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- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020
In "Metipom's Hostage," Ralph Henry Barbour crafts a captivating adventure set against the backdrop of early colonial America, intricately weaving themes of captivity and negotiation into the narrative. Through his evocative prose and vivid characterizations, Barbour immerses readers in the tense dynamics between Native Americans and European settlers. The novel's literary style is reflective of its time, showcasing Barbour's ability to balance engaging storytelling with a thoughtful exploration of cultural conflict, ethics of power, and the quest for understanding amidst adversities. Ralph Henry Barbour, an American author known for his youthful adventure novels, drew upon his experiences growing up in the rapidly changing world of early 20th-century America. His background in literature and an acute awareness of historical narratives likely influenced his decision to delve into themes of cultural exchange and the complexities of human relationships, particularly in the context of colonialism. Barbour's dedication to portraying authentic experiences resonates throughout the novel, revealing both the struggles and triumphs of diverse characters within an often-unforgiving landscape. "Metipom's Hostage" is a compelling read for those interested in historical fiction that combines adventure with a deep examination of human relationships. Barbour's nuanced approach offers valuable insights into the colonial experience, making this novel not only an enjoyable narrative but also a significant commentary on the socio-political dynamics of the time. Readers who appreciate explorations of identity, conflict, and resolution within richly rendered historical contexts will find this book particularly rewarding.
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Metipom's Hostage
Table of Contents
CHAPTER I THE RED OMEN
David Lindall stirred uneasily in his sleep, sighed, muttered, and presently became partly awake. Thereupon he was conscious that all was not as it had been when slumber had overtaken him, for, beyond his closed lids, the attic, which should have been as dark at this hour as the inside of any pocket, was illuminated. He opened his eyes. The rafters a few feet above his head were visible in a strange radiance. He raised himself on an elbow, blinking and curious. The light did not come from the room below, nor was it the yellow glow of a pine-knot. No sound came to him save the loud breathing of his father and Obid, the servant, the former near at hand, the latter at the other end of the attic: no sound, that is, save the soft sighing of the night breeze in the pines and hemlocks at the eastern edge of the clearing. That was ever-present and so accustomed that David had to listen hard to hear it. But this strange red glow was new and disturbing, and now, wide awake, the boy sought the explanation of it and found it once his gaze had moved to the north window.
Above the tops of the distant trees beyond the plantation, the sky was like the mouth of a furnace, and against the unearthly glow the topmost branches of the taller trees stood sharply, like forms cut from black paper.
“Father!” called the boy.
Nathan Lindall was awake on the instant.
“You called, David?” he asked.
“Yes, father. The forest is afire!”
“Nay, ’tis not the forest,” answered Nathan Lindall when he had looked from the window. “The woods are too damp at this season, and I have never heard of the Indians firing them save in the fall. ’Tis some one’s house, lad, and I fear—” He did not finish, but turned instead to Obid Dawkin who had joined them. “What say you, Obid?” he questioned.
“I say as you, master,” replied Obid in his thin, rusty voice. “And ’tis the work of the heathens, I doubt not. But whose house It may be I do not know, for it seems too much east to be any in Sudbury, and—”
“And how far, think you?”
“Maybe four miles, sir, or maybe but two. ’Tis hard to say.”
“Three, then, Obid: and that brings us to Master William Vernham’s, for none other lies in that direction and so near. Whether it be set afire by the Indians we shall know in time. But don your clothing, for there may be work for us, although I misdoubt that we arrive in time.”
“And may I go with you, father?” asked David eagerly.
“Nay, lad, for we must travel fast and ’twill be hard going. Do you bolt well the door when we are gone and then go back to bed. ’Tis nigh on three already and ’twill soon be dawn. Art ready, Obid?”
“Nay, for Sathan has hidden my breeches, Master Lindall,” grumbled the man, “and without breeches I will not venture forth.”
“Do you find them quickly or a clout upon your thick skull may aid you,” responded Nathan Lindall grimly.
“I have them, master,” piped Obid hurriedlv.
“Look, sir, the fire is dying out,” said David. “The sky is far less red, I think.”
“Maybe ’tis but a wild-goose chase we go on,” replied his father, “and yet ’tis best to go. David, do you slip down and set out the muskets and see that there be ammunition to hand. Doubtless in time this jabbering knave will be clothed.”
“I be ready now, master! And as for jabbering—”
“Cease, cease, and get you down!”
A .minute or two later David watched their forms melt into the darkness beyond the barn. Then, closing the door, he shot home the heavy iron bolt and dropped the stout oak bar as well. In the wide chimney-place a few live embers glowed amidst the gray ashes and he coaxed them to life with the bellows and dropped splinters of resinous pine upon them until a cheery fire was crackling there. Then, rubbing out the lighted knot against the stones of the hearth, he drew a bench to the blaze and warmed himself, for the night, although May was a week old, was chill.
The room, which took up the whole lower floor of the house, was nearly square, perhaps six paces one way by seven the other. The ceiling was low, so low that Nathan Lindall’s head but scantily escaped the rough-hewn beams. The furnishings would to-day be rude and scanty, but in the year 1675 they were considered proper and sufficient. In fact Nathan Lindall’s dwelling was rather better furnished than most of its kind. The table and the two benches flanking it had been fashioned in Boston by the best cabinet-maker in the Colony. The four chairs were comfortable and sightly, the chest of drawers was finely carved and had come over from England, and the few articles that were of home manufacture were well and strongly made. Six windows, guarded by heavy shutters, gave light to the room, and one end was almost entirely taken up by the wide chimney-place. At the other end a steep flight of steps led to the room above, no more than an attic under the high sloping roof.
David had lived in the house seven years, and he was now sixteen, a tall, well-made boy with pleasing countenance and ways which, for having dwelt so long on the edge of the wilderness, were older than his age warranted. His father had taken up his grant of one hundred acres in 1668, removing from the Plymouth Colony after the death of his wife. David’s recollection of his mother was undimmed in spite of the more than eight years that had passed, but, as he had been but a small lad at the time of her death, his memory of her, unlike his father’s, held little pain. The grant, part woodland and part meadow, lay sixteen miles from Boston and north of Natick. It was a pleasant tract, with much fine timber and a stream which, rising in a spring-fed pond not far from the house, meandered southward and ultimately entered the Charles River. The river lay a long mile to the east and was the highway on which they traveled, whether to Boston or Dedham.
Nathan Lindall had brought some forty acres of his land under cultivation, and for the wheat, corn, and potatoes that he raised found a ready market in Boston.
The household consisted of Nathan Lindall, David, and Obid Dawkin. Obid had come to the Colony many years before as a “bond servant,” had served his term and then hired to Master Lindall. In England he had been a school-teacher, although of small attainments, and now to his duties of helping till and sow and harvest was added that of instructing David. Considering the lack of books, he had done none so badly, and David possessed more of an education than was common in those days for a boy of his position. It may be said of Obid that he was a better farmer than teacher and a better cook than either!
It was a lonely life that David led. although he was never lonesome. There was work and study always, and play at times. His play was hunting and fishing and fashioning things with the few rude tools at hand. Of hunting there was plenty, for at that time and for many years later eastern Massachusetts abounded in animals and birds valuable for food as well as many others sought for pelt or plumage. Red deer were plentiful, and beyond the Sudbury Marshes only the winter before some of the Natick Indians had slain a moose of gigantic size. Wolves caused much trouble to those who kept cattle or sheep, and in Dedham a bounty of ten shillings had lately been offered for such as were killed within the town. Foxes, both red and gray, raccoons, porcupines, woodchucks, and rabbits were numerous, while the ponds and streams supplied beavers, muskrats, and otters. Bears there were, as well, and sometimes panthers; and many lynxes and martens. Turkeys, grouse, and pigeons were common, the latter flying in flocks of many hundreds. Geese, swans, ducks, and cranes and many smaller birds frequented streams and marshes, and there were trout in the brooks and bass, pickerel, and perch in the ponds. At certain seasons the alewives ascended the streams in thousands and were literally scooped from the water to be used as fertilizer.
There was, therefore, no dearth of flesh for food nor skins for clothing so long as one could shoot a gun, set a trap, or drop a hook. Of traps David had many, and the south end of the house was never without several skins in process of curing. Larger game had fallen to his prowess, for he had twice shot a bear and once a panther: the skins of these lay on the floor in evidence. He was a good shot, but there was scant virtue in that at a time when the use of the musket, both for hunting and for defense against the Indians, was universal amongst the settlers. Rather, he prided himself on his skill in the making of traps and snowshoes and such things as were needed about the house. He had clever hands for such work. He could draw, too, not very skillfully, but so well that Obid could distinguish at the first glance which was the pig and which the ox! And at such times his teacher would grumblingly regret that his talent did not run more to the art of writing. But, since Obid’s own signature looked more like a rat’s nest than an autograph, the complaint came none too well.
Sitting before the fire to-night, David followed in thought the journey of his father and Obid and wished himself with them. Nathan Lindall had spoken truly when he had predicted hard going, for the ice, which still lay in the swamps because of an unseasonable spell of frost the week gone, was too thin to bear one and the trail to Master Vernham’s must keep to the high ground and the longer distance. The three miles, David reflected, would become four ere the men reached their destination, and in the darkness the ill-defined trail through the woods would be hard to follow. It was far easier to sit here at home, toasting his knees, but no boy of sixteen will choose ease before adventure, and the possibility of the fire having been set by the Indians suggested real adventure.
A year and more ago such a possibility would have been little considered, for the tribes had been long at peace with the colonists, but to-day matters were changed. It had been suspected for some time that Pometacom, or King Philip, as he was called, sachem of the Wampanoags, was secretly unfriendly toward the English. Indeed, nearly four years since he had been summoned to Taunton and persuaded to sign articles of submission, which he did with apparent good grace, but with secret dissatisfaction. Real uneasiness on the part of the English was not bred, however, until the year before our story. Then Sassamon, a Massachusett Indian who had become a convert of John Eliot’s at the village of Praying Indians at Natick, brought word to Plymouth of intended treachery by Philip. Sassamon had been with Philip at Mount Hope acting as his interpreter. Philip had learned of Sassamon’s treachery and had caused his death. Three Indians suspected of killing Sassamon were apprehended, tried, convicted, and, in June of the following year, executed. Of the three one was a counselor of Philip’s, and the latter, although avoiding any acts of hostility pending the court’s decision, was bitterly resentful and began to prepare for war. During the winter various annoyances had been visited upon the settlers by roaming Indians. In some cases the savages were known to be Wampanoags; in other cases the friendly Indians of the villages and settlements were suspected, perhaps often unjustly. Even John Eliot’s disciples at Natick did not escape suspicion. Rumors of threatening signs were everywhere heard. Exaggerated stories of Indian depredations traveled about the sparsely settled districts. From the south came the tale of disaffection amongst the Narragansetts, and from the north like rumors regarding the Abenakis. There was a feeling of alarm everywhere amongst the English, and even in Boston there were timorous souls who feared an attack on that town. As yet, however, nothing untoward had occurred in the Massachusetts-Bay Colony, and the only Indians that David knew were harmless and frequently rather sorry-looking specimens who led a precarious existence by trading furs with the English or who dwelt in the village at Natick. Most of them were Nipmucks, although other neighboring tribes were represented as well. Save that they not infrequently stole from his traps—sometimes taking trap as well as catch—David knew nothing to the discredit of the Indians. Often they came to the house, more often he ran across them on the river or in the forest. Always they were friendly. One or two he counted as friends; Monapikot, a Pegan youth of near his own age who dwelt at Natick, and Mattatanopet, or Joe Tanopet as he was known, who came and went as it pleased him, bartering skins for food and tobacco, and who claimed to be the son of a Wamesit chief; a claim very generally discredited. It is not to be wondered at, therefore, that David added a good seasoning of salt to the tales of Indian unfriendliness, nor that to-night he was little inclined to lay the burning of William Vernham’s house at the door of the savages.
And yet, since where there is much smoke there must be some fire, he realized that Obid’s surmise might hold more than prejudice. Obid was firmly of the belief that the Indian was little if any better than the beast of the forest and had no sympathy with the Reverend John Eliot’s earnest endeavors to convert them to Christianity, arguing that an Indian had no soul and that none, not even John Eliot, could save what didn’t exist! Nathan Lindall held opposite views both of the Indian and of John Eliot’s efforts, and many a long and warm argument took place about the fire of a winter evening, while David, longing to champion his father’s contentions, maintained the silence becoming one of his years.
The fire dwindled and David presently became aware of the chill, and, yawning, climbed the stair and sought his bed with many shivers at the touch of the cold clothing. A fox barked in the distance, but save for that all was silent. Northward the red glow had faded from the sky and the blacker darkness that precedes the first sign of dawn wrapped the world.
CHAPTER II THE MEETING IN THE WOODS
It was broad daylight when David awoke, rudely summoned from slumber by the loud tattoo on the door below. He tumbled sleepily down the stair and admitted his father and Obid, their boots wet with the dew that hung sparkling in the pale sunlight from every spray of sedge and blade of grass. While Obid, setting aside his musket, began the preparation of breakfast, David questioned his father.
“By God’s favor ’twas not the house, David, but the barn and a goodly store of hay that was burned. Fortunately these were far enough away so that the flames but scorched the house. Master Vernham and the servants drew water from the well and so kept the roof wet. The worst of it was over ere we arrived. Some folks from the settlement at Sudbury came also: John Longstaff and a Master Warren, of Salem, who is on a visit there, and two Indians.”
“How did the fire catch, sir?” asked David.
“ ’Twas set,” replied Nathan Lindall grimly. “Indians were seen skulking about the woods late in the afternoon, and ’tis thought they were some that have set up their wigwams above the Beaver Pond since autumn.”
“But why, sir? ”
“I know not, save that Master Vernham tells me that of late they have shown much insolence and have frequently come to his house begging for food and cloth. At first he gave, but soon their importunity wearied him and he refused. They are, he says, a povern and worthless lot; renegade Mohegans he thinks. But dress yourself, lad, and be about your duties.”
Shortly after the midday meal, Nathan Lindall and Obid again set forth, this time taking the Sudbury path, and David, left to his own devices, finished the ploughing of the south field which was later to be sown to corn, and then, unyoking the oxen and returning them to the barn, he took his gun and made his way along the little brook toward the swamp woods. The afternoon, half gone, was warm and still, and a bluish haze lay over the distant hills to the south-east. A rabbit sprang up from almost beneath his feet as he entered the white birch and alder thicket, but he forbore to shoot, since its flesh was not esteemed as food and the pelt was too soft for use at that season of the year. For that matter, there was little game worth the taking in May, and David had brought his gun with him more from force of habit than aught else. It was enough to be abroad on such a day, for the spring was waking the world and it seemed that he could almost see the tender young leaves of the white birches unfold. Birds chattered and sang as he skirted the marsh and approached the deeper forest beyond. A chestnut stump had been clawed but recently by a bear in search of the fat white worms that dwelt in the decaying wood, and David found the prints of the beast’s paws and followed them until they became lost in the swamp. Turning back, his ears detected the rustling of feet on the dead leaves a few rods distant, and he paused and peered through the greening forest. After a moment an Indian came into view, a rather thick-set, middle-aged savage with a round countenance. He wore the English clothes save that his feet were fitted to moccasins instead of shoes and had no doublet above a frayed and stained waistcoat that had once been bright green. Nor did he wear any hat, but, instead, three blue feathers woven into his hair. He carried a bow and arrows and a hunting-knife hung at his girdle. A string of wampum encircled his neck. That he had seen David as soon as David had seen him was evident, for his hand was already raised in greeting.
“ ’Tis you, Tanopet,” called David. “For the moment I took you for the bear that has been dining at yonder stump.”
“Aye,” grunted the Indian, approaching, “Greeting, brother. Where see bear?”
David explained, Joe Tanopet listening gravely the while. Then, “No good,” he said. “No catch um in swamp. What shoot, David?” He pointed to the boy’s musket.
“Nothing, Joe. I brought gun along for friend to talk to. Where you been so long? You haven’t been here since winter.”
Tanopet’s gaze wandered and he waved a hand vaguely. “Me go my people,” he answered. “All very glad see me. Make feast, make dance, make good time.”
“Is your father Big Chief still living, Joe?”
“Aye, but um very old. Soon um die. Then Joe be chief. How your father, David?”
“Well, I thank you; and so is Obid.”
Joe Tanopet scowled and spat.
“Um little man talk foolish, no good. You see fire last night?”
“Aye. Father and Obid Dawkin went to give aid, but the flames were out when they reached Master Vernham’s. They say that the fire was set, Joe.”
“Aye.”
“They suspect some Indians who have been living near the Beaver Pond,” continued David questioningly.
Joe Tanopet shook his head. “Not Beaver Pond people.”
“Who then, Joe?”
“Maybe Manitou make fire,” replied the Indian evasively.
“Man or two, rather,” laughed David. “Anyhow, father and Obid have gone to Sudbury where they are to confer with others, and I fear it may go hard with the Beaver Pond Indians. How do you know that they did not set the fire, Joe?”
“Me know. You tell father me say.”
“Aye, but with no more proof than that I fear ’twill make little difference,” answered the boy dubiously. “Joe, they say that there are many strange Indians in the forest this spring; that Mohegans have been seen as far north as Meadfield. Is it true?”
“Me no see um Mohegans. Me see um Wampanoags. Me see um Niantiks. Much trouble soon. Maybe when leaves on trees.”
“Trouble? You mean King Philip?”
“Aye. Him bite um nails long time. Him want um fight. Him great sachem. Him got many friends. Much trouble in summer.” Tanopet gazed past David as though seeing a vision in the shadowed forest beyond. “Big war soon, but no good. English win. Philip listen bad counsel. Um squaw Wootonekanuske tell um fight. Um Peebe tell um fight. All um powwows tell um make war. Tell um drive English into sea, no come back here. All um lands belong Indians once more. Philip um think so too. No good. Wampanoags big fools. Me know.”
“I hope you are mistaken, Joe, for such a war would be very foolish and very wrong. That Philip has cause for complaint against the Plymouth Colony I do not doubt, but it is true, too, my father says, that he has failed to abide by the promises he made. As for driving the English out of the country, that is indeed an idle dream, for now that the Colonies are leagued together their strength of arms is too great. Not all the Indian Nations combined could bring that about. Philip should take warning of what happened to the Pequots forty years ago.”
“Um big war,” grunted Tanopet. “Many Indians die. Joe um little boy, but um see. Indians um fight arrow and spear, but now um fight guns. English much kind to Indian. Um sell um gun, um sell um bullet, um sell um powder.” Tanopet’s wrinkled face was slyly ironical. “Philip got plenty guns, plenty bullet.”
“But how can that be, Joe? ’Tis but four years gone that his guns were taken from him.”
“Um catch more maybe. Maybe um not give up all guns. Good-bye.”
Tanopet made a sign of farewell, turned and strode lightly away into the darkening forest, and David, his gun across his shoulder, sought his home, his thoughts busy with what the Indian had said. Joe Tanopet was held trustworthy by the colonists thereabouts, and, since he was forever on the move and having discourse with Indians of many tribes, it might well be that his words were worthy of consideration. For the first time David found reason to fear that the dismal prophecies of Obid Dawkin might come true. He determined to tell his father of Tanopet’s talk when he returned.
But when David reached the house, he found only Obid there, preparing supper.
“Master Lindall will not be back until the morrow,” explained Obid. “He and Master Vernham have gone to Boston with four Indians that we made prisoners of, and who, I pray, will be hung to the gallows-tree.”
“Prisoners!” exclaimed David. “Mean you that there has been fighting, then?”
“Fighting? Nay, the infidels had no stomach for fighting. They surrendered themselves readily enough, I promise, when they saw in what force we had come. But some had already gone away, doubtless having warning of our intention, and only a handful were there when we reached their village. Squaws and children mostly, they were, and there was great howling and dismay when we burned the wigwams.”
“But is it known, Obid, that it was indeed they who did the mischief to Master Vernham’s place?”
“Well enough, Master David. They made denial, but so they would in any case, and always do. One brave who appeared to be their leader—his name is Noosawah, an I have it right—told a wild tale of strange Indians from the north and how they had been seen near the High Hill two days since, and proclaimed his innocence most loudly.”
“And might he not have been telling the truth?”
“ ’Tis thought not, Master David, At least, it was deemed best to disperse them, for they were but a Gypsy-sort and would not say plainly from whence they came.”
“It sounds not just,” protested David. “Indeed, Obid, ’tis such acts that put us English in the wrong and give grounds for complaint to the savages. And now, when, by all accounts, there is ill-feeling enough, I say that it was badly done.”
Obid snorted indignantly. “Would you put your judgment against that of your father and Master Vernham and such men of wisdom as John Grafton, of Sudbury, and Richard Wight, Master David? ”
“I know not,” answered David troubledly. “And yet it seems to me that a gentler policy were better. It may be that we shall need all the friends we can secure before many months, Obid.”
“Aye, but trustworthy friends, not these Sons of Sathan who offer peace with one hand and hide a knife in t’other! An I were this Governor Leverett I would not wait, I promise you, for the savages to strike the first blow, but would fall upon them with all the strength of the united Colonies and drive the ungodly creatures from the face of the earth.”
“Then it pleases me well that you are not he,” laughed David as he sat himself to the table. “But tell me, Obid, what of the Indians that father and Master Vernham are taking to Boston? Surely they will not execute them on such poor evidence! ”
“Nay,” grumbled Obid, “they will doubtless be sold into the West Indies.”
“Sold as slaves? A hard sentence, methinks. And the women and children, what of them? You say the village was burned?”
“Aye, to the ground; and a seemly work, too. The squaws and the children and a few young men made off as fast as they might. I doubt they will be seen hereabouts again,” he concluded grimly. “For my part, I hold that Master Lindall and the rest were far too lenient, since they took but four prisoners, they being the older men, and let all others go free. I thought to see Master Vernham use better wisdom, but ’tis well known that he has much respect for Preacher Eliot, and doubtless hearkened to his intercessions. If this Eliot chooses to waste his time teaching the gospel to the savages, ’tis his own affair, perchance, but ’twould be well for him to refrain from interfering with affairs outside his villages. Mark my words, Master David: if trouble comes with Philip’s Indians these wastrel hypocrites of Eliot’s will be murdering us in our beds so soon as they get the word.”
“That I do not believe,” answered David stoutly.
“An your scalp dangles some day from the belt of one of these same Praying Indians you will believe,” replied Obid dryly.
Nathan Lindall returned in the afternoon from Boston and heard David’s account of his talk with Joe Tanopet in silence. Nathan Lindall was a large man, well over six feet in height and broad of shoulder, and David promised to equal him for size ere he stopped his growth. A quiet man he was, with calm brown eyes deeply set and a grave countenance, who could be stern when occasion warranted, but who was at heart, as David well knew, kind and even tender. He wore his hair shorter than was then the prevailing fashion, and his beard longer. His father, for whom David was named, had come to the Plymouth Colony from Lincolnshire, England, in 1625, by profession a ship’s-carpenter, and had married a woman of well-to-do family in the Colony, thereafter setting up in business there. Both he and his wife were now dead, and of their children, a son and daughter, only David’s father remained. The daughter had married William Elkins, of Boston, and there had been one child, Raph, who still lived with his father near the King’s Head Tavern. When David had ended his recital, his father shook his head as one in doubt.
“You did well to tell me, David,” he said. “It may be that Tanopet speaks the truth and that we are indeed destined to suffer strife with the Indians, though I pray not. In Boston I heard much talk of it, and there are many there who fear for their safety. I would that I had myself spoken with Tanopet. Whither did he go?”
“I do not know, father. Should I meet him again I will bid him see you.”
“Do so, for I doubt not he could tell much were he minded to, and whether Philip means well or ill we shall be the better for knowing. So certain are some of the settlers to the south that war is brewing, according to your Uncle William—with whom I spent the night in Boston—that they even hesitate to plant their fields this spring. Much foolish and ungodly talk there is of strange portents, too, with which I have no patience. Well, we shall see what we shall see, my son, and meanwhile there is work to be done. Did you finish the south field?”
“Yes, father. The soil is yet too wet for good ploughing save on the higher places. What of the Indians you took to Boston, sir? Obid prays that they be hung, but I do not, since it seems to me that none has proven their guilt.”
“They will be justly tried, David. If deemed guilty they will doubtless be sold for slaves. A harsher punishment would be fitter, I think, for this is no time to quibble. Stern measures alone have weight with the Indians, so long as Justice dictates them. Now be off to your duties ere it be too dark.”
