes far away, The brazen covers of thy book; The weird palimpest old and vast. Wherein thou hid'st the spectral past; Where, closely mingling, pale and glow The characters of joy and woe; The monographs of outlived years, Or smile-illumined or dim with tears. Even while I look I can but heed The restless sands' incessant fall, Importunate hours that hours succeed, Each clamorous with its own sharp need, And duty keeping place with all. Shut down and clasp the heavy lids; I hear again the voice that bids The dreamer leave his dream midway For larger hopes and graver fears: Life greatens in these later years, The century's aloe flowers to-day." THE LUCK OF THE JULIET: A TRAGEDY OF THE SEA The Luck of the Juliet: A Tragedy of the Sea By LOUISE WHEELER BARTLETT INETTA Hodsdon stood on the steps of the old Colonial tavern and looked first up the street and then down. She was watching for Ned Brown, her sailor lover. lie had agreed to call for her for their usual Sunday 1 &7 afternoon walk. It was now almost half -past three. She V^E/ looked over to Ned's house, only a stone's throw dis- ' I tant, but the house was wrapped in Sabbath peace. Be- yond, on the slope of the hill, at the old Gay house, where her friend Ethel Snowman lived, she saw Ethel and her husband John looking at the vines around the doorway. Minetta waved her hand and looked about her to discover any traces of new spring green peeping through the black earth around her own doorway. The big, pillared door, Avith its fan light over the top and its pol- ished brass knocker, made a fine background for her as she stood there. Minetta was pretty, scarcely more than seventeen. She was Blender, so slender that even the full skirts and furbelows of the days of the Rebellion could not detract from her figure. She had a mass of yellow curls, large violet eyes and plenty of pink in her cheeks. She was sweet natured, usually as angelic as her appearance, but when occasion demanded she had plenty of fire, as Ned Brown was to find out later that day. When Captain Hodsdon was confronted with the problem of tak- ing care of his two motherless daughters, he decided to quit the sea and put his savings into this old tavern. Later, he had the chance to continue his hotel management and also be sailing master of the old packet "Spy," which plied between Castine and Belfast. He was a genial host, who kept his guests in a good frame of mind with his fund of witty stories. So they soon learned to overlook such minor inconveniences as tough steak and poor service. He made a success of his inn by sheer force of his own strong personality. The other daughter, Maria, was as fine a girl as Minetta, several years younger and her exact opposite, with gipsy coloring, dark hair and big black eyes. Maria had begged to go to walk with her sister this sunny April day, but Minetta had been firm in her refusal, for she had an important question that she wanted settled between her- self and Ned this very afternoon. It must be settled, if she were to get her clothes ready to be married in June, as Ned was now urging. 54 The Trail of the Maine Pioneer Minetta had just time to loosen the dirt about five new-born crocuses, when she heard, first Ned 's whistle and then his footstep on the flag walk, as he came around the sprawling ell of the house. Ordinarily she might have taken Ned to task for his tardiness, but not now, with the favor which she had in mind to ask of him this afternoon. Ned came up to her with an eager smile and squeezed the firm little hand which she held out to him. "Sorry, Netta dear, to keep you waiting. I've been up on Captain Davies' piazza and he has been telling us fellows some mighty inter- esting war stories. Wish I could tell a story the way he does. He makes you see the whole thing before your eyes — the regiments of soldiers, the smoke and roar of cannon and all the glory of battle. It was so hard to break away, that's why I'm late." And his face flushed with enthusiasm in spite of his apologetic tones. It was so good to walk in the warm spring sunlight, that, not minding the mud, they went up to the fort and along the upper road, by Ober's little farmhouse, almost out to the light at Dice's Head. Then they swung around by the white stone cottage at the bend of the road and looked out over Penobscot Bay to the distant sea. Sud- denly Minetta said, with a quiver of her lip and a half sob in her throat : "It won't be long, Ned, before you will be sailing out there on j^our way to the Gulf of St. Lawrence, and I shall be standing here alone watching you out of sight." "Don't think of that part of it, Netta. Remember, by that time you will be my wife. Rather think of the day when you will be standing here watching our little schooner coming up the bay to greet you," replied he. When they reached Mogridge's barn the bars were up across the road. Ned offered to take them do-wai but Minetta liked the fun of climbing over and Ned liked it, too. For when she stood on the top- most bar, poised like a bird for flight, he put up his arms and lifted her down. He held her close for one precious moment, which might have been longer if Mrs. Mogridge had not come out of the bam with a foaming pail of milk and destroyed the sentimental value of the scene. Finally, as the sun was getting low, they came along the beach past Webster's shipyard and the Noyes shipyard to Tilden's yard and the lumber wharf, to look at a schoouer being built there. Minetta was crazy over the little vessel, and that was why she guided Ned's steps that way. They went over the vessel and looked into the cabin and the cook 's galley. Wlien they were back on the wharf they leaned against a pile of lumber and talked her over. Minetta said, "Oh, Ned, I just love this little schooner. She is the sweetest one ever built here. Ned, you must get the boys to name her for me. My heart is set on it." The Luck of the Juliet 55 "But Netta, deiirest, 1 am only one of sixteen, and I can't name her for you. We've all agreed to call her the 'Juliet Tilden' after the Colonel's wife." That cut Minetta to the quick. She stamped her foot and said it should be named for her, and she was going to christen it with a bot- tle of wine, as she had read they did in foreign countries. Ned kept discreetly silent. Then she tried the coaxing method. With an adorable pout she put her pretty arms around his neck and said: "Don't you love me? Don't you think me as pretty as Mrs. Tilden?" "You're the sweetest thing in the world to me," said Ned, but he could see she did not believe him, and in a moment she came back with these words : "You don't mean it; I know you don't. I have heard you say a dozen times that the Colonel and his wife were the handsomest couple that ever walked down the gang plank onto steamboat wharf. ' ' In her disappointment she was almost jealous of the lovely, stately Juliet. She ended the discussion with these words: "Ned Brown, if you don't name this schooner after me, I shall not marry you in June. You may just wait for me until I am ready- perhaps December, or any old time. Listen to what I say. This schooner will never have any luck if you do name her 'Juliet,' " and under her breath she said something to the effect that, like Shakes- peare's heroine, both Juliets would be fated to an early grave. She then turned on her heel, and without looking back went home to her supper. Ned, with both hands stuffed deep in his pockets and a crestfallen look about his mouth, such as a man generally wears when his wife or sweetheart has had the last word, went whistling over to the other side of the wharf. There he found his brother Andy and several other boys, their feet hanging over the edge of the wharf and their backs against another pile of lumber, smoking, whittling and talking over the matter they had just heard the lovers discussing. Could Minetta 's words be called a prophecy, would they curse the schooner? This was the first disagreement they had had since they had been keeping company, but he understood Minetta well enough to know that a night's sleep would help matters out and she would soon be her usual agreeable self. So Ned joined the boys and tried to dismiss the whole fuss from his mind. These were the days of '66 and '67, right after the close of the Civil War. Owing to the injury done their shipping, New England's seaports, as well as those of the South, were having bitter days of reconstruction. Castine had suffered heavily. She had contributed her full quota to the Union cause. Colonel Tilden had returned to his native town, bringing his old white charger as well as a record of heroism of which the citizens were justly proud. The story of how 56 The Trail of the Maine Pioneer he dug his way out of Libby Prison was the talk of the youngsters on the street. There was no favor too great for any Castine boy to do him. When the idea of building a schooner on shares was started, all the young fellows in town were eager to work on her if the Colonel would be agent and advance a sum sufficient to start the project. Sixteen men from eighteen to twenty-five years old put in some $700 each. Part of this was cash, but some of it represented the work that each one did on her. All of the boys in those daj^s knew enough to lend a hand and do an honest day's work at shipbuilding. Many of these young lads learned some other trade, but when times were slack, worked at ship carpentry, and in the evenings went to apprentice school. They went fishing up in the Bay Chaleurs from the first of June to the last of September. Those were the days of good profit in fish and they sold their fare for a tidy little sum, which might be laid away for a nest-egg against the time when they desired to marry. * * * The days of Castine 's supremacy as an important business port were over. One by one her industries had declined. The glory of l)eing the shire town of Hancock County had been taken away from her; the useless court-house and jail were empty. The brickyard had failed. Instead of five shipyards echoing to the cheerful tap-tap of the hammer, it was good luck if one ship were launched from one yard, each spring. Her weekly newspaper, which had been the best and largest in this part of the state from 1799, had died a natural death from lack of patronage. Where ten ships from native or for- eign ports entered or cleared during a week, bringing or taking large cargoes, the average now was perhaps one in a fortnight, and that, from Boston with freight, or a lumber or fishing schooner bound for the Provinces. The townspeople were discouraged and were even then looking about for some new enterprise to help the town to re- cover her former prosperity. The glory of her historic honors would always be hers, but the prestige of the normal school and of a health giving summer resort were yet to come. The "Juliet Tilden" was the prettiest sharp-nosed racing schooner ever built for mackerel fishing and must have cost about $18,000. She was the last vessel built in the Tilden shipyard and very few were built afterward in the town. That long line of fine old sea captains which included so many of the prominent Castine families, the Whitings, Gays, Brookses and Dyers, was no more. Many had retired from the merchant marine service to enjoy their last days with their families in comfortable Colonial homes. Ships from Cadiz by way of Liverpool or from Hong Kong around Cape Horn were no longer an every day occur- rence. It was only now and then that a yard sent out a fishing schooner. K/- Minetta The Luck of the Juliet 57 The launching of the "Juliet" occurred the middle of the week. Ned dropped in to the Castine House on his way to it, to ask the Ilodsdon girls if they would like to see it. Minetta had had plenty of time to think over her ra.sh words. She had been unhappy over the falling out on Sunday and was quite ready now to meet Ned half way and even more, to restore friendly relations. So she called Maria and the three went over to the shipyard to see the staunch little boat slide down the greased ways. Half the town was present ; the wharves were black with spectators. There were no ceremonies and no christening scene. It took some little time after the "Juliet" launched to get her rigged, painted and fitted out for her maiden voyage. She started out the first of June so as to get up to the Bay of Chaleurs in time for the spring school of mackerel, which runs in there strong about that time. Some springs the bay is packed full of small fish which are chased in by the larger fish. This year it was a poor school and the fishing fleet did not do as well as usual. It was a wrench to her heart strings, the day Ned left her, but Minetta was j^oung and interested in the things of life worth while. She found that the long June days went by much more quickly than she had anticipated. Almost before she knew it, it was time to be on the lookout for tlie vessel's return. She had received several short letters from Ned, mailed from different ports where the "Juliet" touched on her way north. The "Juliet," returning from her first trip, sold her fish on the way home. The captain, Benjamin Sylvester, was from Deer Isle. He wanted to see his wife and babies, so he took the "Juliet" into his home harbor. The Castine boys sailed up in a small sloop to see their families, and get fresh supplies and clean clothes. They were to rejoin the vessel for her second trip to the fishing banks. The young people had a jolh^ fortnight while the boys were home. Hayrack rides around the Square, dances at the old Avery place and clam-bakes at Indian Bar filled in the da.ys. Ned Brown was a rest- less chap when off duty and he wanted something doing every minute. With the exception of what Minetta had threatened to Ned, there had been no thought of disaster connected with the "Juliet." What Minetta had said was only the chatter of a peeved child, about which only three or four persons knew. All of a sudden, a change seemed to come over every one con- nected with the little schooner. John Sawj^er said he had a feeling that the second trip would not be a success, so thought he would not go. Will Morey felt the same. John was persuaded to go, but Will stuck to his original decision. Perkins Hutchins told his father that he would rather help him tend the light. Perk's father had been given the government job of lighthouse keeper, but his father said for him to go along to sea and not show the white feather over noth- ing. 58 The Trail of the Maine Pioneer In the meantime, the old "Morning Star" had started out on a trip. The *'Star" was a rather rotten old tub, but she was the best to be had at that time. About a dozen Castine men were on her, among them Charlie Clark, who had just married one of those smart Hatch girls. At this time his wife was "off the Neck" visiting rela- tives and Charles' brother Will went off to see her. He tried to get her to come back to the village, urging that he was going off on the "Juliet" the next week, and that she write a letter to her husband, which he would take, as he would see Charles either at Bay Chaleurs or the Magdalen Islands. Sarah told him to come off two days later and she would have her letter ready. On Saturday Will went off again, taking his sister with him. He insisted that his sister-in-law come back with them. He said, laugh- ing, "You may never see me again, for I am going on the 'Juliet,' and she is getting a black eye just now in the village." So Sarah walked in with Will and his sister. As they got to the top of Windmill Hill, they saw a man just about the build of Will Clark standing at the corner of Perkins field at the edge of the road. It was almost dusk and they thought he was someone they knew waiting for them, but when they got almost up to him, he turned and walked slowly in the middle of the road down State Street hill. If Will walked fast, so did the stranger; if he slowed up in his pace, so did the other. Will called out to him, "Hold on a minute! I want to speak to you." But he made no answer. He was in front of Ord way's cottage, and all three were looking at him, when, like a flash, he disappeared. No one saw which way he went ; it was as if the earth had opened and swallowed him up. The girls ran, pale and frightened, into Mrs. Clark's kitchen, where she was frying buckwheat cakes for a late supper for them. With teeth chattering they told her what they had seen. She said it was an apparition. She remembered her grandmother saw one just before her youngest son was shot in the War of 1812. She thought probably second sight ran in the family. Just then Minetta came in, and, all three talking at the same time, the girls and Will told their story to her. As can be seen readily, when Ned Brown went to say good-bye to Minetta Hodsdon, he found her very nervous. She had heard the various stories that the men would not ship a second time. That very day Josiah Hatch had refused to ship, for fear he would not come back from a second trip. Minetta cried and told Ned she had not meant to cast evil on the "Juliet" by what she had said before the launching. She tried her best to persuade him not to go. She did not know a Brown, however, when he had made up his mind to go to sea. Ned Brown was a general favorite in town. He was tall, well- built and light-haired, like all the rest of the Brown family. He had smiling blue eyes, a frank mouth, in fact, he was a good, wholesome The Luck of the Juliet 59 lad, with honest face and cheerful disposition. He feared neither man nor devil. Unlike most seafaring men, he had not the slightest particle of superstition in his makeup. He only laughed at Minetta's fears and said, "Don't worry, Netta. There's nothing in it. What shall I bring you home for a wedding present, if I stop in Boston or Portland? Remember, our wedding is to be in December, sure. ' ' Minetta blew him a kiss from the tips of her fingers, and, laugh- ing between her tears, replied, "All right, Ned, I'll be ready Decem- ber 31st." A trip to the Gulf of St. Lawrence meant very little to Ned, with one brother taking trips to Hong Kong and another brother to South America. The Browns belonged to a sea-faring line. His grandfather, a Scotchman, went to sea and his own father followed the sea until he was injured in some sort of a naval scrap at Gibraltar. Then he came to Castine and went into business. He was a fine old man, very well read, and could spout page after page of Walter Scott's novels and Bobby Burns' poetry. His wife, Ned's mother, was the salt of the earth and fully as necessary, as she comforted and sympathized with all the town's afflicted. After Ned left Minetta, she went over to the old Gay house to see John Snowman's little wife. She found her a sorry-looking object, as she had cried so much that her eyes looked like two burnt holes in a blanket. She was all broken up at the thought of John's leaving her. She, too, felt that it was to be an unlucky voyage. Bad luck seemed to be in a whisper floating in the air for those who would listen to it. John thought his wife hysterical, but was very kind and gentle with her, as she expected to become a mother late in October. He considered her nervousness entirely owing to her condition. He felt it was hard for her, as she was only a young girl, and he wished he could remain at home. But he needed the money and he needs must go. He left her sobbing on the shoulder of Netta, who prom- ised to take good care of her. The personnel of the "Juliet's" crew was made up almost entirely of young men. There was Captain Sylvester and his boy. In a fish- ing trip like this there is not much authority in the captain. AU the men own in the vessel and in one sense they are all captains, but one man has to handle the papers and be known at the custom-house as the captain. The list of men was : Ned and Andy Brown, Joseph Bowden and his son, Sam Perkins, Wells Wardwell, John Sawyer, Ira Wescott from North Castine, Perkins Hutchings, Cyrus Ward- well, Charles Eaton, Edward Clark and his brother, and Will Clark, a cousin, and two Snowman brothers, John and Frank. The "Juliet" left Deer Isle about the first of August and that very night Mrs. Clark, Will's mother, dreamed that she saw the "Juliet" on a great rocky reef, with her hull raised high in the air and her broken mast buried in the sand. Her daughter-in-law. 60 The Trail of the Maine Pioneer Sarah, dreamed of seven white horses in a row in their stable, which was a sure sign of disaster to some member of the family. * # # "He will take his toll, he will take his toll. Mark my words, the monster hunts for his victim to-night," chanted old Granny Goode- uow, as she hobbled along the beach in front of her snug little cabin, picking here and there a stray bit of driftwood, just the right length for her small kitchen stove. She was speaking to that rough old sea dog, mariner Ebenezer Mann, as he sawed for a fireplace a few big drift logs, which she had rolled away from the incoming tide. "Yer right, yer right, granny," groaned Ebenezer, as he straightened out his game leg and rested from his labors. "When the wind blaws up from Cape Rozier and th' water moans over Naut'lus bar, look out fer a storm before dawn, if the sky-line is streaked with lemin color and perpul, as 'tis ter-night. It war jest sech a night as this when th' British bark 'Jane' war wrecked on Trott's flats." Granny and Captain Ebenezer had cabins side by side on Oakum Bay at the north end of the town. Neighbors for these forty years, since her husband and his wife departed from this vale of tears, they had found it possible each to aid the other in such a manner as partly to mitigate the loss each had suffered. Many a darned sock bore testimony to Granny's skill with the needle, and never a batch of doughnuts went into its crock without half of it being left at the mariner's door. The sawing of driftwood, the loan of a daily paper and a portion of his sea catch proved equally his neighborly interest. As Minetta carefully picked her way over the wet stones of the beach and climbed the breakwater into the old shipyard, she heard the words of the two old people. She wondered what they muttered over; who was the monster, what the toll, and where the victim. She was hurrying home before the gathering storm. She had been across the river to Polly Coot's Cove, to gather there some big white scallop shells. She expected five of her girl friends to supper the following evening and she needed some big shells in which to serve the devilled lobster. Their negro cook at the tavern served it like crab meat and lobster was much cheaper. As she reached the house the wind and spray were dashing madly against the front windows. The rain was already descending in tor- rents. She ran up to the big front room, which was hers at this season of the year. There she lighted a fire in the big fireplace. As she changed her wet shoes and stockings and dried her damp skirts before the glowing blaze, she cast every now and then a furtive glance out over the black and angry bay. Whenever the house shook in the strong teeth of the gale, she shivered and murmured, "God lookout for those we love who are on the sea to-night." She could not sleep during the two days that the sea lashed the coast and hurled its defiance. Others besides Minetta wondered The Luck of the Juliet 61 what was happening north of them and how the little fishing fleet would stand it at the mercy of the pitiless sea. w « « The "Morning Star" left Castine two weeks earlier than the "Juliet Tilden." She carried a crew of Castine men only. She got one fare of fish and made for the Gut of Canso. At Ship Har- bor she shipped her fish to East Boston and then went to the Bay of Chaleurs for another fare. After she had secured about three- fourths of a load, as the fishing was not very brisk, slie sailed down to the Magdalen Islands to try her luck there. She arrived Sunday, September 30th. She went into Pleasant Bay under a gor- geous sunset of lemon and purple clouds. The Magdalen Islands form a sort of bay. Coffin Island, long and narrow, lies along the northern boundary. To the southeast is Entry Island big and rounded ; at the north it grows narrower, and from the end of it a long reef, or hook, makes out; the southern boundary is another large island, called Amherst Island. This, too, has a big, rocky reef, which stretches out toward p]ntry Island. Be- tween the two reefs is a narrow passage, not safe to try unless you have an experienced pilot at the wheel. Connecting Amherst Island with Coffin Island on the west is a long line of sandy or rocky islets, which, from their shape, are called Sugar Loaf. The entrance to this group is at the northeastern end. When the "Morning Star" came into Pleasant Bay, a fleet of one hundred and fifty sail lay anchored the whole length of Amherst Island. Many of the vessels were from Cape Ann and Cape Cod, but the greater part were from Maine. They were all anchored sin- gle, the usual arrangement, to prevent their running afoul if the anchors drag in a blow. The "Star" tacked across the bay and chose a berth second from the Amherst reef. As luck would have it, the "Juliet Tilden" was the first in the line. The boys of the "Morning Star" were very glad to go aboard the "Juliet" to get the home letters and news and swap a little sea gossip. The crew of the "Juliet" had had pretty good luck, so they intended to fish here for only a few days and then start for home. It was rather late in the season and storms were likely to brew right away. The crew of the "Morning Star" stayed aboard the "Juliet" until nearly midnight. As they went over the side of the "Juliet" into their yawl-boat, they looked off to the north and saw great black clouds gathering. Ned Brown called down to them, "Looks as if it might rain any minute. I guess we're going to have the biggest blow some of us have ever seen." Those were the last words from the "Juliet." In half an hour it was raining torrents and blowing a living gale from the north-northeast. The crew of the "Star" feared they might drag their anchors and go ashore, so they got under way and S2 The Trail of the Maine Pioneer beat across ; then they hove her short, put in three reefs, and waited for the "Juliet" to get under way, which she did at once. They saw her fill away to the east toward the sandy hook. The ''Star" filled away to the east on the same tack. As soon as she got head- way enough to come in stays, they tacked ship again, and kept tack- ing for two mortal hours. Never had the schooner labored in the seas as she did that night. As soon as the first gray glimmer of dawn revealed their bearings, the "Star" crept up under Coffin Island and anchored. The waves were already mast-head high. They could see the rest of the fleet anchoring in the lee of the island, which broke the edge of the sea. About nine o'clock Monday morning they told the cook to go be- low and get breakfast. He came up directly, thoroughly frightened, and said he could not keep the pots and pans on the galley stove. As the captain was afraid of fire, he told him to batten down the hatch and leave everything snug below ship. All this time the gale kept growing. Ferdinand Devereux, who was one of the crew, said he had sailed south many years, but he had never met any hurricane that came up to this. They threw out life lines about the cabin and lashed themselves to them. From nine o'clock Monday morning till noon on Wednesday they did not have a thing to eat or drink. At one time it was necessary to take axes and stave in the bulwarks to let the water run off and ease the vessel or it would have been buried by the waves swamping it. It was a fearful sight to look up and see one of those great green combers towering mountain high above and the next moment to feel it break over them and try to dash the old "Star" to the bottom of the bay. Wednesday noon the wind went down as quickly as it came up on Sunday night. The sea was beautiful and serene. All the fleet got under way and made sail out of the bay to some islands off to the eastward of Entry Island, to finish up their fare, as they were only three-fourths full of fish. Now a strange thing happened. Explain it who can. All the rest of the hundred and fifty sail went to the eastward, supposing the "Juliet" was with them. The "Star" sailed out of the harbor at the same time, but when the others took the tack east they tacked due south. No one remembered who was at the wheel. Not a word was spoken. They just went along the east coast of Entry Island down south of Amherst. The crew always thought God's hand was on the tiller. They went under the lee of Amherst Island, to put a reef in their mainsail. It was about dusk, when Bill Eaton and a Thombs boy. both about fourteen years old, were fooling with the ship's spy-glass. One of them shouted, "There's a vessel wrecked on that reef." The other boy snatched away the glass and looked through it. "By gum, it's the 'Juliet Tilden'!" By this time it was too dark to make sure. They lowered their yawl boat, but could not get near the reef and the water roared so that they could hear noth- The Luck of the Juliet 63 ing from the wreck. A man on the beach, some distance to the west- ward, told them at dawn to go to a certain small port, where they could find a good pilot to take them through the dangerous passage between the two islands to the spot where the vessel lay. The storm had been so great that the island folk had not been able to get off to help the wrecked sailors. All night long the watch saw lanterns moving along the beach. Early the next morning thej'^ took the pilot aboard the "Star," and he steered them inside the reef, where, sure enough, was the "Juliet," with her hull in the air and her broken mast buried in the sand, exactly as Mrs. Clark had seen it in her dream two months before. They lay off Harbor Lebar nine days and in that time picked up the battered bodies of the Castine boys, the flower of young manhood. Some were changed beyond all recognition by the cruel buffeting of the sea. They found poor Perk Ilutchins lashed to the cabin, but the pounding of the sea had very nearly worn through the strands of a brand-new cable. Captain Sylvester was found lying face down in his oilskin helmet, which was full of blood, and both eyeballs were resting on his cheeks. Ed Clark was apparently the last to leave the vessel and was found under the upturned yawl-boat. The government had appointed a man at Pictou to look out for uTecked sailors. He and the Catholic priest, as well as the minister of the Church of England, were very kind and helpful. The houses on Amherst Island are built very low posted, a case of preparedness against the fearful gales of that region. In one of those little low houses, ten rough timbered hemlock coffins were lying in a row wait- ing for the burial service. The priest allowed them to be buried on the edge of the Catholic cemetery, which was much more convenient if any of the bodies w-ere to be taken up later and shipped to Maine. They telegraphed from Pictou the news of the disaster to Castine. They remained a few days longer hoping to find Will Clark's body, which was not found till three weeks later, in a ravine up among the Sugar Loaf Islands. Ned Brown looked the most natural of them all. He had a sweet smile about his mouth, just as he often looked when he was thinking about Minetta. They brought what treasures they could find for the families — a knife, or a ring, or a watch. In Ned's pocket was found a little silver locket, which he had bought in Halifax to take home to Minetta. * « * The old Castine House had a beautiful stairway. It w^as the envy of all the townsfolk. Its reputation was known around the State, and people would go to the tavern just to see the old stairs. It was much like those in the celebrated Salem houses. Minetta was slowly descending the stairs with a big bunch of pink asters in her hand, which she was going to put on the desk in the office. Just then two 64 The Trail of the Maine Pioneer travelling men came in. One of them said to the other, "I've been over to the telegraph office to send a telegram. The operator had just received a message from a man on board the 'Morning Star' telling of the awful wreck of the 'Juliet Tilden.' " Minetta dropped her asters all along the stairs. She ran up to the stranger, took him by the shoulder, sort of shook him and said, "Was Ned Brown saved?" The man not realizing what it all meant to her said, "Not a soul on board lived to tell the story." A great flood of color surged up to Minetta 's cheeks then she went white as a sheet, and in a moment more was lying, a little crumpled heap, at the stranger's feet. She was carried to her bed and did not leave it for two weeks ; and she would not then have done so. had she not heard that while she was lying heart-broken, caring for nothing in this world, Ethel Snowman's little baby was born prematurely the night they told her the news of her husband's death. Perhaps it was the best thing for Minetta, because it roused her from her stupor of despair. "Wrapped in each other's arms the two young girls poured out their grief. From that time Minetta took almost as much care of the baby as did Ethel. Minetta became more and more subdued. She looked frail and delicate. She loved to climb around the rocks at Dice's Head. The neighbors said they often came across her sitting on the beach look- ing out to sea, her big violet eyes full of unshed tears. About five years after, Captain Hodsdon had a good chance to sell his hotel to a mining man, who paid him a fancy price, and with his daughters he moved out of town. Mrs. Juliet Tilden, for whom the schooner had been named, had never been strong and the constant terror under which she suffered while her husband was imprisoned during the Rebellion, had weak- ened her constitution. Now, under the weight of this fresh disaster to the schooner and the gloom that enshrouded the whole town, she faded away, like a beautiful flower crushed by a ruthless heel. Under cover of the beautiful serenity of the town lie these griefs hidden in the hearts that never forget. If one probes deep enough, he will discover the unhealed wound in the heart of many a maid, wife, or mother. Oh, these mothers by the sea ! Their tear-washed eyes and thin white hands clasped in prayer attest the tragedy of their lives. They hate the sea, and yet they love the sea and cannot live without it. MARTHA SMITH OF BERWICK Martha Smith of Berwick By CORA BELLE BICKFORD Foreword. This is the first time that the story of Martha Smith of Berwick has been ofifered for publication. It has been obtained only through much research among personal papers, in church records, in state archives, and it should be said that descendants living in Massacliuetts to-day have helped to make pos- sible the gathering of this material. The story, connected as it is with his- toric happenings that so greatly affected the lives of colonial representatives of rival nations in the New World, is of far more than local interest, while the heroic endurance of this pioneer mother must forever remain a monument to the true worth of Woman. C. B. B. N A PERFECT June morning in the year 1677, a bridal party lingered before the open door of the log house of Thomas Mills of Wells. The house, on an elevation of land, stood well back from the highway that, by the order of the court,^ had just been completed at the out- break of King Philip's War. This road, leading from Saco to York, was continued along the coast that it might better protect the inhabitants, in their necessary journeys, from sud- den attacks of the Indians, at the same time giving easy access to the ocean by means of the rivers and streams that flowed seaward. With this consideration it had been continued even to the center of habitation in the province of Massachusetts, and with the yearly growth of the colonies it was coming to be much travelled. The house faced a broad clearing through which one could see a stretch of sparkling blue ocean with broken hillocks and ridges of sand, heaped here and there by the action of the winds, serving as a barrier to encroaching waves that broke in long lines of feathery whiteness at their feet. On either side of the clearing were forest slopes clothed with varied shades of green, the soft, light foliage of the birches and poplars contrasting with the richer coloring of the maples and elms and these, in turn, clearly defined against a darker background of pines and firs. A light southwest breeze was abroad. It came hurrying up the hill, gently tossing balsamic odors gathered from the woodland, the delicate fragrance of wild blossoms and a salty exhilaration that could have been the gift of none other than old ocean. Stirring the grass leaves of the soft green sward in front of the house it crossed to a belated crab-apple tree, rosy with bloom, and, rouguishly shaking ^Bourne's History of Wells and Kennebunk, page 115. 68 The Trail of the Mame Pioneer its branches, sent down a shower of tinted petals upon the head of the young bride standing directly beneath, then passed on to pay its respects to the garden-plot at the side of the house. In this garden-plot grew mullein pinks, bouncing bets and daf- fodils. Hollyhocks were sending up tall, pale-green stalks and leafing marigolds were getting ready to flower. There was southern- wood, too, with its clean, pungent odor, or lad's love, gillyflower and larkspur already in bud with violets and sweet herbs. It was a gar- den that in its simplicity reminded one of old England, for Thomas Mills, Exeter-born, had brought from Devonshire, then as now the garden spot of the British Isles, a true love for flowers. Having obtained his grant, he cleared the land, but before he built his house, he tucked seeds away in the rich brown earth, seeds that were the most precious treasure brought from his old home across the sea. These sprang up and blossomed, giving in turn seeds for newer gar- dens, each year's blooms vying in brilliancy with those of the year before. The most distinguished member of that wedding party was Rev. Shubael Dummer of York who, less than two hours before, had per- formed the ceremony that had given Martha Mills to be the wife of James Smith of Berwick. He had been sent for, rather than John Buss, physician-preacher, who for such duties was usually called by the people of Wells among whom he labored. But at that time the name of John Buss^ was under a cloud and Thomas Mills was a proud man. He was proud that he was an Englishman, prouder that in his adventurous trip to the New World he had acquired such considerable property, but proudest of this daughter than whom there was not one fairer for many a mile. This was the last thing he could do for her in his own home and he meant that there should be sufficient dignity attending the marriage, a dignity he felt was well sustained when he looked at the Rev. Dummer in his wig and gown. Mary Mills, the mother, another one of the group, possessed a pride of quite a different nature. Had she not trained this daughter until no bride ever went forth to her new home more richly dowered with practical knowledge ? No one could turn a smoother web from the loom; she had taught her the art of soap-making as she had learned it in the home town of Bristol. Martha could cook an In- dian cake, fry a fish^ and roast potatoes in the ashes to perfection, dishing up as economical and appetizing a meal as ever hungry man sat down to. With her needle she was deft; and arts that her mother had learned in England had been taught her, so that her wed- ^Bourne's History of Weils and Kennebunk, pages 165-166. •"Next to fish, the early colonists found in Indian corn their most unfailing food supply. — Customs and Fashions in Old Nciv England, Alice Morse Earle, Page 148. Martha Smith of Berwick 69 ding gown boasted a border that well might be the admiration of any- colonial girl. Mary 's pride reached its height when she thought of the marriage Martha had made. James Smith of Barwic had held his grant nine years, 40 rods of land on the Newichawannock river and more than 100 acres in all. The home to which he was to take his bride was one of the most substantial and best furnished in that set- tlement, much of the furniture having been made by the groom's own hands. Then he had come for Martha, sitting straight and strong on his horse ; and she was to go away with him, sitting on the pillion behind, with some of the most precious of her dower stowed away in bags beneath. Martha could not know of the pride that was in her mother's heart, but she felt the comfortableness of being approved. Her wed- ding gown of fiax-colored linen had a pattern in scarlet thread worked above the hem of the full skirt; the thread dyed after a formula given by a friendly Indian before the outbreak of 1675. The close-fitting cap that covered her head and from beneath which a rippling strand of sunny brown hair had escaped was of the same material, the same scarlet border giving it becomingness. Her low shoes, the gift of her father, had leather soles with tops of cloth, fit- ting so neatly that hem of gown never cleared a trimmer-turned foot and instep. "With fresh complexion, deeply tinted cheeks and lips and clear grey eyes sparkling with hope and courage, she was, in- deed, a comely bride. Beneath one heel of her shapely foot a piece of southernwood was being crushed, for Martha remembered that : One who hides within her shoe A piece of southernwood or two, May hope to meet Pleasant experiences. Another member of that bridal party was Thomas Mills, Jr., a lad of sixteen years, who had been watching the others with sober countenance and responding to the request of little Mary, scarce eleven, who had been coaxing him from the shelter of her mother's skirts to break some branches from the apple tree. But now the time had come to go and Martha gave her hand to her father, curtesied low to the Rev. Shubael Dummer and touched her mother's cheek lightly with her lips. It was her brother's turn next and, drawing down his head, she whispered something in his ear which caused him to blush and brought a smile to his serious lips. Now it was little Mary's turn, but she did not wait for Martha to make the first advance. Throwing her arms about her sister's neck, she held her while she pushed the stem of a cluster of apple-blossoms 70 The Trail of the Maine Pioneer beneath the border of her cap. Then, releasing her, she tucked an- other spray into the fastening of her bodice, whispering: ''It is for my sister and I love her." It was all so quickly done, and Martha's eyes filled with tears as she drew her little sister to her with a tender caress. There was no longer time for delay; for the sun was climbing high in the heavens and the day would be well spent before the new home in Barwic would be reached. James Smith followed his wife in his good-byes to the family and the reverend gentleman, then, lift- ing Martha to the pillion, he sprang up in front of her and down the hill they rode together with backward waving of hands until they came to the little bridge at the level of the highway, where the water of a bubbling spring went trickling away to find companionship in some near-by brook. Here willows fringed the road and just before James Smith and Martha passed beneath their branches, Mary Mills suddenly and adroitly turned the attention of the group on the hill in the opposite direction by exclaiming: "Look, Thomas, what makes the breeze shake the pine tree so strangel}^?" Then she could not suppress a smile at the thought that her ruse had been so successful. While the day with its beautiful weather was good omen, it would never do to watch a dear one out of sight ; no good luck would be likely to follow. And ]\Iartha Smith, respecting her mother's superstition, did not look back when they had reached the willows. Turning her face res- olutely away from the privilege of a last glance at her old home and the familiar faces, she looked straight before her and so rode with her husband, away and across country. # # * Settlers of Berwick, to-da.y an important town of York County, Maine, were, many of them, adventurers. Influenced by rumors of the great wealth of the New World and eager themselves to be acquir- ing earthly possessions, they had crossed the Atlantic to cast in their lot with other as hazardous fortune-seekers as themselves. In many cases the fortune materialized and the young man soon found himself proprietor of wooded acres and mayhap a clearing in which stood the house that was to be the home of his future bride. To this last class belonged James Smith. His first grant of land, recorded in 1668, showed that it lay on the east bank of the Newicha- wannock, along the river for an eighth of a mile, then running inland with wooded slopes and outbreaking rocky elevations. It v/as to this comfortable home, in a spot that he had cleared, a dozen rods or more from the river, that he took Martha, his bride. From the house the land dropped gently down to the water's edge where there was a small landing and during the open season a Martha Smith of Berwick 71 small boat was usually hauled up on the shore or, perhaps, tugged at its moorings when the current was strongest. The river was al- ways flowing, flowing, on its way to the sea and its course was, far- ther on, through the marshes where it might be seen on a sunny summer day blue with tide-water, then moving on to be lost in the broad, consequential Piseataqua. It was this river view that Martha loved best of all on the farm, and she often stood at the side door of the home and looked away towards the southwest. As far as eye could see, she could follow the river in its course, then dream about it as it found its way into the restless ocean. The spirit of her ancestors flowed in her veins. Her thoughts were not held by the boundary of that ocean, and she often longed to see that other land about which her parents and husband talked. Yet she was content with her home and the life that it afforded. Like her husband, she was ambitious and whenever he came to her with the details of another profitable transaction, or talked to her of added acres, her heart responded sympathetically. No man loved an advantageous deal better than he, but he was a tiller of the soil, a laborer as his services were needed, and also a man of affairs. And while he worked out-of-doors Martha put the acquired skill of her girlhood to best account in the home. Scattered as were those colonial homes, there would have been many lonely lives had not the majority of the inhabitants looked up- on life philosophically, allowing happenings of whatsoever character, to entertain or amuse. The passing traveller brought the news ; and he was always welcome. He would tell of births, deaths, the findings of the court that dealt with the eccentricities or the short-comings of neighboring settlers — all a part of the panorama that fed curiositj^ and gave human interest to life. Such a visitor brought a gathering from the homes in the neighborhood and when gossip had been ex- changed all regaled themselves with blackberry wine and molasses cake. Occasionally a piece of news called forth general ridicule as when William Furbish* of Wells was reprimanded by the court for abus- ing his Majestie's authority (Charles II. of England) when he used opprobrious language in calling his officers "Devils and Hell- hounds." Sometimes indignation stirred the whole settlement. This was true when James Adams enticed the boys of Henry Simpson, as he believed, to their death. Building an enclosure of logs, inhanging so that they could not be scaled, he entrapped the lads there in the midst of a desolate forest. But they dug away the ground with their ^Bourne's History of Wells and Kenncbunk, page I59- 72 The Trail of the Maine Pioneer hands and escaped, finding their way back home after being without food and water for several days. John Wiucoll, who owned a farm farther up the Newichawan- nock, brought the news that the Simpson boys were liome, coming up the river in his flat-bottomed boat, shouting as he went along. *'Ho-ho, Simpson boys h-o-m-e ho-ho, Simpson boys h-o-m-e," all the way along, the settlers coming to the river bank to get the news, and to hear the finding of tlie court : James Adams, found guilty of bad and malicious temper and re- vengeful spirit to receive "30 stripes well laid on, to pay to the father of children of Henry Simpson 5 pounds each, to pay treasurer of county 10 pounds, and to remain close prisoner during the court's pleasure. ' '^ This was the most grievous offense for many years and the matter was talked of for many a day and month, often furnishing material for an entire evening's conversation when there had been no impor- tant happening for some time. Frequently conversation turned to the Indians, a common foe. King Philip 's war had carried desolation into all New England. Per- sistent fighting had subdued the savages in Massachusetts, Plymouth and Connecticut, but in New Hampshire and Maine the Indian hatred of the whites continued to express itself until the treaty of Casco in 1678. The Indians of this region were principally collective tribes known as the Abenakis. The French, having established relations with them through the missionaries, saw their opportunity and seized it. They persuaded many of these distressed and exasperated sav- ages to leave the neighborhood of the English, migrate to Canada, where they settled first at Sillery, near Quebec, and then at the falls of Chaudiere. Jacques and Vincent Bigot were prime agents in their removal and took them in charge. Thus the missions of St. Francis became villages of Abenaki Christians," like the village of Iroquois Christians at Saut St. Louis. In both cases they were sheltered un- der the wing of Canada and their tomahawks were always at her service. But though many of the Abenakis joined these mission col- onies the great body of the tribes still clung to their homes on the Saco, the Kennebec and the Penobscot. But there were pleasures of a more wholesome nature to keep the settlers' minds well balanced. Sometimes Martha would ride down to York with James where they would cross the ferry at Goodman Hilton's, James swimming his horse across and Martha paying one penny to go by boat. On the other side Martha would mount again and they would go on to visit with the Moultons and the Littlefields. •'■'Bourne's History of Wells and Kennebunk, page i6o. ^Parkman's Frontenac and New France under Louis XIV, page 226. Martha Smith of Berwick 73 Sometimes the journey was made to Kittery where one got news direct from incoming ships and met friends coming over from Eng- land to settle. None in the settlement had a happier and more comfortable home life than Martha and James Smith with their sons and daughters about them. James, Jr., was the oldest and then came the daughters, Mary and Elizabeth. Baby John, born July 26, 1685, was the young- est. When he was nearly five Martha was 37, yet the years sat lightly upon her. She was a woman of great attraction, as the per- sonal charm of girlhood blossomed into the full beauty of mother- hood. So the life of the colony drifted along until the winter of 1689- 1690, a season of so much snow that travel was greatly interrupted. The heavy drifts kept the women and children housed and the men loved to gather about open fires of logs piled high and relate deeds of prowess as they had heard them both in the New World and the Old. In December news came of the forts taken on the Kennebec, the 16th of November, but the extreme cold and snow lulled the in- habitants at Salmon Falls and Berwick into a sense of security. They believed that they were so near the coast, and within such easy com- munication with Massachusetts that all would be well with them, though the Indians were abroad. So little precaution did they take that the one fortified house was not occupied and no watch was kept at either of the stockaded forts. The gate of one of the stockades hung by one hinge, left open by a miscreant youth when the first snow came in the fall ; and pushed by the winds and the drifts and weighted by the snows that fell upon it, it sagged out of usefulness and waited for spring to come that it might be repaired. The year 1690 came with no change and thus passed the months of January and February. March was blustering and stormy for the first two weeks, but spring set in early. The soft winds helped the sun, running higher and higher, to start the burden of snow; the men roused themselves from the lethargy caused by the extreme rigors of the winter and the housewives were thinking of spring work in homes and gardens. The 26th of March was a day like to summer with its blue sky and balmy air. The marshes lay warm in the sun, and the river, free to make its way to the sea, was bearing along the last portions of the icy rim that for weeks had marked its outline. Martha Smith came often to the door that March morning. She watched Baby John at his play, building ditches and sluiceways that the water might drain off to the river, and she came again when he called : "IMother, come see." She came to direct Mary and Elizabeth how to push the leaves away to see if the daffodils were coming up, and once she stopped to call to the son, James, telling him, as he hur- 74 The Trail of the Maine Pioneer ried away in the direction of the nearby woodlot, that dinner would be ready a half hour earlier than usual. In the evening twilight she came again to linger long, watching the lights as they faded from the western sky. A mist came creep- ing up from the sea, there was a delicious saltness in the air and — what was that she heard, a bullfrog croaking in the marshes? — It had sounded strangely like an Indian call and a great fear clutched her heart for the moment. Somehow she had felt a strange unrest all day although there was so much of spring in the air and life seemed full of hope. Surely there was nothing to fear and she turned to prepare the children for bed, for all had promised them- selves to be up early next morning. * * * "Pas de quartier aux Anglais!" ' ' Nous plantons la croix de Jesus ! ' ' "Nous gagnons au nom de Frontenac et de Nouvelle France!" The oaths rang out on the frosty air while the little bell in the chapel of Saint Francois echoed these pledges with clear, ringing strokes. On that winter morning wives and mothers had gathered on the shores of the Saint Francis river to greet the expedition as it came across from Three Rivers and passed on its way up the St. Francis, stopping only long enough for oaths to be renewed. Though there were many heavy hearts among the watchers on the shore, no tears were shed ; for was it not for France and a holy caiise that the sacrifice was being made? Of the three parties of picked men sent out by Count Frontenac,'^ governor-general of Canada under Louis XIV. of France, in the year 1690, one was formed at Montreal, one at Three Rivers and one at Quebec. The first was to fall upon Albany, the second to direct its efforts against the border settlements of New Hampshire and the third to attack the settlement in Maine. By the glorious achieve- ments of these expeditions directed against the English, under the combined forces of the French and Indians, Count Frontenac was to retrieve his fallen fortune. He was to aim a blow at his enemies that would help him to reclaim his allies and restore to him suf- ficient glory to demand the respect and special recognition of his sov- ereign who had once severely criticised him. The second of these expeditions, aimed at New Hampshire, left Trois Rivieres on the morning of the 28th of January and was com- manded by Francois Hertel. It was made up of 24 French, 20 Abenakis of the Sokoki band and five Algonquins. In part, the French w^ere young sons of landed proprietors who held seigniories ■'Count Frontenac, the most remarkable man who ever represented the crown of France in the New World. — Parkman's Frontenac and Nciv France ■under Louis XIV. Martha Smith of Berwick 75 along the St. Lawrence and her tributary streams. In the company, too, were Hertel's three sons and his two nephews, Nicholas Gatineau and Louis Crevier. A prominent figure of this expedition was young Louis Crevier, oldest son of Jean Crevier, who held a large seigniory at Saint-Fran- eois-du-Lac and he was the pride and the hope of the house of Crevier, Both strong and brave, he already had training in the at- tacks made by the relentless Iroquois who looked upon the Algon- quins and their friends as eternal enemies. But this expedition lay far away from home and one heart was sad because of the departure. The seigneuresse of Saint-Francois-du-Lac yearned over this, her eldest born now living. During the days of preparation she prayed often in the village chapel and many times a day before the crucifix, and to the Blessed Mother she sent up hourly petitions that her boy might be safely returned to her. She saw that the scapnla he had worn upon his breast since his first communion was attached to a newer cord of leather and she hid a tiny Agnus Dei in the inner pocket of his blanket jacket. She aided every preparation and at the moment of departure she placed her hands upon the shoulders of her boy and looked long into his eyes. Then he realized that he had his mother's blessing. The party, leaving the village, moved up the St. Francis river to Lake Memphremagog, marching by long day journeys, though the conditions were much against them, and the heavy snows of winter a great handicap. From the lake they struck into the Upper Con- necticut valley, then swung off to the southeast and headed for the coast. At night they camped under vigilant watch, for enemies were ever abroad and the winds might carry secrets. They marched on snowshoes, each man with the hood of his blanket-coat drawn over his head, a gun in his mittened hand, knife, hatchet, powder-horn, bullet-pouch and tobacco-bag at his belt, a pack on his shoulders and the inseparable pipe hung at his neck in a leather case. The provisions they dragged over the snow on Indian sledges. The Abenakis took the lead ; they knew the way well. So they pressed on, day after day, winter storms and melting snows retarding their speed, until it was two months before they came to the outskirts of the frontier settlements they sought — Salmon Falls and Berwick.* On the evening of the 26th of March they lay hidden in the for- est that bordered the farms and clearings. Scouts were sent out to reconnoitre and found a fortified house unoccupied and two stock- aded forts, built as a refuge for the scattered settlers, but no watch in either. The way looked so easy that Hertel passed the remainder ®Parkman's History of Frontenac and New France under Louis XIV,. Chapter XI. 76 The Trail of the Maine Pioneer of the night putting his party into three divisions and in giving full directions as to movements. The attacks came just before break of day when the settlers were still deep in slumber, and the onsets were simultaneous. It was the hush before the dawn when the air was pierced by the first terrify- ing yell ; then all was confusion. With no one on watch at the forts, there was no one to give the alarm and when the French and Indians burst in upon them with fiendish outcries that seemed to set the very stars in heaven vibrating, the settlers were paralyzed with fear, una- ble even to gather for defense. It was a short struggle; the assail- ants were successful at every point. It would be impossible to describe the horrors of that massacre. Thirty persons of both sexes and all ages were tomahawked or shot, among them the husband of Martha Smith. Her oldest boy, James, escaped. It may be that her two daughters were killed. But Martha herself, with her little son John, not yet five years old, was among the forty persons carried into captivity. The foes then turned their attention to the scattered farms, burned houses, barns and cattle, laying the whole place in ashes. It took only a few hours to accomplish the deed, and when the sun was still high in the heavens preparations for the return march were made. Already was the expedition headed for Canada when two Indian scouts brought the word that a party of English was advancing from Portsmouth and the march was quickened. But the French and Indians were overtaken at Wooster river, a few miles up the Newichawannoek. There was a brisk engagement at nightfall in which, besides an In- dian, young Louis Crevier, the oldest son of the house of Saint- Francois-du-Lae, was killed. There was no time even to consider the dead and wounded ; with the recruited body of settlers pressing hard, the retreat continued. Then began that cruel march towards Canada. The captives, in- sufficiently protected, shivering with cold and suffering from hunger upon that long tramp, were forced through melting snows nearly to their knees, through mud and water, over long, icy stretches. If the weak fell by the way, they were tomahawked; the laggards were prodded on by the thought of the frightful death that might await them, and even the bravest grew so sick and weary that every breath was a cry to God to save. Almost blinded by the snow, with hands and feet chilled almost to freezing, with they knew not what before them, they kept on. Among the bravest of these was Martha Smith. During all the scenes that had taken from her loved ones and home, no weak cry had escaped her lips. The fortitude that had been hers in every circumstance of her life, stood by her now. She carried herself with a dignity that must have impressed even the savage brutes who held ' C ' "!y 1 ^ ' ^' >^-i> - •5 v.- ^ \ , "!3 '^ a ♦* V S *> V -^f ^•4 1^ ^ '^ y ^' '^ 4 i.^..* -S 'jT 7 > ^. nS t^ ^ ^ ^ \ - I - ^ I ^ € v^ ^ '■': -. ^ 4^ ■5 ^.-. <^.. \ \N A ■^-^ ^ 3 OJ ^-0"° ■T" (U (U •^JS 3 S a.cr t, (S-r -^ c s^ o o_^ ^^^. S " CM •+- o.Si O !--= _ C3 C3 '^^^ P J, ^ O; O j_ 3 CO - £ ^w Martha Smith of Berwick 77 her prisoner. Unflinchingly she looked straight into the faces of her foes and, day after day, holding little John in her arms or letting him trot by her side, went resolutely on. She saw her friends and neighbors struck to their death ; she watched the weak grow weaker and the sobs of little children filled her heart with fierce pain, yet her enemy did not know; she was still unconquered. It may be that this apparent fearlessness had saved her life and little John 's on that fatal 27th of March. While he was sobbing out his baby wails of "Mother! Mother!" she bent over him, hushing his cries, and telling him that nothing should hurt him. Then, straight- ening up, she had looked straight into the infuriated face of a sav- age with tomahawk uplifted. But behind the face of the Indian was that of Louis Crevier and the arm was arrested before it had time to strike the blow. In the retreat Hertel led his men and their captives to an Abenaki village far up on the Kennebec, very likely where Norridge- wock is to-day. Here they got word that Frontenac's third expedi- tion, that had been directed against Casco, had lately passed south- ward and the French leader and 36 of his followers started out to join them, leaving the captives in the Indian village until their return. It was this period of rest that saved many of the heart-sick cap- tives; for when the last lap of that journey towards Canada was begun, summer was at hand and the way was less hazardous. The season brought with it warm winds, sunny skies and beauties of nature that for a time diverted the thoughts from the sorrows of the past few months. What would be their destination when the end of the journey was reached, was an unanswered question among the captives and Martha could not have known that she was to be taken to the home of the dead Louis Crevier. Since this was so, it is evident that she was to have been his special prize. By an unwritten law of such forays, each man of the expedition, Frenchman or savage, was given one captive as his personal property. These captives were not pris- oners of war but "esclaves" (slaves), being simply a part of the booty, thus accounting for the wide distribution of prisoners once they reached Canada. This, also, explains why so many of them were left in Indian villages. It was well that Martha could not foresee the result of that jour- ney since it was to offer her the last drop in her cup of bitterness; when fifty miles from Montreal and some miles from Saint-Francois, Baby John was taken from her. That she was allowed to take him in her arms and whisper a good-bye instruction to be a good boy and not cry, but to do as his leader told him, was through the kindness of Hertel, himself, a privilege for which she felt always thankful. 78 The Trail of the Maine Pioneer But her heart was breaking. What mattered it now what the future had in store for her? That the lord and lady of the Seigniory knew of the returning of the expedition, hours before it arrived, was evident, for a swift messenger had been sent on ahead. Since the late spring they had known the fate of their boy ; their nephew, Louis G-atineau, had been sent on as a government courier to tell them the result of the expe- dition when Hertel first reached the Indian village on the Kennebec, By some irony of fate it was a June evening, not unlike that when Martha, a bride, had entered the home prepared for her at Barwie, when they arrived at Saint-Francois. They reached the shore of the Saint Lawrence, where it widens into the beautiful Lac- Saint-Pierre, just before the sun went down, its reflected rays trail- ing in splendor across the smooth blue surface. When the boat pushed off from the shore towards the island home of the Creviers, Marguerite stood before the door, shading her eyes from the rays of the setting sun. When the boat drew mto one o± the sheltered coves below the house, she walked slowly down the path to meet the occupants, and Martha, looking for the first time into that strong, sweet face that told of its o^vn sorrow, knew that she had found a friend. «: * * "Ma chere soeur. Que la Vierge Marie vous benisse." Marguerite Crevier, the lady of the seigniory, stood looking down at Martha as she lay still sleeping on that first morning after her arrival at Saint-Francois. In repose the face spoke more plainly of her suffering and Marguerite breathed a prayer. "Let her sleep," she said as she turned to leave the room, first stopping before a crucifix on the wall near the head of Martha's bed again to cross herself and say an Ave. Then, going to the rooms below and from there to the front of the house where the children, Jean Baptiste, 11; Marguerite, 7, and Marie- Anne, 4, were playing roll the ball, with shouts and bursts of laughter, she cautioned them that they must not wake the lady in the chamber above. "La femme, elle malard?" asked little Marie, running to her mother's side and speaking in a whisper. Marguerite explained that she hoped that la femme was only tired but she must not be awakened and then the children took their balls and went down towards the fort to play. * * * These June days, like all others of the year, brought many tasks for Damoiselle Marguerite, for the seigniory of Sieur Crevier, her husband, was one of the most important. Situated fifty miles below Montreal, where the Saint Lawrence river widens into Lac Saint- Pierre, it stretched for five miles along the shore. It had been ob- tained by him in 1673, with all the titles thereto appertaining, and Martha Smith of Berwick 79 here at the mouth of the Saint-Francois river, for many years he had been acquiring tenants as vassals until their narrow, lath-shaped farms formed a considerable settlement along the river front, reach- ing far inland. His own buildings were upon a large, wooded island at the river's (Saint-Francois) mouth and here was a strong fort. The seigniory house was of stone, low and covering much ground, but substantially built with its interior of heavy, hewn timbers. On the ground iloor were several large rooms, one of which was the family gathering place. The flax and spinning wheels were here ; Marguerite brought her sewing ; here she taught her daughters to spin and weave, and here her husband came to talk to her about the proprietes. Together they planned for laying in provisions for the winter and talked over the needs of the mission six miles up the river or surprises for Father Louis- Andre^ when he should come on his quarterly visit. Here was a seat on the chimney bench for the old grandfather, father of Jean Crevier, when it was not warm enough for him to sit on the bench outside the door, and also a corner where an aged aunt of Marguerite sat with her knitting, talking to herself gently of days long ago in far-off France, or nodded in her chair, smiling as she dreamed. There were muskets on the walls and powder pouches; for always one must be ready for defense with the Iroquois about; and there were trophies, a bearskin that Louis had taken himself when a lad of 17, a bunch of Iroquois arrows and the beautiful branching antlers of a caribou and a buck. While the family room was so closely associated with the life of the Creviers, other parts of the great manor house were important. There were the large kitchens where the family and the guests of the house ate. Usually it was a considerable family, counting the attendants, the soldiers at the fort and the members of the war ex- peditions who always stopped at the island when they returned from their forays, so that sometimes for weeks together the large dining-rooms were filled at meals. Then there were the provision rooms and the vault-like cellars, filled with supplies to last through the long, cold winter. On the second floor were small, cloister-like sleeping rooms, each immaculate in its neatness, for Damoiselle Marguerite was looked upon as the most wonderful of housewives and home-makers by the inhabitants of other seigniories as well as that of Saint-Francois. And was it not as it should be ? Was she not the daughter of Sieur Hertel de Rouville and a sister of Francois who had led the expedi- tion, under Frontenac, into the settlement at Salmon Falls and Ber- wick? And were not both father and brother recognized as "brave, courageux et hommes de tete?" Marguerite Hertel, married now ^Father Louis-Andre had come to the parish of Saint Francois in 1689. 80 The Trail of the Maine Pioneer to Jean Crevier for 27 je&rs, was yet but 41 years of age, young enough to have pride in looking after every task connected with the life of the household, while Jean, who had seen 47 summers, regarded his wife as exemplary in all that is womanly and capable. This morning the Damoiselle had a new duty, the sister above stairs must be fed, and when she had set all the household attendants to their morning tasks, she prepared and carried to Martha's room a wooden bowl of steaming porridge. As Marguerite entered the room for the second time that morn- ing, Martha opened her eyes and sat up, then sank back, shading her face from the bright light of the morning. There could be only sign language between them, and Marguerite held out her hand as she ap- proached the bed, assisting her to rise, then left her while she went for fresh water and a towel. For nearly three months Martha had tasted no really palatable food and when she had eaten she was physi- cally soothed and again sank to slumber, from which she did not awaken until late in the afternoon when Marguerite came and led her to the family room below stairs. Here she was greeted by the members of the family and a chair was placed for her. As the twilight made itself felt, little Marie came to her and resting her head upon Martha's lap, whispered: "Que je t'aime." Though Martha understood no word, there was a heart language that she could interpret and, reaching down, she took the child in her arms and cuddled her as she would have cuddled Baby John had he been there. Reaching up, the child put her arms about Martha's neck, and then was born a friendship that saved the cap- tive from many hours of despair in the days that were to come. Martha's place in the household now became one of much use- fulness. Marguerite treated her more like a sister than a servant. She was left much with the children and, caring for them, learned the language and their simple ways of living. When she was not thus employed she assisted Marguerite with daily tasks about the household and while her heart cried out daily for her son, she real- ized that it was best for her to be always busy. "Why the world should hold so much bitterness when nature was so beautiful, she could not understand, * * * But Martha was to experience other terrors. She had been in her new home but a few weeks when she again knew all the horrors of an Indian attack. It was at hand, what the old voyageur called "the time of the leaves and the butterflies and the Iroquois." They had come from the vicinity of Albany by way of Lake George, Lake Champlain, and the Sorel river, one hundred and fifty Iro- quois thirsting for the blood of their brothers, the Algonquins, and of the French, who were the Algonquins' friends. Martha Smith of Berwick 81 Before it was known, they had encamped on the very island where were the fort and the stockaded buildings of Jean Crevier, and it was one of the attendants who first gave the cry: "Voici les Iroquois. Cachez-vous en siirete; au fort I au fort!" Jean led his soldiers with reinforcements from the mainland and attacked the enemy in its camp. It was a bloody battle, four- teen of the whites were killed and several wounded. The Iroquois were routed, but they carried with them four or five prisoners, among them Jean Crevier himself. Now it was Martha's turn to act as comforter to the lady of the seigniory, who might, like herself, be widowed. Or the husband might meet a fate worse than death. In the weeks and months that followed, the two women became closely endeared to each other, and each day held some tender experience. But Jean Crevier did not return nor was he heard from. November came, the saddest month of the year. The last of September there were preparations for the winter's supplies. Herbs had been gathered for salads and soups and packed with salt; the bins had been filled with vegetables and as soon as the weather became cold enough, venison, game, fowl and fish were frozen and put away in the cellars especially built for them. It was the first of December — Christmas was approaching. The men had brought in the evergreen from the forest, for a branch must be tacked above the door of each room and over the big fire- places, else it would not be Christmas. But no one seemed really to have heart. Every one was triste even to little Marie who sat by herself much and often wished aloud for her papa. Just a-week-to-Christmas was a gloomy day; the dark shut down early. Martilde, the aged aunt of the seigneuresse, muttered almost a ceaseless prayer as she hugged nearer to the hearth of the open fire. Grandpere Crevier leaned his chin on his cane and kept his eyes closed as if he would shut out the sorrows of the world and little Marie, finding her mother distrait, came to Martha and begged her to sing to her. Possessing a voice of much sweetness, she had first amused the children with little English songs, but had now become sufficiently familiar with the new language to use it understandingly. Taking the child in her arms, she drew her chair within the warmth of the fire and began that old lullaby, "Roll The Ball," a song that French Canadian mothers and grandmothers in the States will tell you was sung to them by their mothers when they were children, and by other mothers and grandmothers for centuries back: "Derriere chez nous, Y tung, Y tang, En roulant ma boule. 82 The Trail of the Maine Pioneer Trois beau canards s'en vont baignant Rouli, roulant, ma boule roulant, En roulant ma boule, "Trois beau canards s'en vont baignan*- En roulant ma boule, Le fils du roi s'en va chassant Rouli, roulant, ma boule roulant. En roulant ma boule, "Le fils du roi s'en va chassant. En roulant ma boule, Avee son grand fusil d 'argent, Rouli, roulant, ma boule roulant En roulant ma boule, "Avee son grand fusil d 'argent, En roulant ma boule, Tue la noir, blesse la blanc, Rouli, roulant, ma bouli roulant, En rouli ma boule, roulant, En roulant ma boule." Once through, and at ^Marie's request, Martha was beginning again when there was a great shout, as of welcome, outside, and all, hurrying to the kitchen, found the Damoiselle crying and praying over her husband, Sieur Jean Crevier, who looked lean and gaunt but with a very satisfied expression, recounting his escape from the Iroquois and how he had made his way back home aided by a friendly Huron. Everybody was happy, and Martha, still a prisoner, slipped away and sat by herself in her own room. These friends were kind; she had a comfortable home, but she was alone. If she could only be with those she loved. It was so that Marguerite found her, calling as she came: "Come, Father Louis-Andre is here. It is good news for you. Come." And iMartha followed her to hear the story from the good Father's lips: He had found her little son, John. He had seen him but the week before. He was in the family of M. Argenteuil in Montreal, in their service. He was a fine boy and was growing well ; he would be a good man. The others rejoiced with her and Jean and Marguerite promised to take her to ^Montreal to see him. It was her Christmas as well. It would seem that only one thing remained to complete the hap- piness that was Marguerite's at the return of her husband. It was Martha Smith of Berwick 83 the salvation of Martha's soul that she craved and for which she prayed. Her love for the English captive had grown very great ; it was as if Louis had sent her to be his mother's special charge. Sometimes she pleaded with her gently and Father Louis-Andre often urged baptism. It was nearly three years that Marguerite's prayers were una- vailing and then they brought the news that Martha 's young son had been baptised^^ into the faith in the church of Notre Dame on the third of May. Six weeks later in June, 1693, she, too, stood before the altar in the same church and received the sacrament of baptism by the sprinkling of holy water on brow and breast. That day Father Guyotte wrote on the church record: "Le lundi vingt neuvieme jour de Juin de I'an mil six, cans quatre vingts treize a ete solennellement batisee sous condition une femme Angloise nommee en son pais Marthe, lequel nom lui a ete conserve au bateme, Laquelle nee a Sacio en la Nouvelle Angleterre le huitieme de Janvier (vieux stile ou 18 nouveau stile) de I'an mil six cens cinquante trois du mariage de Thomas Mills natif d'Excester en la vieille Angleterre et de Marie Wadelo native de Brestol proche Londres et mariee a defunct Jaques Smith Habitant de Barwie en la Nouvelle Angleterre y aiant ete prisele 18 i\Iars de I'an mil six cens quatre vingts dix par ]\Ir. Artel, demeure depuis trois ans au service de Monsieur Crevier a St. Francois. Son Parrein a ete Monsieur Pierre Boucher Ecuyer Sieur de Boucherville, Oificer dans le detachment de la marine, Sa marreine Dame Marie Boucher, veuve de Monsieur de Varennes Gouverneur pour le Eoi des Trois-Rivieres. Martha ]\Iills Marie Boucher E. Guyotte Boucherville The godfather v*-as Pierre Boucher, former Governor of Trois- Rivieres and now "ecuyer" and owner of the great fief of Boucher- ville, opposite Montreal, and he was a brother-in-law of Damoiselle Marguerite. The godmother was his daughter Marie, the widow of De Varennes, also in his time Governor of Trois-Rivieres, the signa- tures of the noble godfather and honored godmother appearing with ^lartha's on the record. But the great joy that filled the heart of ^larguerite on the June morning when Martha took upon herself the vows of the church was loMartha's son was baptized as John Baptiste Smith. 84 The Trail of the Maine Pioneer not to be of long duration. Scarce a month after her return to Saint Francois Marguerite suffered the most cruel blow of her life. Again the Irociuois descended upon the island and carried off her husband who was at work in the fields with some fifteen worlfmeu, and he probably died at Albany from his wounds and suffering in- volved in his captivity. * * * Summer suns and winter snows counted off the j^ears to 16 and Martha Smith lived on in the home of Marguerite Crevier. The long struggle between the French and English for supremacy in the New World still continued, now quiescent, now breaking forth with sting- ing hatred. But the power of the Iroquois had been broken, the allied tribes found matters of graver importance nearer home to hold their attention, so that savage forays across the Canadian border were be- coming less and less, while New England was being more strongly peopled by colonists from the Old World. In the year 1706 there was a general exchange of prisoners and that year Martha Smith and her son John, now to manhood grown, probably came back to the old home in Berwick, since after that date their names do not appear among those remaining in Canada. Martha must have been sorrowful at the thought of leaving the friends at Saint-Francois, and especially Marguerite whom she had learned to love as a sister; but she must have been stirred by far deeper emotions at the thought of returning to the scenes of her girl- hood and married life, to the old home and the old friends. And John? He was but a young man and quickly found com- panionship among the friends of his parents. He married the beau- tiful Elizabeth of Kittery and when experience was added to his years, he was made an elder in the old Congregational church at Ber- wick. He became a man much esteemed, lived to an honorable age with his family about him and in the faith of his ancestors he was gathered to the fathers. Author's Notes. On August 31, 1963, Governor Fletcher of New York writes in a letter that the Iroquois had a prisoner named Mr. Crevier of St. Francois; that they bad torn out his finger-nails and were preparing to burn him at the stake, when Colonel Peter Schuyler, in command of the garrison at Albany bought him for fifty louis d'or and that the poor captive was then very sick in that city. "Jean Crevier," says Suite, "doubtless died at Albany from his wounds and from the suffering he underwent during his captivity among the Iroquois." The next year his eldest son signs as seigneur of Saint-Francois. The account of Martha Smith's captivity is drawn in great part from her long baptismal entry in the church of Notre-Dame at Montreal and from a scarce pamphlet in French, Suite's "Histoire de Saint-Francois-du-Lac," the latter a critical re-statement of the facts on ancient records concerning the family of Sieur Jean Crevier, in whose household Martha passed so many years; L'Abbe Maurault's "Histoire des Abenakis," the Massachusetts archives Martha Smith of Berwick 85 and the York County records. The baptismal record is the copy made by C. Alice Baker, deceased, and is now in the hands of Emma L. Coleman of Boston. The Abenaki reservation is located at Pierreville, Canada, and on land given them by Marguerite Crevier before she died. There is a small chapel and upon an interior wall a tablet to the late U. S. Senator Matthew Stanley Quay of Philadelphia, a descendant of Abenakis. He also gave $5,ooo for a library for the mission. In nearly every New England city where there are French-Canadians of any distinction one finds descendants of the Abenaki Indians through the mar- riage of Joseph-Louis Gill. The record of the family is a most honorable one. The following personal letter from Archbishop Lapalice attests the genu- ineness of the baptismal record: ^■ty J^.O'C.i'^i^i^ /■Z-i^6''l^^Jj>7 ^^Cc^^-