Mary Derwent, a tale of Wyoming and Mohawk Valleys in 1778

XXI. The Jail at Albany

. 248

CONTENTS

XXII. The Gathering Storm . . . . • 258

XXIII. The First Skirmish 273

XXIV. The Chief *s Burial 288

XXV. The White Queen's Gift .... 292

XXVI. The Battle-Field 315

XXVII. The Warning and Flight .... 333

XXVIII. The Island Grave 345

XXIX. The Double Wedding 352

XXX. The Father and Daughter . . . 366

XXXI. The Inheritance 379

XXXII. The Ashes of Power 387

WYOMING

On Susquehanna's side, fair Wyoming! Although the wild flower on the ruined wall, And roofless homes a sad remembrance bring Of what thy gentle people did befall, Yet thou wert once the loveliest land of all. That see the Atlantic wave their morn restore. Sweet land! May I thy lost delights recall, And paint thy Gertrude in her bowers of yore, Whose Beauty was the love of Pennsylvania's Shore.

Delightful Wyoming! beneath thy skies.

The happy shepherd swains had nought to do,

But feed their flocks on green declivities

Or skim perchance thy lake with light canoe.

From morn till Evening's sweeter pastime grew,

With Timbrel, when beneath the Forest Brown,

Thy lovely maidens would the dance renew.

And aye those sunny mountains half-way down,

Would echo flagelet from some romantic town.

Then, where of Indian Hills the daybreak takes, His leave, how might you the flamingo see Disporting like a meteor on the lakes — And playful squirrel on his nut-grown tree : And every sound of life was full of glee. From merry Mock-bird's song, or hum of men; While heark'ning, fearing nought their revelry. The wild deer arched his neck from glades and then, Unhunted, sought his woods and wilderness again.

Thomas Campbell,

Foreword

In issuing a new edition of Mrs. Ann S. Stephens' historic novel, Mary Derwent, Dial Rock Chapter, Daughters American Revolution of West Pittston, in the upper end of Wyoming Valley, deems it well to state, for a new generation of readers, the circumstances that led to its being written. In the early 50 's of the last century, this brilliant and versatile author, then editor of Peterson's Magazine, Philadelphia, spent several successive summers in West Pittston, at the beautiful and hospitable home of Mr. Samuel Benedict, whose young son, Frank Lee Benedict, was then winning his first recognition as an author, and had already become associated with the magazine under her editorship. During those summers, Mrs. Stephens became deeply interested in the history and traditions of Wyoming, studied every original source of its history within reach; listened to the story of the events of 1778 and the years preceding the tragedy of that memorable year, from the lips of men and women whose parents had escaped with their lives at that terrible time. A lover of scenery, a close observer alike of its broader aspects and its minute details, and happily gifted with remarkable clearness of vision *^that,'' as one biographer writes, ** enabled her to be very realistic in the transcription of natural scenery''— this, added to her qualifications for writing the one standard historic novel that has ever appeared based upon Wyoming's history, theme, incidents, characters and setting of the story were ready when the call came for **A Story of American Life in the Olden Times," by one of the periodicals of the day, which

FOREWORD

offered a $400 prize for the one judged the best. '*Mary Derwent" was the winner of that prize. Its first edition carries this Dedication :

To My Dear Friend,

Mrs. Samuel Benedict, of Wyoming Valley, in which the principal historic events of my story transpired, this book is affectionately dedicated.

Anna S. Stephens.

New York, June 1, 1858.

The book has gone through various editions ; its latest issue being in the uniform edition of her works, in 23 volumes, published in 1886, the year of the author's death. It was also republished serially in the Pittston Gazette in 1878, at the time of the Centennial **In Memoriam" gatherings around the Wyoming Monument. But it has been for some years out of print and its historic value, its accurate transcription of Wyoming's beautiful scenery and its vivid delineations, both of character and events, has led to this new edition in behalf of Dial Rock Chapter, Daughters of American Revolution.

Susan B. Dickinson.

Scranton, Pa,, March 10, 1908.

A Tale of the Wyoming Valley in 1778 CHAPTER I

THE VALLEY OP WYOMING

MoNOCKONOK Island lies in the stream of the Susquehanna, where the Valley of Wyoming presents its greenest fields and most level banks to the sunshine. It is a quiet little spot, lying dreamily in the river, which breaks and sparkles around it with a silvery tumult. The Indians have gathered up the music of these waters in a name that will live forever — Monockonok — rapid or broken waters. You scarcely notice the island amid the luxuriant scenery of Wyoming, it seems so insignificant in its prettiness. Hedges of black alder, hazel branches, and sedgy rushes stand in thickets, or droop in garlands along its shores.

A few miles below Monockonok, between a curve of the river and a picturesque sweep of the mountains, lies the town of Wilkesbarre, a gem among villages set in a haven of loveliness.

Two or three miles higher up may be seen the town of Pittston, with its mines, its forges, its mills, and its modern dwelling-houses, crowding close up to the heart of the valley, in which the Lackawanna and the Susquehanna unite among exhaustless coal-beds and the eternal beat of human industry.

For twenty miles below the Lackawanna gap, the valley, though under partial cultivation for nearly a quarter of a century, seemed scarcely more than an unbroken forest. The beautiful river in its bosom was almost hidden beneath the huge black walnuts, the elms and sycamores that crowded to its banks.

But with all this beautiful wildness, the strife of disputed civilization had already been felt in the valley. Indian forages were frequent, and the Connecticut settlers had been twice driven from their humble dwellings by the Pennsylvanians, who were restive at the introduction of pioneers from the neighboring States into this fertile region.

The blackened ruins of a dwelling here and there left evidence of this unnatural contest, while stockades and block-houses of recent erection, scattered along the valley, gave picturesque proofs of continued anxiety and peril.

From twenty to thirty houses occupied the spot where Wilkesbarre now stands, while log-cabins were grouped near the forts, each with its clearing, its young fruits orchard, and its patch of wheat or corn.

A single log-cabin, sheltered by a huge old elm with a slope of grass descending to the water in front, and a garden in the rear, enriched with variously tinted vegetables, and made cheerful by a few hollyhocks, marigolds, and sunflowers, stood like a mammoth bird's nest on Monockonok Island.

Two immense black walnuts, with their mastlike trunks naked thirty feet high, stood back from the house. The shore was broken up with clumps of sycamores, oaks, maples, and groups of drooping willows, while an undergrowth of dogwood, mountain-ash and tamarisk trees chained into huge garlands by frost grape-vines and wild clematis, were seen in picturesque leafiness along the banks.

This log-cabin had been built years before, by a young man who came with his mother and his two little orphan girls to seek a home, and hide the deep grief occasioned by the loss of his wife in the wilderness. Derwent took up his residence in Wyoming with the New England settlers on their second return to the valley, when it was almost as much inhabited by the Indians as the whites.

Derwent struggled manfully in his new enterprise, but it was with a broken spirit and by stern moral force alone. His health, always delicate, sunk beneath the labor of establishing a new home, and though he worked on, month by month, it was as a Pilgrim toils toward a shrine, patiently and with endurance rather than hope.

Two little girls formed the sunshine of this humble family, and the fairy island was made brighter by their pleasant voices and graceful ways, as it was by the wild birds that haunted it with music. In the great indulgence of the invalid father, and the active love of that dear old grandmother, they had early lost all sense of orphanage, and were happy as the wild birds, free as the striped squirrels that peeped at them from the branches of the black walnut trees where they loved to play.

Very different were these two children from infancy up. Jane, the youngest, was a bright, happy little creature, full of fun, eager for a frolic, and heedless of everything else; endowed with commonplace goodness and a pleasant temper, she was simply a bright, lovable child. But Mary, who seemed younger by half than her robust sister, was so fragile, so delicate, that you dreaded to see the very winds of heaven blow upon her, even when they left the spring blossoms unhurt. Her large wistful eyes were full of earnestness. She was so fair, so fragile, swaying as she walked, like a flower too heavy for its stem, and with that look of unutterable sweetness forever about the little mouth.

With Derwent Little Mary was an object of singular tenderness, while the force and life of his warmer affections went to the younger child. He was their only teacher, and during the years that he lived it was a pleasant recreation to give them such instruction as his own rather superior attainments afforded.

Thus in primitive happiness the little family lived till Mary passed gently out of her childhood. There was little visiting among the pioneers, and a stranger seldom made way to Monockonok. An Indian sometimes touched the island with his canoe in his progress down the river ; but this was always a happy event to the children, who received the savages with childish admiration, as if they had been orioles or golden robins. At the sight of a canoe, Jane would run gleefully to the river, waving kisses to the savage with her hand, and flaunting out her apron as a signal to win him shoreward. It was a singular fact, but the Indians seldom obeyed these signals unless Mary was by her side. A single gleam of her golden hair — a glimpse of her bent form — ^would prove more effectual than all her sister's pretty wiles.

Why did these savages come so readily at her look? What was the meaning of the strange homage with which they approached her? Why did they never touch her dress, or smooth her hair, or give her any of those wild marks of liking which Jane received so cheerfully? Why did they lay eagles' plumes and the skins of flame-colored birds at her feet, with so much humility? Mary could never comprehend this, but it filled her with vague awe, while the savages went away thoughtfully, like men filled with a spirit of worship.

One other person sometimes visited the island, who had a powerful influence over these children. This man was an Indian missionary, who, following the path of Zinzendorf, had made his home in the wilderness, about the time that Derwent entered the valley. He was evidently a man of birth and education, for even the wild habits of the woods had been insufficient to disguise the natural refinement of mind and manners which made the humility of his character so touchingly beautiful.

This man came often to the island. Sometimes he remained all night in the cabin. Sometimes he lingered days with the family, teaching the little girls those higher branches which their father could not control, and planting a thousand holy thoughts in the young minds, that lifted themselves to his knowledge, as the flower opens its cup for the night dew.

Under these beautiful and almost holy influences the children lived in their island home, each taking from the elements around her such nutriment as her nature craved, till Derwent, who had been ill since their first remembrance, sunk slowly to his deathbed.

The last attack came suddenly, while the missionary was absent among the Shawnees, far down the valley; but scarcely had the little family felt the need of his presence, when he appeared quietly and kindly. All one night he remained with the sick man; their conversation could be heard in broken fragments in the next room, where the old mother sat weeping over her grandchildren, holding Jane fondly in her lap, while Mary sat upon the floor, so chilled with grief that she did not feel the tender sorrow lavished upon her sister, as neglect of herself. Like a pure white lily broken at the stem, she sat wistfully gazing in the distance, wondering what death was, vaguely and in dreamy desolation. They were called at last, and with a dying effort Jane was drawn to her father's bed, the last breath, the last blessing fell upon her. Mary had no time; the father's life was exhausted in that one benediction.

The missionary led her forth into the open air. He said but little, and his voice fell dreamily on the senses of the child; but its first low cadence filled her soul with infinite resignation. From that time Mary could never realize that her father had died, leaving no blessing for her. It seemed as if the missionary had inhaled the life from his departing soul, and turned it all to love. The child recognized a double presence in this holy man. Not even her grandmother was permitted to kiss the forehead which his lips had touched. Her brow became sacred from that time, and she would shrink back with a cry of absolute pain if any one attempted to disturb the kiss which was to her the place of a lost blessing.

The missionary had many duties to perform, and his intercourse with the island was sometimes interrupted for months; but the little heart that clung to him could live upon a remembrance of his teachings, even when his presence was withheld. It was a wonderful influence, that which his strong, pure soul had obtained over the child. While these feelings were taking root in the nature of one sister, the other was working out her own life, and the grandmother took up the duties imposed by her bereavement with great resolution.

Chapter II The Cruel Enlightenment

Grandmother Derwent had contrived to purchase implements for spinning and weaving the coarse cloth, which constituted the principal clothing of the settlers. The inhabitants gave her plenty of work, and produce from her farm supplied her household with grain and vegetables.

Even the little girls, who under many circumstances would have been a burden, were in reality an assistance to her.

Jane was a bright and beautiful child, with dark silky hair, pleasant eyes, and lips like the damp petals of a red rose. She was, withal, a tidy, active little maiden, and, as Mrs. Derwent was wont to say, '* saved grandma a great many steps'' by running to the spring for water, winding quills, and doing what Miss Sedgwick calls the *'odds and ends of housework."

Jane led a pleasant life on the island. She was a frank, mirthful creature, and it suited her to paddle her canoe on the bosom of the river, or even to urge it down the current, when *^ grandma'' wanted a piece of cloth carried to the village, or was anxious to procure tea and other delicacies for her household.

When Mrs. Derwent 's quill-box was full, and *'the work all done up," Jane might be found clambering among the wild rocks, which frowned along the eastern shore, looking over the face of some bold precipice at her image reflected in the stream below; or, perchance, perched in the foliage of a grape-vine, with her rosy face peering out from the leaves, and her laugh ringing merrily from cliflf to cliff, while her little hands showered down the purple clusters to her sister below.

Such was Jane Derwent, at the age of fourteen; but poor little Mary Derwent ! nature grew more and more cruel to her. While each year endowed her sister with new beauty and unclouded cheerfulness, she, poor delicate thing, was kept instinctively from the notice of her fellow-creatures. The inmates of that little cabin could not bear that strange eyes should gaze on her deformity — for it was this deformity which had ever made the child an object of such tender interest.

From her infancy the little girl had presented a strange mixture of the hideous and the beautiful. Her oval face, with its marvellous symmetry of features, might have been the original from which Dubufe drew the chaste and heavenly features of Eve, in his picture of the ** Temptation. " The same sweetness and purity was there, but the expression was chastened and melancholy. Her soft blue eyes were always sad, and almost always moist; the lashes drooped over them, an expression of languid misery. A smile seldom brightened her mouth — the same mournful expression of hopelessness sat forever on that calm, white forehead; the faint color would often die away from her cheek, but it seldom deepened there.

Mary was fifteen before any person supposed her conscious of her horrible malformation, or was aware of the deep sensitiveness of her nature. The event which brought both to life occurred a few years after the death of her father. Both the children had been sent to school, and her first trial came on the clearing, before the little log schoolhouse of the village. Mary was chosen into the centre of the merry ring by Edward Clark, a bright-eyed, handsome boy, with manners bold and frank almost to carelessness.

The kind-hearted boy drew her gently into the ring, and joined the circle, without the laugh and joyous bound which usually accompanied his movements. There was an instinctive feeling of delicacy and tenderness towards the little girl which forbade all boisterous merriment when she was by his side. It was her turn to select a partner; she extended her hand timidly towards a boy somewhat older than herself — the son of a rich landholder in the valley; but young Wintermoot drew back with an insulting laugh, and refused to stand up with the hunchhaek.

Instantly the ring was broken up. Edward Clark leaped forward, and with a blow, rendered powerful by honest indignation, smote the insulter to the ground. For one moment Mary looked around bewildered, as if she did not comprehend the nature of the taunt; then the blood rushed up to her face, her soft blue eyes blazed with a sudden flash of fire, the little hand was clenched, and her distorted form dilated with passion. Instantly the blood flowed back upon her heart, her white lips closed over her clenched teeth, and she fell forward with her face upon the ground, as one stricken by unseen lightning.

The group gathered around her, awe-stricken and afraid. They could not comprehend this fearful burst of passion in a creature habitually so gentle and sweet-tempered. It seemed as if the insolent boy had crushed her to death with a sneer.

Her brave defender knelt and raised her head to his bosom, tears of generous indignation still lingered on his burning cheek, and his form shook with scarcely abated excitement.

At length Mary Derwent arose with the calmness of a hushed storm upon her face, and turning to her inevitable solitude walked silently away.

There was something terrible in the look of anguish with which she left her companions, taking, as it were, a silent and eternal farewell of all the joys that belong to childhood. The coarse taunt of the boy had been a cruel revelation, tearing away all the tender shields and loving delusions with which home-affection had so long sheltered her. She did not know what meaning lay in the word hunchback, but felt, with a sting of unutterable shame, that it was applied to her because she was unlike other girls. That she must never be loved as they were — never hope to be one of them again.

The school-children looked on this intense passion with silent awe. Even Jane dared not utter the sympathy that filled her eyes with tears, or follow after her sister.

So with terror and shame at the cruel discovery at her heart, Mary went away. The blood throbbed in her temples and rushed hotly through all her veins. An acute sense of wrong seized upon her, and thirsting to be alone she fled to the woods like a hunted animal, recoiling alike from her playfellows and her home.

Through the thick undergrowth and over wild rocks the poor creature tore her way, struggling and panting amid the thorny brushwood, as if life and death depended upon her progress.

A striped squirrel ran along the boughs of a chestnut-tree and peered down upon her from among the long green leaves and tassel-like blossoms. A flush came to her beautiful forehead, and with a cry that seemed in itself a pang, she tore up a stone to fling at it. The squirrel started away, uttering a broken noise that fell upon her sore heart like a taunt. Why did the little creature follow her? Why did it bend those sharp, black eyes upon her, with its head turned so mockingly upon one side? Was she never to be alone ? Was the cruel animal still gibing at her through the chestnut-leaves?

The squirrel darted from bough to bough, and at last ran down the trunk of the chestnut. Mary followed it with eager glances till her eyes fell upon the root of the tree. The stone dropped from her hand, the angry color fled from her face, and stretching out her arms with a cry that perished on her lips she waited for the missionary to descend.

He came rather quickly, and the gentle serenity of his countenance was disturbed, but still a look of unutterable goodness rested upon it. When he reached Mary her eyes were flooded with tears, and she trembled from head to foot. His sympathy she could endure. His very look had opened the purest fountains of her heart again. She was not altogether alone.

** Crying, Mary, crying?" he said, in a tone of inquiry, rather than of reproach. **W]io has taught you to weep?''

^^Oh! father, father, what can I do? Where can I hide myself?" cried the poor girl, lifting her clasped hands piteously upward.

The missionary saw it all. For a moment the color left his lips, and his eyes were full of trouble to their azure depths. He sat down by her side, and drew her gently towards him.

*'And this has driven you so far from home?" he said, smoothing her hair with one hand, which trembled among the golden tresses, for never had his sympathies been drawn more powerfully forth. ''Who has done this cruel thing, Mary?"

She did not answer, but he felt a shudder pass over her frame as she made a vain effort to speak.

**Was it your playfellows at school?"

**I shall never have playfellows again," broke from the trembling lips which seemed torn apart by the desolating words; ''never again, for where does another girl like me live in the world ? God has made no playfellow for me ! "

The missionary allowed her to weep. He knew that a world of bitterness would be carried from her bosom with those tears.

''But God has made us for something better than playfellows to each other," he said at last, taking her little hand in his.

She looked at him wistfully, and answered with unutterable sadness, '^But I cannot be even that; I am alone!"

''No," answered the missionary, "not alone — ^not alone, though you never heard another human voice — even here in the deep woods you would find something to love and help, too — never think yourself alone, Mary, while any creature that God has made is near."

'*But who will love me? Who will help me.^" cried the girl, with a burst of anguish.

"Who will love you, Mary! Do not I love you? Does not your grandmother and sister love you?"

"But now — now that they know about this — that I am a hunchback, it will be all over."

"But they have known it, Mary, ever since you were a little child. Well, well! we must not talk about it, but think how much every one at home has loved you."

"And they knew it all — ^they saw it while I was blind, and loved me still," murmured the girl, while great tears of gratitude rolled down her cheeks, "and they will love me always just the same — you promise me this?"

"Always the same, Mary!"

"Yes, yes — I see they have loved me always, more than if I were ever so beautiful — they were sorry for me; I understand!" There was a sting of bitterness in her voice. The love which came from compassion wounded her.

"But our Saviour loves his creatures most for this very reason. Their imperfections and feebleness appeal like an unuttered prayer to him. It is a beautiful love, Mary, that which strength gives to dependence, for it approaches nearest to that heavenly benevolence which the true soul always thirsts for."

Mary lifted her eyes to his face as he spoke. The unshed tears trembled like diamonds within them. She became very thoughtful, and drooped slowly downward, coloring faintly beneath his eyes, as maidens sometimes blush at their own innocent thoughts when nothing but the eye of God is upon them.

**But there is another love, my father; I have seen it at the school and in the cabins, I have watched it as I have the mountain-flowers, and thought that G(fd. meant this love for me, like the rest; but when I go among other girls, no one will ever think that I am one of them — no one but Edward Clark, and he only feels pity — love for me; to all the rest I am a hunchback."

A look of great trouble came upon the face of the missionary. For some moments he did not answer, and the poor girl drooped by his side. The blush faded from the snow of her forehead, and she trembled all over with vague shame of the words she had spoken. His silence seemed like a reproach to her.

''My child!" — oh! with what holy sweetness the words fell from his lips — ''my child, it is true; this love must never be yours."

' ' Never ! ' ' echoed the pale lips of the child. ' ' Never ! ' '

"This dream of love, give it up, Mary, while it is but a dream," added the missionary, in a firmer voice. "To many more than yourself it is a hope never, never realized. Do not struggle for it — do not pine for it — God help you ! child — God help us all ! "

The anguish in his voice thrilled her to the soul. She bent her forehead meekly to his knee, murmuring:

"I will try to be patient— but, oh! do not look at me so mournfully."

He laid his hands softly under her forehead, and, lifting her face to his gazed moiirnfully upon it, as if his soul were looking far away through her eyes into the dim past.

''Father, believe me, I will try."

His hands dropped downward at the sound of her voice, and his lips began to move, as if unuttered words were passing through them. Mary knew that he was praying, and her face drooped reverently downward. When or how this silence broke into words she never knew, but over her soul went the burning eloquence of his voice, carried heavenward by prayer — by the wind, and the rush of the mountain stream. The very breath lay still upon her lips as she listened, and she felt more like a winged angel close to the gate of heaven than the poor deformed girl, whose soul had, a few hours before, been so full of bitterness.

Chapter III The Forest Walk

When the missionary arose from his knees — for to that position he had unconsciously fallen — Mary stood beside him, quiet and smiling.

*'Come, my child," he said, taking Mary by the hand, and leading her up from the ravine. **It is almost night, and you have wandered far from the island; see, the woods are already dusky. The birds and squirrels are settling down in the leaves; you would have been afraid to go home in the dark."

'^I might have been lost, but not afraid," answered Mary, in a sad voice; ^^ after this, darkness will be my best friend."

*'But the forest is full of Indians, Mary, and now, since the English have excited them against us, no white person is safe after dark; I will go home with you; but, after this, promise me never to come alone to the woods again."

*^The Indians will not harm me," answered Mary, with a mournful smile; *Hhey pity me, I think, and love me a little, too. I am not afraid of them; their tomahawks are not so sharp as Jason Wintermoot's words were this morning."

As she spoke there was a rustling among the bushes at their right, and through the purple gloom of the woods they saw a group of Indians crouching behind a rock, and glaring at them through the undergrowth. One had his rifle lifted with a dusky hand, creeping towards the rock; the others were poised for a spring.

Mary saw them, and leaped upon a rock close by, protecting the missionary from the aim taken at his life.

**Not him — not him!'' she cried, flinging up both arms in wild appeal; *' shoot me! You don't know how I long to die."