From Kingdom to Colony
Mistress Anne, an' the same to you, neighbor John; I hope the Lord's
blessin' is upon all within this abode. Ah, who have ye here?" and he
peered down at Joane, who had resumed her place before the fire, her
back turned squarely toward Parson Legg as he stood in the centre of
the room.
He came closer to her, but for all the notice she vouchsafed of his
words or presence she might have been one of the brass fire-dogs
upholding the blazing logs.
"'T is the Squaw Sachem's granddaughter, Joane," replied John Devereux,
turning from the door, which he had refastened.
"Aye, so it be," said the little man; "one o' the unregenerate heathen,
upon whom, if they turn not from their idolatrous ways, shall descend
smitings sore from the Lord. Hip an' thigh shall they be smitten, and
their places shall know them no more."
"Joane hath no idols, good sir, that I know on," said his host, as he
came forward and offered the visitor a seat, and then took one himself
by the door. "She seemeth ever ready to heed the words of my good
wife, and our babes could not have a more gentle playfellow."
Anne had seated herself near Joane, by the fire; and she looked with no
very friendly eyes at the Parson, as she said, "Think you not, good
sir, it were better to chide the 'unregenerate heathen,' as you call
them, with more gentleness?"
His little eyes narrowed into yet meaner lines as he fixed them upon
her face. Then leaning forward to lay a finger upon the gun that again
lay across Joane's knees, he answered, "It would seem but poor excuse
to prate o' gentleness to one who at unseemly hours and seasons goeth
about with death-dealin' weapons, seekin' whom she may devour."
The Indian girl still sat immovable; a statue could not have appeared
more bereft of hearing or speech. But to Anne's face there came a look
of fine scorn, which softened however into almost a smile as she
glanced at her husband.
"Joane came to warn us of danger," John said quietly. "She tells us
there is a strange ship in harbor, and we be now armed to guard against
pirates,--for such they promise to be."
Parson Legg sprang to his feet as though stung by a passing insect.
"Pirates!" he repeated, in a shrill cry of alarm. "Pirates,--say ye
so? I heard naught o' such matter. I was in the woods hereabout all
the afternoon, readin' the psalmody, an' makin' joyful melody unto the
Lord, till darkness o'ertook me, an' I bethought myself to make my way
to this abode, neighbor John, as peradventure thou an' Mistress Anne,
thy wife, would give me food an' shelter in the Lord's name till
mornin'."
Parson Legg was only an itinerant preacher, having long striven, but
without avail, to be accepted by the colonists as successor to their
late beloved pastor, the Reverend Hugh Peters, who had gone to England
some years before to act as their agent, and was likely to remain there
for some time to come, being now a chaplain in the army of Cromwell.
But Legg was entirely unfitted, both by birth and education, for the
position to which he aspired. He was selfish and irritable, with a
grasping, worldly nature, despite his outward show of humility and
sanctity, and was regarded by the colonists with suspicion and illy
concealed dislike, while the Indians held him in positive hatred.
Since the summer day, two years before, when he had come upon Joane in
the forest, attired in the manly habiliments of her tribe,--this being
only for greater convenience while hunting--and had hurled at her young
head anathemas such as fairly smelled of brimstone, it had been open
war between the two; and the very sight of one to the other was like
that of a plump kitten to a lively terrier.
Anne had by this time set forth a meal upon the table, and
notwithstanding his recent fright, Parson Legg's little eyes glistened
voraciously as he drew up his chair, while he smacked his thin lips
more as would a sturdy yeoman, than like a meek and lowly follower of
the creed which crucifies the flesh and its appetites.
John still kept his seat by the door, his keen ears listening intently
for any unusual sound without, while Parson Legg crunched away at the
venison and corn bread,--doing this with more gusto than was pleasant
for either eye or ear.
Anne had left the room, motioning to Joane to follow her, and an
intense silence seemed to lie about the house, save as it was broken by
the sputtering of the fire upon the hearth and the sound of Parson
Legg's gastronomic vocalism, and now and then the subdued murmur of
women's voices from one of the rooms in the rear.
A sudden roar of firearms, followed by wild yells and cries without,
shattered the peaceful brooding of the place, and caused Parson Legg to
spring wildly from his chair.
"The heathen are upon us!" he gasped, his articulation being somewhat
impeded by the presence of a huge piece of venison in his mouth. "The
heathen are come upon us with riotin' an' slaughter! John--John
Devereux, hide me, I beseech thee,--hide me from their vengeance. I am
a man o' peace, an' the sight o' bloodshed is somethin' I could ne'er
abide."
John paid no attention to the terrified little man, but springing up
with an impetuosity that sent his chair flying across the room, stood
erect and scowling, his face turned toward the sounds of strife, and
his strong fingers gripping his gun.
"Anne--wife--where art thou?" he cried, as the din increased, and more
shots were fired.
"Here." And she quietly entered the room, her face pale, but perfectly
calm. "The noise hath awakened the little boys, but I have left Shubar
with them, and promised to return shortly."
"Where is Joane?" her husband asked quickly.
"With Shubar and the boys."
"Good; for then there be one gun near, to assure the little ones."
He had been nervously fingering the hammer of his own piece, and while
speaking he crossed the room and took a position near that side of the
house from whence came the sound of firearms.
Anne remained by the hearth, watching him closely, her tightly clenched
hands being all that told of the agitation within.
"Are the little ones much affrighted?" he asked.
"No," she said, still in her calm, sweet fashion; "they do not seem to
be--that is, not much. Humphrey begged that he might have a gun, and
Robert sat quiet, looking at me with eyes so like your own as he asked,
'Art fearful, mother? Father will ne'er let them hurt us.'"
John Devereux smiled proudly, for the moment forgetting the din about
them.
"And John," he asked,--"what said our second son?"
"He seemeth most affrighted of all," she replied. "He wept at first,
and hid his face in my gown; but he was calm when I came away. Thou
knowest, John, that the lad hath not been well since the fever, last
fall."
"Aye, true,--poor little Jack!" the father said. And he now wondered
what might have happened outside, for there was a ceasing of the uproar.
He listened intently a moment. "Methinks, sweetheart, I'd best go
outside and see what this silence doth mean. Thou'lt not be fearful if
I leave the house awhile?"
She grew still paler, but only shook her head. Then she asked
suddenly, "Where be Parson Legg?"
Husband and wife looked about the room, and then at one another.
"He was here when the firing began," said John, finding it difficult
not to smile as he recalled the scene.
"But wherever can he have gone?" persisted Anne.
"Hiding somewhere, I warrant me," was her husband's reply. "He is an
arrant--"
His words were drowned by the roar of a blunderbuss, coming apparently
from just over their heads, and this was followed a moment later by a
wild yell of triumph from outside.
It was from John's men, and he started to open the door. But before he
could do this there arose such a clamor in the nursery above that he
and Anne, forgetful of all else, sped up the stairway.
Old Shubar's voice came to them raised in shrill cries, echoed by those
of the boys,--only that Humphrey and Robert seemed to speak more from
indignation than fright.
Wondering what it could all mean, they hurried into the room, where an
absurd sight met their alarmed eyes.
In one corner, beside Humphrey's pallet, stood Shubar, still uttering
the wild shrieks they had heard, and huddling about her were the three
boys,--John clinging to her gown, while Humphrey and Robert, both
facing about, were shouting at a strange figure that burrowed
frantically into the pallet occupying the opposite corner of the
chamber.
"Shubar says 't is a witch," cried Robert. "Take thy gun and slay her
before she bring evil upon us."
"Be quiet, my son," said his father, scarcely able to repress his
laughter, for at the sound of his voice Parson Legg's weazened face,
all blanched by fear, was lifted from out the pillows, and a pair of
terror-stricken eyes peered over his shoulder.
He had been lying face downward, partially covered by the bedclothes,
under which he was still trying to conceal himself; and his
steeple-crowned hat, now a shapeless wreck, was pulled down over his
ears, as if to shut out more effectually the sounds of strife that had
well-nigh bereft him of reason.
"It would seem thou canst preach far better, Parson Legg, than defend
thyself from the enemy," John Devereux said rather grimly, looking down
with unconcealed contempt upon the little coward, while Anne busied
herself in reassuring the children and quieting Shubar's angry
mutterings.
"Even so, neighbor John, even so," answered the Parson, in no wise
disconcerted at the sarcasm of the other's words and tone, and making
no movement to emerge from his retreat. "As I told thee below, I am a
man o' peace, an' I like not the sound o' war an' the sight o'
bloodshed. But what doth this silence portend?--are the enemy
routed,--are they vanquished, an' put down, smitten hip an' thigh, an'
put to flight by thy brave followers?"
His anxious queries met with no reply, for John Devereux, who was
standing upon the threshold of the room, had become conscious of a
sharp current of air blowing upon his cheek. It told him that the
scuttle was open overhead, and turning about, he darted swiftly up the
ladder.
He was soon upon the roof, and here he stood a few moments and looked
keenly about.
The voices of his men came to him from the ground below. They had left
their concealment, and the lightness of their tones told him that all
danger was past.
As his eyes became more accustomed to the gloom, the dim starlight
revealed to him the outlines of a form crouching behind the great
chimney not far away.
"Joane!" he called softly, suspecting who it might be.
She arose and came to him, and he heard her laughing to herself.
"What camest thou up here for?" he demanded, speaking quite sharply.
"Joane shoot pirate captain," she answered, still laughing. "Heap
scare 'em--no know where shot come from--all run away to ship."
And so it proved. The marauders, having received a very different
reception from the one they had expected, were utterly discomfited when
an unseen enemy--in the person of Joane and her blunderbuss--scattered
a mighty charge of slugs and bullets in their midst. Their leader was
struck in the arm, and fearing they had fallen into an ambuscade from
which it would be difficult to escape, he shouted to his men that he
was wounded, and bade them fly to the ship.
This was the last of the raids that had so annoyed the colonists, and
thenceforth they were free from such molestation.
John Devereux's days passed on, full of peace and pleasantness, until
he died at a ripe old age, respected and loved by all his
fellow-townsmen, and mourned deeply by the faithful wife who did not
long survive him.
The boys lived to man's estate, were married, and had children of their